Bannerman! he shouted. Come quickly!

LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT! [Signage posted in Los Angeles, CA, 4/3/05]

Nilla was sitting in the backseat when Charles and Shar arrived at the car. They stood there very close to each other for a while and then Charles climbed in.

Damn, woman, you clean up nice, Charles said, looking at her over the back of his seat. His eyes searched her face, looking for something. He didn't find it. Shar stood perfectly motionless outside the passengerside doors. Nilla couldn't see her face from that angle, just the fists she kept clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing. Nilla wondered what the two of them had said to each other last night.

Eventually Shar opened the front door and got in. She buckled her seatbelt very carefully. All citizens unable to reach the evacuation staging area at Loma are implored to stay in their homes and only open the door to law enforcement personnel with appropriate credentials. Please do not use your telephones: this will only tie up vitally-needed lines of communication. [Emergency Broadcast for Grand Junction, CO 4/3/05]

There was no time to go to Commerce City, even if it wasn't denied territory. What would he find there anyway-some ruptured cyclone fencing? A latrine pit that had never been used? We've never seen organized behavior from them before, Clark kept telling people. It felt like he was making excuses. He had to pass through any number of clerks and military police before he finally reached the Esplanade south of City Park. There was a high school there, a big brick pile with a clock tower. Alvin Braintree, the Adjutant General of the Colorado Army National Guard had turned it into a forward command post.

In a classroom set up for chemistry experiments -big black fiberglass tables, a row of sinks and exhaust hoods along one side, periodic table of the elements on the wall-Bannerman Clark stood at attention and waited while the AG received the same sitrep that Clark had heard twenty minutes earlier.

The infected then formed what I can only describe, sir, as a human pyramid. The chief warrant officer giving the report steepled his hands. Some individuals went over the top, over the razor wire. Others simply pressed their bodies against the chain-link perimeter fence until it gave way. We attempted to contain the situation but we lacked sufficient force to subdue the detainees. They headed south-west, toward the downtown area. We gave pursuit but again, lacked the manpower to overcome them and eventually had to break contact. Had we been allowed to aggress on them I think we could have done something but we had strict orders not to endanger the infected.

Clark felt the temperature in the room drop about twenty degrees. Those had been his orders, of course. The chief warrant officer was suggesting, in a not very politic way, that Bannerman Clark was personally responsible for what was happening to Denver.

Namely: it was being overrun. They had lost small towns before, all over the west. This was the first time a real city was endangered. It was the biggest setback of the Epidemic. The AG put his feet up on the teacher's desk and looked at the two soldiers before him. That order is rescinded as of this fucking minute, he said. His mouth, under the white stubble of a long day, was as straight as a ruler. You will shoot the infected on sight and no more of this willywogging. Do I make myself clear?

Sir, yes, sir! Clark shouted, his voice echoed by that of the CWO. You both need to hear me on this, because I'm putting you in charge of platoons today. It looks like I'm short on real officers. It was a slight-a soldier of Clark's rank should be in command of a full company, as many as two hundred warriors. Instead he was being given thirty. Chief Warrant Officer, you're dismissed. Go get your men and sort out what vehicles you can commandeer. Captain, you're with me. The AG stood up and headed for the door. Clark hurried to catch up, staying a step behind his commanding officer at all times. The AG was the highest-ranking member of the COARNG, answering only to the Governor. As far as Clark knew this was the first time in the man's life he'd ever worn camo.

Now he wore the full battle rattle -body armor complete with shoulder-mounted flashlight, protective gas mask stowed at his belt,a tank commander's CVC helmet with Nomex liner under his arm with a clip for his nods-and he clattered down the hallway lined with students' lockers. This is your mess, Clark. I don't particularly care to know what you were thinking but I know you're a real barnacle on the world's backside, now, and at least that's something. You were supposed to keep this thing contained in the prison. You were supposed to give us appropriate guidelines for how to proceed when that failed. You were supposed to find a cure. Have you done anything but watch this mess ignite right in front of your face?

It wasn't a question requiring an answer. Clark stayed at attention and fought the urge to explain himself. He and the AG stepped aside to let a file of enlisted get past, their sergeant keeping them in step with obscene jody calls. Don't feel too bad, Captain, the AG said to Clark as the men stomped past, even their footfalls in unison. You're going over Niagra Falls for this, yes. I have my own career to consider. But maybe your friends at the Pentagon can find you a job when this is all over. I think you'd make a perfectly capable dog catcher.

