Ashes

World Population

7,165,618,453

Change Over Previous Day

— 11,274,398

5

It was nearly four in the morning when they reached the turnoff for the Ranch. Trees grew right up to the edge of the long dirt road leading to the home of the Resistance, helping to limit the amount of accumulated snow so far. Still, it took them another fifty minutes before they reached the burnt hulk of the Lodge, which had been the Ranch’s main building.

“What happened?” Emily asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“We had some unwanted visitors,” Chloe said. She leaned forward and pointed to where the road passed the Lodge and went back up a small hill into the trees. “Go up there, and stop right at the top.”

Kathy steered the SUV around the grounds and up the slope.

As soon as they stopped moving, Chloe said, “Kill the engine.”

Kathy did so.

Chloe held out her hand. “Keys.”

Kathy pulled them out of the ignition, her hand shaking slightly.

“Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be thanking me soon enough.” Once Chloe had the keys, she said, “We’ll be outside for a few minutes. It’s going to be cold, but it won’t be for long.”

“You want your coat back?” Kathy asked. She had taken it off once she warmed up, so it was sitting in the front passenger seat.

“No. You can use it.”

Instead of donning it, Kathy handed it to her daughter. “Honey, put this on when we get out.”

“Okay You all out first,” Chloe told them. “You can run, but as you saw, we’re not close to anything. You’re going to want to stick with me.”

After the Gardiners exited, Chloe opened her own door. She leaned into the front and engaged the door locks in case the others had plans of jumping right back in once she was out. A moment later, she came around the front of the car and found them huddled together.

“Wh-which way?” the doctor asked.

“Follow me.”

She led them through the woods to the emergency tunnel entrance. The hatch opened right before they arrived and Miller stuck his head out. “Wondering when you’d come back. Success, I assume?”

“Yeah,” Chloe said.

“Come on in and get warm,” he said, giving them all a wave before he disappeared back down the hole.

The doctor and his family looked at each other, their expressions uncertain.

Finally Gardiner said, “I’ll go first.” He lowered himself through the opening. A moment later, he called up, “It’s okay. Send Emily down.”

The daughter passed through the opening, but before Kathy stepped into the hole, she looked at Chloe. “If anything happens to my family, you will be the one who pays,” she said. She climbed down into the tunnel without waiting for a response.

As soon as Chloe was inside, Miller closed the hatch and led them down the tunnel.

“How is he?” Chloe asked, hoping they weren’t too late.

“No change,” Miller said.

She allowed herself a brief, relieved smile.

“What is this place?” the doctor asked.

“We call it the Bunker,” Miller told him. “The whole property’s known as the Ranch. We try to keep it simple around here.”

At the end of the tunnel, they stepped around the large, thick, blast-like door into the true Bunker.

“What the hell?” the doctor said, as the Gardiners all stopped in the middle of the hall.

The Bunker was a labyrinth of well-lit corridors and rooms that served as the Resistance’s underground control facility. Despite the lack of windows, its new, clean look made people quickly forget they were underground.

“Come on,” Chloe said. “There’s no time to waste.”

The doctor and his family stayed where they were for another moment before they caught up.

“How big is this place?” he asked.

“Big,” Chloe said. “You can take the tour later. Right now you need to help my friend.”

They navigated to the medical area. Even at this early hour, there were over a dozen people moving around. The door to the patient room was closed. Through the window, Chloe could see Josie Ash sitting next to her father’s bed, asleep.

Lily Franklin looked up from the desk where she was sitting. “A doctor?” she asked, hopeful. In the wake of Billy’s death, her nurse’s training made her the ranking medical officer.

Chloe pointed at Gardiner. “Him.”

“The others?”

“His family.”

Lily glanced at a woman across the room. “Vicky, we need three inoculations.” She turned back to Chloe. “Unless you already took care of that.”

“I didn’t have any vaccine with me.”

“Vaccine? What vaccine?” Gardiner said.

“The Sage Flu.” She looked into Ash’s room. “I’ll get Josie out of the way.”

“Hold on.” Gardiner grabbed her arm. “You have a vaccine for the Sage Flu?”

“Remember when I said I was going to save your lives? I wasn’t lying.”

“No one has a vaccine.”

“We do.”

“How do you know it even works?”

“It works.”

Vicky approached them, three syringes in her hand. “Which arm do you prefer?”

“No one is sticking anything into any of us until I know what’s in there,” Gardiner said. “Who knows what you might be putting into us.”

Lily grabbed one of the syringes, stuck it in her own arm, and depressed the plunger. The whole time she kept her eyes locked on the doctor. “Worse case, it’s not going to hurt you. Best, we’re right, and we’ll have saved you from being one of the billions who are about to die. Or would you rather take your chances outside?”

“How can you have a vaccine?”

“Because we knew it was coming,” Chloe said.

“Then why didn’t everyone else know?”

“People didn’t want to listen.”

“Brad,” Kathy said. “Maybe we should take it, just in case.”

“Either do it or don’t,” Chloe said. “I don’t care. But you need to get in there and help my friend.”

Gardiner looked into Ash’s room, then at his wife. Finally he gave Vicky a nod. While she administered shots to the two women, a fourth syringe was retrieved and the doctor was inoculated.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s see what’s wrong with the patient.”

6

Nolan and Wendy Gaines had been looking forward to this day all year. Last Christmas, their daughter Ellie had not been quite old enough to grasp everything that went with the season. This year, Ellie had fully bought into the idea of a pudgy old man riding through the sky in a sleigh pulled by reindeer, and that he would visit their house on Christmas Eve and leave presents to be opened first thing Christmas morning.

In fact, Ellie had been asking when Santa would be coming nearly every week for the last three months. Instead of being annoyed by it, Nolan and Wendy were totally into it, and had even gone as far as sending Ellie several “update” letters from Santa, telling her how things were going at the North Pole.

When reports of the biological attack began to appear, Nolan and Wendy had been as concerned as everyone else, but they made sure to only watch the news when Ellie was asleep. While their daughter was up, their TV played a continuous loop of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town, and the other holiday classics they’d enjoyed when they were young. Ellie already knew most of the songs by heart, and had no problem singing them at the top of her lungs.

“Come on, sing with me,” she’d say.

And they would.

After Ellie had fallen asleep on Christmas Eve, they’d decided not to turn on the news, and instead listened to Nat King Cole sing about chestnuts and Jack Frost and mistletoe as they filled their daughter’s stocking and arranged her presents in front of the Christmas tree. When they turned in a few hours later, they could almost believe the world was going to be fine.

It was Ellie who woke them on Christmas morning.

“Daddy,” she whispered.

Nolan’s eyes parted. Ellie was standing next to the bed, a grin on her face. “Hi, sweetie,” he said.

“I think he’s been here,” she said, her exaggerated hush laced with excitement.

“Who?”

“Santa.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Presents. In the living room.” She put a hand on his. “Get up, get up. I’ll show you.”

He snickered, and pushed himself up. “Hold on, baby. Let me go to the bathroom first, okay?”

“Okay, but hurry!”

“I’ll be as fast as I can.”

He pulled back the covers and gently shook Wendy’s shoulder. “Time to get up. The elves were apparently busy last night.”

She responded with a low, half-asleep groan.

Ellie moved to the side as Nolan swung himself out of bed. Her eyes were on him the whole time, her face full of anticipation.

“Hold your horses,” he told her as he headed into the master bathroom.

A minute later he was out again. Surprisingly, Wendy was still in bed in pretty much the same position.

Ellie, who had moved over to her mom’s side, looked back at Nolan. “Daddy, get Mommy up.”

Nolan reached down and picked up his daughter by her waist. “Oh, you want me to get your mommy up, do you? You want me to do your dirty work, huh?”

He tickled her ribs, and she squirmed and giggled. “Daddy, stop it!”

“What’s wrong? Stop what?” He continued to tickle her.

“Daddy!” she yelled between screams of laughter.

“Oh, you don’t like to be tickled.”

“No!”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

He tossed her over his wife and onto the bed where he’d been sleeping only minutes earlier. Ellie let out a yelp of excitement as she bounced on the mattress.

Nolan put a hand on Wendy’s shoulder. “Babe, wake up. It’s present time.”

She groaned again, and opened her eyes halfway. They appeared glazed and watery.

“You okay?” he asked.

A blink of surprise, then her eyes focused on him. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead let out a single, phlegm-filled cough.

A sudden chill rushed over Nolan’s skin.

Oh, no. No!

Movement on the other side of the bed. Ellie was about to give her mother a hug.

Nolan quickly grabbed his daughter under her arms, swung her up and over Wendy, and set her on the floor. “Honey, why don’t you go into the living room, and we’ll be right there?”

“You said no last night,” she argued.

Before putting her to bed Christmas Eve, they’d told her she couldn’t go past the end of the hallway that morning unless they were with her.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just go in, sit on the couch, but don’t touch anything.”

Her smile was back. “Really?”

“Really.”

She ran as fast as her little legs would go, out into the hall. Once she was gone, Nolan kneeled next to his wife.

“Are you okay?” he asked, knowing she wasn’t.

She tried to clear her throat, and coughed again.

“Shit,” she finally said.

Nolan laughed. “Yeah.”

She tried to raise herself onto her elbow, but fell back. “Help me up.”

“You should stay here.”

“It’s Christmas morning. Help me up.”

Reluctantly, he helped her out of bed and half carried her into the bathroom.

“Give me a moment,” she told him, using the sink to prop herself up.

“Sure.”

As he left, she said, “Close the door.”

For the next several minutes, there were bouts of silence surrounding coughs and sniffles and grunts.

“Daddy, Daddy, come on!” Ellie yelled from the living room.

“Just a minute, sweetie.”

Finally, the bathroom door opened. Wendy was wearing her robe now, and though she didn’t look much better, she was at least able to walk on her own.

She smiled as best she could, and said, “I’m sorry.”

Nolan threw his arms around her as tears began rolling down her cheeks. She tried to push him away, but in her weakened state it wasn’t much more than a soft nudge.

“Don’t,” she said. “You’ll catch it.”

“If you’ve got it, I already have it, too.”

She fought him for a moment longer, then gave in and sobbed against his chest.

“Mommy! Daddy! The presents!”

Ellie was standing in the bedroom doorway, her fists on her hip and her elbows sticking out in that cute, pseudo-adult way she sometimes had.

“Right,” Wendy said. “The presents. I think you’ve waited long enough.”

Ellie grinned as she ran into the room and grabbed Nolan’s hand. Wendy leaned against him as Ellie pulled them both toward the door.

Making up her own tune, Ellie sang, “It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas. Time for presents. It’s Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Wendy whispered to Nolan.

He kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

At first Mrs. Weber was the only one showing signs of the flu. Then, around ten p.m., Donny began coughing. By one a.m., everyone in the house except Martina was sick.

The only sleep Martina had been able to get was half an hour sometime during the night when she’d sat down at the dining table, only meaning to rest her eyes. She had woken to the sound of Riley hacking on the couch.

Since then, she’d been moving from room to room, giving those who were still conscious water, and wiping everyone’s face with a cool towel.

Memories of the outbreak the previous spring kept coming to her. As one of victims, she remembered what the illness had felt like. The pain in her chest from coughing, the weakness in her muscles, and the overwhelming sensation that all she wanted to do was sleep. But she and all her friends who got sick that day had lived.

That was the hope she was clinging to — that her family and the Webers would live, too.

As she walked back to the kitchen, she cut the corner coming out of the hallway too close and stubbed her toe against the wall.

