by A. G. Riddle
The remainder of Saturday had passed without event. In the family room, Elliott sat in the recliner, Rose in a pull-up chair beside him. Her symptoms were worse today. The cough was nearly incessant, though she suppressed it, and she left the room when it wouldn’t relent. Ryan and Sam were upstairs in the bonus room playing with their son, Adam. To all outward appearances it was the perfect Saturday after Thanksgiving: college football on TV (Elliott’s alma mater, Michigan, was playing Ohio State), their grandson playing, the entire family together under one roof.
Elliott wondered how long the five-year-old’s childhood would last. Would it be measured in days, weeks? He knew what was coming. He feared it—for himself and for Rose, but most of all for his son, his daughter-in-law, and his grandson.
Elliott watched the TV, wincing whenever news reports came on. Retailers were reporting record traffic at brick and mortar stores on Black Friday. Their stocks had taken a beating during the market’s short session on Friday, and they were no doubt hoping to prop up investor confidence for the market opening on Monday.
Up and down Elliott’s street, parcels sat on nearly every doorstep, thanks to Saturday and now Sunday delivery. Neighbors shuffled outside in pajamas, coughing as they carried the boxes inside.
The event Elliott had been waiting for happened at noon on Sunday.
Cell phones began issuing a shrill alarm, similar to an Amber Alert or Severe Weather Bulletin. But this message was neither of those. It instructed the phone’s owner to click a link or turn on their TV.
A minute later, Elliott and his family sat in front of their TV, listening as the president spoke from his desk in the Oval Office.
“My fellow Americans, today our nation faces a new kind of threat. First, I want you to know that we are prepared for this threat. We have a plan, and we are executing that plan. I’m speaking to you now because that plan will impact you and your loved ones. We will also need your help. Your fellow Americans will need your help.
“Departments at the state and federal level have been closely monitoring X1, the low-intensity flu-like virus currently affecting millions of Americans. We have decided that X1 cases have grown to the point that they represent a danger to our nation. Therefore, I have activated a program called BioShield. BioShield is meant to do one thing: protect you and your family during this time.
“Before I outline the steps we’re taking, I want to first assure you that these measures are temporary. They are also born out of an abundance of caution, and a desire to ensure that every American receives adequate care.”
Elliott listened as the president detailed the BioShield program. As he’d expected, a state of emergency was declared, including martial law and a nationwide curfew beginning daily at six p.m. Every American was instructed to go home and stay there immediately following the announcement. Homeless individuals were required to report to the nearest shelter or subway, where transportation would be arranged for them.
A combination of National Guard, military, and FEMA personnel cordoned off every major city. Checkpoints were established on every interstate and major road. Air, rail, and bus traffic ceased. Anyone outside a cordon zone would be directed to a series of shelters set up in rural areas at schools, sports arenas, and courthouses.
The federal government also temporarily nationalized every company in key industries: telecommunications, internet hosting, shipping and logistics, power and energy, and health care.
Around two p.m., school buses arrived on Elliott’s street. Anyone with symptoms of the X1 virus was instructed to get on. It was a bizarre scene, the convoy of buses loading up coughing adults, teens, and children on a Sunday.
In his address, the president had warned that anyone who didn’t get on the bus would not be registered for essential services. In the coming days, the National Guard and military would be distributing food and transporting sick individuals to care centers. Anyone who refused to register would be denied food and medical care—and more, they would be detained and placed in a low-priority quarantine zone, a prison with only basic services. It could be a death sentence.
Elliott stood at the front door, peering through the glass. The half-empty bus stopped outside their home, and the doors swung open.
At his side, Rose held his arm. She whispered, keeping her voice too quiet for their son and grandson to hear.
“I don’t want to go.”
“We have to, darling.”
Elliott turned to his son, who stood a safe distance away. He tried to sound casual, as if they were just going out for a movie. “We should be back in a few hours.”
Ryan didn’t buy it. “Don’t go.”
“They’re just trying to get a head count. They need to figure out what they’re dealing with. We’ll be right back.”
Standing in line to get on the bus, Elliott could smell the chlorine wafting through its open doors. He made eye contact with several of his neighbors—those he had enlisted in his plan. Their expressions said, You were right.
He was sorry that he was.
The bus driver stood at the top of the stairs yelling for everyone to bring their cell phones with them, that if they didn’t bring their phones, they might not be able to get medical care and food in the future. Several people broke from the line and ran home for their phones.
The seats were still damp from the germ-killing chemical mix applied to them, but Elliott and Rose sat anyway. He put his arm around her, trying to keep her warm in the late November chill.
The roads were empty. The bus joined a convoy of other buses that barreled through Atlanta, past parked cars and empty sidewalks where bits of trash tumbled in the wind. Parked police cars with flashing lights blocked them from taking any other route. Police in riot gear lined the streets, yelling and pointing at anyone on foot. It was a bizarre tour of a city on lockdown, a city that a few hours ago had been free—and was now something very different.
