"Is there a problem, soldier?"

"Dad-" Caleb gripped him by an arm and made his father look at him. "I know this is painful. We all understand how you felt about him. I'll get a blanket, all right?"

The tears had begun to flow; his jaw trembled with confined fury. "We're not just leaving him here for the birds, goddamnit."

"There are a lot of bodies out here. We really don't have time."

Peter shook him off. "This man was a hero. He's the reason any of us are still alive."

Caleb spoke in measured tones: "I know that, Dad. Everyone does. But the general was right. We really have to think about what comes next."

"I'll tell you what comes next. We bury this man."

"Mr. President-"

Peter turned: Jock. Someone had wrapped his ankle and found him a pair of crutches. He was sweating and a little out of breath.

"What the hell is it now?"

The man seemed uncertain.

"For God's sake, just say it."

"It looks like ... somebody's alive outside."

The gate was gone: one of the doors had been knocked askew and was hanging from a single hinge; the other lay on the ground a hundred feet inside the wall. As they moved through the opening, Peter's first, impossible impression was that it had snowed in the night. A fine, pale dust coated every surface. A moment passed before he grasped the meaning. Carter's army lay dead; their bones, now in sunlight, had begun their dissolution.

Amy was sitting near the base of the wall, arms wrapping her knees, gazing across the field. Covered in ash, she looked like a ghost, a specter from a children's story. A few feet beyond her, beside Soldier's body, lay Alicia. The horse's throat was torn open, among other things. Flies were buzzing around him, dipping in and out of his wounds.

Peter strode forward with gathering speed. Amy turned her face toward him.

"He didn't kill us," she said. She spoke as if in a daze. "Why didn't he kill us?"

Her presence barely registered in Peter's mind; it was Alicia he wanted. "You knew!" He barreled past Amy, seized Alicia by the arm, and rolled her faceup. "You fucking knew all along!"

Amy cried, "Peter, stop!"

He dropped to his knees and straddled Alicia's waist; his fingers wrapped her throat. His eyes and mind filled with the loathsome sight of her. "He was my friend!"

More voices, not just Amy's, were yelling at him, but this was a matter of no importance. They might just as well have been calling to him from the moon. Alicia was making a gurgling sound; her lips were paling to a bluish color. She was squinting into the morning light. Through these narrow slits, their gazes met. In her eyes, Peter saw not fear but fatalistic acceptance. Go ahead, her eyes said. We've done everything else together, why not this? Beneath the pads of his thumbs, he felt the stringy gristle of her trachea. He shifted them downward, positioning them in the spoonlike depression at the base of her throat. Hands had grabbed him. Some were tugging at his shoulders, others attempting to pry his fingers from her neck. "He was my friend and you killed him! You killed all of them!" One hard push to crush her larynx and that would be the end of her. "Say it, you traitor! Say you knew!"

A tremendous force yanked him away. He crashed onto his back in the dust. Hollis.

"Take a breath, Peter."

The man had positioned himself between Peter and Alicia, who had begun to cough. Amy was kneeling beside her, cradling her head.

"We all heard her," Hollis said. "She was trying to warn us."

Peter's face was burning; his hands, clenched into fists, shook with adrenaline. "She lied to us."

"I understand your anger. We all do. But she didn't know."

Peter's awareness expanded. The others were watching him in mute incomprehension. Caleb. Chase. Jock, leaning on his crutches. The old man, who was, for some reason, still carrying his bucket.

"Now, do I have your agreement to leave her be-yes or no?" Hollis said.

Peter swallowed. The fog of fury had begun to dissipate. Another moment and he nodded.

"All right, then," said Hollis.

He extended a hand and pulled Peter to his feet. Alicia's coughing had eased somewhat. Amy looked up. "Caleb, run and get Sara."

Amy waited by Alicia until Sara arrived. At the sight of Alicia, she startled.

"You're kidding me." Her voice was dispassionate, lacking all pity.

"Please, Sara," said Amy. There were tears in her eyes.

"You think I'm helping her?" Sara scanned the others. "She can go to hell."

Hollis took her by the shoulders to make her look at him. "She's not our enemy, Sara. Please believe me. And we're going to need her."

"What for?"

"To help us get out of here. Not just you and me. Pim. Theo. The girls."

A moment passed; Sara sighed and broke away. She crouched beside Alicia, passing her eyes quickly over her without expression, then looked up. "I'm not doing this with an audience. Amy, you stay. The rest of you, a little space, please."

The group backed away. Caleb took Peter aside.

"Dad? Okay?"

He wasn't sure what to say. His anger had faded, but not his doubt. He glanced past his son's shoulder. Sara was moving her hands over Alicia's chest and stomach, pressing with her fingertips.

"Yeah."

"Everybody understands."

