Whoever it was had called ahead. No one on the boat stopped them. The soldiers stood silent and still and watched as Ed helped Qween along. One soldier had escorted them down to Dr. Reischtal’s safe room, then stood aside while they went in.

Dr. Reischtal said, “I know your names. As before, I will find you. I will finish you.”

Ed didn’t say anything. He studied the bubble of plastic, feeling for any cracks, any stress fractures. He settled on the curve along the upper right corner, then hefted the fire axe he’d picked up on the way down into the bowels of the ship.

Dr. Reischtal almost laughed. “You do realize that this material is virtually indestructible. This warship could sink to the bottom of Lake Michigan and I would still be sitting comfortably inside when the divers came.”

Ed peeled his hazmat suit down to his waist, hefted the axe and swung it sideways in the cramped room, as if he was swinging for a high fastball. The blade bounced off the plastic with the sound of a boat propeller hitting a frozen pond. Ed looked like he expected nothing less. He pulled the axe back and swung again.

And again.

Dr. Reischtal said, “Even if you manage to crack it, it will take you days to create a hole large enough to fit inside. And I have no intentions of leaving. I have enough rations to last weeks, if necessary. When the authorities do show up, I will make you wish you had died back in that city.”

Ed never stopped. He kept swinging, smashing the axe blade into the same spot, over and over. After nearly half an hour, sweat was pouring off of him and he was breathing in short, whistling bursts. He swung again, and this time, it sounded slightly different.

A tiny sliver of plastic landed on the table in front of Qween. She picked it up and sleepily inspected it. She smiled. Ed stepped up the pace, swinging even harder. When the blade struck, it now sent up a flurry of plastic shards.

Before long, the blade broke through, puncturing the surface.

“Not so airtight now, are you, motherfucker?” Qween asked.

Dr. Reischtal didn’t answer. He tried his phone again, but it wouldn’t function at all.

Ed didn’t stop. He worked at the hole, created a jagged rupture nearly a foot in diameter. He stepped back, gasping, and dropped into one of the chairs. The axe clattered to the floor. Then, as if remembering something else, he picked the axe back up, walked over to the locked door that led into Dr. Reischtal’s safe room, and wedged the axe handle up under the door handle. He kicked it tight, then went back and sat down.

Qween rose with all the regal elegance her name implied, and approached the hole. She still carried her bundle. She gave Dr. Reischtal another chilling smile, untied the bundle, and pulled out a rat by the tail.

Hundreds of bugs wriggled through the coarse hair.

The rat blinked, dazed, trying to shake off the deep sleep. She gently pushed it through the uneven hole and dropped it inside the once sterile room.

As Dr. Reischtal gave a hoarse cry, she turned to Ed and leaned on the table. “I need to breathe some real air.”

He stood and took her arm. They left Dr. Reischtal scrabbling around, stomping at the bugs that were flowing off the rat. He slapped his phone down, squashing four or five at a time. But they kept coming, covering the floor. He climbed up on his chair, then to his table. All of the monitors had gone dark.

As they were leaving, Ed turned out the lights, leaving Dr. Reischtal alone with the bugs.

Dr. Reischtal still had lights, of course, but the darkness beyond the plastic bubble filled him with a horror he hadn’t felt since his parents had used to lock him in the basement closet.

For a few brief moments, he thought he might actually be able to kill all of the bugs, until he spotted one nestling into the cleft between his toes. He snaked a finger down there, squashing it. His finger came back up with just the hint of a smear of blood. It was enough.

And while he stared at the fresh blood on his index finger, more bugs swarmed his bare feet and ankles, and started up his legs. He knew it was over and knelt back down on the floor, clasped his hands in front of his chest, and closed his eyes.

If he could only see the stars.

Ed and Qween made their way to the bow, faces lit by the glow of the fires in the Loop. The skyline was so different, as if a child had come along and swept his building blocks away, leaving some stacks barely standing, dashing others to the ground.

The sky over the lake was alive with helicopters.

“I’m awful damn tired,” Qween said. “Gonna rest now, I think.”

“You want help?” Ed asked without looking at her.

“You got a good heart for a cop, Ed Jones. And I thank you. I truly do. This is my job. Not yours.”

Ed nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He stood abruptly, pulling his .357 out of its holster. He held it by the barrel and offered it to her, handle first.

She took a deep breath, then finally took it. “Now go. Find your woman. Take care of her. And yourself.” She met his eyes, shiny with unspilled tears. “Gonna take me a nap.”

He kissed her forehead and left.

She watched Chicago burn for a while, felt her eyelids grow heavier and heavier. She considered the long sleep ahead of her and what awaited when she finally awoke. She could feel the strength slowly leaving her bones, replaced by something cold and sluggish.

She thought about her home. Gone now.

She opened her mouth and put the barrel of Ed’s .357 inside. As she watched the distant glow of the shattered Chicago skyline, she tilted the handgun until she felt the tip of the barrel tight against the roof of her mouth. She took one more deep breath and let it out slow, aware of the humidity in the air, the slow roll of the warship in the new waves spreading out across the lake, the coolness of the bench under her, the faint spattering of stars above, the rough checkerboard pattern of the handgun’s grip in her hand.

Then she squeezed the trigger.

And slept.

Ed got back in the police launch and heard the single gunshot.

He sat heavily in the stern. He kicked off the hazmat suit and threw it in the lake. He stuck his hand in his back pocket and pulled Sam’s flask out. He unscrewed the lid, avoiding the surreptitious glances from the two cops at the controls.

“You wanna go back?” one of them asked.

Ed shook his head. “No. It’s gone. How much gas we got?”

The cop checked. “Full tank.”

Ed took another shot from Sam’s flask, felt the burning as it trickled down his throat. “East. Michigan.”

The cops looked back at the ruined city. One threw the line back to the soldiers on the warship. His partner hit the throttle, spun the wheel, and they headed east.

Ed screwed the cap back on the flask and tucked it safely away. As they sped across the lake, he leaned back and watched the sky.

A harsh, foul-smelling wind swirled down Clinton, a narrow side street west of the Loop. Tiny pink particles floated in the air currents, little messengers of death for anything that used oxygen. Flowers wilted. Leaves fell from trees.

Down in the middle of the empty street, a manhole cover moved slightly. It rose up, then fell back. It was lifted again from underneath, and this time, it was pushed up hard enough to slip out of its circular edging, and shoved across the pavement. A figure in a hazmat suit climbed slowly out, then lifted another suit with a smaller figure curled inside.

The hazmat suit staggered along, carrying the second suit, slung over its shoulder like hobo luggage. It bent over, peering into parked cars. It came to a car, a late-model gray sedan, double parked, blocking the right lane. The door was unlocked. The keys were in the ignition.