The Perseid Collapse

Chapter 21

EVENT +23:58 Hours

^{Scarborough, Maine}

A thin line of dark blue light pushed gently against the black velvet curtain, barely noticeable through the distant trees. From the second-floor corner window of the Walkers’ house, Alex flipped his night vision goggles (NVG) down and surveyed the green image. The eastern half of the neighborhood was dark. He stared at a fixed point for several seconds, trying to register any movement in the limited field of vision afforded by the goggles. All was still. He moved to one of the front windows and knelt, scanning the houses along their departure route. The green imagery betrayed no signs of artificial light within the homes. He clicked his radio.

“Charlie, you showing anything on thermal?”

“Looks clear,” Charlie replied.

“Same here. First run leaves as soon as you reach the garage. Everyone set?” asked Alex.

Ed’s voice broke into his earpiece. “Loaded and ready.”

“That’s it, then. Drop Charlie at the top of the street, then straight to the fire station and back. No lights,” Alex instructed.

“Got it.”

Alex rested his arms on the rifle attached to his chest by a one-point sling and silently counted the seconds. He heard a deep rumbling by the count of seven and Ed’s voice at nine.

“Door is up. We’re on our way out,” said Ed.

“Route looks clear,” Alex said. “See you in a couple minutes.”

He scooted back from the window and raised his rifle, scanning over the sight through his NVG set. His left finger rested on the toggle switch for the dual-aiming laser. The garage door slid along creaky tracks, breaking the morning silence, followed by a V6 roar. He panned from left to right, focusing on each house momentarily. Even a small flashlight deep inside one of the homes would show up as a bright green flare. The engine idled for a moment; then Ed brought the Jeep down the driveway without headlights. He wouldn’t use them until they reached Harrison Road.

Alex stared over the Jeep, studying each house along the route for light. Clear so far. He checked the Jeep. Charlie stood on the left running board, holding onto the two bicycles bungeed to the roof rack. The Jeep’s tires sucked at the deep mud as the vehicle staggered down the street. Ed was playing it safe. Too safe.

“Come on. Get out of here, Ed,” he mumbled.

He didn’t think the mud was deep enough to trap a 4X4 vehicle, but Ed routinely took the Jeep off-roading, so it was his show. At this rate it would take more than a couple of minutes to make the round trip. When the Jeep disappeared behind one of the lifeless structures along Durham Road, he turned his attention back to the northeast half of the street, drawn to his own house next door. He was too exhausted to process the flood of emotions, so he stared, nearly convincing himself that they would be back to salvage whatever remained. He knew better. They all knew better.

He continued the sweep. The neighborhood represented a mixed bag of memories and emotions. They’d enjoyed a pleasant life on Durham Road, raising two children, tending to the yard, and paying the mortgage on time. Throw in a big vacation each year, and anyone would agree they had a nice thing going. They did—until a microscopic organism changed everything. Changed everyone.

At least three-quarters of the neighborhood had turned over since 2014, which had been a blessing in many cases. Tensions between the two neighborhood factions reached unbearable levels after a brief post-pandemic “honeymoon” period, with kids taunting kids and adults frequently breaking into screaming matches. Most of the “for sale” signs were welcome additions to the landscape. Nearly all of them had been foreclosures. Financial relief measures authorized by the Pandemic Recovery Act hadn’t been designed to help families remain in half-a-million-dollar homes near the beach.

Worsening the crisis, life insurance companies folded en masse during January of 2014. Faced with an astronomical number of projected claims, most companies quietly faded away into the night, their cash assets liquidated and distributed to surviving executive management. Little remained for the Department of Justice to seize. Millions of insurance policies, designed and sold as the ultimate “safety net,” rarely yielded enough to pay off one of the family’s cars. More “for sale” signs.

Of course, the entire turnover was not finance related. The psychopaths from Massachusetts had murdered two households, using his friend Greg Murray’s home as a base of operations for their reign of terror. Greg’s wife understandably refused to live in the house after learning what had happened. They’d moved closer to Greg’s parents in the Catskills and were never seen again.

Eventually, the neighborhood emerged as one collective group of strangers. Adults avoided eye contact, children were kept close at hand, and doors were locked. The more he thought about it, the less he’d miss the place. His home was with Kate and the kids.

Light bathed the side of Jamie’s house, blinding him. He raised the goggles and searched for the source.

Shit. Come on, Ed.

“Ed’s on his way,” said Charlie.

No shit.

“Ed, turn off your lights,” he said, straining not to yell.

“We almost hit a tree on Harrison Road. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Copy. We’ll be waiting for you in the garage,” Alex said, clipping the radio onto his rifle sling.

He dashed out of the bedroom, still partially blinded from the night vision flare caused by Ed’s headlights. He hit the flashlight toggle switch on the rifle’s hand guard, illuminating the stairs for his descent. Samantha waited in the candlelit kitchen.

“They’re inbound,” he said, blowing out one of the candles on the kitchen island.

Alex flashed his rifle light toward the mudroom to make sure he didn’t collide with anyone lingering in the house. He reached the mudroom door just as Ed’s headlights swept through the garage, spotlighting the group waiting to load up for the last trip.

“I can’t believe we’re just leaving everything,” said Samantha.

“I’m trying not to think about it,” he said.

“Fifteen years down the drain,” she added, following him into the garage.

“Hey, you won’t have to pay the rest of the mortgage,” joked Alex.

“I’d rather make payments.”

“Start bringing everything out,” barked Kate.

Daniel, Ed and Samantha’s son, said, “We need a light.”

Alex lit up the bike carrier with his rifle’s LED barrel-mounted flashlight.

“Here, I got it,” said Samantha, activating a handheld light. “I’m not comfortable with you pointing a rifle at my kids.”

“The safety’s on,” said Alex, lowering his rifle to help with the bikes.

“Humor me.”

When the bikes and gear were safely stowed, Alex stepped into the garage and closed the bay door, reengaging the manual release lever to lock it in the down position. He left through the back garage door, locking it behind him. Standing on the side of Ed’s Jeep, he caught the last glimpses of his home superimposed against a thicker, lighter blue ribbon of twilight.

Chapter 22

EVENT +24:47 Hours

^{South Portland, Maine}

Alex stood on the Jeep’s passenger-side running board and surveyed the intersection before turning his attention to the rapidly approaching mob. This hadn’t work out so well.

Lesson learned.

He’d wanted to stage their departure from a less conspicuous location further back along Route 1, but the water and mud had reached further than he’d expected. By choosing the parking lot, he had traded one problem for another. Human activity.

Tents and makeshift shelters proliferated on the grassy areas surrounding the hotel, spilling onto the sidewalks and edges of the parking lots. A sea of useless cars provided additional shelter to the refugees, who must have arrived yesterday to find that the hotel was full. The remnants of jumbled letters on the hotel’s roadside sign welcomed some kind of conference or gathering.

Their initial arrival had attracted attention, which had grown from a few dazed, exhausted, early-morning risers upon the first drop off, to an increasingly agitated mob of thirty by the time he had returned with the third carload of bicycles and family. Like zombies, the entire group shifted its collective attention to the working vehicle, sensing salvation and opportunity. Alex weighed their options and decided for a hasty departure. He activated his handheld radio.

“Charlie, get everyone up and moving while they’re distracted. Next rally point is the Maine Mall offramp. We’ll keep moving the Jeep until you guys are clear of the parking lot.”

“Roger that. Hey, I don’t have a bike,” replied Charlie.

“Run alongside the bicycles, and make sure they get out of the parking lot. I’ll pick you up at the intersection.”

“Copy. Moving out.”

Alex dropped into the front passenger seat and shut the door. “Pull back from the crowd and reposition near the conference center entrance. That should give Charlie enough time to get them out of here,” he said to Ed.

“Make sure the doors are locked back there. Yours too, Ed.”

The crowd had nearly reached them by the time Ed shifted into reverse and put some distance between the Jeep and the mob. The crowd continued to press forward, yelling a simultaneous string of incoherent and indistinguishable demands at his open window. In the growing daylight, he could see a few rifle barrels in the crowd, most of them pointing upward—for now. He had no intention of letting this group near the Jeep.

“Samantha, put your packs against the doors and have everyone squeeze into the middle. Stay low,” he said, hoping to put a little more than thin metal jeep framing between Ed’s family and a bullet.

While Samantha rearranged the back seating area, putting two packs against the door next to Daniel, Alex peered past the crowd.

We aren’t moving fast enough.

“Charlie, Kate—get them up and moving. We’re running out of time here,” he said into the handheld radio, getting no response from either.

“Alex, this is stupid. We need to get the hell out of here,” said Ed.

“They’re all up on their bikes. Twenty seconds. Move back further, but don’t get us cornered,” said Alex.

“We don’t have a ton of parking lot left. If they grab one of the bikes off the Jeep, our plan is screwed,” said Ed, driving them at an angle to the hotel and conference center.

“Slow us down.”

“Slow us down? Fuck that. We’re out of here. Charlie and Kate have plenty of room to get them out of the parking lot.” Ed stepped on the gas and propelled the Jeep toward one of the exits for Route 1.

“Stay down back there!” said Alex, hoping that the mob’s rifles stayed silent.

He was relieved to be moving away from the mob, which was now running in a futile attempt to catch up with the Jeep. Ed drove them to the southernmost exit, which drew the crowd further away from the other group. By the time they turned north on Route 1, Kate and the other cyclists had reached the gas station and accelerated. Charlie trailed them by fifty feet. Kate’s group would be long gone before elements of the mob arrived, but he wasn’t so sure about Charlie.

As soon as Ed floored the Jeep, pointing it toward Route 1, the crowd chasing them split apart. While the majority of the group continued in a straight, zombielike path toward the vehicle, a smaller group sprinted toward Charlie. Alex did the math and didn’t like the outcome. As their Jeep turned onto Route 1, he began to lose sight of the pack behind loosely spaced rows of thick, flowering bushes along the sidewalk between the road and parking lot. Ed jammed on the accelerator, speeding them toward the intersection. Alex glanced through the windshield and saw Kate’s group cross Route 1 headed west onto the Maine Turnpike Approach Road.

“This is guaranteed to get shitty,” said Alex.

“I’m not risking the Jeep, Alex—or my family,” said Ed.

“If Charlie starts shooting—you’ll lose the jeep. The police will be all over us before we get to the tollbooth. We have to get him out of there before he panics.”

“I’ll wait in the intersection, but that’s it,” he said, as the Jeep rapidly approached that terminal point.

“Slow down for a second.”

“Are you crazy?” Ed bellowed.

“Ed, get us out of here!” screamed Samantha.

“Stop the Jeep, and wait for me at the intersection. Do it now!” ordered Alex.

The Jeep jerked to a stop, giving Alex enough time to jump down onto the street before it lurched forward again. He hit the street in a dead sprint, slicing between two thick sections of beach roses and emerging on a collision course with the man catching up to Charlie. Alex’s sudden appearance caused Charlie to lower his rifle, which averted the first of many disasters ripening at the moment. With several hotels in the immediate area, he could almost guarantee a nearby police presence.

He emphatically waved his hands at Charlie, silently imploring him to keep running. As he barreled closer, the first runner caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned his head.

Too late.

He tried to bring the SKS rifle around while decelerating out of a full-speed run, but Alex stopped the man’s rifle with his left hand and landed his right elbow into the man’s neck. Momentum did the rest.

The controlled collision flattened the attacker, leaving him gasping for air on the gritty pavement. Alex ripped the SKS rifle out of his grip, stumbling to the ground. Loose bits of blacktop dug agonizingly deep into his knee. He scrambled to his feet and reassessed the situation. Not much had improved.

“Keep going!” he screamed at Charlie, who had slowed down again.

The next threat, a mid-twenties, stick-thin guy wearing jeans and a salt-stained black T-shirt, arrived without a plan. Alex swung the SKS by the barrel, smashing the wooden butt stock against the right side of his head. Skinny tumbled to Alex’s left, hitting the ground hard. His beefy replacement, half muscle and half fat judging by his stretched blue polo shirt, didn’t hesitate to close the gap. Alex barely found the time to shift his grip on the rifle and jam the butt stock into the man’s oncoming face. Surprisingly, Beefy managed to deflect some of the rifle’s momentum, taking a glancing blow to the head. He collapsed to his knees, out of the fight.

His third threat, a longhaired guy wearing fatigue pants and a white tank top, widened his rapid approach.

Time to gain some ground.

Alex turned and sprinted for the intersection, unfolding the SKS’s spike bayonet as he ran. He’d taken several strides when something solid struck the back of his head. The dull thud surprised him more than it stunned him, and he kept running. When he heard a metallic object strike the pavement, he risked a look back. A large hunting knife clattered to a stop on the black and gray pavement several feet behind him.

Wild Man raced toward him at full speed. Even if he could beat the guy to the intersection, which was doubtful, Wild Man would be on the Jeep before they could mount up and leave. Alex saw no other option. He reversed direction and squatted low, thrusting the business end of the rifle up through his outstretched hands. The spike bayonet penetrated the man’s upper abdomen, just below the xiphoid process, disappearing deep into his chest cavity. The collision’s momentum buried the metal barrel deep into the gap opened by the bayonet. Warm blood sprayed onto Alex’s arms.

He released the rifle and ran, drawing his pistol to discourage anyone else. He hated to leave the rifle, but trying to remove it from the man’s chest could take considerable time and effort. They’d be long gone before anyone could put it into action against them. He reached the Jeep a few steps behind Charlie, pushing him through the open passenger door and holstering his pistol.

“Christ,” he huffed. “I almost beat you to the Jeep.”

“I wasn’t expecting Olympic sprinters in the group,” replied Charlie, out of breath.

Once Charlie was inside, Alex slammed the door and jumped onto the running board.

“I’m on! Let’s go!”

The Jeep pitched forward, nearly yanking his bloody grip from the front passenger window. He hugged the side of the Jeep as Ed accelerated down the Maine Turnpike Approach Road, risking a glance behind them at the rapidly disappearing intersection. The bulk of the mob emerged from the bushes and swarmed the far side of the intersection, bringing at least thirty men and women into the open. From what he could tell, none of them crossed the intersection.

“Slow down!” he yelled through the window.

He heard Charlie repeat the request and felt the stiff wind weaken.

“You all right?” asked Alex, leaning his head near the window.

Charlie poked his head partway out of the window, staring at the bright red arterial spray covering Alex’s hand. “I’m fine. What about you?”

“Good to go!” he said, forming a scarlet red thumbs-up.

He was far from “good to go.” He’d just run a man through with a bayonet, leaving him to bleed out onto a dirty asphalt parking lot. The man represented an imminent threat to their group, just like Jamie’s husband.

Both of them had to go.

Emotionally and intellectually, he didn’t like his ease of transition into this frame of mind. Rationally, his experiences more than justified the evolution. His reluctance to embrace a “kill or be killed” mentality during the Jakarta Pandemic had resulted in disaster. He couldn’t make that mistake again. Threats to his rescue mission would be neutralized with extreme prejudice. Terminated if necessary.

The trick was to avoid these situations if possible. “Force application” was a dual-edged sword, attracting unwanted attention while inviting a similar, violent response. The parking lot was a perfect example.

Staging their final rally point in the Best Western’s parking lot had been a bad idea. One that had nearly cost them everything at the very start of their journey. He’d underestimated the number of refugees scattered around the hotel, and should have kept driving when it became apparent. Most importantly, he failed to anticipate the rapid rate at which their reception to Alex’s group would deteriorate. This should have been obvious from the start.

His group was well organized, which more than likely gave the mob the distinct impression that they had a plan. It probably didn’t take them long to figure out that the plan included a destination close enough to reach by bicycle. Some had been interested in learning more about their final destination. Questions hurled at them verified this. Others were solely interested in acquiring a mode of transportation to achieve their own objectives. Some of the more aggressive and vocal members of the crowd had suggested that they “double up” on the bikes and leave the rest behind.

All of them were hungry for information, and desperation lurked dangerously close to the surface. He couldn’t afford to misjudge the immediate and lasting effects of desperation again. He had to assume that everyone outside of his own circle had the worst intentions, and plan accordingly—regardless of the situation. Looks could be deceiving. Sympathies could be played. He hated to think like this, but their short-and long-term survival would depend on it.

Alex’s group represented something to everyone, and everything to some. He had to make sure that Kate, Linda and Samantha understood what this meant and adopted the same mindset for their trek to Limerick. A group of nine well-equipped cyclists represented an opportunity, regardless of weapons. Alex wasn’t optimistic about their chances of arriving without incident.

Kate looked her husband over one last time, making sure he showed no signs of the bloody encounter in the parking lot. She’d taken several minutes and used an entire packet of moist-wipes to thoroughly remove the thickened blood from his hands and forearms before she let him change clothes. He kept trying to rush the process, but she insisted on doing a thorough job. If he changed clothes before she was finished, he might get blood on a shirtsleeve or his collar, which could attract attention. One scarlet smear spotted by a police officer standing at a tight intersection might be all it took to stop and search the Jeep.

Hands shaking, he let her proceed. Whatever had happened at the Best Western had been sudden and violent, and Alex didn’t want to talk about it. When she crossed the intersection on her bicycle, Ed’s Jeep was gunning toward Charlie, who hadn’t reached the intersection. She assumed everything was under control at that point and focused all of her attention on the bicycles, pedaling harder and verbally encouraging the rest of her group to pick up speed.

Generating rapid momentum for their sudden departure had taken significantly more effort and time than she expected. With thirty-to forty-pound backpacks to balance while riding, her crew wasn’t exactly the most nimble on two wheels, and they needed to gain more distance to be truly out of danger. Their escape from the parking lot established a painful reality. They were slow, awkward and unable to accelerate fast enough to escape pedestrians. The bicycles would serve one purpose on their trek: ease of transportation. She couldn’t forget that.

“You’ll pass inspection,” she said.

“The Jeep won’t. We have enough shit in there to start a war. I’m worried about what’ll happen if we get stopped,” Alex said, glancing around.

She took his cue and leaned in, pretending to inspect the side of his face. They were shielded from the rest of the group by the Jeep, but with the Jeep’s windows open, there was no way to guarantee a private conversation.

“Ed nearly drove off, leaving Charlie behind. I almost had to hijack the Jeep,” he whispered.

Kate considered the implications of his comment. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’re all in this together now. You’ll just have to keep a close eye on him, and manage the situation.”

“And Charlie? I nearly beat him back to the Jeep after taking down four people,” he said.

“His heart’s in the right place, Alex,” Kate reminded him. “He could have chosen to stay behind.”

“I know. I couldn’t ask for a better friend in this. I just don’t want his heart to explode. He only ran like a hundred yards and—”

“With a full pack on his back. You know what you’re working with, so work with it. That’s all you can do.”

“You’re right,” he muttered, looking up at her.

“I’m always right,” she said, patting him lightly on his right shoulder.

Alex visibly winced, and they locked eyes for a moment. She fought the urge to comment on the injury, knowing that anything she said would be unproductive. He was going to Boston to rescue Ryan and Chloe, regardless of the circumstances. End of discussion. He needed to respect the fact that Ed and Charlie shared this same, singular focus. She took both of his hands and pulled him close, kissing him passionately while they still had a modicum of privacy. He responded, pressing her against the Jeep and kissing her neck. They both knew this could be their last moment together, and for a few seconds, they forgot about everything except each other. When Alex kissed her softly on the lips, she opened her eyes, knowing that the moment had ended.

“You can’t pull this off alone. It’s too big for one person,” she whispered in his ear.

“I’d still try.”

“I know you would,” she said and kissed him again. “You better say goodbye to Emily and Ethan. We need to get this show on the road.”

“Emily doesn’t look so good,” said Alex.

“She’s sixteen—and this is the second time in her life that the world as she knows it has come to an abrupt halt. I’m surprised she’s functional at all.”

“Built tough, like her mom,” said Alex.

“Are you comparing me to a Chevy truck?”

“Uh—I hadn’t intended to.”

“I didn’t think so.” She winked. “Get going.”

Kate watched Alex walk over and sit next to Emily, who looked up at her dad and forced a smile. They talked for a few minutes, and when Alex tried to get up, she grabbed his arm and cried into his shoulder. He kissed her forehead and hugged her tightly for a long moment. When he let go, she dropped herself to the ground near her mountain bike and pulled her backpack next to her. Alex shook his head at Kate as he passed her to meet Ethan on the shoulder of the road.

“Keep an eye on her,” he advised. “She’s frazzled.”

Ethan lowered his bike to the gravel as Alex approached. A quick hug and a handshake. Kate had no doubt that their brief interaction had met both of their emotional needs. Men were so different. She nodded at Alex, who blew her a kiss and made his way to Charlie and Ed near the back of the jeep. Emily would need more than that. Kate wandered over to her daughter and sat next to her in the mowed grass beyond the gravel shoulder.

“Your dad will be fine, sweetie. He’ll bring your brother home,” said Kate, putting her arm around Emily’s shoulders.

Emily leaned in, sobbing. “What if he doesn’t come back with Ryan? What if none of them make it back?” Emily asked tearfully.

Kate squeezed tighter. “They’re coming back—with your brother. I’m certain of it. Your dad can handle this.”

“But they can’t,” she said. “He should go by himself.”

Kate looked at her daughter, surprised by the realization that Emily had been paying far more attention to the situation than she had assumed. Acting aloof and oblivious to anything beyond her immediate sphere of influence had become her default mode of behavior over the past year, presumably attributable to her early teen years. Kate wondered if this wasn’t more of an act than her personality. Emily turned to face her, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. She wiped her face with her arm, smearing freshly moistened mud across her ear.

