The Perseid Collapse

Chapter 35

EVENT +36:17 Hours

^{Middlesex Fells Reservation, Stoneham, Massachusetts}

Alex pulled three olive-drab tactical ball caps out of his MOLLE assault pack, and handed one over to Ed.

“Try it on.”

“Is this our team ball cap?” Ed quipped, pulling it over his hair.

“In a way. What do you think, Charlie?”

Charlie nodded. “I like the subdued American flag patch on the front. Pretty slick.”

Alex donned one of the caps and stood next to Ed. “What is your first impression?”

Charlie squinted.

“Don’t study us. What are you thinking right now?” said Alex.

“You kinda look like the guys from that old spec ops show. Strike Down?”

“Strike Back. Great show. Take this and put it on,” said Alex, gripping his weapon and moving next to Charlie.

“Ed?”

“Looks like you’re in some kind of a uniform, but not really,” said Ed.

“Special Forces,” whispered Charlie, straightening himself.

“Khaki pants, hiking boots, chest rigs, drop holsters, and long-sleeved, earth-tone shirts. It’s the only way we’ll be able to walk around in broad daylight carrying rifles. I guarantee nobody will bother us looking like this,” said Alex.

“We’re like the A-Team! Except for his rifle. Goddamn, I wish you didn’t have a .22,” said Charlie.

“Easily explained. Welcome to Bravo Platoon, 1^st Battalion, 3^rd Special Forces Operational Group,” said Alex.

“What’s our mission?” said Ed.

“Sensitive material recovery at MIT. End of discussion,” said Alex.

“Where did we come from?”

“None of your business. HALO jump if pressed,” Alex responded. “The government is taking steps to secure vital technology and research.”

“Why not have the marines, or whoever is around MIT, do it?” asked Ed.

“Because it’s too early for the government to determine if military units were involved in the attack. EMP is a trigger event for 3^rd SFOG recovery-team deployment.”

“Nice. So, how are you planning to explain my Ruger?”

“You don’t get to carry it. You’re the technical liaison, a rare addition to one of these teams. Getting you to MIT is mission critical. Let them wonder why.”

“What am I?” said Charlie.

Ed snickered. “You’re Murdoch.”

“Was that necessary?” said Charlie peevishly.

“At least you’re not the science geek,” said Ed.

“Charlie is the sniper. That’s why I had you switch out the EOTech with your thermal scope,” Alex explained.

“I hope we don’t have to shoot up close or inside. This thing is useless for CQB,” said Charlie.

Ed looked puzzled. “What’s CQB?”

“Don’t worry about it,” interjected Alex.

“Close Quarters Battle, techie,” answered Charlie.

“I’d watch it. If Alex is the team leader and I’m mission critical—that makes you the expendable one,” said Ed.

“He sort of has a point.” Alex shrugged, patting Charlie on the arm.

“Thanks.”

“Ten minutes,” said Alex, checking his watch.

“We’ve got about two miles in the reservation. Another seven or so to the river.”

“It’s only 5:20,” said Ed.

“I want to get to the edge of the reservation and rest—watch the outskirts of Medford. We do a little surveillance and enter the city around 7:30. Puts us near Cambridge after dark,” said Alex.

“Why don’t we just leave from here an hour later? Walk straight through,” protested Ed.

“There’s a catch. Once we enter Medford, we have to move with a purpose. No window shopping.”

Charlie and Ed shook their heads in confusion.

“It’s a saying. We can’t look like we’re out for a stroll. A Special Forces team en route to a critical national objective doesn’t stop for breaks. You’ll be thanking me for the rest. Trust me.”

Alex had an entirely different reason to leave immediately, one that had nothing to do with timing. There was no way Charlie would make it to the Charles River—not at the pace they had to maintain in the city. There was no way to say this without an argument. Charlie would insist he could make it, and they’d be left carrying a two-hundred-pound sack of meat when they could least afford to.

Charlie had more than earned the right to be here. He’d been indispensible so far, but it was time for him to assume a different role in the mission. He needed to stay behind to guard the Jeep. Since there was no way to make this suggestion directly, Alex would take a more subtle approach. Sort of.

“Ed, I don’t want to sound too crass, but you should leave your keys with the rucksacks. If we get separated, or I can’t reach your body for some reason—”

“Can’t… can’t reach my body?”

“Sorry, man, but we have to think of everything. We have no idea what we might find down there. You could fall through a hole. Get cut off from us in an ambush and killed. The same could happen to any of us.”

“The Jeep’s not exactly invisible from the road. Someone could find the packs,” said Ed.

“Nobody will find the packs. If anyone finds the Jeep and somehow figures out that it’s functional, they’ll never guess that we hid backpacks on the island. They’ll be too preoccupied trying to figure out how to hotwire it,” said Alex, kicking off his clandestine campaign.

“Why did you wait until now to bring this up?” said Ed, holding up the keys.

“I just thought of it. Sorry, I’ll run them out to the packs as soon as I get all of the backup handheld frequencies programmed.”

“I can take care of the keys,” said Charlie, swiping them from Ed.

“Thanks, man,” said Ed.

Charlie set his rifle against the Jeep and waded through the thick brush. Alex pulled Ed behind the Jeep when the sounds of snapping twigs and rustling branches faded.

“I’m going to book ass through the reservation,” said Alex.

“What? What are you talking about? Didn’t you just say—”

“That was all bullshit,” said Alex, “well, most of it.”

Ed paused for a moment. “No. You’re not—he’ll go ape shit.”

“There’s no other way. You know how he his. He’ll kill himself doing this,” said Alex.

“He didn’t have to come along,” said Ed.

“I understand that, but we have to face some realities here, really quickly. If he drops halfway through the city, we’re double fucked, unless you’re willing to ditch his ass in exchange for Chloe’s safety.”

“This isn’t all on me,” said Ed.

“I didn’t say it was. If I have to choose between dragging Charlie along and Ryan?” he said, glaring at Ed.

