The soldiers were moving in now, finishing off the last of the prisoners. At least two or three guards had seen the writing on the wall, and while they couldn’t go back upstairs, they weren’t in any rush to stick their heads outside and get their brains blown out, so they’d holed up inside, behind the visitor desk. They’d pop up once in a while and fire a volley through the shattered glass, just to make the soldiers keep their distance.

Ed knew the attempt was futile, and those guards were finished. It was just a matter of time. He tried not to think about the poor bastards stuck inside the lobby, still shooting it out with the soldiers, and hurried over to the last Stryker. Like he had promised Sam, his only responsibility now was to get out of the city alive. He ducked down under the nose to avoid being detected by the periscope and the driver’s video image sensor.

The guy on top running the .50 caliber was too preoccupied with punching holes the size of softballs in the concrete above the guards inside to keep an eye on anything closer. Ed didn’t think the soldier had enough of an angle to see where the guards were hiding, and seemed to be blasting away for the hell of it.

The unholy volume of the machine gun made it hard to think, so Ed just kept his head down and hustled around to the other side of the vehicle. The shock waves from each shell pummeled him with invisible fists and made him dizzy. He didn’t even hear the shot from a handgun, only saw that suddenly the machine gunner stopped and slumped to the side. Blood poured out of his mouth and nose.

The rear door flopped open, and two soldiers jumped out, guns ready. They spotted Ed immediately. One of them screamed, “Freeze!”

The other one said, “Shoot him. Shoot the fucker.”

Ed didn’t even have time to raise his arms before Sam somehow materialized behind the soldiers. Two shots, so close together they sounded almost like one solid report. Blood spattered across Ed’s sport coat. Both soldiers collapsed.

Sam slipped his pistol back into his holster and rolled the closest soldier over. “You take that one. Hurry.” He felt around for the Velcro straps that protected the zipper. “We got a minute, maybe two tops, before they figure out they’ve lost these guys.”

Ed finally figured out what Sam was doing. He got to work on the other soldier. As they struggled with the hazmat suits, Ed tried to process what had just happened. It left him feeling cold. Sam had just killed three men inside of ten, maybe fifteen, seconds. It scared Ed a little. “You sonofabitch. You use me as bait again, I’m liable to bust you in the chops.”

Sam tried to wipe some of the blood off the hazmat suit. “Quit your bitchin’. I took care of it.”

A minute and a half later, Ed and Sam helped each other zip up their suits and kicked their sport coats under the Stryker. They had left their own handguns back inside their shoulder holsters, and took the assault rifles from the dead soldiers. Sam pushed the bodies of the soldiers under the Stryker. Ed stuck his head inside the vehicle and found a couple of helmets, along with a backpack, on the front seat. He opened it and found it was full of foreign MREs, with no less than seven languages labeling the contents. Plastic water bottles. A map.

“Grab all the cool shit,” Sam said. He squinted. Found his glasses. Used them to determine what he was seeing. He waved to one of the guards on the other side of the broken glass. The guard held a shotgun and two fingers up.

Sam got it. One gun. Two shells. He shrugged, and gestured at the Stryker, wordlessly telling the guard that if they could get outside, the Stryker was all theirs.

Ed found a pair of night vision goggles. More ammo. He dumped it into the backpack. Ed slipped it over his shoulder and handed a helmet to Sam. He said, “We supposed to just waltz right past ’em?”

“That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”

They pulled the helmets over their heads and left the Stryker, heading north. At Van Buren, they turned west, leaving the sporadic shooting behind. They passed through rows of sandbags, moving quickly. A group of soldiers came jogging along, heading for the firefight, and never looked twice at the two figures in military hazmat suits.

Ed and Sam faded into the shadows.

CHAPTER 63

5:21 PM

August 14

“You sure about this?” Qween asked.

Dr. Menard nodded. “It’s the fastest way to get out of the city. Once I’m on the other side, I can get this”—he clutched the jump drive in his fist—“to somebody. Somebody not connected to the CDC. Somebody with some authority. Somebody with some power.”

He pushed out of the front doors of Cook County General before he could change his mind. Qween followed him at a distance. It was clear to him that she didn’t like the plan. He turned back to her as they headed for the street, knowing the answer, but asking anyway. “You want to come with me?”

Qween snorted. “Naw. I leave this town, it’ll be on my own two legs. ’Sides, I gotta pick up my cart.” She’d stashed her shopping cart the day before in an alley a block from the post office and was anxious to make sure it was still there.

Dr. Menard said, “There’s nobody left on the streets, just the soldiers. They’re gonna see you.”

“Shit. They see me, then I deserve to get caught and hauled away. Don’t worry, Doc. Gonna be night soon.”

Dr. Menard stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”

Qween shook it. “You just make sure you let folks know.” She jerked her head back at the hospital.

Dr. Menard started off north along Upper Wacker. He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to watch and see which direction Qween was headed. If things went wrong, and they wanted information, he didn’t want to know where Qween had disappeared.

It wasn’t long before a couple of soldiers noticed the lanky doctor shambling along. They shouted at him and he waved back, content to play the clueless scientist. They jogged over and demanded to know where he had been.

Dr. Menard acted confused. “I’ve been . . . working. What’s happening? Where is everybody?”

“Where, exactly, have you been working?” one of the soldiers asked.

Dr. Menard turned back the way he had come, and pointed. “The hospital.” He was glad that Qween was gone. There was nothing but an empty street behind him.

Both soldiers took a step backward. “The hospital,” the first soldier confirmed.

Dr. Menard nodded.

The other soldier pressed the button on his throat mike and said, “We have a survivor from the hospital. Repeat, we have a survivor from the hospital, waiting for pickup, Wacker and Washington.” He listened a moment. “Copy that.” He released the mike and looked up at Dr. Menard. His smile was as hollow as an alderman’s promise. “They’re sending someone around now, sir.”

“What is going on?” Dr. Menard tried again.

“Some problems in the city, sir. They’re evacuating everyone.”

Dr. Menard tried to go blank. “No kidding? I mean, I know things weren’t good, but Jesus, I didn’t think they’d evacuate the city.”

“Please stand still, sir.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“Why are you looking at me like that? What’s really going on here?”

“Just basic precautions, sir. Nothing to worry about.”

Dr. Menard was getting nervous and finding it harder and harder to play dumb. “Look, I’m fine. Really. I’m not sick.”

“I’m sure you’re not, sir. We need to get you on a bus, sir.”

Dr. Menard wanted to say, Stop calling me sir, you little bastard. Instead, he said, “Okay. Where am I going?”

“They’re taking everyone to Soldier Field. For decontamination.”

The second soldier shot the first a tight look, and the first soldier shut up. Something cold crawled up Dr. Menard’s testicles. Soldier Field. For some reason, the idea of gathering all of the evacuees in one place scared the hell out of him. “Why?” he asked.