"And you as well, Sister."

Then he was gone.

She faded back into the hall. In the dining room, flames were leaping up the walls; the smoke was dense and swirling. Sister Peg began to cough. She lay down on the hatch. Her time in the physical world was ending. She had no fear of what would come, the hand of love into which her spirit would pass. Fire took the building in its grip. The flames shot up, consuming all. As the smoke snaked inside her, Sister Peg's mind filled up with faces. Faces by the hundreds, the thousands. Her children. She would be with them again.

All around the building, the virals were watching. They stood in abeyance, the glow of the flames glazing their denuded faces. They had been vanquished; fire was a barrier they could not cross. Still they waited, ever hopeful. The hours passed. The building burned and burned and burned some more. The embers were still glowing when dawn came, a blade of light sweeping over the silent city.

X.

The Exodus.

To war and arms I fly.

-RICHARD LOVELACE, TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS..

73.

"Greer."

He was dead to the world. In a different one, a voice was calling his name.

"Lucius, wake up."

He jerked to consciousness. He was sitting in the cab of the tanker. Patch was standing on the runner board by the open door. Through the windshield, a foggy dawn.

"What time is it?" His mouth was dry.

"Oh-six-thirty."

"You should have woken me up."

"What do you think I just did?"

Greer stepped down. The water was still, birds swooping low over its glassy surface. "Anything happen while I was asleep?"

Patch shrugged in his wiry way. "Nothing major. Just before sunrise, we saw a small pod working its way down the shore."

"Where?"

"Base of the channel bridge."

Greer frowned. "And this didn't strike you as important?"

"They never came all that close. It didn't seem worth the trouble to wake you."

Greer got in his truck and drove down the isthmus. Lore was standing on the dock, hands perched on her hips, studying the hull. The repair was nearing completion.

"How long till we fill?" he asked.

"Three, maybe four hours." She raised her voice. "Rand! Watch that chain!"

"Where is he?" Greer asked.

"Quonset hut, I think."

He found Michael sitting at the shortwave.

"Kerrville, come back, please. This is Isthmus station." A momentary pause and he repeated the call.

"Anything?" Greer asked.

Michael shook his head. His expression was blank, his mind far away in worry.

"I have some other news. A viral pod was sighted near the bridge a while ago."

Michael turned sharply. "Did they approach?"

"Patch says no."

Michael sat back. He rubbed his face with a heavy hand. "So they know we're here."

"It would seem so."

The bolts were still too hot to touch. Peter was standing on the platform just below the hatch. His mind had cleared, but his headache felt like an ice pick buried in the back of his skull.

"It's got to be light out," Sara said. "What should we do?"

Caleb and Hollis were there as well. Peter scanned their faces; both wore the same expression: of weariness and defeat, the power of decision beyond them. None had slept a wink.

"Wait, I guess."

An hour or so passed. Peter was dozing on the platform when he heard knocking on the hatch. He reached up to touch the surface; the metal had cooled somewhat. He removed his jersey and wrapped it around hands; beside him, Caleb did the same. They each took a lever and turned. Cracks of daylight appeared at the edges and, with them, a strong smell of smoke. Water dripped through. They pushed the hatch open the rest of the way.

Chase was standing over them, holding a bucket. His face was black with soot. Peter climbed the ladder, the others following. They emerged into a scene of ruin. The orphanage was gone, reduced to a smoldering wreckage of ashes and collapsed beams. The heat was still intense. Behind Peter's chief of staff stood a group of seven: three soldiers of diverse ranks and four civilians, including a teenage girl and a man who had to be at least seventy. All were holding buckets, their clothes sodden, arms and face black as coal. They had wetted down a path through the ashes, clearing a way out of the destruction. The fire had leapt to several adjacent buildings, which were burning to various degrees.

"It's good to see you, Mr. President."

