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“What do you mean, an attack?”

“I mean virals, Jenny.”

The woman blanched but said nothing.

“Listen to me.” Sara took Jenny’s hands and made the woman look at her. “We don’t have a lot of time here. How many?”

Jenny gave her head a little shake, as if trying to focus her thoughts. “Fifteen?”

“Any children?”

“Just a couple. One boy has pneumonia, the other a broken wrist we just set. We’ve got one woman in labor, but she’s early.”

“Where’s Hannah?”

Hannah was Jenny’s daughter, a girl of thirteen; her son was grown and gone. Jenny and her husband had long since parted ways.

“Home, I think?”

“Run and get her. I can handle the situation until you’re back.”

“God, Sara.”

“Just be quick.”

Jenny darted from the building. Pim, holding Theo, was standing with the girls. Sara crouched before them. “I need you to go with your Auntie Pim now.”

Elle looked fearful and lost; snot was running from her nose. Sara wiped it with the bottom edge of her shirt.

“Where are we going?” the girl asked woefully.

People were scurrying past—nurses, doctors, orderlies with stretchers. Sara glanced up at Pim, then looked at her granddaughter again. “Downstairs to the basement,” Sara answered. “You’ll be safe there.”

“I want to go home.”

“It’s just for a little while.”

She hugged Elle, then her sister; Pim led the girls to the stairs. As they descended, Sara turned to her husband. She recognized the look on his face. It was the same one he’d worn the night after Bill had been killed, when he’d shown her the note.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve got things in hand here. Go before I change my mind.”

No more words were necessary. Hollis kissed her and strode out the door.

—

They turned off Highway 10. From here, it was a straight shot south on a gravel road to the city. The truck shook fiercely as they pounded through the potholes. Wind whipped through the open windows; the sun, coming across their right shoulders, was low and bright.

“Michael, take the wheel and keep it steady.” Greer reached below his seat. “Peter, give her this.”

Peter leaned forward to receive the pistol. A round was already chambered.

“You won’t have time to aim,” he said to Amy. “Just point and shoot, like you’re pointing your finger.”

She took the gun from him. Her expression was uncertain, yet her grip seemed firm.

“You have fifteen rounds. You’ll have to be close—don’t try to shoot them from a distance.”

“Unlock the shotgun,” Greer said.

Michael freed the weapon. An extended magazine tube ran below the barrel, holding eight shells. “What’s in here?” he asked Greer.

“Slugs, big ones. No room for slop, but it’ll put one down fast.”

The shape of the city emerged in the distance. Standing on the hill, it looked as small as a toy.

“This is going to be tight,” Greer said.

—

The last patients were being brought down from the main floor. Jenny stood at the door of the hardbox with a clipboard, checking names off a list, while Sara and the nursing staff moved among the cots, doing their best to make sure everyone was comfortable.

Sara came to the cot that held the pregnant woman Jenny had spoken of. She was young, with thick, dark hair. While Sara took her pulse, she looked quickly at the girl’s chart. A nurse had checked her an hour ago; her cervix had been barely dilated. Her name was Grace Alvado.

“Grace, I’m Dr. Wilson. Is this your first baby?”

“I was pregnant one other time, but it didn’t take.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Sara stopped; the age was right. If this was the same Grace, Sara had last seen her when she was just a day old.

“Are your parents Carlos and Sally Jiménez?”

“You knew my folks?”

Sara almost smiled; she might have, on a different day. “This might surprise you, Grace, but I was there the day you were born.” She looked toward the girl’s companion, who was sitting on a packing crate on the other side of the cot. He was older, maybe forty, with a rough look to him, though like many new fathers he seemed a little overwhelmed by the sudden urgency of events after months of waiting.