Before he left home, he had instructed his son not to get on the next batch of buses—the buses that would pick up anyone without symptoms. Ryan was an anesthesiologist, and Elliott assumed he would be identified as someone with essential skills, and would therefore be conscripted to help in the BioShield effort.
But now everything had changed. He needed to make sure his son was on that bus—and that they kept him. Ryan might be their only chance of getting to Rose.
He wondered how long he’d been gone. Had the buses for the well individuals already arrived? If so, that chance had already slipped away.
On his street, he bounded off the bus and dashed inside his home, ignoring his neighbors calling his name, yelling questions about the outbreak.
The house was quiet. The TV wasn’t even on. He searched the first floor.
Empty.
The second.
Empty.
He pounded down the unpainted wooden stairs to the basement. Stopping in the damp space, he searched for the light. He clicked it on.
Ryan, Sam, and Adam were seated on an old couch that Elliott had abandoned in the basement years ago. Adam was asleep in his mother’s lap.
Ryan looked up. “Dad.”
“Change of plans,” Elliott said, panting.
“What?”
“You need to get on the bus when it comes.”
“Why? What happened—”
“They have your mother. In the Georgia Dome. Find her. Get her out of there.”
Chapter 57
Desmond had lost all sense of time. The only indicator of its passing was the growing trash pile that surrounded the three stooges—and even that was taken away when a janitor wheeled a cart in and cleaned the mess up.
He maintained his exercise routine, pushing himself for more repetitions each time, cycling the exercises, careful not to overexert himself. His ribs still ached, but he was learning his limits and tender points. He was preparing. It was all he could do.
Any break in the routine caught Desmond’s attention. So when the tall blonde strode into the corridor beyond the cell again, he stopped in mid-pushup, turned, and watched.
She stood before the three slobs, questioning them. The words that flowed from her mouth seemed to assault them like a swarm of bees. They shook their heads, threw up their hands, pointed at the screen, and argued back. Soon she was pointing too. Was she their boss? A messenger from their boss (Conner, Desmond presumed)?
Before she left, the blonde turned to him, for the briefest of moments, with a look that carried some meaning he couldn’t read, like a language he had once learned but had forgotten.
And just as quickly, she was gone.
Avery stood in Conner’s stateroom giving a report. He held his hand up, stopping her.
“Just tell me if they can make it happen.”
“They say it’s like a needle in a haystack.”
“What about the apps being developed by the companies Des invested in?”
“They’ve tried them. If it’s there, it’s in some kind of back door. They say the memories could be tied to a location or released at a certain time. Hacking it might not even work if the release is hardwired.”
Conner looked up at the ceiling.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“We’re running out of time. We have to try something new. Drastic.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, I’ll let you know, Avery.”
She averted her eyes. More quietly, she said, “Dr. Shaw is infected.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“With the Mandera strain—not the precursor flu virus.”
“I said, I’m aware of that.”
“Should we administer the cure?”
“No. Leaving her infected gives us more control over her.”
Day 9
3,800,000,000 Infected
620,000 Dead
Chapter 58
Desmond lay on the bed, giving his muscles a few minutes to rest. He contemplated what the most recent developments meant.
The three stooges were gone. The folding table sat abandoned. Empty cans and food cartons lay where their computers had sat.
Were they giving up on him? He hoped so.
A crack shattered the silence. A seal breaking. Rubber brushing past steel. The glass wall of his cell slid to the right, into the bathroom wall.
His cell was opening.
Desmond rushed to the gap. His arm was through, then his torso. He wiggled, gaining inches each second, and then he was free, in the corridor, standing next to the card table.
A closed hatch lay at the end of the corridor, and its wheel was turning. Someone’s coming through.
Desmond bounded toward it.
The hatch opened. A handgun emerged, then a skinny white arm.
Desmond grabbed the wrist, snatched the gun away, and twisted the person’s arm behind their back as he pushed through the hatch, the gun held out before him, sweeping the room, ready to fire.
The assailant was a woman with blond hair. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt a hint of recognition. He focused, took in the scene. A long table with four flat screens and keyboards, computer towers below. Two uniformed soldiers on the ground, not moving. No blood.
The woman’s elbow connected with his injured ribs, sending a wave of blinding pain through him. He lost his grip on her. A knee slammed into his forearm, and he dropped the gun. She spun him around and kicked him hard in the chest. The impact with the wall knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, he slid down the wall, fighting not to pass out.
She grabbed the gun, tucked it into a shoulder holster, and squatted down, her green, intense eyes level with his.
“Hey, genius, I’m the one rescuing you. You want to fight me, or you want to get out of here?”
Desmond glanced at the guards. They were out cold, but alive. Small darts protruded from their necks.
“What’s it going to be, Des? I’m leaving, with or without you.”
He remembered her name then—Avery. The woman who had allowed him to hear her conversation with the programmers. Can I trust her? What choice do I have?
“How?” he said, between shallow breaths.