As with everyone who had survived the night, Chase's survival was a story of luck and timing. When the catwalk had began to fail, he had just stepped away from the command deck in search of more ammunition. This placed him near the stairs on the west side of the gate. He had made it to the bottom just in time to see the whole thing come crashing to the ground. Two soldiers had recognized him; they'd hustled him into a truck to get him to the president's hardbox, but they hadn't made it very far before they were attacked, the driver yanked through the windshield. As the vehicle rolled, Chase was thrown clear. His rifle empty and the hardbox far out of reach, he had run for the closest building, a small wood-framed house that the tax office used for storage. Among the boxes of meaningless paperwork, he was joined over the next two hours by the seven survivors with whom he now stood. For the rest of the night they had remained there, trying not to attract attention to themselves, waiting for an end that never came.

Since daybreak, more survivors had emerged, but not very many. The sight of so many bodies was jarring, sickening. The vultures had begun to alight, pecking at the meat. It was nothing for the children to see. During the night, Sara had counted heads. The shelter contained 654 souls, mostly women and children. Sara descended the ladder to help Jenny organize their removal.

"What about the other hardboxes?" Peter asked.

Chase's face was grim. "They got in through the floors."

"Olivia?"

Chase shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Ford."

He shook his head faintly. None of this was registering completely yet.

"What about the tubes?"

"Flooded. I don't know how they did it, but they did."

Peter's stomach dropped; a wave of cold dizziness passed through him.

"Peter?" Chase was gripping his arm; suddenly, he was the strong one.

"No survivors?" Peter asked.

Chase shook his head. "There's something else you need to see."

It was Apgar. The man was alive, though barely. He lay on the ground beside an overturned Humvee. His legs were crushed beneath the frame, though that was not the worst of it; on his left hand, which lay across his chest, was a semicircular imprint of teeth. He was still in the shade, but the sun would soon find him.

Peter knelt beside him. "Gunnar, can you hear me?"

The man's awareness seemed divided. Then, with a faint start, his eyes alighted on Peter's face.

"Peter, hello." His voice was bland, lacking emotion except, perhaps, for a touch of mild surprise.

"Just lie still."

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere." His legs had been crushed to a pulp, yet he seemed to be experiencing no pain at all. He lifted his wounded hand with a vague gesture. "Can you believe this shit?"

"Does anybody have any water?"

Caleb produced a canteen; just an inch or two sloshed in the bottom. Peter cupped the man's neck to lift his head and held the spout to his lips. Peter wondered why Apgar had not yet turned. Of course, there was a range; it varied person to person. A few weak sips, water dribbling form the corners of his mouth, and Apgar leaned back.

"It's true what they say. You can feel it inside you." He took a long, shuddering breath. "How many survivors?"

Peter shook his head. "Not many."

"Don't blame yourself,"

"Gunnar-"

"Take this as my last piece of official advice. You've done all you could. It's time to get these people out of here." The general licked his lips and lifted the bloody hand again. "But let's not let this go on too long. I don't want people to see me like this."

Peter turned his face and scanned the group: Chase, Hollis, Caleb, a few of the soldiers. All were staring. He felt benumbed; none of it seemed real yet.

"Somebody give me something."

Hollis produced a knife. Peter accepted its cold weight into his hand. For a moment he doubted he could find the strength to do what was required of him. He crouched beside Apgar again, holding the blade a little behind himself to keep it from view.

"It's been an honor to serve under you, Mr. President."

Through a throat thickened with tears, Peter raised his voice, speaking words no one had said in over twenty years. "This man is a soldier of the Expeditionary! It is time for him to take the trip! All hail, General Gunnar Apgar! Hip hip-"

"Hooray!"

"Hip hip-"

"Hooray!"

"Hip hip-"

"Hooray!"

Apgar took a long breath and let it out slowly. His face became peaceful.

"Thank you, Peter. I'm ready now."

Peter tightened his grip on the knife.

There were two more.

Peter was looking at Apgar's body. The man had died quickly, almost inaudibly. A grunt as the knife went in, his eyes opening wide, death easing into them.

"Somebody get me a blanket."

No one spoke.

"Goddamnit, what's the matter with you people? You-" He jabbed a finger at one of the soldiers. "What's your name, Private?"

The man seemed a little dazed. "Sir?"

"What, you don't know your own name? Are you that stupid?"

He swallowed nervously. "It's Verone, sir."

"Organize a burial detail. I want everyone gathered at the parade ground in thirty. Full military honors, do you read me?"

He glanced at the others.