Larry raised his weapon. "You can't do that, Del. Give it a day."

"Sorry."

"Del, I am telling you not to get in the truck. To stop right now."

Del reached for the truck door.

"Del, last warning stop or I'll shoot."

Del laughed as he turned and faced Larry. "Shoot? Seriously? What the h.e.l.l are you trying to keep in there? What did you do? Unreal." Del shook his head and reached out for his driver's door. "You aren't shooting me."

Bang.

Larry didn't want to shoot Del; it was the last thing he wanted to do. He could still see Del take that shot, square in the belly, and fly back into the truck. It made him sick to think of what he did, but he didn't have a choice. He didn't.

One call, one post on the internet, and it was over. Authorities would flock into town. Unable to save the day, they'd know right away it was a biological weapon. With Larry unaffected, he'd go down. Larry worked too hard his whole life to be the good guy to spend the rest of his days in prison for killing a town. Keeping it quiet meant also keeping the bug in the town.

One man's life was an even trade. In a couple days time it wouldn't matter. The bug would have run its course and Larry would be long gone.

He drove Del's truck into town with Del in the back. He was still alive; Larry heard him moan, but he knew he wouldn't be alive for long.

"You shot him, Sheriff. You shot him," Bret, the local man on the road block, said.

"I know. I know." Larry took a moment to think. "I'll take him into town for help. He's not bleeding that bad. Doc's there."

Larry drove off. He had no intention of seeking help for Del. None whatsoever. But he had to do something with him, he couldn't leave him on the side of the road, nor could he let it get out that he shot the big superstar Del Ray Lewis.

A few days, two tops, Larry figured, was all he needed to keep the Del shooting a secret. The town was wrapped up in the sickness. Already a quarter of the people were ill. Folks were consumed with staying inside, safe and observing the quarantine. No one should notice, and no one did.

Larry pulled the pickup to the back of the police station. Del wasn't a big man, and Larry was strong enough to carry him alone.

He brought him in the back door then immediately down to the bas.e.m.e.nt where the holding cells were located. With a whispered apology, he set Del inside a cell, then shut and locked the door.

No one would know, no one would look, and after checking out Del's lifeless body one more time, Larry went about his business. He would do what he needed to do to keep everything quiet and to keep the sickness from getting out of Hartworth.

Del was proof of that.

Val and his band of merry door knockers weren't even halfway through the town, and already he had changed the plan from telling people to come to the fire hall to telling them to stay in their homes.

He promised help to those who reported sickness. For appearances Val wrote down their names and house numbers knowing full well he'd never be back. He couldn't.

He was optimistic in believing that the fire hall would hold enough.

A simple sign on the door made it a makeshift clinic, but it was nothing more than a mere waiting bay of death.

There were volunteers to give aspirin and morphine and wipe faces, but those who stayed at home at least suffered in privacy.

There was no privacy, no dignity at the fire hall. People vomited everywhere. The moans overcame the echoing hall like a bad music system playing over an intercom.

It looked and smelled of sheer death.

How many times did Val say, "This is just the worst before it gets better. You'll be fine, in a couple days you'll forget about how sick you feel. It'll be fine."

Val knew better. Already, their eyes were darkening, skin had turned gray, and many were already scratching themselves until they bled.

He was tired and worried about his son. He hadn't been home in two hours, and it was time to return.

Eighteen people volunteered to help, and Val could hear them sniffle and cough.

It wouldn't be long before they left, and those who remained, those who suffered on blankets and cots, vomiting into plastic grocery store bags, would be alone.

Something needed to be done.

Val would think about that, but until he came up with a solution to the people in the fire hall, he had to check on his son and Heather.

Exhausted, Val stepped from the fire hall, walking by the long line of people.

"Doctor, I'm sick,"

"Help me."

"What's going on?"

Val kept walking; he couldn't look at any of them. He kept his eyes straight ahead. Had he not, he wouldn't have seen Stew Burton in the pa.s.senger seat of Doyle's truck.

Stew was in town. Val's heart dropped. He knew where Stew was headed, and Val picked up his pace.

"Heather!" Stew called out as he entered Val's home. It wasn't easy; the doors were locked and Stew ended up breaking the gla.s.s to get inside.

He immediately headed to the staircase that led to the home upstairs.

"Heather." He charged to the second floor. No one was in the living room, and no one answered his call. There was a hall that Stew could only a.s.sume led to the bedroom. Still calling he looked in the first room. Empty. At the second door, mid-call, Stew stopped. There were twin beds in that room and clearly someone lay on one of them. Stew walked to the first bed. "Heather," he whispered and pulled down the covers some.

"Dear G.o.d," he gasped. Immediately, Stew felt sick. It wasn't Heather; it was Roman. Non-responsive, wheezing with each breath, shivering. His skin was black as if it were charcoal. A slight moan seeped from Roman, and Stew lifted the covers back over him. He spun from the room, calling out, and stopped when he heard what sounded like a cat's growl.