“Ow! Dammit!”

Hopping on her other foot, she grabbed her injured toe and inspected the damage. The top half of the nail was bent back a quarter inch, and she could feel blood pooling where it had been. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, letting a wave of pain pass through her.

You’re such an idiot. You need to pay attention!

She hopped into the kitchen and raised her foot into the sink. Repositioning the faucet, she let cold water flow over her toe. It was painful at first, but soon the wounded area grew numb. As carefully as she could, she bent the nail back into place, then got a dish towel and wrapped it around the injury.

“So stupid,” she muttered. Lowering her foot to the floor, she found she could walk if she put most of her weight on her heel.

She thought about sitting down for a few minutes, but there had been something that needed doing. What was it? She racked her brain, and glanced back at the wall she’d hit her toe against.

Water! That was it. She needed to do another round for everyone. She filled a cup and stopped first at Riley and Donny, the two in the living room.

“Here you go,” Martina said, lifting Donny’s head so she could dribble some of the liquid into his mouth. He coughed, and everything she’d poured in came flying out. “Donny, come on!” She knew he couldn’t help it, but it was so frustrating.

When he settled down, she tried again. This time, she was able to get about a quarter of a cup down without it spewing back out. She moved over to Riley.

“Have some water.”

Riley opened her eyes halfway. She was the last to get sick, and wasn’t quite as bad off as the others yet. “Not sure…I’m…thirsty.”

“Just a little bit, okay? You need it.”

Riley tried to nod. “Okay.”

Martina tilted the cup to her friend’s lips.

When she had at first started giving everyone drinks, she’d used separate cups for each person, but she soon gave that up. They all had the same thing, after all. It wasn’t like they could make each other sicker.

“Thanks,” Riley said when she’d had enough. “I’m…sorry you have…to…do this…by your…self.”

“Don’t have anything better to do.”

As Martina stood up, Riley said, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas.”

Martina had totally forgotten. “Yeah, merry Christmas.”

She went to her parents’ room next. They didn’t open their eyes when she poured water into their mouths.

Pamela had moved into the other bedroom with Mrs. Weber. Martina gave some to the girl before circling the bed to Pamela and Riley’s mom.

“Time for some water,” she said. She didn’t expect a response. Mrs. Weber hadn’t been awake for hours.

She put a hand under the woman’s neck to raise her head, but quickly dropped it. Mrs. Weber’s skin was ice cold. Martina touched the woman’s forehead. It was the same. Not wanting to do it, but knowing she had no choice, she felt Mrs. Weber’s wrist for a pulse. When she let go, she started to cry.

“What?” Pamela asked, her voice weak.

“Nothing,” Martina said, silencing her tears. How do you tell a young girl her mother had just died? “Go back to sleep.”

Pamela mumbled something, then fell silent.

Martina limped her way out of the room, back into the main part of the cabin.

They’re all going to die. All of them.

It suddenly felt as if the cabin were squeezing in on her, the air disappearing second by second.

She ran to the front door as fast as her stubbed toe would let her, wanting nothing more than to get out of the house. She grabbed her jacket off the hook, pulled it on, and started to don her boots but switched to her father’s instead. They were big enough that she should be able to keep the towel wrapped around the top of her foot.

Outside, the air was crisp and clear. She took a deep breath. As she exhaled, a cloud of vapor momentarily obscured her vision. She repeated the process two more times, feeling a bit more in control with each clearing of her lungs.

When she felt panic would no longer overtake her, she wondered what she should do about Mrs. Weber. At some point she would have to move her out of the house, right?

Not if I get sick, too.

If? When, right? When she got sick?

Everyone else had come down with it. She was just the last. Someone had to be. But, with the exception of Mrs. Weber, they had all fallen sick within a couple hours of each other. Here it was, five hours since the last one — Riley — had fallen ill, and Martina still felt fine.

Well, exhausted and scared out of her mind, but not physically ill.

It hasn’t hit you yet, that’s all.

She walked over to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. The keys were still in the ignition. As she turned on the electrical system, the lights on the radio came on, and a voice came out of the speakers.

“…time. North Korea has released a statement claiming that their borders are free and clear of the disease, and that the North Korean people are unaffected and will remain so. It’s important to note that this statement was sent in email form to all major media outlets, and was unsigned. North Korean state television has been showing a series of patriotic still images accompanied by music since right after—”

She turned the dial, hoping to find something else, anything but news. She discovered two other stations, but both were more of the same. At one point, she came across a quick hit of music, but then it was gone, and her attempts to get it back failed.

She switched the car off and stared out the window.

What am I going to do?

7

For the past few days, as Brandon had been on the run, his rest had been spotty at best. It was little wonder, then, that on Christmas Eve, with the snow outside his lean-to muffling all sound, he had fallen into a deep sleep for the first time since he’d left the Ranch.

On Christmas morning, he woke with the gradualness of a summer vacation day, slowly coming back to consciousness as his mind chased the wisp of a forgotten dream — not the running one this time, but something warm and inviting and happy.

It was the cold that finally reminded him where he was. At some point during the night, he’d slipped his head inside his sleeping bag, leaving only a small hole for air to pass through. It was more than enough, though, for the frigid tendrils of the winter morning to worm their way around his cheeks and across his nose.

He opened the hole wider and stuck his face out. For a second he couldn’t breathe, the cold a stark contrast to the heat of his bag. Once the shock passed, he looked around. The lean-to had worked incredibly well. Snow was piled against it nearly halfway up, yet none of the dead branches that made up the structure had collapsed in on him during the night.

He twisted in the bag so he could see the open end of his temporary house. It appeared that a good foot and a half of snow had fallen during the night. Though it was still cloudy, it wasn’t snowing now.

A white Christmas.

A year ago he would have gotten a thrill from that. Not today.

Keeping his legs within the warmth of his sleeping bag, he removed a package of trail mix from his backpack, and ate half of it before forcing himself to stop. He couldn’t be sure when he would next find shelter and more food, so he had to conserve his supplies.

A fire would have been nice, but while he had the book of matches that he’d found in Mr. Hayes’s pocket, no way could he find any wood to burn that wasn’t wet from the snow. So, with reluctance, he extracted himself from his sleeping bag, pulled on his boots, and packed up.

When he reached the highway a few minutes later, he spotted two rutted tracks running down the middle that definitely had not been there before.

A car, he thought. Judging by the several inches of snow that had accumulated in each trench, he realized it had come by sometime in the early morning while he was sleeping.

He grimaced at the lost chance of hitching a ride. At least the passing vehicle had done him one favor. By walking in one of the depressions, he was able to make better time than he would have otherwise.

Like the day before, he was struck by the silence. Was this how it would be from now on? Had the world turned quiet? Not the kind of thoughts a kid his age should be having, but as much as he wanted to be home looking through his baseball card collection or reading the latest X-Men, he knew that Brandon was gone. He wasn’t even a teenager yet, but at times he felt like he was already an adult.

Around noon, a noise in the distance momentarily cut through the silence. It was there for a second, then gone, not long enough to identify. Snow falling out of a tree, maybe? He’d seen that happen a couple of times already. There would be a crack of a branch as the weight of the snow became too much to bear, and snow and limb would come crashing down together.

Or maybe the sound had been nothing. Just his imagination.

He shook that thought away the moment he had it. Not nothing. He couldn’t let himself think that way.

It’s a truck, he decided. And it’s coming this way.

He could envision a pickup truck with a heated cab slicing through the snow, obliterating the tracks left by the car. No, no. A big rig. One with a sleeping cabin in back, and a built-in refrigerator stocked with food. It would stop as soon as the driver saw him, and the man behind the wheel would offer him a ride to wherever he wanted to go.

The Ranch, if he wanted.

Except there was nothing at the Ranch anymore. He’d seen Project Eden’s attack on the Resistance’s headquarters, had seen the smoke rising in the air. He was sure anyone left alive in the Bunker had been taken away by the men in the helicopters.

No. There was no going back to the Ranch.

Thoughts of the attack darkened his mood. He tried to concentrate on the imaginary truck again. It was big and red and had a horn like a train whistle. It would be pulling a trailer full of—

The noise again.

Not an illusion.

A rumble, not quite as far away as before. But not the kind of rumble he associated with a truck.

An airplane?

He looked to the sky, but the clouds were still low and gray. If there were a plane up there, it wouldn’t be able to see him.

It’s gotta be a car. It has to be something on the road, right?

He heard it again, even closer. Whatever it was, it was coming fast, which meant it couldn’t be a car or even a truck, not with the snow on the road.

His shoulders sagged. A plane, flying above the clouds.

“Keep walking,” he said. “You’ll find something soon.”

He all but tuned the noise out as he continued down the road, but as the noise grew even closer, he couldn’t help but notice the distinct sound it was making.

Whoop-whoop-whoop.

Not an airplane. A helicopter.

The helicopters that had flown over the Ranch during the attack flashed through his mind. He could almost see the one that had hovered outside the barn while he and Mr. Hayes had hidden in the horse stalls.

It had to be the Project Eden people. They were coming for him.

Just as the thought finished, the dark silhouette of a helicopter dipped below the clouds about a quarter mile away. Brandon whipped his head side to side, looking for someplace to hide, but over the last couple of miles the trees on the right had moved farther from the road, and on the left they had disappeared altogether.

He looked back the way he’d come. The road had been taking a gentle curve. About a hundred yards behind him, the ground to the east dipped several feet, creating a short drop-off. Along the wall of the drop there appeared to be some kind of opening that ran under the road. A storm drain? A pipe?

Whatever it was, it was better than standing out in the open.

He started to run, each step a struggle as he pulled a foot out of the snow and sank it back in again. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder. Though he could hear the helicopter coming closer, it had disappeared into the clouds again.

It didn’t see you, it didn’t see you. It didn’t.

A few seconds later, the helicopter suddenly broke through the clouds right above the culvert Brandon had been heading toward. He stumbled in surprise and fell to the ground.

Keep moving!

He rose unsteadily to his feet as the helicopter descended to the road. Any thin hope he still had that those on board hadn’t seen him disappeared.

The culvert no longer an option, he turned south. He tried to run, but the snow was too high and he ended up more in a loping jog.

Someone shouted at him, but Brandon didn’t stop. It wasn’t long, though, before he heard the crush of snow under boots coming up fast behind him. He grabbed both straps of his pack and tried to increase his speed.

“Hey, stop!” one of the people pursuing him yelled.

There was something odd about the voice, something that triggered a memory. Brandon’s family’s house at Barker Flats. Josie sick in the bathroom, and his mother — though he didn’t know it at the time — dead in his parents’ bedroom. The paramedics who burst into the house had all been wearing protective clothing and hoods that enclosed their heads. When they talked, their voices sounded very much like the one yelling at him now. Muffled.

“Kid! We’re not going to hurt you!”

Someone grabbed Brandon’s backpack and jerked him to a stop. A hand gripped him by the shoulders and twisted him around. There were two men, both outfitted in dark green plastic-looking suits and hooded masks.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the one who’d turned him asked.

Brandon tried to pull away from him.

“Relax, buddy. We’re here to help you. Tell us your name.”

Brandon tried to shrug off the man’s grip, but he wasn’t strong enough. “Please, let me go!”

The man glanced back at his partner. “Saunders, a little help.”

Saunders took hold of Brandon’s other arm.

“You can walk or we carry you. Either way, you’re coming with us,” the first man said.

Brandon knew there was nothing he could do. Even if he were able to break free of their grasps, he wouldn’t get more than a few steps before they caught him again.

