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Or was it worse?
Had they looked into the dead eyes of their own family members—wife, children, siblings, parents—and somehow saw the screaming ghost of the people they knew. Trapped like victims behind the windows of a burning building.
Had they seen that?
Billy Trout prayed that was not the case.
He knew that if—God forbid—anything happened to Dez, if she was infected and became one of those things, and if he looked into her beautiful blue eyes and saw the person he loved there, trapped in the body of the monster she became …
He didn’t know how to even think about that without screaming.
But he knew what he would do if such a thing happened.
He wouldn’t run. And he certainly wouldn’t—couldn’t—take the headshot that would bring her down.
No, Trout was absolutely sure he would simply drop whatever weapon he held, that he would stop fighting, that he would let her take him.
Slowly, slowly, Trout backed out of the doorway and turned away. He wandered down the empty hall, careful not to step in any of the pools of disease-blackened blood, mindful of the tiny larva that wriggled in the mess. He kicked shell-casings away with shuffling feet.
When he reached the end of the hall he stopped and leaned against the wall. The satellite phone hung from his belt and he removed it and once more punched in the number for Gregory “Goat” Weinman. The phone rang.
And rang.
Goat did not pick up.
From down the hall, through the open doorway to the art room, Trout could hear sobs and the eerie echo of a broken man singing a broken lullaby to a broken little girl.
Billy Trout leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes and tried to think of a way out of this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Scott Blair was admitted to the Oval Office and was pleased to find himself alone with the president.
“You made your changes?” asked the president, holding a hand out for the speech.
“I did, Mr. President.” He handed over the papers and waited while the president read through it. Then POTUS removed his glasses and sat back in his chair to appraise him.
“This is what you want me to say?”
“This is what I think needs to be said.”
“What about the Trout video?”
“Our people are tearing it to pieces online. By morning it won’t be any part of the official story.”
“What about the popular story?”
“We’ll manage it and we’ll weather it.”
The president smiled. “You’re beginning to sound like Sylvia.”
God forbid, thought Blair, but managed a bland smile. “We have to protect the administration if we’re going to win this.”
“We beat this, Scott. Not sure why everyone else thinks so and you don’t.”
