“Slow them down,” he snapped.

“I don’t—”

“Do what you did before, but less. Slow them down.”

With her heart banging in her throat, she held up a hand, tried to imagine pushing the car back, just pushing it backward.

She saw it fishtail, then miraculously slow. How is this happening? she thought. A few weeks ago she could barely light a candle, and now … now she was the one burning with light.

“Keep it up. Just hold it. We only need a couple minutes.”

“I’m afraid if I … It could be like the motorcycle. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Just hold steady, there’s the bridge. And fuck me! They’ve lifted the span. I didn’t think of it. I should’ve thought of it.”

Losing her focus, she turned and saw the span of the lift bridge raised high. And the gap between it and the road.

“We have to turn off!”

“No. We have to lower it.” He gripped her hand again. “Together. We can do it together. Focus, Lana, you know how. Focus on bringing it down, or we’re done.”

He thought too much of her abilities, of her spine. But his hand held tight to hers, and she felt his power vibrate. Whatever she had, she pushed toward him.

She trembled from the effort, felt everything inside her shift and … expand. And with a jolt, like blowing on a candle, the span began to lower.

“It’s working. But—”

“Stay focused. We’re going to make it.”

But they were going too fast, and the span was lowering so slowly. Behind them, sirens screamed.

Together, she thought. Live or die. Closing her eyes, she pushed harder.

She heard a thud, felt the car jump and shake.

“Lift it!” Max shouted.

Through the buzzing in her ears, the buzzing through her body, she pushed again. Opened her eyes. For a moment, she thought they were flying.

She whipped around, saw the span lifting, foot by foot behind them. The pursuing car screeched to a stop at the far edge.

“Max. Where is this coming from? How can we do these things? This power, this kind of power, it’s terrifying and…”

“Exhilarating? A shift of balance, an opening. I don’t know, but can’t you feel it?”

“Yes. Yes.” An opening, she thought, and so much more.

“We got out,” Max reassured her. He brought her hand to his lips, but didn’t slow down as they zoomed over the tracks. “We’ll find a way over. Get some water out of the pack, take some deep breaths. You’re shaky.”

“People … people are trying to kill us.”

“We won’t let them.” When he turned his head to look at her, his eyes burned dark gray and fierce. “We’ve got a long way to go, Lana, but we’re going to make it.”

She let her head fall back against the headrest, closed her eyes to try to steady her pulse, to clear the fear haze from her mind.

“It’s so strange,” she murmured. “All the time I’ve lived in New York, this is the first time I’ve been to the Bronx.”

His laugh surprised her as it rolled out, so rich, so easy. “Well, it’s a hell of a first trip.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Jonah Vorhies wandered the chaos of the ER. People still streamed or stumbled in, as if the building itself offered miracles. They came in hacking and puking, bleeding and dying. Most from the Doom, some from the Doom’s by-product of violence.

GSWs, knife wounds, broken bones, head injuries.

Some sat quietly, hopelessly, like the man with the boy of about seven in his lap. Or the woman with glassy, feverish eyes praying with a rosary. Death spread so thick in them, so black, he knew they wouldn’t last the day.

Others raged, screaming, demanding, spittle flying out of snarling mouths. He thought it a shame their last act in life would be one of such ugliness.

Fights broke out regularly, but rarely lasted long. The virus so destroyed the body that even a world champ would drop after giving or receiving a couple of punches.

The medical staff, what was left of them, did what they could. There were beds available, he knew. Oh, there were plenty of beds, open ORs, treatment rooms. But not enough doctors, nurses, interns, orderlies to treat and stitch and staunch.

No beds in the morgue—he knew that, too. No vacancies there, and bodies piled up like grim Lincoln Logs.

Most of the medical staff? Dead or fled. Patti, his partner of four years. Patti, the mother of two who’d loved head-banging rock, horror movies (the grislier the better), and Mexican food—don’t spare the Tabasco—had fled, kids in tow, to Florida during week two. She’d fled because her father—avid golfer living the good life in Tampa—had died, and her mother—retired teacher, literacy volunteer, ardent knitter—was dying.

He’d seen the Doom in Patti, along with her fear, her grief, when she’d said good-bye. He’d known he’d never see her again.

Her, or the cute nurse who’d liked scrubs with kittens or puppies on them. The gum-snapping orderly, the eager intern who hoped to be a surgeon, and dozens, dozens more.

They dropped like flies, some at home, some struggling to work. He’d brought in a few himself—by himself now. Like the hospital staff, paramedics, EMTs, firefighters, cops had all seen their ranks decimated.

Dead or fled.

Rachel lived—pretty, dedicated Dr. Hopman. He’d see her fighting against the tide of the Doom. Overworked, exhausted, but never panicked. He’d come to look for her, to look into her.

She gave him hope.

Then he’d stay away, locked in his apartment, locked in the dark because hope hurt.

But he’d come back, looking for that tiny spark, that bit of light in a cruel world. And all he saw was death, pressing at him, clawing at him, mocking him for his ability to see it and do nothing.

So he wandered the ER, wandered out of it, accepting the decision he’d made in the dark. This would be his last time to search for hope.

He looked to treatment rooms, saw death. Looked at supply rooms, saw the ravages there.

Maybe he’d take a tour, one last tour.

Outside of the ER, the hospital echoed like a tomb. Maybe that was appropriate, he thought. Maybe that was a sign. And God knew the quiet soothed.

Everything would be quiet soon.

He walked into the staff break room—he had some good memories in there he wanted to take with him. He saw Rachel sitting at one of the tables, drawing her own blood.

“What’re you doing?”

She looked up. Worry, fatigue, still no panic. Still no Doom.

“Close the door, Jonah.” She capped the sample, labeled it, set it with others in a rack. “I’m drawing blood. I’m immune. More than four weeks, and I’m asymptomatic. I’ve been exposed multiple times, and show no signs of the virus. Neither do you,” she observed. “Sit down. I want a sample.”

“Why?”

Calmly, she opened a fresh syringe. “Because everyone I’ve treated—every single patient—has died. Because I believe you brought Patient Zero into my ER: Ross MacLeod.”

When his legs went watery, Jonah sat.

“I…”

“I sent a report to the CDC weeks ago when I looked at the timeline, but I never heard back. They’re dying, too. I can’t get through, but I’ll try to send another report tomorrow. I want time before they get to us. Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve.”

“‘Get to us’?”

“They’re in New York now—New York City, Chicago, D.C., L.A., Atlanta, of course.” She snapped on the rubber tourniquet. “Make a fist,” she said before she swabbed the inside of his elbow. “Doing sweeps. Looking for immunes like you and me, taking them in for testing. Whether or not they want to be taken.”

“How do you know?”

She smiled a little, sliding the needle in with barely a prick. “Doctors talk to doctors. I have a friend doing her residency in Chicago. Had. I think she’s dead now.”

When her voice broke, she sat a moment, breathing in and breathing out until she steadied.

“They came in—hazmat suits, tested staff. She didn’t pass, but they took away the ones who did. That was three days ago. Her brother worked at Sibley in D.C. They’ve taken that over. A combination task force sort of thing. CDC, NIH, WHO. They moved the sick to other area hospitals. Culled some out for observation, testing. The immune are in quarantine. Military quarantine. Her brother managed to get out and contact her, warn her. She did the same for me.”