“I’ll walk,” he said.

He wondered where they were going to take him. Back to the Ranch? Was that where they were keeping the others? Or someplace else?

At least he’d be with his sister.

Unless something had happened to her.

Don’t even think that. Josie’s fine. They’re all fine. You’ll see them soon.

As they neared the helicopter, he noticed something he hadn’t seen earlier, something he knew wasn’t on the helicopters that had attacked the Ranch. Painted in black along the tail were the words UNITED STATES ARMY.

Josie paced the hallway right outside the alcove that served as the Bunker’s dining area, too worked up to sit for even a moment.

Chloe had tried to get her to eat something, but Josie had only shaken her head. How could she eat when her father — her only living parent — was in surgery, and her brother was lost in the wilderness? If either of them didn’t survive, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to eat again. So back and forth she went, her mind both numb and hyper-alert.

She heard the footsteps before she saw the three women turn down the hallway in front of her — Rachel Hamilton with the woman and the girl Chloe had brought back with the doctor.

As they neared her, Rachel stopped, her eyes full of compassion. “I take it there hasn’t been any news.”

Josie shook her head. “No.”

“I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”

Josie nodded, but said nothing as she rocked from foot to foot.

“Have you met Emily and Kathy?” Rachel asked. “I believe you and Emily are the same age.”

“Hey,” Emily said, holding out her hand.

Josie hesitated a moment, then shook it. “Hey.”

“My dad’s a good doctor,” Emily said. “If your dad can be fixed, he’ll fix him.”

“He can be fixed,” Josie said quickly.

“I’m sure he can. I was just saying—”

“I know what you were saying.”

After an awkward couple of seconds, Rachel donned a smile, and said to Emily and Kathy, “Who’s hungry?”

Josie grimaced as the other three walked into the alcove. She shouldn’t have snapped. Emily was only trying to be nice. Josie’s father would not have been happy with her.

With a sigh, she turned and walked over to the table where the women had just sat down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was…well…”

Rachel touched Josie on the arm. “It’s okay. We all know you’re worried about your dad.” She patted the bench next to her. “I’m sure you could use something to eat. Why don’t you join us?”

“I’m fine.”

“At least have something to drink. Water?”

Josie had to admit she was thirsty, so she nodded and took the offered seat.

Raising her voice, Rachel said, “Bobbie?”

Bobbie, the Ranch’s cook, stuck her head out the kitchen door. “Morning, Rachel.”

“Morning. We have a couple of newcomers who could use some breakfast. This is Kathy Gardiner and her daughter, Emily.”

Bobbie smiled. “Ladies. You came in with the doctor?”

Kathy nodded. “My husband.”

“Welcome. It’s good to have you, and your husband. How do eggs, bacon, and some hash browns sound?”

“Good,” Kathy said. “Um, great, actually.”

“Scrambled? Fried?”

“Fried,” Kathy told her.

“Can I have mine sunny side up?” Emily asked.

“You can have them any way you want,” Bobbie said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Can you send out four bottles of water when you get a chance?” Rachel asked.

“Will do.” Bobbie disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Bobbie’s a great cook,” Rachel said. “You’re in for a treat.”

Kathy gave a halfhearted smile. It was clear she was still trying to process everything that had happened since Chloe took them from their home.

“How long have you lived here?” Emily asked Josie.

“I don’t. I mean, we don’t. My dad and my brother and me, we just visit sometimes.”

“Oh. Well, where are you from, then?”

That was a good question. Their last home had been in Iowa, but they weren’t there very long. Before that? “My dad was in the army. We traveled…”

Josie lost all train of thought as she spotted Matt and the doctor heading down the hallway toward the dining area.

She stared at them, unable to take another breath. She’d been desperately waiting for news about her father, but suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the doctor had to say. What if the news was bad? What if her father hadn’t made it? If the latter were the case, then every second she didn’t know was another second her father would still be alive in her mind.

Emily twisted around, following Josie’s gaze. As soon as she realized who was coming, she jumped out of her seat and ran to her father. Kathy was up a second later, following right behind her daughter. All three hugged as if they’d been separated for months.

“You’re okay?” the doctor asked. “Any problems?”

Kathy shook her head, and Emily said, “They’re making us breakfast.”

“Now that sounds like a great idea,” he said. As they turned toward the table, Matt whispered something to the man, and they both glanced at Josie. The doctor nodded and walked over to her. “You’re my patient’s daughter. Josie, right?”

Josie nodded, unable to speak.

“Then I guess you’re the one I need to talk to.”

This time her nod was so slight she almost didn’t move her head.

“As I’m sure you were aware, your dad was pretty banged up.”

This is it, she thought. This is the part when he tells me he couldn’t do anything. She braced herself.

“Shrapnel cut through part of his intestines and destroyed one of his kidneys.”

“Brad!” Kathy said. “She’s just a girl. You can’t tell her that.”

“She deserves to know,” he said, and looked at Josie again. “You want to know, right?”

Want? No. She didn’t want to know anything. But she had to know, so she nodded again.

“Also, one of his ribs punctured a lung.” The doctor paused. “But your dad is tough, a fighter. And thank God for the medical facility you have here. It’s top-notch. If he’d been anywhere else short of a fully equipped hospital, I doubt he would have made it.”

It took Josie a moment to process his words. “He…he’s okay?”

“He’s not okay. Not by a long shot. But he will be.”

She shot to her feet and threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

She gave him one last squeeze before sprinting out of the alcove and down the hall. When she reached the surgical room, she threw open the door and rushed in. But the room was unoccupied.

Of course he wouldn’t be here, she chastised herself. He’d be back in the room they had him in before.

She raced out the door and down the hall again. Before she reached the medical suite, she nearly ran into Chloe, running out of another corridor.

“I just heard,” Chloe said, falling in beside Josie. “He’s going to be okay.”

Josie glanced at her but made no reply, afraid that if she acknowledged it she might jinx everything and make it untrue. She needed to see her father first. She needed to see him alive and breathing.

They rushed through the open door of the medical suite, into the observation area. Behind the glass wall of patient room number one, they could see Lily in scrubs and a mask, checking the bag hanging from the IV stand. On the bed next to her lay Josie’s father, an oxygen tube running under his nose. Josie watched his chest move up and down, and sighed in relief.

“He looks good,” Chloe said.

She was right. He did look good, or at least better than before. There was color in his face now, and he seemed to be resting a lot more comfortably.

When Lily noticed them, she came out and pulled the mask off her face.

“He’s going to be okay?” Josie asked, wanting the confirmation from someone she knew.

“We’ll need a little more time before we know for sure.”

“But it’s looking good, right?”

Lily gave her a tired smile. “Yes. It’s looking good.”

Josie almost laughed as she hugged first Lily, then Chloe. “Can I go in and see him?”

“He’s still unconscious, and probably will be for another day at least.”

“I don’t care.”

Lily hesitated a second, then nodded. “Sure, but you need to wear a mask and gloves. And you have to scrub up first.” She pointed toward the sink attached to the wall, and glanced at Chloe. “I suppose you want to go in, too.”

“I’m fine out here,” Chloe said. “Just glad to know he’s going to live.”

“We all are.”

Matt watched as Josie raced away from the cafeteria, happy that the girl had finally received some good news.

“I really didn’t think he was going to make it,” Rachel said, moving up next to him.

He glanced at his sister. “Neither did I.”

“Any news on Brandon?”

He shook his head. “Christina’s been trying to get us a good satellite image of the area, but nothing useful yet.”

“He’s a smart kid, and his dad prepared him well. He’ll be okay.” She paused. “I received confirmation that the package arrived in Atlanta.”

“Good,” he said, though he knew it wouldn’t change anything. Still, they had to try every angle they could. “I’m going to head over to the comm room.” He glanced at Dr. Gardiner and his family. “Do you mind staying with them? I’m sure they’re going to have a lot of questions.”

“Already been asking.”

The communications room was a quick walk down the hall. As it seemed to always be now, the room was buzzing with activity. For the first few days after the virus was released, they had monitored the growing disaster, hoping that somehow, someway it would fail. Of course it hadn’t.

As of that morning, Matt had ordered everyone to begin LIC — locate-inoculate-consolidate. Their task was to find pockets of uninfected survivors, get them vaccine, and bring everyone together before Project Eden could move in and eliminate them. The only ones excused from LIC were Christina and her small team. Their focus was on finding Brandon.

It was a massive undertaking, one destined to fail over and over again, but Matt knew they would have successes, too. That’s what they had to focus on.

It had been long assumed that radio would be the main way they’d find survivors, so the Resistance had computers placed around the world that were now automatically monitoring as many frequencies as possible for signals that might indicate survivors.

Kenji Yamabe, LIC’s project leader, had co-opted the largest monitor in the room to display a list of discovered survivor sites and their statuses.

“That’s it?” Matt asked. The list was woefully short, no more than three dozen locations.

“It’s still early,” Kenji said.

The Resistance had predicted that the first several days after the release of the virus would be quiet, as people who weren’t already infected hunkered down and did what they could to survive. At some point they would reach out for help. That’s when things would start getting really busy. Still, Matt didn’t have to like waiting for that point to be reached. He wanted their field teams to be actively distributing the vaccine now, not sitting around while more and more died.

It would have been great if they could have roamed the streets and inoculated everyone they saw, sick or not, but their supply of the vaccine derived from Daniel Ash’s immunity was limited. They couldn’t afford to waste a single dose on someone who was going to die of the flu anyway.

Matt stared at the screen.

Thirty-eight groups, representing a total of probably not more than a thousand people. Barely a drop in the ocean of humanity.

There will be more, he thought.

There has to be.

8

Immediately following the president’s briefing the previous evening, Dr. Esposito had flown back to Atlanta and gone straight to his lab at the CDC, arriving shortly before one a.m.

As he’d requested, his whole team was waiting for him when he walked in. The first thing everyone wanted to know was why the president had said there would be a vaccine in no more than a year. Esposito let them voice their frustrations for a few minutes before holding up his hand to quiet them.

“The simple truth is that the vaccine will be done when it’s done,” he’d said.

“Then why didn’t he say that?” one of the technicians asked.

“To save lives.” He explained what the CDC director had told him, then said, “Our job is to create that vaccine as quickly as we can. If that takes more than a year, so be it. But the sooner we get it done, the more lives we save.”

“What if we don’t have a year?” another of his team members asked. “I mean, this thing is tearing through everyone. There might not even be anyone to vaccinate in a month, let alone a year.”

A few others raised their voices in agreement.

Esposito held up his hand again. “Yes, many people are going to die, but at some point it’s sure to level off. We’ve seen that before with other outbreaks. There will be plenty of people still around, people who will need our vaccine. We all have to believe that, otherwise there is no reason for us to even continue. If any of you are ready to give up, you need to leave now. We are at the front line of the fight for the very existence of our species, and it’s up to us to ensure that we win. I don’t need anyone on this team who isn’t one hundred percent dedicated to that. So, does anyone want out?” He scanned the faces in front of him, but no one said a word. “Good. Then we need to get to work. Speed is paramount. I’ve never said this before, but this time cut corners if you have to. Just get us to a solution.”

Despite the hour, they had all gone back to work. By the time morning arrived, a few had crawled off to catch a few hours of sleep, while most kept at the task of studying the virus’s genetic makeup and coming up with potential ways to kill it.

