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Four men in beige containment suits hustled down the loading ramp, making way for the ’dozer. Hernandez might have been any of them. Another soldier stood by the jeep, untangling a yellow tie-down. They had arranged their crates, fuel cans, and spare tires in rows across the long trailer’s front and rear, which looked like a defensive arrangement but was more likely constructed for balance and safety. Many of them would travel sitting on the trailer, and six troops had jogged up the freeway with gas cans and a starter kit to find a truck or a station wagon that could carry everyone else.

Ruth and her two colleagues had crowded into the jeep as soon as it was clear, a choice that reminded Cam uncomfortably of the way Jim Price insisted on staying with the pickup. Two of them sat in back, helmets bent over her laptop, and the third had twisted around in the passenger seat to participate. They were silent, relegated to their own frequency. Hernandez had put the scientists on channel four not long after takeoff, when it became apparent that they were going to talk talk talk.

The odd shape on the left was Ruth. Her cast prevented her from using her sleeve or from wearing her air tanks correctly, because that arm was tucked inside the chest of her suit, so the soldiers had rigged an extra waist strap, neatly folding up and taping her sleeve. Still, Hernandez had cautioned her to be careful, and Ruth said he could guarantee she wouldn’t move at all if he piled another five hundred pounds on her back.

Cam admired her style and her rare ability to shine. He would have liked to talk more, to be close to her again, but he had been stuck in the role of babysitter and she was totally absorbed with D.J. and Todd.

The bulldozer rolled out at a crawl, then accelerated around the far side of the plane, its fat, ribbed tires sending a tremor through the asphalt. Beyond the plane’s nose, it angled across the freeway more nimbly than Cam would have believed.

He leaned into Sawyer’s range of vision. “You ready?” The faceplates in their soft rubber helmets were broad but still hindered the peripheral vision—

Sawyer had his eyes screwed shut, lips open, jaw working, a hideous fish in a tight-fitting bowl.

Cam patted his shoulder, his textured glove rasping on the smoother material. “Hey.” Could he be trying to clear his ears because his suit was overpressurized? “Hey, Sawyer. Jesus.”

During the plane’s descent over the city, their beige suits began to collapse and cling at their bodies. The C-130 could have maintained the same pressure as the mountaintop, the same safe pressure, but Hernandez hadn’t wanted to subject their outfits to the real test after they were on the ground. Instead, two Special Forces soldiers had hurried among them, adjusting the pop valves on their backs to equalize with sea level. Was it possible that Sawyer had only pretended to follow directions to yawn and swallow to keep his eardrums from hurting?

It had been one of Sawyer’s worst days from the start.

His belly had yet to recover from the beef ribs and he’d shaken his head at breakfast, squalling when Cam put a spoonful of freeze-dried eggs to his lips — and there was no way to eat or drink inside a containment suit. Cam only hoped he’d mellow as he weakened instead of becoming more irritated.

The son of a bitch had struggled as best he could when they fit him into his gear, because he hated having so little control over his own body or possibly because he recognized that he’d be forced to wear the same diaper as long as he was inside it. The suits came with bladder pockets and a relief tube that could be slipped onto a penis much like a condom, yet Cam had been guaranteed that this device would slip off, with no adjustment possible, leaving him filling his boot. All of them had chosen adult diapers instead. There was no alternative.

Cam’s diet had been so limited for so long he was normally constipated, but the antibiotics had upset his gut. Not long after getting up he’d endured two loose, wretched movements, then prayed that his body was done. Any embarrassment would be a small thing compared to the day’s potential, but he didn’t want anyone to regard him with the same disgust that darkened their eyes when they looked at Sawyer.

He didn’t want Ruth to look at him that way.

Sawyer had kicked again when their suits began to collapse during the descent, and after he’d dislodged his headset he’d thrashed all the harder, confused and half-blinded by the light aluminum frame. Hernandez ordered the plane back up to safe altitude, where they’d unsealed Sawyer’s helmet and pulled his radio altogether. Cam had suggested that Sawyer would only get tangled in it again — and the headsets weren’t necessary. The suits muffled voices but the last thing they needed was Sawyer battling loose gear instead of focusing on his job.

“Hey!” Cam prodded his shoulder again, rough with concern. “Do your ears hurt? Look at me.”

Sawyer turned his head slightly, not upward at Cam but down toward where he’d been touched. His eyes did not open and his lips continued to work in that weird chewing motion.

“I think I need help.” Cam waved at the soldiers so they’d know who was speaking. “Hey, help.”

Hernandez lifted one arm in acknowledgment. He had been exchanging gestures with another suit, talking on the command channel, but switched to the general frequency in midsyllable. “—ield.” He strode toward Cam, his glove still at the radio control on his belt. “What’s the problem?”

“Sawyer’s suit might be giving him trouble, the pressure.”

Hernandez glanced into Cam’s eyes before ducking to check on Sawyer. The major’s lean face was hard, measuring, yet eased slightly even as he moved past.

Words could not have conveyed his assessment of Cam any better. Hernandez had worried that Cam was panicky, imagining failures in their equipment now that they were deep into the plague — and his decision, his confidence, made Cam proud. It made him feel stronger and more complete.

Hernandez gingerly squeezed Sawyer’s arm, testing the suit’s rigidity, then stepped behind him to examine the gauge on his air hose. “Captain,” Hernandez said. “Over here.”

A shriek of metal cut through them, abrading steel. Cam jumped, his helmet loud with voices, then shuffled to keep his balance for several heartbeats before he realized that it was the ground vibrating instead of his legs. The bulldozer. “Jesus—” But the radio had quieted immediately and he shut his mouth, mimicking their discipline. He tried to look over his shoulder, limited by the suit, and shuffled his feet again as he bent his entire upper body.

The exit ramp they planned to use was thick with vehicles.

Nosing into the jam, the ’dozer rammed its iron blade underneath a burgundy sedan and lifted it onto its side. The sedan bashed into another car, its roof crumpling like a wad of paper. Then the bulldozer shoved into the sedan’s belly and powered both vehicles aside. Strewn behind were gleaming patterns of glass, plastic, and chrome.

Hernandez had jumped too, throwing his arms out from his sides. Beneath his mustache was a rare smile, which he must have thought no one else could see. It was gone when he looked around. “I think we’re okay here,” he said, stepping back from the wheelchair to make room for the Special Forces captain.

Sawyer was blinking inside his Plexiglas, aroused by the tremendous noise; the screech of steel on asphalt; the groaning bass roar of the bulldozer’s engine.

Cam knelt clumsily, rocking his head from side to side until he drew Sawyer’s attention. “How do you feel? Your ears hurt?”

“The suit’s fine,” the captain said, softly enough that Sawyer wouldn’t hear since he lacked a radio.

“Mm tired.” Sawyer stared at Cam with puzzled misery, perhaps blaming him.

“Try to rest.” He stood before his anger could show.