“All right,” he groaned. “What do you need me to do?”

“Do your best not to complain. We have to make this look like a normal speed. I’ll keep reinforcing how we’re going to pick up the pace once we hit Medford—like hardcore Special Forces operators.”

“Was all of that cover story bullshit just for his benefit?”

“Negative. You’re still the team’s geek. We say our third guy landed in the reservoir. Couldn’t get untangled and drowned.”

“No way this will work.”

“Trust me. It’ll work—if we don’t kill him by accident in the next fifteen minutes. You didn’t see him at the bridge. Looked like he was having a heart attack or something,” said Alex.

“You looked a little rough yourself,” said Ed.

“You didn’t see the inside of the church. I’m running him into the ground. Stay hydrated.”

The bushes near the front of the Jeep shook for a moment and parted, revealing a huffing, red-faced Charlie. A dark brown sweat stain formed a thick ring around his neck. Alex raised a thumb in approval, and Charlie nodded, wiping his face with his sleeve. Ed cast Alex a disapproving look, shaking his head.

“Shouldn’t you get those frequencies programmed?” he whispered.

“I did that before we left Scarborough,” said Alex.

Ed cocked his head. “I hope you’re not planning to ditch my ass at some point.”

“Not unless you keep pissing me off.” Alex winked. “Here he comes.”

“I put the keys in Ed’s pack. Hot out, huh?” Charlie panted.

“Perfect—and you tied an IR chemlight to the bag. I think we’re ready to step off,” said Alex.

“Chemlight? Shit—I didn’t think to do that,” said Charlie.

Alex rubbed his chin and grimaced, weighing the fake decision. “Don’t worry about it. If we get here before sun-up and can’t find the packs, we’ll just set a perimeter and wait until it’s light. That should be fine. Right?” he said to Ed.

Ed pretended not to hear Alex’s question.

“No. No. We need to be able to make a quick departure. The situation out there is too fluid. I’ll run one back,” said Charlie, handing his rifle to Alex. “Am I even carrying any?”

“You should have two of them in one of the side pouches on your vest. I wrapped a small strip of duct tape around the center,” said Alex.

“Okay. I remember those,” he said, patting his vest and turning.

“Better make sure. You don’t want to make two trips,” said Alex.

Ed shot him a glance, and Alex mouthed, What?

“No. I remember you giving them to me,” he said over his shoulder. “Be back in a minute.”

Alex waited until Charlie disappeared beyond the foliage.

“I give him one mile.”

Chapter 36

EVENT +37:06 Hours

^{Middlesex Fells Reservation, Medford, Massachusetts}

A droplet of sweat dangled from the brim of Alex’s hat, flying over his shoulder when he checked on Charlie. The man had to be close to his breaking point. A dark ring of sweat had formed around the top of his thick nylon tactical vest, spreading past the protruding chest-mounted magazine pouches and extending halfway down his half-rolled shirtsleeves. The shadow of perspiration had even reached his pants, darkening his crotch and upper thighs. Sweat poured in a steady stream from the tip of his hat as he sucked at the CamelBak valve. Alex suspected that Charlie’s body had expelled more fluid in the past thirty-two minutes than it had accepted. He couldn’t possibly last much longer at this pace.

He tapped Ed on the shoulder and slowed the pace enough for Charlie to catch up.

“How we doing back here, Charlie?”

He knew the answer from the look on Charlie’s beet-red, pained face.

“I think… I think I’m going to need a short break,” he huffed. “Just five minutes to adjust my gear, catch my breach. Less than that, probably. Just a quick one.”

“All right. We should get all of our breaks in now, before we hit the city. We won’t be able to stop there,” said Alex. “Ed, let’s hold up for a few minutes.”

Charlie stopped midstride, nearly falling over. He put both hands on his knees and breathed deeply, blowing air out of his mouth.

“Grab some earth for a second,” said Alex, lowering himself to the ground.

Ed slid his backpack to the worn, grassy trail and took a seat on the ground next to Alex. He shot Alex a dirty look when Charlie buried his head in his hands and sighed. Alex shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s hotter than balls out—another reason I’m in no hurry to hit Medford. Trees are the only thing keeping my undies dry, even with the leaves gone,” said Alex, smirking at Ed.

“Too late for that,” said Charlie into his hands. “My nuts are chafing like a son-of-a-bitch. That’s why hunting season’s in the fall. Fuck this weather.”

“I think it’s still hot down south when the season hits,” said Alex.

“Well, they’re idiots for living down there,” said Charlie, laughing at himself.

“Ed?” said Alex.

“Miserable, but good to go. Pace is about right. I could pick it up if we had to,” he said.

“We’ll keep the pace where it is. We’ve got about another mile and a half to the edge of the reservation. Then an hour of rest before we push through to the river,” said Alex. “Everyone ready?”

“I guess,” said Ed.

“Yep. I’m good,” muttered Charlie.

Alex raised himself off the ground using one hand. He readjusted his rifle, positioning it across his chest for quick access. Charlie struggled to get up, and Alex offered him a hand, picking up his pack at the same time. He helped Charlie slide into the pack, pulling on a few of the straps to tighten it.

“Thanks, man. I feel like an oldtimer. I really hope I’m not slowing us down,” said Charlie, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

“This is a good pace for now. Remember to drink while you walk. Little sips. You’re leaking water like a sieve,” said Alex, patting him on the back.

Ed cast him a critical look as he passed them. Alex mouthed a kiss and winked as he stepped around Charlie.

“All right, ladies, step it out,” he said, picking up the pace, resigned not to look behind for ten minutes.

Eleven minutes later, Alex risked a glance back to find Charlie more than twenty-five yards behind the group. This had to be it. His walk was labored, and he sucked air through his mouth. One way or the other, Alex would send him back. Another five minutes might kill him.

“Hold up,” he said and jogged back to Charlie.

“I’m-I’m good,” Charlie barely managed.

“Charlie, look at me,” said Alex.

