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Oddly, his back no longer hurt, as if somehow whatever had been dislocated before had slid back into place. What a small and random mercy that was. It felt cheap and out of place when so many others were so badly hurt and needed comfort more than he did.
A shape moved above him and it took Trout several seconds to focus his eyes.
Woman shape. Blond, haggard, filthy.
Beautiful.
“Dez…” he breathed.
Dez Fox bent and kissed his forehead, and his eyes, and his lips. Then she bent and whispered into his ears. “Don’t ever leave me, Billy Trout. Don’t you dare.”
He constructed what he hoped was a smile. “Not a chance.”
The bus—for that’s now what he realized it was—jounced and bounced as it rolled. Trout tried to sit up and nearly passed out again. He took a ragged breath and tried it again, this time with her help.
“Where are we?”
“Center of town,” she said. “Doll Factory.”
Trout saw Sam Imura sitting with Gypsy near the front of the bus. They sat in identical postures, forearms on knees, heads bent. In weariness or defeat?
No, he realized. In grief.
“Moonshiner?” Trout asked quietly.
Dez shook her head. “No.”
“Damn.”
“We … we lost Uriah Piper, too. And Mrs. Madison. Ten others.”
He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the way those words twisted her mouth. “Any of the kids?”
“No,” she said. Tears cut silvery scars through the grime on her face. “We saved the kids, Billy. We saved them.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
Homer Gibbon said, “You get it all done? You upload all the film we did? The interviews and such?”
“Everything,” said Goat weakly. “Everything’s out there.”
It was true. All of the video files had been uploaded to YouTube, with crosslinks on Twitter, Facebook, and other social media. Goat could only imagine the feeding frenzy.
He’d also sent Volker’s notes out. By now it had been received by thousands and thousands of news sources. He even sent it to the White House, the CDC, and the Department of Homeland Security. Maybe it would do some good.
But he had his doubts.
While he waited for Homer, Goat checked the online news services. Lucifer 113 was already spreading beyond Stebbins. The president was set to address the nation, and the Emergency Broadcast Network had replaced most of the regular stations.
This was it. This was the actual end.
Volker had called it a doomsday weapon, and tonight was the first night of the end of the world. Goat was sure of it.
He was certain for two reasons.
First, because of the news stories of the infection spreading. He didn’t know—nor, apparently did the reporters—whether the “viral outbreak” as they were calling it, could be contained and eradicated. Maybe it could. There were some pretty extreme measures the government could take.
