Ed called, “Kid, you okay?”

Tommy stopped and turned. “I have to get my daughter.”

Dr. Reischtal watched the figures of white light start walking up Dearborn. Toward Washington and Daley Plaza. He pinned the microphone, a black bug with the foam head, a battery pack for the thorax, and a transponder antenna as the abdomen, to his new paper robe. He wore nothing underneath. After stripping out of the hazmat suit and his uniform and submitting himself not once, but twice, to the decontamination process, he had ordered his old clothing burned.

“Do not engage,” he told the pilots. “Pull back and continue to monitor.”

The sound of his voice was heard by a dozen satellites, who passed it back down, like electronic rain. A pair of headphones hung on the back wall of his unit, but he ignored those. Apart from the Apache pilots, he would only speak to a living human on the other side of the glass, through the exterior microphone, of course.

Dr. Reischtal was sealed in. Tighter than a bug in a rug, as his mother’s maid was fond of saying.

He called it his unit. A sealed fortress, his own private citadel, secure inside a warship, no less. Austere, composed entirely of gleaming white plastic. Completely sterile, of course. It utilized its own air filtration unit, its own power, its own waste disposal, its own recyclable water supply. Next to the door that locked from the inside, a giant bubble of thick plastic faced a simple table and chair. A scanner sat on the table, so any hard copies could be digitally scanned and downloaded by the isolated computer inside. A wall of monitors covered one wall. Two monitors displayed the feed from the Apaches. The video from the cameras attached to several soldiers’ helmets filled other screens. Several of these had gone dark.

The rest of the monitors were tuned to various television stations. Most had cut to aerial shots of the burning wreckage of Soldier Field. Although Dr. Reischtal was quite pleased with the level of destruction in the death of the stadium, he watched the last station that was still broadcasting the disintegrating press conference with interest. Lee, the fool, was dithering about, still trying to convince people he was in charge. No sign of Krazinsky, but Dr. Reischtal hadn’t expected him to show his face yet. The station finally cut away to its own footage of the skeletal wreckage of Soldier Field, the sagging walls and twisted metal silhouetted by the raging fire inside.

He turned back to the Apache feeds. The four glowing figures crept north on Dearborn, keeping to the shadows near the buildings. They stopped, huddled together. He couldn’t tell, but it looked as if they were trying to see something behind them. All four broke into a run.

Dr. Reischtal almost smiled. They had undoubtedly just become aware of the growing mob of infected five blocks to the south.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a recent number. “Shut your mouth and listen carefully.”

CHAPTER 73

9:01 PM

August 14

Ed pulled at Tommy’s arm. “Slow down, slow down. You go running in there, you’re gonna get shot.” Behind Ed, Qween slowed to a walk, sucking in air through her nose and letting it out in shallow hisses between clenched teeth. Sam brought up the rear, grunting softly every time his left foot hit the ground. He kept his right hand across his chest, holding the left side of his ribs. Every once in a while, he would turn his head and spit. The blood gleamed darkly under the streetlights.

They stood at the intersection of Dearborn and Washington. Daley Plaza was before them. A circle of lights had been arranged in the middle of the plaza. Semi trailers, Strykers, and M939 military trucks lined the streets. A block to the west, the lights of the press conference sent inky slashes of shadow up the sides of City Hall. No soldiers could be seen.

Ed said, “Easy, easy. Catch your breath, first. Let’s think this through.”

“We don’t have time. Those people”—Tommy nodded back down Dearborn—“are gonna be here any minute.”

Ed shook his head. “We got a couple of minutes. Maybe ten. From what we’ve seen, they’re not the most organized.”

Tommy wasn’t convinced. “They go after noise. And light. But mostly noise. And those damn things”—he pointed to the two Apaches that kept circling overhead like a couple of hungry vultures riding the wind—“they’re gonna piss ’em off and bring ’em right into our laps.” He turned to assess City Hall. “Besides, I think the press conference is over. You hear anything from over there? They’re gonna be moving out.”

Ed watched the helicopters for a moment. “Yeah, you got a point. But let’s not go running in there like a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off.” He glanced at Sam. “How you doin’, brother?”

“Right as fucking rain,” Sam said, and discreetly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. “Kid’s right. We gotta move.”

Ed started to say something else, but Sam narrowed his eyes and gave his head an imperceptible shake. Ed gave it a moment more, meeting Sam’s eyes, letting his partner know he didn’t believe him, and finally said, “Let’s move then. Slow and easy-peasy.”

They stole along the southern sidewalk of Washington, using the various military vehicles and occasional CTA bus as cover. Darting from shadow to shadow, Tommy would drop to the sidewalk once in a while, scouting, trying to get a look at the press conference.

The last time, at least five rats stuck their heads over the curb and hissed at him.

He flinched and rolled away. He found his feet, kept moving. “They’re still up there on the stage. Standing around. Like they’re waiting for something.”

Ed said, “Maybe they’re going back on the air or something.”

Halfway down the block, they slipped into the alcove, squeezed between the Cook County Administration Building and the Chicago Temple Building and huddled behind the Miro sculpture of Miss Chicago.

Ed whispered, “Here’s the plan. I’ll be the distraction.”

“You mean bait,” Qween said.

“Call it whatever you want,” Ed said.

“I’m gonna be the bait,” Sam said.

Ed started to say, “I need you—”

Sam cut him off. “No. I can’t run. I can shoot, but I can’t run. Let me walk up there and stand still. I’ll get their attention. Trust me. You go around the other side. I’m done hiding.” He used his thumb and forefinger to swipe at the corners of his mouth and met Ed’s eyes.

Ed nodded. Slow. “Okay. Okay, if that’s the way you want it, then okay.” He pointed to the other side of the Stryker, “Sam goes out first, then. Me and Qween will sneak around to the west, hugging City Hall.” He pointed at Tommy. “You wait a full minute, then cut across Washington here and circle around through the plaza. They’ll see Sam right off, and he’ll keep their attention. Me and Qween will get as close as we can. Soon as you hear us yelling, you slip in through the back and snatch your little girl. No matter what happens, you get her out.”

Ed looked at each of them. “Any questions?”

Nobody had any.

Ed said, “Let’s go,” and nodded at Sam.

Sam strode off, still holding his ribs, but moving purposefully, back straight, eyes on the horizon. Ed and Qween flattened themselves against the glass walls of the Harris Bank, the first floor of the Chicago Temple building. Tommy peeled around to the east and ducked across Washington. He slid between a bus and a cab, both vehicles long since abandoned once they had been boxed in by a parked convoy of M939s. He froze.

The plaza was a full half of a city block in size, a vast speckled cement open prairie in a massive, dense forest of concrete and steel and glass. The absence of the Picasso sculpture made the emptiness worse. He felt like a mouse, about to dart across a moonlit field while hawks prowled the misty skies above. To his left, the lights still shone on a stage erected in the middle of Clark Street.