Caleb said nothing more; neither did anyone else. A few more minutes went by before Sara rose and went to them.

"She's broken up pretty badly." Her tone was indifferent; she was doing a job, that was all. "I can't really tell the full extent. And in her case, things will probably happen differently. A couple of the gunshot wounds have closed up already, but I don't know what's happening inside. She's got a broken back, and about six other fractures I can detect."

"Will she live?" Amy asked.

"If she were anyone else, she'd be dead already. I can sew her up and set her leg. She needs to be immobilized. As for the rest ..." She shrugged without feeling. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Caleb and Chase returned with a stretcher; they carried Alicia inside. All the survivors had been brought out of the shelter and had gathered in the staging area. Jenny and Hannah were moving through the group with buckets of water and ladles. Here and there, a person was sobbing; others were talking quietly or just gazing into space.

"So what now?" Chase asked.

Peter felt unattached to everything, almost floating. Particles of ash, bitter-smelling, drifted down. The fires had begun to spread. Leaping from building to building, they would sweep down to the river, consuming everything in their path. Other parts of the city, spared from the flames, would take longer-years, decades. Rain, wind, the devouring teeth of time-all would do their work. Peter could see it in his mind. Kerrville would become one more ruin in a world of them. He was suddenly crushed by the simplicity of it all. The city had fallen; the city was gone. He felt it keenly: the stab of defeat.

"Caleb?"

"Here, Dad."

Peter turned. His son was waiting; everyone was. "We need vehicles. Buses, trucks, whatever you can find. Fuel, too. Hollis, you go with him. Ford, what do we have for power?"

"Everything's out."

"The barracks have a backup generator. See if we can get it running. We need to get a message to Michael, tell him we're coming. Sara, you'll be in charge here. People will need food and water, enough for the day. But everybody needs to stay put. No wandering off, no looking for family or retrieving belongings."

"What about a search party?" Amy asked. "There could still be people out there."

"Take two men and a vehicle. Start on the other side of the river and work your way back. Stay clear of shaded areas, and keep out of the buildings."

"I'd like to help," Jock said.

"Fine, do your best but be quick about it. You've got one hour. No passengers unless they're injured. Anyone who can walk can make it here on their own."

"What if we find more infected who haven't turned yet?" Caleb asked.

"That's up to them. Make the offer. If they don't take it, leave them where they are. It won't make any difference." He paused. "Is everyone clear?"

Nods and murmurs passed around the group.

"Then that's it," Peter said. "We're done here. Sixty minutes, people, and we're gone."

74.

They were 764 souls.

They were dirty, exhausted, terrified, confused. They rode in six buses, three to a seat; four five-tons, crammed with people; eight smaller trucks, both military and civilian, their cargo beds full of supplies-water, food, fuel. They had only a few weapons, and barely any ammunition. Among their numbers, they counted 532 children under the age of thirteen, 309 of these below the age of six. They included 122 mothers of children three and younger, including 19 women who were still nursing infants. Of the remaining 110, there were 68 men and 42 women of various ages and backgrounds. Thirty-two were, or had been, soldiers. Nine were over the age of sixty; the oldest, a widow who had sat in her house through the night, muttering to herself that all the noise outside was just a bunch of goddamn nonsense, was eighty-two. They included mechanics, electricians, nurses, weavers, shopkeepers, bootleggers, farmers, farriers, a gunsmith, and a cobbler.

One of the passengers was the drunken doctor, Brian Elacqua. Too inebriated to comprehend the orders to relocate to the dam, he had found himself, as night had fallen, wondering where everyone had gone. He had passed the twenty-four hours since his return to Kerrville drinking himself into oblivion in the abandoned house that had once been his-a miracle he had managed to find it-and awakened to a silence and darkness that disturbed him. Departing his house in search of more liquor, he reached the square just as gunfire erupted along the wall. He was profoundly disoriented and still quite drunk. Dimly he wondered, Why were people shooting? He decided to head for the hospital. It was a place he knew, a touchstone. Also, maybe someone could tell him what in the hell was going on. As he made his way there, his apprehension mounted. The gunfire had continued, and he was hearing certain other sounds as well: vehicles racing, cries of distress. As the hospital came into sight, a shout went up, followed by a barrage of shooting. Elacqua hit the dirt. He had no idea what to make of any of this; it seemed entirely unconnected to him. Also, he wondered, with sudden concern, what had become of his wife? It was true that she despised him, yet he was accustomed to her presence. Why was she not here?