Charlie raised his head, tears streaming down his deep-red face, building momentum with each bead of sweat they absorbed.

“I d-didn’t want to let you guys d-down,” he stammered.

“You didn’t let anyone down, Charlie. Let’s get this off you,” he said, removing Charlie’s backpack. “Come on, let’s grab a seat. There’s a tree trunk with your name on it right over here.”

Alex helped Charlie to a decayed tree at the edge of the trail. He dropped Charlie’s pack and opened one of the top Velcro compartments, pulling a spare water bladder from the pouch. He removed Charlie’s drenched ball cap and opened the CamelBak spigot, holding the bladder above his head and showering Charlie’s sweat-matted hair with water.

“God, that feels like heaven. I’d jump in the reservoir back there if I didn’t have to take all of this shit off and put it on again,” said Charlie.

“I thought about it too,” said Ed.

“You guys aren’t the only ones,” Alex admitted. “I want you to drink the rest of this water. I think you’re a few steps away from heat stroke.” Alex paused a moment. It was now or never.

Sorry, Charlie.

“We need to get you rehydrated, rested up—and send you back to the Jeep,” said Alex.

Charlie looked down. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you, Charlie. There’s no doubt about that, but you have to sit this one out. We need you one hundred percent combat effective for the ride back to Maine, and we need the Jeep to be here when we get back. We might need you to bust out of here and pick us up further south. Most importantly, I need to make sure you return to your family.”

Alex kneeled in front of Charlie and grabbed both of his shoulders. “Look at me, Charlie.”

Charlie slowly looked up, eyes filled with tears.

“I couldn’t ask for a better friend, Charlie, which makes this a tough call. I know how much being here means to you.”

“I’ll still be here,” said Charlie, straightening up a little.

“And you’re still the team’s sniper,” added Alex.

Charlie wiped his eyes. “You guys should get going. I can find my way back to the Jeep. The kids are waiting for you.”

“We can spare fifteen minutes to make sure you’re back in business,” said Alex.

“Thanks, man. I’m really sorry about this. I really thought I could make it. I’m glad we figured this out now. Not later.”

“Me too, and quit apologizing,” said Alex, patting him on the shoulder. “You sure you can get back all right?”

“I’ll take it super easy. East Dam Road all the way to the southern tip of the reservoir. We marked off the only confusing point with one of the IR chemlights. I’ll be able to find that. It’s a no-brainer from there. Follow the reservoir until Middle Reservoir Road—another chemlight—and turn left. The island thingy is right there.”

“Sounds like your noggin is working fine,” said Alex.

“As good as before,” added Ed.

“Nice.” Charlie winked.

“We’ve gone over the radios, but let’s do it one more time,” said Alex, taking his handheld out of a pouch on his vest. “I have eight channels preprogrammed. One through eight. We’ll start out with the first preset. Hit the privacy button and select code 129. If there’s too much interference from other users on that channel, go to the next preset channel and do the same.”

“Code 129?” asked Ed.

“Yes. Keep shifting channels until we can talk on a quiet frequency. The bad news is that we’ll probably be out of range by nightfall. These transmit at three watts, which kicks up the range a bit, but with the urban environment, we’ll be lucky to get three to four miles. Each radio has an out-of-range icon here,” he said, holding it up and pointing. “They periodically check in with each other to see if they can communicate. The signal ID is unique to the radio set we’ll be using, including the spare in the Jeep.”

“That’s pretty sweet,” said Charlie.

“It is pretty sweet. It’ll come in handy on the return trip. You’ll know when we’ve wandered back into range,” said Alex. “If at any time you feel like you’ve gotten lost with the frequency shifts, hit the home button, here. It’ll send a burst transmission through every frequency, looking for our radio set’s signal ID. It’ll automatically tune you to the nearest radio’s frequency channel.”

“Couldn’t we just use this function to pick a clear frequency, instead of the presets? One of us serves as the base station and finds a clear frequency, then the others migrate over?” Ed asked.

“The only problem is that it has to search over three thousand channels. It can take time,” said Alex.

“How long does it take?”

Alex paused to consider Ed’s question. “You know—you’re right. It doesn’t take that long. Twenty, maybe thirty seconds for a full sweep. Let’s start out with the presets, and if that doesn’t work out, we’ll switch to Ed’s method. Ed’s radio will serve as the base station. Charlie, you’ll need to keep the radio on, with one of the earpieces in at all times—even if you have to sleep.”

“I won’t be sleeping,” said Charlie.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“I think I got an hour last night, or maybe—”

“You’re gonna fall asleep. You can snort the MRE instant coffee all night like a junkie, and guess what? You’ll still crash at some point. You’re better off doing it on your terms. Give yourself three to four hours, and make sure you set up camp away from the Jeep,” said Alex.

“No way I’ll be able to sleep out there.”

“Charlie, if I started singing ‘rock a bye baby’ right now, you’d be out before I finished. We’d all be out. It’s been a long two days. Set up some kind of trip wire on the path leading to the Jeep. There’s a spool of yellow wire in the duffel bag. About four hundred feet. Came with the invisible dog fence we never installed. Run it tight around some trees, and tie it to something you keep wedged under your head. Nothing that makes noise. You good?”

“I’m good,” said Charlie.

“Spare radio is in the glove box, along with a car charger. You shouldn’t need either, but do what you have to do to keep the radio up. I’ll leave the satphone with you,” he said, digging into his backpack.

He pressed the “on” button and watched the screen, shaking his head. “I don’t get it. The phone says it’s tracking two satellites, but it won’t place a call. Iridium has over fifty satellites in orbit. Even if a few of them got fried, there should be coverage like the GPS—unless they rely on ground stations to function,” said Alex, handing Charlie the phone.

“Or the military commandeered them,” said Charlie.

“Or that. Give it a try every few hours.”

Alex paused, trying to think of something useful to say. He took a long sip of water to kill a few more seconds.

“You two don’t plan on babysitting me for the full fifteen minutes do you?” asked Charlie.