Emily had Kate’s deep blue eyes and Alex’s darker skin. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that protruded from the back of her pink and gray Red Sox cap. She hadn’t been pleased with Alex’s insistence that she wear long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Emily had compromised with a pair of hiking pants made out of a quick-dry material and a light blue running shirt. Neither of them was about to argue with her. Comfort would trump tactical for the bicycle crew. They had a long, hot day ahead of them, and nobody had opted for long sleeves.

“He can’t do this alone,” said Kate, glancing over her shoulder at the men.

“They’ll get him killed. I know it.”

“Emily, I don’t want to hear you say that again. You’re going to see your dad again—and your brother.”

“If he’s still alive,” said Emily, standing up and grabbing her backpack.

“Emily,” she hissed, “what’s going on?”

“I’m just being realistic, Mom.”

Her daughter lifted the green pack over her shoulders and tightened the straps.

“I think it’s time to go,” said Emily.

Kate stood speechless for a few moments as Emily picked up her bike and guided it toward the group forming behind the Jeep. She knew their world would never return to normal, and that the scars of leaving their life behind would run deep, but she didn’t want to lose her daughter to a fatalistic outlook that would permanently stain her future. Like Alex, she would have to keep a very close eye on Emily.

“Hold on. Let me grab my stuff,” she said, relieved to see her daughter stop and force another smile.

At least she was trying.

Chapter 23

EVENT +27:20 Hours

^{York, Maine}

Alex felt the rumble strips pass under the Jeep’s tires, barely noticeable under a thin layer of sandy mud. Mud and debris had appeared on the turnpike a few miles past the abandoned Kennebunk rest stop, causing them to slow considerably and engage the Jeep’s four-wheel-drive system. Their planned forty-minute trip from the Maine Mall rally point had turned into an hour and a half. At one point Alex started to seriously doubt their ability to reach the York exit. The muck slowed them to ten miles per hour along the ten-mile stretch between Wells and York, where the turnpike passed a point two miles from the ocean.

Beyond the nearly impassible sludge, most of their trip had proven uneventful, yielding little insight into what had transpired the day before. Traffic had been light at five in the morning when the suspected EMP hit, leaving a sparse number of stranded motorists on either side of the six-lane highway. Most of the cars had managed to safely find the emergency lane; however, the occasional mid-highway obstacle kept them vigilant. They passed two single-car wrecks, stopping at both to check for bodies. They found none, which gave them the impression that state police still patrolled the roads.

The Jeep hit another set of rumble strips and slowed. Through binoculars, Alex saw a steeply curved wall of concrete barrier blocks diverting southbound traffic across the center divide, into the northbound lanes. A police cruiser sat at the end of the barrier. Two state troopers armed with shotguns stood on the driver side of the cruiser. Looking past the officers, Alex determined that concrete blocks were set between all of the northbound tollbooths, except for a single gap blocked by a state police cruiser. The purpose of the one gap became clear as the scene beyond the tollbooth unfolded.

“Shit. We aren’t getting through this. The entire southern side of the tollbooth is a parking lot. I see a few large tents—like a military command post or something,” said Alex.

“Both sides of the highway?” asked Charlie, from the back seat.

“Both sides, but that’s not the real problem. State troopers have the entire southbound lane blocked. Shit, I see a JLTV on the other side of the tollbooth.”

Charlie shot up in his seat, nearly knocking the binoculars out of Alex’s hands. Charlie was like an annoying child when anyone mentioned military hardware. His enthusiasm to share his vast knowledge often eclipsed any desire to hear what he had to say. Still, Alex would gladly take Charlie’s near encyclopedic recitation of information over Ed’s bare-bones knowledge of anything beyond the caliber and ammunition capacity of his Ruger 10/22 rifle.

“What kind?” uttered Charlie.

“Take a look,” he said, pushing Charlie’s face back with the binoculars.

“I’m pulling a U-turn,” said Ed.

“Hold on. Maybe there’s a way,” said Alex.

“Why take the chance? What if they have a description of our Jeep from the Best Western? We should double back to the Wells exit and take the back roads.”

“I’m with Ed on that,” said Charlie. “The less time they spend looking in our car, the better. I’m good with the back roads. By the way, that’s an AM General Bravo Blast Resistant Vehicle-Off road. Most likely Maine National Guard. Fifty cal mounted on top.”

Alex hadn’t considered the possibility that the police might have driven by the hotel within the past hour and stopped in the parking lot to investigate the commotion. He was certain that the angry crowd wouldn’t fairly represent his side of the story. Would the police be able to assess the scene and determine what really happened? Would they care enough to issue an APB? Did any of their radios work? They hadn’t picked up any local chatter on Alex’s police scanner, but most of the police departments had converted to encrypted P25 digital radio communications systems. Too many questions unanswered to take the chance.

If the troopers ordered them out of the Jeep, they’d have no choice but to disobey and speed north toward the Wells exit, praying that they weren’t worth the time and effort of a high-speed pursuit. Alex’s crew needed to do everything in their power to avoid a law enforcement confrontation. The Jeep couldn’t outrun the police, and they had hesitantly but unanimously agreed that harming police officers was out of the question. Alex wasn’t convinced that he could abide by that pact, especially if it jeopardized rescuing his son. Turning around before the tollbooth assured that he wouldn’t have to test these doubts.

“All right, let’s get out of here,” he said.

The rear passenger-side/center seat combination directly behind Alex had been folded forward to give Charlie quick access to their rifles and tactical vests, which were hidden underneath a thick plaid comforter. Three black school-sized backpacks lay over the comforter next to Charlie, camouflaging its purpose. The lighter, off-the-shelf daypacks had been stuffed with food, water, medical supplies and emergency basics to last twenty-four hours. Sufficient for their excursion into Boston, but not enough to weigh them down like the heavier packs.

They would hide the sixty-pound, long-term endurance rucksacks in the forest, wherever they decided to leave the Jeep. If the Jeep disappeared while they were in the city, the success of their return voyage to Maine would depend on the rucksacks, especially if the kids were in bad shape. The larger packs were stuffed behind Charlie’s seat, on top of a few duffel bags filled with each family’s memorabilia. Gas containers, several two-gallon jugs of water and a box of MREs filled the remaining gaps in the rear compartment.

They could have fit twice as much gear into the Jeep, but for tactical reasons, they packed lightly. Alex wanted clear fields of vision in every direction and quick access to their equipment, which prevented them from filling every conceivable nook throughout the Jeep with repetitive gear. He also wanted to configure the Jeep’s load-out for the possibility of an immediate and irreversible abandonment of the vehicle while under fire. If an overwhelming threat engaged their vehicle, they needed to be in the forest or bushes with their weapons, tactical gear and MOLLE packs in less than fifteen seconds. His combat experience had irrevocably proven that quickly abandoning your vehicle and finding suitable cover, when the situation dictated, bettered your chance of survival. The Iraqi Fedayeen he’d encountered on the way to Bagdad in 2003 never adequately grasped that concept. They’d died in droves, clustered around their disabled vehicles. He had no intention of letting that happen to them.

Ed slowly turned the Jeep left and guided the vehicle through the orange traffic drums separating the two sides of the highway on the approach to the tollbooth. Alex watched the police vehicles with anticipation as they entered the northbound lanes and accelerated away from the massive roadblock. The only vehicle that followed them was a maroon pickup truck released through the checkpoint, which passed them at high speed less than a minute into their detour and disappeared ahead of them. Alex wondered if the pickup could navigate through the mud ahead.

“I don’t see anything following us,” said Charlie.

“Good. Let’s try to sort out a route to the border before we hit the Wells exit,” said Alex, reaching between the front seats to open a spiraled map book.

“We’ll have plenty of time with the fucking mud,” muttered Ed.

“Route 9 to Route 4 takes us through North and South Berwick to the border—then to Dover, New Hampshire,” said Charlie.

“I’m worried that we’ll be driving into the same situation we saw at the York tollbooth,” Alex said. “There’s only one other crossing between that one and the turnpike. My guess is that either the state police or locals will have them sealed up—possibly both ways.”

“There are plenty of places to cross further west. We can keep driving until we find one,” said Charlie.

“How far do you want to drive? They could have the entire border sealed up.”

Alex shrugged. “We have all day to figure this out. It’s not even nine yet.”

“And this little setback will end up costing us another hour, if we don’t get stranded in the mud. The clock is ticking. Did you see the rain clouds in the distance? The ground can’t take any more water. We’re fucked if this is a big storm,” said Ed.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not a major system. Looked like a chance of showers on the forecast” said Alex.

“When did you check last?” asked Ed.

“Saturday.”

“A lot can change in a few days.”

“We’ll start with the Berwicks and see what happens,” Alex said. “We might be able to talk our way across.”

Ed was right about the potential storm on the horizon. Alex had seen a chance of rain on the extended forecast when he checked on the weather for their sailing trip. He vaguely remembered seeing a chance of thunderstorms for today and clear weather for the rest of the week. Kate had eyeballed the distant clouds when they parted ways earlier, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing.

She wasn’t a big fan of rain-soaked sailboat trips, and he had purposely glossed over that part of the week’s weather report right before packing up the car and heading over to the yacht club. The sailboat’s interior space shrank quickly when foul weather trapped them below with the kids for any length of time. Ironically, the decision to withhold part of the forecast from Kate probably had saved both of their lives. Kate liked to walk in the morning, and Alex invariably ran every other day. He usually skipped Sundays, which meant that he would have very likely found himself somewhere between his house and Higgins Beach when the tsunami swept inland.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, guys,” Charlie said. “Dover is a decent-sized city. We need to avoid high-population centers until we have no choice.”

“Dover’s not exactly teeming with people,” countered Ed.

“I’d prefer to avoid places like Dover,” Alex told them, “but we should still be all right in New Hampshire. I’m mostly worried about the outskirts of Boston.”

“I don’t agree, guys,” Charlie insisted. “If you live between Boston and Maine, you’re gonna want to get the fuck out of there. Dover and Portsmouth were ransacked by the kind citizens of Massachusetts and Connecticut during the pandemic. I’m just saying we can’t let our guard down.”

“We shouldn’t let our guard down at any time, but we can’t take every dirt road from here to Medford in an attempt to slip past any town with more than one traffic light. We need to reach the kids by tonight at the latest,” said Ed.

“Barring some unforeseen disaster, we’ll be in position to enter Medford around dusk.”

“Why can’t we just hide the car and go straight to the kids?” asked Ed.

“Because we’ll be wearing tactical gear and carrying military-style rifles through a heavily populated, urban setting. If we do this during broad daylight, we’ll attract a shit ton of attention. The wrong kind of attention. The only thing more valuable than a car right now is a military-grade weapon. Anyone with a little foresight knows that the situation in these high-population-density areas will implode. Even a rifle like yours will replace the dog as man’s best friend,” said Alex.

“Easy on the rifle,” said Ed.

“I’ll have to apologize to her later,” Alex said, winking at Charlie. “She did save my ass.”

“The rifle didn’t save your ass,” said Charlie.

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Ed.

“Will you sit back in your seat?” Alex grumped. “You’re like one of the kids.”

“I’m not giving up this front-row seat for anything. The only thing missing is a bag of popcorn. The two of you should keep me entertained all the way to Boston,” said Charlie.

“Wonderful. Can you at least breathe on Ed?” Alex complained. “I can smell the beef jerky stuck between your teeth.”

“See that, Charlie?” asked Ed.

“See what?”

“Alex goes right to the vegetarian digs when he feels threatened by you,” said Ed, grinning widely.

“I always suspected he was a foodist.”

“Two against one?” Alex said. “This is going to be a long ride.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Ed, the smile suddenly gone from his face.

Prior to the brief exchange seconds ago, Ed hadn’t spontaneously smiled since yesterday afternoon. Unlike Alex, who leaned on humor to mask and cope with stress, Ed became stolid and serious, creating an impenetrable brick wall to hide his emotions. The tactic didn’t work very well for Ed, because the impassive facade didn’t match his usual range of expressions. Alex could read him like a book, and right now, Ed was close to having a nervous breakdown.

“We’ll get the kids back, Ed.”

Ed nodded his head and looked like he wanted to say something. Alex didn’t push it. He glanced quickly at Charlie, who met his eyes and imperceptibly raised his eyebrows, acknowledging Alex’s silent message: We need to keep an eye on him.

A few minutes later, they exited the turnpike at Wells and decelerated along the winding off ramp. They found the two-lane road blocked at the tollbooth station by a Wells Police cruiser and several orange traffic drums. A police officer and three armed men stood in front of the drums, signaling for them to pull into the right lane, directly perpendicular to the side of the cruiser. Alex examined the situation and made a quick decision to proceed.

“Get your Maine driver’s licenses out for the officer. Registration too. Make sure nothing has shifted back there. All windows down,” said Alex.

They had placed the licenses and registration in the front breast pockets of their shirts for quick access and to avoid reaching out of a police officer’s sight in case they were stopped. While Ed pulled the Jeep into an area of pavement designated by traffic cones, Alex and Ed unbuttoned their pockets and removed their identification. Alex kept his eye on the civilians that accompanied the officer, noting their weapons. One of them held a semiautomatic shotgun and the two others carried AR-style rifles without optics.

They wore a variety of commercial tactical equipment and pistol holsters, which told Alex that they were most likely volunteers from town. Only the police officer wore body armor, obvious underneath his gray uniform. He tipped his campaign hat and approached the driver’s-side window. One of the men with an AR walked across the front of their Jeep and took up a position on the passenger side. None of the men at the checkpoint pointed their weapons at the vehicle. He felt comfortable with the faces he saw. Serious. Solemn. Slightly nervous. If anyone had smiled or grinned at him, he would have felt threatened.

“Keep an eye on the guy to our right,” he said out of the side of his mouth to Charlie.

“Got it,” whispered Charlie.

The police officer stopped a few feet from Ed’s door and examined the interior of the cabin, sweeping his eyes over Ed and Alex.

“Morning, gentlemen. May I ask where you came from and where you’re headed?”

As agreed earlier, Ed led the conversation for the group. Alex thought it would appear strange if one of the passengers was the primary spokesperson. Possibly suspicious. If Ed faltered in any way, Alex would interject, but otherwise he’d leave the talking to the driver.

“Good morning, Officer. We’re headed to Boston to pick up our kids. My daughter is at Boston College, and his son is at Boston University. We left Scarborough about an hour ago and saw that the York tollbooth was blocked in both directions. We’re looking to take the back roads down into the city,” said Ed.

“Can I see your license and registration? If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like to take a look at your licenses as well,” said the officer, nodding at Alex and Charlie.

The officer examined the Jeep’s registration and their licenses, handing everything back to Ed for redistribution.

“Not a great time to be out on the roads,” said the officer.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” said Ed.

“I suppose not. You should be good to go until you reach the border,” said the officer. “Rumor has it that the locals have shut down all of the crossings. Not sure if that means both ways. Nobody wants a repeat of what happened during the crisis a few years ago.”

Alex didn’t want to drag out their time at the checkpoint, but he needed more information about the general situation.

“Officer, what’s happening at the York tollbooth? It looked like a parking lot,” he asked.

“Maine Guard units have secured the far end of the Piscataqua River Bridge. They’re letting Maine residents or family of residents through for further processing at the tollbooth. They’re being thorough, from what I hear. The governor ordered it,” said the officer.

“I’m surprised they can get past Kittery. We drove through nearly a foot of mud between here and York.”

“Plows cleared a path from York to the bridge for the guard units mobilized out of Sanford. From what we heard, it took them forever.”

Ed asked the officer, “Has anyone heard anything from Boston?”

“Coastal areas from Boston on up were hit hard by tsunami and wind damage. A windblast hit us here, but the damage was mostly superficial. Broken windows and branches on the ground. The tsunami did the real damage. Wiped out everything east of Route 1 in Wells and Ogunquit,” he said and paused before continuing. “People are saying it was a lot worse in Boston.”

“I’m sorry to have brought it up, Officer. I hope your family is safe,” said Alex.

“Thank you. We live west of the turnpike, but a lot of the people we know weren’t so lucky. It’s… uh… I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen anything like this. How was it up in Portland?”

“The same. We live two miles from Higgins Beach and saw definitive signs of wreckage from the houses in that area. I think anyone living within a half mile of the water is gone,” said Alex.

Officer Jenkins shook his head, fighting to keep his eyes from overflowing with tears. Alex couldn’t imagine the impact a disaster of this magnitude might have on a police officer who patrolled the streets of a small, coastal town. Jenkins probably knew most of the year-round residents by name.

“Any official word on what exactly happened?” Alex asked. “I assume we got hit by an EMP.”

“People report seeing a massive meteorite streak through the sky south of Boston, heading east. They think it hit somewhere out past Cape Cod,” said Jenkins.

“Did they see it hit?” asked Ed.

“Reports are sketchy. Keep in mind that I’m getting most of this information third hand from the York and state police. Apparently there was a massive flash to the east, but nobody they’ve talked to from the cars actually saw the explosion. There’s some talk of fires in Boston and people taken to the hospitals with third-degree burns from the flash.”

“Sounds like the effects of a nuclear detonation. Add the EMP thing—I’m not convinced this is a natural event,” said Alex.

“They think the meteorites or asteroid fragments might have disrupted the ionosphere and caused an EMP. Something like that. Nobody knows shit, basically,” the officer admitted.

“That’s the real problem. Everybody is guessing.” They needed to get moving. “Keep your family safe, Officer. This is going to get a lot worse. You probably know that better than anyone.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, I know it all too well. I hope you get those kids back,” said the officer.

The police officer moved his volunteers back and pulled his cruiser forward, clearing a path for their Jeep.

“Stay frosty!” yelled Alex from his window, earning a few nods from the roadblock crew. “Take a right up here on 109,” he directed.

“That was easy enough. He barely looked in the car,” said Ed.

“He didn’t care. Our paperwork backed up our story, so he had no real reason to dig any further,” Alex explained.

“I’m glad the two of you had fun. I was shitting my pants back here wondering what our plan might be if that little interaction had gone fucking south for the winter,” said Charlie.

“Our best play is to avoid the police or any kind of checkpoint. If there’s no way around it, like back there, we give them our story, identification, and hope for the best. If the police decide to search the car, we can always flee.”

“With two AR-15s and a shotgun working us over, I don’t think we would have gotten very far,” said Charlie.

“I didn’t get the sense that his crew would have pushed the issue if we had put the Jeep in reverse and left the way we came,” said Alex.

“What about the next crew? What about the group that decides their town needs a four-wheel-drive vehicle more than two dads trying to rescue their Ivy League kids—and I mean nothing by that. Just saying what others might be thinking. We need to come up with a better plan for these checkpoints. This won’t be our last,” said Charlie.

“I’m not drawing down on the police or National Guard. We either flee or surrender to a search if it comes to that,” said Alex.

“What if they start shooting?”

“Then we shoot back. We’re well within our rights to refuse a search and turn around without being shot at,” said Ed.

“I’m with Ed on that one,” said Charlie.

Alex agreed, but he needed Ed and Charlie to come to this decision on their own. He’d already reached this verdict when they turned around at the York tollbooth. The last thing he wanted to do was engage the police in a firefight, but they had every right to defend themselves, especially with so much riding on the success of their journey. Avoidance was their best strategy, but eventually they would find themselves facing another checkpoint—and another. They needed more than a general agreement.

“All right. It sounds like we’re all on the same sheet of music. Let’s game plan more scenarios and establish rules of engagement. We should have done this last night. That’s my bust. I should have known better. I wanted to get a better feel for what we’d be up against out here. We really got lucky back there,” said Alex.

“I was ready to rock and roll if that went the way of the taco,” said Charlie.

They both laughed at his reference.

“There’s more where that came from,” said Charlie.

“I don’t doubt it. Why don’t you chamber a round in both of the ARs and put them on safe. We’ll need every fraction of a second possible if things…”

“Rapidly devolve into a clusterfuck?” Charlie said helpfully.

“Exactly,” said Alex.

Chapter 24

EVENT +29:15 Hours

^{South Berwick, Maine}

Alex scanned the road ahead for the inevitable roadblock. They quickly approached the Overlook Golf Course, which marked the edge of town and the most logical place to stop cars headed into South Berwick’s downtown area. He risked a glance at the parking lot, seeing several cars parked in the far corner of the spacious lot. The cars probably belonged to the golfers with the first tee times yesterday morning. He remembered driving through this area during the summer for Biosphere Pharmaceuticals. The Overlook had always teemed with golfers and summer events in the white tent next to the eighteenth green. As they passed the clubhouse and raised barn, Alex saw the tent standing empty next to the green.

He imagined a massive, outdoor wedding reception on Sunday afternoon and wondered if the newlywed couple was stuck somewhere between here and Logan International Airport, their honeymoon a long-vanished afterthought. Alex envisioned millions of scenarios like this playing out across the nation, each one consuming the focus of those involved, creating a desperate tunnel vision to survive. The sudden introduction of this desperate focus to millions of people would create a dangerous world.

“Look at those crazy assholes!” said Charlie, pointing out of the left passenger window.

In the middle of a distant fairway, on a rise past a small pond, two men hopped out of a green golf cart. One of them grabbed a golf club from a bag in the back, while the other opened the red cooler that had been stashed between the two men on the front seat. Alex couldn’t see what he pulled out of the cooler, but given the fact that these two were golfing little more than twenty-four hours after a tsunami wiped out the coast and the power grid was taken down, he imagined they weren’t messing around with cans of soda. He felt surprisingly ambivalent toward two men golfing at ten in the morning. They obviously didn’t have any pressing matters—yet.

“Ignorance is bliss,” said Alex.

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “until they come knocking on your door looking for shit.”

“Fucking idiots,” mumbled Ed, concentrating on the road.

“The town starts just past that taller tree line. You should slow down a bit,” said Alex.

