Eden Rising

2

There was the Before and the After.

In the Before, when Robert had been the head bartender for the Isabella Island Resort, and routinely worked until three or four in the morning, the only time he would have seen the sunrise was after a particularly late night as he headed off to bed.

In the After, when Robert no longer poured the drinks, but was the de facto leader of the employees and guests who made up the group of survivors occupying the island, he seldom slept more than four hours a night, and found himself for the fourth day in a row on the beach staring at the horizon as the sun crested the sea.

Like he’d done every morning of the After, he allowed himself a few minutes to wish there was a way to go back to before Christmas Eve, to the time when the world as he knew it had yet to go insane. In this waking dream, the containers that had been secretly placed around the globe failed to open and spread their deadly cargo of Sage Flu, and his friend Dominic and all the others who had fallen victim to the pandemic would still be alive.

He had no idea how many were dead. Millions, surely. The horror he and the other Isabella survivors had seen on TV before the news channels stopped broadcasting made it clear the disease was not contained in only a handful of locations, but was everywhere. Worse, there had been no reports of recoveries.

Isolation is what had saved Robert and his people. Apparently the island had been too small to merit one of the deadly containers. Or, perhaps, it’d just been overlooked. Whatever the case, it was a blessing, but it wasn’t even close to a guarantee that those on the island would all remain safe from the flu. He’d been the first to realize it, to know their survival depended on not letting anyone from elsewhere on shore. It’d taken some convincing, but Dominic soon saw the logic in it, too.

This hard stance resulted in some tense encounters, but everyone on the island was still breathing and disease free. Everyone except Dominic. His death had been an act of self-sacrifice after he’d unintentionally come in contact with the disease from a body that had drifted ashore in a small boat.

Even if he couldn’t resurrect everyone, Robert wished he could at least have his friend back. He would have even been willing to change places and be the one who died so that Dominic would still be here. Robert had no business calling the shots. He didn’t have Dominic’s patience. He was much better in the role of first lieutenant, not leader.

But Dominic was gone, and Robert was here.

“Good morning.” The words were almost a whisper, as if the speaker feared talking any louder would wake the rest of the island.

Robert glanced over his shoulder. Estella, one of the resort guests, had walked up quietly behind him, a timid smile on her face. “Morning,” he said.

He thought she was from Spain, but couldn’t remember for sure. What he did recall was that she’d been on the island for only a day before everything went haywire, and was supposed to have been joined by a couple friends on Christmas Eve. They, of course, had never shown up.

She moved next to him, and looked out at the sea. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he said, though the truth was he was having a hard time seeing beauty in anything anymore.

“I guess this is why we all came here, yes?” She finished with a laugh, nervous, almost forced.

He smiled politely and nodded, but said nothing.

As she brushed a strand of hair off her face, Robert noticed her hand was shaking.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course. I am fine.”

He smiled as if to say he was glad to hear it, but he knew none of them were fine. How could they be?

Estella looked out at the water again. “Have you been able to reach anyone yet?” He could tell she was trying to sound casual, but she wasn’t pulling it off.

“Not yet,” he said.

“But the message,” she said. “I thought we would have reached them by now.”

“We’re still trying. I’m sure we’ll get through to someone soon.”

The message was from the UN and had been playing in a loop on TV for four days now. A day earlier, a list of several ways in which the organization could be contacted had been added at the end of the secretary general’s speech. Robert had immediately used the resort’s satellite phone to try calling the provided phone number. That’s when he discovered that while the phone seemed to be working fine, it no longer had a signal. He then tried the two-way radio. Unfortunately, the resort’s owners had invested in a transmitter only powerful enough to reach the Costa Rican mainland. Either Robert or Renee kept at it every few hours, but so far no one had answered them.

“Do you think…I mean, how many people?” Estella said.

“I don’t know, but it didn’t look—”

He stopped himself. There was an object in the sky just north of the newly risen sun. A dot. Probably a bird, he thought, but…

Estella followed his gaze. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.”

He narrowed his eyes to a squint to cut down on the sun’s glare. The dot was growing larger.

It’s gotta be a bird.

But even as the thought passed through his mind, he knew he was wrong. There was no flapping of wings, no subtle dips and rises of a bird riding the wind. The object was moving in a straight line, its speed constant.

Estella was the first to voice what they’d both realized. “A plane. It is a plane!”

The dot was no longer a dot, but a central tube with what could only be fixed wings sticking out on either side.

“It is a plane!” she said. “It is!” She started jumping up and down, waving her arms, and yelling as if her voice could reach across the sea to those aboard the aircraft.

It was her shouts that finally snapped Robert out of his trance. He turned from the water and ran toward the resort. If Estella knew he was gone, she made no indication. He could hear her continued attempts to get the plane’s attention as he left the beach.

A few of the early risers were in the open-air bar as he crested the steps and jogged onto the deck.

“Is something wrong?” a man named Jussi from Finland asked.

“Is that someone yelling?” Monica, an American from the Midwest, asked.

Ignoring the questions and stares, Robert raced around the back of the bar to the room where the radio was. He found Renee inside. She had been the resort’s assistant manager under Dominic, but had been more than happy to allow Robert to take charge after Dominic was gone.

“Are they transmitting?” he asked.

She looked over, confused. “Is who transmitting?”

“The plane.”

“Plane? What plane?”

He hurriedly sat in the chair next to hers, and reached over to the radio’s controls. As he started a frequency scan, he said, “There’s a plane out there. In the east, heading toward the mainland.”

“What kind of plane?” Her tone was cautious.

“I don’t know. It was too far away to tell.”

“Small? Big? What?”

“I don’t know. Smaller than a commercial jet, bigger than a Cessna. Why?”

Instead of answering, she shook her head, and pushed his hands from the radio. “Let me.” She pulled the microphone in front of her, adjusted the broadcast frequency, and pushed the transmit button. “This is Isabella Island calling unidentified aircraft. Come in, please.” She waited a moment and repeated the message.

The fourth try was the charm.

“Isabella Island, this is UN 132. Do you read me?”

“UN?” Renee said to Robert. “It’s the UN.”

For the first time since news of the pandemic broke, Robert felt the barest sense of hope.

“We read you, UN 132,” Renee said, smiling. “We read you loud and clear.”

“Isabella Island, good to hear your voice. Are you alone or are there others with you?”

“There are one hundred and twenty-nine of us here,” Renee reported.

There was a slight pause, then, “Can you repeat that?”

Renee did.

“How many sick?”

“No one’s sick.”

“No outbreaks?”

“No,” she said, sharing a look with Robert. They both knew that wasn’t completely true. Dominic had caught the flu, but it had stopped with him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Positive.”

Robert leaned over and said into the mic. “We isolated ourselves as soon as we knew there was a problem. We haven’t allowed anyone on the island since the outbreak occurred.”

“That’s great to hear,” the voice said. “Do you have a landing strip?”

“No,” Renee said. “The only way to reach us is by boat or seaplane.”

“Hold for a moment, Isabella Island.”

During the static that followed, neither Robert nor Renee said anything. They just stared at the radio as if worried the voice would not return.

A minute later, it did. “Isabella Island, are you still there?”

“We’re here,” Renee said.

“How is your food and water supply?”

“Good,” she said. “Not an issue.”

“Good to hear. We’re out on a scouting mission right now, trying to locate survivors like yourself.” A pause. “Our people will be bringing you enough vaccine for everyone there. But because of your isolated situation, it may be a few days while we tend to those in more precarious situations. Do you understand?”

Renee frowned and looked at Robert, clearly disappointed.

“Let me,” Robert said.

She slid the mic over to him.

“We understand,” he said. “Just knowing you’re coming back is great news.”

“Good news for us, too, finding you,” the man said. “You just keep doing what you’ve been doing, and don’t go to the mainland. You’ll be fine. We’ll be seeing you soon, Isabella Island. Take care, and stay safe. UN 132, out.”

“You, too. Isabella Island, out.”

That scant bit of hope Robert had been feeling morphed into full-on relief as he leaned back. They were going to be all right. They were all going to be vaccinated. The extreme stance they’d taken to keep others away had been justified. But most importantly, Dominic’s sacrifice was not in vain.

“A few days?” Renee said, frowning.

He looked over at her, an eyebrow raised. After a moment, he started to smile, and then he began to laugh.

It was only a few more seconds before she was laughing, too.

“We’ll be seeing you soon, Isabella Island. Take care, and stay safe. UN 132, out.”

“You, too. Isabella Island, out.”

The man operating the radio on the aircraft that was neither associated with the now nonexistent United Nations nor on a mission to help save survivors clicked the tab on his computer screen that ended the recording of the conversation. He attached the voice file to an e-mail, typed in the exact coordinates of the island, and sent the message.

Those on Isabella Island represented the largest single, unexposed group his team had come across so far. It would be interesting to learn what the higher-ups back at Project Eden headquarters decided to do — send actual vaccine or dose them with Sage Flu. But chances were the man and his colleagues would be busy elsewhere by then, having forgotten all about the island.

He activated the plane’s internal comm system. “Back to our previous course,” he told the pilot.

“Yes, sir.”

The plane banked to the west, and within no time Isabella Island was behind them.

3

While some of the streetlights in Mumbai had stopped coming on at night, many still worked, providing Sanjay more than enough illumination to see Kusum peering down at him from the rooftop above.

She put a finger to her lip, reminding him to stay quiet. It was completely unnecessary. He knew the importance of silence as much as she did. She then extended her hands over the edge, showing five fingers on one and four on the other.

Nine men. That was a lot. Probably best if they made a wide arc around the building instead of passing so close to it. He started to mime the suggestion to her, but she quickly waved him off, and motioned for him to come up and join her.

He didn’t want to waste the time it would take, but she had ducked out of sight before he could tell her no. With a sigh, he ducked inside and headed quietly up the stairs.

When the UN message had played over the radio, in the old headmaster’s house at the boarding school that Sanjay, Kusum, and the others had turned into their temporary home, the initial shock everyone felt soon turned into excitement that there might still be order in the world. They had waited three days before the broadcast began including the location for the nearest survival station to them.

The delay hadn’t worried them. Unlike pretty much everyone else who was still clinging to life, their particular band of survivors had already been inoculated against the Sage Flu, thanks to the vaccine Sanjay had stolen.

When the survival station’s address was finally revealed, the fact that it was located in Mumbai made sense. What didn’t — to Sanjay, anyway — was that the address was the very same one belonging to the facility he’d stolen the vaccine from, the facility run by his former employers, Pishon Chem. They were the ones who had hired hundreds of local boys and men to spray Mumbai with what they had claimed was a malaria eradication solution but was really Sage Flu virus.

When Sanjay explained to the others the connection, the elation they’d all been feeling quickly dissolved.

“But does this mean the UN is spreading the disease?” Kusum’s father had asked. “I cannot believe that.”

None of them could.

“Maybe they are not the UN at all,” Sanjay suggested. “Maybe they are just using the name to gain people’s trust.”

“If that is the case, then…” Kusum’s mother didn’t need to finish her thought.

If these were the same people who’d released the virus, then they could be luring in those who had escaped infection so they could finish the job they had started.

Some at the school thought they should keep their heads low and everything would blow over, while others — Sanjay and Kusum among them — thought if it were true, they needed to do what they could to warn the living.

The first step was finding out for sure.

Because Sanjay knew the Pishon Chem facility from when he had worked there, it was his job to find out what was going on. Kusum was not about to let him go alone, however. She and three others had accompanied him into the city, where they had set up camp in a small furniture factory a few kilometers from the survival station. Leaving the other three there, he and Kusum headed in for a closer look.

When Sanjay reached the top of the stairs, he carefully opened the roof door and slipped outside. Kusum was lying at the western edge. As he neared her, he lowered himself to his hands and knees and crawled forward, finally dropping to his chest and snaking his way up beside her.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Look,” she said. “But be careful.”

He eased forward until he could see beyond the lip of the roof. Below and to the left, in the middle of the road that ran past their building, two police cars were parked front bumper to front bumper, perpendicular to what would have been the normal flow of traffic. There was just enough of a gap between the two front ends for one person to pass through.

