“Good. You’re awake.” The man’s voice was calm, almost casual.

“Your hands, damnit.”

“All right, all right.” He held his hands away from his body, fingers spread.

“Get up. Slowly.”

He lifted himself from his chair. Peter tightened the grip on his pistol. “Now face me.”

The man turned around.

Holy shit, thought Peter. Holy, holy shit.

—

“You think maybe you could stop pointing that thing at me?”

Michael had aged, but of course they all had. The difference was that the Michael he knew—his mental image of the man—had leapt forward two decades in an instant. It was, in a way, like looking in a mirror; the changes you didn’t notice in yourself were laid bare in the face of another.

“What happened to the security detail?”

“Not to worry. Their headaches will be historic, though.”

“The shift changes at two, in case you were wondering.”

Michael looked at his watch. “Ninety minutes. Plenty of time, I’d say.”

“What for?”

“A conversation.”

“What did you do with our oil?”

Michael frowned at the gun. “I mean it, Peter. You’re making me nervous.”

Peter lowered the weapon.

“Speaking of which, I brought you a present.” Michael gestured toward his pack on the floor. “Do you mind—?”

“Oh, please, make yourself at home.”

Michael removed a bottle, wrapped in stained oilcloth. He uncovered it and held it up for Peter to see.

“My latest recipe. Should strip the lining right off your brainpan.”

Peter retrieved a pair of shot glasses from the kitchen. By the time he returned, Michael had moved the rocking chair to the small table in front of the sofa; Peter sat across from him. On the table was a large cardboard folder. Michael cut the wax on the bottle, poured two shots, and raised his glass.

“Compadres,” he said.

The taste exploded into Peter’s sinuses; it was like drinking straight alcohol.

Michael smacked his lips appreciatively. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

Peter stifled a cough, his eyes brimming. “So, did Dunk send you?”

“Dunk?” Michael made a sour face. “No. Our old friend Dunk is taking a very long swim with his cronies.”

“I suspected as much.”

“No need to thank me. Did you get the guns?”

“You left out the part about what they’re for.”

Michael picked up the folder and untied the cords. He withdrew three documents: a painting of some kind; a single sheet of paper, covered in handwriting; and a newspaper. The masthead said INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE.

Michael poured a second shot into Peter’s glass and pushed it toward him. “Drink this.”

“I don’t want another.”

“Believe me, you do.”

—

Michael was waiting for Peter to say something. His friend was standing at the window, looking out into the night, though Michael doubted he was seeing much of anything.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I know it’s not good news.”

“How can you be so damn sure?”

“You’re going to have to trust me.”

“That’s all you’ve got? Trust you? I’m committing about five felonies just talking to you.”

“It’s going to happen. The virals are coming back. They were never really gone to begin with.”

“This is…insane.”

“I wish it were.”

Michael had never felt so sorry for anyone since the day he’d sat on the porch with Theo, a lifetime ago, and told him the batteries were failing.

“This other viral—” Peter began.

“Fanning. The Zero.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“It’s how he knows himself. Subject Zero, the first one infected. The documents Lacey gave us in Colorado described thirteen test subjects, the Twelve plus Amy. But the virus had to come from somewhere. Fanning was the host.”

“So what’s he waiting for? Why didn’t he attack us years ago?”

“All I know is, I’m glad he didn’t. It’s bought us the time we needed.”

“And Greer knows this because of some…vision.”

Michael waited. Sometimes, he knew, that was what you had to do. The mind refused certain things; you had to let resistance run its course.

“Twenty-one years since we opened the gate. Now you waltz in here and tell me it was all a big mistake.”

“I know this is hard, but you couldn’t know. No one could. Life had to go on.”

“Just what would you have me tell people? Some old man had a bad dream, and I guess we’re all dead after all?”

“You’re not going to tell them anything. Half of them won’t believe you; the other half will lose their minds. It’ll be pandemonium—everything will fall apart. People will do the math. We only have room for seven hundred on the ship.”

“To go to this island.” Peter gestured dismissively at Greer’s painting. “This picture in his head.”

“It’s more than a picture, Peter. It’s a map. Who really knows where it comes from? That’s Greer’s department, not mine. But he saw it for a reason, I know that much.”

“You always seemed so goddamned sensible.”