The driver shrugged, put the bus in park, and whipped open his newspaper yet again. Ed went down the steps and out into the heat and humidity. He was surprised he’d gotten used to the air-conditioning on the bus that fast. He quickly joined Sam at the front of the first bus.
Sam was still yelling at the soldier, “—tin star jackass wannabe hero. You ever pull that lump on your neck there out of your ass, you might try thinking for yourself for once.”
“Okay, okay,” Ed said. He shot Sam a look that said to keep his mouth shut.
Sam shrugged, put his hands on his hips, and turned his back on everything, watching the El tracks, missing the rumbling and sparks of the trains.
Ed approached the soldier. “What’s the problem?”
The man wore a hazmat suit without the helmet. An assault rifle was strapped across his back. Extra clips sagged from webbing down the front of his chest. A throat mike wrapped around his neck. “You’ve been misinformed. I’m afraid there is no way these prisoners can be transported anywhere but Soldier Field for decontamination procedures, no exceptions, by order of the president of the United States.”
Ed considered this, then spoke softly. “Do you have any idea who is on board these buses? Take a hard look at this building here. This is a maximum-security federal penitentiary, understand? We are currently transporting over sixty inmates down to the facilities at the Cook County Jail. To put them through some kind of decontamination process, along with regular citizens, this is out of the question. We don’t have the man power. Are you following any of this? The president wasn’t thinking about this when he signed that order.”
“No exceptions,” the soldier repeated.
Ed felt his blood pressure spike. He said, “I don’t know who the fuck you work for. I don’t care.” He pulled out his star. “You see this? This gives me the right to do whatever the hell I deem necessary within the city of Chicago. And that, pal, is a fact.”
The soldier permitted himself a crooked, faint smile. “Look around. We’re in charge. And that, pal, is a fact.”
Three Strykers came roaring down Clark, each of them taking a position across from each bus. The rear door of the closest one opened with a rough hiss, and two more soldiers got out. Neither one wore any kind of insignia on his hazmat suit, but it was clear from the behavior of the other soldiers that these two were superior officers.
One stomped over. He had close-cropped, iron-gray hair and goggle-like sunglasses that clung to his skull as if they’d been surgically attached. He asked the younger soldier, “What’s the holdup?”
Ed said, “We seem to be getting off on the wrong foot here. These prisoners need to be taken down to the Cook County Jail.”
The soldier with the sunglasses turned to Ed. “Who are you?”
“Detective Jones. Chicago PD.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but our orders are quite clear. Every single man, woman, and child inside the perimeter will be evacuated and complete the decontamination process. After that, there is a medical evaluation, and then, and only then, will they be released. No exceptions. If we do not follow proper protocol, we risk breaching our containment system, which could lead to an outbreak. Then it isn’t simply Chicago that is in danger, it is the entire continent. We will not allow that to happen.”
“So tell me, what measures have been put in place to minimize the possibility of a prison break? If you planned this out, you surely recognized the fact that over five hundred inmates from a maximum-security federal prison would have to be evacuated. How do you intend to deal with these violent, dangerous individuals who will happily seize this opportunity to kill anyone in their way and escape?”
“That is your responsibility.”
Ed started to ask the hypothetical question of whether or not the man was fucking serious when his phone rang again. Shaking his head, he pulled it out to check the number. With any luck, it would be Arturo with a solution to this mess.
It was the warden. Ed answered it. “What?”
“We have a problem.... Something is happening. . . .”
Ed could hear chaos in the background. “Gonna have to be more specific.”
“We’ve lost contact with several floors.”
“Please clarify ‘lost contact.’ ”
That got the military officer’s attention.
The warden sounded frantic. “Guards were, uh, making a final sweep of the laundry facilities, I believe. There were guards lost . . .” More shouting in the background. Ed stuck his finger in his ear, straining to hear. “. . . floors thirteen through sixteen are not responding . . .” Gunfire, sudden and close.
Ed jerked the phone from his ear, turning to look up at the wedge-shaped building.
The officer stepped back, speaking low and fast into his throat mike. Hatches popped open on the three Strykers and soldiers appeared behind the .50 caliber machine guns like heavily armed jack-in-the-boxes. Another dozen soldiers ran along Van Buren and lined up on the sidewalk, their rifles unslung and ready.
The officer said, “I suggest you gentlemen step back and allow us to assess the situation.”
Ed ignored him, concentrating on his phone. The warden had stopped talking altogether. For all Ed knew, the warden may have dropped the phone. One lone gunshot, more screaming. Then silence.
Another dozen soldiers lined up along the El tracks over Van Buren.
Sam tapped Ed’s shoulder and pointed.
Ed turned and saw all the soldiers, the firepower. He lowered his phone.
The glass visitor doors opened and a man staggered out into the sunlight. He moved as if he couldn’t see very well, taking conservative, hesitant steps, holding his hands up over his eyes, to protect them from the light. He wobbled, confused for a moment, then struck out, almost at random, in a direction that headed straight for the building’s massive northern pillar.
Ed walked over, followed closely by Sam. A warning shout went up behind them. They glanced at each other, then at the figure that was stumbling along, trying to get as far as possible from the door. As they got closer, they could see that the man was wearing a guard’s uniform, although that did not necessarily mean he was actually a prison guard.
They got within ten feet. The man stopped. He was white, mid-thirties, a little overweight, with red blotches across his skin. Ed couldn’t get a fix on whether he was actually a guard, and eventually believed it because of how the clothes fit.
So far the man hadn’t said anything.
“You okay?” Ed asked, watching the doorway. Sam had his Glock out.
A bug crawled out of the man’s hairline and made its way down his puffy face to his nose, and disappeared under a nostril. He didn’t appear to notice or mind. He scratched at his armpit, made eye contact for the briefest glimmer, and said, “It itches. Oh God, it itches.”
“Why don’t we get you some help?” Ed said.
Another bug crawled out of the guard’s collar, over his jaw, braving the sun, and disappeared up the other nostril. A third came out of his hair and crawled across his open eye.
The eye imploded, and the back of his head crumpled into a pink mist.
The sound of the gunshot bounced around the plaza, echoing between the El tracks and the building. Ed and Sam dropped to their knees, spinning, as Ed yanked his .357 out of his shoulder holster and Sam brought his pistol up with both hands. They faced over twenty soldiers, lined up along the sidewalk and the El tracks.
The body of the guard collapsed.
Ed yelled at the officer, “You said this was our responsibility.”
“Until we visually confirm presence of either bugs or the virus. Then our authority supersedes everything.”
Ed never got a chance to argue. Another man bounced out of the front door, but wasn’t slow and hesitant like the first one, this guy was running for all he was worth. He wore a prisoner’s jumpsuit and tried to slip around the corner to Clark. A three-round burst from one of the soldiers took him down in a tangled heap of orange cotton and splashes of blood.