Ed had just started to decelerate the jeep when Alex spotted the roadblock outside of South Berwick’s downtown area. The road curved, gently revealing the distinctive shape and style of a police cruiser perpendicular to the road, blocking the inbound lane and most of the asphalt shoulder. A blue minivan blocked the outbound lanes.

“Slowly stop the car and turn us around. Damn it. I thought we might be able to slip through the outskirts of town. We’ll backtrack to one of the local roads a mile or two behind us. Figure out how to break through to Route 9,” said Alex, fumbling with the map book between the seats.

“They’re flashing us!” said Ed, slamming on the brakes.

Alex braced his hands on the dashboard to keep his head from striking the glove box, feeling the binoculars slide from his lap onto the floor. The police car’s red and blue LED strobes ominously pierced the distance between them. He estimated that Ed had stopped the Jeep roughly five hundred feet from the blockade, which put them at a relatively safe distance from immediate gunfire. Ed had unknowingly done them a favor with his panicked stop. Possibly a bigger favor than any of them had counted on.

Unlike the group at the Wells exit, the South Berwick blocking force had chosen to stand behind their vehicles, making it difficult for him to analyze weapons and personal equipment. Four men and a woman. From what he could tell, they were all armed. A sixth person sat behind the wheel of the police car, wearing a campaign hat. One of the men hunched down behind the police cruiser’s hood, fumbling with something on the hood. He dug around for the binoculars and raised them to his face.

He shook his head. “Turn left and get us out of here.”

Ed yanked the wheel left and drove the Jeep forward, exposing Alex to the roadblock.

“What’s wrong?” asked Charlie.

“They’re scoping us in with a rifle. Ed, faster, please.”

“Do you want your HK?” Charlie asked him.

“No! Keep your hands above the window line. Do not give them any reason to send a bullet in our direction.”

Alex took one more look at the roadblock through his binoculars and saw that the man behind the cruiser’s hood had stood up, which was a relief. Nobody in the group appeared to be in a hurry to jump in the vehicles. Even better. Ed completed the U-turn and gunned the engine. Alex handed the binoculars to Charlie as they passed the Overlook clubhouse.

“I think they wanted to scare us away,” said Alex, handing the binoculars to Charlie.

“It worked,” said Ed.

“You can slow down. They’re still standing around,” said Charlie.

“That was different,” said Alex.

“Very different,” Charlie agreed. “Do you think they scope everyone that approaches?”

“I didn’t see any binoculars. It might be all they have to make a long-range identification.”

“Helluva greeting,” said Charlie.

“Who in their right mind is going to drive up to the roadblock with a gun trained on them?” asked Ed.

“Maybe that’s the point. They don’t want anybody approaching.”

Ed glanced at Alex. “Where do we turn for Route 9?”

“Up here a little bit. You’re looking for Blackberry Hill Road. I might break out the GPS if we get too deep into the back roads.”

“You want it now?” Charlie asked.

“Not yet. If Route 9 is a bust, we’ll put it to work.”

“I say we skip Route 9. We don’t need a trigger-happy local putting a bullet through the engine block or one of our heads,” Ed said nervously. “As much as I want to move this trip along, I think you’re right about finding a less crowded crossing further west.”

“Then crack out the GPS, Charlie,” Alex said. “We won’t bother trying to get through Berwick. There’s a crossing at East Rochester and—”

“I wouldn’t bother with that one,” Charlie cut in. “Rochester is a few miles across the border along Route 11. It might be busier than the Route 4 crossing in South Berwick.”

“We don’t know how busy Route 4 was,” Ed pointed out.

“If they’re guarding the ass end of town, trust me, it’s crowded. These towns are under a lot of pressure to avoid a replay of the Jakarta Pandemic,” Charlie said. “We need to find a road that’s not connected to a major city in New Hampshire or a town in Maine.”

Alex studied the map for a minute, while Ed searched for Blackberry Hill Road. He traced the border with his finger, shaking his head every time it stopped. He needed something away from Rochester, but options thinned past Milton, New Hampshire. Route 125 intersected with Milton, making it a less than optimal choice.

Long lines at the border crossing in Rochester would push refugees north along the border on Route 125. Milton was one of the last crossing points before diverting several miles north. They were guaranteed to run into a strong local presence on the Maine side of the border near Milton. Tactically, Alex would fortify this point, so they would avoid it. Crisscrossing roads, he settled on the last small-town crossing before Route 109. He paged through the map book for a more detailed look at the town, smiling at what he found on the map.

“Milton Mills, New Hampshire,” he said.

“Never heard of it,” said Charlie.

“Good,” Alex replied. “I think we’re looking at about twenty-five miles—probably fifty minutes on back roads—but the town has two crossings, and it’s just far enough north to give us some less crowded options for reaching Route 125.”

“That far?” said Ed.

“It’s the last crossing on the map before Route 109. We all know 109 will be guarded. It’s a direct route to Sanford.”

“At this rate, we’ll be lucky to get to Medford before dark,” said Ed.

“If it rains as hard as I think it will, we might not get there at all,” said Charlie.

Alex shook his head. “We’re too far inland for that to be a problem. Plus, a heavy rain will keep people inside. Fewer idiots checking out our ride.”

“I’m worried about the area around Haverhill,” said Charlie, “it’s right on the Merrimack about ten or so miles to the ocean.”

“We just need to get over the border, and we’ll have smooth sailing through most of New Hampshire,” said Alex, turning to meet Charlie’s doubtful eyes. “Seriously. We get to 125 and we’re home free until we ditch the Jeep,” he said, purposely avoiding eye contact.

Alex stared past Ed at the bank of dark clouds swallowing up the remaining patches of blue sky. He doubted they would reach the crossing before the rain, which suited him fine. The rain would mask their approach. One way or the other, this Jeep would negotiate the border at Milton Mills. The choice between a hard or soft negotiation rested with the people guarding the bridges.

Chapter 25

EVENT +29:52 Hours

^{Sanford, Maine}

Harrison Campbell approached the red-sided barn along a worn dirt path, nodding to his second in command, who stood in the barn’s open bay door. He glanced momentarily at the assembly of vehicles parked on the worn grass in front of the barn, noting the mix. A few economy sedans and an old Subaru Forrester. They’d need full-size SUVs and pickup trucks to handle regular supply delivery and general hauling. He supposed they should be thankful. None of them had put much faith in the latest rendition of the government’s Critical National Infrastructure report. He’d gladly take a few beat-up sedans over nothing.

When he reached the barn door, his deputy commander rendered a salute, which Campbell returned. Glen Cuskelly was dressed in woodland camouflage fatigues, with the York County Readiness Brigade patch displayed prominently on his right shoulder. A second patch was Velcroed to his left breast pocket, identifying him as the brigade’s deputy commander. Tan combat boots and a black baseball cap imprinted with the brigade’s logo completed the uniform, which Harrison insisted all of the county-level chapter leaders wore in the field or in public.

He had led the York County Readiness Brigade, formerly known as the York County Militia, through a public perception transformation over the past several years. Long gone were the days of mismatched uniforms, public displays of military-style weaponry and weekend tactical assault training. The word militia had become synonymous with gun-toting, doomsday-fearing, antigovernment revolutionaries, which couldn’t be further from the true purpose of his group.

Harrison had worked tirelessly, often fruitlessly, with the media to change this perception, which had suffered a major setback during the 2013 pandemic. At the height of the Boston exodus, the Kittery chapter decided to blockade the two major bridges over the Pisqataqua River, in an attempt to stem the tide of violence and looting that had engulfed York County. State police, backed by heavily armed elements of the Maine National Guard, had to forcibly remove the group after militia members fired into a sedan trying to plow through the roadblock, tragically killing a young family.

The unfortunate incident went mostly unnoticed until it was revived in early 2015 by a national magazine, in a two-part exposé on the rising number of armed antigovernment groups “training for revolution.” Despite the fact that membership was still on the rise, for the first time in over a decade, the York County Militia was politely declined a place in several important Memorial and Independence Day parades.

The message was less than subtle. The York County Militia was no longer welcome by town hall. Harrison Campbell decided to steer the public’s focus away from the guns and back to the organization’s core values: self-reliance, preparedness and community service. Efforts to regain community trust moved slowly, but 2019 marked the first year that the former York County Militia had marched in parades through Biddeford, York, Kennebunk and Sanford.

“Brigade leadership is formed, sir,” said Cuskelly.

“Thank you, Glen. What are we looking at?”

“Brian showed up a few minutes ago, which puts us at three out of the seven commanders,” Cuskelly replied.

“Still no word from the York or Kittery chapters?”

“Nothing yet. Reports from the area aren’t encouraging. It looks like a total wipeout east of the turnpike.”

“And Limerick?” asked Campbell.

“Randy’s radio must be down. We haven’t heard from him since about eight last night. He knows about the meeting,” said Cuskelly, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s not like Randy to blow off his duties. He’ll show up. Let’s get this moving along, so everyone can get back out to their people,” said Campbell, stepping inside the York County Readiness Brigade’s headquarters.

The barn’s recently renovated interior contained a single, wide-open, post-and-beam interior from front to back, featuring vaulted arches and struts running the entire length of the ceiling. An unfinished oak-board floor held up several rows of rough-cut timber benches, giving the space the distinct feel of a rural Grange hall. A thick, hand-hewn, pine table sat lengthwise in front of the benches at the far side of the barn, surrounded by the brigade leadership team, all of whom leaned over a map, talking excitedly. Several additional maps adorned the far right corner walls, within easy reach of the ham radio station.

The brigade banner towered over them, draped across the floor-to-ceiling flagstone fireplace anchoring the far wall. The royal blue flag displayed their motto, “Semper Tuens” (always protecting), in gold letters above a simple picture of a colonial minuteman. “YCRB” was printed under the minuteman, representing the only change to the banner in thirty-three years. The American flag and Maine state flags flanked the fireplace, attached to thick wooden poles in black iron stands. The poles were canted away from the fireplace at forty-five degree angles to allow the unfurled display of each flag. From the back of the barn, it was an awe-inspiring sight that filled him with pride.

The Campbell family barn and the two hundred surrounding acres had served as the York County Militia’s headquarters and meeting place since its inception, hosting everything from small leadership meetings to the town-hall-style public relations events that had become more common recently. The personally funded renovation effort had transformed the damp, dingy barn into a warm, inviting space for these events. They could hardly transform public perception in the propane-lantern-lit, creaky old barn that had served them for years.

The men around the table stood at loose attention when he walked down the aisle between benches.

“At ease, everyone. Why don’t we all take seats for now? We’ll get to the maps a little later,” he said, pulling a chair out for himself in the middle.

“Thank you for making the trip under less than optimal circumstances. I know you have your own families and people to look after, so I won’t keep you long. Obviously, we’re missing some folks,” he said, and the group murmured. “I want you to stay focused on your own areas of responsibility for now. Once we’ve sorted out how to make the best impact within each of your chapters, we’ll explore ways to expand east and help. Let’s conduct a quick SITREP from each chapter and see where we stand for now. Gerry?” he said, nodding to the Biddeford/Saco chapter commander.

“Coastal areas were hit hard, which is no surprise,” said Gerry Beaudoin. “Old Orchard Beach is a total loss. Biddeford and Saco downtown areas were relatively untouched, aside from a massive surge of water down the Saco River. Messed up the riverfront areas something fierce. We have trees down and windows shattered all over, but the heavily populated areas were spared the tsunami effects. Downtown Biddeford is nearly four miles from the coastline.”

“That’s good news, Gerry. I know you live out past the 95, so I assume your outreach supplies are still intact?” said Campbell.

“Yep. I have the stuff split between my deputy commander and a few other trusted members. Tents, tarps, fuel, dried stores—all maintained according to brigade readiness standards.”

“Vehicles?”

“I have three working vehicles, including the one next to the barn. Another car and a pickup. We’ll get out into the community to try to enlist volunteers with vehicles, but it’s still too early. Everyone’s way too preoccupied with their own situation at the moment.”

“It’s not helping that the cops were stealing cars from citizens. Trust is running a little thin out there,” said Dave Littner.

“There’s nothing we can do about that. A contact of mine in the state police said that some of the major municipalities requisitioned cars to replace their own disabled vehicles. It doesn’t sound good, and I’d be rightly pissed if they took one of ours, but we’re dealing with a statewide emergency. We have to cut them some slack, but keep an eye on the situation,” said Campbell.

“I can tell you right now what’ll happen if they try to take one of our cars,” said Littner.

“Dave, the last thing we need is a police confrontation of any kind,” said Campbell.

“I know. I know. But something isn’t right with all of this. The police chief in South Berwick is a good friend of mine, and he told me that the state police hand delivered a Homeland Security bulletin mandating that they disarm citizens carrying firearms. I saw the fucking thing. Homeland has declared a national state of emergency, citing the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill’s modification of the Insurrection Act. People are worried, Harry. They’re worried that this whole EMP thing is a false flag operation.”

Everyone broke out into an argument at once.

“Easy now! We need to stay focused!” said Campbell.

“All I’m saying is that some of what we’re hearing over the emergency broadcasts makes sense, but what we’re seeing from the government doesn’t,” said Littner. “There’s no reason to start disarming the populace if an asteroid hit, unless…”

“Unless what?” Campbell prompted.

“I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t like it. There’s not a lot of information flowing, and that makes people nervous. Look at the borders. They’re jammed with folks headed out of the cities. I’m already getting requests from the local police to help out with border crossings.”

“Which you’ve politely declined,” said Campbell.

“Absolutely, though we might have to reconsider this position.”

“The brigade isn’t a police force. We’ve promised the people of York County that we’d never serve in that capacity. If the towns need help with municipal duties, we’ll commit one hundred percent of our resources, but I won’t have members of the brigade manning checkpoints with weapons. Are we all good to go with that?” Campbell looked around at the members.

Everyone voiced agreement, except for Littner.

“What is it, Dave?” said Campbell.

“I’m totally with you, but I think we have a problem.”

“Have some of your people already done this?”

“No. The chapter is solid,” Littner said with a hurt look. “You know that.”

“I’m sorry, Dave. I know you’ve taken pains to weed out the chaff over there.”

“That’s just the problem. I know for a fact that Eli Russell has approached the Berwick and Eliot police to offer his group’s assistance,” said Littner.

“I presume they turned him down?”

“They turned him down for now, but the police are stretched thin. They’ve started to deputize people they can trust to augment the reserve officers. Just manning the border crossings twenty-four hours a day is taking up most of their manpower, and that’s only dealing with vehicle traffic. Once the greater Boston area starts to deteriorate and people start migrating on foot, they’ll be hard-pressed to turn down Eli’s offer.”

“That could spell trouble for all of us,” said Cuskelly.

“I’m simply suggesting that it might be in our best interest to beat Eli to the punch here,” Littner said. “Get our own people involved in these checkpoints, maybe as unarmed observers or inspectors. That way we’ll be in a stronger position to argue against the use of his militia.”

Harrison Campbell contemplated the suggestion, frowning at the thought of getting involved in formal police operations. He wouldn’t hesitate to employ the brigade to protect civilians from specific threats, but patrolling the streets as a sanctioned arm of government didn’t square with the public perception they had worked tirelessly to build over the past several years. Littner’s idea of using the brigade as an observer force had potential. As unarmed, neutral observers, they could assist with nonenforcement tasks and sell their presence to the public as a quasi-watchdog role.

“Assuming an observer-only role, how many members do you think it will take to get the job done?” he asked after a moment of contemplation.

Littner grabbed one of the pencils sitting on the map and leaned over the table to examine the border area.

“I would guess three per crossing. They can rotate shifts, with one working the checkpoint, and the other two resting up. We’ll pick people that live close by and send them with a tent and some supplies. This could also give us a little community outreach presence. If people come by the tent, we’ll explain that the brigade is involved as a neutral observer, to ensure the protection of people’s civil liberties. Kind of like UN observers.”

“Let’s steer clear of the United Nations comparison. That’ll clear people out faster than one of Glen’s chili bombs,” said Campbell, eliciting a table full of laughter and fist pounding.

“I don’t think anything could empty a room quicker,” said Beaudoin.

“Sorry about that, Glen. I couldn’t think of a better way to drive home the point. No UN comparisons, please. With two to three per checkpoint, what are we looking at?” Campbell asked, hovering over the map.

Littner traced the border, stopping at each road over the Salmon Falls River.

“Between the Eliot, South Berwick and Berwick PDs, I know they’re covering six crossings from the Turnpike to Route 11. The state police have Route 11 coming out of Rochester and Route 109. I don’t know what’s happening up in Milton or Milton Mills.”

“All right, here’s what I want you to do, Dave. Before we commit to this endeavor, I want you to drive the border roads and check out each crossing. Stop and talk to each checkpoint to gauge their interest in having a few of our people help with nonenforcement tasks. Once I get in touch with Randy, I’ll send him west to the crossings north of 109 to get a handle on things. Just touch base with the checkpoints and feel them out. Has anyone run into Eli’s brother down south?”

“Jimmy’s been quiet from what I can tell. Then again, it’s barely been twenty-four hours,” said Littner.

“It won’t take his criminal mind long to figure out some way to take advantage of the situation. Keep a close eye out for him. Eli’s bad enough, but Jimmy’s nothing but bad news. I’ll put the feelers out around Sanford and have Randy do the same up his way. I guarantee he’s up to no good, especially if he’s running the felony arm of Eli’s Maine Liberty Militia,” said Campbell.

“I thought they were all felons,” said Beaudoin, eliciting some nervous laughter.

“Eli ain’t a bad guy overall,” Campbell admitted. “We just never saw eye to eye on the main purpose of a civilian militia. Jimmy’s a different type altogether. He made a lot of friends up in Warren, during his extended stay as a guest of the state. Too many of these friends landed in Eli’s militia.”

“I guess I should emphasize that fact when I visit the checkpoints. Keep the police informed,” said Littner.

“Might not be a bad idea. Dave, you’ve got your marching orders and a long day ahead of you, so why don’t you get going. We’ll finish up the status reports, and I’ll pass anything along to you that might come in handy. Head over to the equipment barn to load up on extra tents and blankets, then drive out to Milton Mills. Start there and work your way south through all of the checkpoints. Glen, I need you to assign one of the Sanford chapter members to accompany Dave. Probably not a good idea to have you on those roads alone, especially with Jimmy’s people on the loose.”

“Got it,” said Cuskelly, grabbing the handheld radio on his belt.

“Sounds like a plan, Harry. We’ll do a loop and head back here to come up with a more detailed plan for these crossing checkpoints,” said Littner.

“Make sure you grab a slicker from the barn. Rain’s gonna open up on us any minute now.”

Littner saluted Campbell, who returned it. After shaking hands with the rest of the brigade’s leadership, he departed with Campbell’s deputy commander. Campbell had every confidence that David Littner was the right person for the job. Littner had been with the brigade from the very beginning, and had been one of the most vocal advocates of transforming the brigade from a gun-toting band of weekend warriors back to an organization more in line with the original concepts of civil defense.

Guns and the defense of the citizenry’s 2^nd Amendment rights would always be a core mission of their brigade, but it wouldn’t be the focus. The York County Readiness Brigade, like many militia groups throughout the country, strived to function as a nonmilitarized, grassroots version of the National Guard, focused on preparedness and local disaster relief. Littner had helped him convince the most cynical skeptics that they needed to follow a new path or run the risk of fading away into obscurity. If Littner felt it might be in the best interest of the brigade to help out at the checkpoints, then they would explore the possibility of a shift in official policy. He turned his attention back to the two men at the table.

“So how are we looking in the Kennebunk area, Anthony?”

Chapter 26

EVENT +30:35 Hours

^{Acton, Maine}

Thick raindrops smacked the windshield, buoying his hopes that the black and purple clouds would unleash a torrent of rain. A thrashing downpour would discourage a detailed examination of their vehicle. They might sail right through. Or not. Either way, they were crossing in Milton Mills. That much had been agreed upon.

A white, single-steeple church sat burrowed in a plot of trees along the road. The back ends of several vehicles appeared in front of the visible portion of the building, tucked behind the church. Two people walked to a white gazebo, one of them carrying a rifle.

“Did you see that?” asked Alex.

“What?” said Charlie.

“A guy back there had a rifle—at the church.”

Ed said, “Maybe it’s one of those end-of-the-world churches.”

“A lot of cars in—”Alex started.

“Heads up,” Ed cut in. “White minivan just took the turn ahead.”

Alex squinted to get a better view. “Got it.” He noticed the Massachusetts plates. “Slow down a bit,” he said, as the minivan drew even.

Two men in the front seats, one wearing a military-style boonie cap, woman and children in the back. None of them turned their heads when the two cars passed.

Charlie followed them with his eyes. “Fucking weird.”

“Weird is putting it mildly,” said Ed.

“What are they doing?” Alex asked.

“Shit!” Charlie blasted. “They just turned at the church.”

“What? How does that make sense?” said Alex.

“Maybe it’s one of those militia supply points.”

“With out-of-town guests? Something is off around here.”

“You just noticed?” Ed snorted. “It’s like driving through the fucking Twilight Zone.”

“At least they’re letting cars into Maine,” said Alex. “As weird as it is, I think we made the right call.”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said doubtfully. “Something wasn’t right with that car.”

Alex stayed silent as the Jeep crossed Edgecomb County Road and pressed forward through the intensifying rainsquall. They were less than a mile from the border crossing.

“Is this it?” asked Ed, slowing the car.

“Not according to the GPS,” said Alex.

The road opened into an industrial area, flanked by several warehouses and dozens of neatly arranged semi-trailers on either side of the road. One of the warehouses near the road had open sides, exposing stacks of recently milled wood. Trees swallowed the road again, and the rain intensified.

“Maybe we should wait for this to ease off a bit,” Ed suggested, slowing the Jeep even further.

“This might be our only shot. They won’t get out of their cars in this shit.”

