A total of nine refugees showed up at Ed's house, some on foot, others in trunks of cars that sped straight away after dropping them off. This number included a young couple with an infant, the three of whom Ed had been hiding in his hunting shack.

My third grade teacher, who had come to the granary, was nowhere to be seen. But the Botteroffs were there, quietly hanging on to one another, waiting for instruction. The rest were kids, two girls and two guys, I guessed ranging in age from sixteen to twenty. I didn't recognize any of them. They looked like maybe they'd been dumped into the quarantine zone from some Denver suburb.

Right away Chris distributed sandwich bags filled with antibiotics.

"Three times a day," he told everyone. "Don't forget. You're going to feel fatigued. There's no way around that. And many of you will experience unusually vivid dreams. But for now, this is the only way we know how to slow the progression of the disease."

Everyone eyed the pills warily, but I didn't see anyone who chose not to take one. None of the refugees looked like they were any later than stage two, and they were obviously terrified of moving on to stage three.

My plan was to ride through the night. Judging by my dad's map, I thought we'd be able to reach the ruins by sunset the next day, if we left right away. We couldn't afford to wait around. Ed said the Home Guard always arrived at his place in the evening on residential patrol, and it was already late afternoon.

I kept the horses tethered together, put people two to a horse, and told them basically to hold on tight. Nobody was happy when I passed around the blindfolds, but Ed gave a little speech and insisted that it was necessary to protect the secrecy of the hideout.

He handed me a pair of hiking boots, only one size too big, and hugged me.

"Good luck, Ashley. Thank you. You're a saint."

"Let's hope this works out," I said. . .

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