A wheeled metal stand rolled in the street, long and glistening in the low light. It looked like the kind of thing you would use to hang up an IV bag. It was seriously out of place outside the deserted ball park.

Tim froze, the fear bursting foul bubbles in his stomach. He couldn’t see where the IV stand had come from, couldn’t see much of anything. He peered into the darkness and saw a shipping contained maybe fifty feet away. He’d seen hundreds of the things since he came back to Seattle but this one was in the wrong place. Nor was it exactly like the others. Those had been featureless rectangular boxes, distinguished only by their colors and the white serial numbers painted on their sides. This one was blue, and had its own number, but there was more to it as well. Long thick black electrical cables snaked out of the far end and a complicated antenna assembly stuck up from its top.

Its door, on the side facing him, was open a crack, and flapping slightly back and forth as if shoved by passing breezes. There was no wind that Tim could feel, however.

He watched the door creep open another few inches. A splash of thin blue light leaked from inside as if someone in there was watching television. The door clanged noisily and then slapped open as a hospital gurney shot out, its wheels clattering on the uneven pavement. It traveled a dozen feet or so and then tilted over on its side and smashed to the ground.

A drooler lay strapped down to its thin mattress, its bald grey head thrusting forward again and again, its teeth gnashing. It was completely secure where it was but Tim didn’t approach it, didn’t want to get anywhere near it.

That revulsion probably saved his life. The door clanged open again and droolers started pouring out. They were dressed all alike in black-stained paper scrubs, their heads wrapped in plastic shower caps. Some had tubes or wires hanging from their chests and mouths. Their skin hung slack on their bones and their faces were thin and emaciated.

What were they doing in there? They looked like they’d been under medical care. The container was full of equipment and beds. But what—why?

Tim thought maybe he knew what it meant. Safeco Field was behind him, and just north of that was Qwest Field where the Seahawks had played. The capacity of the two stadiums and their proximity to the docks must have made them perfect collection points for the evacuees when it came time to abandon Seattle. Yet amongst the healthy, terrified people looking to get to safety there must have been some who had already been infected. They must have been shoved inside the container, given whatever medical treatment was available in the chaos.

And then, when everyone else got to leave, they must have been left there to rot.

“Horne,” Tim breathed, shaking his head. “It was your order, wasn’t it?” The Colonel had locked up his own infected—his soldiers—in his stockade at Fort Lewis. Apparently civilian infected hadn’t merited the same level of respect.

The droolers came toward him slowly, their arms at their sides. He could see in their slack faces, though, and their biting teeth, what they wanted with him.

Maybe there would be a chance to confront Horne with this horror later. Tim drew his revolver. Then he counted the droolers. They must have been stacked in bunks inside—there were far more of them than he would have thought could fit in one storage container. He didn’t have an exact count but he knew there were plenty more of them than there were bullets in his gun.

He turned around, the fear threatening to paralyze him if he kept looking at the slowly creeping mass of droolers. He turned toward the entrance of Safeco Field, then to the street that ran past it. If he kept his calm, if he didn’t trip over something in the dark, he knew he could outrun the infected. He could put them behind him and after a few blocks of pursuit surely they would lose his scent and give up. He didn’t need to shoot every drooler he saw—that would be a waste of time and ammunition.

He leaned forward into a fast jog, trying to pace himself. Behind him the droolers came shambling on, their savaged brains slowing them down, ruining their balance and their coordination. They walked like drunkards, like the extremely old. Tim was in decent shape for his age and he was certain he would get away.

Then he saw the road in front of him blocked by vehicles, dozens of them driven up on the sidewalks, slammed together in bad collisions, knocked sideways by military bulldozers that had themselves been pushed to the side for bigger vehicles. He couldn’t see a way through, no gap big enough to squeeze past. He would have to climb over the barrier. That was okay, he told himself. That was just fine. Droolers couldn’t climb after him. They lacked the motor skills. Just one quick scurry up over the cab of a pickup truck and then he would be past, he would have a barrier between himself and his pursuers, he grabbed a side mirror and hauled himself upward, his foot on the rough surface of a tire. Just a little further—he slid up onto the hood, stopped to take a glance backwards. The droolers had closed with him to about twenty feet back. That was—that was fine—he looked forward, looked toward the road beyond the traffic jam.

Up ahead, each of them connected by long snaking power cables, were at least ten more of the cargo containers turned into makeshift hospitals. Some were still shut tight, their doors jumping on their hinges as the droolers inside fought to get out. Others were wide open and spilling blue light over the sea of cars and trucks.