Cam’s impression was one of entrenched chaos, but he felt admiration that they were here at all. They’d done so much better than anything he’d known in California. They had more room and more resources, but more survivors, too. They could have lost control. They could have been overwhelmed. Instead, they’d kept tens of thousands of people alive even as they maintained a signi‚cant military strength.
The chaos had increased nine days ago. Cam saw that, too. Grand Lake was only ninety-six miles from Leadville. They had yet to recover from the damage. Many of the shelters were still being rebuilt and there was litter everywhere, often in long patches and streamers that ran northward in the direction of the pulse. The blast wave had swept through this area like a giant comb, tearing away fences, walls, and tents — and aircraft.
As they taxied and braked, Cam noticed a jet ‚ghter up the slope that had overturned and caught ‚re. Nearby, another F-22 still hung in a cradle of chains attached to a bulldozer as a team of engineers struggled to excavate beneath the plane, trying to right it again without damaging its wings.
“I’ll run interference for you if I can,” their pilot said, gesturing to the other side of the Cessna.
“Thank you, sir.” Newcombe spoke for them all.
At least a hundred men and women stood beside the road, grouped among the trucks and raised netting. Cam was on edge. The crowd was ‚ve times as many people as he’d seen in one place since the plague. In fact, a hundred people were nearly more than he’d seen alive at all, not counting helicopters and planes. He touched his face. He turned to Ruth. She was what mattered, and he saw a different strain in her eyes as she clutched her backpack and the data index.
She was breathing too fast. Her chest rose and fell against her T-shirt. Her arms were scored with red marks where she’d been scratching. They’d taken off their encrusted jackets and Ruth was slim and ‚rm but absolutely ‚lthy, speckled with old bites and sores and a few spots of blister rash.
“The man in the dark suit is Governor Shaug,” the pilot said. “Small guy. Not much hair.”
“I see him,” Newcombe said.
“Let’s head straight for him, okay?” The pilot had removed his eye patch and pocketed it as he walked to the door of the plane. Newcombe and Cam stood up. The copilot joined them.
Outside the round windows, Cam saw a team of Army medics and a gurney off to one side. That was good. They’d anticipated the most obvious need, but he resented the mob. He wanted food and sleep. But they wanted the vaccine. He had no right to blame them. The circus seemed like a bad idea, though, despite the netting that concealed most of them from satellite coverage. The Russians might be looking and listening. The best thing would be for Ruth to disappear.
Their pilot opened the door. The air felt wonderful on Cam’s skin, but the crowd stopped them close enough to the plane to feel the hot stink of the engines. Most of the people were in uniform, yet it was a civilian who took charge, a clean-shaven man in a smudged white dress shirt. Many of the others were bearded and sunburnt. This man was pale.
“Missus Goldman?” he said.
“We have wounded,” the pilot said. “Let us through.”
“Missus Goldman, I’m Jason Luce with the U.S. Secret Service. Are you okay?”
“She’s hurt. Let us through.”
“Of course,” Luce said. His men slipped in between Ruth and the copilot as they walked and then a man in Army green drew Newcombe away from her, too.
“Staff Sergeant?” the man said.
“Sir.” Newcombe saluted, but visibly hesitated as the space between himself and Ruth ‚lled with people.
It was hard to let go. They had been bound together through eight weeks of desolation and misery and yet this was exactly what they’d fought for, the chance to pass the vaccine to someone else. Cam told himself to be glad. It was over. They’d won. Grand Lake had the men and the aircraft to spread the nanotech — and to protect Ruth.
“Wait.” She pulled back from Luce. She’d regained some of her color, but her expression was afraid.
“She needs medical attention,” Newcombe called.
The pilot said, “They all do. Give ’em some room.”
“We have doctors and food and you can rest,” Luce said, “but you have to come with me.”
Cam didn’t argue. His role had changed as soon as they boarded the Cessna. The power he’d wielded for so long was meaningless here, and he didn’t know enough about this place to decide if he still belonged in her life. But she wanted him. That was enough. He held on to Ruth’s narrow waist and supported her as they moved into the shade beneath the netting, where Governor Shaug advanced with both hands out.
The governor was in his sixties, short and balding. He was also the oldest person Cam had seen in sixteen months. In California, unending stress had swiftly killed off the children and the middle-aged. Shaug was one more indicator of how different things had been here.
There was real strength in his smile. “Thank God for everything you’ve done,” Shaug said. “Please. Sit down.” He gestured to where steel benches and tables lined one corner of the shaded area. The nearest had bottled water, Cokes, and four cans of sliced peaches. A small feast.
Cam nodded. “Thanks.”
“We’d like blood samples immediately,” Luce said, waving for the Army medics. “Please.”
Please. From him, the word was loaded with tension. Cam tightened his arm on Ruth and her dirty backpack, glancing at Shaug to see if the governor would intervene. He’d thought the medics were assembled to care for Ruth. It felt like a lie. But Ruth only nodded and said, “Yes.”
* * * *
Richard Shaug had been the governor of Wisconsin, displaced like so many survivors. He was nominally the top man in Grand Lake, and yet Cam wondered if Shaug and Luce were working against each other. There would be factions among the leadership. That went without saying. Every day was a test, and they would have different goals. Was it something he could exploit? Which man had the real power? Cam imagined that it lay with the Secret Service agent. He thought Luce was more likely to have allied with the military, and he’d seen how the armored vehicles and barricades divided this makeshift city.
He was wrong. The medics drew four slim vials of blood each from Ruth, Newcombe, and himself. The twelve plastic tubes were set in four racks and Luce said, “Take three of those to the planes.”
Shaug held up his hand. “No.”
“Governor,” Luce said.
“No. No yet.”
“We have to get it to as many people as possible. We could †y it to Salmon River, at least,” Luce said.
“What’s going on?” Ruth asked. Her face was paler than ever. She hadn’t been able to afford even 30 ccs of blood and looked nauseous, although her eyes were angry and alert.
Two of the medics hustled off with the blood samples, leaving their cart and equipment behind. A full squad of troops moved with them through the crowd. They were headed for the labyrinth of shelters, not the runway. Cam’s gaze shifted to the needles and tubing, and then to Luce. Did the man realize how little blood was necessary?
“Let’s get you inside,” Shaug said, offering Ruth one of the cans of peaches. “Do you want to eat a little ‚rst? Please. I can see you’re very tired.”