Now his words came more easily, the pace picking up. The appearance of Joe Rush here had killed any last shred of doubt. It was the sign that Harlan had needed. There was no question now that he would do as he had been instructed!
You will destroy the compound, yourselves, the cure.
Harlan Maas gave the security man behind him the clenched hand signal behind his back. This was an alert that there was a problem needing attention in the crowd.
“My friends, let me tell you about your glorious future,” announced the Sixth Prophet to those below.
NINETEEN
That night they gathered in Chris Vekey’s dorm suite on the Georgetown Hospital campus, to fill each other in on the state of treatment at the hospital, city, and nation. They missed their old missions, even though their new jobs kept them occupied sixteen hours a day. They hoped that Joe Rush was all right.
“The White House is fixed on overseas,” Galli said. “They won’t seriously consider a domestic source for the outbreak.”
“No word from Ray,” said Chris. “Ray thinks maybe Joe is hurt. Ray promised to tell us if he heard something.”
“Joe could be in one of those police detention centers and nobody would know it,” grouched Eddie.
“There’s no central list of names,” said Chris.
The light flickered — that had started happening over the past few hours — and out the window, a wavering glow in the distance that had not been there the night before. Fire. There were more sirens; ambulances or police; the whooping wail from the Humvees, the low, hollow symphony of bullhorn announcements, from beyond the wire. The lines outside were growing. Even healthy people were trying to enter now, for the food, or protection. News reports indicated that the initial estimates of sick had been underreported. New statistics were now coming in from all over the city. Double the amounts.
Eddie went first tonight.
“The holding area for bodies is filled up.”
Chris looked exhausted and overwhelmed. “We’re out of room. Every bed is occupied. We’ve got people coming in faster than we can handle them.”
The admiral nodded. “I know. We’re rushing to open more facilities. The Kennedy Center. RFK Stadium. There’s talk of using Metro stations, too.”
“Aya read on the Web that people have been getting out of D.C. by hopping freight trains. She said that the Army just shut down the yard.”
“The President wants to make a statement, give people something positive. They’re asking for anyone who has anything positive, call an 800 number.”
No one said anything.
“The new plan is, mass graves,” Eddie said.
Exhaustion was plain on all their faces. Just to move around inside the complex, take a stroll, get fresh air, required protective clothing. Friends did not shake hands with each other anymore. The cafeteria was closed. Once you got food, you took it back to your room. Disinfectant was available in wall dispensers in hallways. You carried your own utensils.
Eddie sighed. “Remember that old Edgar Allan Poe story, ‘Masque of the Red Death’? A plague is ravaging Europe. The rich take refuge in a castle. They hold a masquerade ball. They think they’re safe until Death appears, dressed as a plague victim.”
“Cheery,” said Chris.
“I should have gone to the cathedral with Joe,” Eddie said.
“He didn’t let you.”
“I should have gone anyway.”
The TV offered only one working channel as of three hours ago and, at the moment, showed a briefing room under Virginia, where a White House spokesman pointed to a map of the Mideast and North Africa on the wall. X marks delineated terrorist camps. Red denoted countries that “harbored enemy combatants.” Arrows in the Atlantic showed the direction in which Naval warships were steaming. Headlines crawling across the bottom of the screen conveyed warnings from leaders of friendly countries, or of terrorist groups, cautioning the United States against attacks.
“Mom?”
Aya stood in the doorway hesitantly. She’d been barred from the gathering because Chris thought she’d be frightened by it. She’d been in her room, doing homework on her computer, texting friends, or whatever else she did on the Net. The girl looked smaller than usual in white flannel pajamas with a doggy motif, Labradors in sunglasses, basset hounds in reading glasses, beagles in thick-lensed black-framed glasses. The pattern shrieked of innocence and vulnerability. Chris fought off the urge to cry.
“Are you all right, Aya?”
Aya said nothing. Her face seemed to be breaking into pieces, as if the muscles warred with each other in there. Chris recognized the expression. Whatever bothered her daughter had been growing and was about to peak.
“I have to tell you something,” Aya said.
Chris saw guilt and fright and determination. The set jaw. The eyes flashing with fear, or anger.
“Excuse me,” she told the others. “I’ll be right back.”
“No,” Aya insisted. “I need to tell you all.”
Chris suffered an explosion of fear. Her daughter was ill! Aya was going to hold up a hand with a white patch on it. Chris could never forgive herself for bringing her daughter here, if that turned out to be the case. If keeping Aya in Washington had made her sick.
“It’s about Joe,” Aya said.
Eddie’s chair scraped on the flooring. Galli stiffened and Chris’s headache grew worse. She recognized Aya’s “confession face,” which, in the past, had preceded admissions of giving her best friend answers during a math test, leaving school early without permission, accepting a driving lesson—for only five minutes in a parking lot—by one of her friends’ moms.
Aya addressed Eddie. “I don’t know where he is exactly. But I think I know where he’s trying to go.”
She broke into sobs. She’d been holding it in. She said that Joe had ordered her to say nothing about this, but as the situation worsened, that had grown harder. She said she didn’t care if she got punished, and began blurting out a story. They knew some of it, from Joe’s e-mails. But they didn’t know it all. Chris struggled to grasp what Aya was saying.
Galli said, “The website says these people have a cure?”
Eddie made a face. “A truck stop?”
Chris said, “Aya, I can’t believe you did this.”
“This is no goddamn coincidence,” Eddie said. “This has to convince them. The thing comes from here!”
After that, everyone seemed to be talking or shouting at the same time. Galli left, to track down authorities in the complex. Eddie left, on the run. He never said where he was going. The TV showed fighter planes taking off from a U.S. aircraft carrier. They were not attacking anyone yet. So far they were on maneuvers.
Chris stroked Aya’s hair in their now empty suite.
“You should have said something earlier. Don’t worry, honey. No one is going to punish you. I’m proud of you.”
Aya sobbed.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
TWENTY
The man prodding my back with an M4 automatic carbine was ex-Army, he’d said in the car, so don’t try anything. He was tall, with a bony face, watery blue eyes, and a sour, wary disposition. The smaller, muscular Asian man who’d affixed the handcuffs to my wrists also seemed to have some familiarity with firearms. He stayed four feet behind, ready to use his Sig Sauer. He’d taken away my Glock.
“Get in the cage, please,” he said.
They’d come up on me from behind in the crowd, as Harlan delivered his sermon. Snow had begun falling and specks drifted down as the man at the makeshift podium, under the HOT DONUTS sign, announced to the assembled multitude his return to earth after two thousand years. The New Age was upon us. Those here would be saved. Gaze upon the new Kingdom of God and receive communion, only instead of a wafer in your mouth, extend your arms please, roll up your sleeves. Good friends will pass among you and administer a shot. Those who are sick will be cured. Those who are healthy will stay that way, as long as you follow up the injection with pills. A weekly regimen, three times.