“I’ve got things in hand here. Go before I change my mind.”
No more words were necessary. Hollis kissed her and strode out the door.
They turned off Highway 10. From here, it was a straight shot south on a gravel road to the city. The truck shook fiercely as they pounded through the potholes. Wind whipped through the open windows; the sun, coming across their right shoulders, was low and bright.
“Michael, take the wheel and keep it steady.” Greer reached below his seat. “Peter, give her this.”
Peter leaned forward to receive the pistol. A round was already chambered.
“You won’t have time to aim,” he said to Amy. “Just point and shoot, like you’re pointing your finger.”
She took the gun from him. Her expression was uncertain, yet her grip seemed firm.
“You have fifteen rounds. You’ll have to be close—don’t try to shoot them from a distance.”
“Unlock the shotgun,” Greer said.
Michael freed the weapon. An extended magazine tube ran below the barrel, holding eight shells. “What’s in here?” he asked Greer.
“Slugs, big ones. No room for slop, but it’ll put one down fast.”
The shape of the city emerged in the distance. Standing on the hill, it looked as small as a toy.
“This is going to be tight,” Greer said.
The last patients were being brought down from the main floor. Jenny stood at the door of the hardbox with a clipboard, checking names off a list, while Sara and the nursing staff moved among the cots, doing their best to make sure everyone was comfortable.
Sara came to the cot that held the pregnant woman Jenny had spoken of. She was young, with thick, dark hair. While Sara took her pulse, she looked quickly at the girl’s chart. A nurse had checked her an hour ago; her cervix had been barely dilated. Her name was Grace Alvado.
“Grace, I’m Dr. Wilson. Is this your first baby?”
“I was pregnant one other time, but it didn’t take.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
Sara stopped; the age was right. If this was the same Grace, Sara had last seen her when she was just a day old.
“Are your parents Carlos and Sally Jiménez ?”
“You knew my folks?”
Sara almost smiled; she might have, on a different day. “This might surprise you, Grace, but I was there the day you were born.” She looked toward the girl’s companion, who was sitting on a packing crate on the other side of the cot. He was older, maybe forty, with a rough look to him, though like many new fathers he seemed a little overwhelmed by the sudden urgency of events after months of waiting.
“Are you Mr. Alvado?”
“Call me Jock. Everybody does.”
“I need you to keep her relaxed, Jock. Deep breaths, and no pushing for now. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll try.”
Jenny came up behind Sara. “Everybody’s in,” she said.
Sara put her hand on Grace’s arm. “Just focus on having your baby, okay?”
The basement door was made of heavy steel, set into walls of thick concrete. Sara was about to close it when the room plunged into darkness. An anxious murmuring, and then people began to shout.
“Everybody, settle down, please!” Sara said.
“What happened to the lights?” a voice cried from the darkness.
“The Army’s just diverting current to the spots, that’s all.”
“That means the virals are coming!”
“We don’t know that. Everyone, just try to keep calm.”
Jenny was standing beside her. “Is that really what they’re doing?” she asked quietly.
“Do I know? Go check the storage room for lanterns and candles.”
The woman returned a couple of minutes later. Lamps were lit and distributed around the space. The yells had fallen to whispers and, then, in the gloom, a tense silence.
“Jenny, give me a hand.”
The door weighed four hundred pounds. Sara and Jenny pulled it closed and turned the wheel to engage the bolts.
A quarter of Apgar’s men had taken up positions within five hundred yards of the gate; the rest were spread at regular intervals along the walls and connected by radio. Caleb was in charge of a squad of twelve men. Six of them had been stationed at Luckenbach—part of a small contingent who’d made it to a hardbox as the garrison was overrun. No officers had survived, orphaning them in the chain of command. Now they were Caleb’s.
A man came banging down the catwalk toward him. Hollis wore no uniform, but a standard-issue chest pack was cinched to his frame, holding half a dozen spare magazines and a long, sheathed knife. An M4 dangled from its sling across his broad frame, the muzzle pointed downward; a pistol was holstered to his thigh.
He gave a crisp salute. “Private Wilson, sir.”
It was absurd, Hollis speaking to him this way. He almost seemed like he was play-acting. “You’re kidding me.”
“The women and children are secure. I was told to report to you.”