Dr. Reischtal waited until he heard the recorded message, then climbed up to the deck. He gazed back across the moonlit waves at the bright lights of Soldier Field. He spoke his name, slowly and clearly into the mouthpiece, and answered the random question and ended with the date, then waited for the voice-recognition software to access the remotes under each truck. He heard the series of beeps, and knew that the steady yellow lights on the remote receivers were now flashing red.

He keyed in the code and hit SEND.

Dr. Menard flipped the jump drive over and over as he shoved it into the USB port on the laptop. His fingers trembled and he couldn’t seem to get the drive to slip into the port. Finally it snapped into place, and a few seconds later, a new icon appeared on the desktop screen.

He steadied the laptop on the steering wheel, then opened the Internet browser, and had to type in the name of his university’s email server three times before he got it right. Sweat dripped off his nose and hit the trackpad. His forefinger smeared it, and the cursor flitted wildly across the screen. “Goddamnit,” he whispered. “Please, please work.” He tried to dry it with his shirt, then tried again.

Someone banged on the bus door.

Dr. Menard flinched and saw a man in a reflective orange IDOT vest outside, lips pulled back in a feral snarl, eyes wild. Blood dripped from his hair. It looked like he had taken a gardening fork to his scalp. The man hit the door again, rattling the plastic windows.

Dr. Menard ignored him and concentrated on attaching the contents of the jump drive to an email. An empty sliding bar popped up, indicating the percentage of information that had been loaded. A blue bar began to eat up the remaining blackness of the gauge in lurching increments.

“C’mon, c’mon!” he shouted.

His voice attracted the attention of an older woman on the other side of the bus. She bounded up the steps on the passenger side and smashed her head into the plastic cocoon, leaving a streak of blood and makeup. She howled and scrabbled at the plastic, enraged at the movement inside, furious that she couldn’t reach him. Her cries brought more of them, like bees swarming to their queen.

The blue band had filled up at least half of the bar.

The infected surrounded the bus and so many were attacking it in a mindless fury it began rock and shake as the suspension shuddered under the onslaught. If too many gathered in one area, they would set each other off in a new frenzy, attacking each other, anything to eliminate the immediate threat. They would use anything close at hand. A backpack, used to choke the other, or a shattered bottle, to slash and jab. Usually it was something big and heavy, and used as a club. Out at Soldier Field, they didn’t have anything really big and heavy. One guy carried a gearshift off one of the older buses and used it to bash away at the bus door.

Dr. Menard didn’t care. He held onto the laptop, eyes never leaving the screen. Seventy-five percent now.

Eighty percent.

Ninety percent.

Then, a flash. A curious floating sensation for the briefest moment, as if everything were suspended, like motes of dust in sunlight. A feeling of intense, horrible heat.

Then, nothing.

CHAPTER 71

8:53 PM

August 14

At first, Tommy didn’t realize that the Strykers were shooting at him. The road in front of him didn’t erupt in great geysers of smoke and the trees around him didn’t explode in showers of sparks like in the movies. He heard a few dull thuds. That was all.

He raced down Lake Shore Drive, with Lake Michigan off to his right, and the ominous shadow of the warship growing out of the horizon like a tumor. After successfully negotiating his way through the barricade, he didn’t want to think that anything could go wrong. So he ignored the tight, tickling feeling that crawled over his scalp and pushed the thoughts of the bullets singing above his head out of his mind. Then he saw the two Strykers in the rearview mirror, closing fast.

One of the back windows exploded and his passenger mirror disintegrated. Now, through the open back window, he could hear the bursts of automatic gunfire, even if he couldn’t pinpoint the damage. He couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

Tommy yanked the wheel to the left and jumped the curb and tore across the baseball fields. He tried to keep an eye on his driver’s side mirror and rearview mirror. He noticed that the Strykers couldn’t change direction as fast as the ambulance; they couldn’t navigate as nimbly as he could. Of course, they could smash their way through obstructions like cars and sandbags, but when they had two or three cars caught up on the front, it slowed them down, at least until the pitiless front wedge ground the cars along the asphalt and pushed the crumpled vehicles aside.

The ambulance careened into Columbus, coming close to blowing a tire. Sparks flew as he swerved around the abandoned cars. He veered to his left at the last second and shot over the southern Metra railroad line on Balbo. He reckoned out in the open, it was just a matter of time before they eventually flanked him, trapping the ambulance between them. He’d never reach Grace.

He glanced at the mirror. The Strykers hadn’t managed the turn yet, and hadn’t started across the bridge over the Metra lines. He turned his attention back to the road in front, plotting a course through the low berms of sandbags strewn across Michigan Avenue. If he could just reach the blocks of buildings, he might be able to stay a few blocks ahead of them, twisting and turning, keeping the buildings between the ambulance and the Strykers. After the massive withdrawal of troops and equipment, the streets might be empty enough that he could keep running, and put a little distance between himself and his pursuers. He just hoped they didn’t have anything that could blast through concrete.

He slalomed around the rows of sandbags on Michigan just as the first of the Strykers appeared on the crest of the Balbo Bridge. The windows of the Blackstone Hotel burst into dizzying cracks and shards rained across the sidewalk. It didn’t matter. He was through the sandbags and stomped on the gas. The ambulance grumbled, but it shot forward.

Ahead, the next two blocks were clear. Once he hit State, he’d jog left and see if he couldn’t disappear into the Printers’ Row area.

A great circle of white light stabbed out of the night sky, moving quickly, blowing away any and all shadows as it kept pace with the speeding ambulance. Another slash of bleached-bone luminosity appeared behind him. He leaned forward, craning his neck, and peered up through the windshield.

The tentative hope that had started flickering in his chest when he realized that he might just escape, sizzled and died as he saw quite clearly that he now had not one but two helicopters stalking him, with their immense spotlights burning a trail that a dead man could follow, leading the Strykers right to him.

Ed and Sam prepped for war.

They had the soldier’s pack on the table, loading it with extra clips, boxes of ammunition, even a couple of grenades. Both had climbed back into the suits, figuring they would allow them to blend in with the rest of the soldiers.

Sam slung assault rifles over both shoulders and stuck his Glock back into his shoulder holster, and a Beretta in one of the hazmat pockets. He just wished he could carry more guns.

Qween was still sleeping. She had found a quiet corner to gather herself, curling up and sleeping for a few hours. At first, she listened. Tuned into the rhythms of the building. The quiet hum of the air system. How it swayed slightly in the winds. When she felt like she knew the building, and had gotten comfortable with the muted sounds of the fifty-ninth floor, she curled up on her right side, pulling her cloak over her shoulder and ear. Her breathing stretched, grew slower and slower.