For a long time he could hear nothing, see nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think . . . little by little the world came back to him.
The first thing he heard was Bob screaming behind him.
It shook him up. Woke him, a little. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was. Why he hurt so much.
Straight ahead, through the place where the windshield used to be, he saw the tall curving shape of the snowplow, now thoroughly embedded in what remained of the van. Beyond that he could see the cab of the semi rig. Its windshield was gone, too, though it hadn’t shattered as cleanly as his. The driver of the rig hung half in, half out of that frosted plane of glass. Blood poured out of him. He was very clearly dead.
Whitman turned, looking for Grace, but he couldn’t see her. The impact had torn off the passenger side door, and he saw the road surface beyond, littered with glass and twists of broken metal. He couldn’t see her or any part of her.
Bob was still screaming.
He wrestled with his seat belt. Somehow got it loose. He pushed open his door and wriggled out of the wreckage, dropped to his feet on the road. He pulled open the side door and saw Bob unhurt but very upset, staring at him with wide eyes.
Bob stopped screaming. Which allowed Whitman to hear something else.
Motorcycle engines, coming closer.
“Mr. Whitman, they’d like to see you now,” the page said. She was still smiling.
Whitman knew better than to think that was a good sign. He tried to stand up but found that his knees had frozen. They wouldn’t do it down here, he thought. They wouldn’t want to disturb the senators with the noise of a gunshot. No. They would take him up to the surface, first.
“It’s best not to keep them waiting,” the page said, her smile dimming just a bit.
It hurt to breathe. Whitman was pretty sure he’d broken a rib or two. He found just lifting his head was agony. He turned and saw Antlers racing toward him, head bent down low over his handlebars. Was he expecting Whitman to start shooting?
Too bad. Whitman hadn’t thought to search the wrecked van for the revolver or the shotgun. He stood there unarmed, waiting to be killed.
It wasn’t going to be quick. Antlers tore by him at speed. Something very hard struck him across the back of his legs, and Whitman fell down onto the road. He tried to grab the side of the van, tried to pull himself back up to his feet, but before he could manage it, Antlers swung back around and hit him again, this time in the side. He flopped forward into the van, almost on top of Bob.
He didn’t know if the kid was screaming or not, now. He couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears.
Where was Grace? Did they already have her? Did they pull her unconscious and bleeding out of the wreckage? Whitman cursed himself for worrying about her when his own life was about to end. Surely there were better uses of his mental capacity in this, the last few seconds he had left.
Once he’d caught his breath, he could hear again. He wished he couldn’t. He heard a motorcycle engine putter out, then heavy footfalls come rushing toward him.
He turned just in time to see Antlers right behind him, raising a hammer over his head. Whitman rushed forward and grabbed the bastard’s arms, nearly impaling himself on a spiky bit of antler. The biker pushed back against him, but now that they were face to face Whitman realized how thin the man was, wasted away by malnutrition and hard living out here in the wilderness. He had a wiry strength, but Whitman bore down on him just by pure mass. He knocked the biker to the ground and kicked him hard — which probably hurt Whitman more than it did Antlers. He felt something tear in his abdomen, and he nearly collapsed on top of the biker.
He heard a shotgun blast behind him and whirled around. Through the van’s broken windows, he could see Grace on the other side of the vehicle. She had the shotgun up, and she blasted away again, and then he heard screaming. A grown man screaming his life away.
“That’s right! That’s right!” Grace screamed. Bikers jumped on their motorcycles and roared away, none of them willing to take her on.
“Grace,” Whitman said, trying to shout. It didn’t quite work. “Grace — reload.”
“What?” she asked.
“I said —”
Except he didn’t get to repeat himself. Antlers had gotten back on his feet. He wrapped an arm around Whitman’s neck and pulled him backwards, pressing hard until black spots danced in Whitman’s vision.
He couldn’t breathe — couldn’t move — couldn’t fight back. His body begged for air, but he had none to supply. He felt his consciousness dwindling away, vanishing.
Then a roar of noise and a shockwave went past his face, burning his cheek, and Antlers let go. Whitman bent over, gasping, wanting very much to sit down. To just die. But he had to know.
He turned first to look at Antlers. There wasn’t much left of the biker’s head.
He turned next to look into the van.
Bob still had his seatbelt on. Nobody had told him to take it off. The boy was curled forward with his whole body braced around the revolver, which looked enormous in his tiny hands.
He was brought to a pleasant office with wood-paneled walls and a massive desk. Behind it sat the white-haired senator. And, of course, his guard, who looked as grave and deadly as Whitman’s own.
“We’ve made our decision,” the senator said. He waved for Whitman to sit down. “I’m going to do you a favor here and just speak honestly, if that’s alright.”
“Absolutely,” Whitman said. As long as he didn’t have to stand up when he heard the death sentence, he thought he would be okay.
“It didn’t come down to justice, or anything like that. It came down to the fact that your job — overseeing the quarantine, setting up the hospital camps — is essentially complete. Director Philips still has plenty more to do. If he can isolate the prion and find a vaccine, well. That would be handy, wouldn’t it?”
Whitman knew enough about the disease to understand that would probably never happen. Still. He wasn’t here for debate. Just sentencing.
“You were right, we need a scapegoat. And you’re it. I’m sorry.”
Whitman nodded. He looked down at his hands in his lap. His left hand with its tattoo. Had that made a difference? Maybe.
“I understand,” he said, meekly. His bravado had deserted him. “So what’s next? A quick firing squad? Or do I go on an apology tour first?”
The senator grunted. “You think we’re going to kill you?”
“Isn’t that why I’m here?” Whitman asked.
“No. Oh, I’m sure some of my colleagues would like that. But no. Your name will go down in history as the man who bungled the Crisis. Part of the official record. But honestly, we don’t have enough people left to throw any of them away.”
Whitman looked up in surprise. “So — what’s going to happen to me?”
“A very serious demotion, to start with. Your salary is going to take quite a hit. But we’ve got a new job for you. There are still new positives being discovered all the time. We can’t very well keep them in the cities where they might spread the infection. They need to be taken to the hospital camps, God help them. Somebody has to be in charge of that. Transportation and the like.”