“We don’t want to run off and—”

“Go get your kids,” Charlie interrupted. “I got it from here.”

“You sure?”

“Better than waiting around with two nervous Nellies,” Charlie snorted. “I’ll be back at the Jeep in no time.”

“You’ll drink plenty of water now and when you get there?”

“No, I thought I’d do jumping jacks until it was dark. Then start a campfire and blare music across the reservoir. Maybe go skinny dipping!”

Alex raised an eyebrow at Ed.

“Holy shit! Will the two of you get the hell going? I’ve got it under—Oh, hold on! Let me give you the thermal scope,” Charlie said, fumbling with his rifle.

“I really can’t do anything with it,” said Alex. “It’s not zeroed for my rifle.”

“You can hold it in your hand and look through it, right? Damn. Maybe we should spend the next fifteen minutes building a litter so you can carry me along to do all of your thinking.”

“Now that would be a sight,” said Ed, laughing.

“Funny,” said Alex. “You sure you won’t need this?”

“Nope. All set. Night vision goggles should do the trick,” said Charlie, patting one of the pouches on his backpack.

“Thanks, bud. This should come in handy,” said Alex, wrapping the scope in a T-shirt and stuffing it into his pack.

“So—we’re off?” he said, extending a hand.

Charlie took it, and Alex pulled him to his feet, hugging him for several seconds.

“Stay out of trouble,” uttered Alex.

“Same to you,” said Charlie, pulling Ed into the huddle.

“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” inquired Ed, his head on Charlie’s shoulder.

“Well, now that you mentioned it—no. Get out of here before I change my mind,” said Charlie, releasing them.

Alex saluted him and followed Ed down the path, glancing back at Charlie a few times, until the trail veered left and their neighbor disappeared.

“We can slow down now,” said Alex, taking the lead.

They walked in silence for fifteen minutes, pushing their way through broken branches and climbing over fallen trees, until the trail intersected “Red Cross Path.” Alex shifted his rifle to a ready position across his chest and slowed the pace, peering through the trees. A few minutes later, he spotted the faint outline of a neighborhood ahead. He crouched behind a tree on the left side of the trail, signaling for Ed to get behind him.

“I thought we had another hour and a half,” whispered Ed.

“What was I supposed to say? We’re almost there? We made better time than I expected from the Jeep. GPS has been coming in and out with the trees blocking the signal. I almost choked when I saw how far we had made it on the first half hour.”

“Shit. I really thought we had at least an hour to go,” said Ed.

“You can walk back and forth for another forty-five minutes if it’ll make you feel better.”

“That’s quite all right. So now what?”

“We move about a hundred yards off the trail and very cautiously approach the edge of the neighborhood. We’ll wait there until 7:30 or so,” he said, checking his watch. “Eat dinner, take a nap. We have some time to kill.”

“You sure we can’t press on? Doesn’t look like an urban kill zone up there. More like Durham Road,” said Ed.

Alex scanned beyond the trees through his riflescope. “White, two-story colonial with attic bump-outs. Red garrison. Three-car garage. I see what you mean,” he said, lowering into a crouch and listening.

Dead silent.

“Charlie gave me the impression that this gets crowded really fast as we move south. Hold on,” he said, activating his handheld radio. “Charlie. You there?”

“Miss me already?” Charlie responded immediately.

“Not exactly. Quick question. Where does it get really crowded on our route south? We’re thinking about pushing through when we get to the edge of the forest.”

“You’ll probably exit the forest at the top of Governors Avenue. It’s pretty swanky all the way to High Street. Nice little downtown area along High. Expect people. The Mystic River is just past High Street. It really starts to get busy over the river. You’ll have a lot of people displaced from the areas closer to the coast. Shit. Come to think of it, you might have some trouble getting across the Mystic because of the tsunami.”

“Seems like plenty of bridges to get across,” said Alex.

“Yeah. Those can be fun,” said Charlie.

“Not looking for that kind of fun. Any other places to hole up on the way?”

“Lots of athletic fields and small parks. Tufts University has a fairly large campus. Nothing you can get lost in like the Middlesex Reservation. Once you cross the Mystic, you’re in the city.”

“Got it. Thanks, Charlie. Let’s use call signs from now on. Lots of Eds, Alexes and Charlies out there. Use our former street name followed by street number. If you need to authenticate a transmission, ask for the other person’s wife’s name, or one of the kids. That should keep any impersonators busy. Durham three-zero, signing out.”

“Solid copy, three-zero. Durham one-seven standing by,” said Charlie.

Alex shook his head. “Sounds like a no-go on leaving the reservation. Charlie didn’t think we’d find anything like this on the way. I miss him already. Never thought I’d say that.”

“Me either, but you made the right call. No way he could have made it. Not to Boston and back,” said Ed.

“The Best Western parking lot sealed it for me. I knew he’d have trouble once we ditched the Jeep.”

“I would have taken off if you hadn’t jumped out to help him,” Ed said.

“That’s why I jumped out. I couldn’t leave him like that, and I knew we’d need him later. It was a calculated risk. Sort of.”

“Hell of a risk,” said Ed.

“We would have been fine,” said Alex.

“I didn’t mean you and Charlie.”

“I know. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t waited. Family first.”

“I’d really hate to catch a glimpse of how your mind works,” said Ed.

“It isn’t pretty,” said Alex. “Right now I’m wondering why this neighborhood is quiet when I can hear commotion east of here. I’m thinking there must be a serious roadblock set up at the hospital. Something we want to avoid.”

“The Special Forces story feels a little thin to you too?”

“We need a more chaotic environment for that to work. A focused roadblock in a quiet residential area probably isn’t the best place to test our new identities. I’ll have to carry your rifle when we roll.”

Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Why?”

“Because it doesn’t look right as a primary weapon. If anyone asks, or looks at it funny, I can say that it’s part of a specialized load-out. A .22 equipped with a suppressor can be extremely quiet. Either that or we leave it behind,” said Alex.

