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“So all you have to do to break quarantine is shout ‘move’?” I asked, beginning to load my pockets with ammunition. I considered grabbing a new gun, but dismissed the idea. Nothing but George’s .40 was going to feel right in my hand. “Wow. Normally, I need a pair of wire cutters and some night-vision goggles.”

“Gonna pretend you never said that.”

“Probably for the best.”

Carlos emerged from the guard station and tossed a set of keys to Steve, who caught them in an easy underhand. “We can unlock the rear gate, but once the central computer realizes the seal’s been broken—”

“How long can we have?”

“Thirty seconds.”

“That’s long enough. You two hold your ground. Keep anyone who makes it here safe. Mason, you’re with me.”

“Yes sir!” I said, with a mocking salute. Steve shook his head and pressed the signal button on the key fob. One of the SUVs turned its lights on. Showtime.

Once we were inside, belts fastened and weapons secured, Steve started the engine and drove us to the gate. Carlos was already waiting, ready to hit the manual override. The manual exits exist in case of accidental or ineffective lockdown, to give the uninfected a chance to escape. They require a blood test and a retinal scan, and breaking quarantine without a damn good reason is a quick way to get yourself sent to prison for a long time. Carlos was risking a lot on Steve’s order.

“That’s what I call a chain of command,” I said to myself, as the gate slid open.

“What’s that?” asked Steve.

“Nothing. Just go.”

We went.

The roads outside the Center were clear. That’s standard for the time immediately following a confirmed outbreak in a noncongested area. The people inside the quarantine zone will survive or not without interference; it’s all up to them the minute the fences come down. So the big health orgs and military intervention teams wait until the worst of it’s had time to burn itself out before they head in. Let the infection peak. Ironically, that makes it safer, because it’s trying to save the survivors that gets people killed. Once you know everyone around you is already dead, it gets easier to shoot without asking questions.

“How long since the quarantine went down?” I asked.

“Thirty-seven minutes.”

Standard CDC response time says you leave a quarantine to cook for forty-five minutes before you go in. Given our proximity to the city, they wouldn’t just be responding by air; they’d be sending in ground support to make sure nobody broke quarantine before they declared it safe. “Shit.” With eight minutes between us and the end of the cooking time, we needed to get out of sight. “How good’s the balance on this thing?”

“Pretty good. Why?”

“Quarantine. It’s going to be forty-five minutes since the bell real soon here, and that means we’re gonna have company. Now, I’ve got a way out, but only if you trust me. If you don’t, we’re probably gonna get the chance to tell some nice men why we’re out here. Assuming they don’t just shoot first.”

“Kid, I’m already committed. Just tell me where to go.”

“Take the next left turn.”

Being a good Irwin is partially dependant on knowing as many ways to access an area as possible. That includes the location of handy things like, say, railroad trestle bridges across the American River. See, they used to run trains through Sacramento, back when people traveled that way. The system’s abandoned now, except for the automated cargo trains, but they run on a fixed schedule. I’ve had it memorized for years.

Steve started swearing once he realized where we were going, and he kept swearing as he pulled the SUV onto the tracks and floored the gas, trusting momentum and the structure of the trestle to keep us from plunging into the river. I grabbed the oh-shit handle with one hand and whooped, bracing the other hand on the dashboard. I couldn’t help myself. Everything was going to hell, George was dead, and I was on my way to commit either treason or suicide, but who the hell cared? I was off-roading across a river in a government SUV. Sometimes, you just gotta kick back and enjoy what’s going on around you.

We were halfway across the river when the first CDC copters passed overhead, zooming toward the Center. Three more followed close behind, in closed arrow formation. Fascinated, I leaned over and clicked on the radio, tuning it to the emergency band. “—repeat, this is not a drill. Remain in your homes. If you are on the road, remain in your vehicle until you have reached a safe location. If you have seen or had direct contact with infected individuals, contact local authorities immediately. Repeat, this is not a drill. Remain in—”

Steve turned the radio off. “Breaking quarantine is a federal offense, isn’t it?”

“Only if they catch us.” I settled back in my seat. “Doesn’t bother me much, and they’re not looking down.”

“All right, then.” He hit the gas again. The SUV rolled faster, hitting the end of the trestle and blazing onward toward the city. He glanced at me as we drove, saying, “I’m sorry about your sister. She was a good woman. She’ll be missed.”

“That’s appreciated, Steve.” The idea of looking at his face—it would be so earnest, if his words were anything to judge by, so anxious for understanding—made me tired all over again. There was nothing I could do now, nothing I could do until we got to the hall and to the man who had killed my sister. So I looked at my hands as I cleaned and reloaded Georgia’s gun, and I was silent, and we drove on.

but they were us, our children, our selves,

These shades who walk the cloistered dark,

With empty eyes and clasping hands,

And wander, isolate, alone, the space between

Forgiveness and the penitent’s grave.

—From Eakly, Oklahoma,