Clark clamped his teeth shut, ashamed more of the AG's lack of professionalism than his own complicity in the breakout. He didn't say a word as he was lead into an impromptu armory set up in the gymnasium. The AG selected a sidearm for him, an M9 Beretta, the standard weapon for the officer corps since the mid-eighties and a definite step up from the old traditional Colt .45. It felt heavier than Clark remembered-he hadn't hefted one since his last visit to the pistol qualification range, nearly a year past. He fed his belt through the weapon's holster and checked the safety before putting it away.

You'll at least have a chance to redeem yourself, Braintree told him. Clark kept his eyes front so he didn't have to look at the man. That's more than I can say for the three troops who were eaten alive during the breakout.

Clark felt his knees turn to water and he consciously forced h is spine to stiffen. He hadn't heard about those casualties. He had dozens of questions to ask-what were their names, had their families been notified, were they weekend warriors or heroes from the fighting in Iraq-but he hadn't been given permission to question his superior officer.

Vikram was waiting for him in the school's lobby when he was dismissed. The Major belonged to the Regular Army and had no standing in the command post and in the interest of base security he shouldn't have been allowed inside at all but Clark was truly glad to see his old friend.

He chewed out my fourth point of contact, Clark said, surprising himself a little. It was a euphemism he hadn't heard or used since the earliest days of his career. I'll be lucky not to be court-martialled after this.

Vikram shook his head to brush away the negativity. We can do good in this world, or we can be miserable over the bad that is already done. What would you have me do? Get up to Florence. Sit on the prison, clamp it down. We cannot le t the work there be delayed, no matter what else happens. You may receive new orders while you're there-I can hardly ask you to counter them, but make sure before that happens that Florence is airtight.

Clark dismissed him and headed down to the parking lot of the school where a convoy of RTD buses was headed out, stuffed full of civilian evacuees. A motor pool staff sergeant assigned him the last military vehicle in the lot-an enormous lumbering eight-wheeled M977 HEMTT (Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck) that was built for hauling cargo. Before Clark could even inspect the two man crew he had his platoon, too, a scared-looking group of warfighters who fell into ranks behind their platoon sergeant without a word.

Sir, platoon reporting for duty, sir! the platoon sergeant barked. He looked like a prospector with a bushy white non-regulation hair spilling out of his helmet and eyes like embers set at the bottom of dark pits. He had his men in line, though, there was no question of his ability. He gestured and a specialist ran up holding a soft boonie hat-a fisherman's hat in desert camo-as if it were a crown. Clark understood the gesture and knew he should not outwardly acknowledge it. These were veterans and they were acknowledging that he was one of their own. He put on the boonie hat and handed his peaked uniform cover to the specialist in return. He had no doubt he would get it back dry cleaned and reblocked. The sergeant major nodded discretely and turned to face his platoon. Attention to orders!

Drive on, chief, Clark said. It was the traditional order to keep up the good work. The platoon leapt like synchronized swimmers into the HEMTT's boxy cargo compartment. Clark rode up front with the crew in the much more comfortable shovel-nosed cabin. The driver got the prime mover roaring and shuddering out onto a deserted Colfax Avenue, threading the needle between big tent churches and peepshow parlors, fast food franchises and gas stations.

Everything had changed.

Downtown Denver is considered a safe zone until 9:00 PM tonight or until further notice. Medical care and food distribution centers on the 16th Street Mall will remain open until that time. [Emergency Broadcast, Denver, CO 4/4/05]

Shar, turn the AC up. It's getting' all sweaty in heah. Charles wiped at the back of his neck. Nilla studied the small thin hairs there, the way they lined up where his hand had plastered them down. She could see his pores opening up in the heat, the tiny droplets of sweat gathering together, turning into rivulets that ran down into his collar.

It's all the way up already, Shar complained, but she played with the controls anyway. In the back seat Nilla felt the heat but she stayed perfectly dry. Her sweat glands didn't work anymore. She tried rolling her window down a crack but the air that came pushing in felt like the exhaust from a blast furnace. Too much. She was tired of riding in the car, tired of being hot and cooped up.

The two of them shared a coke -the last of the sodas they'd pilfered from the motel-but they didn't think to offer her any. They had barely spoken to her since they'd started out that morning. When Charles had stopped to refuel at an abandoned gas station at a lonely intersection high in the mountains Shar had gotten out with him, as if she didn't feel safe in the car with Nilla.

She could hardly blame the girl, she supposed. Not with the kind of thoughts she'd been thinking. Mael Mag Och had told her the kids weren't her friends. She'd seen for herself the way the living looked at her-like she was something unclean. The enemy. Why should she think of them any other way? She didn't belong among them anymore. That should have been clear to her from the start.