“How far?” asked Ed.

“Not far,” said Alex. “Start to slow once we hit the bend. You ready back there, Charlie?”

“Ready as ever.”

“All right. Let’s go through it one more time. Ed stops the car roughly fifty feet from the roadblock, and I get out. I’ll talk to whoever is blocking the bridge and figure out what we’re up against. Ed watches me with the binoculars. If I give the thumbs-up, he drives forward, and all is good. If I rub the top of my head, it’s a no-go. I’ll return to the car, and we’ll figure out how to bust through. If I reach for the gun behind my back, get ready for a hot extract. Charlie?”

“Suppressing fire. Over their heads,” said Charlie.

“Way over their heads, and only if they fire first. There’s no reason for them to fire at me. Over their heads and keep the volume of fire high. Ed, you turn the car around and wait for me to come to you. Good?”

“Got it,” responded Ed.

“Your job is the most important, Ed. Charlie won’t be watching the roadblock. There’s a three-way intersection right before the bridge. I need him to observe the road parallel to the river. It leads north to the other crossing, where there will be more police. Shit. Here’s the bend—slow us down a little more.”

The bend straightened, and the foliage cleared on the right to reveal a stretch of white picket fence along the road. A yellow bungalow-style house with a wide farmer’s porch sat back from the fence. A tall white church spire appeared above the trees beyond the house. Alex didn’t have time to assemble the bigger picture. The intersection was less than a hundred feet ahead.

He raised the binoculars, immediately spotting the roadblock. They would have to rethink the plan. This wasn’t a police roadblock. The tight, two-lane asphalt road spanning the Salmon Falls River was blocked at both ends by single SUVs. He could see little more than a three-to five-foot gap between the front bumper of the nearest SUV and the metal guard railings. The gap on the far side appeared even smaller. He didn’t see any personnel in the open on either side. Alex handed the binoculars back to Charlie.

“Stop us here,” said Alex.

As soon as the Jeep stopped, the dark green Toyota Land Cruiser’s doors opened. Two men dressed in MultiCam fatigues and boonie hats stepped onto the rain-swept pavement. They wore a variety of mismatched tactical gear, which immediately pegged them as militia. The men carried AR-style rifles attached to one-point slings. Alex was beginning to piece things together. Part of him screamed “get out of here.” The other part put his hand on the door handle.

“Make sure your rifle is ready for immediate action. I can almost guarantee this will be a no-go. If this goes bad, shoot for center mass. I’ll get out of your way. Three quick rounds at one target, then shift to the next. Keep shifting back and forth between targets until they are down,” said Alex, opening his door.

“Militia?” asked Charlie.

“Or locals. Nothing official, I can guarantee that.”

He glanced back at Ed, who looked calm. “You good?”

“Never been better,” said Ed. “Be careful with these guys.”

“Careful would be backing up and trying to talk our way past the state police,” said Alex, eliciting a nervous laugh from Ed.

He stepped onto the wet pavement and tucked the HK P30 into his waistband, pulling his shirt over the protruding handle. He had chosen not to wear his drop holster or any tactical gear for the drive, since he had anticipated having to possibly approach law enforcement officers at some point during their journey south. Even the presence of an empty tactical holster could end their trip prematurely.

This decision was quickly validated. Both men shifted into alert carry stances when Alex started walking toward them, pointing their weapons in his direction. They were anxious. The question was whether they were anxious out of uncertainty, or anxious to score a kill. In the deafening rain on this abandoned stretch of road, virtually in the middle of nowhere, he began to seriously question his own decision to step out of the car. He kept moving toward them through the warm rain, with his hands raised over his head.

One of them spoke into a handheld radio and waited for a reply, pressing the radio to his ear. A few seconds passed before he lowered the radio and hooked it onto his vest. Radioman assumed the ready carry position, with the butt stock jammed into his shoulder and the muzzle aimed at Alex. He thought of the pistol behind his back long enough to accept the fact that he’d be dead before he hit the ground if he tried to reach for it.

“That’s far enough!” yelled Radioman. “State your business.”

“I need to cross over into New Hampshire. My son is trapped in Boston. He’s a college student, and he has no way to get back home!” Alex yelled over the downpour.

“Nothing gets across in either direction! Those are my orders.”

“Look, all I want is to get my son. I’ll find a different way back,” said Alex.

“Orders,” said Radioman, shrugging his shoulders.

“State police are allowing Maine residents to cross the border in both directions,” said Alex.

“Then I suggest you take your car to one of their checkpoints. Nobody’s crossing here.”

“I just saw a car headed south on the road behind me. Looked like one of your guys in it. Massachusetts plates,” said Alex.

“They volunteered to give up their car. That’s the only way anyone gets across. We’re not having a repeat of 2013, with people driving around looting and pillaging our homes,” said Radioman.

“You’re making them walk?”

“We take them to Sanford or Springvale. Their choice. They have plenty of options there.”

“So there’s no way we get across here?”

“We’ll make an exception if you’re willing to give up your vehicle and everything inside. That’s the only way anyone gets across.”

With that statement, it all snapped into place for Alex. The men with rifles at the church. The car with Massachusetts plates turning into the church. Nobody was getting a lift to Sanford or Springvale.

He forced a smile. “I guess we’ll have to find another way across,” said Alex, lowering his right hand enough to scratch his head.

“You don’t sound so eager to cross at one of the state police checkpoints. How come?”

“I don’t trust cops. Are you guys part of the York County Readiness Brigade?”

“Maine Liberty Militia. The real militia. Not that horseshit bean-supper brigade,” said Radioman, causing his sidekick to snicker.

“Never heard of it,” said Alex.

“Now you have,” said Radioman.

“You guys have a good day,” said Alex, half-expecting to take a bullet in the back.

Alex hopped into the Jeep and closed the door, surprised to find the barrel of Charlie’s rifle protruding a few inches past the headrest. Careful not to disturb his aim, Alex examined his firing position. Charlie had raised the front passenger seat headrest to its highest point and had braced his rifle in the gap between the seat and headrest. He had propped the three assault backpacks next to him to support the right side of his body, providing a stable platform to aim his rifle through the gap and beyond the windshield. He was relieved to see that Charlie had taken the initiative to cover him, and that he’d chosen a method not easily detectable. He was little disturbed that nobody was watching the road leading to the other bridge.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t like the way they looked. Ed was watching you and the road, and I had my eye on those two. I think they’re running some kind of racket here. That was one of their guys in the car back there,” said Charlie, engaging the rifle’s safety before setting it across his lap.

“Maine Liberty Militia. Ever heard of them?”

Charlie shook his head. “Probably one of those offshoot groups. A dozen sprung up after 2013.”

“Whoever they are, I think they’re running more than just a racket. Let’s go back down Foxes Ridge Road.”

Ed put the Jeep into reverse and executed a two-point turn. When they passed the industrial site, Ed broke the silence.

“Now where are we supposed to cross? If we keep following the border hoping for the best, we’ll end up driving to the goddamned Canadian border!”

“We’re crossing in Milton Mills,” said Alex.

“How? This isn’t SEAL Team Six, Alex. You saw the guys down there. We don’t even know how many we’re dealing with.”

“Probably twelve,” said Charlie. “I saw three guys on the other side through my scope, talking to a bunch of bikers. Weapons aimed right at them. Looked like a heated debate going on. We have to assume the same setup on the other bridge. Two cars of three.”

“Twelve at the border and more at the church,” said Alex.

“That’s too many,” said Ed.

“We only have to get past six of them,” said Alex.

“With the rest of the Maine whatever-the-fuck Liberty gang coming to the rescue? What about the church? How many reinforcements do they have waiting over there?”

Alex glanced at Charlie. “We’re headed there next.”

“Recon?” asked Charlie.

“If my suspicions are correct? Direct action. No survivors.”

“Wait. Hold on. You’re going into the church? You’re out of your mind. These guys are fucking crazy!”

“Which is why it’ll work. I saw two of them up close. They’ll never expect this. When the bullets start connecting, they’ll break.”

“You can’t guarantee that. If something goes wrong, our kids are screwed. I’d rather walk to Boston to—”

“Ed! Walking to Boston is not an option! We need to be in Boston tonight. I can get us over this bridge.”

Ed shook his head and muttered obscenities for a few seconds before turning to Alex. “If this is too much for you and Charlie to handle, we find another way. I’m trusting you to make that call. Why is the church so important, again?” he asked.

“The guy at the roadblock said the only way to get across was to voluntarily give up your vehicle. They take your car and supposedly drop you in Sanford,” said Alex.

“The last car turned into the church,” said Ed.

“Exactly,” Alex stated. “I want to know what they’re doing with the families. They’re sure as shit not driving them to Sanford. I saw kids in that SUV.”

“They definitely didn’t take the family to Sanford,” said Ed.

“I’m shutting this operation down effective immediately,” said Alex.

Ed sighed. “This is going to get us all killed.”

Chapter 27

EVENT +30:59 Hours

^{Acton, Maine}

Alex approached the next tree trunk, careful not to snap any of the larger dogwood branches. Charlie trailed one tree behind, following his path through the dense forest growth. They had established an effective pattern in which one of them rushed forward while the other watched for threats.

Charlie crashed down next to him, pointing his rifle across the parking lot. Alex covered the northern door and the pavement area visible beyond the corner of the building. The two men he’d seen when they passed the church on the way to Milton Mills had been headed in the direction of the gazebo. Alex had taken precautions during their approach, stopping and observing for long periods of time. He detected no signs of an organized, defensive surveillance effort.

“I think we’re clear to approach the back door. Careful with that corner. I’m pretty sure the gazebo is on the other side,” he whispered.

Charlie nodded, watching his sector. Alex had been impressed with his neighbor’s ability to move quietly through the forest and follow simple hand signals. Charlie’s years of experience stalking animals had paid dividends, and he walked quieter than Alex, when he didn’t stumble. He hadn’t completely mastered the “ready carry” technique, which required him to aim over his rifle’s sights and maneuver without looking at the ground. The last hundred yards had shown a marked improvement since they left the Jeep, with Charlie effectively shifting lines of sight without tripping.

Alex drew his pistol and retrieved a dark cylindrical object, screwing it onto the pistol barrel.

“Jesus Harold Christmas! Is that legal?” Charlie exclaimed.

“What do you think? Swap rifles with me.”

“Why?” whispered Charlie.

“Because there’s gonna be some shooting, and we need it to be as quiet as possible,” said Alex.

“This is crazy,” muttered Charlie. He unclipped the rifle from his one-point sling and handed it to Alex, casting a doubtful look.

“We’ll be fine, Charlie, as long as you stay close to me and remember what I tell you. We clear one room at a time. I enter the room first, staying low and sweeping from left to right. You’ll lean in aiming high, sweeping from right to left. When the room is clear, you enter the room and transition to cover the hallway or whatever open space we just used. We’ll clear the building room by room until we find what we’re looking for. Clear?”

“Clear. What are we looking for?”

“The families they brought here. Ready?”

“Not really,” said Charlie.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Alex rose to his feet and clipped Charlie’s rifle into his own sling harness, shifting the rifle and sling behind his back. Charlie raised Alex’s rifle to his shoulder and stared through the ACOG scope, shifting his aim a few times. He nodded at Alex, and they started forward. The back door burst open. Alex pushed Charlie down and furiously low-crawled to the next tree trunk several feet ahead of them, squirming through rain-soaked underbrush. He wasn’t worried about noise. Cover and concealment was his primary goal for the moment.

He reached the tree without the hissing of bullets through foliage, confident that they hadn’t been spotted. He laid the pistol on the damp ground and twisted onto his left side to wrestle Charlie’s rifle forward. Charlie rustled through the bushes a few seconds later, settling somewhere behind him.

Alex stared over the holographic sight on Charlie’s AR, dismayed by the scene. Six people walked across the asphalt parking lot toward the tree line at the rear of the parking lot. Two men wearing MultiCam uniforms and boonie hats nudged the family forward with their rifles.

Not on my watch.

He leaned back. “Change of plans. We drop both of the militia guys and rush the corner of the building. You’ll suppress the gazebo, and I’ll clear the building. Once the building is clear, I’ll help you with the gazebo.”

“If there’s anyone left,” said Charlie.

“No adjustment necessary on the ACOG. Start taking them down. I’ll meet you at the corner of the building,” said Alex, rising to a low crouch.

“I got this,” said Charlie, settling in behind the scope.

“Take your shots quickly. If they reach the trees, the family is dead,” he said, grabbing his pistol off the ground and sprinting to the next tree.

Alex stopped behind the next tree and holstered the pistol. The suppressed rifle barked twice in rapid succession. Alex dropped to one knee and leaned around the backside of the tree. One gunman lay on the pavement. The other teetered on his feet for a moment. A third shot passed through the man’s neck, showering the pavement with blood and dropping him instantly. The family ran for the tree line, screaming.

Alex sprinted for the corner of the building. The heavy rain may have drowned out the suppressed rifle shots, but a quick look at the angles ahead told Alex that the men in the gazebo had a direct line of sight to their downed comrades. Even if they hadn’t noticed the men fall to the ground, there was no way they could miss an entire family scrambling across the parking lot. He just hoped that the security team didn’t decide to gun down the family from the gazebo.

He was still a few seconds away from the corner when he caught a glimpse of movement and raised Charlie’s rifle, snapping two shots at the figure that appeared in the EOTech sight’s illuminated reticle. He moved the rifle to the right, finding his second target, but a storm of splinters and supersonic cracks forced him flat against the side of the building. He shifted the rifle to a left-handed shooting position and backed up a few more feet, dropping to the blacktop. Leaning the rifle out at a forty-five-degree angle, he reacquired the target. Both targets.

The first shooter was down on both knees, clutching his neck, blood pumping through his fingers. The second man kneeled next to him, yanking medical supplies out of his vest. Alex fired a single .223-caliber projectile through his head, knocking him over. The next bullet struck the wounded man in the forehead. With the only two visible targets down, he turned to Charlie.

“Don’t let anyone through that door! I’m going through the front,” he said, waiting for Charlie’s acknowledgement.

Satisfied with a thumbs-up and Charlie’s choice of position on the right side of the concrete stoop, he quick-peeked around the corner, verifying that the parking lot was still devoid of militia. He assumed the ready carry position and shuffled down the side of the building, crouching at each of the evenly spaced windows imbedded into the white vinyl siding. He passed nine cars, all with out-of-state license plates, before he reached the door and drew his pistol.

The sound of a revving vehicle engine stopped him from opening the door, and he slid between the two closest cars. Staying below window level, he moved to the rear of a Honda Pilot and transitioned back to Charlie’s rifle. Shots from the suppressed rifle in Charlie’s hands echoed through the parking lot.

We’re now on the verge of a complete disaster.

He stayed concealed, watching the visible portion of the driveway through the cargo compartment window. He kept his peripheral vision attuned to the building’s front door. With Charlie blasting away into the building, the militia members inside might attempt to flank him. Their most logical path to Charlie came through the door he had almost opened.

When the vehicle appeared, Alex waved frantically, trying to get Ed to stop the Jeep before it became visible to the shooters in the building. Ed turned the Jeep off the driveway, screeching to a halt just past the corner. Alex heard the front door open and stayed low, switching back to the suppressed pistol.

He moved swiftly between the Pilot and the silver four-door sedan, staying low with both hands extended forward in an isosceles triangle. The first figure appeared above the hood of the Pilot, and Alex pulled the trigger twice, adjusting his aim for the head. The hollow-point bullets penetrated his skull, plastering the white siding beyond him with a mosaic of dark and bright red clumps. Alex pressed forward, firing repeatedly over the hood at the second man barreling through the opening. The 9mm bullets struck hard, knocking him against the gore-stained cedar siding with a grunt.

A third figure emerged from the doorway and locked eyes with Alex. Before Alex could line him up in the P30’s sights, the militiaman lurched forward, firing his AR-15 wildly over the hood. Bullets snapped overhead as Alex crouched low behind the engine block, windows exploding in a pattern toward the rear of the vehicle. Alex slid in front of the Pilot and fired three shots through the windshield toward the back of the SUV. His pistol volley was met by several .223 projectiles, which showered Alex and the hood with hundreds of milky blue safety glass particles and splintered the cedar siding behind him.

He was effectively wedged between two threat vectors, unable to simultaneously watch and engage targets coming from both directions. He quickly peeked above the hood, spotting the familiar boonie hat through the punctured windshield. Bullets snapped past Alex’s head, forcing him down. He detected movement behind him and turned halfway to the left, switching pistol hands. The second man he had shot with the pistol groaned, desperately trying to reach the rifle lying next to him. Alex extended his left hand and fired a single bullet through his face, slamming the man’s head into the side of the building.

The shooting stopped for a moment, and all Alex could hear above ringing in his ears was the low din of heavy rainfall beating against sheet metal. He needed to reload the pistol. He dropped to the asphalt and reached along the left side of his vest, searching for a spare pistol magazine, while scanning the space under the vehicle. He could see the man’s boots shifting on the pavement beyond the protruding axles.

The sound of fast-moving footsteps drew his attention to the front door. Alex propelled himself forward, slamming into the bloody wall just as a man dressed in MultiCam utilities stepped onto the porch, firing wildly into the cars. Sliding down the wall into a shallow puddle, Alex slammed the fifteen-round magazine tightly into place, depressing the slide-stop to chamber a round. Three 9mm hollow-point projectiles struck the man in a tight pattern under his exposed armpit, knocking him out of the doorway.

By hastily moving against the wall, he had put too much distance between himself and the front bumper, giving the shooter behind the SUV a clear line of fire. If he had more time to consider his next move, he would have been better off dropping out of sight—hoping that he could beat the rounds that would soon be headed in his direction at three thousand feet per second. Instead, he did what most people trained to defend themselves with firearms would do. He shifted and fired—at nothing.

“He’s down!” yelled Ed, the barrel of his Ruger 10/22 protruding beyond the edge of the church corner.

Saved again by Ed.

Alex gave him a thumbs-up and raised himself out of the crimson puddle, focused on killing the rest of the militia. Four men had rushed out, bringing the total confirmed enemy casualty count to eight. He had no idea if Charlie had added to that number, or if he’d simply kept them from reaching the back door. A volley of three suppressed rifle shots and a scream from inside the building answered his question.

Not wanting to give away his position by yelling, Alex tried to communicate with Ed using basic hand signals. He pointed at Ed with his index finger, then pointed at his own eyes, following this with a quick hatchet hand in the direction of the road. He wanted Ed to cover the road in case the gunfire attracted attention. Ed nodded and disappeared, leaving Alex to wonder if the message had been received. He transitioned back to Charlie’s rifle and slowly sidestepped into the open doorway, staring over his sights for any threats.

The door opened into a large vestibule with several rows of coat hooks, all of them empty except for a light blue child’s windbreaker. Beyond the vestibule, a tight hallway crossed the building’s central passageway and dead-ended at a window on the far wall. A fusillade of rifle fire erupted from the central hallway, causing him to tighten his grip and focus on the right side opening. Clearing the rest of the building would be tricky.

Alex sprinted down the hallway, keeping his rifle pointed toward the right, in the most likely threat direction. He hit the intersection, spotting at least two hostiles crouched in open doorways down the center hallway. Three crumpled bodies lay beyond them. He glanced in the opposite direction and scanned the doors and floor leading toward the church. The doors on the left side were closed, and the shiny linoleum floor was clear of spent brass. He felt confident that the hallway behind him was clear of threats. Now he just needed to figure out a way to keep Charlie from popping him with his own rifle.

He stepped back from the corner and edged toward the hallway until the first occupied doorway appeared in his rifle’s holographic sight. The figure in the doorway leaned out and fired two rapid shots in Charlie’s direction. Alex fired, spilling the man into the hallway. Alex pulled himself swiftly back from the corner as a single round skipped off the linoleum floor in front of him and buried itself in the drywall behind him. The sound of three suppressed shots echoed through the hallways.

Alex eased himself toward the corner again, angling the rifle to expose as little of his body as possible to the remaining shooter. He waited a few seconds and dashed across to the other side of the hallway, continuing well past the corner. Several rifle bullets followed him, exploding the drywall on both sides of the vestibule hallway, as the shooter tried to follow the arc of his movement beyond the walls. He heard the sound of his suppressed rifle amidst the chaos.

“I got him!” yelled Charlie.

“I’m coming out slowly. Same plan as before, except you stay in place, centered on the stairs. Got it!” said Alex.

“You’re clear to move!” said Charlie.

Alex took a deep breath and moved to the corner, peeking into the hallway. Charlie had moved to the middle of the doorway, aiming Alex’s rifle down the long hallway. Alex had four rooms to clear. Two sets of two doors, located next to each other on both sides of the hallway. He stepped into the hall and noted a long, mottled red streak on the gray wall next to the first doorway on the left. A mangled head protruded several inches beyond the bottom of the doorframe, anchored by a thick pool of spreading blood. Alex slithered along the right wall, keeping his rifle focused on the left side doorways. He stopped and listened for movement within the rooms, hearing nothing.

He spun to the right and entered the first room on the right side, immediately determining that it was devoid of threats. The classroom had been stuffed with gear belonging to the owners of the vehicles parked outside. He faced the doorway and quickly slipped into the room next door, finding the same thing. Another classroom stuffed with suitcases, oversized duffel bags, coolers, hiking backpacks, tents and sleeping bags.

There was far too much stuff in these rooms to fit into the assortment of vehicles he’d seen in the church parking lot. These fucks had been at this for a long time. He spotted a light pink child’s backpack with the initials LAH sewn in white thread on the outer pouch. He didn’t want to think about what they would find if they took a walk into the forest behind the parking lot.