He knew this couldn’t have been what caught Kusum attention. They had seen the vehicles from the road. That was the reason Kusum had come up for a look in the first place.

He scanned the area around the cars. Standing nearby were three people wearing surgical masks — the same three they had seen when they’d spotted the vehicles — each with rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Behind the police cars,” Kusum whispered impatiently.

Sanjay looked farther down the road. Parked almost a block away were three white vans. Painted in black on their sides were the letters UN. If there was no deception going on, the vans were probably used to transport new arrivals from the checkpoint to the survival station.

He pulled back until he was hidden from view again. “I do not understand what it is you want me to see.”

“The men by the vans,” Kusum said as if it should be obvious.

“What men?”

She scowled, and took a look herself. When she scooted away from the edge again, she looked more confused than upset. “They were there a moment ago.”

“Who was there?”

“A whole group of soldiers. I counted at least forty.”

“Forty? Why would they need so many soldiers?” he asked.

“Why would they need any?” she countered.

He thought for a moment. “I guess they could be worried that someone might try to steal the vaccine.”

The scowl again, only a bit more playful this time. “You mean like you did?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“But the vaccine is not out here,” she argued. “It is at the survival station. Would it not be better if that was where the soldiers were?”

“Maybe they have more there, too,” he said, playing devil’s advocate.

“Then I ask you the same question you asked me. Why do they need so many?”

They fell into silence, both thinking the same thing — this wasn’t what the radio broadcast was saying it was.

“We are wasting time here,” Sanjay finally said. “Come on.”

They worked their way out of the building and back onto the street. They knew they had to be extra careful now. The soldiers Kusum had seen could be anywhere.

“This way,” Sanjay said, starting off to his right.

He barely put a foot down before Kusum grabbed his arm. “You told me the Pishon Chem facility was closer to the ocean. That would be the other way.”

“We will have a better chance of not being seen in this direction. At most, we will go a kilometer then cut through the middle of the city.”

She thought about his plan for a second, then said, “Okay. That makes sense to me.”

“I am glad to receive your blessing,” he said with a dramatic bow.

She slapped him playfully on the arm. “It is only temporary.”

Living at the remote boarding school for the last week, had, at times, created the illusion the world was still as it had been. But any trace of that false impression ended the moment they reentered Mumbai.

It had been a city of nearly twenty million, its streets never empty or silent.

Until now.

No running cars. No motorbikes. No pedestrians. No hawkers.

The only ones there were lifeless bodies of the homeless tucked in corners, lying against the side of a building, and stretched out in the gutters. Their stench wafted through the streets, increasing and decreasing in strength depending on the number of bodies and the direction of the breeze. Sanjay and Kusum had to cover their faces to breathe without gagging.

What made things even eerier were the lights. Not just the automatic street lamps, but the interior lights of stores and restaurants, and the illuminated signs mounted on their facades. It was as if all the establishments had opened for business, but no one had come, not even those who worked there.

On several occasions, Sanjay and Kusum came across vehicles that had crashed in the road, not unlike the accident Kusum had pulled the baby Nipa from as Kusum and her family fled the city. Most of these cars were empty — their occupants no doubt surviving at least long enough to get off the road — but a few were not.

“Go right,” Sanjay said as they reached the next intersection.

They were only two kilometers from the Pishon Chem facility now, and while there were faster ways to get there, Sanjay felt it safer to stick to a more circuitous route along smaller streets and alleys.

As they turned, Kusum brushed a hand across her shoulder.

“What is it?” Sanjay asked.

“Nothing. I…” She took a deep breath. “I just feel like something is crawling all over my skin.”

He knew what she meant. He felt it, too, an uncomfortable tingling all over his body. It didn’t help that the narrow road they were now on only intensified the creepy factor. He would almost welcome some kind of monster roaring out of the shadows to chase them. At least that would give them something to focus on.

They were seven blocks from the facility when they heard feet clomping on asphalt. It sounded like at least a dozen people, jogging in unison down the road they were about to turn onto.

Sanjay threw his arm in front of Kusum. “Back, back,” he whispered.

As they headed in the other direction, Sanjay began trying every door they passed, but all were locked. Then they came to one set back in an alcove. If nothing else, it might hide them from view.

“Here,” he said, nudging Kusum off the sidewalk.

She reached the door first, and tried it. The handle stuck for a moment, then turned all the way and opened. Any elation, though, was squelched by the bell at the top of the frame that rang with the door’s movement.

“Go,” Sanjay said, pushing her.

The second they were inside, he grabbed the bell and moved it out of the way as he pushed the door closed.

He motioned to a rickety counter along the side. “Hide behind that.”

As she ducked behind it, she gasped. Sanjay wanted to ask what was wrong, but his attention had been drawn back outside. The running feet were not passing through the intersection, but turning onto the road Sanjay and Kusum were on.

He hurried over to the counter, intending to duck down next to Kusum, but she had stopped very close to his end, and had left hardly any space.

“Move down,” he whispered.

She shook her head. He looked around her to see what the problem was, and discovered why she had gasped. There was the body of a woman on the floor. She must have been one of the early ones to die, he thought, for her smell was nowhere near as strong as some of the others they’d come across.

“We can switch places,” he said.

“No. I will be okay,” Kusum told him.

Thoughts of the dead woman immediately vanished as the sounds of the pounding feet slowed to a stop not ten meters outside the front of the store. Sanjay scrunched down as best he could.

A male voice. “It was down here. I’m sure of it. Something rang.”

Another voice, also male. “It could have been anything.”

“I still want to check. Everyone, spread out,” the first voice said.

Sanjay pulled in tighter to Kusum.

Outside, they could hear those in the street splitting up and moving in different directions. One of them went up to the door of the clothing shop next door and tried the handle. Next, steps moving down the sidewalk and nearing their store.

The bell, Sanjay thought. He should have pulled it down. The moment the door opened, it would ring and they would know that had made the noise.

Not allowing himself to think about it a second time, he whipped out from behind the counter.

“What are you doing?” Kusum whispered.

“Stay there,” he told her as he moved in a crouch back to the doorway.

Out the window on his right, he could see the shadow of a man, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, heading toward the entrance. There was no time to grab the bell, so Sanjay twisted the lock closed, hoping it would hold, and dove behind a set of shelves.

Sure he’d been seen, he waited for the soldier to yell to the rest of his squad, but the only sound was that of the man walking into the alcove and grabbing the door.

A rattle of glass, and then nothing. Not even footsteps.

What was he doing? Peering inside?

Leave us alone, Sanjay thought as the silence grew. Just go away.

It took a few more seconds, but the soldier finally complied as he moved out of the alcove and back into the street.

Voices, stating they’d found nothing. Orders were barked, the men gathered, and then as one they jogged off down the street.

Once the sound of their steps had faded away, Kusum said, “Sanjay? Sanjay, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, slowly rising to his feet. He looked out the window to make sure the street was truly empty before moving back over to the counter. “Come on. We need to keep going.”

“You scared me to death,” she said as she uncoiled from her crouch.

“I’m sorry. But I had to—”

“I know,” she said, her face softening. “Thank you.”

He was sorely tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but that would have to wait. “Let see if there’s a back way out.”

The alley behind the store led to a warren of thrown-together shacks. Here the smell of death was even stronger than in the streets, as most had chosen to live their final hours in the place they had called home.

As difficult as it was to make their way through the slum, when Sanjay and Kusum exited the other side, they found themselves only two blocks from their destination. They hustled across a darkened part of the street, and up into a building Sanjay hoped would give them a view into the Pishon Chem compound. His plan, however, hadn’t taken into consideration that the door to the roof at the top of the stairwell would be chained closed.

“Let’s try one of the apartments,” Kusum suggested. “The view should be nearly as good from there, yes?”

“I hope so.”

They went down one landing and entered the top floor of the building. The apartments to the left were the ones they were interested in. There were fourteen doors on that side. One by one they began trying them. Number eight was unlocked.

Sanjay pulled the top of his shirt over his mouth and nose, sure that once he pushed the door open, they’d be greeted by the familiar putrid smell. When Kusum was ready, he gave the handle a shove.

“I don’t think anyone is here,” he said as he lowered his shirt. While the air inside was stuffy and stale, it was thankfully free of death.

Together they made a quick search of the apartment. Not only was it unoccupied, there was no sign that whoever had lived in the flat had made a run for safety. Everything was neat and in its place. It was as if the person had been out when the plague started and never come home.

With the place secure, Sanjay stepped over to the window of the main living area. Kusum followed right behind him. She had been right. The apartment was high enough to see over the buildings on the next street and into the compound.

The place was lit up with the same bright white floodlights that had been used when Sanjay and the others had worked there. What was different was the United Nations flag flying high above the administration building, and the white-helmeted, blue-uniformed soldiers stationed at various points in the compound.

The staging area Pishon Chem had used to distribute the spray tanks full of the virus had been clear of the former equipment and turned into two areas, each surrounded by double fences, separated by a gap large enough to drive a couple of trucks through side by side. Both areas contained a long building at the far end. While the zone on the left appeared empty, two people were standing outside the building in the zone on the right.

“Those look like prisons to me,” Kusum said. “Are they locking people up?”

Sanjay traced the fences with his eyes until he found the gates. He couldn’t tell from here if they were locked, but they were definitely closed. “I’m not sure what they are doing,” he said.

He turned his attention to a group of men standing near the administration building. Unlike the others walking around outside the fenced areas, these men were not in uniform.

Studying them, he was drawn to the way one of the men was standing. It seemed familiar. Unfortunately, he was too far away to get a fix on the man’s face so couldn’t make the connection.

He scanned around, moving his gaze away from the compound to the street that ran just outside it.

After a moment, he said to Kusum, “Stay here. I will be back.”

“Where do you think you are going?”

“I need to get a closer look.”

“Then I am coming with you.”

“No. You are staying here. If you are with me, it will be easier for us to be spotted.”

“If you get into trouble, you may need my help,” she countered.

“Kusum, I am not trying to argue with you. But I can make the trip faster and react quicker if I am alone. Please tell me you understand.”

From her expression, he wasn’t sure if she did, but she said, “If you are not back in fifteen minutes, I will come look for you.”

“Make it twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine. Fifteen. But it does not start until I leave this building.”

When it was finally agreed, he gave her that kiss he’d wanted to give her earlier, and headed out the door.

Back on the street, he threaded his way over to the rear of a structure directly across the road from the compound’s administration building. Instead of trying to find a way in, he climbed a drainpipe affixed to the outer wall, all the way to the roof.

His new position was not as high as the apartment where he’d left Kusum, so he only had a partial view of the men he’d spotted. But he was close enough now that he could make out their faces.

He had hoped his doubts would be unfounded, that he’d find this was indeed a UN operation. But instead, Sanjay’s fear turned out to be true.

The man with the familiar stance was Mr. Dettling, one of the Pishon Chem managers Sanjay had worked with, and most decidedly not a member of the UN. Dettling’s wasn’t the only familiar face, either. Gathered with him were several other Pishon managers.

When he’d seen enough, he climbed off the building and returned to Kusum.

“Could you see anything?” she asked.

“They are not the UN,” he told her.

She stared at him for a moment. “Are you sure?”

As concisely as possible, he described what he’d seen. “There is no question. They are the same people who had us distribute the flu.”

“Why are they doing this, then? Why are they saying they are the UN?”

“Whatever the reason, it can’t be good.”

She glanced at the window. “The people inside those fences. Do you…do you think maybe they’re ones who came here for help?”

He paused, then nodded. “I think very likely.”

“What are they going to do to them?”

“That, I do not know.”

Kusum put a hand on her husband’s arm. “Sanjay. Are they going to kill them?”

He said nothing.

“If they are, we can’t let that happen,” she said.

“No, we can’t.”

4

A bitter, cold wind cut through the air, stinging Daniel Ash’s cheeks as he gingerly climbed out the open hatch. Above, low gray clouds pushed in over the valley as if they couldn’t fill the sky fast enough, the storm a lot closer than he had thought.

