“My name is Billy Trout…”

Everyone in the room stopped to watch and within seconds there wasn’t a sound. Not a murmur or side comment. The president felt his throat constrict as he watched the video. The video included footage of infected bodies, mangled and partially consumed, torn by bullets, splashed with black mucus. There were two other people in the video, both police officers, both showing signs of injury and stress. A white woman and a black man. Trout named them and gave their badge numbers. The last few lines of the video hit the hardest.

“… this is not a natural disaster and this is not a terrorist attack. This is a man-made disaster, and I know who is responsible and how this occurred. Please post the link to this video. The only thing that can save the lives of all these people, all of these children, is the truth. Call your local papers, call the news services. Contact your local congressperson. This is not a local problem. This is not Pennsylvania’s problem. This is a threat to the entire country, if not the entire world. Please … we are alive in Stebbins and the devil is at the door. Do not let them commit mass murder. Save the children of Stebbins County.”

The video ended but the room remained absolutely silent. All eyes were on the president.

“You’re sure this isn’t a hoax?” he asked.

Blair shook his head. “Billy Trout is a reporter for Regional Satellite News. Small time but well respected. Officers Desdemona Fox and JT Hammond are with the Stebbins police. She’s former army. DMV searches match them to their photo IDs. This is real.”

“Several hundred people? That’s great news! I want the Guard to get to those children. Protect them and get them out of—”

“Mr. President … I don’t think you appreciate the complexity of this. Our Wildfire containment protocols have six different response models for suburban outbreaks. All of them offer options for many aspects of the problem, but on one point they all agree. If hard containment is possible, then that is the only safe and reliable course of action.”

The president stared at him. “No way, Blair. I can’t accept that. You’re saying that a Red Wall response is our only response?”

“Regrettably, sir, that is correct.”

“No. That is unacceptable.”

“Sir … you’ve seen the reports, you know that we can’t let a single infected host out of the Q-zone. Not one. This isn’t cholera or typhus. We can’t inoculate against this. No one has a natural immunity to these parasites. Each host is one hundred percent infectious. One drop of blood contains enough larvae to—”

“I know, damn it.”

Blair adjusted his glasses. “Then, sir, you have to understand the severity of this. We don’t have diagnostic protocols for this. We don’t have prophylactic measures beyond sterilization.”

“So, what would you have me do? Drop fire bombs on that town while someone is broadcasting it to the world? There are seven thousand people in Stebbins County. I don’t think I want to go down in history as the president who slaughtered more people than were killed in the entire war in Afghanistan! Twice as many as died on 9-11.”

Blair sighed and shook his head. “Given the field reports we’ve received, Mr. President, I doubt as many as ten percent of those people are still alive.”

“Those are estimates, Blair, not hard numbers, and you damn well know it. There could be four or five thousand people still alive. I won’t authorize a strike unless we have exhausted all other possible options.”

“Well, sir … whether we drop bombs or not, sir, we have to stop the sender. So far nothing he’s said is damaging to your administration, Mr. President, but we can’t take any chances.”

“How would you suggest we stop him?”

Blair did not have to spell it out; his look was eloquent enough.

“Christ,” growled the President. “Is that the best we can do? React like thugs?”

“This is a commanding response to a very real threat to this country, Mr. President. This isn’t a hurricane or broken levies. If we drop the ball on this, or if we’re too cautious in our response, then we could be looking at a pandemic that would make the Black Death look like—”

“Skip the dramatics,” snapped the president.

“Your pardon, but I’m not being dramatic. If anything I’m understating the nature of this threat.”

The president shook his head. “I’m not going to authorize a sanction against someone who is trying to save American lives. I’ve compromised a lot since taking office, Blair, but I haven’t slipped that far.”

Blair took a breath. “I understand your concerns, Mr. President, but our scientific advisors are in a panic over this. They are urging us to implement Red Wall. Urging, sir.”

“I understand,” said the president wearily, “I’ve ordered the choppers in. Once they’re over Stebbins airspace, we’ll see where we are.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

STEBBINS LITTLE SCHOOL

Dez Fox looked out at a sea of faces. Hundreds of them, young and old. More young than old. All turned toward the open doors, their faces pale with fear and their eyes bright with hope.