“How long did it take you to make that up?” said Ed.

“I started plotting this trip when you told me Chloe was going to Boston College,” said Alex.

“Chloe?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you make this kind of a trip on your own?” said Alex.

“Amazing. You have this whole thing planned out in there. Don’t you?” said Ed, poking Alex’s hat.

“I’ve put a lot of thought into it.”

“Do any of those thoughts include ditching me along the way?”

“Not yet. Let’s find a spot out there and rest up. It’s going to be a long night.”

Chapter 37

EVENT +38:10 Hours

^{Limerick, Maine}

Kate set her beer on the wooden coffee table in front of her and collapsed into the cushioned chair between Linda and Samantha, the constant pain from her quadriceps and thigh muscles governing the discordance of complaints her body had lodged against her. Shoulders, lower back, wrists—all vying for her attention but failing to take her mind off the fact that she could barely walk. The sun had dropped below the tree canopy, casting a shadow over the screened porch and dropping the temperature a few degrees—not enough to bring any real relief to the humid evening. She closed her eyes and thought about Alex. He’d set out with Ed and Charlie soon.

She was jarred out of her thoughts by the sound of a chair scraping along the deck. Her father-in-law dragged a chair over to them from the patio table.

“Mind if I join the ladies’ club for a few minutes?” he asked, placing a cooler on the floor next to his chair.

“Not if that’s another round of beers,” blurted Samantha. “Did I actually say that? I’m sorry, Tim. Two beers appears to be my limit tonight.”

“This is the most I’ve seen her drink since I can remember,” said Linda, laughing. “Tim, I have to thank you and Amy again for everything. We’re all still a little legless from the ride, but we’ll be earning our keep tomorrow,” she added.

“Same with my crew,” said Samantha. “We’ll turn to in the morning and make breakfast for everyone. We should set up a rotation, if that’s all right with Amy.”

“I don’t think you’ll get an argument from Amy. Retirement for her meant retirement from all domestic duties. I must have missed that in the original contract,” said Tim.

“It’s in small print on the back page of your marriage certificate,” said Linda.

“I’m pretty sure she added it after the fact,” said Tim. “Just as well, between you and me.”

“Oh shit, he didn’t go there,” said Samantha.

“He can get worse. At least Amy’s out of earshot,” said Kate, finishing her beer.

Tim fished a bottle out of the cooler and set it on the table next to the bottle opener. Kate gripped the ice-cold pale ale and held it for moment. She resisted the beer commercial cliché of lifting it to her sweat-glistened cheek.

“We’ll be on our best behavior,” he said, holding Kate’s glance long enough for her to get the message.

“Me too,” she said.

“Refresh on the beers?” he said, placing two more on the table. “I always carry bribes.”

Samantha raised her new bottle. “To the Fletchers and the best damn dinner I’ve had in years. I almost felt like none of this was happening.”

“Well, the timing couldn’t have been better. Harvest is in full swing,” said Tim, with a chuckle.

They all broke out laughing, drawing stares from the gaggle of teenagers sitting by the fire pit behind the deck.

“To the apocalypse!” said Linda.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Kate.

“You’ll drink to anything,” said Linda, causing Samantha to cackle.

“Here’s to the three of you bringing the kids here safely. That’s what really counted today,” said Tim.

The laughter died off, and they clinked bottles, settling in for a serious talk.

“Should we grab Amy?” said Kate.

“No,” Tim said. “She didn’t want to hear all of the gory details, and she’s worried sick about Alex. Head in the sand is her preferred mode of operation when it comes to the uncomfortable stuff. So… the SUV is in the garage. Best way to keep it out of sight for now. It might be possible to sink it in the pond if we could get it over there at night—quietly. There’s not a lot of water access on this side of the pond, aside from the walking path over there,” said Tim, pointing past the barn to the flickering points of light visible through the trees.

“The other side has too many houses. All locals,” said Kate.

“Nosy locals,” said Tim, “and everybody has known everybody for generations. I don’t think the BMW would remain a secret for long—especially if someone saw us pushing it into the pond.”

“How about the woods?” Samantha suggested.

“Fine for now, but once the foliage dies, anyone walking the property could stumble across it,” said Linda.

“How worried do we need to be?” asked Tim.

“The kid claimed his dad was some bigwig in one of the local militias,” said Kate.

“He said his dad put him in charge of Waterboro, which sounded a little crazy to me,” said Linda. “They were sitting around the Hannigans parking lot, throwing back beers like, uh—”

“Like it was the apocalypse, and the rules no longer applied to them,” said Kate, tipping her bottle back for a swig.

“His ID says Nathan Russell. Does that sound like anyone Alex met in the York County brigade, or whatever it’s called?” asked Tim.

“I have no idea. Name doesn’t register,” said Kate.

Samantha frowned. “Alex talks to those crazies?”

“He got in touch with the York County group to do an interview for his website,” said Kate.

“Thesurvivaldad.com?” said Linda.

Kate nodded. “He went to one of their public meetings down in Sanford. Had a long talk with the founder and a few of his deputies, or whatever they’re called. Parts of the interview were picked up by the Portland Times. Definitely some tinfoil hats in the crowd, but Alex was impressed with the organization. Whatever we ran across in Waterboro felt different.”

“Scary,” said Samantha.

“We have to assume the kid was connected to something bigger than a dysfunctional family. He was dead serious about being the new sheriff in town. That’s why I drilled him between the eyes,” said Linda.

“Jesus,” said Samantha.

“She’s right. He had more than Budweiser coursing through his veins. He had authority. You could see it,” said Kate.

“Then we better keep the Beemer in the garage and cover the windows. I’m sure someone saw you roll through downtown Limerick,” said Tim.

“We saw a few people milling around the variety store,” said Kate.

“Let’s hope they didn’t recognize you,” said Tim.

“We have to assume they did,” said Linda.