Josie Ash leaned down over the tunnel exit and grabbed her father’s arm. “Let me help you.”

“I’m fine, honey,” he said, though that was far from the truth.

Ignoring his response, Josie guided him up the final rung of the ladder and onto solid ground. Once Ash was out of the way, Dr. Gardiner came up next, then Lily Franklin, and finally Chloe.

With the Bunker now empty, the hatch to the tunnel was shut and quickly covered by a few feet of dirt, some pine needles and branches, and a top layer of snow. When the job was done, it was almost impossible to tell anything was buried there.

“You all right?” Ash asked Matt. They’d been standing to the side, watching the others work — or at least Ash had been watching. Matt had been staring into the trees, lost in thought.

A few seconds passed before Matt pulled himself back and looked at Ash. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. Just glad to be getting on the road.”

Ash glanced up at the sky. “If you want my opinion, we’re cutting it pretty tight. We could have gone yesterday.”

The right corner of Matt’s mouth ticked up. “Not according to the good doctor. Hell, he didn’t even want to leave today. Said you needed more time.”

“I’m good,” Ash said. “Don’t worry about me.” The truth was, Ash was grateful for the extra night’s rest. He nodded his chin in the direction of the hatch. “So are you going to destroy it?” Like the Lodge had been, the Bunker was wired for self-destruction.

“Not yet. I guess…I guess I’m hoping we’ll be able to come back.”

Ash could understand that. The Ranch had been Matt’s home for a long time.

Matt rubbed his hands together. “No sense in waiting around here any longer,” he said, then raised his voice. “All right, everyone, load ’em up.”

They made their way over to the road, where four military-issue, light-armored Humvees they’d appropriated from Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls stood waiting, engines idling.

“We’re in number two,” Chloe told Ash.

Ash trudged over and climbed into the back, finding his son Brandon inside. “How you doing, buddy?”

“I can sit on the floor if you need this seat,” Brandon said, already starting to move.

“No, no. Stay. There’s plenty for all of us.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Ash said, taking the seat across from his son.

Both Brandon and Josie had become ultra protective of him since the explosion that had nearly killed him. While a part of him was touched by their attention, he knew this wasn’t the way things should be. He was the parent. He should worry about them, not the other way around. But the world was a different place now, forcing his kids to grow up way too quickly.

Josie and Lily entered through the far back, taking the jump seats there, while Chloe climbed into the driver’s seat, and the doctor into the one beside her. Before Gardiner could close his door, Matt stuck his head in.

“All right there? Need anything?” Matt asked.

“All good,” Ash replied.

“You need us to stop for any reason, have the doc or Chloe radio us.”

“Sure.”

Matt patted the outside of the truck with his hand. “Safe trip, everyone.”

For the first time in over a week, Rich “Pax” Paxton could see clear sky. Given how far north the research station was, where he and his team had holed up, the sky was more twilight than the bright, sunny noon he preferred, but it was definitely clear.

They had come to the island searching for Bluebird, the headquarters of Project Eden, but had discovered it wasn’t there. Which meant Bluebird had to be on Yanok Island, the island Captain Ash and his team had gone to investigate.

Pax had no idea what had happened since then. They had been unable to reach anyone on the radio, and the storm had damaged the facilities’ satellite equipment, knocking out phone and Internet services.

The door to the observation room opened and Brian Darnell—Dr. Brian Darnell, as the man was fond of reminding Pax — entered. Darnell was the station’s director, and would have undoubtedly put Pax and his team in a holding cell when they’d shown up at his door if the place had had one.

For the first two days, Pax’s explanation for why they were there was greeted with skepticism at best. He didn’t let up, however, and told them over and over about the plot by Project Eden, what was really in the shipping containers that had been spread around the world, and what would happen if the attempted genocide wasn’t stopped.

Yes, Darnell and the other researchers at the facility had heard about the containers, but the man wouldn’t even consider that they could be part of something so heinous, and had not believed a word of Pax’s story. So, with little choice, the two groups had settled into an uneasy coexistence while the storm continued to rage outside.

“Mr. Paxton,” Darnell said.

“Doctor.”

“I wanted to inform you that I sent my technicians out a little while ago to repair the satellite damage. I’m told that communications should be back up at any time.”

“Glad to hear it,” Pax said. He was desperate to find out if Ash had been able to stop Project Eden from implementing its horrifying plan.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be. Just so you know, my first call will be to the police. I’m confident the RCMP will send officers here to arrest you and take you in for questioning.”

“If the Mounties are still around and want to arrest us, we’ll be happy to go.”

Darnell stared at him for several seconds. “Still sticking to your ridiculous story, I see.”

Pax shrugged.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, or why you are really here, but—”

The walkie-talkie clipped to Darnell’s belt chirped.

“Dr. Darnell to the communications room. Dr. Darnell to the communications room.”

He detached the radio and pushed the talk button. “On my way.” To Pax, he said, “I guess it’s time.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“I insist.”

The station was a series of mobile home-sized structures, some positioned right next to each other, some set a little farther apart and connected to the others via fully enclosed and insulated passageways. The communications room was located in one such solo building at the south end of the base near a hill. The rise did double duty, playing home to the radio antennas near the summit, and providing shelter from the winds for the satellite dishes at its base — something it failed to do during the storm.

Two people, both station personnel, were in the room when Darnell and Pax arrived.

“So, are we up?” Darnell asked.

Frances Bourgeois, the head communications officer, glanced over from a desk covered with computer equipment and monitors. “Syncing with the satellite now. Give me a moment.” She typed something on her keyboard before studying one of the monitors and then nodding. “There we go. Connection’s strong. We’re up and running.”

Darnell made a point of looking at Pax as he said, “Excellent.” He walked over to Frances’s desk and picked up the headset sitting there. “We should check in first. Call the university.”

Frances typed again. When she finished, Darnell stood at near attention as he focused on the call. After several seconds, he looked confused.

“All I’m getting is ringing,” he said. “Are you sure you dialed that correctly?”

Frances checked the number. “I did, but I can try again.”

“Do it.”

His bewilderment only deepened the second time.

“It is New Year’s Eve,” James Faber, the other person present, said.

Darnell considered this for a second. “Of course.” Looking back at Frances, he said, “Put me through to the RCMP in Ottawa.”

This time as he listened, he looked stunned.

“What is it?” Frances asked.

Darnell licked his lips nervously as he shot a quick glance at Pax. “Put it on speaker,” he said.

A second later, a voice streamed out of the speakers next to the monitor. “—home, and until services are restored, avoid all contact.” The voice was female, her message clearly recorded. “Good luck, and may God be with you.”

“What the hell is she talking about?” Faber asked.

Darnell held up a hand, silencing him.

There was a moment of dead air before the woman began speaking again. “You have reached the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Due to the Sage Flu crisis, there is no one able to take your call. If you are ill, remain where you are. Do not attempt to go to the hospital or any other medical facility. All facilities are currently closed to any new patients. You would do best to remain in bed, drink as much fluid as possible, and…”—she paused—“…pray. If you are unaffected at this time, stay in your home, and until services are restored, avoid all contact. Good luck, and may God be with you.”

Pax closed his eyes, his chin falling to his chest. Captain Ash had failed. They had all failed. The very thing the Resistance had been formed to prevent had happened.

The woman’s voice filled the room again. “You have reached the Royal—”

“That’s enough,” Darnell said.

Frances touched her keyboard and plunged the room into silence.

“You have Internet access now?” Pax asked her.

“We should.”

As she started to type, Pax, Darnell, and Faber crowded around behind her. The first few websites she tried kicked back the message:

CNN.com, however, was working. Just below the standard banner at the top was a large, sunlit picture of Times Square. Pax figured it had been taken near midday. The buildings were decked out in holiday fare, and the electronic billboards displayed mainly Christmas ads and messages. Which made the fact that the streets and sidewalks were empty all the more eerie.

Across the picture in red, semi-transparent capital letters was the word PANDEMIC.

“Holy shit,” Faber said.

Frances leaned toward the screen. “This hasn’t been updated in over a week.” She looked back at her boss. “How is that possible?”

“Check the CBC or PCN or Fox or MSNBC. All of them, if you have to.”

She did, but the few that were still up displayed similar messages to CNN’s.

For the first time since they’d been listening to the RCMP message, Darnell looked at Pax. “You were telling the truth.”

“I was.”

Silence.

“They’re all dead? Everyone?”

“Not everyone,” Pax said.

“But most?” Frances asked.

“If not yet, soon.”

The room grew quiet.

Darnell finally broke the silence. “What happens now?”

Before Pax could answer, Faber, barely able to control his emotions, said, “What happens now? Now we’re all going to die is what happens! Either we stay here and freeze to death, or go home and die from the flu.” He looked at Pax. “Right?”

“That’s one option,” Pax said. “But there is another.”

“What?” Faber asked. “Kill ourselves?”

“I mentioned it when I first told you what was going on.”

All three looked at him, dumbfounded for a moment. Frances was the first to snap out of it. “Vaccine,” she said. “You told us you had vaccine.”

“Yes.”

“Enough for everyone here?” she asked.

“More than enough.”

Darnell grew wary. “I’m sure you want something for it.”

“What does it matter what he wants?” Faber said. “There are more of us than them. We can just take it!”

“Unless you’re all trained in combat like my men, I’d advise against trying that,” Pax said.

“You surrendered your weapons the first day you were here,” Faber said.

“Not all of them,” Pax told him. “But we don’t need to get to that point. You see, we don’t want anything for the vaccine. We would like your help getting out of here, but you’ll get inoculated either way.”

“Bullshit,” Faber said.

“Not bullshit. The vaccine is not for sale. It’s for anyone who needs it.”

“How do we even know it will work?” Darnell asked.

“You won’t. Not until you’re exposed, at least.”

“I don’t know if anyone here will want to take that chance.”

“That’s your choice,” Pax said. “But I will say this. Without the vaccine you will catch the flu at some point.”

“I want it,” Frances said quickly.

After a brief hesitation, Faber said, “I’d like it, too.”

“Whoa, now this is cool,” Bobby Lion said, his voice echoing down the hallway.

“Where are you?” Tamara Costello yelled.

“Down here.”

She followed his voice to a large, black door that had been propped open. She stepped inside and immediately stopped.

She and Bobby had both seen plenty of high-tech rooms stuffed with equipment back when they’d both worked for the Prime Cable News network — PCN — she as a field reporter and Bobby as her cameraman. But this room blew away anyplace they had seen before.

It was two stories high, and at least a hundred feet wide in both directions. Taking up over half the floor space were rows of equipment racks mounted with computers and God only knew what else. Several long counters broken up into dozens of individual workstations filled the rest of the room. Perhaps the most impressive thing, however, was the gigantic digital screen that took up most of the wall the stations were facing.

“I take it this is it,” she said.

Bobby grinned. “Oh, yeah. This has got to be it.”

“So, can you get it to work?”

“Hope so. Need to poke around a bit.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

With a giddy smile, he all but skipped down the aisle leading past the workstations and disappeared into the equipment racks.

Tamara wished she could help him, but knew she’d only be in the way. She’d become more tech savvy over the last year, but the nitty-gritty of the electronics world fell outside her realm of expertise. She wouldn’t have a clue about what was what here.

The room they had found was an NSA monitoring facility. Tamara had known several of them were in the DC area; that had always been the rumor in the news world. She and Bobby had first thought they’d find one at the main NSA facilities at Fort Meade. That didn’t turn out to be the case. But the trip was not in vain, as they were able to dig up information that had led them to this building, a mere 1.2 miles away.

It still felt odd to be roaming around a place where they would have been shot for doing so less than two weeks earlier. Her reporter’s mind couldn’t help wondering about all the secrets they could uncover — not only at the NSA but the Defense Department, the State Department, hell, even the White House. Someday, perhaps, she’d do just that. If for no other reason than to satisfy her own curiosity.

But now they had other work to do.