Alex cleared the two remaining rooms, one of which was empty, waiting ominously for more refugees to take the devil’s bargain being offered at the Milton Mills crossing. The other room contained several cots and a large wooden table. Two car batteries connected in parallel sat against the far wall of the room, attached by black and red wires to a power inverter on the right side of the table. Several handheld radio charging stations lined the back of the table, plugged into a surge protector powered by the inverter. All but one of the charging stations was empty. He swiped the radio from its cradle and turned to the doorway.

“All clear!” he said, peeking into the hallway.

“All clear!” repeated Charlie.

When he saw Charlie start to rise, with his rifle pointed downward, he stepped into the blood-slicked corridor, checking the three bodies slumped against the walls for signs of life.

“They kept coming,” he said, his voice trailing off. “Never saw anything like it.”

“Just like Khe Sanh?” Alex asked.

“Very funny,” Charlie said.

“You did good, my friend. Really good—and you’re not even wearing your squirrel cap,” said Alex, patting his shoulder.

Charlie stuffed his hand into the left cargo pocket of this pants. “I have it right here!”

“Not now,” said Alex, yanking Charlie down from the top of the stoop.

Charlie absorbed the drop with stiff legs and teetered for a moment. Alex noticed that Charlie’s breathing was labored, as if he had just run up several flights of stairs. He’d be willing to write this off as expected stress-induced excitability if Charlie’s face wasn’t beet red.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little excited.”

“Your face looks like it’s going to explode.”

“And you look as white as a ghost. You want your rifle back?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of getting attached to this one,” said Alex, eyeing him warily.

“Well, too bad. This ACOG scope is useless for close-up shots, and I don’t like these angled thingies you put on this. So if you don’t mind,” said Charlie, holding out Alex’s rifle.

“I didn’t see you having any problems,” said Alex, exchanging rifles.

“I made it work.”

Charlie changed magazines and snapped the rifle back into his one-point sling, hustling to catch up with Alex. “Hey, what about that family that took off?”

Alex stopped for a moment and stared off into the forest beyond the parking lot, grimacing. “We don’t have time to chase them down—and I don’t expect them to come running to us with open arms,” he replied. “I wouldn’t.”

“Hate to leave them out there like this…” said Charlie, hesitating.

“They got their lucky break. Let’s go.”

Chapter 28

EVENT +31:18 Hours

^{Milton Mills Crossing, Southern Bridge}

Ed’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. Alex’s plan for getting across the bridge was crazier than the raid on the church. His handheld radio crackled, filling the cabin with Alex’s voice.

“I’m not seeing any indication that they are alerted or expecting us. Charlie, you see anything at the northern crossing?”

“Negative,” Charlie replied. “The road is clear.”

“Ed, how does the road look heading toward the church?” Alex inquired.

“It’s clear. I don’t buy it, Alex. They’re waiting for us.”

“We would have heard something on the radio. All we picked up was a report of agitated bikers at the far end of the south bridge. All three of the militiamen are positioned in the open, behind the SUV, aiming their rifles at a group of people assembled about twenty feet away. The guys in the closest vehicle are tucked away nice and dry. This is as good as it gets, Ed.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“I’m moving closer to the bridge, where I can fire at both vehicles. Charlie, I’m going to need your help with the nearest SUV. When I start shooting across the river, I want you to pump at least half of a magazine into the doors. If someone spills out onto the road, they’re yours. Once you see me on the bridge, reload and cover the road leading from the other checkpoint. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, Alex. Give me a few minutes to crawl into position. I don’t have a clear line of sight to the vehicle,” said Charlie.

Charlie even sounded like shit over the radio. His breathing hadn’t recovered from the first round of mayhem before Alex yanked him out of the Jeep for round two. He was pushing Charlie past his physical limits, and it was going to kill him, if it didn’t get them all killed first.

“Ed, I’ll radio you when I have the first SUV cleared,” said Alex.

“Roger. I have the Jeep running,” said Ed, shaking his head.

“I’m moving into position. Out.”

Out of your fucking mind is more like it.

Ed put one of his shaky hands around the grip of the .45-caliber Glock 37 lying on the front passenger seat, not feeling any comfort in the cold, utilitarian shape. He turned his head and stared through the rear windshield, catching glimpses of the road beyond the rear wiper’s useless arc. The rain had intensified again, drumming the Jeep’s sheet metal roof with an incessant staccato. The oppressive sound gave him hope that Alex might be right, that the men at the bridge could hear nothing more than distant, muted gunfire in the rain. His radio burst to life.

“I’m in position. What’s your status, Charlie?” asked Alex.

“Give me thirty seconds. I’m almost at the edge of the brush,” Charlie huffed.

Ed glanced at the wooden stock of his Ruger 10/22 rifle. Protruding through the space between the front seat backs, he could put it into action much faster than he had at the church. The rifle had been stuffed under the smaller backpacks, rendering it impossible to pull it free from the front driver’s seat. He’d hopped out and opened the rear passenger seat, yanking it free in a panic when the shooting broke out. He’d barely reached the corner of the church in time to save Alex—again.

One .22LR (long rifle) Interceptor bullet to the back of the head had dropped the guy hiding behind the SUV. The forty-grain, hypervelocity, hollow-point cartridge didn’t pack the same punch as Alex or Charlie’s .223 rounds, as Ed was constantly reminded, but it did the job. Twice by his count.

Alex dragged himself through the dirt, squirming through a thick tangle of bushes less than forty feet from the first SUV. Through the driving rain and dense foliage, he caught glints of steel and glass. He could see enough of the SUV to confirm that they hadn’t activated the front windshield wipers since his previous visit. Their view of the trees and bushes beyond the guardrail would be a blur of cascading raindrops.

He raised his head far enough off the ground to observe the SUV on the other side of the short bridge that spanned Salmon Falls River. He had a clear line of sight. All three men still stood behind the black SUV, pointing their rifles in the direction of a small crowd gathered in front of several motorcycles. Two of the militiamen stood near the front of the SUV, while the third man lingered near the tailgate, partially obscured from Alex’s sight.

He’ll be the first to go.

Alex spun his body and took a seat on the mud-soaked ground, splaying his legs and bending his knees. He rested his elbows on his knees to fully steady his rifle. Satisfied with the stability of his firing platform, he took his right hand off the rifle to grab his handheld radio. He hadn’t heard from Charlie, and it had been longer than thirty seconds.

“Charlie, are you in position?” A few seconds passed without a response. “Charlie, what is your status?” Nothing.

Damn it, where are you?

“Ed, can you see Charlie?”

“No. He disappeared in the trees. Do you want me to move the Jeep closer?”

“Negative,” Alex replied. “Charlie, are you there?”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Charlie finally responded. “Damn bushes knocked my fucking earpiece out. Sorry, guys. I’m at the edge of the road with a clear shot at the exposed side of the SUV. Ready to go.”

“All right, this is it. Remember, Charlie, don’t start shooting until you hear my rounds headed down range,” Alex reminded him.

“Got it, Alex. Ready to do this.”

“Here we go,” said Alex, clipping the waterproof radio to his vest.

He settled into the rifle, nestling the stock deep into his shoulder. Through the 4X ACOG scope, he located the partially obscured militiaman near the back of the vehicle and placed the tip of the red chevron reticle in the center of his head. There would be no need to compensate for bullet drop at this range. At an estimated range of roughly fifty yards, the .223 bullet would retain a flat trajectory, even in the pouring rain.

He took his eye off the scope momentarily, feeling nauseous and warm. Maybe this was a mistake. The plan had just enough moving parts to descend into complete chaos. What if they couldn’t break through this side of the bridge quickly enough? They needed to be driving across the river, unopposed, when reinforcements arrived. Everything depended on his ability to accurately shoot three men within the span of seconds. If any of them survived to seek cover and return fire, they’d have to abandon the bridge attack and retreat. Alex didn’t have a plan for that.

He put his eye to the scope and breathed slowly for several moments, easing the trigger back. Crack. The rifle bit into his shoulder, but he kept the scope’s field of view on the target. The man crouched and aimed toward the two-story buildings in Milton Mills, edging into full view. Alex spotted a small, paint-chipped hole at the edge of the SUV. His shot had been off by an inch.

Not a good start.

He sighted in on the confused militiaman and fired three rapid shots. The man clutched his neck and dropped to both knees, teetering forward to fall face first into a puddle.

Unable to determine the source of the gunfire, the two remaining men darted for the edge of the bridge. Alex placed the red chevron on the lead runner and fired another tightly spaced three-round volley. He didn’t wait for the results, shifting immediately to the second target. Alex’s bullets arrived before the man reached the perceived safety of the metal guardrail, knocking him to the pavement as Charlie’s fusillade erupted.

Alex changed magazines and slid down the riverbank to put some earth between Charlie’s gun and his approach. He scrambled across the slippery mud and climbed the jagged rocks set against the bridge. He slowly raised his body, aiming the rifle in the direction of the SUV. With both eyes open, he stared through the ACOG scope, processing the entire scene. Movement beside the SUV brought the rifle left, his eyes quickly finding a target. Two trigger pulls punched the militiaman over the far guardrail and out of sight. Alex crouched lower and scanned for additional movement. The gunfire had stopped.

“Alex, this is Charlie. All targets are down. One in the car; one on the road in front of the roadblock; one over the side.”

“Roger,” Alex replied. “I’m moving up to clear the SUV. Hold your fire.”

“Got it.”

Alex heaved himself over the guardrail and crouched below the hood just as Ed’s voice broke onto the radio net.

“They’re panicking at the other bridge,” Ed said nervously. “We need to get out of here.”

“I’m working on that. Bring the Jeep down, and pick up Charlie on the way,” said Alex.

He edged past the bumper, angling his rifle to examine the driver’s side of the SUV. A body rested against the side of the vehicle, legs sprawled forward in an awkward pose. Blood and broken glass covered the wet pavement around the inert form. Alex fired a single bullet into the man’s head, unwilling to take the chance that he might have one trigger pull left in him as a surprise.

Moving in a low crouch down the side of the SUV, he glanced upward and noticed a head protruding through the shattered driver’s window, blood dripping steadily from the brim of the boonie hat attached to it. Alex stood up and opened the door, yanking the body to the pavement and spilling the remains of the man’s brains onto his boots. He felt the sudden urge to vomit, which he fought while tossing his rifle inside and jumping into the brain-splattered driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition, thankfully. He didn’t relish spending any more time than necessary in this mobile charnel house. He started the Toyota Land Cruiser and put it in reverse, creating a gap large enough to fit Ed’s Jeep, which barreled toward the bridge.

“They’re coming!” was all he heard from the Jeep’s open window.

Alex turned the wheel right and jammed the Toyota into the guardrail, blocking the road. He removed the keys from the ignition and climbed over the blood-slick center console, opening the passenger door. He hit the pavement running, rifle in one hand and keys in the other. A few seconds later, he reached the Jeep, pocketing the keys and grabbing the roof rack bar. With his feet firmly planted on the passenger side running board, he slapped the front door with this hand.

“Go! Go!”

The Jeep lurched forward just as two cars appeared on the far side of the Toyota. Bullets snapped overhead before they reached the SUV on the far side, prompting Alex to release his right hand from the roof rack and swing his rifle over his left arm. Using the crook of his left elbow for stability, Alex fired several rounds in the direction of the cars before Ed eased the Jeep to a halt. He leaned down into the rear passenger window to yell at Charlie, who was halfway out of the rear driver-side window, firing at their pursuers.

“Charlie! Move the roadblock. I got this!”

Alex hopped down from the running board and went prone on the pavement, hoping to present the smallest possible target to the men less than one hundred and fifty feet away. Incoming rounds cracked off the asphalt, forcing him to roll against the Jeep’s rear tire. He zeroed in on a man trying to squeeze through the small opening between the rear of the SUV and the guardrail. With the chevron reticle centered on the man’s chest, Alex fired three times, dropping him in place.

Were they really attempting to take the bridge on foot?

Staring past his ACOG scope, he saw at least two more men attempting to move forward under covering fire.

Let’s see what we can do about that.

A bullet skipped off a puddle less than a foot in front of his head, ricocheting into the Jeep’s rear tire, flattening it with a hiss. He rapid-fired the rest of his magazine at the approaching men, then scrambled to the front of the Jeep to shield himself from the incoming fusillade. He changed magazines and looked up to see Ed peeking over the dashboard, waiting for Charlie to move the roadblock, flinching with each bullet impact.

The SUV behind him roared to life and jerked forward, clearing the road into Milton Mills. He stood to give Ed the thumbs-up just as the front windshield shattered in place, leaving a one-inch hole in the middle of an opaque, milky blue screen. Alex jumped out of the way, sure that Ed wasn’t about to spend another second in the kill zone. True to his prediction, Ed gunned the Jeep down the road, barely swerving in time to avoid running into the pack of motorcycles parked on the left side of the road.

Alex tucked behind one of the metal posts holding up the guardrail, and turned his attention to the two men advancing across the bridge. His first salvo yielded at least one hit to the closest militiaman, collapsing him against the guardrail. A few of the bikers lying in the grass on the other side of the road rushed up to grab the rifles dropped by the militiamen Alex had killed at the beginning of the battle. Alex expended his magazine, providing cover fire.

Within seconds, semiautomatic rifle fire from the Milton Mills side of the river tore into the militiamen stranded in the middle of the bridge and started to obliterate the SUV on the other side. Alex took advantage of the extra rifle fire to deliver well-aimed, single shots at the sparse targets that appeared behind the Toyota. He struck one of them in the head through the half-shattered rear cargo compartment window, which stopped incoming fire from the Maine side of the bridge. Moments later, one of the cars parked behind the SUV spun its tires on the wet road, tearing off north on Foxes Ridge Road, leaving the Salmon River Falls crossing quiet.

Alex stood slowly, making sure the retreat was genuine. Sensing no movement on the far end of the bridge, he walked over to the dazed bikers, who had just begun to lift themselves out of the gravel next to the road. Halfway across the road, he dropped to one knee and vomited onto the pavement. Charlie jumped down from the SUV a few moments later and braced himself on the guardrail. When he turned around, Alex seriously wondered if Charlie should continue the journey. He wore a pained look across a dark red face, gasping for breath.

“You all right?” Alex asked.

“Better than you,” he said, followed by several deep breaths.

“When you’re feeling better, grab a few extra magazines for each of us. Leave the rest for them.”

“I’m fine right now,” said Charlie. “Ed’s the one you need to check on.”

Alex glanced at the Jeep idling past the bridge. Ed sat upright, motionless. Maybe this would be the end of the journey for both of them.

“Better than shitting your pants,” he heard over the rain.

A man with a thick gray beard and hair tied back into a ponytail lifted himself off the road and approached with a smirk. Wearing full leather riding gear, sunglasses and a red bandana tied across his forehead, he looked like a Sons of Anarchy recruiting poster. He slung the rifle over his right shoulder and extended a hand, oblivious to the rain beating down on him.

“I brought a change of pants just in case,” said Alex, stepping forward.

“I believe a thank you is in order. Jim Koch.”

Alex gripped his hand and shook it vigorously. “Alex Fletcher, and the thanks is all mine. Not sure how that would have gone without the backup,” he said, coughing.

“Looked like you had it more or less under control.”

“I think you’ll need these to move that SUV, if it still works. Hope you didn’t have a big lunch. The front seat’s a little bit messy,” he said, holding up a set of blood-drenched keys.

Jim swiped the keys out of Alex’s hand. “What the hell are you guys?”

“Nothing, really,” Alex said. “Just wanted to get across that bridge.”

“Hate to point this out, but you’re headed in the wrong direction,” said Jim.

“We have kids in Boston. I dropped my son off at Boston University on Saturday for early orientation.”

“Dude, Boston got hit hard. Everyone with any sense is getting out of there. We’re headed up to my brother’s place in Standish. Shitheads here wouldn’t let us cross unless we gave up our rides. Not much we could do about it without some serious hardware,” said Jim, patting the AR-15 he had taken off the road.

“How long have you been here?” asked Alex.

“Two hours. Figured these idiots would bail when the rain hit. We saw three families take that deal.”

“There was no deal,” said Alex.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a church about two miles up the road. They take the cars there and execute the occupants in the forest—as far as we could tell,” Alex informed him.

“Looks like that’s our next stop,” Jim said, inserting the magazine in the rifle and pulling back the charging handle.

“We shut it down—hard. Nothing left for you to clean up.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a long day, man. I’d buy you guys a drink, but under the circumstances…” he said, looking around and shrugging his shoulders.

“If I see you again, I’ll take you up on that offer,” said Alex. “What route did you take to get up here?”

“Came up from Woburn. No problems at all until this shit,” said Jim.

“Any news from Boston?”

“National Guard units rolled into the areas north of the Charles pretty quickly—almost too quickly. Cambridge, Watertown and the areas closer to the city are pretty stable. South of the river is a clusterfuck. The military isn’t letting anything across the Charles, and nobody north of the river is complaining. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” said Jim.

“That’s the first real SITREP we’ve received since this whole mess started.”

“Ex-military, right?” said Jim.

“Marine Corps. Iraq War. Yourself?”

“Army. First Gulf War.”

“An oldtimer,” said Alex.

“Watch your mouth, Captain Fletcher,” said Jim.

“What makes you think I was a captain?”

“Sergeants can smell an officer a mile away—kind of a pungent, toe cheese odor. You handled yourself a little too well to be a boot LT, so that narrowed the field a little.”

“Well, Sergeant Koch,” said Alex, “welcome to Vacationland. I suggest you avoid Foxes Ridge Road. I suspect your group won’t be happy with what they find at the church.”

“I bet they won’t,” Jim said, giving his crew the signal to mount up.

While the motorcycles filled Milton Mills with a deep rumble, Alex jogged over to the Jeep and looked in the driver’s window. With his hands still gripping the steering wheel in a near perfect ten and two o’clock position, Ed stared blankly at the opaque windshield directly in front of him. He slowly turned his head toward Alex.

“Can you please promise me no more of this SEAL Team Six shit? I think we used up all of our luck with this one,” he said, meeting Alex’s eyes.

“I used up all of mine back at the church. I borrowed heavily for this one,” said Alex, patting him on the shoulder through the window.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Both,” said Alex, unwilling to make a promise he couldn’t keep.

“I’m too fucking tired to figure you out right now. Let’s get this Jeep back in working order,” said Ed, “unless the spare is wrecked.”

“Miraculously, the spare is intact.”

Ed stared at him for a few seconds, eventually grinning. “You must have borrowed heavily. I hope you left some for Charlie and me.”

“You’re still alive, right?” said Alex, walking with him to the rear of the Jeep.

“Somehow,” he mumbled.

They finished changing the punctured tire while the last of a steady stream of vehicles crossed the bridge. The bikers, who had taken up armed positions at the far end of each bridge, revved their motorcycles and roared away behind the last car. Ed cranked on the last lug nut and raised himself off the gravel, wiping a thick sheen of sweat from his face with his shirt. He surveyed the other side of the bridge and shook his head.

“I’m worried about our families. What if this group is bigger? They could have shit like this set up all over southern Maine.”

“I don’t think so,” said Alex. “An operation like this is too visible to run anywhere else. This was their big score. Sam and the crew will be fine. They’re probably in Limerick by now.”

“Cooking hotdogs and drinking beer—or eating tofu and salad in your case! Gotcha again!” yelled Charlie.

“You know the saying ‘there’s no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole?’ Well, there’s no such thing as a vegetarian in an apocalypse,” said Alex.

“I hope you guys are right. Still nothing on the satphone?” asked Ed.

Alex shook his head. “The military must have hijacked the system. A low orbital nuke would take out a few of the company’s satellites, but they have over seventy in geosynchronous orbit. Coverage shouldn’t be an issue for a satphone to satphone call. I guarantee the government took over the satcom networks as part of their continuity-of-government plan. We’re limited to receiving their emergency text message broadcasts.”

“One message twenty-four hours ago. Someone made a ton of money selling this crock-of-shit idea,” Ed muttered. “Maybe there’s a bigger problem out there.”

“It doesn’t matter. We get the kids and hole up at the farm. That’s our only mission. We can worry about the big picture later,” said Alex.

“Unless the big picture swallows us up in Boston.”

Chapter 29

EVENT +31:46 Hours

^{Acton, Maine}

Dave Littner pulled his Honda Civic off the road, craning his head out of the window. He watched the heavily armed biker gang disappear beyond a stand of trees and reappear several hundred yards beyond, cresting one of several rolling hills along Milton Mills Road.

“Let’s grab the rifles,” he said to Karen Goodsby, one of Campbell’s people.

“Expecting trouble?” she asked.

“Something isn’t right. That’s more cars than I’ve seen since this whole thing started.”

Littner opened the trunk and dug into a long nylon bag, producing a stripped-down AR-15 for Karen. He pulled back the charging handle and locked the bolt carrier back, handing her the cleared weapon.

“Old school iron sights,” she said, examining the bore.

“I don’t put any fancy gizmos on my rifles. Let me know if that’s going to be a problem.”

“As long as it shoots straight, we’re in business,” said Karen.

“It shoots straight. Front sight is set for one hundred yards,” he said, handing her three magazines.

Less than a minute later, they were back on Milton Mills Road, heading toward the border. The northern crossing appeared beyond a small, blue-trimmed Cape Cod home, flanked on both sides by wide expanses of calm water. The road extending to the New Hampshire side was clear, except for a small group of young adults loaded down with backpacks and camping gear, pedaling mountain bikes over the bridge.

“Seems kind of odd that the state police would forget this spot,” said Karen.

“York County Sheriff’s Department and the state police alternate duty days out here. It’s possible, but unlikely,” said Littner.

He drove past French Street, which connected the two bridge crossings on the Maine side, and rolled his window down to address the closest cyclist. The group slowed, eyeing each other.

“Did you see any police on the other side?” he asked.

“Something happened at the other bridge, but I didn’t see any police,” said one of the men toward the front.