“Then we have some work to do. Alex has several bins filled with stuff like motion detectors, trip flares—”

“He doesn’t have trip flares,” declared Linda.

“Oh yes, he does,” answered Kate, rolling her eyes.

“—security monitors, weatherproof cameras, spools of insulated wire, relays, inverters,” Tim continued. “All kinds of shit down there, and I have no idea what to do with it.”

“Don’t look at me,” Kate said. “That’s Alex’s show. He’s the IT guy at our house.”

“Same with Charlie,” said Linda.

Samantha smiled. “I think I can help.”

“Aren’t you a lawyer?” said Kate.

“Not me. Abby. She’s all over this stuff at home. Seriously. She reconfigured all of our electronics. Ran wires through the floors and walls for speakers. I guarantee she’ll be able to figure out how to get that stuff working. It’ll be up to us to figure out where to install it,” said Samantha.

“That’s the easy part. Alex has it all mapped out,” said Tim.

“How much time does he spend on this?” said Linda.

“It keeps him busy,” said Kate.

“Sounds like an understatement,” said Linda.

“Don’t get me started…” said Kate.

“But here we are,” said Tim, “in the midst of another disaster, and we’re ready this time.”

Kate raised her beer. “I’ll drink to that. He was right again.”

“If you don’t mind, Samantha, I’d like to show Abby the map Alex produced and let her dig around those boxes. Tomorrow,” said Tim.

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe she can make sense of the backup solar power system. The battery banks stopped taking any charge after the power went out. Either the EMP fried the panels, or the charge controller got hit. Probably both. Alex has backups for everything, all disconnected from the grid or any wires that could conduct EMP energy. He felt pretty confident that the backup could be used after an EMP attack. The solar panel bank on the roof of the barn is not connected to anything. It should be fine. I didn’t want to connect it to the battery bank without Alex’s help. If he’s a day or two out, it might make sense to try to get the system up and running, especially if we’re going to hook up all of this surveillance gear. I have no idea what kind of strain that stuff will put on the remaining battery charge.”

“Until we get it figured out, we should run patrols along the perimeter,” said Kate.

“Tomorrow. We’ll be fine tonight. There’s a room for every family upstairs. Ethan and Kevin will share a room. Amy and I will take the small bedroom. We can move some beds around and make it work. We can lock the door at the top of the stairs,” said Tim.

“I’ll sleep down here, with my friend,” Linda said, nodding at one of the rifles set against the screen porch frame.

“Same with me,” said Kate.

“I’ll take a real bed upstairs,” said Samantha, draining her beer.

“You’ll be lucky if you make it off the porch,” said Linda.

“I think I’m ready for bed right now.”

“You’ve had a long day. Why don’t we finish up here and get the kids inside,” Tim suggested.

“I wouldn’t bother them unless we have to,” said Linda.

“Once the sun hits the treetops, the mosquitos take over. Kevin and Ethan are already getting up. Amy will get them situated upstairs, and I’ll lock everything up once everyone’s inside.”

Kate studied her watch, the digital numbers fuzzy for a moment: 7:34. She finished her beer and contemplated another, but shook her head. Three would be more than enough. She’d sleep hard tonight. Linda saw her check the watch.

“Do you think they’re heading out now?” she asked.

“That was the plan,” said Kate. “Clear the outskirts of the city at dusk.”

“I hope Charlie had the sense to stay with the Jeep,” said Linda. “He’s in no shape to hike that far. Not with all that gear.”

“Are you serious? Why didn’t you say something when we were studying the maps?” said Samantha.

“I tried. You know how he gets.”

“It’s all fine,” said Kate, stopping the argument and drawing their stares. “Alex isn’t going to let him hike into the city.”

Linda shrugged her shoulders and squinted. “What are you saying?”

“He told me that he’d make sure Charlie stayed with the Jeep,” said Kate.

“How was he going to do that?” said Linda, annoyed.

“I don’t know. That’s all he said,” said Kate, willing Tim to offer her another beer.

“When was he planning to ditch Ed?” said Samantha.

“Come on now. Linda, you just said you didn’t want your husband leaving the Jeep,” said Kate. “And Samantha, do you want Ed swimming the Charles River?”

“He’s going to leave Ed at the Charles?” said Samantha, shaking her head.

“I didn’t say that,” said Kate.

“But you and Alex clearly talked about the Charles River. Ed’s not a strong swimmer. Alex knows that. Anything else you want to tell us? He’s still planning on getting both of our kids back, right? Not just Ryan?” said Samantha.

“Samantha,” scolded Linda.

“It’s not like that. He’s just worried that Ed might slow him down in the city. Alex is good at this kind of thing. He’s done it before,” said Kate. “I’ll have another beer.”

“I think the bar is closed,” said Tim.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Alex is good at this kind of thing? How long ago was he in the Marine Corps? He better not put Ed and Chloe in danger,” said Samantha.

“Is everything all right, Mom?” asked Samantha’s son, Daniel, from the steps leading up to the screened porch.

“Totally fine. We’re just talking about what the dads are doing,” she said, smiling.

“Trust me. That’s the last thing he would want,” said Kate quietly.

“I hope you’re right. Alex isn’t the one-man army he thinks he is,” whispered Samantha, as the kids entered the porch.

“He knows that,” said Kate, not altogether convinced.

Chapter 38

EVENT +38:42 Hours

^{Medford, Massachusetts}

Amber rays lingered on the soot-stained, red-brick chimney and vanished. Only the blackened, naked branches of a maple tree beyond the mangled roof reflected the last vestiges of the sun’s arc through the crisp summer sky. Alex shifted his binoculars to the loose stream of civilians wandering up Governors Avenue. Perfect.

He popped five ibuprofen pills into his dry mouth and took a swig of water from his CamelBak hose, choking the pills down. Beyond the throbbing arm, his whole body ached. He leaned his head against the tree trunk and took in the last few moments of rest he could expect for the next twenty-four hours.

“Ready?” he said to Ed.

“Shouldn’t we wait until that group passes?” Ed asked, peering through the bushes.