So far, she knew her and Bobby’s contributions to the Resistance’s efforts had done little to help anything. They had spent months seeding videos on the Internet in an attempt to open people’s eyes about what was coming, but more times than not, Project Eden had pulled the videos down nearly as fast as she and Bobby got them up. Their last attempt, what Matt Hamilton had referred to as their Worse Case video, had gone up when it became clear the virus was being released. Its objective was to help people survive, and it had actually remained up and viewable for several days. Tamara wanted to think it had helped a lot of people, but she knew that was probably not the case.

By that time, she and Bobby had moved to the safety of a beach house in North Carolina, both thinking they may be there for some time. But then the message from a man calling himself UN Secretary General Gustavo Di Sarsina took over the airwaves. The recorded message hadn’t even been playing for an hour before Tamara’s and Bobby’s satellite phone rang, and Matt gave them the assignment that had brought them north to the DC area.

After about forty-five minutes, Bobby popped out from behind the racks and asked, “Any chance of finding something to eat? I’m starving.”

“Are you going to be able to get it to work?”

“Not sure yet. But…I think so.”

Tamara pushed up from the workstation she’d appropriated and said, “I’ll go see what I can find.”

In a break room on the second floor, she scored a couple of burritos from a freezer and zapped them in the microwave. Drinks were a couple sodas out of a machine, courtesy of some change she found in a guy named Fitzer’s desk.

“Come and get it,” she said as she reentered the hub. “I found some—” The words died in her mouth, all thoughts of food momentarily forgotten.

On the wall across the room, the giant monitor had come alive.

5

THE FIRST SIGN of discord occurred the same night the message from the UN had started playing over the radio. It began innocently enough. Martina Gable and the other eight survivors were gathered in the restaurant attached to the Carriage Inn — the hotel they’d decided to turn into their group home.

Everyone was excited, and though none of them — excluding, perhaps, Noreen — had truly thought they were the only ones left on the planet, hearing that others were alive was a huge relief. There were tears and laughter and smiles.

At some point, Valerie ducked into the kitchen and returned with two bottles of wine.

“I’m not sure we should be drinking this,” Riley said. She was the youngest, but none of the other girls or Craig were of legal drinking age, either.

“Why not?” Valerie asked. “You think the cops are going to bust us?”

Several of the girls laughed.

“No,” Riley said. “I mean…you know…” She frowned. “Never mind.”

“Here,” Amanda said, holding a bottle out to Riley. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t want any, thank you.”

“Come on. Just a little sip.”

“I said no.” Riley pushed out of her chair and stood up.

“Whoa,” Valerie said. “Don’t get all hurt. We friends here.”

Martina put a hand on Riley’s back. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to drink anything.”

Riley hesitated a moment before retaking her chair.

“Martina,” Amanda said, swinging the bottle in her direction.

Martina took it and raised it to her mouth. But instead of drinking, she merely let the liquid touch her lips, and then handed the bottle to Ruby.

It wasn’t long before the volume in the room increased to the point they almost had to shout to be heard.

At some point, Martha slurred, “So do we leave tomorrow for this survival place, or what?”

“Idiot. They haven’t broadcast the locations yet,” Amanda said.

“Right, right. But when they do, we’re going, right?”

She was looking at Martina, so Martina said, “When they do, we can figure it out then.”

“Or we could figure it out now,” Valerie said.

“Sure, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Valerie said. “I think we should take a vote now.”

“What’s there to vote on?” Craig asked. “Of course we’re going to go.” He looked at Martina. “Right?”

“Why you looking at her?” Valerie asked. “It’s not her decision.”

Martina donned a disarming smile. “I think we should save this for the morning, don’t you? We’re just having some fun tonight, that’s—”

“Screw you, Gable,” Valerie said. “I don’t care what you think. You are not the boss here.”

Smile still in place, Martina said, “Never said I was.”

“You don’t have to say it,” Amanda threw in. “You just act like it.”

It was amazing how old rivalries never died. Martina had been playing sports with or against Valerie and Amanda and most of the other girls since they were all kids. Some she got along with better than others. Valerie and Amanda had always proven more difficult. Martina had assumed their current situation had changed that. Apparently not.

To keep the peace, Martina excused herself to use the restroom, and had instead gone to bed. The next morning, there was no talk of the tension from the night before. Partly that was due to varying degrees of hangovers the others had, but mostly, Martina guessed, they just didn’t remember.

When the location of the nearest survival station was finally broadcast — the parking lot of Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles starting on December 31^st—the discussion of what to do had come up again. Fortunately, everyone was sober this time, but to avoid any problems, Martina let others lead the conversation.

When Martina had seen which way the vote was leaning, she had thrown in with everyone else, making the vote unanimous. They would caravan to Los Angeles the afternoon of New Year’s Eve.

Until the evening before they were to leave, Martina had still thought she’d probably go with them. As she lay in her bed that night, she turned on her phone, hoping it would have a signal now and she could try to reach Ben.

At first, the same NO SERVICE message was at the top where it always was. But as she was about to turn off her phone, a single bar appeared. She stared at it, hoping for more, but that was all it gave her. And then her phone vibrated, letting her know she had voice mail.

The message on the screen indicated there were actually seven, all from Ben. The last had been sent earlier that day. She decided to listen to them in order received and brought up the earliest one.

But as it started to play, the reception bar was replaced by NO SERVICE, and a message appeared on her screen: VOICE MAIL UNAVAILABLE.

“No, please!” she said.

She waited, hoping the bar would come back, but it stayed on NO SERVICE. She turned off the phone and turned it on again, but that didn’t change anything. Though she desperately wanted to hear his messages, she felt elated.

If she and the other members of her softball team who’d contracted the Sage Flu the previous spring were now immune, she’d assumed Ben would be, too. He’d gone through it with them, after all. But she’d had now way of knowing for sure. Until now.

Ben was alive.

When the afternoon of New Year’s Eve came, Martina helped the others finish loading the cars, while leaving her own bag hidden behind the Carriage Inn’s reception counter. Once they were done, they gathered in the parking lot.

“We need to keep in sight of each other in case anyone has car trouble,” Valerie said. As had been happening more and more over the last several days, she was taking on the self-appointed role of leader. “Plus, we have no idea what kind of mess we might run into when we reach the city. Could be the roads are jammed up.”

“Wait,” Jilly said. “What would happen then? Would we have to walk?”

“Anything’s possible at this point, but what won’t help is whining about it, all right?”

She stared at Jilly, daring her to respond, but Jilly kept quiet.

“Good.” Valerie shifted her gaze to the others. “Everyone has water? Something to eat?”

Nods and yeses.

“Then no time to waste, I guess.”

As Valerie took a step toward her car, Martina said, “Hold on.”

Valerie stopped and looked back, her eyes narrowing as if expecting a challenge. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Martina said. “I’m just…I’m not going with you.”

“What?” both Noreen and Riley said.

The group instinctively moved toward Martina.

“What do you mean, you’re not going?” Noreen asked.

“Just that,” Martina said. “I’m not trying to stop you or anything, but—”

“You’re going to stay here?” Riley asked.

“No.” Martina paused. She hadn’t really thought this part through. She had hoped saying she wouldn’t be going would be enough. “I’ll meet you guys there eventually, there’s just something, um, I have to do.”

“What could you possibly have to do?” Valerie asked.

Martina frowned. “Someone I need to look for.”

A burst of laughter jumped from Valerie’s throat. “Are you kidding me?” She looked out at the road and the desert beyond. “There’s no one left to look for. Almost everyone’s dead.”

That may have been true, but all Martina said was, “I still need to try.”

Valerie stared at her in disbelief. “Your funeral, I guess. Have fun.” She started walking again.

“Can I go with you?” Riley asked Martina.

Martina cringed. Taking this kind of chance on her own was one thing, but putting others in danger? “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“But my father, my…my sister. They might be out there somewhere.” Riley’s father and her twin sister Laurie had left the cabin where her family and Martina’s family had been hiding from the flu before the others had died. Riley and Martina had searched for them when they returned to Ridgecrest, but had found no sign of them.

“If they’re still alive, they would have heard the UN’s message by now, and will probably head to the survival station, too,” Amanda said.

“Well, if they do, then they’ll be safe there,” Riley said. “But if they didn’t hear it…”

Martina couldn’t miss the hope and pleading in the girl’s voice. She knew if she were in Riley’s position, she’d want to do the same thing. “All right.”

Riley smiled. “Thank you.”

“But,” Martina quickly added. “They may not have even gone in the direction I’m heading, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t,” Riley said.

Martina looked at her friend for a moment, then said, “Grab your bag.”

As Riley rushed to the cars, Noreen said, “I’m going with you, too.”

“What?” Valerie said. “Are you crazy?”

Noreen, jaw set, said, “Martina’s my best friend. I’m going with her.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned after Riley.

“Anyone else want to get themselves killed?” Valerie asked, scanning the rest.

A shoe scuffed against the asphalt, and a hand shot up. “Me.”

It was Craig.

“Oh, so, what? You going to be the big male protector?” Valerie asked.

Craig looked confused. “No. I just…no.”

Martina knew why. Riley.

Valerie scoffed as she rolled her eyes. “Fine! Is that it? Anyone else?” When no one else spoke up, she said, “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

Once everyone was loaded up, the driver’s window of the lead car rolled down. “Last chance, Gable,” Valerie said.

“Good luck,” Martina told her. “We’ll see you in L.A.”

The look on Valerie’s face as she rolled her window back up said she very much doubted that. One by one, the cars started pulling away. Most of the girls waved and shouted their good-byes.

“Think we’ll ever see them again?” Noreen asked.

“I’m sure we will,” Martina replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

They fell silent and watched the cars head north on China Lake Boulevard.

When the last of the vehicles fell out of sight, Craig said, “So, uh, who are we looking for?”

“A friend,” Martina said.

“Ben, right?” Noreen asked. She turned to Craig. “His name’s Ben.”

Martina shouldn’t have been surprised her best friend knew. “Yeah. Ben.”

“Is he your boyfriend or something?” Riley asked.

“Bingo,” Noreen said.

“How do you know he might still be alive?” Craig asked.

“Because he left me a message on my phone.”

“What?” Noreen said. “When? What did he say?”

“I only had a signal for a little bit. Not long enough to listen to them. But I do know the last one came yesterday.”

“That’s great,” Noreen said, smiling. “Hey, that’s great!”

“We should get going,” Martina said. She picked up her pack and started walking toward the road.

“Wait. We’re going to hike out of here?” Craig asked.

“Not the whole way.”

When she’d thought she’d be going on this trek alone, she knew a car was more than she needed, and might even be a liability. Now, even with the extra companions, her opinion hadn’t changed.

When they finally neared her intended destination, she pointed. “There.”

In front of the building was a white sign with red letters outlined in black:

Ben Bowerman wiped the sweat from his brow. It had to be one of the hottest New Year’s Eves ever recorded on the San Francisco Peninsula. Well, it would be, he figured, if anyone were still keeping records.

He knew the fact that he’d so far spent half the day digging into the ground probably influenced his opinion, but it still didn’t take away from the fact that the day was warm, and that usually New Year’s Eve was a time for jackets and scarves and sweaters.

He already had three of the graves completed, and the fourth almost done. They weren’t the standard six feet deep — more like four — but they would do just fine. After he removed the last bit of dirt from number four and evened out the bottom, he leaned against his shovel and looked out at the green rolling hills of the cemetery. In the past, a place like this was a peaceful home for the dead. Now, peaceful aside, it seemed like everywhere was home for the dead.

For days he had known he was going to have to come out here and do this. The only question had been, how many graves would he have to dig?

The pandemic took his father first.

Ben had been at his apartment in Santa Cruz two days before Christmas when his phone rang.

“Ben? Ben, please come home.” It was his mother. He had never heard her sound more frightened.

“Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“Yes, something’s wrong. Haven’t you been watching TV?

Of course he had. He’d been stuck on his couch riveted to the news coverage of the shipping containers that seemed to be spread around the world, belching out an as yet unknown substance.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said, trying to find words that might calm her down. “I’m sure it will all be over soon, and everything will be back to normal.”

“Please, come home,” she said. “I’d feel a lot better. The rest of us are here.”

“Dad’s not at work?”

“They closed his office today.”

Those five little words did more to scare Ben than the hours of news he’d been watching.