Around nine a.m., a package arrived for Dr. Esposito. It was a square box, about six inches on each side. There were no postage stamps or labels from one of the overnight delivery companies, only what had been printed on top — his name and address at the CDC, the name DEARING LABORATORIES in the spot for the return address, and URGENT printed across the bottom. He had never heard of Dearing before, and had no idea what was inside.

“How did this arrive?” he asked the woman who’d brought it in. With the curfew, getting any package was a surprise.

“I don’t know. Messenger, I guess. I wasn’t there when it came in,” she said, then left.

Esposito carried it over to his desk and set it down, intending to open it to see what was so urgent. But as he leaned over to grab his scissors, a drop of liquid hit the back of his hand. He jerked up in surprise, and felt another drop trickle onto his upper lip. He touched it. Mucus, draining from his right nostril.

He grabbed a tissue and wiped the discharge from his face, then said, “Everyone, stop what you’re doing.”

They all looked at him.

“How is everyone feeling?”

A few shrugs.

“Tired,” someone said.

“Yeah. Definitely,” another agreed.

“Anyone feel ill?” Esposito asked. “Like you have a cold, maybe?”

Surprise and concern spread across the faces of his team, no one missing the significance of the question.

“I feel okay,” Paige said. She was the one closest to him.

“Me, too,” Ralph added.

Others nodded and said words to the same effect.

Across the room, Carol Burton raised her hand. “I have a headache. Is that what you mean?”

Almost as one, everyone in the room turned toward her.

Esposito had a headache, too, but that wasn’t unusual when he was working on a difficult problem, so it hadn’t even registered until now. “Any other symptoms?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Maybe he was overreacting. He just hadn’t had any sleep, that’s all. Plus the flight to DC probably hadn’t helped. The air on planes was notoriously dry, so it would have been easy for his nose to become irritated.

He took in a breath to calm himself, but as the air passed into his lungs, he could feel the hint of a scratch in his throat. Without saying anything, he turned to his computer, brought up the security system for his lab, and entered the code activating a lockdown.

His lab was actually a series of connected rooms, some for delicate, hands-on work that required wearing special suits and passing through chambers designed to keep deadly bugs from escaping, and some, like the room they were now in, used for more theoretical work and not considered high risk. No virus or other harmful agent was ever present there, not on purpose, anyway. But the CDC was a cautious organization, and had built in the ability for Esposito’s entire lab complex to be sealed off from the rest of the building.

The thud was loud and unmistakable as the isolation locks on the exits engaged.

“What the hell?” Ralph said, looking toward the door.

A few of the others jumped up.

“Why did that lock?”

“What’s going on?”

The light on Esposito’s phone started to blink. Security, no doubt, calling to find out what was going on.

“Everyone sit,” Esposito said, ignoring the phone for a moment. “I engaged the lockdown.”

“Why?” Ralph asked.

To answer, Esposito grabbed another tissue and blew his nose.

They all stared at him.

“That doesn’t mean you have it,” Ralph said.

“Let’s hope you’re right. But until we know for sure, those doors stay locked.”

“Jesus,” Tom Hauldon said.

“I want everyone to write down who you’ve been in contact with, so we can figure out how the virus might have gotten in here, and who outside needs to be quarantined.”

Someone pounded on the door, and looked through the small window centered in the top half. It was Wayne Kovacs, the CDC’s assistant director. He caught Esposito’s eyes and raised his hand so Esposito could see the cell phone he was holding.

Esposito looked back at his desk phone. The line that had been blinking cut off for two seconds, then started to blink again. The doctor picked up the receiver and punched the button.

“It’s positive,” Matty said.

Esposito could almost see the hope drain from his colleagues’ faces. His own face, though, remained neutral, a part of him having accepted the fact he’d come down with SF-B.

“What about my test?” Carol asked.

Paige checked her results. “Also positive.”

Carol collapsed into her chair. “Oh, God.”

That seemed to be the trigger everyone was waiting for as panicked conversations broke out all over the room. Before Esposito could do anything about it, his phone rang.

He picked it up. “What?”

“The results?” Wayne Kovacs asked.

“Positive.”

“Just you or both?”

“Both.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Would it have been better if it were just me?”

“That’s not what I meant,” the assistant director said. “Michael, we can’t let you out of there.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Why do you think I locked us down?” He hung up.

For a few seconds, he seriously considered giving up and letting everyone do what they wanted. But he couldn’t. This was bigger than the people gathered in the room with him, whether they were infected or not.

He raised his hands. “Everybody, quiet.”

No one seemed to hear him.

“Hey!” he shouted, and let out a shrill whistle. “Quiet!”

That did the trick.

“We have two choices,” he said.

“Die or die?” someone suggested.

“We don’t know if we’re all going to die.”

“Ninety-nine percent mortality rate,” Norman Chu shot back.

“That was the first wave of SF-A,” Esposito said. “We don’t know if SF-B will behave the same.”

“So it could be even higher,” Chu said.

“Or lower,” Esposito said. “The thing is, there’s a chance one or more of us will be able to walk out of this room when this is all over. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

An uneasy quiet fell over the room, everyone staring at him.

“We can feel sorry for ourselves until this is over, or we could try to get some work done, and make some progress for those who’ll be taking on the task after us. Maybe even take advantage of our situation. We’re all test subjects now.” He paused. “You can each choose what you want to do, but I’m going to work.”

The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds. Then Ralph said, “We should run tests on everyone right away. Establish a baseline of those infected and not infected. Then we pull blood every half hour so we can chart progress.”

“Excellent idea. So I take it you’re with me.”

Ralph looked around at his peers and nodded.

“I’m with you, too,” Cindy said.

“Me, too,” Paige announced.

By the time they finished going around the room, everyone, even Norman Chu, had agreed to continue.

“Keep detailed notes,” Esposito said, once they’d divided up the work. “Clear, understandable notes. Assume you’ll never be able to speak to whoever will use them. If any of you have something you want to run by the group, shout it out. Anything else?”

No one said anything.

“Let’s get to work.”

As he sat back down, he absently moved the box from Dearing Laboratories — a fictitious name used by the Resistance — onto the shelf behind his desk to get it out of his way, never knowing that three vials of the vaccine they were trying to create were inside.

“That’s confirmed?…Then have them run it again!..Yes, again…Call me as soon as you have the results.” The director of the CDC hung up the phone.

The others gathered around the table — the president’s chief of staff; his national security advisor; the attorney general; and the secretaries of Homeland Security, Defense, and Health and Human Services — were all staring at him, waiting. Like him, they were all wearing surgical masks.

“The preliminary test is positive,” the director said.

The secretary of defense blanched. “Good God.”

“I’ve ordered a second test to be sure. I’m told that only two people in the lab are experiencing symptoms, and even those are mild at this point.”

“What’s the chance the first test could be wrong?” Dale Gilford, the president’s chief of staff, asked.

The director hesitated. “It’s unclear. The test was developed based on the original strain of Sage Flu, and even then it would occasionally misidentify a case of everyday flu as Sage.”

“Give me a number.”

The director didn’t answer right away. He looked uncomfortable, as if he’d been backed into a corner. Finally he shrugged. “Ten percent.”

“Ten percent that it’s wrong.”

“Yes.”

Gilford stood up. “I’m having the president moved to Camp David.”

One of those who’d tested positive was Dr. Michael Esposito, who’d been sitting in this very room a little over twelve hours before. Even more troubling, he’d had an in-person briefing with the president. If Esposito was showing signs now, that must mean he’d already been infected or perhaps became infected while he was in Washington.

Which meant the virus had entered the White House.

“Maybe he should be flown directly to Lark River,” the secretary of Homeland Security suggested.

Lark River was the code name for a secret underground facility not far outside the capital where the president could stay for months, protected from the world outside.

“I’ll suggest it,” Gilford said. “But he won’t go for it. Not unless there’s no choice.”

“Gil,” the national security advisor said. “There may be no choice. This thing is spreading. Fast.”

Gilford acknowledged the advisor with a solemn nod and walked out of the room. While the head of the NSA was right, Gilford knew his boss. The president would feel like he was running away if he went to Lark River. He would want to stay someplace more visible to the American public. Even Camp David was going to be a fight.

As he walked through the West Wing, he saw a group of staffers huddled together, talking. When they spotted him, their conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to the chief of staff. He passed by, grim-faced, but said nothing.

Eva Bennett, the president’s secretary, looked up as Gilford approached her desk. Standing beside the doorway to the Oval Office was one of the president’s secret service agents.

“He’s talking to the British PM right now,” Ms. Bennett said. “He should be off in a minute or two.”

“He needs to be off now,” Gilford said. “We need to initiate Rollout.”

Immediately, the secret service agent raised his cuff to his mouth and relayed the order. Within seconds, his associates would be preparing for the president’s departure.

Ms. Bennett had always been a rock, no matter what crisis they’d faced in the past. But for the first time ever, Gilford saw fear in her eyes.

“We’ll leave as soon as he’s ready,” he said as he opened the door to the Oval Office.

The president was sitting behind the Resolute desk, his chair swiveled so that his back was to the door. Holding the phone to his ear, he looked over his shoulder and gave Gilford a nod of acknowledgment.

“We need to talk. Now,” Gilford said, keeping his voice low so that the prime minister wouldn’t hear him.

“That’s right,” the president said into the phone. “Absolutely agree.”

Gilford walked all the way to the desk. “Mr. President, we don’t have time to wait.”

The president turned to Gilford, then said, “Prime Minister, I apologize, but I have a briefing I need to attend. Let’s plan on reconnecting in a couple of hours…Yes, very important…okay.” He hung up and looked at Gilford. “What is it?”

“It’s time to get you out of here, sir. The staff is preparing Rollout right now.”

“Call it off,” the president said.

“Sir, it’s not safe here anymore. We’ve confirmed there’s been at least one infected person in the White House within the last day. It’ll be safer to get you out of here.”

“No, it won’t.”

The president’s stubbornness was admirable, but this wasn’t a budget fight on Capitol Hill. “Lark River would be best,” Gilford said, “but, at the very least, Camp David would—”

“I’m not leaving.”

“But, sir, if you stay, there’s an excellent chance you’ll be infected.”

The president stared at him for a moment, his eyes looking more tired than Gilford had ever seen them. “Gil, I’m already infected.”

It took Gilford a moment to register what the president had said. “Sir?”

“My eyes hurt. My throat’s tender. And my sinuses are throbbing. I already have it.”

Gilford froze, unable to speak.

“Let everyone leave who wants to,” the president said. “In fact, you should encourage them to do so. I’m staying.”

“The first lady? Your son?”

“Already on the way to Camp David. But I was with them this morning. Given the rate of transmission of this thing, they’re most likely infected, too.”

“Dear God.”

“Go on, Gil. Let the staff go home to their families, then check the line of succession. Find out who’s uninfected, get them to Lark River. Whoever’s highest among them, tell them I’ll be handing over my job soon.”

Gilford walked out of the Oval Office, numb.

“When do we leave, sir?” the secret service agent asked.

Gilford blinked twice. “We don’t,” he said. He looked at Ms. Bennett. “Can you have everyone gather in the conference room? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Of course,” she said. “Gil, what’s going on?”

Not even realizing she’d asked a question, Chief of Staff Gilford walked out of the room and down the hall to the private restroom just off his office, where he kneeled in front of the toilet and threw up.

9

Despite the best efforts of the men on the helicopter, Brandon remained silent. Though the markings on the outside of the craft claimed it belonged to the US Army, he was reluctant to believe it. The Project Eden people could have easily painted the same markings on their helicopters, he thought.

It wasn’t until the craft touched down at a military base that he had to admit maybe the markings were genuine. There were several other aircraft around, though most seemed to belong to the air force, not the army.