They must have heard the gunshots, Dez thought. God … look at all the little ones. In here. Thinking they’re safe.

She wanted to find the two teachers JT had left to guard the door. Find them and kick the living shit out of them for abandoning their posts, and for abandoning these kids.

She felt JT and Trout move up to flank her, filling the doorway.

The kids looked at them and at the guns they carried, and at the uniforms they wore. Suddenly, and all together, they jumped to their feet, screaming and applauding. Dez felt her lips part into a silent “oh” of surprise. She turned to JT in confusion.

Trout leaned close and whispered in her ear. “They’re applauding because the cavalry has just arrived.”

“But,” she said, “but … we’re not…”

“Smile and wave, Dez. That’s what they’re looking for. Smile and wave. Be the hero. Let them know you’re here for them. After all, it’s the truth, right? So let them know it. Let them know that you’re here for them, to protect them, and that you won’t abandon them. That you won’t let the monsters get them.”

Dez looked into Trout’s eyes for a long time even as the applause rolled like thunder around the big hall. She looked for the mockery, the joke in his eyes. And she did not find it.

She slowly raised her pistol over her head and forced a smile onto her face.

The applause rose in intensity. Teachers and parents made their way through the sea of kids, and they shook Dez’s hand, and Billy’s, and even JT’s.

“Are we getting out now?” asked a woman who held a two-month-old baby in her arms.

“Soon,” Dez lied. “The … um, National Guard is still clearing things up outside. We have to sit tight for a bit. Might be a few hours, might be all night, but help is on the way. They need us to cooperate as best we can.”

Her use of key words like “National Guard” and “they” worked their magic. They promised order and answers.

A woman—the stick-thin school principal, Mrs. Madison—came hurrying through the crowd and gave Dez a fierce hug. That got applause, too. The crowd gradually settled down as teachers and some adults quieted the sections near them. It looked orderly, and Dez guessed that Mrs. Madison had appointed these adults as section leaders. Good call.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Madison. “God, thank you. Do we know what’s happening?

Dez held up her hands to stop the flow of questions. Then she gently pulled Mrs. Madison into the hall and away from the other adults. “Listen, we don’t have a lot of time, so please pay attention. We’re not leading a cavalry charge right here. And the National Guard are not our friends at the moment. They think we’re all infected in here, and until we clear the real infected out of here we can’t prove that it’s safe for the Guard to come in and rescue us. That means we have to make sure that anyone who’s been bitten is secured.”

Mrs. Madison frowned. “Secured?”

Dez gave her a brief explanation of Lucifer 113 and how it worked. “Anyone who has been contaminated—no matter how, and no matter if they don’t look sick yet—will become like those things out there. Everyone who has this thing is going to have to be put down.”

Mrs. Madison blanched. “Officer Fox … we have kids with bites. Surely you can’t expect us to shoot children? That’s insane. It’s inhuman. We have them in classrooms. We’re giving them medical attention…”

“Then give me an alternative. If we allow the infection to stay inside the school we’ll all die. This is easy math.”

“God…”

“JT and I will take care of it,” snapped Dez. “Mrs. Madison, I need you to stay inside the auditorium. Once we leave, keep the doors locked until either JT or I tell you it’s safe to open the doors. Otherwise you do not open up to anyone, understood?”

The principal nodded. “Mr. Chestnut is somewhere in the building. He heard some sounds and he took two of the janitors with him to investigate.”

“Lucas Chestnut?” Dez asked. Chestnut had been a very young teacher when she had attended the school. He must be well into middle age by now. “How long ago?”

“Why, he left just after Sergeant Hammond did. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

“Shit,” said Dez. Mrs. Madison began to say something but didn’t; instead she sagged back with a hand to her throat.

“Stay here and don’t let anyone else leave,” ordered JT. “You understand me? No one. Now—go back inside and put a smile on your face and tell everyone to sit and wait until we get back. Don’t tell anyone else how things really are. Not yet. Got it?”