“Please, Ben. Please.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

“Thank you,” she said, clearly relieved. “Oh, and Ben, if you see a drugstore open, can you pick up some cold medicine? Your father isn’t feeling too well.”

His dad had lasted until the day after Christmas. By then, his sisters Kathy and Karen had already come down ill, and his mother was starting to sniffle. Kathy held on the longest. He kept hoping she’d pull out of it like he had in the spring. There was one day when she seemed to be doing better, but the next morning she was worse than before. Finally, just over twenty-four hours earlier, she had drifted off to join the rest of his family.

By then, he had no more tears left.

He had figured out pretty early that he was immune, had even sent out a silent thank you, but as his family continued to die, he began to wonder if being immune was actually worse. The only thing that kept him sane — the only thing — was thinking about Martina. If his previous exposure to Sage Flu made him immune, it would have been the same for her.

He had tried calling, but kept being immediately directed to her voice mail. Every time he’d left a message, but not once had she called back. Then, the same day Karen died, his cell phone stopped receiving a signal at all, so all he could do was focus on nursing Kathy.

He knelt down and checked his work. The bottom of the grave was nice and flat, the corners perfectly edged. It was important to him to be as precise as possible. It was the way his father, a US Navy vet, would have liked it.

The plots were near a tree on a west-facing slope, the very ground his parents had purchased several years ago for the day they would need it. He hadn’t realized they’d taken the step until he found the information in their things.

Naturally, they had bought only two plots, so he was worried when he came out here that he’d have to double up, maybe his parents together in one, and his sisters in the other. But the spots on both sides of his parents’ chosen resting places were vacant. Since it was unlikely anyone would claim the land, he did.

He had appropriated a Winnebago motor home from one of his parents’ neighbors, and used it to transport his family to the cemetery. He started with his father first, half carrying, half dragging him across the lawn, then laying him as gently as possible into one of the center two graves. His mother came next, and then, flanking his parents, his sisters.

He’d considered finding coffins for each of them at first, but one check of the available boxes inside the mortuary quickly dispelled that notion. They were far too heavy for him to move by himself, and would be even more so once they were filled. His parents and sisters would have to make do with the sheets he had wrapped them in.

Standing there in the shade of the tree, he wasn’t sure what he should do next. To this point it had been almost a mechanical process — shroud the bodies, transport them, dig the graves, put the bodies in the holes. In fact, if it hadn’t been like that, he may have never been able to finish. But now, with only the burying remaining, he felt he should do something more.

A prayer, maybe?

The only prayer he knew was the Lord’s Prayer, and even with that one he was unsure about some of the wording. Still, it was better than nothing.

He moved to the foot of the graves and began.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive…”

Is it “our trespassers”? That didn’t seem right.

As he tried to recall the correct phrase, a memory came to him. His mother, young and vibrant, holding his hand in hers while carrying his sister — it must have been Kathy — as they entered a church.

When they were inside, she glanced down at him and said in a quiet voice, “Don’t forget, Benjamin, no talking.” She squeezed his hand and smiled.

It was a short memory, a minor detail of some forgotten day, but it was more than enough to knock him to his knees. He had thought he’d finished with the tears. He had thought his emotions had already played out.

He was wrong.

He rolled onto his back on the narrow strip of grass between his mother and father, the last time together as a family, the five of them in a row. How long he sobbed, he didn’t know, but by the time he regained control again, the shadows had grown long.

It took all of his effort, but he finally forced himself to his feet and picked up the shovel.

Again, he felt the need to say something, but this time not even a prayer came to mind, so he stuck the blade into the pile of dirt and began filling the graves.

6

Ash and the others of the last contingent to leave the Ranch spent the entire day trying to stay ahead of the storm. Their luck ran out twenty-three miles north of Sheridan, Wyoming.

At first it was only a smattering of snow, the flakes hitting the road and melting almost immediately, but in no time, the intensity increased to a point the Humvees had to slow to a crawl.

“We’ll stop in Sheridan and find shelter,” Matt announced over the radio. “Looks like we’re going to have to ride this out.”

The final twenty miles took them nearly an hour and a half, so by the time they exited the I-90 onto Main Street, four inches of snow had already covered the asphalt.

“Pizza Hut!” Brandon said, looking out his window. He turned to his father. “You think the food there might still be good? Maybe we can make a pizza.”

“Maybe,” Ash said.

“Probably best not to get your hopes up,” Josie told her brother.

“I know, but…it’d be great if we could.”

Josie shook her head, but Ash could tell she was hoping her brother was right.

“There’s a Super 8 motel up here on the left,” Matt radioed. “We’ll pull in and check it out. The rest of you stay in your vehicles.”

Chloe drove their Humvee into the lot and parked, leaving the motor running. Outside, snow swirled in the headlight beams as a brisk breeze rocked the truck. From their position, they could see a few lights on in the motel, but not much else.

“How are you feeling?” Dr. Gardiner asked Ash.

“Not as bad as I thought I’d feel,” Ash said, truthfully.

“Any unusual pains or discomfort?”

“Nothing that wasn’t there before we started.”

That seemed to be the answer the doctor wanted to hear. “I can give you some pain pills before you go to sleep tonight.”

“Keep them.”

Gardiner studied him for a moment. “Are you sure? It’ll help you sleep.”

“I’ll be fine,” Ash said.

“Good,” Gardiner said. “But no running around once we get out. I want you to find a bed and stay there.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Josie said before her father could speak.

Ash raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you will, will you?”

“I will,” she said, meeting his stare.

The radio crackled.

“This is a bust,” Matt said. “Most of the rooms are…occupied. I checked the phone book. There are several more motels we can try.

“How about that one?” Josie said, pointing across the street.

Through the storm, Ash could see a weakly lit yellow sign with a word that looked like “motel” at the bottom. “Tell him,” he told her.

Chloe handed the microphone back to Josie. Tentatively, Josie pushed the talk button.

“Mr. Hamilton?”

“Who is this?”

“Josie.”

“Josie? What is it?”

“There’s a motel right across the street.”

Silence for a moment. “I can’t see anything from here,” Matt said.

Ash took the mic from his daughter. “It’s there, all right. We’ll swing over and check it out.”

“Okay. We’ll meet you there in a minute.”

The new place was called The Paradise Motel. It was one of those single-story structures like the Bates Motel from Psycho, hopefully minus the insane manager. Ash couldn’t see all the way to the back, but there had to be at least a dozen rooms.

Chloe parked the truck near the front. “Doc, you want to join me for a look around?”

“What? Me?” Gardiner said, surprised.

“Unless you think it’s all right for Ash to come along.”

“No. Of course not. I’ll, um—”

“I’ll go with you,” Lily said from the back.

“No, I’ll do it,” Brandon said.

“I don’t think so,” Ash said.

“Why not?”

Ash opened his mouth, but no response came to mind. Searching the motel would be nothing compared to the ordeal Brandon had gone through after Project Eden attacked the Ranch.

“It’s okay,” Gardiner said. “I can go.”

“No offense, Dr. Gardiner, but I have more experience than you,” Brandon said. He glanced toward Lily. “Than you, too.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Ash knew his son was right.

“You can go,” he said, “but only if you listen to everything Chloe tells you. She’s in charge.”

Brandon had the door open before his father had even finished. “Sure, sure. No problem.”

Brandon was too excited to feel the cold as he climbed out of the truck. He thought for sure his dad would not back down, but he had.

“Over here,” Chloe called from around the front of the truck.

As he jogged over, he said, “You want to start in the front and me in the back? Or the other way around?”

“Not so fast, hotshot. What I want is for you to stick close to me, okay?”

His smile dipped a little, but not much. “Sure. No problem.”

They headed over to the covered walkway that ran down the length of the building. Approximately every twenty feet along was a door to a room, each with a window beside it. Most of the windows had curtains drawn across them, and those that didn’t revealed rooms too dark to make anything out.

Chloe tried a few doors, but they were all locked.

“Office,” she said, turning the other way. “They’ll have keys there.”

The office door was locked, too, but it took only a few shoves from Chloe’s shoulder to pop the door free.

As she stepped inside, she pushed her hood back. “Son of a bitch, it’s like a sauna in here.” She shot a quick look at Brandon. “Don’t tell your dad I said that.”

“He says worse,” Brandon said as he joined her. She was right. Someone had left the lobby heat on at a nice toasty temperature.

Along one wall was a ten-foot-long reception counter, and on the wall behind it, a cabinet consisting of several cubbyholes, each with a key inside. To the side of the cabinet was a closed door.

While Brandon checked under the reception desk for anything of interest, Chloe began pulling out the keys and setting them on the counter.

A noise from somewhere behind Brandon caused him to pause. “Was that you?” he asked.

“Was what me?”

“That noise.”

She looked at him, waiting for more.

“It was kind of a, I don’t know, whine?” he said.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

As she spoke, the whine that wasn’t quite a whine returned for a moment.

“That,” he said. “You heard it that time, right?”

She frowned. “No.”

He looked around, and gestured at the closed door. “It came from over there, I think.”

“You’re sure?”

“I think so.”

Chloe pulled out her pistol and crept over to the door. Placing her ear against the side, she listened.

“Anything?” Brandon asked.

“Get back,” she whispered, motioning him to the other end of the counter.

As soon as he was out of the way, she eased the door open.

Another moan, this one long and high pitched and definitely coming from the other side of the door. No way Chloe missed it this time.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Shh!” Chloe said, and stepped through the doorway.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Brandon sneaked back along the counter until he had a decent view through the opening. The room on the other side looked like a living room. Perhaps it was where whoever owned the place lived.

As he stepped closer, he leaned across the threshold. Chloe was on the other side of the room, inching toward an open doorway. Quiet and smooth, she slipped her hand around the edge of the doorframe. Suddenly an interior light blazed on, bringing with it a renewed and louder moan. Brandon could see Chloe listen for a moment, and then move into the room, out of sight.

Silence. Then a screech, and a “Shit!” and a thump-thump-thump as several objects hit the ground.

Brandon took a step back. “Chloe, are you all—”

Movement coming out of the other room, low, close to the floor. Chloe appeared a second later, glanced in Brandon’s direction, and yelled, “Shut the door!”

He shot forward and grabbed the doorknob. As he started to pull it closed, he saw something skittering across the floor toward him — gray and fast.

He yanked the door the rest of the way, sealing Chloe and whatever that thing was inside, and held on tight to the knob.

On the other side, he could hear movement and a hiss, followed by something crashing to the ground. When the knob began to turn in his hand, he nearly jumped in surprise.

“Brandon! Let me out!” Chloe said.

The second he let go, the door jerked open and Chloe rushed out, immediately pulling the door closed again.

On the other side, more hisses and cries.

“What was that?” Brandon asked.

“A very hungry cat.”

“You mean like a mountain lion?”

“I mean like a house cat. Probably been in there by itself for a week or more.”

“So you ran away from a house cat?”

“What did you want me to do? Shoot it?”

“No, but—”

A whine from the other side, and then a scratch, as the tip of a paw appeared in the space beneath the door.

“Come on,” Chloe said. “Let’s check out the rooms.”

“We’re just going to leave him here?”

“If you want to get all scratched up, be my guest.”

She started toward the front door, Brandon reluctantly following.

As soon as the other Humvees arrived, Matt popped out of his vehicle and joined Ash in his.

“Was just talking to Rachel,” Matt said. “She had someone check one of the NOAA satellites. Looks like we’re going to miss the bulk of the storm. Doesn’t mean we won’t get pelted, though. They were able to confirm that it’s still dipping south along the Rockies with no signs of stopping. Hoping it won’t get quite as far as Colorado Springs, but if it does, we’ll keep going south until we reach a clear road leading west.”

“What’s the news on survivors?” Ash asked.

“They’ve been able to pinpoint a couple dozen more groups.” Matt paused, his face clouding with concern. “Many of them are reporting that they’ve been in contact with the UN, and are either expecting a delivery of vaccine at any time or are prepping to head to one of these survival stations the Project’s been setting up. We’re trying to get teams to as many of them as possible first, but there’s no way we’ll get them all.”