“It doesn’t matter at this point. We no longer have the option of avoiding people.” Alex stood up. “It’ll get worse the further we go.”

“But we still try to avoid the military or police?”

“At some point it will be unavoidable. I’d like to postpone that as long as possible. Follow my lead and stick close. Remember, I’m escorting you through the city.”

“It’s a thin story,” said Ed.

“All in the delivery, my friend. You’ll see,” said Alex, helping him to his feet.

He squeezed the remote radio transmit button attached to his tactical chest rig. He had taken some of their time at the edge of the reservation to tape the radio hardware in place to make it easier to use. A black wire led from his earpiece to the button, which was attached to the radio in one of the chest pouches.

“Durham one-seven. Three-two and three-one stepping off,” said Alex.

“Copy. All quiet here at the home base. Have fun in the city.”

“Three-two looks thrilled,” Alex responded. “Stay on this channel for updates. We’ll keep them coming as long as we’re in range.”

“I’ll be here. One-seven out.”

“That’s it?” said Ed.

“That’s it. The kids aren’t coming to us,” said Alex, adjusting his rifle to sit across his chest.

“You’re not scared?”

“I’m scared shitless,” said Alex.

He stepped out of the forest onto South Border Road, freezing a group of college-aged backpackers in the middle of the street. A few of them raised their hands. He ignored them and crossed the street, his attention drawn to the white colonial they had watched from the forest. The paint was blistered and peeled on the eastern-facing side, something they couldn’t see from their hide site in the reservation. Dozens of the wooden siding strips were cracked.

“What does that look like to you?” said Alex, pointing at the house.

“The whole house is sagging,” said Ed.

“No, I mean the… shit, you’re right,” said Alex.

The broken cedar planks formed a rough, diagonal line that ran from the top right corner of the house and disappeared near the middle of a wall, behind a ragged, charred row of evergreen bushes along the concrete foundation. The thick tangle of small branches blocked a clear view of the concrete.

“We didn’t see anything like this in Stoneham,” he remarked.

“No, we didn’t,” muttered Ed. “See how the paint’s peeled away? What would happen to someone standing outside?”

“Second-or third-degree burns. Let’s keep moving,” said Alex, pulling at his pack.

“Good thing this happened at five in the morning.”

“That’s about the only break anyone got with this.”

He led Ed down a side street that would take them past the Lawrence Memorial Hospital and any obvious law-enforcement roadblocks. They ran into a few clusters of refugees, all working their way northeast to Interstate 93 or Route 28. Most of the groups had young children. They hopped a low stone wall and crossed a short lawn to reach the corner of a two-story home at the intersection of Lawrence and Ashcroft.

“Hold up here. Lawrence spans most of northern Medford. High traffic potential,” said Alex.

“I think rush hour’s over,” Ed said ruefully. “Permanently.”

“You hear that?” asked Alex. A low hum echoed off the darkened houses. “Outdoor generator units at the hospital. Big, portable stuff. My guess is military. We need to watch our asses.”

Alex turned and slammed into a man that had suddenly emerged from the corner, knocking both of them to the ground.

“Back the fuck off!” a female voice warned from the shadows.

Alex struggled to his feet, aiming his rifle at the corner.

“Hey, we’re not looking for any trouble. Headed north, that’s all,” said the man, brushing himself off.

Alex backed up and shifted left, bringing the entire group into view. A black and yellow, overstuffed hiking backpack pulled heavily at the husband’s shoulders, stretching his sweat-stained, gray T-shirt. With a dark green ball cap pulled tightly over his head, it was hard to pin down his age. The fading light didn’t make it any easier. Mid-thirties to early forties probably.

His wife wore khaki, multipocketed shorts and a black shirt, equally burdened by an overstuffed integrated frame hiking pack. Blond hair spilled over her shoulders from under her maroon cadet-style hat. Solid hiking boots and CamelBak hoses completed the couple’s REI look. He couldn’t see the kids through the parental shield, but they didn’t come up past the husband’s waist. They wouldn’t last very long on the road. He doubted they would make it out of Massachusetts.

“Are you travelling alone?” Alex asked them.

“Just us. We left an hour ago,” said the man. “Put the knife away, honey. He has a gun bigger than you.”

“Sorry about that,” Alex said, lowering the rifle. “Captain Alex Fletcher, 3^rd Special Forces Group. We’re part of a surveillance team sent to assess the ground situation. Have you seen any other military units in the vicinity?”

“All over the place. There’s a big unit at the hospital. That’s probably your best bet,” said the husband. “Where did you guys come from?”

“North,” said Alex.

“We need to get going. We figured the 93 would be less active at night.”

“How far do you plan to go?” said Alex.

“We have family up in Concord. It’s a straight shot.”

“Honey,” his wife whispered, pulling at him, “we should go.”

“Do you have maps?” asked Alex.

The man didn’t answer.

“Stay off the main roads, and avoid any downtown areas,” Alex advised. “They’re jammed with plenty of people who wouldn’t hesitate to cut your throat in front of the kids to take a peek in one of those backpacks. You should plan to stop by nine in the morning. Start looking for a private, shaded spot well before that. The kids won’t last an hour in the midday heat. Replenish your water whenever possible. Can you purify water?”

“We have iodine pills,” said the husband.

“Try to strain the water through a T-shirt before filling your CamelBaks. Kids don’t like to find sinkers and bobbers in their water. Keep a low profile, and don’t take any deals that seem too good to be true. We’ve had reports of militia units doing some nasty shi—stuff further north.”

“Jesus,” muttered the wife.

“Trust nobody but family. It’s getting bad out there,” said Alex.

“That’s why we’re leaving,” said the husband. “We’ve heard the city is out of control past the Charles, and it’s about to spill over.”

Alex tilted his head, catching the sound of a diesel engine. Headlights flashed along the bushes across Lawrence Road, headed in their direction.

“Grab the kids!”

