Year One by Nora Roberts

words. “Biological warfare? Terrorism.”
    â€œNo buzz on that, just nada, and you bet your fine ass they’ve been looking. Whatever the hell it is, nobody’s ever seen it before. What’s left of the powers-that-be? They’re lying, falling back on the let’s-not-cause-panic bullshit. Well, fuck that. Panic’s here.”
    â€œIf they can’t identify the virus, they can’t create a vaccine.”
    â€œBingo.” Chuck shot up a finger, made a check mark in the air. “They’ve got another route, and it doesn’t inspire confidence. I’m hearing chatter about military roundups, pulling people who are—so far—asymptomatic out of their homes, and taking them to places like Raven Rock, Fort Detrick. They’ve set up checkpoints, and they’re doing neighborhood sweeps, closing off urban areas. If you plan to get out of New York, sugarcake, do it soon.”
    â€œWho’d report the news?” But her stomach clenched. “And how would I talk to you every day?”
    â€œI figure I’ve got time before they come knocking, and I’ve got an escape hatch. If you use this, Arlys, no shitting around, get gone. Get supplies you can carry and get out of the city. Don’t fuck around.”
    He paused, shot her that grin again. “On that note. Hit it, Frank!”
    Arlys closed her eyes, let out a weak laugh when she heard Sinatra crooning “New York, New York.”
    â€œYeah, I’m spreading the news.”
    â€œHe sure made it. Skinny guy from Hoboken. Hey, I’m a skinny guy, too. It’s got a ring, right? Hoboken.”
    His grin stayed wide, but she saw his eyes—his intense and serious eyes. “Yeah, I did a fluff piece there a million years ago.”
    â€œPodoken Hoboken. It ain’t no Park Avenue, but its number-one boy sure went places. Anyway, gotta book. I was hackedy-hacking till three in the a.m. Three in the morning’s past even this boy’s bedtime. Keep it real.”
    â€œYou, too, Chuck.”
    She ended the call, pulled up a street map of Hoboken.
    â€œPark Avenue,” she mumbled. “And found it. Number One Park Avenue, maybe? Or … Park crosses First Street. Park and First, three a.m. if I get out of Manhattan.”
    She got up, paced, trying to absorb all Chuck had told her. She trusted him—nearly everything he’d told her up to that morning had been verified. And what hadn’t been officially verified had swirled into the anonymous-sources category.
    Two billion dead. Mutated. Yet another dead president. She needed to do some research on Sally MacBride—Ag Secretary turned POTUS, according to Chuck. She’d be ready if and when the change of power was announced.
    If she went on the air with that, the uniforms—or the men in black—would certainly swarm the station. Take her in for questioning, maybe shut it all down. In the world that had been she’d have risked questioning, risked being hauled into court to protect a source. But this wasn’t the world that had been.
    She’d stick with officially verified reports for her morning edition, that and her own observations. Then she’d write up copy from Chuck’s intel. Monitor the Internet—Little Fred could help her with that. If she could name another source, even from the deep Web, she’d protect herself and Chuck. And the station.
    She knew there were people who depended on the broadcasts—for help, for hope, for truth when she could find it for them.
    She sat back down, poured more coffee, wrote copy, refined it, rewrote, printed it. She’d have Fred set it in the prompter.
    She took the copy with her to wardrobe, picked a jacket beforegoing in to do her own makeup and hair. The world might be ending, but she would look professional when she reported same.
    In studio, she found the bouncy, redheaded Little Fred chatting with the sad-eyed