Brandon was hustled across the tarmac into a warm, nearby building.

“Who we got here?” a man in uniform, also wearing a mask that covered his whole face, asked one of Brandon’s escorts.

“Don’t know. He’s not talking. Found him walking down the middle of a road north of here. As far as we could tell, there was nothing else around him.”

“All right, I’ll take him.”

One of the two escorts set Brandon’s pack on the floor, while the other gave Brandon a pat on the back before they left.

“So, you going to tell us your name?” the new man said.

Brandon hesitated, but finally decided it might be okay. “Brandon. Brandon Ash.”

“Okay, Brandon Ash. Where are you from?”

“Um, Iowa.”

“Iowa? I’m guessing you didn’t walk from there. Where’s your family?”

“I don’t know,” Brandon said.

“You got separated?”

Brandon wasn’t sure how he should handle things. If he told the man the truth, it would lead to other questions that he didn’t know the answers to. And, knowing adults, he didn’t think the man and his friends would believe him anyway.

He decided to answer the man’s question with a nod.

“So what happened?”

Brandon thought quickly. “We…we went out for a drive and got stuck in the snow. My dad went out to try and find help. When he didn’t come back, I went to look for him.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

“You’ve been wandering around on your own since yesterday?”

A nod, though it had actually been longer than that.

“I imagine you’re probably pretty hungry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll get you some chow in a second. A couple more questions, all right?”

“Sure.”

“How you feeling? Any fever? Sniffles? Sore throat?”

“No, sir.”

“Headaches? Muscle ache?”

While his muscles did ache from his prolonged hike, he knew that wasn’t what the man was concerned about, so he shook his head.

“Okay, good. I need to take a blood sample. You’re not going to get all squeamish on me, are you?”

“No. I’m not scared of needles.”

“Glad to hear it. Can you take off your jacket?”

Brandon pulled the zipper down and removed his right arm, but left his left in its sleeve. He then pulled the shirt and sweater he was wearing up past his elbow and held out his arm.

“You’ve done this before,” the man said.

“A couple times.”

“Come on over here.”

The man led him to a table that had a kit on top containing syringes and other medical supplies.

“What you got in there?” the man asked, nodding at the pack Brandon had carried over with him.

Brandon shrugged. “Some food, camping stuff.”

“Were you guys going out for a hike?”

Brandon went back to simply nodding.

“Kind of a bad time of year for hiking.”

“Christmas hike,” Brandon said, hoping that would be enough of an answer.

It seemed to do the trick. “I get it. Tradition, right?”

“Yeah.”

The man took two vials of blood from Brandon’s arm, then said, “We have just enough time to get you something hot to eat before your plane leaves. Sound good to you?”

“Plane?”

“Can’t keep you here, little man. Not enough room or staff.”

“Where am I going?”

“Colorado.”

There were five other passengers on the airplane — three more children and two men. All of them, including Brandon, had been issued full facial masks like the soldiers had been wearing, and were assigned seats in separate rows. The other children looked scared, while the men looked pissed off.

Seven soldiers were also scattered throughout the cabin. Unlike the one who’d questioned Brandon, they were hard-faced and said very little.

The plane was in the air for over an hour and a half. As they came in for a landing, Brandon looked out the window. Not too far away was a tall mountain range, similar to the mountains in Montana, and between it and where they were landing, rolling hills. There was snow on the ground surrounding the runway, though not nearly as much as he’d experienced farther north. Two or three inches at most.

As they rolled down the taxiway, Brandon saw many more military planes and trucks and helicopters parked off to the side, and figured this must be another base. Once the plane finally stopped, the soldier in the front stood up.

“When the door opens, you will get out one by one as we point to you,” he said. “Outside will be two transport vehicles. You four kids will get into the one on the left.” He looked at the two men. “Gentlemen, yours will be the one on the right. Everyone understand?”

“Where are you taking us?” one of the kids asked, a girl, maybe a year or so younger than Brandon.

“Someplace safe.”

“That’s not really an answer,” one of the men said.

“That’s the answer you’re getting right now, sir.”

“Well, I’m not getting into anything until I know where I’m going. In fact…” The man stood up. “I want to talk to whoever’s in charge right now.”

“Sir, please be seated.”

The man scooted into the aisle and started walking toward the front.

“Sir, I’m warning you. Return to your seat now.”

The man kept coming.

“Sir, I will not say it again.”

“I don’t give a damn about your warnings. I want you to get—”

The man had been so focused on the soldier at the front that he hadn’t heard the one who moved in quickly behind him. With blinding speed, the protesting man was shoved to the ground, wrenched back to his feet, and forcibly marched to a seat in the very last row.

This wasn’t the first time Brandon had seen violence, so it didn’t shock him. The other kids, though, stared at the soldiers, looking scared out of their minds.

A moment later, the door swung open, and another soldier — a woman this time — stepped on board. She was a captain, the insignia on her uniform the same as Brandon’s father’s had been when he was in the army.

“Are we ready here?” she asked.

“One of our passengers isn’t being as cooperative as we would have liked, but everyone else is set.”

She turned to the cabin and said in a loud voice, “Good afternoon. I am Captain Valverde, and I am here to make sure you all get to your destinations. We’ll start with the children.”

Brandon was the last one the male soldier pointed at. He grabbed his pack, scooted into the aisle behind the two girls and the other boy, and headed for the door.

The air outside was brisk, but not as cold as Montana had been. As promised, there were two vehicles waiting. They were like a combo between a bus and a van, and reminded Brandon of a vehicle his family had ridden in when they’d gone to pick up a rental car at an airport once.

The door opened in the middle as they reached their vehicle.

“Please sit in separate rows,” Captain Valverde said.

Brandon took a seat near the back, then looked out the window in time to see the two male adult passengers coming down the stairs. The first was walking on his own, while the second — the protestor — was being half carried down. When they reached the tarmac, the second passenger tried to squirm away from the soldier holding him, but the only thing he got out of it was a fist in his gut and a punch to the jaw.

One of the girls let out a gasp.

The driver of their van, wearing a full containment suit, looked into the rearview mirror, stared at the girl for a moment, and dropped his gaze back to the front window.

Though Brandon didn’t have a view of the girl’s face, he could see she was shaking and thought she might start crying. The row across the aisle from her was empty. He gave it only a moment’s thought before he moved up next to her.

This drew another look from the man at the wheel, but Brandon ignored him.

“Hey, it’s going to be all right,” he said to the girl.

She looked at him, tears running down her cheeks. “I want to go home.”

“We all do,” he told her. “But we can’t right now.”

“I want to go home.”

“When this is over, they’ll take you home.”

“Really?”

“They’re not going to hurt us. They’re just trying to keep us safe from, you know, what’s happening out there.” He pointed out the window. “The flu.”

He could see she wanted to believe him. He reached across the aisle and took her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

“Hey! What’s going on?” The voice came from the front of the van.

Brandon immediately dropped the girl’s hand and turned forward. Captain Valverde was staring at him from near the front row.

“I was helping her calm down, that’s all,” Brandon said.

The captain considered him for another moment, then said, “You’re sitting too close. You need to move to another row.”

As he stood up, he whispered to the girl, “What’s your name?”

“Loni.”

He smiled. “I’m Brandon.”

“Thank you, Brandon.”

The van took them across the base, out a main gate, and toward the mountains. For the first few minutes, Brandon watched the other van follow them, but before they left the base, it turned right and moved out of sight. He never saw it again.

For thirty minutes, they wound their way higher and higher in the mountains before turning down a narrower road. On the whole trip up, Brandon saw only two other vehicles, both military. With the roads here clear of snow, it felt even odder than when he’d been walking down the deserted highway in Montana.

Another turn took them onto a narrow, one-lane road with a sign arcing over the entrance that read:

The road twisted through the trees for nearly ten minutes before they reached a clearing with eight identical rectangular buildings in two rows of four to the left, and three larger buildings to the right. Straight ahead was a covered picnic area that went right down to the edge of a small, frozen lake.

The van pulled to a stop in front of one of the larger buildings. There were lights on inside, and steam covering the windows.

“All right. This is our stop,” Captain Valverde said. “But I need to check one thing first.”

“What is this place?” asked the girl Brandon hadn’t talked to yet.

“Camp Kiley. Didn’t you read the sign?” the boy said.

“Yeah, I read the sign, but that’s not what I meant.”

“Hold it down,” the captain said. “This is a temporary resident facility for unaccompanied minors.”

“Unaccompanied minors?” Loni said.

“Means kids who are alone,” the boy announced as if she were stupid.

“How long do we have to stay here?” the first girl asked.

“Until we know the flu has run its course, and it’s safe for you to return home.”

“What if it’s never safe?”

Captain Valverde smiled compassionately. “That won’t happen. Don’t worry.”

A soldier exited the building and walked over to the van. When the door opened, he stuck his head in and said, “You’re all clear.”

“Excellent,” the captain said. She turned to the kids and pulled her mask off her face. “Good news. You’ve all passed your blood tests, and none of you have the virus.”

Brandon wasn’t surprised by his results. His father had passed down the gene that made him immune. Unless the others also had the immunity, they were just lucky.

“Leave your masks in the van,” the captain instructed them, “and follow me.”

She escorted them into the building, which turned out to be a cafeteria. There were close to fifty people present. Only half a dozen were adults. The kids were anywhere from kindergarten age to almost old enough to be done with high school.

Two soldiers were standing by the door as they walked in. One of them pointed at Brandon’s backpack. “Need to search that. Can’t have any weapons or things like that here.”

“Oh…um, sure.” Brandon handed over his pack.

The other kids also had their bags searched. Once everyone was cleared, Captain Valverde took them to the front of the room.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said in a voice loud enough for the whole room to hear.

Everyone hushed.

“I’ve brought four new children to join us.” She turned to Brandon and his travel mates. “This is Marisa, Loni, Eddie, and Brandon. Please introduce yourselves to them when you have a moment.” She looked at the new arrivals. “If you have any questions, you can ask one of the adult supervisors — Miss Collins, Mrs. Trieb, Mr. Munson, Mr. Whitney, Sergeant Lukes, and Specialist Granter.”

Specialist Granter was the one who’d checked Brandon’s bag.

“Where do we sleep?” Marisa asked.

“You will each be assigned a bed in one of the dormitories. I know it’s not like home, but it’s not bad.”

A few of the kids who’d been there laughed.

“All right, you can all go back to what you were doing,” the captain said. “And don’t forget to welcome your new friends.”

10

James Sumner, CEO of Yeti Pepper — a highly successful mobile application developer — had over six hundred bottles of wine in his private collection. Each bottle was carefully chosen not only for its taste, but also for its reputation. The majority was housed in a climate-controlled facility up the road in San Francisco, while he kept nearly one hundred at home in case a special occasion arose.

This night was one such occasion. In fact, it was probably the biggest occasion of all. It was Christmas evening, but that wasn’t why he was standing in his well-designed wine closet.

Though only in his early fifties, this would be his last night alive. He’d hoped that wouldn’t be the case. He had always dreamt of passing away at ninety while drifting off to sleep at a café in Loire Valley in France. But ninety was not to be, nor eighty, nor seventy, nor even sixty.

That morning, not long after breakfast, he had coughed for the first time. As the afternoon had progressed, his symptoms had worsened. He was now drained and congested and sore from coughing, but he had not yet given up the ghost.

What he was trying to decide was which wine would be his last.