These questions were shoved aside by the sound and shock of a tremendous impact. Elacqua peeled his face off the ground. A truck had crashed into the front of the building. Not just into: it had rammed straight through the wall. He got to his feet and stumbled toward it. Perhaps someone was injured, he thought. Perhaps they needed help. "Get in!" a man yelled from the cab. "Everybody in the truck!" Elacqua wobbled his way up the steps and beheld a scene of such disorder that his addled brain could not compute it. The room was full of screaming women and children. Soldiers were shoving and tossing them into the cargo bed while simultaneously shooting over their heads in the direction of the stairwell. Elacqua was caught in the crush. From the chaos, his mind distilled the image of a familiar face. Was that Sara Wilson? He had a sense that he'd seen her rather recently, though he could not pull the memory into shape. Either way, getting into the truck seemed like a good idea. He fought his way through the melee. Children were scrambling all around and underfoot. The driver of the vehicle was racing the engine. By this time, Elacqua had reached the tailgate. The truck was packed with people, barely any room at all. Also, there was the problem of getting one foot onto the bumper to hoist himself into the cargo compartment, an act requiring a degree of physical coordination he didn't think he could muster.

"Help me," he moaned.

A hand, heaven-sent, reached down. Up and into the truck he went, tumbling over bodies as the vehicle shot forward. A syncopation of bone-jarring bangs followed as the truck sailed out of the building and down the steps. Through the fog of terror and confusion, Brian Elacqua experienced a revelation: his life had been unworthy. It might not have begun that way-he'd meant to be a good and decent man-but over the years he had strayed far from the path. If I get out of this, he thought, I won't ever touch a drink again.

Which was how, sixteen hours later, Brian Elacqua came to find himself on a school bus of 87 women and children, deep in the physical and existential sorrows of acute alcohol withdrawal. It was still early morning, the light soft, with a golden color. He had, with many others, watched from the window as the city faded, then disappeared from sight. He wasn't completely sure where they were going. There was talk of a ship that would take them to safety, though he found this difficult to fathom. Why had he, of all people, a man who had squandered his life, the most worthless of worthless drunks, survived? Seated on the bench beside him was a little girl with strawberry-blond hair, tied in back with a ribbon. He supposed she was four or five. She was wearing a loose dress of thick woven fiber; her feet were dirty and bare, covered with numerous scratches and scabs. At her waist she clutched a ratty stuffed toy, some kind of animal, a bear or maybe a dog. She had yet to acknowledge him in any manner, her eyes staring forward. "Where are your parents, honey?" Elacqua asked. "Why are you alone?" "Because they're dead," the little girl stated. She did not look at him as she spoke. "They're all dead."

And with that, Brian Elacqua dropped his face to his hands, his body shaking with tears.

At the wheel of the first bus, Caleb was watching the clock. The hour was approaching noon; they had been on the road a little more than four hours. Pim and Theo sat behind him with the girls. He was down to half a tank; they planned to stop in Rosenberg, where a tanker from the isthmus would meet them to refuel. The bus was quiet; no one was talking. Lulled by the rocking of the chassis, most of the children had fallen asleep.

They had passed through the last of the outer townships when the radio crackled: "Pull over, everyone. Looks like we've lost one."

Caleb brought the bus to a halt and stepped down as his father, Chase and Amy emerged from the lead Humvee. One of the buses, the fourth in line, was parked with its hood open. Steam and liquid were pouring from its radiator.

Hollis was standing on the bumper, slapping at the engine with a rag. "I think it's the water pump."

"Can you do anything about it?" Caleb's father said. "It'd have to be fast."

Hollis jumped down. "No chance. These old things aren't built for this. I'm surprised it's taken this long for one to conk out."

"As long as we're stopped," Sara suggested, "probably the children need to go."

"Go where?"

"To the bathroom, Peter."

Caleb's father sighed impatiently. Any minute of delay was a minute they'd be driving in darkness at the other end. "Just watch for snakes. That's all we need right now."

The children filed off and were led into the weeds, girls on one side of the buses, boys on the other. By the time the convoy was ready to move again, they had been stopped for twenty minutes. A hot Texas wind was blowing. It was 0130 hours, the sun poised above them like the head of a hammer in the sky.

The patch was complete, the dock ready to fill. Michael, Lore, and Rand, in one of six pump houses along the weir, were preparing to open the vents to the sea. Greer was gone, headed with Patch to Rosenberg in the last tanker truck.

"Shouldn't we say something?" Lore asked Michael.

"How about 'Please open, you bastard'?"

The wheel had not been turned in seventeen years.

"That'll have to do," said Lore.

Michael wedged a pry bar between the spokes; Lore was holding a mallet. Michael and Rand gripped the bar and leaned in.

"Hit it now."

Lore, positioned to the side, swung the mallet. It glanced off the top of the rim.

"For God's sake." Michael's jaws were clenched, his face reddened with effort. "Hit the bastard."

Blow after blow: still the wheel refused to turn "This isn't great," Rand said.

"Let me try," said Lore.