“So we leave those we can’t reach to die?” Ash asked.

“It doesn’t make me happy, either,” Matt said. “But we only have so many resources. The Project is going to get to a lot of these people. And who knows how many more survivors we haven’t been able to contact will trickle into these places. Ash, I hate it as much as you, but we’re not going to be able to save everyone.”

“It’s not acceptable,” Ash said. “We have to do something.”

“If you have a suggestion, I’m listening.”

A door opened and Brandon stuck his head in.

“All clear,” Brandon said. “Fifteen rooms.”

Ash smiled at his son. “Good job, buddy.”

Brandon smiled as he grabbed his backpack off the floor. “I claimed room number two for you, me, and Josie. That’s near the front end,” he said before heading back into the snow.

Ash stared after him, both proud and sad.

Matt reached over and patted Ash on the arm. “We can all use some rest,” he said, and climbed out after Brandon. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Sure,” Ash said absently.

“Come on, Dad,” Josie said. “I’ll help you out.”

Pizza Hut turned out to be a bust. All the food was gone. Brandon was bummed, but not as much as he would have been in the past. It was the way things were, and like it or not, he was getting used to it. So, dinner was the usual selection of canned food that all tasted pretty much the same as far as Brandon was concerned.

He let his father and sister take the two beds, and stretched out on the floor using a few extra blankets from the maid’s closet as his mattress. He could feel his eyes wanting to close, but he forced them to remain open as he waited until he heard deep, even breaths from the two beds. His dad knocked off first, but Josie wasn’t far behind.

When he was sure they were out, Brandon picked up the small package he’d put aside and rose quietly to his feet. Slowly and silently, he donned his jacket and boots, eased the door open, and quickly slipped outside.

Through the still falling snow, he could see a light on in the cab of one of the Humvees, where the two men on watch would be, but he felt confident their attention was on the road, not the building, so he didn’t think he’d be seen. He glanced toward the rear portion of the motel and saw light shining from only one of the windows. He was pretty sure it was Mr. Hamilton’s room, and could picture the Resistance’s leader hunched over a map as he tried to figure out the best route for the next day.

As light-footed as possible, he hurried to the busted office door, stepped inside, and crossed the small lobby. Pausing in front of the door to the back apartment, he opened the package he’d brought with him. It wasn’t much, just a stack of cheese crackers he’d picked up at a convenience store during one of the caravan’s stops earlier in the day. He pulled the wrapper all the way apart until it was a flat sheet and set it on the floor, spreading the crackers on top of it. He listened at the door. All was quiet on the other side.

“All right, cat,” he said. “I’ve got something for you, but don’t you come running out at me. You got that?”

Whether the cat got it or not, it made no response.

“I’m opening the door now,” he said.

He turned the knob and inched the door open a crack. No cat, though it could have been hiding behind the door. He opened the door a little more, and scooted the cellophane wrapper into the room.

“There you go,” he said. “I know it’s not a lot, but it’s got to be better than nothing.”

As he eased the door closed, he thought he heard movement. Once the door was latched, he leaned in close, putting his ear against the wood.

Several scratches were followed by the distinct sound of a cracker breaking. Smiling, he stood up again and headed out, almost making it back to his room before the gunfire began.

7

Principal Director Perez watched as the ten monitors mounted on the wall across from his desk began filling with the faces of the next batch of Project Eden personnel. After the final screen came on, Claudia, the director’s senior assistant, said, “The time is 8:10 p.m. Mountain Standard. Group fourteen’s representatives are all present. Director Perez?”

Perez stared blankly at the camera for another few beats, before he asked the same question with which he began each of the previous thirteen conference calls. “We are now nine days past Implementation Day. Assessments?”

No one said anything, each looking as if he or she hoped someone else would reply.

This wasn’t the first time he’d received the response, and he was well aware of the reason for the hesitation. Until the release of the KV-27a virus, the principal director of Project Eden had been someone else entirely. Perez’s ascent into the position was a total surprise. He was not known in the traditional power circles of the project, and most had thought one of the senior Project members who had been passed over would be given the job. Perez was still an enigma, and he was happy to remain one.

“When I ask a question, I expect answers,” he said.

The man in monitor number seven, Jumoke el-Masri, an Egyptian by birth who was stationed at NB014 outside Rome, overseeing the Project’s operations in the Mediterranean, cleared his throat and said, “I, of course, can only speak for my region. Our analysis shows a current penetration rate of 89.76 %, topping out at a projected 98.12 % in the next seven days. This will put us 1.71 % short of the Project’s goal. Closing that gap will take time, and will depend on how many of the current survivors we are able to reach. Best estimate, another month to month and a half should put us within a few hundredths of the 99.83 % mark.”

“We are seeing a similar result here,” Ingrid Klausner, the woman in charge of Scandinavia and northwestern Russia, said from monitor number three. “Our percentages are a bit better than Mr. el-Masri’s, but that has been helped, in part, by the military actions we’ve seen.” In the wake of the outbreak, fighting had broken out along the borders between Russia and the former Soviet republics in the Baltic.

“Are you still seeing any fighting?” Perez asked. He’d read the reports and knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.

“Only along a small stretch of the Russian-Estonian border. Last night, two of our aircraft sprayed the area with KV-27a. The last of the fighting should cease in the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

Others began chiming in. All were seeing the same results, give or take a few tenths of a percent — numbers that were within the expected range at this point of the operation. While it would have been nice to reach the Project’s ultimate goal solely from the release of the virus on Implementation Day, to believe that would happen would have been grossly naïve. Hence the UN message to trick people into revealing their locations, and lure as many as possible to survival stations. A few lucky ones with desired qualities such as a needed skill set would be spared. The rest, while told they were receiving a vaccine, would actually be infected with a live version of the virus.

There were a couple trouble locations, also not surprises. One was the vast group of islands that stretched from eastern Malaysia through Indonesia and Papua New Guinea, and finally up into the southern portion of the Philippines. It was a difficult area to cover, lots of people scattered on thousands of islands — logistically impossible to cover with the shipping containers that had delivered the bulk of the virus to the world.

The second problem zone was a similar group of islands, though fewer in number. These were located in the eastern Caribbean Sea, starting with the British Virgin Islands and moving southeast all the way to Trinidad and Tobago. Most of the islands had been exposed to the virus like the rest of the world, but a few had been missed, and were now home to large groups of survivors. These two geographically broad areas, as well as a few smaller pockets elsewhere, were in the process of being sprayed from the sky like the Russian war zone had been. It would take a little time to see results, but they would come.

“Mr. Muramoto,” Perez said, zeroing in on monitor number nine. “The latest report I have indicates the survival station outside Seoul and the station in Shanghai have yet to open. Is this still the case?”

“Unfortunately, that is correct, sir. We have had—”

“I’m not interested in what you’ve had. I’m interested in how soon they will be operational.”

“Of course.” Muramoto glanced down, presumably looking at some notes. “Seoul should be open by four p.m. local time.”

A little less than four hours.

“And Shanghai?”

More hesitation. “There have been some problems. Rioting and fires destroyed the facility we had planned on using. A backup was immediately identified, but it is taking longer than anticipated to get it into working order.”

“How. Long.”

“Another day. Maybe day and a half.”

“So the location has not been broadcast yet?”

Muramoto licked his lips. “No.”

“Broadcast it now.”

“But some will arrive before they can go inside.”

Perez leaned toward the camera. “And that’s a problem? Station some of your people in the streets to meet whoever comes, and have them point people to surrounding buildings where they can camp until the station is ready. Get the survivors there! That is your priority now.” He kept his gaze fixed on the camera. “That is the priority for all of you. Please tell me you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Perez let a few seconds pass, then said, “We are at a critical juncture in the plan. It is up to you to see that it goes smoothly. If you are not up to the task, you will be replaced.” From the looks in their eyes, he didn’t need to ask this time if they understood. “If there’s nothing else…?” He waited, but no one said anything. “Very well. Back to work.”

Claudia punched the button cutting off the monitors. She glanced at the clock on her computer screen and smiled. “You’re getting better at this. Still have six minutes before group fifteen.”

“What areas are in that one?”

She turned back to her screen, but didn’t answer right away.

“Claudia?” he asked.

She looked up. “Sorry. We received a call from Sims a few minutes ago. If you’d like, I could get him on the line.”

“Yes, do it.”

Sims and his associates had become Perez’s special projects team, handling the delicate matters the majority of Project Eden’s membership didn’t need to know about. Sims’s latest task was one Perez had been putting off for over a week. It was a simple reconnaissance job, one he was sure would turn out to be a complete waste of time. Still, he couldn’t afford to leave it unchecked, so he had finally sent out Sims.

Several seconds passed before the bottom center monitor filled with Sims’s hard-edged face, surrounded by dancing snowflakes.

“Principal Director,” Sims said.

“Report, Mr. Sims.”

“Yes, sir. We arrived at the Montana location about two hours ago.”

“Was there anyone left alive?”

“Sir, we didn’t find anyone. Dead or alive.”

That was definitely not what Perez had expected. “No one?”

The camera twisted away from Sims, but other than snow and darkness, Perez could make out nothing.

“The main building, the one that burned down during our attack, is that direction,” Sims said. The camera swung a few degrees to the left. “The smaller building was over there.”

“I’m familiar with the layout, Mr. Sims. I assume there is something new you’re trying to tell me?”

“Sir, we made a thorough search of the wreckage. No one was in either building when they burned down.”

“So they were already gone when you attacked? Didn’t your team kill one of their men then?”

“Yes, sir. About a half mile from here. He was the only one seen that day. But, to answer your other question, I don’t think they were gone.” The camera swung in a one-eighty before tilting down. A pile of dirt and snow and pine needles sat next to a hole in the ground, and propped open in the hole was a hatch. “They had an underground facility. Pretty damn extensive, too. Lots of offices, storerooms, barracks.” He paused. “It’s also equipped with an indoor shooting range and medical facilities. Both high end.”

Again, not what Perez expected. Perhaps he’d been underestimating the people who had been there. In his mind, they were no more than a gnat that posed no real threat to the Project. That was undoubtedly still true, but the sophistication of the facility Sims described was troubling. “And you found no one inside, either?”

The camera turned back to Sims’s face. “No, sir.”

“What about computers? Anything that might have information on it?”

“Unfortunately, the few computers left were thoroughly destroyed. If there were any other records, we didn’t locate them.” He looked away from the camera, scanning around. “I can tell you one thing, this place was not cheap.”

“Any sign of where they went?”

“The snow didn’t start falling until maybe an hour before we arrived. We found some indentations where tire tracks and boot prints had been, so I don’t think they’ve been gone for long.”

“They drove out?”

“I believe so. Yesterday at most.”

A gnat could be annoying, but ultimately it couldn’t hurt you. Chances were these people knew they were defeated, and were only trying to find someplace to stay safe as the dust settled.

“You think you can find them?” he asked.

Sims grimaced. “Possibly, but it won’t be easy. Have to do it by instruments until the storm clears. If you’d like, we can give it a shot.”

“All right. For a little while, but I don’t want to waste too much effort on this, so if you feel like you’re spinning your wheels, call it off.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll get right on it.”

“Report in if you find anything,” Perez said, then signaled Claudia that he was finished.

As she disconnected the call, she said, “Group fifteen is standing by.”

Perez filled his glass with water from a pitcher, and took a sip. When he set the glass back down, he nodded and said, “Ready.”

Sims climbed aboard the helicopter and pulled the door shut.

“Treetops,” he said to the pilot. “Follow the road we spotted earlier, out to the highway. The rest of you keep an eye out for tracks. Any questions?”

“No, sir,” they said in unison.

A cloud of white swirled up around them as the rotors increased their speed and the aircraft lifted off the ground. When they rose to a point approximately twenty feet higher than the tallest tree, the pilot took them south and then east.

Whoever had built the road the helicopter was following had been very smart. Only the bare minimum of trees had been cleared to create the path. In many spots, the branches from both sides intertwined with each other for stretches of twenty, thirty — one time over one hundred — feet, making it impossible to see the road at all. The storm wasn’t helping, either, as snow flew past them in waves of near solid sheets, momentarily obscuring the view.