“They kind of looked military to me,” said the woman next to him.

“Who looked military?” asked Littner.

“The dead guys on the bridge.”

“They weren’t military,” said one of the guys at the back of the group. “Hair was all fucked up, and none of them wore the same gear. They all had those stupid boonie hats on too. Every unit we’ve seen coming up through New Hampshire is geared up for heavy combat. Helmets, body armor—everything.”

Heavy combat? Littner didn’t like the sound of that.

“How many are on the bridge?” he asked.

“I saw maybe six or seven of them. Three on the New Hampshire side. More in the middle. Not sure what was on this side. We didn’t stick around very long,” said the woman.

“Thanks, everyone. I don’t want to hold you up any further. Looks like you have a little break in the weather. You guys headed anywhere in particular?”

“Probably try to make it to the Bridgton area. My family used to rent a house on Long Lake every other summer. There’s a private school up there. Should be empty.”

“Bridgton Academy. It’s in North Bridgton, about five miles past town. When you get to the intersection in Bridgton, across from the Food City, keep going straight. You’ll see the signs. Good luck,” said Littner.

“You too,” said the cyclist, fixing his eyes on Littner’s hat.

The cyclists had cleared the intersection by the time he turned around and took a right onto French Street, speeding toward the southern bridge. The first thing he saw beyond the white Baptist church was a blue Volvo SUV parked in the middle of French Street near the bridge. The driver’s-side doors had been left open.

The scene unfolded slowly as their car crept past the SUV. Several members of Eli’s Maine Liberty Militia, easily recognizable by their boonie caps, lay in a grotesque pile at the foot of the bridge. Two more men lay dead toward the middle of the bridge against the left guardrail. He didn’t see any weapons on the ground, which didn’t surprise him. Whoever had done this would have stripped Eli’s men of anything useful. He parked the car next to the mound of bodies.

“Shit,” he said, “I guess we better take a closer look.”

“I don’t see the point. Someone shot up Eli’s people. Probably the bikers we saw,” said Goodsby.

“Just a quick look and we’re out of here.”

He pulled the first body halfway out of the pile, disturbing hundreds of flies that had gathered. He turned the corpse on its back.

“Wounds look fresh. I’ve seen my share of traffic accidents to know that,” she said.

Karen Goodsby had worked as a part-time Emergency Medical Technician (EMT) out of Gorham before taking a full-time position at Waterboro Elementary School a few years ago. He didn’t know much more than that, but Harrison Campbell constantly sang her praises.

“Two to the chest, one to the head. Mozambique Drill. Looks like the work of a professional,” said Littner.

“There’s a lot of blood on the Land Cruiser’s windows. Maybe an ambush?” Goodsby surmised, pointing at the bullet-riddled SUV backed into the bushes across the road.

“Could be. I’m counting five guys here. Three with headshots. Looks like two more dead on the bridge. A ton of brass on the ground. Whatever happened here was quick and vicious. Probably a coordinated strike against both sides. This is part of something bigger,” he said, raising his head to scan the other side of the bridge.

“Think we’ll find more on the other side?”

“I don’t plan on staying around long enough to find out. I’m going to pull a few more off the pile and take pictures for Harrison.”

He gripped another body from the bloody mound and pulled it free of the mess.

“Holy shit,” hissed Littner, the body’s torso and head thunking against the pavement.

Goodsby raised her rifle and crouched, scanning the open sectors around them.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“We have a big problem,” he said, nodding at the body.

She glanced down at the man’s face and shrugged her shoulders.

“That’s Eli’s little brother,” he said, staring at the red hole drilled between Jimmy Russell’s lifeless eyes.

He pushed the head to one side with his boot, stopping at the exit wound.

“What’s the big deal? I thought he was a dirt bag,” said Goodsby.

“The big deal is that Eli will go ballistic. We need to get a hold of Harrison immediately. All hell’s about to break loose.”

“Looks like it already did.”

Chapter 30

EVENT +32:10 Hours

^{East Waterboro, Maine}

Kate Fletcher leaned into the mountain bike and pedaled up the long hill leading into East Waterboro. She glanced behind to check on her group, which rode in a loose formation stretching fifty feet back.

We’re too far apart.

Linda Thornton brought up the rear, keeping watch over the floundering flock. The group moved along at a painful crawl, everyone pedaling lethargically after the rainstorm. The intense cloudburst had shattered what little motivation the group managed to salvage from their extended journey throughout the morning.

Best guess, they had travelled twice the distance originally calculated to reach East Waterboro. Avoiding police checkpoints around the Maine Mall had taken them several miles in the opposite direction, forcing them to use neighborhood roads and business parks to reach Western Avenue near the eerily silent Portland Jetport.

The gradual hills and awkward backpacks started to take a serious toll within the first few miles. Touted by Alex as an easy four-hour ride through the countryside, the trek had morphed into a grueling seven-hour battle. A battle to keep the group moving forward and delay the next break. She wanted to push them straight through to Limerick, fifteen miles away, but her crew wasn’t going to last another mile without a long break—and lunch. She’d start looking for a place to stop after East Waterboro.

Kate swatted her neck. Not a good sign for the rest of the afternoon. Nothing sucked the life out of you faster than a steamy August afternoon with Maine’s biting flies. Her mind drifted to Alex riding in Ed’s air-conditioned Jeep.

Must be nice.

Mercifully, the road sloped downward, allowing them to glide several hundred feet through East Waterboro’s only intersection.

Nathan Russell took a long swig of cold beer and crumpled the can, whipping it at a nearby light post. He missed, and the flattened can skittered on the pavement to join a dozen empties already scattered beyond the post.

“I’ll take another,” he said, keeping his eyes glued to the intersection adjacent to the empty Hannigans parking lot.

“Here you go, Nate,” he heard, as another sweaty can of Budweiser appeared within reach.

He popped the tab and took a long pull, lightening the can significantly. Now he felt it. He was getting there. Getting into the zone, where he was unstoppable.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

David Mullins raised his hand over his eyes and peered at the procession of bicycles streaming through the intersection.

“Looks like a bunch of bitches out for a ride,” said Mullins.

Not through my town, they ain’t.

Nathan slid off the hood of the silver BMW SUV and reached through the window to grab a pair of binoculars. He scanned the group, starting at the front and working his way back.

What the fuck?

He drained the beer can and took another failed shot at hitting the light post.

“You see this shit? Two of those bitches are carrying assault rifles. Looks like they’re escorting a bunch of teenagers. Hot ones too. The bitch in the front ain’t half bad either,” said Nathan.

“Gimme that,” said Mullins, attempting to grab the binoculars.

Nathan snatched them away and glared at Mullins. “You do not fucking grab shit from me. Understand?”

“Sorry, Nate. I got excited,” said Mullins, retracting his hand.

“I hate that grabbing shit. You’re like a two-year-old. Grab my shit again, and I’ll bash your fucking teeth in.”

“It won’t happen again, Nate.”

Nathan stared at his friend, wanting to smash his face in anyway. “Get in the car. We need to have a chat with these fuckers about the new firearms ordinance in town.”

“We have a new ordinance?”

“Are you extra stupid today? The new ordinance is what I say it is, and I say nobody rides around with assault rifles through my town. Weren’t you listening to a thing my dad said? We’re the law around here now, so start acting like it,” said Nathan.

“How far is our jurisdiction?”

“As far as we want it to be. When’s the last time you saw a county sheriff’s car or one of those punk-ass staties?”

“I haven’t,” replied David.

“Exactly. Dad says it’s up to us, so here we go. Get in the truck.”

Nathan closed the door and started the engine, sensing that David’s line of questioning would continue. He leaned forward to draw the pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans just as David opened his mouth.

“I thought your dad was talking about the militia being in charge. I don’t think—”

Nathan jammed the barrel of the semiautomatic pistol into David’s cheek. “You don’t think what?” he said, fixing a murderous stare.

David shook his head, mumbling, “I’m sorry, man. I promise—”

“This is your last warning, dude. Dad left me with full authority to do what needs to be done around here. He’s a full colonel in the militia, right under my granddad. Why the hell do you think he gave me this car? To run errands? Use your head, man—or fucking lose it. I’m serious,” he said, easing the pressure on David’s cheek.

“All right. Let’s do this,” said David.

“I do all the talking. Play this right, and one of those bitches will be bobbing on your knob. Ain’t nothing free in this world anymore. Gotta pay a toll to use the roads around here,” said Nathan, grinning wickedly.

“I can handle that. I’d love to work those twins over,” said David, touching the denim bulge forming in his pants.

“Don’t get greedy. You keep fucking up and it’ll be one of the boys,” said Nathan.

“I don’t care who it is,” said David. “Let’s get this on!”

“That’s better,” said Nathan, shifting the car into drive.

Shit. Kate glanced at the grocery store parking lot again. The sight of two men surveying their group with binoculars made her nervous. They could be waiting for someone to arrive via the same route, or they might be keeping an eye out for trouble. The mess of beer cans near the light post suggested otherwise.

Keep pedaling. The parking lot would be out of view within a few minutes.

“Kate! They’re coming!” yelled Samantha.

Of course they were. She slowed her bike and watched the black SUV speed across the parking lot toward the shopping center exit fifty feet ahead of her group.

“Linda?” said Kate.

“Got it covered,” replied Linda.

Kate cruised half of the distance to the exit and stopped, dismounting her bike. She swung her rifle forward on its two-point sling, and tried to remember how Linda taught her to transition quickly to a forward position. She knew the strap would switch shoulders, but beyond that she didn’t have enough practice with the maneuver to do it correctly on the first try. The BMW SUV careened onto Route 5 and skidded to a halt twenty feet ahead.

Screw this. She pushed her AR-15 back into position on her back and unsnapped her holster. At this range, she could probably do more damage with her Sig Sauer.

She risked a quick glance back at the group. They looked more exhausted than alarmed by the sudden appearance of the SUV. Linda had already transitioned her rifle and was approaching swiftly along the center median line, keeping her distance from the kids. She knew what she was doing, which was more than Kate could say about the situation. She noticed Ethan fiddling with one of the side pockets on his rucksack. He had pulled the pack off one shoulder.

“Ethan, leave it in the pack. Same for you, Emily,” said Kate.

She heard Linda give the same warning to her daughters, whom Kate knew for a fact were armed. Even the Walker kids carried firearms, though they had never been trained to fire one. If things deteriorated into a gunfight, Kate and Linda would buy the group enough time to find cover, while Samantha helped the kids put the rest of the group’s weapons into action. She turned back to the SUV just as the front doors opened.

Black motorcycle boots and shit-kicker jeans appeared to be the uniform of the day for their welcoming committee. She guessed early to mid twenties, but they both wore that hardened, “up to no good” expression that made it difficult to tell. The passenger swayed a bit after standing. He looked dumber than a rock garden. Drunk and dumb didn’t mix well in serious situations, and this was about as serious as any situation would ever get for these two.

The driver stepped around the hood, staring her down with beady eyes and a twisted smirk. A black semiautomatic pistol grip protruded from his jeans. Beady Eyes was the dangerous one. He would be the first to die if this went badly—and she expected it to. She could think of no logical reason why these two dipshits would suddenly pull out in front of them. They wanted something, and five seconds of observation made it clear that they didn’t want the bicycles. Rock Garden hadn’t taken his eyes off Linda’s twins since he blundered out of the BMW. This would definitely end badly, especially if Linda figured out what Rock Garden had in mind.

“Afternoon, ladies. Nathan Russell. Part of the militia in charge of the area,” he said, resting his hands on his hips—dangerously close to the pistol.

“We’re gonna have to ask you to surrender those rifles and consent to a search. We can’t have people running around with weapons—uh—in the area.”

“I’m pretty familiar with the state’s firearms laws, and there’s no problem here. If you don’t mind, we have a long day ahead of us,” said Kate.

“But there is a problem. We’ve been given authority to make decisions about these kinds of things,” said Beady Eyes, drawing a quick look from Rock Garden.

“Who gave you this authority?” said Linda, straining to keep her rifle barrel pointed down.

“The local commander,” said Beady Eyes. “So I need you to clear those weapons, and we’ll get you on your way.”

“Unless you want to pay the toll,” said Rock Garden with an eager look.

Beady Eyes silenced him with a deadly glare.

“We’re not travelling with any money,” said Kate.

“There’s other ways to pay,” muttered Rock Garden.

Mouth open, he glared at Linda’s twins. Kate slowly moved her hand back along her thigh, feeling the nylon holster and mentally picturing the draw. She’d give them one more chance.

“We’re gonna get moving now. I think you should drive back to the parking lot and enjoy the rest of your beers. It’s a beautiful day. Be a real shame to ruin it,” she stated.

Beady Eyes shifted his right hand toward the pistol. “Nobody’s going anywhere until I—”

The blast from Linda’s rifle punched a small red dot through the center of his forehead. Kate drew her pistol and dropped to one knee, firing rapidly at Rock Garden’s head and chest. His head snapped backward moments before blasts from Linda’s rifle punctured his torso and shattered the window behind him. She shifted her aim to Beady Eyes, who remained upright, staring blankly past her at the kids. His mouth mumbled something unintelligible as he slowly sank down the side of the vehicle and tumbled forward to the blistering pavement.

Emily screamed, setting off a chain reaction of panic and hysteria among the teenagers. Kate’s vision narrowed to the tiny red hole in the front of his head. The hole was so perfect. The shrieking faded into a high-pitched ringing. Someone grabbed her arm.

“You all right, Kate? We need to get out of here! Can you stand?” said a familiar voice.

She broke her fixation on the trickle of blood flowing from the bullet entry wound, and turned her head to the sound. Linda stood over her, trying to pull her up. Everything snapped back into place. She thumbed the decocking lever on her pistol and holstered it.

“We need to load up right now!” Linda ordered. “We’re taking the car!”

“Everyone’s all right?” asked Kate.

“Everyone except for those two. Find the keys. I’ll get the kids in the car,” she said.

Linda glanced behind her and saw the kids cowering behind their bicycles. She pulled at her frantic daughters, urging them to get in the SUV.

Emily threw her bike down and rushed forward, crying. “I want to go home, Mommy!”

“We’ll be fine, sweetie,” Kate said to her. “We’ll be at Nana and Grandpa’s house in thirty minutes. I need you to get in the car now. Don’t look at anything but the car. Can you do that?”

Emily nodded and buried her head in Kate’s right shoulder.

“We need to get moving,” said Linda.

Kate kissed her daughter. “I love you. Get your pack off, and get in the car.”

Emily nodded, staring past her mother at the dead body. She started crying again and grabbed Kate.

“I’ll hold you later. Promise. Follow Mrs. Thornton around the back of the car,” Kate said, pushing her daughter toward the rest of the kids.

“Let’s go! In the car! Now!” yelled Linda, pulling Samantha, who looked more shell-shocked than her kids.

“Should we hide the bikes?” asked Kate.

“No time for that. We have witnesses,” said Linda, pointing to the Hannigans shopping complex.

Kate saw at least a half-dozen people lurking near the intersection, peering in their direction.

“Shit. I’ll move the bodies,” said Kate, placing her rifle and backpack against the hood of the SUV.

She grabbed Beady Eyes by his dusty boots and dragged him to the side of the road, leaving a slippery trail of gore on the hot asphalt surface. A pinkish-gray lump clung stubbornly to the road, stretching from the top of his skull. She shook her head.

I didn’t see that.

Her stomach wasn’t convinced, exploding a brownish-yellow stream onto his jeans. She kept pulling. Another involuntary spray hit the gravel on the shoulder of the road. Kate felt grass beneath her and dropped his legs, breathing heavily.

How can you push something like this out of your head?

You couldn’t. Not according to her husband. You pressed on and dealt with it later. They were counting on her to do that.

“All right. You can do this,” she mumbled to herself.

She removed the pistol from Beady Eyes’ waistline, ejecting the magazine and racking the slide to eject the chambered round. She cocked her arm to throw the pistol into the closest drainage ditch, but stopped. No reason to give the weapon back to the same community that had produced these two pieces of shit. Kate tucked it into her belt and searched for a wallet and keys. She examined his license and exhaled. Just what they didn’t need. A Waterboro local. And the other one?

“Ethan, you don’t have to do that!” said Kate, running on rubbery legs back to the SUV.

Ethan had started to pull Rock Garden away from the car by his armpits.

“I can handle it, Mom—Aunt Kate,” said Ethan.

A weak fountain of blood pulsed from a jagged hole in the back of Rock Garden’s neck, emptying into the scarlet pool beneath Ethan’s boots. He stared at the blood for a few seconds before dropping the body on the pavement. She hugged him while he sobbed.

“It’ll be okay, Ethan. We’re almost at Nana’s.”

“I know why you killed them.” He sniffled. “I saw them looking at the girls.”

Kate searched for a parental line to soften Ethan’s harsh induction into their “kill or be killed” world. She drew a complete blank.

“We won’t let anything happen to you guys. Understand?” she said, locking eyes with him.

He nodded, wiping his eyes and putting on a tough face.

“Can you help everyone get into the car?”

“I want to learn how to shoot like that,” announced Ethan.

“You’ll have to talk to your uncle. He taught me how to shoot,” said Kate.

“I thought he couldn’t hit anything with a pistol?”

“He’s better than he cares to admit,” said Kate, kneeling next to the body. “Get going.”

She fished a wallet out of Rock Garden’s back pocket and held up another blood-smeared Maine driver’s license. Wonderful. Another local.

“Forget moving that one! They’re starting to take pictures,” said Linda, pointing at the crowd back at the intersection.

Kate helped Ethan squeeze into place next to Samantha’s son and handed him his rucksack. Samantha passed two more backpacks to Kate, which she stuffed into the cargo area against the boys. Less than a minute later, the SUV peeled off down Route 5 toward Limerick.

Chapter 31

EVENT +32:50 Hours

^{Limerick, Maine}

Kate had made this trip enough times to recognize the landmarks as they approached, but nothing seemed familiar. Nothing at all.

Linda, who was driving, glanced at her. “You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just not sure… we may have passed it. If we see a ‘Welcome to Parsonsfield’ sign, we definitely missed it.”

“We haven’t hit that yet,” she said. “Let me know if I need to slow down.”

Linda could sense that she was off. Kate saw it in her eyes. Maybe they all knew it. She didn’t think so. Only Linda would be attuned to what transpired after the shootout. Kate had momentarily shut down. At least she hadn’t frozen when it counted most. She pictured the gun draw in her head, and training took over when Linda’s bullet evacuated the kid’s skull. She barely remembered firing at the second kid—had no recollection of hitting him in the face.

“I know it’s .37 miles past the only cemetery on the road,” said Kate.

“We just passed that,” said Samantha.

“There it is, right?” said Linda, slowing the SUV in front of the entrance to an unmarked dirt road.

Kate squinted. “Yep. That’s it. It’s the only road on the left.”

I can’t believe I missed that.

She needed this funk to pass quickly. The group depended on her leadership—or so she had been told. Maybe she wasn’t the best person to make decisions for the group. Stupid thought. She couldn’t exactly put Linda in charge of the compound—but she would certainly put Linda in charge of their security.

Linda turned the car onto Gelder Pond Lane, taking the dirt road at a reasonable speed. Kate glanced back. They had five people jammed into the rear bench, which was two more than capacity. Samantha, who had given up the front seat to let Kate navigate, was crushed under her daughter on the right side, with Linda’s twins compressed on the left. This left Emily stuffed between them in the middle, buried under three of their backpacks.

“You should take Gelder Pond as slow as possible. It’s a private road, and everyone that lives back here is private about their money,” said Kate.

They turned left at the three-way intersection, a quarter of a mile into the thick forest, and headed down the eastern side of Gelder Pond Road, which formed a rough circle around Gelder Pond. The Fletcher compound had been built on the first of twelve planned lots along the road, facing the pond. Facing difficult economic times after the Jakarta Pandemic, the Gelders—one of the oldest families in the area, finally decided to yield on a five-decade-old commitment to do their part to keep the rich city folk out of Limerick. The Fletchers paid the asking price in cash for two of the plots in late 2014, and started clearing a two-and-a-half-acre area within the twenty-two-acre enclave as soon as the winter broke. The Fletcher family compound was fully operational by the end of the year, housing Alex’s parents and their two nephews.

“How far down is it?” asked Samantha.

“Half mile at most. It’s the only driveway on the eastern side of the loop. Impossible to miss.”

“We’ll have to do something about that,” said Linda.

She was definitely putting Linda in charge of security. At least until Alex returned.

“There it is,” she said. “There’s a gate about a hundred feet down the driveway. You can’t see it from the road.”

“Who plows this road in the winter?” asked Linda.

“Homeowners’ association pays the town. You can imagine what we pay to keep the road cleared up to our driveway.”

“You better hope the town gets their shit running again before winter,” said Linda.

“We have a plow for the ATV and riding mower,” said Kate.

Linda cast her a doubtful look.

“And snowmobiles,” added Kate.

Linda guided them onto a gravel driveway carved through the thick pines. Peering into the dense forest, she saw no hint of the clearing one thousand feet due west in the direction of Gelder Pond. The opaque stand of conifers would continue to shield them during the winter months when the leaves fell throughout the region. Tree type had been one of their primary considerations in selecting the plot.

The gate appeared after a slight turn, another purposeful design to keep the casual observer from drawing any conclusions about the driveway from the road.

“We’re here,” Kate announced. “Hopefully they’ll have the hot water working, or you can cool off in the lake. There’s a dock, a little beach, even a rope swing into the water. Whatever you want.”

Nobody said a word. She figured most of them would crash out as soon as they settled into the house. She wished she could do the same, but it wouldn’t be an option. Whatever they had left behind on the street in East Waterboro wasn’t finished. The apple rarely fell far from the tree. There would be little rest.