Mael had said she should abandon Charles and Shar. That she should make her own way east. He'd said some other things that she didn't even want to think about but he'd been quite clear on that point. No more fraternization with the living. Something in her responded to that message and she longed to strike out on her own. No more dirty looks. It would be so much easier than the silent game the three of them were playing.

Still -he was who knew how far away. Hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away. She could hardly walk across the country. She needed the kids. If she wanted her name back she had to have a ride. Surely he would understand. He seemed to have a pretty poor grasp on the English language and he had kept lapsing into what sounded a little like Gaelic, she thought. Maybe he wasn't from America originally. Maybe he didn't know how far his body was from her. He would have to understand.

Just to get out of her head for a while Nilla nudged the back of Charles' seat. He tried not to flinch. So when are you going to tell me? she asked, intentionally cryptic, a little ashamed of what she was demanding when the two of them had clearly intended to keep it amongst themselves.

Charles, Shar said, as if she expected her boyfriend to lurch into violence at any moment. Maybe that was what Nilla expected, to, or even hoped for. It would be a great justification. The boy didn't say anything, though.

Seriously, I want to know. Why did you run away? Were you getting beaten by your parents or something? That would make sense. I know you didn't just say somethin' bout my moms, Charles muttered. There was no force in the words, no anger. He was scared of her now. It angered her more than anything. She had turned to him for a little human contact and now he was scared of her. What the hell was up with that?

Please don't, Shar said. It sounded like she was saying it to herself. Was it school? Were you having a hard time at school? Come on. Just tell me. We're all friends now, right? The neediness in her voice annoyed her and in frustration she slid across the back seat, putting the soles of her bare feet up against the window. The sun felt like a blowtorch on her skin and she yanked them away. When he maintained his stony silence she sat up on the warm seat and stared out at the mountainous land that flew by, its folds and creases etched into the side of a barren, unfinished planet. Were you just bored?

Shar, he said, but she knew he was speaking to her, not his girlfriend.

Huh? she asked. What does that mean?

Shut up! Oh my God don't you say it! Shar scrunched down in her seat and buried her face in her hands.

Her name- Charles began, keeping his eyes on the yellow line running down the middle of the road. My fucking name is Sharona, okay? Is that what you wanted to know? The girl whirled around in her seat, her eyes huge and sharp. You know. Like M-m-mmy Sharona,' like in that stupid song! That should tell you a little about my parents. You know the song.

Nilla had no idea what the girl was talking about. They thought it was funny. I would come home from school and I wo uld be crying, bawling my eyes out for fuck's sake. And they would laugh at me. Then they would sing that stupid song, over and over again.

I don't understand. You came along with Charles when he ran away because of a song? Nilla fanned her face with one hand. Had it gotten hotter in the car? No! I'm the one who's running away! They don't care about me. I called my Mom from that hotel and you know what? She was so fucking stoned she didn't even ask if I was okay. I tried, I tried so hard but when they closed the school because of this Epidemic I just could not face them anymore. I used to go to school to get some peace, can you believe that? I used to love school and the government took that away from me. So I went to Charles and I talked him into this. Into running away with me. He cares about me. He loves me.

Nilla couldn't process the girl's outburst. I don't understand, she said. You ran away because of a song? Holy shit, Charles shouted. Holy shit! He pointed through the windshield as he ste pped on the brakes, throwing Shar forward against her seat belt. The sign read DEATH VALLEY NATIONAL PARK, 2 MILES.

He pulled the car to a stop just at the top of a ridge and got out of the car, letting a wave of overheated air rush through the car. Nilla could taste how dry the air was as it buffeted her face and hands.

Nilla grabbed the map and rolled out of the car to join him. Together the two of them looked down the slope of craggy rocks at a depression in the landscape that seemed to go down forever. The view shimmered in a blast of heat that burst up at them, not so much like a hot wind as the shockwave of some terrible fiery cataclysm.

I knew it was getting hotter, Charles said. We have to keep going, Nilla said. He laughed at her. She jabbed at the torn map with one clumsy finger. No, seriously. We have to keep going east. Look, look here. It's not as wide as it looks and on the other side we'll be in Nevada. We'll be safe there.

It's called Death Valley', Charles told her. Death Valley,' he repeated as if that alone would change her mind. It's the hottest place on earth, I think. We learned about it in Geography class. People who go there get lost and they die. You don't go in there without water. We don't have any water, in case you didn't notice.

They could not just stop. Not when Nevada was so close. They couldn't go back, either. The entire US Army was probably looking for her back there. It's just a name! We can cross it in a couple of hours. We can stop for water in just a couple of hours. He started heading back to the car. Charles, wait-look. There's somebody else here.