When they finally reached the strip of open land where the road met highway, Sims keyed his mic and told the pilot, “Set us down near the intersection.”

“Looks like it might be a little deep,” the pilot replied.

“I’ve seen you land in worse.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it.”

The pilot slowly lowered them over the road. By the time the skids came to rest, the top of the snow was only a few inches below the lip of the door.

“We won’t be long,” Sims said.

After exiting the aircraft, he and his men spread out to quickly cover more area.

“Sir!” Altman, one of Sims’s men, yelled.

Sims twisted around, and spotted Altman fifty feet down the smaller road that led back into the woods. By the time he reached him, Altman had crouched down and was pointing at the ground.

“Tire tracks, sir,” Altman said. “At least two sets.”

Sims moved in low next to him. Running down the road were several wide depressions. They hadn’t filled because of the partial tree cover.

“How old, do you think?” Sims asked.

Altman, Sims’s best tracker, studied the marks. “Twelve hours, give or take.”

Twelve hours. Depending on what the weather had been when the vehicles came through, they could be as much as six or seven hundred miles away. They probably hadn’t made it quite that far, but even three hundred would be a lot.

Altman rose to his feet, but stayed bent at the waist as he followed the tracks toward the highway. Sims walked right behind him. With each step the depressions became shallower and shallower, until Sims could no longer differentiate the tracks from the surrounding ground. Altman, though, was able to follow them nearly all the way to the intersection.

He finally stopped and straightened up. “It looks like they turned south.”

“You’re sure?” Sims asked.

“As sure as I can be.”

South did make the most sense. A turn to the north would have meant heading into the meat of the storm.

“Don’t think we’re going to find anything else here,” Sims said loudly enough for the other men to hear. “Everyone back on board.”

Back in the warmth of the aircraft’s cabin, he pulled up on his tablet a map of the state and studied it for a moment.

“South toward Butte,” he told the pilot. “Your destination’s the intersection of the I-90 and the I-15 a couple miles west of town. We’ll see if we can pick up another sign of them there.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said.

8

Chloe’s eyes shot open at the sound of the gunshot. She rolled off her bed and onto the floor, unsure where it was coming from. Once she realized none of the bullets were flying through her room, she scrambled across the floor and yanked on her boots.

“What the hell’s going on?” Matt’s voice boomed out of the radio in her jacket pocket.

As she grabbed the coat and pulled it on, Jared Lawrence, one of the men on watch, answered. “We’ve got at least two shooters. Think they’re on the lot just south of us.”

That would be the equipment rental place Chloe had seen next door. It was full of tractors and trucks and trailers parked around a large, central building.

“Do you have an exact position?” Matt asked.

“No, the snow’s too—” Jared cut himself off as another burst of bullets sailed over the motel.

“Jesus,” Matt said. “Everyone stay down. Jared, we need to silence those guns.”

Chloe clicked the talk button. “I’m on it.”

Brandon ducked down next to the motel wall. The gunfire sounded like it was coming from somewhere beyond the parking area. Worried that he might still be in the line of fire, he darted over to the cover of one of the Humvees, and then raised his head high enough to peer through the windows of the vehicle. All he could see were darkness and snow.

Over the radio inside the Humvee, he heard Matt’s voice. “What the hell’s going on?”

The answer confirmed what Brandon had already figured out.

He ducked back down as more gunfire rang out.

When it stopped, he could hear Matt say, “Everyone stay down. Jared, we need to silence those guns.”

The response came almost immediately. “I’m on it.” Not Lawrence’s voice. Chloe’s.

I’m on it? Was she going after the shooters alone? Even Brandon knew that wasn’t a good idea.

He looked through the window again, this time searching the inside of the vehicle. Lying across the floor in the back were two M16 rifles. Careful and quiet, he opened the rear door and grabbed one. After checking that the mag was full, he eased the door closed. Because of his location, he was sure he’d have heard Chloe run by if she’d decided to approach the other property from the front, but there had been no footsteps in that direction, so she must’ve been heading around back.

He reached the rear of the motel only seconds before a shadowy form passed through the falling snow. He hesitated only long enough to convince himself it was indeed Chloe before he stepped off the walkway and disappeared into the storm.

“Get on the floor!”

Josie’s eyelids fluttered open as she pulled herself out of a deep sleep.

“Josie! Down!” her father yelled.

Before she could move, she heard the smack-smack-smack of several items hitting the roof of the motel.

Bullets.

As she started to roll off her bed, she saw her father struggling to detangle himself from his covers. She stepped across the gap that divided their beds and yanked off the blanket.

“Don’t worry about me!” her dad yelled. “Get down!”

Ignoring him, she grabbed his hand and helped him scoot off the mattress onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” Josie asked once they were lying side by side. “Did you get hit?”

“I’m fine,” her dad said. He raised his head and looked toward the area beyond the beds. “Brandon, are you all right?”

No response.

“Brandon?” Josie asked. “Are you okay?”

Still no answer.

“Brandon!” her father yelled.

He started to push himself up, but Josie put a hand on his arm.

“I’ll check,” she said.

As she crawled to the end of the beds, she prayed she wouldn’t find her brother lying in a pool of blood. No blood, but no Brandon, either. Only the blankets he’d been using for a mattress.

“Brandon, where are you?” she asked.

She moved out from between the beds so she could check the rest of the room.

“Is he there?” her dad asked.

“No. He’s not in the room.”

“What about the bathroom?” her father asked.

The bathroom. Why hadn’t she thought of that? He’s probably hiding in the tub.

Getting to her feet but staying low, she sprinted across the room.

“Brandon?” she said as she reached the open door.

He wasn’t there, either.

“Did you find him?” her dad asked.

“No, Dad, he’s not here.”

More bullets flew over the building. Josie dropped to the carpet with a scream.

“Are you hit? Josie, are you okay?”

“I’m okay. It just startled me, that’s all.”

“Come back over here.”

When she reached him, she said, “Where could he have gone?”

“He’ll be fine,” her father said. “Brandon knows how to take care of himself.”

That may have been true, but Josie sensed her father was as worried as she was.

Chloe worked her way west, onto the property directly behind the motel, before turning south. Her plan was to circle around to the other side of the equipment lot, and come at the shooters from behind. With the dark and the snow, they would likely not know she was there until too late.

As she moved parallel to the back of the equipment-business property, she was able to use the sounds of the shots to determine that the gunmen were on the roof of the big building at the center of the lot. She was also pretty sure there were only two shooters, or maybe one person firing two different rifles. Didn’t mean there wouldn’t be others around, however.

She reached the far side of the property, and moved down the chain-link fence until she was approximately halfway back to the main street. Up and over she went, her landing cushioned by a waist-high drift of snow.

The building was about a hundred feet wide, street side to back, and a hundred and fifty from Chloe’s end to the side closest to the motel. Two floodlights were mounted on poles out front, lighting up the parking area. One was positioned wide enough to spill a bit of light on the south side, where she approached the building.

The roof peaked at the center, with the low end hanging off the side she’d approached. About thirty feet back from the front was a utility room built against the wall, maybe four feet square. All she needed to do was get on top of that, and she could easily reach the eaves and pull herself all the way up.

A noise behind her, faint, but sounding very much like something falling into the snow.

She whirled around, her rifle instantly off her shoulder, pointing into the storm. But whatever had made the noise was out of her limited range of visibility.

Sticking to the tracks she’d already made, she retraced her route back to the fence. Her fear was that the shooters up top had a friend down here, but she made it all the way to the drift she’d landed in without seeing anything.

It was probably something blowing out of a tree, she guessed.

Several more shots rang out.

She whipped back around, focused once more on her mission, and hurried back to the building.

Brandon lay in a deep hole in the snow, holding his breath.

Following Chloe had been a simple matter of stepping in her boot prints. When he had reached the fence where she’d climbed over, he scaled the chain-link as quietly as possible. What he didn’t anticipate was slipping off the top rail and falling into the deep patch of snow on the other side.

At first he was too stunned to move, then he heard Chloe heading his way and realized his fall had made enough noise to alert her. While he knew he should probably stand up and let her know he was there, a part of him worried she’d shoot him if he did. Another part, a more vocal one, was concerned she’d send him back to the motel. That was the last thing he wanted to happen. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was a soldier like the others, like his dad. His place was here whether she wanted him around or not.

The sound of her boots stopped only a few feet away. If she came any closer, she would see him for sure.

Two rifle shots boomed from the roof of the building. As the echo subsided, Brandon realized Chloe had moved away. That’s when he finally allowed himself to breathe again. As soon as he felt sure she wouldn’t be able to see him, he rose and started to follow her again.

The utility shed was easily scaled. When she stood on top, the eaves of the main roof came all the way down to her chest, making it even easier than she’d anticipated to pull herself all the way up.

As gunfire erupted again, she used the noise as a mask, and sprinted up the roof toward the peak. Five feet short of the top, she lowered herself to her belly and slithered the rest of the way up.

As she’d suspected, there were only two shooters. They were set up about two thirds of the way down from the peak, each sitting upright, with the barrels of their rifles resting on large sacks of grain. Both were bundled up tight in dark winter gear, the only difference between them was that the one on the left was smaller than the one on the right.

A man and a woman?

Didn’t really matter. What did were the guns they were using to shoot at Chloe’s friends.

Both of them had their eyes to scopes mounted on their weapons, looking toward the motel. She hadn’t expected that. If they had scopes, that meant they could have zeroed in and hit pretty much anything. Instead, their shots, at least when she had still been inside, had flown harmlessly over the top of the motel.

No time to figure out the why, though. Climbing to her feet, she raised her rifle and started walking down the other side. The first sign that one of the shooters knew something was wrong was a tilt of the smaller one’s head, as if she or he were trying to listen for something.

Chloe, only fifteen feet behind them now, took another step forward.

This time the small one twisted all the way around. “Rick!” A girl’s voice.

Her companion grunted and pulled back from his scope.

“Rick!”

“What?”

The girl nodded toward Chloe, and her friend turned to see what was up.

“Oh, shit!” he said, grabbing for his gun.

“Don’t,” Chloe commanded, her voice calm and even.

Rick didn’t seem to hear her. He wrapped his hands around the stock of the rifle and started to lift it off the milk crates.

“Drop it,” Chloe said. “I will shoot you.”

“Rick, put it down,” the girl said.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Rick said.

“Please, Rick! Please!” The girl turned to Chloe. “Please don’t shoot him. We weren’t trying to hurt anyone. We were just trying to scare you off.”

“Put the rifle down,” Chloe said.

She could see Rick’s chest rise and fall with a deep breath.

“Rick, put it down!” the girl said again.

A tense second later, Rick swore under his breath and dropped the gun.

“Now stand up. Both of you,” Chloe said.

The girl complied right away, while Rick took a moment to do the same.

Now that Chloe was able to get a better look at them, she saw her suspicions were right. They were both kids, the big one probably a teenager, but the girl no older than Brandon.

“We’re sorry, ma’am,” the girl said. “You’re the first new people we’ve seen in a while. We were afraid you were going to make us sick. We don’t want to be sick.”

“Shut up, Ginny,” Rick said.

Chloe jerked in surprise. “What did you call her?”

Rick didn’t answer her.

“What did you call her?” Chloe repeated.

“Ginny,” the girl said. “That’s my name.”

Something clawed at Chloe from the dark space in her mind, the space that had contained the memories taken from her by the Project Eden assholes years before, and it was as if the rest of the world suddenly disappeared.

Ginny. But not Ginny.

And a girl. But not this girl.

“Rick! Don’t!”

The shout snapped Chloe out of her trance just in time to see a rifle magazine flying through the air toward her. She ducked to her left, and the metal casing flew past her shoulder, almost clipping her ear.

But the near miss came with a cost.

Chloe slipped, her foot shooting into the air, and she landed hard on her hip against the sloped roof. The impact loosened a wide section of snow that began sliding downward, taking her with it.

“Chloe!”

She twisted her head and spotted Brandon standing at the peak of the roof.

