Zehra shook so badly, the gun fell from her hand and clattered onto the sidewalk. Great sobs tore through her chest. When she looked across the lawn, Michael was lying in a still lump, facing away from her. Rain bounced off his upraised hip.
She heard Paul moan and turned to him.
“Tourniquet—” he gasped and pointed at his belt.
Zehra pulled on the buckle while he rolled to his side. When she had it out, Zehra wrapped it around his thigh, just under his crotch, and stretched as tightly as she could, tucking the loose end under the strap.
Paul fell back and rested a while.
“What—what happened?” Zehra said.
“Call 911.”
“Oh, yeah, of course.” Zehra pulled out his phone, sheltered it under her jacket, and called. Curious people edged toward them.
“You friend is a terrorist, Zehra. I’m sorry to tell you.”
“I guessed that earlier tonight.” Her stomach turned over and she felt sick. “I killed—”
“You didn’t have any choice. You saved your own life—and mine.”
“I don’t know what—”
Paul interrupted her. “Why were you here?”
“Michael invited me to the Science Expo.”
He propped himself up on an elbow. “Here, tonight, with lots of people. Were all these people inside?”
“Yeah, why?”
Paul’s face contorted in pain. He grabbed the phone from Zehra and keyed in a number. “Bill,” he grunted, “get everyone to the Hiawatha Academy right now. We got the wrong place. Ammar is here.” He slumped back.
In five minutes an ambulance and police car pulled into the lot. Two emergency techs jumped out. One ran to Paul and the other to Michael. The second one came back to the group quickly. “Gone,” he said.
Within a short time, they’d examined Paul and fixed up what they could under the circumstances. “Hit a lot of muscle, but I don’t think it touched any bone,” one of the techs said.
When Zehra looked at Paul, the color had returned to his face. She felt cold and started to shake. Another tech wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.
“Someone’s got to get inside the school,” Paul said. “Check the ventilation systems.” He reached for the pair of crutches a tech handed him. Paul stood, propped the crutches under his arms, wobbled and righted himself. He identified himself as an FBI agent to the police officer and explained that help was on the way. Then he pulled Zehra aside and gave her the ten-second version of the smallpox launch and what was being done to contain the spread.
Zehra swayed for a moment. It was too much, and her brain threatened to shut down.
“When the CDC gets here, I’ll get you vaccinated.”
In a few minutes, Zehra saw people in white coats erecting a small tent in the corner of the yard. The rain had tapered to a drizzle. A burly man charged toward them. He tossed a cigarette to the side.
“My boss,” Paul said.
Next, a black woman in a white coat came over to Paul. “Did you find any evidence? Any patients?” she asked Paul.
His lips thinned. “There’s probably a delivery system connected to the ventilation system. This lady, Zehra, has probably been infected.” Paul nodded toward Zehra.
The black woman motioned for her partners to go inside. Masked, they left immediately. Someone found chairs for Zehra and Paul inside the small tent. Paul brushed off attempts to get him in the ambulance. “Just a minute,” he insisted. He finished telling Zehra about the plot and the dangers they all faced now.
Zehra started to cry. She couldn’t stop. The unbelievable horror of it all, the deception, lies, and smashed hopes flooded through her tears.
The black woman, Dr. Johnson, spoke to Zehra. “Take it slow, honey. What can you remember in there?”
Zehra told her about the Science Expo and how all the people had walked by.
“How long was the Expo?”
“Several hours.”
Her face remained relaxed, but Zehra could see the corners of her eyes wrinkle up. “Was Ammar with you?”
“No. I mean, yes. Why are you—?”
“Honey, all of you inside were probably zapped with maybe triple the dosage necessary for infection and transmission.” She glanced at Paul. “Expand the perimeter,” she barked.
Zehra felt sick. “Paul said you had a vaccine.”
“We do, but I have to tell you, we’re not one hundred percent sure it’ll work. Depends on the strain of this virus.” Her eyes grew round and soft. “We’ll do everything we can, honey. Don’t worry.” She turned around, walked a few steps, and slapped her hands together. A man in a white coat ducked under the side tarp and whispered to Dr. Johnson. “Good work,” she told him. “Get it on the jet to Atlanta, like yesterday.”
Paul struggled with his phone. Zehra could tell he was at the breaking point and should get to a hospital. He ordered someone to quarantine the zone.
Johnson asked if the ambulance was still waiting. “These two need immediate attention. Where’s the closest hospital? When these kids and families get sick, they’ll crash the first line of defense. We’ve got to warn those hospitals.”
Conway said, “But how wide should we make the quarantine? We don’t know where the hell the families went after the Expo.” His stomach jiggled as he paced.
Dr. Johnson held up her hands. “Hold your butts, boys. Don’t you get it? All these people are hot. Everyone they come in contact with will also be infected. Families, neighbors, gas stations, anywhere they stop on the way home.”
Another man who looked East Indian ducked under the tarp and came inside. They all looked at him. “What do you think, Dr. Kumar?” Paul asked.
His face got even darker. “I hate to tell you, but even with a low multiplier, this will spread like wildfire. It may already be too big for the defenses we have.”
Conway stopped moving. In a quiet voice, he said, “I’ll call Homeland Security.”
Dr. Johnson said, “We have to go public now. We need maximum cooperation if there’s going to be any chance for success. Unfortunately, what will happen is that everyone with flu-like symptoms will access the medical system—even if they aren’t infected with variola. That will crash the entire system, denying help for people with the real infection.”
Outside the tent, the ambulance backed up to take Paul and Zehra to the hospital. Zehra stood while Paul was strapped to a gurney and slid in through the doors. There was a line of squad cars circling the parking lot.
Four green trucks rolled across the wet pavement toward the school. Brakes squealed as they stopped. From the back end of each one, dozens of soldiers erupted into the lot. They fanned out as if a cue ball had struck the triangle of stationary balls on a pool table. They carried weapons and wore gas masks.
As Zehra stepped up into the ambulance, she heard a cop tell someone, “National Guard. They’re taking over now.”
Chapter Forty-Five