In no particular hurry, he pulled bottle after bottle from the exquisitely handcrafted rack, read each label, and put it back if he thought it unworthy. So far, there were only two bottles he hadn’t returned to their place — the 1945 Pétrus Bordeaux, and the 1982 Château Haut-Brion, a first-growth Bordeaux.

He slid another from its slot. A 2005 Romanée-Conti Burgundy. He had bought three bottles at auction for over twenty-three thousand dollars each. He rubbed his thumb lightly across the label, but, in the end, he returned it to the rack. It was good — excellent, in fact — just not…right.

When he reached the end, he moved to the next rack. As he did, he noticed something on the floor, tucked into the back corner of the room, almost out of sight. It was a simple, brown paper bag, bottle-size, sitting upright and full. He had forgotten all about it.

As he picked it up, a cough exploded from his chest, and he had to grab one of the racks to keep from falling down.

When the fit passed, he set the bag on the table next to the Pétrus and Haut-Brion, then carefully opened the top and pulled the bottle out.

He couldn’t help but smile as he set it down.

Boone’s Farm Tickle Pink.

Not only was there no date, there was no cork, just a screw top.

When his sister had given it to him, he had rolled his eyes and grimaced.

“I just thought, you know…” Lauraine had said.

He had played dumb at the time, but of course he did know.

That had been, what? Three years ago? He hadn’t seen her since. She’d emailed him once, saying she was going to be in town and wanted to have dinner with him, but he had claimed another commitment. Now he couldn’t even remember if he’d really had one.

The bottle had made him angry at the time. It had evoked memories he had long buried and never wanted to think about again. When he arrived home that night, he fully intended to throw the low-rent wine in the trash, but found himself unable to do it. Instead, he hid the Tickle Pink in his wine vault, thinking that in a few days he’d get around to disposing it.

Apparently, he never did.

He’d been eighteen and in the final semester of his senior year of high school. Lauraine, a year and a half younger, was a sophomore. That afternoon, their father had informed him there was no way his parents could afford to send him to the university in the fall, and that he’d be better off getting a job and learning a skill. It had come as a shock. His mother had promised him they’d pay for college. He’d been counting on it. It was how he would avoid following in his father’s footsteps.

Lauraine, his biggest supporter and best friend back then, had found him outside of town along the trail by the river they used to hike together. She’d come prepared with two bottles of Tickle Pink. They passed them back and forth, drinking straight out of the top. She let him vent his anger, nodding in encouragement. At some point, they had started laughing as more of the horrible wine flowed.

It was the first time he’d ever been drunk, and he’d never had a headache as bad as the one he had the next morning — before or since.

It was funny, though. His father’s refusal to live up to his mother’s promise had been the push Sumner needed. The day after he graduated, he packed the few things he wanted to take with him into his crappy little car and headed west, not stopping until he reached the ocean.

He looked at the three bottles on the table. People would pay seven hundred dollars for one glass of the Haut-Brion. He had paid that much. And for the Pétrus — if you could buy only a glass — eight grand. The Boone’s Farm? When he was younger, he could get the whole bottle for a few bucks. He doubted the price had come up much.

He thought about Lauraine. She had always treated him with love and kindness, something he couldn’t say he’d done in return.

The Pétrus. The Haut-Brion. The Tickle Pink.

It wasn’t even a contest.

He grabbed the Boone’s Farm by the neck, and closed the door to his wine closet for the last time.

It was weird being one of only a few people in the dorm, but Belinda Ramsey had no place else to go for the holidays. Home was out of the question. Her mother, a professional drunk, had kicked Belinda out of the house when the girl had still been in high school. She’d gone to live with her grandmother, but Grams had died last summer.

That was the extent of her family, and hence the reason she had opted to stay at school while everyone else had rushed away.

She had counted a total of three others who seemed to be doing the same thing she was, all on lower floors than hers. Of course, they had all needed special permission to stay at the dorms because technically they were closed. When Belinda received her approval, she was told she would have to provide her own meals, as the cafeteria would not be open again until just before the new term began.

That was fine. There was a microwave oven on her floor, so she had stocked up on Top Ramen and frozen pizzas. Her plan was to spend the first part of the break working on her book. She was an English major with dreams of being an author. The story she was writing was a thinly veiled version of her own life. It was a bit painful to put on the page at times, but nowhere near as bad as she’d expected.

For the week leading up to Christmas Day, she had decided to seclude herself on her floor and do nothing but write, sleep, and, occasionally, eat. That way, she could avoid all the “Christmas cheer” that would remind her she had no one to share the holidays with. She disconnected the Internet and unplugged the TV. She even turned off her phone, though she didn’t think anyone would be calling her, her college friends undoubtedly busy at home.

It was amazing how well it was going. The first couple of days, she was able to write over two thousand words each. The third day dipped a little, only eighteen hundred, but day four was amazing. Three thousand, six hundred, and seventy-eight. She had never written that many words in one day before. The writer’s high she had when she finally removed her fingers from the keyboard was the purest combination of euphoria and serenity she had ever felt.

The rest of the week had gone so well that she had lost track of the days and actually worked through Christmas, the day she had originally planned as a break. It was after ten p.m. when she finally realized it. She laughed at herself for getting so lost in her work.

She had been planning on calling her friend Patty to wish her a merry Christmas, but Patty’s home was in Delaware, so it was nearly eleven thirty there. Probably too late.

Belinda decided to text her instead. She could give Patty a call tomorrow. She dug her phone out of the dresser where she’d stuffed it, and turned it on. As it went through warming up and connecting to the network, she walked down the hall to the common area, grabbed the frozen mini-supreme pizza she’d been saving for this day out of the refrigerator, and popped it into the microwave.

Four minutes later she returned to her room with her gourmet meal on an elegant paper plate. From her smaller dorm-room fridge, she grabbed a Diet Coke and plopped down on her bed. The pizza was still a bit too hot, so she picked up her phone to text Patty, but paused, surprised, as she looked at the screen.

She had over two dozen text messages, and nearly as many voicemails. Most were from Patty, while the rest were from her other two close friends, Josh and Kaylee.

Belinda stopped reading and listened to the first of Patty’s voicemails. “God, I hope you’re okay. You’re probably watching TV, right? This is insane. Please tell me there are none of these things in Madison. Call me back as soon as you get this, okay?”

Ignoring the rest of the messages, she called Patty.

Two rings. Three. Four.

“Hi, it’s Patty. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Beep.

“Patty? It’s Belinda. What’s going on? I just got your messages. Call me.”

She tried Kaylee next. This time it didn’t even ring before going to voicemail. Belinda left a similar message for her.

She called Josh.

Two rings. “Hello?”

“Josh?”

There was a pause, a sniffle, then a stuttering voice, “Josh isn’t with us anymore.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. What does that mean?”

“Please don’t call again.”

The line went dead.

Despite the request, she did call again, but went straight to voicemail this time.

She stared at her phone. What the hell was going on?

Are you watching this?

Josh’s message.

She rushed across the room, plugged in her TV, and turned it on.

Though the television was tuned to what normally would be the Glitz Network, the logo in the corner belonged to Prime Cable News.

She watched for five minutes, but nearly nothing the news anchors said made sense. It was as if they were speaking another language, or, probably closer to the truth, working off a set of known facts Belinda was unaware of. What was clear was that something horrible either had happened or was happening.

She grabbed her computer and switched on the Wi-Fi for the first time in over a week. As soon as she had the signal, she opened her email program. While the messages started to download, she launched her web browser and went to the PCN website. There, she devoured story after unbelievable story, her shock growing with every paragraph.

When she read everything she could, she searched for news more specific to Madison.

A later story talked of finding five more boxes. In the most recent article, posted that morning, she read about the sick showing up in large numbers at local hospitals, and that at least seven hundred people had already died. The reporter speculated that the total was far greater than that, as there were likely many more who had been too sick to seek medical help and passed away in their homes. The death toll was probably in the thousands, the reporter said.

Thousands? That was just here in Madison. If this was truly as spread out as the other reports suggested, then…

Oh, my God.

Unable to focus on the words anymore, Belinda walked over to her window and looked outside. Six floors below was the park that surrounded the dorm. Sometime in the past few days it must have snowed. The last time she’d checked, the ground had been bare, but now there was a layer of white at least a few inches thick.

The only way she could pick out the pathways was by the lights that lined them. Usually the grounds crew kept the paths clear to prevent the buildup of ice. But there wasn’t even so much as a footprint in the snow. Anywhere.

She looked back at the door to her room. When the break had begun, someone from the cleaning staff had come up to her floor every other day to do a light dusting, and see if the trash needed removing. Belinda couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen or heard one of them.

With a sense of dread, she reentered the hallway and made her way back to the common room. The trash can had one of those flopping panels to push rubbish through. She pulled the entire top off and looked inside the barrel. She could see the discarded containers and wrappers from her meals stretching back at least five days. Someone should have dumped it out already.

She ran to the stairwell door and pulled it open, thinking she could find one of the other students who’d stayed. But before she took the first step down, a voice in her head screamed, Wait!

The virus. The highly contagious virus. If anyone below had it, they’d give it to her. At the moment she felt okay. Actually, she felt good, never healthier. If she wanted to stay that way, she needed to avoid everyone at all costs.

She backed away from the stairs and slowly closed the door.

Using an extra bedsheet she had, she tied off the staircase door’s handle, making it harder for someone on the other side to open it. She dragged her roommate’s dresser out of their room and leaned it against the door. It might not have stopped anyone, but at the very least, it would crash down when the door opened, alerting her that someone was coming.

A bigger problem was the elevator. She could call it up and pull the stop button, but she had no idea who might have been inside in the past several days. Perhaps the virus was waiting for her on the control panel.

The thought made her pause. An hour before, she’d only been worried about where she should break the next paragraph of her story, and now she was living in fear of killer microbes.

The best she could do with the elevator was to tie her roommate’s mattress in front of the opening. She wasn’t satisfied with it at all, but she didn’t know what else to do.

For the next ninety minutes, she sat on the floor watching the news, her pizza forgotten. When she finally turned it off, she didn’t go to bed. Instead, she sat down with her laptop, opened a new file, and began to type.

She knew she would never finish the story she’d been working on. She had something different to write now.

Something that would consume her.

11

“Anything?” Robert asked.

A second of static, then Enrique’s voice came over the radio. “No. Nothing.”

“What about you, Evan?”

“Still clear over here, too,” Evan reported.

Thankfully the moon had come up an hour earlier, giving the spotters plenty of light to see most vessels that might approach the island.

“Great. I’ll check back in a bit.”

It had been a wild, unreal few days.

Isabella Island was a small private bump of land, sticking out of the ocean thirty-five miles off the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. It had been purchased several years earlier by the Albino Entertainment Group — owners of hotels in Las Vegas, Macau, Greece, and the French Riviera — and turned into an island-wide resort that shared the island’s name. Twice a day, a private ferry would shuttle new guests to Isabella, and take those who had checked out back to the mainland.

The island was far enough offshore that Costa Rica was below the horizon, and, if guests wanted to, they could pretend they had found a bit of paradise in the middle of nowhere. Every Christmas, the resort ran a special deal aimed directly at singles who were looking for alternatives to spending the holidays with relatives they’d rather avoid. In fact, the humorous ad campaign they ran each year had won numerous Clio Awards, and was the main reason the island was always at full capacity during the holidays.

The management had expected to have every room occupied by Christmas Eve. What they hadn’t counted on was a worldwide terror attack.