How the hell had he—

But the thought went unfinished as she flew off the edge, and arced through the air toward the ground.

The big one, the one the other had called Rick, dove for his gun as Chloe sailed off the building.

Though Brandon wanted to scramble down so he could help her, he knew he had to deal with the problem at hand first. He aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger without warning.

The bullet smashed into the side of Rick’s weapon, knocking it away and taking at least one of the kid’s fingers with it.

“Son of a bitch!” Rick yelled.

He grabbed his hand and looked as if he might charge up the slope at Brandon.

Brandon, the gun still tight to his shoulder, said, “Stay right there or the next one goes through your head.”

“Rick, listen to him. Please!” Ginny pleaded.

Rick was only able to glare at Brandon for a second before pain forced him down onto his knees. Ginny immediately crouched next to him.

“Are you okay? Let me see,” she said. “Oh, God.”

“You’d better wrap that up,” Brandon said.

Ginny looked at him, stunned, before nodding and setting to work.

Without taking his eyes off the two shooters, Brandon yelled as loudly as he could, “Mr. Hamilton! It’s Brandon! I’ve got the shooters! But I think Chloe’s hurt!”

It took only a few minutes for the others to get there. They found Chloe unconscious in the snow just a few feet from the scoop end of a tractor. Dr. Gardiner made a quick assessment and had four of the men carry her back to the motel. He then examined Rick’s finger, and accompanied the boy and Ginny — with two other men acting as guards — back to the Paradise.

When Brandon entered the motel parking lot, Josie raced over and threw her arms around him. His father followed, but at a much slower pace.

“What were you thinking?” she said. “You had us scared to death.”

“Did Chloe ask you to go with her?” his father asked, clearly concerned.

“No,” Brandon said. “She didn’t know I was there, not until she fell, anyway. I…I followed her.”

“You followed her?” his father said. “Why would you do that?”

Brandon looked at his dad, wondering why it was even a question. “Because family always has each other’s back. You told me that. Chloe was going alone.” He paused. “She’s family.” He looked past his father at the other members of the Resistance. “We’re all family now, aren’t we?”

His father stared at him for a long moment before reaching out and pulling Brandon into a hug. “We are,” he said. “You did good. Just…next time let me know first.”

9

They hadn’t traveled nearly as far as Martina would have liked, but she was to blame for that.

After taking possession of three Honda Shadow motorcycles, and a Kawasaki Ninja for Craig, they’d spent nearly an hour making sure Noreen and Riley — neither of whom had ever driven a bike before — were comfortable enough with their rides before heading out.

When they finally hit the road, they raced through Inyokern and up the slope to Highway 14. Heading south, they had one last look at the valley. As always, brown was everywhere — the hills, the brush, the buildings. Even the trees people had nurtured to life looked tan from the highway.

Martina couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before she might return. She would, of course. At the very least, she had to bring her family down from the mountains, and bury them in the place they always called home.

For a little while, after the valley fell away, Martina could almost pretend the world was as it had been. Highway 14 had been at its busiest on weekends in the winter when skiers from L.A. sped north to the slopes of Mammoth Mountain, another three hours past Ridgecrest. But most other times, traffic was few and far between, so being the only ones on the road was not unusual.

They made it a few miles past Red Rock Canyon before the illusion vanished. A set of abandoned buildings sat to the left of the highway, the remnants of someone’s long-ago attempt to farm the desert. For several years, Martina had thought of the structures merely as markers to and from home. She could never remember seeing anyone walking around them, or any vehicles parked nearby.

That wasn’t the case now, though. Close to a dozen motor homes were there, each parked neatly next to its neighbor. There was an area in front of the vehicles where several camping chairs had been set up. The majority were empty, but a few were occupied.

At first, Martina thought maybe she’d come across more survivors. She’d slowed down and angled over to the side of the road closest to the gathering. But as she neared, she could see that the people sitting would never be leaving their chairs again.

Why were they all there? Had they come to die together?

She added those to the list of questions whose answers she’d never know.

The town of Mojave came into view a few miles before Martina and her friends actually reached it — gas stations and convenient stores and fast food restaurants lining the east side, a handful of railroad tracks lining the west. If there had been a way to go around it, she would have gladly taken it. But there had been no such path.

She stopped at the turn into town and let the others pull up beside her.

“You guys doing all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Riley said.

“Don’t get too confident,” Martina warned. “Noreen?”

“I’m fine,” her friend said, though it was clear she was still a bit nervous.

“Anyone need to stretch their legs?” she asked.

“Can we just keep going?” Noreen asked.

“I like that idea,” Craig said. He looked left down Mojave’s main drag. “This place kind of gives me the creeps.”

“Me, too,” Riley said.

Me, three, Martina thought. “All right. As long as you guys don’t need a break.”

They made the turn and headed through town. Deserted streets, near empty parking lots, and no obvious bodies to be seen. Like back in Ridgecrest, apparently most people had chosen to die at home.

After they drove over the bridge at the south edge of Mojave, Martina allowed herself to breathe normally again. If she was this tense going through a small town, what would it be like to pass through someplace larger?

My God, what about Los Angeles?

Her friends should have been getting close to Dodger Stadium at that point. If her reaction was any indication, they must be nervous wrecks.

As Martina’s group came around the east side of Mount Mojave, the highway transitioned into a four-lane divided freeway. This allowed them to pass by the town of Rosemead without actually driving through it. In the distance, she could see the buildings of the Lancaster/Palmdale area. Over three hundred thousand people had lived there. How many of them were still alive? Were any?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to find out.

A few miles south of Rosemead, Martina exited the freeway onto Highway 138. This shot them due west, bypassing both Lancaster and Palmdale, and taking them all the way to the famous Grapevine portion of the I-5 in the mountains north of Los Angeles.

When they finally reached the interstate, Martina pulled over on the transition road, and retrieved her jacket from her bag on the back of the bike. Her friends eagerly did the same. Unlike the warm day back in the desert, it was considerably cooler here.

“A little something to eat might be nice,” Craig said as he climbed back onto his seat.

“And I gotta pee,” Noreen added.

Martina checked the old map she’d picked up back in Ridgecrest. “Gorman’s just a few miles to the north. We should be able to find someplace there we can take a break.”

“Sounds good to me,” Craig said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Noreen said, looking like she was going to burst. “Let’s hurry.”

The someplace turned out to be a Carl’s Jr. burger joint on the north side of the freeway. It was thankfully free of the dead, and with little effort, they were able to get the heat turned on.

They sat silently for a while, already weary from their journey as they ate some of the food they’d brought with them.

Riley spoke first. “So where do we go from here?”

“Up the Five,” Craig said. “That’s the way we always go to the Bay Area. Dad always says…” He paused, the hint of discomfort. “Always said it was the fastest way there.”

Martina didn’t respond right away. The problem was, there were two main routes up the coast. Craig was right. The I-5 was the fastest, but the 101 freeway over on the coast went there, too. And while the latter route did take longer, it was the route Ben preferred. He called the I-5 the Mind Number and refused to use it. What if he were heading down to find her? Just because he hadn’t yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it at some point. The last thing she wanted was to miss him because she and the others took the wrong road.

The I-5 or the 101?

Their break stretched to an hour and a half as she tried to decide which way they should go. By then, it was growing dark, and the brisk air from earlier had turned frigid. Though she still didn’t have an answer to her quandary, she knew the last thing they should do was travel in the dark.

Next door to the Carl’s Jr. was an Econo Lodge motel. They selected two rooms with an adjoining door — one for the girls and one for Craig. Craig found a DVD player and several movies in the main office, attached the device to his TV, and asked the others to join him. Noreen passed, and was soon fast asleep. Martina declined, too, though her mind was too occupied to shut down just yet. So Riley went to Craig’s room alone. Which, Martina thought, was how Riley and Craig had probably wanted it to work out.

At least someone isn’t alone.

Martina lay in her bed for nearly an hour, staring at the ceiling as the weapon fire and dialogue of what sounded like Aliens seeped through the partially closed dividing doors. Her mind was filled with memories — her family fleeing to the mountains; a trip with Ben to the aquarium in Monterey; tossing a football with her brother in the backyard; a cough from the back room of the cabin; her mother’s eyes, rheumy and unfocused; her father dead.

All of them dead.

She pushed herself angrily out of bed, pulled on her shoes, and grabbed her jacket. As she passed the adjoining doors, she peeked into the other room. Riley and Craig were propped up on the bed, riveted by the movie, their arms around each other.

Quietly, Martina opened the main door and slipped outside.

The cold air made her cheeks feel as if they were freezing in place. Each exhalation created a cloud of vapor three times the size of her head. But the cold didn’t bother her at the moment. It was nice actually, a distraction.

She wandered down the road toward the freeway entrance. There was a Chevron gas station just ahead, and to her right a small strip mall that consisted of a jewelry store, an antique shop, and a combination mini-market and liquor store.

She almost kept walking, but something in the half-lit liquor store window caught her attention. Framing the top and sides were strings of silver and red garland, and sprayed on the glass in a frosted white:

Christmas had been a week ago, a day that had gone uncelebrated as the world began to die. In fact, it had been almost exactly a week ago, which meant today…

She checked her watch. It was fourteen minutes until midnight. There was still time.

She hurried across the street to the liquor store and pulled on the door, but it was locked.

“Crap!”

She looked around. Typical cement blocks marked the ends of the nearby parking stalls. The blocks were old, and a few were cracked and broken. She grabbed a loose chunk of cement and slammed it through the glass window.

She looked at her watch again. Eleven minutes. No time to waste.

She ducked through the opening and searched the store for the rack she wanted. It took a few minutes, but she finally found it. Two bottles would probably be enough, but she grabbed three just in case, and stuffed them into a bag she found behind the counter. In another aisle, she snatched up a bag of plastic cups and headed back outside.

It was exactly 11:59 when she threw open the door to her room and flipped on the lights.

“Hey, everyone!” she yelled. “In here.”

She set her bags on top of the dresser and started unloading the bottles.

“What’s going on?” Noreen asked, only half awake.

“Get up,” Martina told her without looking back. “We don’t have much time.”

Suddenly alert, Noreen said, “Is something happening? Do we need to leave?”

Martina ignored her and ripped open the plastic holding the cups.

“What’s with all the noise?” Riley asked, walking into the room holding hands with Craig.

“Over here,” Martina said.

She ripped the foil wrapper off the top of the bottle, removed the metal safety cap, and popped the cork.

“Is that champagne?” Craig asked.

Martina smiled, and poured four even cupfuls.

“Come on!” She forced a cup into each of their hands.

“I don’t know,” Riley said.

“You just need to take a sip,” Martina said. She looked at her watch. “Okay, here we go. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”

“What are you doing?” Noreen asked as Martina counted.

“Five, four, three, two, one.” Martina raised her glass. “Happy New Year.”

Noreen was the first to laugh, then Riley followed, and finally Craig joined in.

“Happy New Year,” they said.

They all drank.

“Hey, this is pretty good,” Noreen said. “Can I have some more?”

“Sure,” Martina said. “It’s New Year’s.”

Another round of the wine was shared.

“I thought you were going to tell us we needed to run,” Noreen said.

“Why would we need to do that?” Craig asked.

“I don’t know. Could be anything.”

Martina knew exactly what her friend was thinking. “Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say what?” Riley asked.

“I swear, Noreen, if you say it…”

“I didn’t,” Noreen said.

“Didn’t say what?” Riley pressed.

“Didn’t say zom—”

“Noreen!” Martina said. “What did I just tell you?”

“Zombies?” Craig asked.

Noreen shrugged. “Maybe.”

Riley rolled her eyes. “Oh, great. Now I have that in my head.”

Martina looked at her. “Your fault. You kept asking.”

They laughed and joked about it for a while and had some more champagne.

When the conversation lost some of its steam, Craig said, “I’m not really sure we should actually be celebrating New Year’s. I mean, what’s there to celebrate?”

“The most important thing of all,” Martina said. “We’re alive.”

The others contemplated her response.

After several seconds, Craig raised his cup. “To being alive.”

The others raised theirs.

“To being alive.”