Anger lit up Tim’s face and neck. “You can’t stop me. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Horne shrugged. “Actually, I can. That’s my job.”

Tim clutched the blanket around himself. He wanted to jump up, fight his way out of the room. Run all the way to Seattle then and there. They wouldn’t let him do that, however. They would probably shoot him if he tried. There were plenty of guns in the room, on Horne’s hip, slung over the shoulders of the two adult soldiers.

Wait for it, he told himself. Wait to make your next move.

Another thought burst through him. Fuck that. I’ve waited long enough. “Just give me back my pack and drop me in the PZ. Anywhere in Seattle. You can throw me out of a helicopter so you never have to set foot in there yourself.”

Horne smiled sadly. “It’s my duty to protect the citizens of Olympia. Which as of now includes you, Kempfer.” Tim started to say something more but Horne held up a hand for silence. “I’m not interested in hearing your ideas of how best to do that job.”

He gestured to the boy soldier in the blank uniform. The kid reached behind the desk and brought out Tim’s ragged backpack. The zipper had been cut away and it sagged open emptily like a toothless mouth.

“You can have your things back. We burned your clothes and your hat in case there were any virus crystals adhering to them—can’t be too careful these days.”

Tim grabbed the pack and thrust his hand inside. He knew the contents intimately, having lived for a month on only what he could carry around. He didn’t find what he was looking for.

“Your peashooter stays here,” Horne told him. He took the Smith and Wesson 22A out of a pocket of his fatigues and waggled it in the air. “We have a strict policy about civilians and weapons. They aren’t allowed any.”

“You know how dangerous the infected are,” Tim said. “What if I need to defend myself?”

“The camp where you’ll be staying is under a hygiene order. Everyone receives regular checkups. If they show any sign of viral load they’re moved to the stockade. I know it sounds like medical fascism. I prefer to call it security. There are no infecteds in the camp and there never will be. My men and I defend the place with our lives. That means you’ll be watched at all times, by the way. I keep track of my charges, very close track. There will be no more stupidity tolerated in my city.”

Tim closed his eyes and tried not to cry. He had gotten so close, just to be locked up in an evacuation camp. It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t over, he promised himself.

“If you want to commit suicide you can do it the old fashioned way,” Horne said, sounding as if he were just about through with Tim. “Though we’ll try to stop you if you try, of course. I’m turning you over to this man,” he said, nodding at the civilian in the fishing cap. “He’ll show you how things work here.”

“Paul Brezinski,” the civilian said, standing up and holding out his hand. “They call me Buzzard.”

“Brezinski is a member of the Evacuee Oversight Committee,” Horne explained. “He’s been here to make sure you weren’t unduly mistreated. Mr. Brezinski, was our friend here beaten or abused in any way in your presence?”

“No,” Buzzard said, shaking his head.

“Does he appear to have been harmed or given rough treatment before you arrived?”

Buzzard said no again. He had the same tone Tim had used when he’d been asked at the airport if he’d packed his own bags. This was just a formality, Tim realized.

“Please take him to Camp Romeo, then, and see to it he receives an allotment of clothing. Get him a place to stay and a hot meal.”

Tim stared at the Colonel, saying nothing.

“I admire your tenacity, Mr. Kempfer,” Horne said, finally, sounding bored. “I admire how you’ve stayed alive so far. Now let me take things from here.”

Tim felt spit building up in his mouth. He swallowed it carefully. “Am I dismissed, then?”

Horne smiled. “Civilians are not dismissed, Mr. Kempfer. They are free to come and go as they please. Ah, well, within certain parameters. There’s one last thing I require and then we’re finished.” He nodded to one of the soldiers, who came forward holding a plastic case in his hand. The soldier had a caduceus on his collar—he had to be a doctor of some kind. He opened the case and took out a syringe with a wide-bore needle. The barrel of the syringe was full of clear liquid with something shiny like a flake of metal floating inside. He took Tim’s arm gently and looked him in the eye.

“Please don’t flinch or pull away,” the doctor said. Then he jabbed the needle in Tim’s forearm and pushed down on the plunger. It hurt—a lot—but Tim just gritted his teeth. As the doctor swabbed down his arm with alcohol and put a bandage over the puncture wound Tim expected someone to give him an explanation, but they didn’t. That was alright. He could pretty much guess what they’d done.

“That was an RFID chip, wasn’t it?” Tim asked, looking at Horne. “Inserted subcutaneously. So you can track my movements. Now that is what I call medical fascism.”

“I call it keeping order. Goodbye, Mr. Kempfer. If you wish to talk to me about anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to come to my office.” Horne nodded sharply and then walked out of the room, his soldiers and the uniformed boy following without a word.

“Come on,” Buzzard said. “I can imagine all the things going on in your head right now. But they can wait until we find you some pants, right?”