It came from the next room, and as soon as Stew reached for the door he saw feet.

Calling out her name, he opened the door to see Heather lying on the bathroom floor.

She was surrounded by a pool of a thick dark substance, and her hand reached for the commode. Turning her head, she eyes locked with Stew. "Pap. Help."

"Oh my G.o.d, baby." He crouched down to her. "Oh my G.o.d." Stew's heart broke, it literally broke as he reached for her. The moment he touched her, she cried out. It wasn't loud, but it was shrill. Obviously, her skin, black to the sight, was agonizing to her.

"I have to get you out of here. I have to get you help." He stood, ran out to the first bedroom, ripped the comforter from the bed, and brought it to the bathroom. Gently he placed it over Heather. "I know this is going to hurt, but I have to get you out. Okay?"

Heather nodded.

As best as he could, as careful as he could, using the comforter as a cushion, Stew lifted Heather into his arms. She whimpered as her head fell to his chest.

He had done it.

Stew managed to carry her down the hall and down the stairs. He was almost to the door when Val called out.

"Stop, Stew. I cannot let you take her," Val said calmly.

"Are you insane?" Stew asked as he turned around, ready to blast him, but didn't because Val extended a revolver. "You are."

Val shook his head. "She has to stay here."

"Over my dead body."

"It's already dead, Stew, you just don't know it yet. You're not indestructible. This virus is. Put her back in bed, let me give her another dose of morphine. She'll rest," Val said.

"She needs to go to a hospital. You hear me?" Stew's voice rose with emotion. "She needs help."

"They can't help her. Look at her. She's got another day, day and a half. Tops."

"I have to try."

"Start by putting her down; every second you hold her is a second of pain that girl feels. She can't express it. But she feels it, knows it."

"Listen to me," Stew said. "I'm turning around and getting her help."

"Then I'll shoot you both," Val said. "Although shooting Heather might be the humane thing to do."

"You're sick."

"Unfortunately, I'm not. Take her back up, Stew. I've killed already to keep this virus contained, I won't stop with you."

In defeat, Stew lowered his head and walked by Val to the stairs. He carried Heather back up the stairs and took her to the empty bedroom, laying her on the large bed.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Stew adjusted the covers and pillows, trying to make her comfortable. "I tried. I'll figure something out. Until then, I won't leave your side." He leaned down and kissed her. His lips tightened and a lump formed in his throat as he choked on his own emotions.

"I am sorry to be so harsh," Val stated as he walked into the room. "I have to be." He walked to the bed.

"Your son ... your own son," Stew said, "is sick. Dying. Don't you want to help him?"

"I do. It is beyond us now. That is why we have to stay here. Keep them here. Keep ... you here now." Val pulled down some of the covers on Heather and lifted a syringe. "This will keep her comfortable. This is very contagious. As much as I worry about them, there are others we have to worry about. Others outside this town. Your child. Our grandchildren."

Stew gasped. "Val, listen, there are people who are experienced in sickness like this. They know what they're doing."

"So do I," Val replied. "More than you realize. I also know this virus more than anyone."

"What are you talking about?"

"I worked on it, I helped shape it."

Stew stood. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h. You did this. My daughter was right."

"Yes. She was, in a sense." Val tossed the empty syringe. "When she started producing pictures, I had to commit her to silence her so no one would take her seriously. "

Stew lowered himself back down to the bed. "I bought it. Had I not, this wouldn't have happened."

"Oh, it would have happened," Val said. "Maybe not now, but exposing me meant either the virus was unattended or handed over. Turning the virus over would have set off a time bomb."

"The bomb went off!" Stew yelled. "Look at this town. Look at these kids."

"It went off here. Here. Sealed in," Val stated firmly. "We have a shot at containing this. We take this virus, one patient, beyond the barriers of this town, and we can forget it, because it will spread like wildfire. We have to keep this thing tight. Keep it here. If we don't, who knows. It's the end for the state. They will have no choice but to burn out Montana." Val walked to the door. "G.o.d help them if they don't."

FLASH FORWARD.

Ground Zero 8

December 23rd

Hartworth, Montana

The last thing Edward wanted to do was suit up and walk to the fire hall. He understood that his four-person team was ambitious and wanted to have answers, but help was on the way, and the entire vision of the town bothered Edward like nothing else.

It was as if he were previewing an apocalypse he'd rather not face.

He liked the mobile lab; it was warm in there, secluded, and he couldn't see outside. Couldn't see the horrors. A dead town, sucked of life in every way imaginable.

But Martha and Goldman were convinced there were a lot of answers, not just bodies in the fire hall. After all, that's where they found the journal.