After a few turns, Elliott knew where they were headed.
The FEMA tents outside the Georgia Dome confirmed his suspicion. The facility, home to the Atlanta Falcons football team, had been the largest domed stadium in the world when it first opened in 1992. It still ranked third.
It was also, however, no longer state-of-the-art. For that reason alone, the city was erecting a shiny new high-tech stadium right across the street—aptly dubbed the Mercedes-Benz Stadium. It was due to open in the next year.
Elliott would have expected the towering cranes to be still on a Sunday afternoon, but they were working feverishly, hoisting up parts of the stadium’s retractable roof. It appeared they were trying to finish it, and quickly.
In so many ways, downtown Atlanta was the perfect place to conduct a quarantine. With Phillips Arena across the street, the authorities had three large stadiums in which to separate the population. Elliott imagined FEMA tents covering Centennial Olympic Park nearby, operations stations and administrative quarters set up in the Omni Hotel, and a command center at the CNN Center. The massive covered parking decks in the area were perfect for staging supplies. And if it was needed, the Georgia World Congress Center—the third largest convention center in the US, with nearly four million square feet of floor space—was also near, as were the Georgia Aquarium and the College Football Hall of Fame.
Ahead, a figure wearing a positive pressure personnel suit, or space suit, stood outside a FEMA tent directing traffic. It was unnerving to see someone wearing the suit in downtown Atlanta.
The line moved slowly, the buses ahead releasing their passengers in waves that flowed out until they were empty. When Elliott and Rose’s bus came to a stop, along with six others, seven suited figures emerged from the tent and entered the buses. The man who entered Elliott’s bus wore army fatigues under his suit—Elliott could see the top of his uniform inside the helmet.
In front of the FEMA tent, a man held up a red flag.
The man at the front of the bus spoke via a speaker, giving his voice an unnerving, Darth Vader-like tone. �
�If you have been infected for seven days or more, please raise your hand.”
A few hands went up slowly. The suited man’s eyes darted across the bus, seeming to mark the people in his mind. He squinted as if something was wrong.
“Please, this is important. We need to know how long you’ve been infected to give you proper care. If you had a cough or were sneezing last Sunday, raise your hand now. This is very important.”
That’s odd, Elliott thought. A few more hands went up.
From his peripheral vision, he saw Rose raise her hand.
He was about to stop her, but the suited figure had already seen her hand go up.
Outside, the man by the tent lowered the red flag, as if calling for the start of a race.
“Okay, if your hand is raised, stand up and exit the bus. They’ll direct you outside.”
Elliott saw fear in Rose’s eyes. The suited figure remained at the front of the bus, watching, making sure everyone who had raised their hand disembarked.
Elliott stood in his seat. “Can you tell us—”
“Sir, please sit down.”
“I just want to know—”
“Sir, your questions will be answered inside. If you don’t sit back down I’ll have you removed and placed in quarantine.”
Elliott sank back down into his seat.
To Rose, the suited figure said, “Ma’am, please come forward.”
She stared at Elliott.
He gave her his bravest face. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Go ahead.”
Outside the bus, the entire cohort was ushered into the Georgia Dome.
When the last person cleared the FEMA tent, the figure outside raised a yellow flag.
The suited soldier spoke again.
“If you are over sixty years of age, or if you are unable to walk without assistance, please raise your hand.”
Elliott was sixty-three, and he didn’t look especially young; his time at the CDC had been rough on his body. But he kept his hand down. For her sake.
The soldier eyed him with blatant suspicion.
Elliott shrugged.
“I’ve got a stressful job. It ages you.”
The man shook his head but let Elliott keep his seat.
When the over-sixty cohort had exited, the soldier left without another word. The suited figure outside held up a green flag, and to Elliott’s surprise, the bus pulled away.
His head turned, and he stared past the white FEMA tents and the suited individuals milling around. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to the Georgia Dome, where Rose had gone in. Where he feared she might never come out.
The bus stopped at a giant parking deck. The doors opened, and the driver yelled for everyone to get off.
The passengers filed out, bewildered looks on their faces.
A woman in a space suit directed everyone to take the stairwell to level five. The people walked past her in silence, but inside the stairwell, whispers erupted, frightened voices asking questions.
Why one week? Are those people going to die?
They’re not going to let us go home. I knew it!
We should run now.
A booming voice from the landing above silenced the chorus.
“Keep moving.”
A suited man leaned over the rail, his muscular, unsmiling face ominous behind the helmet.
“Keep moving. All your questions will be answered. Keep moving, people. Fall behind, you go to quarantine.”
The horde surged forward after that, some pushing.
On level five, rows of booths were spread out. They reminded Elliott of voting booths on Election Day: each was just big enough for one person and stood on flimsy legs.
“Take a station. Any station. Spread out. You have five minutes to complete the questionnaire.”
Inside a booth, Elliott found a tablet propped up, a large green start button glowing. He tapped it, and the screen showed a graphic with a cell phone and a prompt that said:
Place your cell phone in the box to your right.