“I assume the punch code won’t work with the power down,” said Linda, lowering her window at the touch pad in front of the gate.

“Try it,” Kate said.

Linda pressed a few buttons, but the LED screen remained blank.

“No problem. It’s not connected to the auxiliary sources at the house, and power goes out all the time out here,” Kate said, fishing a set of keys out of one of the backpacks in her lap.

She stepped out of the vehicle and fought her way through the scrub on the left side of the black aluminum gate, emerging on the driveway behind the gate, and walked to the other side, locating the manual override box on the back of the gate’s electric sliding motor. She inserted the key and opened the box, which gave her access to a small handle. Kate pulled the handle to disengage the physical connection to the electro-mechanical operator and slid the gate far enough along its track to allow the SUV through. Once the SUV crossed the threshold, she reversed the process, locking the gate. No sense making it easy for an angry posse to drive up to the house.

Gravel crunched underneath the SUV’s tires as they eased left and entered a protracted stretch of shaded driveway. A bright patch of light appeared at the far end of the dark corridor.

“Christ. How far back is the house?” asked Linda.

“About a thousand feet.”

“You gotta be kidding me? How much gold did you buy before the pandemic?”

“A lot.”

“Wait till you see the compound,” said Samantha, uttering her first words since the shooting.

The road brightened as they approached another gate near the edge of the clearing. Through the trees to the right, Kate could see the outline of a gray house and red barn. An occasional shimmer of sparkling light penetrated the tree line toward the back of the clearing. Linda slowed to a stop in front of the gate, and Kate hopped down from the SUV with her keys. She stopped after several steps, craning her head in the direction of a soft rustling sound beyond the gate. She pocketed the keys and eased her pistol out of the holster.

“Kate? You made it!”

A man dressed in jeans and a gray polo shirt emerged from the foliage and stepped onto the road behind the gate. Tim Fletcher slung a scoped M-14 rifle over his shoulder and grabbed a green handheld radio clipped to his belt.

“Amy, they made it! They’re here!” he yelled into the radio, running toward them.

Kate holstered her pistol and hurried to the gate.

“Let me get the gate for you! Holy shit, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. Now I’m talking like you. See what you’ve done. Oh, God—Amy’s gonna scream when she sees everyone,” he said, fumbling with the key to unlock the gate.

“We tried the satphone and—”

“Alex isn’t with us, Dad,” said Kate.

Tim stopped for a moment and continued without looking up.

“He left to get Ryan out of Boston.”

The gate slid open, and Alex’s father rushed forward to crush Kate with a hug.

“Everyone’s alive. That’s all that matters,” he said, his eyes watery and his voice pitchy. “We thought we lost all of you with the boat. We were going to give it forty-eight hours, and then I was heading to Boston on one of the ATVs.”

“I don’t think you would have made it very far on one of those things,” she said, reciprocating tears.

“I would have tried. Alex will bring Ryan back, Kate. He planned for this kind of thing.”

“I know,” she said, hugging him again. “Ethan’s fine. He’s in the back.”

“How many do you have with you?”

“Nine, including me. Good friends from Durham Road. You’ve met the Walkers,” she said, signaling for Linda to drive forward.

“I remember them. Three kids right around your kids’ ages?” he said, pulling her out of the road.

“Right. Samantha and two of her kids are with us. Her husband is with Alex. They have a daughter in Boston, near Ryan.”

“I seem to remember Ryan and her having a little thing,” said Tim.

“That’s not public information, Tim,” she said, smiling.

“Really? The kid fawns all over her anytime I see them within a couple hundred yards of each other. Boston University wasn’t his only choice of schools,” Tim reminded her.

“Boston College would have been too obvious,” she said. When the SUV pulled even with them, she made introductions. “This is Linda Thornton. Her two daughters are crammed back there somewhere. Her husband, Charlie—”

“I’ve heard all about Charlie. It’s a pleasure to finally meet one of you, Linda,” said Tim.

“The pleasure is all mine. I can’t thank you enough for having us out here,” said Linda.

“We’ll have none of that. Any friends of Alex and Kate’s are friends of ours, and you’re all welcome to stay here indefinitely. That’s an unconditional offer,” said Tim.

“That’s very generous of you.”

“This isn’t an offer of charity. Your husband volunteered to go with them to get the kids?”

“Well, he’s a little touched in the head,” said Linda.

Tim laughed. “I bet he is, but that doesn’t change anything. My house is yours. Simple as that. Where’s Samantha?”

The back driver’s-side window lowered.

“Good to see you again,” he said, shaking her hand through the window.

“Call me Sam. You remember my daughter, Abby?”

“Sure do. I’m just surprised Ethan didn’t manage to squirm his way into the back seat here with her,” said Tim.

“Grandpa!” yelled Ethan from the cargo area.

“Behave yourself, Tim,” said Kate. “Sorry, girls. He’s really pretty harmless.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things before. I don’t remember harmless on that list.”

“I’m just doing my best to keep them from turning the car around and taking their chances on the outside,” said Kate.

“I’ll behave. Promise. Let me get this gate locked, and I’ll meet you back at the house. I have one of the two-seaters,” he said, raising the handheld radio to inform his wife that they had guests and update her on the missing family members.

“I’ll keep him company,” said Kate. “We’ll be right up.”

Tim slid the gate across and locked it, giving it a pull to be sure.

“How did you know we were coming?”

“The camera is out, but the buzzer still goes off when the gate is opened. Some stuff works, some stuff doesn’t. Most stuff doesn’t. I’m over here,” said Tim, motioning toward the olive-drab ATV nestled into the forest on the edge of the clearing.

He cranked the engine, and they lurched in their seats as the ATV broke out of the brush into a brown grass field. Kate grabbed the nearest vertical upright bar with her right hand, but immediately pulled the hand back to her side.

“Hit a rough patch on the way?” Tim inquired, eyeing her bloodied hand.

“We need to keep the car out of sight,” said Kate vaguely.

“I figured as much with the out-of-state plates. What happened?”

“Two drunk kids stopped us on Route 5 in front of the Hannigans. One of them mentioned a toll and kept staring at the girls. Claimed to be part of a militia. We didn’t wait for them to explain the details.”

“I don’t blame you. Locals with an out-of-state car?”

“The real owners are probably dead. I took the kids’ ID. Waterboro addresses,” she said, pausing. “We should sink the car in the pond tonight.”

“We might need it in an emergency. Does Alex have a car?”

“They took the Walkers’ Jeep. It was the only car working between the three families,” she said.

“How did you get out here?” he said.

“Rode our bikes until Waterboro.”

“You’re kidding me,” said Tim.

“We’ve had a long day,” Kate said, stepping off the ATV.

“Well, it’s over,” Tim said.

“For now.”

Tim parked in front of the house next to the BMW SUV. A wide farmer’s porch extended the full length of the gray colonial, wrapping around the right corner and connecting to the mudroom stoop. A gray-haired woman wearing jeans and a purple blouse yelled from the door and ran down the front steps. Ethan’s brother, a thin, dark-haired boy in swim trunks, followed.

Kate hopped off and opened the back of the SUV.

“Finally,” said Ethan, untangling his legs from Daniel’s.

“No shit,” said Samantha’s son.

“Watch your mouth, Daniel,” scolded Samantha.

“You can blame that on me. Grab your stuff and drag it inside,” said Kate, catching a glimpse of Ethan’s hands. “Let’s wash those off before your grandma gets a hold of you,” she added.

“Wash what off? Where is he? Where is Ethan!” said Amy Fletcher.

“Come on, Nana. Not now,” he whispered, glancing into the back seat behind him.

“I won’t smother you in kisses in front of your girlfriends,” she said.

“Someone help me,” muttered Ethan.

Daniel patted him on the back. “You’re on your own, man.”

Ethan dropped to the crushed rock and grabbed his rucksack, trying to delay the inevitable hug, which hit him before he could turn around.

“Your brother was worried out of his mind,” said his grandmother.

Ethan’s face flushed red, but he returned the hug and stuck his hand out to grab his brother. The three of them clung together for several moments before Kevin pulled away, examining Ethan’s hand.

“What’s this?”

Amy grabbed Ethan’s hands and gasped.

“It’s not his,” stated Kate. “We ran into a problem on the way.”

“I’m just glad you guys are all right,” Amy said, holding her arms open for Kate.

“I’m a little ripe,” Kate warned.

“I don’t care,” said Amy Fletcher, starting to cry. “Thank God you made it!” She rushed forward and held her.

“Alex is on the way to Boston,” said Kate. “I’m scared.”

“I am too, honey. We’re all scared. But he’s the best hope of getting Ryan back,” said Amy. “He’s a very capable man.”

“He is,” Kate agreed.

“And he has help?”

Kate nodded and walked toward the house, motioning for Amy to follow. Her motherin-law got the message and joined her near the garage door.

“Ed Walker and Charlie Thornton went with him. They left early this morning. Ed’s daughter is at Boston College.”

“That’s right. Aren’t those two an item?”

“That’s not something we advertise.” She winked.

“I’m not the one you have to worry about,” said Amy.

“Believe me, I’ve already had a talk with your husband,” she said, smiling.

“And Charlie’s with them?” Amy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He volunteered. What could Alex say? He’s been a great friend,” said Kate.

“I know. It’s good that you’re all together. I just hope they don’t slow him down,” whispered Amy.

“I’m sure he planned for it somehow,” said Kate.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Let’s stop looking suspicious and get everyone cleaned up. You guys smell like sewage,” said Amy.

“You have no idea.”

Chapter 32

EVENT +33:39 Hours

^{Haverhill, MA}

Alex studied the GPS plotter for a few seconds, looking up to compare the digital map to the real world. Emerging from the shelter of the dashboard, a stiff wall of air buffeted his face from the damaged windshield, causing him to involuntarily raise his free hand to block his face. He felt a quick sting on the palm of his hand, followed immediately by another on the top of his left ear. At least he could duck down momentarily to escape the onslaught. Ed didn’t have that option.

Lowering his hand a few inches, he spotted a break in the road, which more than likely marked the last rural intersection before they turned onto East Main Street, in the hopes of finding the bridge over the Merrimack River intact.

“I think this is Merrimac Road coming up,” he said. “After that we only have another mile or so to Rocks Bridge.”

Their concern about Rocks Bridge had more to do with the effects of the tsunami than with what happened in Milton Mills. If anything, further concerns about roadblocks and rogue militia units had eroded over the course of two completely uneventful hours of travel. True to what the biker had said, the roads had been mostly empty of vehicles and completely devoid of trouble.

Traffic picked up along Route 125, a few miles past Epping, New Hampshire, but it was still confined to two or three cars per minute, which hardly constituted a problem. The number of vehicles increased as they approached Kingston, doubling by the time they turned onto Route 107 and navigated several lesser-travelled rural roads to arrive at the Merrimack River, where they hoped to find at least one bridge intact.

They decided to start with Rocks Bridge, which was four miles downriver from Haverhill, in an attempt to minimize their exposure to populated areas. With a population of sixty-two thousand, Haverhill wasn’t a major city by greater Boston metropolitan area standards, but most of the population was packed in the area along the river, which made Alex uncomfortable. He had a long history with bridges.

His battalion commander in Iraq had affectionately called them “meat grinders,” and the bridges they encountered on the road to Baghdad had lived up to that nickname. For centuries, if not millennia, men had fought and died to control bridges, even under the most pointless of circumstances. The incident at Milton Mills proved that under the right conditions, even the most insignificant bridge could spill its share of blood.

They would start with the smallest bridge and work their way toward the city. If Rocks Bridge was damaged, they would drive south to Bates Bridge, which Charlie assured them was much sturdier. Failing that, they could drive into the heart of Haverhill and try to cross the Basiliere Bridge. They had options.

Less than a minute later, conditions along the road suggested they might be forced to seriously consider these other options. Severe water damage appeared before they reached River Road, featuring the telltale deposit of silt and broken debris along the road. Ed switched the Jeep into four wheel drive, and they proceeded through the thick mire, which completely blanketed the landscape around the colonial-style homes that lined East Main Street. The neighborhood looked like it had been extinguished.

Signs of heavier blast damage appeared around Kingston. Denuded trees, stripped branches, roofing tiles torn skyward, and downed trees slowed their progress near the Massachusetts border, forcing them off-road several times. Rural roads approaching the Rocks Bridge had been worse, nearly impassable at a few points. The further south they travelled, the more Alex questioned their plan to approach Boston using back roads.

“This doesn’t look promising,” said Ed.

“No, it doesn’t,” mumbled Alex.

A group of several adults picked their way through the mud-covered remains of a collapsed house at the intersection ahead, pushing the larger pieces aside.

“Give them a wide berth,” said Alex.

“Got it,” said Ed, turning the Jeep toward the right side of the road. “You feel that?” he added.

“Feel what?”

“I think we’re driving over wreckage buried under the mud. All the houses are missing beyond the intersection. One nail or piece of glass and we’re on foot,” said Ed.

“Hold on,” said Alex, checking the GPS screen.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to stop in the middle of the road like this?” said Charlie. “I’m starting to see a lot of people.”

Alex’s eyes darted between the GPS screen and the growing crowd of people approaching their Jeep.

“Put us in reverse and turn around. We’ll take East Broadway toward Haverhill. Do you see any weapons?”

“Negative. They look more curious than anything. Probably the Maine plates,” said Charlie.

“Switch to sectors, Charlie,” said Alex.

“Yep,” he heard from Charlie.

Ed backed the Jeep slowly through the thick mud.

“Can’t you just turn us around?” said Alex.

“No, I can’t. We’re pushing through two feet of mud. We can still get stuck.”

Alex didn’t respond. Ed was pissed, and there was no point making it worse. He scanned his sectors and waited, keeping his rifle ready just below the door. As the intersection receded, they picked up speed.

“We clear back there?” asked Ed.

“Looks good,” said Charlie.

“I think the mud is thinning,” said Alex, knowing the comment would rattle Ed.

“Do you want to drive?” Ed snapped.

“No. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve been doing great. I’m just a little fried. Sorry. I think this is the turn for East Broadway,” said Alex, pointing to the road forking left.

“Make sure,” said Ed, tapping the GPS on the center console.

“Are you two gonna bust each other’s balls all the way to Boston?” said Charlie.

“He started it,” said Ed.

“I started it?” replied Alex. “This is East Broadway. Watch out for the tree over there.”

“Like I didn’t see it?”

“I don’t know what you see. I point shit out for you. That’s my job,” said Alex.

“Aw shit,” muttered Charlie. “I’m on a road trip with the bicker brothers.”

“Careful, or he’ll be all over your shit next,” said Ed.

“Too late for that warning,” said Charlie.

Alex frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been acting like my personal physician for the past two hours. I’m fine, Alex. I just get a little winded,” said Charlie. “I don’t have all day to work out and run on the beach like you do.”

“I don’t run on the beach,” said Alex.

“You run to the beach. Same thing. Some of us have to work for a living.”

Alex didn’t know how to respond to Charlie’s last comment. It indicated something deeper than simple annoyance. Resentment? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. Alex had to keep their unconventional triumvirate together long enough to rescue the kids and get everyone back to the farm in one piece. That was his pact to the rest of them, and he would die honoring it if necessary. He needed to turn this tide of bitterness around quickly, before it swallowed them.

“Can we all agree that we annoy the shit out of each other right now?” said Alex.

“That pretty much sums it up,” said Charlie.

“I’ll second that,” said Ed.

“Good. We agree on something. Can we all agree that we’re on track to get the kids out of Boston?”

Ed nodded.

“We’re in Massachusetts. That’s a good sign,” said Charlie.

“Then I say we’ve all been doing our job, and that’s more than enough for me,” Alex said. “I’ll quit micromanaging.”

“It’s not that you’re micromanaging—” started Ed.

“He’s babying us,” Charlie interrupted.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” said Alex.

“It’s pretty bad,” said Ed, “but we’re sunk without you. I’m sure as shit not going to get us across Boston.”

“And Charlie wouldn’t last two city blocks on his own—with his bad health and everything,” said Alex.

“Damn it, I’m fine!” Charlie snapped.

Ed broke out into laughter before Charlie finished his tirade.

“I was kidding,” protested Alex.

“More trees,” said Ed, maneuvering the Jeep into a field to avoid a large Silver Maple that had upended.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to approach Boston on anything too rural,” Alex said. “We might need to rethink our plan.”

“Route 125 is a four-laner. About the best you’re gonna do without linking up with one of the interstates. The 93 would take us down to the northern edge of the Middlesex Reservation. There’s an exit in Stoneham,” said Charlie.

“What do you think?” asked Alex, looking at Ed.

Ed raised an eyebrow without looking in his direction.

“Hey, I’m trying.”

“Just messing with you.” Ed chuckled. “I think we should try to stay off the interstate system if possible. If the roads become impassible, we might have to reconsider that. The less police attention we attract, the better. A shot-up Jeep might raise some eyebrows heading south,” said Ed.

“Any car heading south should raise eyebrows—and questions of sanity,” said Charlie.

“That’s the truth,” said Ed.

“Is anyone opposed to me guiding us to the 125 from here, even if it means crossing the bridge at Haverhill?” asked Alex.

“I think you’re making a bigger deal out of Haverhill than you need to,” said Charlie.

“You’re the one that got me worried about it in the first place, Charlie. You said something about too many people.”

“Did I say that?” said Charlie.

“I remember it,” said Ed.

“Well, compared to what we’ve seen so far, it’s a lot of people,” said Charlie. “There’s really not that much by the Basiliere Bridge. A couple of apartment buildings and a small industrial area. It’s a wide bridge. No way that sucker is down.”

“Then it’s off to Haverhill—with your approval, of course,” said Alex, turning to Ed.

“You’re pushing it,” Ed grumbled.

“That’s what Kate always tells me.”

“Maybe you should listen to her a little more.”

“Touché,” remarked Charlie. “The truce lasted a whole three minutes.”

Chapter 33

EVENT +35:04 Hours

^{Stoneham, Massachusetts}

The outskirts of Stoneham reeked of campfire. Alex swept the southern horizon with binoculars, seeing nothing but scattered billows of gray and white against a sun-bleached sky. If Boston had been set ablaze, they should be able to see it from here.

Ed squeezed the Jeep between a downed tree and a stranded delivery truck. Like most of the trees they had seen south of the Merrimack River, the leaves had been stripped from the few remaining branches. No effort had been made to clear any of the obstacles. Damage to the buildings and houses remained subtle—shattered windows, peeled paint, and an increasing number of roofing tiles on the ground—but Alex could sense there was more. They were getting closer to the impact area.

A red Audi sedan approached from the south, swerving into their lane to avoid a distant tree.

“Slow down,” Alex cautioned. “This idiot’s all over the place.”

“I don’t like stopping with all of these peop—Shit!”

Alex slammed against his seatbelt, losing his grip on the binoculars. The Audi veered left across the centerline, missing them by less than a car length. Beyond tinted glass, he caught a glimpse of a young couple arguing over an unfolded map. A rear-facing baby carrier sat stuffed between tightly packed bags and gear. The sedan scraped the branches of the tree behind them, barely squeezing through the same opening Ed had just navigated.

“Fucking idiots,” hissed Ed.

A smaller group of people broke out of the thick stream of people several feet away. Alex stuck the barrel of his rifle through the window, making sure it couldn’t be missed. The sudden appearance of a military-grade rifle stopped the men at the curb.

“Ed, get us out of here, please.”

Beyond the Interstate 95 overpass, Route 28 widened into a four-lane road separated by a grassy median. Trees flattened by the east-to-west wind lay across the northbound lane—only the tallest reaching into the southbound road. They drove unopposed until the road narrowed, channeling them onto Main Street. Three-story, red-brick buildings lined the street, pushing the dense parade of refugees off the narrow sidewalks into their path. Ed drove slowly through the sea of people. The evacuees focused their energy on keeping their families and possessions together, jostling between parked cars and decorative light posts toward perceived safety. An occasional belligerent emerged to find the barrel of a “black rifle” pointed at their head.

An undercurrent of fear and tension crackled just below the surface. Alex had seen all of this before. Furtive looks and quick movements—the body language. He could feel it, and the exodus was in its infancy. Blue and white flashing lights peeked through the swarm of moving bodies. Alex lowered his rifle.

“Police at the intersection,” he said.

Main Street opened into a wide intersection bordered by a small common area featuring two green benches under branchless trees. The Town of Stoneham police cruiser sat facing them in the middle of the intersection. Alex passed his rifle to Charlie, keeping it low.

“Bury the rifles fast! Go to the right of the car,” said Alex.

“Shouldn’t I stop at the intersection?” said Ed.

“The light’s been torn off the pole. Just keep going.”

The cruiser’s siren stabbed the air, thinning the crowd between the two vehicles. Another shrill burst emptied the intersection. Two police officers stood to the right of the vehicle, behind the open driver’s door. The closest officer stepped in front of the door and motioned for them to pull up while his partner pulled a shotgun out of the front seat and leaned it against the top of the door. Alex opened the glove box and grabbed his pistol, tucking it behind his back.

“If this goes bad, it’s on me. You just get as far away from the shooting as possible,” whispered Alex.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ed hissed.

“That’s good right there!” said the officer, resting his right hand on his holster. The officer walked forward, stopping even with the driver’s-side window. “Not a good time to be heading south, gentlemen.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Officer, but our kids are trapped in Boston. We want to bring them home before things get crazy,” said Ed.

The cop took a few more steps and looked into the back seat for several seconds. Alex hoped he didn’t walk around the Jeep. The back and passenger side sported several bullet holes that would attract far more attention than a full complement of busted windows.

“I’m just keeping these two out of trouble,” said Charlie, holding his hands up.

“Doesn’t look like that worked out so well,” he said, sticking his hand through the window behind Charlie.