On Thursday, December 22^nd, the resort had been running at sixty percent capacity, with the bulk of guests due to arrive the morning of Christmas Eve. As usual, most of those already on the island spent their day by the water — sunbathing, jet skiing, swimming, and surfing.

One of the appealing features of the hotel was that none of the rooms had televisions. In fact, there were only five on the entire island. One in the manager’s office, one in the lobby that normally played a feed from a computer that listed the day’s available activities, and the other three in the open-air bar on the veranda overlooking the ocean.

On that Thursday, instead of being tuned to sporting events, the bar’s TVs were playing a marathon of Christmas movies off Blu-ray discs, so news of what was happening in the rest of the world didn’t reach anyone on the island until Dominic Ray, the manager, received a call from his brother over the satellite phone at a quarter to five in the afternoon. Before he’d hung up, Dominic had turned on the television in his office, and watched in stunned silence at the unfolding drama surrounding the mysterious shipping containers.

The businessman in him wanted to keep the news to himself, and let his guests continue to enjoy their stay. But he was, at heart, a man of good conscience, so there was no way he could keep this quiet.

He picked up the hotel phone and called Renee, his assistant manager.

“In five minutes, I want you to sound the tsunami alarm.”

“The alarm? Why?”

“I want to do a drill.”

“We never do drills this late in the day. We haven’t even briefed the new guests.” The last ferry of the day had made its stop fifteen minutes early, leaving eleven new guests while taking away seventeen.

“I don’t care. Just do it.”

Because of the tsunami that had struck the Indian Ocean back in 2004, the resort’s owners had been required to install an alarm and conduct weekly drills. After each group of guests finished checking in, they were given a briefing and a pamphlet that explained what was to be done if the alarm went off — make their way as quickly as possible to the hotel restaurant. The hotel itself was built in tiers up the side of the island’s only hill, with the restaurant at the top where the view was best.

Dominic reached the restaurant just as the alarm went off.

There was minor confusion at first, not only with the unprepared guests, but also with the staff who had not expected a test. Most of the employees, after a few seconds of surprise, decided it must be real, and started directing the guests where to go.

As people began streaming into the restaurant, Renee, who arrived right after the alarm was activated, counted them off. Since the island was private, management knew the exact number of visitors.

The guests were a mix of the winded, the scared, the confused, and the annoyed. Those closest to Dominic asked him what was going on, but all he said was, “In a minute.”

Finally, Renee worked her way through the crowd to where he was standing. “I think that’s it.”

“Everyone?”

“No. We’re missing five guests. Apparently there was a small group that went around to the far side.”

Dominic frowned. He had hoped everyone would be there, but it wasn’t surprising. “Thanks, Renee.”

He pulled out a chair from a nearby table, and climbed onto it so he was high enough for all to see him.

“Everyone! Everyone, if I could have your attention.”

The noise in the room lowered but didn’t die.

“Please,” he said. “This is important.”

It took another moment, but finally they all quieted down.

“First of all, there is no tsunami.”

Voices again, most relieved, but a few angry.

“So this was just a drill?” someone shouted.

“It’s not a drill, either.”

That garnered him several curious looks. He waited until he had everyone’s attention again, then said, “There’s something you need to know.”

It wasn’t exactly a mad rush down to the bar after the meeting, but close to it. Once everyone was reassembled there, Robert, the bartender and Dominic’s best friend, switched off Miracle on 34^th Street and turned on CNN International.

Though the crowd numbered nearly two hundred, for the first ninety minutes there weren’t more than a dozen words spoken. The only reason that changed later was because Dominic told Robert that for the rest of the night, it would be an open bar. Surprisingly, only a handful of people drank more than they should have. The rest nursed their booze while they digested the unbelievable news.

It wasn’t until late that night before people started returning to their rooms. Eventually, only Dominic, Robert, and Renee remained. They sat together at a table, a bottle of barely touched Johnnie Walker Blue Label whiskey in front of them.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Robert said.

“What?” Dominic asked.

“The ferry. What happens when it comes in the morning?”

“You’re thinking a lot of people will want to go home?” Renee said.

“Well, yeah.”

“Anyone who wants to go should be able to,” Dominic said. “The boat can hold up to a hundred, if need be.”

Robert nodded, and was quiet for a moment. “Good, but that’s not really what I’m concerned about.”

“Okay,” Dominic said. “What, then?”

“What if there are new guests on the boat?”

Dominic shrugged. “We give them rooms.”

Again, Robert took a second before he spoke. “I don’t think anyone on that boat, guest or crew, should get off.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dominic, there’s none of those containers here on the island.” Though there had been no search done since they’d heard the news, the staff knew the island well. If there had been a container there, it would have been spotted already. “Costa Rica, on the other hand, is one of the places that’s reported having them. What if that woman in that video they’ve been playing is right, and the containers have been spitting out the Sage Flu? Right now, we’re all safe. But if someone on the boat tomorrow morning came in contact with that stuff, then…”

Renee stared at him. “What if the boat’s tainted?”

“Right, of course,” Robert said. “We can’t even let it dock.”

“That video might be a crock. Even CNN hasn’t been able to confirm it,” Dominic argued. “It could be nothing.”

“I hope it is nothing,” Robert said. “But why take the chance? If we’re wrong, no harm.”

“If we’re wrong, we’ll get fired.”

“Better fired than letting something on this island that might harm us.”

“Or kill us,” Renee added.

Dominic looked at her. “You agree with him?”

“Dominic, you’re the one who told us about it in the first place,” she said. “You know this isn’t nothing.”

Dominic looked back at the monitor. CNN was showing a montage of the found boxes. Each time another came up, a graphic identified the new location. New York, Mexico City, Madrid, Cairo, Hong Kong, Lima. The list of locations went on and on.

He looked back at Robert and Renee. “What do we do about the people who want to leave?”

Early the next morning, all one hundred and ninety-three people on the island gathered once more in the restaurant. Taking turns, Dominic, Renee, and Robert explained the situation as they saw it, then Dominic presented the options.

“You can either stay or leave, that’s up to you, but if you do leave, you cannot come back. The boat should be here at 8:30. If you want to be on it, you need to be down at the dock no later than 8:10. That’s in thirty-five minutes. Questions?”

There were plenty, but most were from people needing to hear again what Dominic and the others had already said, so they cut off the questions after ten minutes.

Isabella Island was graced with a magnificent sheltered bay. The ferry’s route took it between the two offset arms of land jutting out from either side of the bay that created a natural channel between the Caribbean and the bay itself. The dock was located across the bay from the channel exit. At the moment, one of the resort’s speedboats and all three of its scuba boats were tied to the pier, waiting.

One hundred feet to the west was the swimming platform — a wooden deck built on top of two dozen airtight drums. Or at least that’s where it had been until shortly after the sun had come up, when Robert and two of the guys who helped maintain the water sports equipment had cut it from the ties that held it in place, and towed it out closer to the passageway. There, they used a couple of anchors to hold it down. Robert had tested it. He reported it was a bit wobbly, but it would do.

The first of those wanting to leave arrived at the dock a few minutes before eight.

“You can get on Scuba One,” Dominic told them.

After Scuba One was filled, Dominic and Robert directed new arrivals to Scuba Two, then Scuba Three. When the last boat was nearing capacity, Dominic worried that a second trip might be needed, but they were able to squeeze everyone on. All told, there were sixty-three who wanted off — fifty-seven guests and six staff.

Robert looked at his watch, then back at the sea. “We should be able to see them by now.”

Dominic put a hand over his eyes to cut the glare. The bay was on the east side, facing away from Costa Rica, so the boat had to come all the way around the calmer end of the island on the right. There was no sign of it yet.

When the ferry still hadn’t shown up ten minutes later, Dominic had one of the employees hand out bottles of soda to those waiting on the boats. Water would have been better, but as Renee had pointed out, it would be smart to hold on to the water they had for now.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” one of the staff members standing on the beach with them said.

It was a definite possibility, Dominic thought. Who knew how crazy things had gotten on the mainland?

But a few minutes later, Robert said, “There it is.”

The medium-sized, two-deck passenger ferry had just peeked around the corner of the island. They watched it until it was almost to the seaside mouth of the passage.

“You’d better go,” Robert said.

Dominic hesitated for a second, then nodded and jogged out to the speedboat where Jalen Dunn, the speedboat pilot and water-ski instructor, was waiting. As soon as he was on board, the boat pulled away from the dock and raced across the bay.

Dominic glanced at the repositioned swimming platform as they passed by. Was that really all that would be standing between them and potential death? He didn’t have time to ponder it, though, as the speedboat suddenly entered the choppier water of the passage.

Ahead, he could see the ferry entering the other end.

“How far do you want to go?” Jalen yelled.

“This is probably good,” Dominic hollered back. “We want to make sure they get in far enough that they don’t just turn around and leave.”

Jalen throttled the boat down to a point where the motor held them in place with the moving current. Picking up the electronic megaphone Robert had put in the boat earlier, Dominic nervously played with the switch.

The wait seemed to take forever. When the ferry was about two hundred feet away, he could stand it no more. “Now,” he said.

Jalen revved up the engine, and drove the speedboat all the way around the ferry and back up the other side, slowing and matching the bigger boat’s pace as it came abreast with the bridge.

As they’d circled around, Dominic had tried to determine how many people were on board. He saw a handful at most, which made him feel better. They had been expecting at least fifty people on this trip alone.

On the bridge, he could see one of the ferry’s crew glancing over at their boat. He raised the megaphone.

“Attention, Albino Mer,” he said, using the ferry’s name. His voice echoed across the water, just above the sounds of the engines. “Attention, Albino Mer.”

This time the door at the side of the bridge opened, and Carlos Guzman, the boat’s captain, looked out.

“Good morning, Carlos. It’s Dominic.”

Carlos put his hands around his mouth and shouted back, “What’s going on?”

“There’s a problem with our dock,” Dominic said, using the story he, Robert, and Renee had worked up. They worried if they went with the truth, the Albino Mer would leave without taking those who wanted to go home with them. “One of the pillars has rotted through. Stable enough for our smaller boats, but didn’t think we should chance it with you.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Already got it worked out,” Dominic said.

A few minutes later, as the two boats cleared the end of the passage, the floating platform came into view. Scuba One was already pulled up next to it, with the other two boats approaching quickly.

“We’re going to use the platform to transfer everyone,” Dominic said through the megaphone.

“Would be easier if the boats just tie up to our ramp in back.”

Of course the captain was right. “Pull up beside the platform,” Dominic said as if he hadn’t heard the other man. He glanced at Jalen. “Take us over there.”

Jalen increased their speed, taking them toward the platform and cutting off any further conversation. By the time the Albino Mer completely cleared the channel, the speedboat was tucking in behind Scuba One.

“Get them out there,” Dominic yelled across to Robert. He didn’t want to give Carlos any excuse to try anything other than using the platform.

The Albino Mer slowed as it approached the other side of the platform. For a moment, it looked as though it might even stop before it got there, but it continued to slide forward through the water.

“Once it gets here, start boarding right away,” Robert said loudly enough for the passengers who were already on the platform to hear. To those still on his boat, he said, “Off. Everyone off.”

The moment the last guest left Scuba One, Robert pulled away, and Scuba Two moved into its place.

As soon as the Albino Mer stopped, Dominic caught a glance of three people who were definitely not crew members looking like they intended to get off. But as planned, those waiting on the platform rushed on to the ferry the moment a crew member removed the chain from the boarding gate, preventing anyone from disembarking.