The black box slid closed the moment Elliott dropped his phone inside. He heard the faint noise of electric motors.
On the screen, a questionnaire appeared. Many of the questions he had anticipated. It asked for his social security number, name, date of birth, home address, occupation, education, his current symptoms, when they began, his health history, especially any immuno-compromising drugs or conditions, and his travel outside the country, especially to Kenya, Somalia, Ethiopia, Uganda, and Tanzania. Elliott lied about his date of birth.
Some questions struck him as odd: Was he comfortable using a firearm? Had he ever been to prison? Had he ever been in the military or had military training?
What does it mean?
At the end of the questionnaire, a large thank-you box appeared. The company logo below it was one he had never seen before: Rook Quantum Sciences. They must have developed the survey and database software the government was using.
The black box opened, and he took out his cell phone. The screen was now black except for the Rook Quantum Sciences logo.
He tapped the home button.
Two dialogs appeared:
You have completed your questionnaire for the day.
You have no new messages.
So they had created an operating system for tracking the outbreak. That was smart.
Around him, several suited figures were walking up and down the aisles. Occasionally they paused at booths and spoke into their radios, calling for tech support.
“Got an incompatible cell phone at 1291.”
“Need a tablet reboot on 1305.”
Seconds after Elliott stepped away from his booth, a suited figure wiped off the tablet he had used and directed him to the other side of the parking deck, where white curtains served as dividers between cubicles.
Inside one small cubicle, a woman swabbed the inside of his cheeks and took two vials of blood, then placed the samples in a bag labeled “Phaethon Genetics.” She tore a label with a bar code off the sample bag and placed it on a bracelet, which she affixed to Elliott’s right wrist.
“What’s that for?”
“Sequencing your genome will help us find a cure.”
She placed an identical bracelet on his other wrist.
“Don’t take the ID bands off—you need them to get food rations and medical care.”
He nodded. “My wife was taken—”
“Sorry, sir, they’ll answer your questions at the next station. This is important, okay? Your phone will issue an alert each day. It will ask you questions about your symptoms. Answer the questions honestly. Your life may depend on it. Keep your phone charged.”
He was about to ask a question when she raised her hand and yelled, “Next!”
To Elliott, she said, “Exit to your right, please.”
Ever since he had gotten off the bus, he had hoped to see someone he knew—a CDC official or Commissioned Corps officer. He hadn’t. And his time was up.
It turned out there was no next station. After the blood draw, they herded everyone into a stairwell on the opposite side of the parking deck and back onto the bus they had arrived on. He waited for it to fill back up. It never did. Many of the people who had gone into the parking deck with Elliott didn’t return. The bus was less than half full when it pulled away.
Elliott hoped it would return to the Georgia Dome. It didn’t. It barreled down the road, retracing its route.
Before he left home, he had instructed his son not to get on the next batch of buses—the buses that would pick up anyone without symptoms. Ryan was an anesthesiologist, and Elliott assumed he would be identified as someone with essential skills, and would therefore be conscripted to help in the BioShield effort.
But now everything had changed. He needed to make sure his son was on that bus—and that they kept him. Ryan might be their only chance of getting to Rose.
He wondered how long he’d been gone. Had the buses for the well individuals already a
rrived? If so, that chance had already slipped away.
On his street, he bounded off the bus and dashed inside his home, ignoring his neighbors calling his name, yelling questions about the outbreak.
The house was quiet. The TV wasn’t even on. He searched the first floor.
Empty.
The second.
Empty.
He pounded down the unpainted wooden stairs to the basement. Stopping in the damp space, he searched for the light. He clicked it on.
Ryan, Sam, and Adam were seated on an old couch that Elliott had abandoned in the basement years ago. Adam was asleep in his mother’s lap.
Ryan looked up. “Dad.”
“Change of plans,” Elliott said, panting.
“What?”
“You need to get on the bus when it comes.”
“Why? What happened—”
“They have your mother. In the Georgia Dome. Find her. Get her out of there.”
Chapter 57
Desmond had lost all sense of time. The only indicator of its passing was the growing trash pile that surrounded the three stooges—and even that was taken away when a janitor wheeled a cart in and cleaned the mess up.
He maintained his exercise routine, pushing himself for more repetitions each time, cycling the exercises, careful not to overexert himself. His ribs still ached, but he was learning his limits and tender points. He was preparing. It was all he could do.
Any break in the routine caught Desmond’s attention. So when the tall blonde strode into the corridor beyond the cell again, he stopped in mid-pushup, turned, and watched.
She stood before the three slobs, questioning them. The words that flowed from her mouth seemed to assault them like a swarm of bees. They shook their heads, threw up their hands, pointed at the screen, and argued back. Soon she was pointing too. Was she their boss? A messenger from their boss (Conner, Desmond presumed)?
Before she left, the blonde turned to him, for the briefest of moments, with a look that carried some meaning he couldn’t read, like a language he had once learned but had forgotten.