“We ran a militia checkpoint at the Maine border,” blurted Ed.

“These people are headed for a frosty reception up north,” added Charlie.

“Everyone remembers the fires that broke out during the pandemic. The riots. They’re trying to get ahead of it this time,” said the officer, motioning to the crowds.

“I give it a few days,” said Alex.

“I don’t know. Take a look around. A quarter of these people are carrying concealed weapons. Some don’t even bother to conceal them. We’re just here for show at this point. Same with the marines down along the river,” said the officer.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes. I was with the marines outside of Baghdad in 2003. We did show-of-force missions like this all the time. One Humvee and four marines could keep an entire city block from reaching critical mass,” said Alex.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a fifty cal mounted to my police car. When this goes to shit, we’re out of here,” said the officer.

“You need to be long gone before that, Officer,” said Alex.

“We can’t leave yet.”

“The first rock thrown at your car, the first tough guy that doesn’t back down after you’ve drawn your pistol, the first bullet fired in your direction—you get the fuck out of here. Two pistols and a shotgun will buy you a minute tops if this goes crazy. A fifty cal might buy you two or three more. We learned that the hard way.”

The officer stared at him and nodded. “All right. Good luck, guys. You need to be really careful with this thing down past Medford. Someone will blow your brains out for it. No warning. We’ve seen a lot of cars with blood-splattered windows.”

“Appreciate the heads up, Officer—Kennedy,” Alex said, studying his nametag. “Any relation to—”

“You think I’d be driving a patrol car?” interrupted the officer. “Be careful down there. Don’t flash any of that hardware until you have to. I assume everything you have buried under the blankets is legal in Massachusetts,” he said, patting Ed’s door and stepping back.

“Perfectly legal,” said Alex. “Thank you, Officer Kennedy.”

Ed drove them through the intersection, picking up speed on the wider streets beyond the downtown area. Alex twisted and looked directly behind his seat.

“What the fuck, Charlie? I can see one of the goddamn barrels sticking out of the blanket.”

“I had my hand over it!” said Charlie.

“You raised both hands—right when the cop looked in your window!”

“Hey, I didn’t have a lot of time to hide this shit. You threw your rifle at me. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, I don’t know. How about make sure the barrel isn’t visible? That’s probably at the top of the list.”

“Well, nothing happened,” said Charlie. “It’s over.”

“Because we got lucky,” muttered Alex.

They rode in silence until the Jeep slowed in front of an empty gas station. Alex compared the GPS map to the street sign next to his window. A vast stretch of naked trees flanked the road ahead.

“This looks like the beginning of the Middlesex reservation. It’s less than a mile to the turnoff,” said Alex.

“This isn’t going to work,” said Ed.

“What isn’t?”

“We can’t hide the Jeep with this many people around. Especially with the trees stripped like this,” said Ed, slowing the Jeep.

“Yes, we can,” said Alex. “I’m seeing plenty of scrub and smaller trees with leaves. We’ll go a half mile in if we have to.”

Ed shook his head and repeated, “Not with this many people around.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“If we lose the Jeep, the plan is screwed, Alex,” Ed insisted.

“Ed, we’ll be fine. The entrance to the parking area is less than a mile away. GPS shows a road off the parking lot heading deeper into the reservation. We’ll find a path off that road and hide the jeep. Nobody’s out for a nature hike today.”

“People will see us turn into the park—and they will look for us. It’s hard to hide a Jeep behind twigs.”

“Then what do you think we should do?”

“We’ve gone this far without any trouble. I say we go for it.”

“Go for what?” said Alex.

“Try to drive through to the kids,” said Ed.

“Are you kidding me, Ed? This is not—no, I’m about to lose it here. Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”

“Shit. Here we go,” mumbled Charlie.

Alex turned to face him. “Feel free to weigh in on a decision once in a while.”

“These are your kids,” countered Charlie. “The two of you need to work this out—and fast.”

“There’s nothing to work out! You heard what the cop said. Marines are running the show north of the Charles. How’s that gonna work when we get stopped in our most conspicuous vehicle? ‘Just driving a car full of military grade weapons across the river. Nothing to see here, Sergeant.’ Add to that a million plus people staring out of their apartment windows, all thinking the same thing: ‘Wish I could trade this gun for a car.’ Then along comes a four-wheel-drive vehicle with Maine plates! You want to try to drive this thing all the way through, go for it. It’s your car. Just drop me off up here with my shit, and I’ll walk it. Switzerland back there can stay with you if he wants a bullet in the head. Sorry to force you into a decision, Charlie.”

“Charlie?” asked Ed.

“Yes?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think this is my—”

“Bullshit, Charlie. You’re making it worse by not weighing in,” said Ed.

“I agree,” said Alex.

“First time we’ve agreed in a while,” said Ed. “Charlie, we’re coming up on the turnoff. I know you have an opinion.”

“You sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes,” both Alex and Ed responded.

“We need to hide the jeep, even if it means walking an extra mile or two to make sure it won’t be found.”

“All right. We ditch the Jeep in the reservation,” said Ed resignedly.

“The turnoff should be right—there,” said Alex, pointing at a granite slab etched with “Sheepfold Middlesex Reservation.”

Ed turned the Jeep and edged forward, clearing people out of the way. A few fists pounded the hood in protest, but nothing serious materialized as they forced their way through the refugees.

“Chandler Road should be on the left, just after the turnoff for the parking lot. Anyone following us?”

“Negative,” said Charlie.

Alex handed him the binoculars. “Make sure.”

“All it’ll take is one downed tree on this road to stop us,” said Ed. “There’s no room to go around.”

“Most of the trees we’ve seen down are smaller than this,” Alex said, failing to hide the doubtful look on his own face.

Chandler Road ran east/west from the parking lot to the reservoir, following the same directional axis as the air blast. Any flattened trees should land within the forest. Alex was more concerned about the eight-hundred-foot north/south stretch along the reservoir, where an upended tree could fall laterally across the road, blocking them from reaching Middle Reservoir Road.

Middle Reservoir Road was the only route he could find on the GPS plotter that could take them west, deeper into the reservation. What were the chances that an eight-hundred-foot north/south-oriented section of road in the middle of a forest preserve would be clear?

“Up there,” said Alex, pointing toward an unmarked dirt road. “Watch the road behind us, Charlie. If anyone appears while we’re turning, we have a decision to make.”

“We’re clear,” said Charlie, as the Jeep squeezed onto a tight path cut through the trees.

“This is a road?” asked Ed.

“That’s what it says. Shit. Can you get by that?”

“Looks like it,” said Ed, pulling the Jeep as far to the left as possible without clipping the side mirror on a tree.

Jagged branches scraped against the passenger side of the Jeep, snapping and cracking as Ed coaxed them past a massive, torn branch. A ruler-sized piece popped into Alex’s lap.

“Dead?” he said, snapping it with little effort.

“Root system looked fine. Shallow, but healthy,” said Charlie.

Alex examined one of the pieces more closely, rubbing it between his fingers. “I think this was singed,” he said, passing it back to Charlie.

“I don’t know. But it’s definitely dried out,” Charlie said, sniffing it. “Smells a little smoky.”

“Everything smells like that. Right or left at the reservoir?” asked Ed.

Alex looked up at the calm, glittering water ahead. “Left. This has to be damage from the blast,” he said, holding up the branch. “I don’t see any leaves on the ground—anywhere. I bet the leaves burst into flames from the initial flash, and the air blast extinguished the fires a few minutes later, like when you blow out a candle.”

“Look at the bushes. Totally fine,” Ed noted.

“The treetop fires would be caused by thermal radiation. Like a sunburn,” said Alex.

“A really bad sunburn,” said Charlie.

“SPF 1000 bad. The radiation only lasts for milliseconds, so the leaves probably blocked most of it from reaching the ground. I bet we’ll find some burnt spots where the trees thin out,” said Alex.

“I think this is the end of the road,” announced Ed.

The Jeep stopped in front of a one-and-a-half-foot-diameter tree trunk raised two feet above the ground—pitched perfectly across the ten-foot-wide dirt path. The top of the tree lay in the calm.

“No problem. We can get this thing out of the way in a couple of minutes unless it’s jammed in the trees on the other side,” said Alex, hopping down from the Jeep.

Charlie winced. “We should have brought my chainsaw.”

“I thought about it. Charlie, keep an eye on the road behind us. Ed, I’ll need your help.”

“Got it covered,” said Charlie, pulling his rifle out of the pile stuffed under the blanket.

Alex walked to the back of the Jeep with Ed and opened the rear gate. He moved the red gas containers and dug underneath the blankets. His hand emerged holding a thick coil of royal blue boating line.

“I just hope it can handle the strain. We’ll have to go really easy.”

They tied the thick rope around the tree at the closest point to the water’s edge.

“We tie the other end to the bumper and ease the Jeep back as far as we can go until the line starts to slip,” said Alex. “You’re driving.”

“I’m always driving,” said Ed.

Ed kept the Jeep’s motion smooth, pulling the tree slowly. The tree resisted initially, as it broke free from the reservoir’s muddy grip. Alex gauged the strain on the line, guiding Ed with hand signals. When they had finished the first round, the tree lay mostly in the road, branches aimed at the Jeep. Ed craned his head into the passenger seat to gauge their effort.

“I still can’t get through without flipping this thing into the reservoir,” he said.

“We’re not done yet. We’ll wrap the line around the thickest tree we can find on the left side of the road—”

“Pulling the tree from a different angle,” finished Ed.

“Elementary, dear Watson. Elementary—in theory,” said Alex.

Ed smiled for the second time Alex could recall today.

“We’re gonna make it,” stated Ed, nodding gently.

“Still have a long way to go—but yes. I don’t see anything stopping us.”

“I wish I had more of your optimism,” said Ed.

“I’m just better at ignoring reality,” said Alex, slapping his shoulder lightly.

Chapter 34

EVENT +35:47 Hours

^{Acton, Maine}

Eli Russell’s feet hit the pavement before the pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Dave Connolly, a grizzly, two-hundred-twenty-pound barrel of a man, rushed toward him.

“Eli, you don’t want to see this. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise,” he said, holding up two hands.

“Touch me and I’ll kill you, Dave. Everyone! Out of the fucking way,” he said, parting a crowd of sweaty, MultiCam-clad militia.

“Who moved the fucking bodies?” he said, addressing Connolly.

“Nobody moved nothing, Eli. This is how we found ’em.”

“None of us touched shit,” added the man closest to the pile of bodies.

“Nobody fucking asked you!” barked Eli, pointing a finger at him. “Get control of your men, or I’ll find someone else to run your squad.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Buddy, move them to the other side of the street, and wait for instructions. No dicking around over there.”

“Do you want them in formation on the road?” asked Buddy.

“Just get the fuck out of your commander’s way!” yelled Connolly. “Sorry about that, sir.”

The gaggle of AR-15-cradling Maine Liberty Militiamen scattered out of Eli’s way, exposing the scene. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, barely visible under a shifting layer of flies. Two of the bodies lay side by side, pulled halfway out of the blood-caked mound of twisted limbs and contorted faces. The sharp smell of feces permeated the humid air. Eli approached his brother’s body. His fists clenched. A faint, gravel boot print appeared on his brother’s right cheek.

“Nobody touched my brother?” whispered Eli.

“Nobody. I was with the first group here. Sorry, Eli. I don’t know what to say,” said Connolly.

“You don’t say another word. That’s what you say,” he whispered, fixated on his baby brother’s gore-covered face.

Jimmy had been nothing but trouble from an early age, spending a solid chunk of his life locked up in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Eli had spent the same amount of time trying to keep him out. He’d always been a good kid with bad ideas. Really bad ideas—which was why he’d been the perfect choice to run the Milton Mills operation. The militia needed vehicles, lots of vehicles, but they couldn’t go around confiscating them from the constituency. Not yet.

Selling safe passage across the border to fleeing motorists had been Eli’s brainchild from the beginning, along with a few other flashes of genius. He’d dispatched Jimmy’s special-missions platoon on two missions within hours of the blast.

First priority was to barricade the crossing at Milton Mills with a skeleton crew. Traffic would be light for most of the morning, as people struggled with the decision to abandon their homes and flee north. The vehicle-snatching operation could afford a short delay while Jimmy personally handled the second task: a series of targeted assassinations focused on the York County sheriffs assigned to patrol western York County townships.

Three of the deputies had been caught at home, stranded without a vehicle. The fourth died in a gas station ambush, sprawled over a map he’d been examining with three good citizens of West Newfield. Jimmy stuffed the four bodies in the trunk of the cruiser, driving it to one of their secure locations. You never knew when a York County sheriff’s car might come in handy. Jimmy was always thinking, which was why Eli liked having him around. Sometimes that thinking got the better of him, which appeared to be the case today. Or was this something else? He couldn’t tell yet.

“How many of Jimmy’s platoon were killed?” he said, walking toward the nearest bridge guardrail.

“Five here. Three on the other side. Two in the middle. One along the riverbank down there,” said Connolly, pointing across the street. “Looks like he was knocked over the side. Eleven in all.”

“No sign of the twelfth guy? He had six on each bridge. I know that for a fact,” said Eli.

“We’ve looked everywhere. The twelfth guy could have washed downriver if he went over in the middle of the bridge. River’s pretty high from the rain.”

“Or he was taken prisoner,” said Eli.

“Prisoner?”

“Look around you, Dave. This wasn’t the work of a rival militia group or band of locals. Only a military Special Forces unit could pull this off. They bottled up Jimmy’s people on one bridge somehow and hit them from both ends. Fucking shooting gallery. We’ll probably find the survivor gutted by the side of the road somewhere up the road, tortured to death for every last bit of information about our militia. Jimmy probably gave them a good fight, gave them some wounds to lick. I’d want to know everything about the Maine Liberty Militia too. We’re up against something sinister here, Dave, and the government is behind it. No question.”

“Shit. Should we even be here?” he asked, glancing around.

“They’re long gone. In my experience, they shoot and scoot. No way they’d stick around after a gunfight like this. Get your squad to work loading up the bodies in one of the pickup trucks. Not mine. Bring them back to Shapleigh, and take the back roads. We’ll do a proper burial with full honors when I get back. I have a few things—”

A blaring horn disrupted his sentence, snapping his head toward the bridge. A white sedan crept forward along the bridge, twenty feet from Dave Connolly’s squad of disheveled, pathetic miscreants. Buddy unenthusiastically waved the car off, turning his attention back to a lively conversation among his squad mates. The driver laid on the horn again, this time fully ignored by Connolly’s men. Eli’s right eye twitched once, and he walked calmly over to the mess of men Connolly called a squad.

Buddy never saw the butt stock that collided against his right cheekbone, shattering half of his face. Mercifully, the trauma caused by the impact switched him off like a light bulb, and he never felt any of the repeated strikes that crushed his head to a pulp between the pavement and the rifle’s composite plastic.

Eli heard the car shift gears and tear into reverse, squealing its tires. He raised his AR-15 and centered the ACOG scope’s reticle on the driver’s head. Blond hair, woman. He fired methodically, exploding the windshield as he walked across the bridge. The back of the car veered left and hit the guardrail, blocking the road. The engine revved desperately as Eli changed magazines and flipped the selector switch to fully automatic.

Voices screamed from the car, followed by frantic movement in the back seat. He drew even with the side of the car and fired an extended burst through the rear passenger window, momentarily intensifying the shrieks of panic. He switched back to semiautomatic and fired three rounds at the lowest exposed point along the driver’s right leg, putting an end to the wild engine acceleration. He noticed that the back driver’s-side door was open and listened for several seconds. A low sobbing sound competed with the idling engine. A little hide and seek? Oh, this could be fun.

“One, two, three. Here I come. She’ll be comin’ around the mountain when she comes,” he said, walking around the hood of the car. “She’ll be comin’ around the—”

A woman in white shorts and a purple blouse exploded into view, hurling herself over the side of the bridge before he could shoot. By the time he reached the guardrail, her body had been whisked thirty feet downriver by the rushing water. He fired rapidly, using the white geysers of water caused by each projectile to guide his aim, until one of them erupted red. She was done. He turned his attention to the car. The few intact windows were splattered red. Perfect. Eli wrenched open the driver’s door and pulled the woman out by her sticky, crimson-matted hair. She spilled onto the street. That should be enough to keep traffic off the bridge.

Eli Russell stood up and approached Dave Connolly’s squad. “Form them up in two ranks for a promotion ceremony.”

While Connolly’s men fell into place, Eli changed magazines and shouldered his rifle. He nodded at Connolly and turned to face the squad, noting the look of sheer dread on their faces. He kept searching until he found what he needed.

“Mr. Connolly. Third man from the right, back row. Who is he?”

“That’s Jeffrey Brown, sir. One of my best.”

“He’s just been promoted,” said Eli, drawing his pistol.

“To what position?” said Connolly.

“Squad leader,” said Eli, firing a bullet point blank into Connolly’s head. “Eyes forward. Nobody looks at that piece of trash again. You understand?”

“Yes, sir!” they yelled in unison.

“No more happy horseshit in this squad, Mr. Brown. Am I clear?”

“Clear, sir,” said Brown, staring straight forward at a point in the distance.

“Front and center, Mr. Brown. This is your squad. Get these bodies loaded up and back to Shapleigh.”

“Yes, sir. Permission to speak, sir?”

“Better be good,” growled Eli.

“Can I assume they go in the river?” said Brown, nodding at his dead squad mates.

Eli chuckled and patted the young man on the shoulder. “And anyone else that ain’t militia material,” he said. “Get it done, Brown. And get it done fast. The fewer people that see us here, the better.”

“Yes, sir. No witnesses,” said Brown.

Eli smiled. “Looks like I picked the right man for the job.”

Eli cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. A car approached from Foxes Ridge Road.

“Ambush positions, both sides of the road!” barked Brown.

When the men didn’t move, he physically pushed half of the remaining ten men to the shoulder of the road next to the shot-up sedan. “Cover and concealment. Lock it down!”

Eli led the rest of the men to the downslope beyond the opposite shoulder, taking the position closest to the three-way intersection connected to French Street.

“Wait for my command!” he yelled to Brown, who had his hands full positioning his men.

A silver SUV careened into view a hundred yards away, squealing its tires.

“Stand down! Stand down! It’s one of ours,” said Eli, jumping up onto the shoulder.

Brown followed his lead, waving his arms and rushing into the middle of the road. The right man indeed. By putting himself between the oncoming vehicle and his men, he took the extra step to prevent a blue-on-blue engagement. Eli joined the new squad leader and waited for the SUV to arrive.

“You have prior military experience, Brown?”

“Yes, sir. Five years in the army. Went in right after the pandemic. Left as a sergeant,” said Brown. “Heads up, sir.”

The SUV stopped inches from Eli Russell, but he didn’t flinch or betray any sense of apprehension.

“Sounds like a perfect match. Connolly never said a word about you being a sergeant. Now I know why. Get your men to work,” he said, returning Brown’s salute.

Kevin McCulver opened the door and slammed it shut.

“Something wrong with your fucking radio, son! We almost lit your asses up!”

“The church is wiped out,” he sputtered with a panicked look.

“Not here,” spat Eli, grabbing his sleeve and guiding him behind the SUV. “You out of your mind talking about that in front of them?”

“Sorry, Eli. I’m a little fucking spooked by this. No survivors,” he said, spotting the pile of corpses. “What the fuck? Same thing here?”

“Get a hold of yourself,” said Eli.

“Jimmy?”

Eli shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Eli. We all—”

“No time for that. We have one guy unaccounted for. Bet he was taken for interrogation.”

“What?” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Interrogation?”

“Someone took out Jimmy’s entire platoon simultaneously at both locations. This is hardcore Special Forces work, and the only reason we’d have a Special Forces group operating in the area is if this whole EMP thing was a false flag operation.”

“The meteorite thing seems pretty real,” Kevin said cautiously. “There’s talk of that all over.”

“You talk with anyone that saw it?” asked Eli.

Kevin shook his head. “It’s on the ham radio, and we’ve been getting reports from refugees and the cops.”

“The U.S. Army has entire divisions dedicated to deception warfare. Psychological Operations—Psyops. Disinformation could be spread by agents on the ground. Ham broadcasts could be transmitted by aircraft. They’ve been softening us up for decades, just waiting for the opportunity to declare martial law. It’s happening, Kevin,” Eli said with conviction. “We need to go to ground and start phase two. Heavy recruitment, by any and all means necessary. I want double the number of people by the end of the week. I don’t care how you get them out to the training compound. We’ve talked about this.”

“Got it,” said Kevin. “I’ll start spreading the word.”

“See you back in Shapleigh. Make sure nobody follows you.”

“Understood.”

Eli got back in his truck and paused. His driver wore a pained look.

“What?” Eli shrugged.

“I don’t know how to say this, Eli,” said the driver, trembling slightly.

“Just say it, Dan. I’m not in the mood.”

“One of our patrols just found Jimmy’s son shot dead in front of the East Waterboro Hannigans. Him and a buddy,” said Dan, holding out a quivering radio.

“They know what happened?” said Eli, using every shred of self-restraint not to yank out his bowie knife and stab Dan through his protruding gut until every ounce of fat and blood spilled out onto the seat.

“Witnesses say that a group of bicyclists shot them dead and stole their car.”

“Bikers?”

“No,” Dan said, slowly shaking his head. “Bicycles. They’re saying it was a bunch of women. Shot Nathan and his friend in cold blood. Left the bikes behind. I’m sorry, Eli, I know that kid meant—”

“Not another word, Dan. Not unless I ask. Which way did they go with the car?”

“Route 5 toward Limerick.”

“Take me to Waterboro first. I want to talk to the witnesses. When I’m done there, we’ll gather some folks and take a little trip out Route 5 and see what we can scare up.”