Passengers from Scuba Two immediately took the platform space vacated by the passengers from Scuba One. Once they were all off their ship, it moved to the side, and Scuba Three moved in, unloaded, and pulled away.

In this manner, there was a continuous stream of passengers right up until the end.

Dominic tensed as the last five people climbed on board the ferry. As he’d expected, the three he’d seen earlier approached the now freed-up gate. He raised the megaphone again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The resort is currently closed. You will need to stay on the ship.”

The one in the lead, a blond and burly guy of maybe twenty-five, shouted, “What are you talking about? I’ve got a reservation. I’ve already paid for this. I’m coming off.”

“I’m sorry,” Dominic repeated. “But we’re not taking any guests right now. We’ll get you a refund or you can reschedule in the future.”

“I’m not rescheduling. I planned to be here now, so I’m coming.”

One of the resort staffers on Scuba Three pulled out the gun Dominic had given him from the safe that morning, and pointed it at the guy.

“Holy fuck.” The blond man jumped back, hiding behind an interior partition.

“I told you. The resort’s closed,” Dominic said. He pointed the megaphone toward the front of the Albino Mer. “Carlos, take the ferry out. And don’t come back tonight.”

Quickly, Scuba One moved in next to the swimming dock. When he was close enough, Robert jumped off, holding a gas can, and started dousing the timbers. When the crewman at the back of the ferry saw what he was doing, he shouted toward the pilothouse.

Someone up front must have seen what Robert was doing, too, because the Albino Mer’s engines suddenly revved up, and the boat pulled away.

Once Robert was done and back on Scuba One, the staffer who was with him pulled the boat back several feet. Robert threw a lit book of matches across the growing water gap. With a whoosh, the swimming platform turned into a blazing beacon in the middle of the bay.

The Albino Mer made a big circle around the burning structure as it cut through the water back toward the passage to the sea. All its new passengers were pressed against the cabin windows, staring at the burning wood that moments before had been their bridge to the ferry.

Without being told, Jalen guided the speedboat behind the ferry, and he and Dominic followed the Albino Mer all the way back to the open sea. When they reached the end of the passage, they stopped and watched the ferry until it passed out of sight.

“All right,” Dominic said. “Take us back home.”

It was Robert’s idea to post sentries. He argued that others might flee the mainland and try for the safety of Isabella Island. Dominic hoped he was wrong, but it was a good idea, so a schedule was drawn up from the names of those who remained. The first watchers were given walkie-talkies and positioned around the central hill so that all directions could be seen.

Those who weren’t on watch gathered in the terrace bar where the TVs continued to paint a darker and darker picture of the rest of the world. Then, in the middle of the afternoon, CNN carried a live speech from the president of the United States. He confirmed their worst fears, that the substance being pumped out of the shipping containers indeed appeared to be the deadly Sage Flu. He also put his entire country on a twenty-four-hour curfew. Many other nations quickly followed suit, including Costa Rica. For a good thirty minutes, no one in the bar said a word.

When the time for the arrival of the afternoon ferry approached, Dominic was sure it wouldn’t come. But he and Jalen went out to the passage in the speedboat again, this time with Robert and Evan — one of the resort’s guests — in the second speedboat.

Every few minutes they’d check in with the spotters to see if the Albino Mer had appeared on the horizon, but there continued to be no sign of the ship, so they returned to the resort.

Sleep that night was something that came only in short chunks of twenty or thirty minutes at most. Around four a.m. Dominic gave up and went down to the bar. He wasn’t surprised to see that nearly half the other residents were there.

The news on CNN that Christmas Eve morning brought more of the same. If any of them had been hoping for something that looked like it might turn the situation around, they were disappointed.

It was around ten thirty when the radio crackled.

“There’s a couple of white spots on the horizon,” the voice said.

Robert, who was sitting next to Dominic, picked up the walkie-talkie. “Who is this?”

“Norm Lee.”

They checked the handwritten duty sheet. Lee was positioned facing west toward Costa Rica.

Robert pushed the SEND button on his radio. “Which way are they headed?”

“Can’t tell yet,” Lee said.

A few minutes later he reported back.

“They’re getting bigger.”

Robert looked at Dominic, concerned.

“They could be headed out into the Gulf,” Dominic said. “Might miss us by miles.”

“Or they could be headed here. If they are, we need to be ready.”

“What if we can’t scare them off?”

“Did you guys hear me?” Lee asked. “They’re getting closer.”

Robert picked up the radio. “Heard you, Norm. Hold on, okay?” He looked at Dominic. “We have to keep them off the island. There’s no way we can know if they’ve been exposed or not.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Dominic asked, feeling like Robert hadn’t answered his first question.

“We can’t let them on.”

Dominic stared at his friend, suddenly realizing that Robert had answered his question. “You mean kill them?”

Robert was quiet for a second. “Only if we have to.”

“I don’t know if I could do that. I don’t know if any of these people here can do that.”

“Dominic, stop thinking like you’re still running a resort. The resort’s gone. This place, this is our survival. Anything out there beyond the beach…” He pointed toward the ocean. “Is death. If we let anyone in, it’s the same as putting a gun to each of our heads.”

Intellectually, Dominic could grasp that, but in practice?

“Hopefully they’ll just pass by,” he said.

They didn’t.

Forty minutes later, it was clear the two boats were headed for Isabella Island.

With Robert taking charge, they set out in the two speedboats with four volunteers and the full complement of the resort’s weapons — three handguns, a shotgun, and all four scuba spearguns.

Robert was at the wheel of the first speedboat, with Dominic sitting nervously in the seat beside him. Between Dominic’s feet was the megaphone. He hoped that was all they were going to need.

They sped across the bay, through the passage, and into the open waters of the Gulf. The sea was rougher than it had been yesterday, perhaps matching the mood that had engulfed the planet. The speedboat jerked up and down as it plowed through the choppy swells.

Taking the same path the ferry had when it left the morning before, they raced around the end of the island so that they could reach the west side. The other ships were clearly visible now about half a mile offshore, two cruisers with awning-covered cockpits and probably small cabins below. Nothing fancy — fishing boats for the tourists. Something they might go out on for the day, but probably not spend the night on. Boats like those seldom came anywhere near the island, usually sticking closer to the Costa Rican coastline.

Robert picked up the walkie-talkie. “Enrique, stay right with him.”

Enrique, driving the other boat, tucked in ten yards behind them as Robert put them on an intercept course. Two hundred feet before they reached the other boats, they turned sharply to the right, cutting across the cruisers’ path. They circled around and did it again, making it clear they wanted the other boats to stop.

It took a third pass to get the cruisers to idle down their engines.

“Stay in front of them,” Robert ordered Enrique. He moved his boat in closer, and glanced at Dominic. “Give it a shot.”

Dominic could see at least a dozen people on each cruiser — men, women, children, with none looking over forty. They were a mix of Hispanic, Caucasian, and African-American.

He raised the bullhorn to his mouth. “Turn your boats around. The Isabella Island Resort is closed.” He repeated the message in Spanish.

Robert circled them on the other side.

“The island is closed,” Dominic repeated. “You cannot go there.”

Someone shouted, “You can’t do that! We have to land. We’re trying to save our families.”

Dominic tensed. How would they turn these people…the children away?

“Tell them again,” Robert said. “Tell them we’ll be forced to take action if they don’t leave.”

“You need to leave now,” Dominic said into the megaphone. “If you don’t…” He paused, an idea forming in his mind. “If you don’t, you’re going to get sick. The virus is on the island. We have too many people to take care of already.”

Robert looked over at him, surprised.

“You’ve been hit, too?”

“Yes.” Dominic was tempted to embellish the story, but held his tongue.

The group on the first cruiser huddled together. After several minutes, the sister boat moved in so that the two were almost touching.

“That was quick thinking,” Robert said in a low voice.

“I hope it works,” Dominic replied.

They could hear raised voices coming from the conference.

Robert slipped out of the pilot’s seat. “Maybe they need a little extra motivation.”

He retrieved a pistol from the front storage locker.

“What are you doing?” Dominic asked, eyes widening.

“Bring a little reality to their discussion.”

Robert aimed the gun’s barrel just in front of the two boats, and pulled the trigger. The boom echoed across the water. Everyone froze for a moment, then looked over at the speedboat.

“Give me that,” Robert said as he took the megaphone from Dominic. He raised it to his lips. “You’ve already been told the island is closed. Now turn your boats around.”

“There’s nowhere else to go!” a woman screamed. “Nowhere safe!”

“It’s not safe here, either.”

“But our children!”

Dominic could see Robert close his eyes for a second. “We’re sorry. We wish we could help,” Robert said. “We don’t have the resources. We can’t let you on the island, and we will stop you if you try.”

To emphasize the point, one of the men on Enrique’s boat held the shotgun out to his side so it could be seen.

“You have three minutes,” Robert said, “or we will assume you are trying to stay.”

“Then what? You’ll shoot us?” another woman yelled.

“We’d rather not, but none of you is getting on the island. So the choice is yours.”

“Here,” Dominic said, holding out his hand.

“What are you going to say?” Robert asked.

“Just give it to me.”

Robert reluctantly handed back the megaphone.

Dominic spoke into it. “How much fuel do you have left?”

A quick conversation, then a man called out, “Why?”

“Do you have enough to go fifty kilometers?”

“Maybe. Not much more than that.”

Robert whispered, “What are you thinking?”

Dominic answered him by saying into the megaphone, “Santa Teresa Island is about forty-five or so kilometers due south of here. It’s about half the size of Isabella, but is uninhabited. You’ll be safe there.”

“We don’t have enough supplies,” one of the men said.

“We can spare you some rice, and maybe a few other things.”

Robert pushed the megaphone away from Dominic’s mouth. “What are you talking about? We need everything we’ve got.”

“We have plenty,” Dominic said. The resort was well stocked for the holidays. “Would you rather shoot them? Shoot those kids?”

Robert looked conflicted, but he dropped his hand to his side.

The people on the cruiser were talking together again. When they finished, one of the men yelled, “You’re sure about Santa Teresa?”

“One hundred percent. If you don’t have charts, we can get you one.”

For a few minutes, the only sound was the low gurgle of the boats’ engines.

“Okay,” the man said. “We’d appreciate whatever you can give us.”

Relieved, Dominic switched places with the man with the shotgun on the other speedboat. He and Enrique headed back into the bay.

They ended up giving the refugees a map, two bags of rice, a few cases of canned vegetables, some fruit and dried goods, and two fishing poles with extra tackle. They transferred them via an unmanned rubber boat, which they also let the others keep.

Once the food was on board, the cruisers headed south away from Isabella Island. The speedboats stayed where they were until the two other vessels disappeared over the horizon, then they headed back to the resort.

“Would you really have shot them?” Dominic asked Robert when they were back in the bar, glasses of beer in front of them.

“I don’t know. But would we really have had a choice?”

Dominic didn’t know the answer to that.

There were no more sightings the rest of Christmas Eve.

On Christmas, as they were having a solemn dinner, another ship was seen. A freighter this time, large on the horizon. But it never came within twenty miles of the island as it kept on a southwesterly course.

Later that night, after Robert checked in with the spotters again and received the all clear, Dominic said, “Maybe we’ve made it through the worst of it.”

“Maybe,” Robert agreed. “But we shouldn’t let our guard down. There’re still going to be people who might see coming out here as a good idea.”

Dominic nodded, knowing his friend was right. But he also knew, if things kept going the way they seemed to be going elsewhere in the world, the chance of another boat showing up was going to decrease rapidly as each new day came.

There would be no one left to make the trip.