He looked where she pointed. She was right, there was a pickup truck parked on the side of the road just a couple of hundred yards away. Dust and grime besmirched its sides so thoroughly that it had taken on the colors of the desert. It looked like there were two people lying down in the bed of the truck, moving against one another. Lovers parked in the middle of nowhere for a little afternoon fun, she guessed. It felt too hot for that but she supposed hormones could overcome heat exhaustion if they were strong enough.

Oh, dude, Charles said, his face falling. It's two guys."

Yeah, well, Nilla said, getting desperate. They couldn't turn back now-her name was waiting for her. Maybe they have some water. Charles didn't move. She smiled weakly at him but she knew very well he wasn't going to go ask for water from the truck's occupants. Fine, she thought, she would do it herself. She covered the distance between the two vehicles as quickly as she could, her feet slipping on the loose gravel of the shoulder. It was so hot. When she reached the pickup she cleared her throat a couple of times to try to warn the two men that she was approaching. They didn't stop what they were doing so she stepped closer. Hello? Excuse me? She took another step and smelled blood in the air. She closed her eyes, knowing what she would find. There were two people in the back of the truck, yes. One of them rapidly bleeding to death. The other one had beat him there.

The ghoul must have felt her regard. He reared up, a mouthful of flesh tumbling from between his lips and got to his feet so that he towered over her, his stained face ten feet up in the air. He wore a torn-up padded vest even in the intense heat and his legs looked as thick as tree trunks. That wasn't what she noticed first, though.

He didn't have any arms.

The I-25 Corridor is completely backed up, all the way to the Tech Center, it looks like there was a multi-car pileup somewhere down there-please, once again we have to urge everyone not to try to get out of the city by car, it will only increase the chaos. [Traffic Report from Denvers 7, Special Emergency Bulletin 4/4/05]

A spill of them came up the bed of the Platte, maybe two or maybe three dozen, their feet splashing wildly in the muddy water. Among the dead Clark saw a couple of orange jumpsuits- those would be the original infected prisoners of Florence-but also one or two Battle Dress Uniforms. Military personnel. He raised his pistol but didn't shoot.

Behind him the platoon sergeant howled at the troops. Chief Horrocks waved his arms like a demon as he urged his soldiers on. Put your fucking back into that, Mendelsohn! Get some of that 550 cord down here, we need to secure this end.

Clark lined up his weapon with the forehead of the leading assailant. A woman in a waitress uniform with a nametag that read KRISTI. Her face wide and open and blank. It would take a lot, a complete shift in perspective, to pull the trigger. It had to happen, and soon.

Come on, come on, you all get lazy since we came home? You been sitting around watchin' cable, eating Burger King every day? It's MREs on the menu tonight unless we stop this thing here and now!

Clark knew better than that. The infected had not stayed together as a unified force against which he could run flanking maneuvers and surgical strikes. They had spread out, thousands of them heading in thousands of directions and everywhere they infected the civilians they found. In a few hours there would be more infected than healthy in Denver. This was a holding action, a way to buy time until the relocation buses were out in convoy, headed for safer climes. Clark lowered his weapon.

Now now now go go go, move it, move it, Horrocks boomed and finally, yes- the two lengths of orange detainment netting lifted like the sails of a day-glo ship. They snagged a few of the infected, their clumsy hands snarled up in the plastic but the rest just surged forward, trying to get through the gauntlet the soldiers had erected. They were being funneled straight toward Clark and the ten best shots of the platoon.

Clark raised his weapon again, sighted. Kristi, the waitress... the infected person in the front lifted one hand toward him and she stumbled, going down to her knees in the muddy water. We're a go, sir, Horrocks bellowed, not ten feet away. Firing on your order. The sergeant knew better than to question Clark's hesitation in shooting but Clark could feel it, a hot, hard stare boring into his back. If he didn't shoot now he could never ask the men and women of the platoon to follow his orders. If he didn't fire he would be in direct contradiction of the AG's standing instruction to shoot on sight.

He lined up the end of his f irearm with the woman's forehead. She was no more than fifteen yards away. She was somebody's daughter, somebody's sister maybe. There were people who loved her and wanted her to recover from this.

FIGMO, Clark said. Language unbecoming of the officer's corps, something he hadn't said since his time in Vietnam.

Fuck it, got my orders. Fire at will, he said. He squeezed the trigger and the flesh of the woman's forehead erupted, fragments of bone exploding from her temple. To Clark's left the marksmen opened up with a sustained volley, the noise rolling around the front range of the mountains, it sounded like to Clark, and echoing on forever.

The President has been moved to a safe location, where he will remain until this is all over. Thank you, thats all. [White House Press Briefing, 4/4/05]