“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.