Alex grabbed both of the parents by their backpack chest straps and yanked them around the corner into a scorched evergreen bush. The kids screamed, causing the wife to break loose and pull at Ed. Alex jerked her backward by her hair, and she screamed.

“Shut up!” he hissed, clamping his hand over her mouth.

Ed managed to corral the kids into the shadows as a large, wheeled military vehicle rumbled past Ashcroft Road, heading east on Lawrence. The woman bit his hand, and he let go, giving her enough leverage to twist around and punch him in the mouth. He grabbed her wrist before she could pull it back to hit him again.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people? Why didn’t you want them to see you?” she demanded.

“Avoid contact with any government units if feasible. Make no assumptions. Can you navigate the Middlesex reservation?”

She stared at him, poised to strike again. “What’s going on out there?” she asked.

“Nobody knows.”

The woman took both children by the hand and pulled them out of the bushes. Her husband stood there, frozen.

“Are you coming? We need to get as far away from here as possible. We should have left yesterday like I said. I knew it. If these guys can’t even trust each other,” she said, pointing at Alex and the distant vehicle, “we’re utterly fucked.”

The woman grabbed the hand of one of her kids, angrily motioned for her husband to do the same, and they stalked off.

“That went really well,” said Ed when they turned a corner. “How’s your face?”

“Still have all of my teeth. She bit me. You see that?” said Alex, picking up the pace.

“Can you blame her? ‘Grab the kids’?” said Ed. “We’re lucky she didn’t stab one of us. Hey, on the bright side, you sounded convincing back there.”

“That’s about the only thing that went right.”

“And we didn’t get machine-gunned by the truck. Maybe walking the streets with an assault rifle isn’t the best idea with armored personnel carriers cruising the streets,” said Ed. “Especially at night. Can you break that thing down?”

“I can’t hide your Ruger. It’s one piece. Carrying a civilian rifle will look even more conspicuous,” said Alex.

“More than your SEAL Team Six gun?”

“I’ll try to keep it out of sight for now,” said Alex. “Once we get over the Mystic, we won’t stick out.”

“Except we’ll be going in the opposite direction,” said Ed.

“People will be going everywhere. We’ll be fine.”

Alex peeked around the corner, scanning the street toward Governors Avenue. A blood-orange band of sky stretched across the western horizon, hanging above the quiet street. A few stragglers moved up the sidewalk in the distance. They’d have to be extremely cautious crossing open spaces, especially streets.

Just hours after the “event,” the Department of Homeland Security issued orders to disarm citizens on sight. Thirty-six hours later, those orders might include “shoot on sight” considerations. Armed men sneaking around at night would go at the top of that list. The M240G machine gun mounted to the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle turret would make short work of them, no matter where they tried to hide.

“Just a walk in the park,” he mumbled.

Chapter 39

EVENT +41:58 Hours

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Alex leaned against a tree and lifted his night vision goggles to check his watch. Four miles in three hours. The pace was agonizingly slow, but it had kept them out of trouble. After Medford, they strictly avoided commercial or business districts, opting for the quiet, pitch-black neighborhoods that most of the refugees avoided. They couldn’t avoid crossing major roads, but the continuous migration east toward Interstate 93 kept the main thoroughfares busy, providing enough urban camouflage to slip across and disappear. They’d seen two police cars and one military vehicle during their journey.

“Let’s stop here and take a break,” said Ed.

The smell of barbequed chicken wafted into the street, chased by raucous laughter.

“Probably not the best place for a pit stop.”

Alex took out the GPS plotter and examined the map. “Point eight miles to the Boston University Bridge. We’re almost there.”

“Alex, I need to stop. We’re about to run out of quaint, cobblestone-sidewalk streets to hide on. We need to find a quiet spot to rest up and eat. Try to learn something from the radio traffic Charlie’s been able to pick up. He’s been hearing about the marines guarding the bridges. We might be wasting our time headed to the BU bridge. Shit, that chicken smells good.”

“Judging by the laughter, I suspect the beer isn’t bad either,” Alex remarked.

Another round of laughter emptied into the street.

“Pretty careless to advertise like this,” said Ed.

“Maybe they don’t care,” said Alex. “There’s a park ahead. We’ll cut through and find a place to hide.”

Alex dropped his night vision goggles back in place and took a moment to scan the street ahead. Most of the three-story homes were pitch black. A few windows flickered bright green, indicating a candle. Nothing out of place beyond careless laughter and the smell of mesquite. He started forward, but the sudden appearance of green glow on the southern horizon stopped him. A deep, distant thumping reached his ears several seconds later, reminding him of a sound he hadn’t heard in over fifteen years. The eerie glow flickered and disappeared, replaced moments later by a similar, over-the-horizon shimmer.

“Hear that?” asked Alex.

“Can I say no?” said Ed.

“It’s usually not a good idea to ignore heavy-machine-gun fire. Probably the marines, or whoever is down there. I think they’re using aerial flares.”

“What could possibly require the use of a fifty-caliber machine gun?”

“Zombies,” said Alex.

“That’s not even funny.”

Alex approached the three-way intersection cautiously, weaving them between parked cars. The military vehicles they had spotted in Somerville didn’t use headlights, the drivers relying on night vision equipment to navigate the shadowy streets.

“Stay here,” Alex instructed. “Sennott Park should be across the street. Sounds too quiet to be another triage center or refugee camp.”

He slid along the remaining cars, crouching low and searching for signs of activity beyond the stripped bushes and trees on the other side of Broadway. He could identify a children’s playground directly ahead, and something to the left of it that looked familiar. Two bright green lines reached out from the edge of the park, terminating somewhere directly in front of him. He let his rifle hang loose in its sling and raised his hands high above his head.

“Ed?”

“Yeah?”

“Put your hands as high as possible in the air, and step into the street,” said Alex.

“Why?”

“So the marines don’t kill you. I think we ran right into their headquarters.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” whispered Ed.

“I’m not joking. They’re almost on us. Don’t make any sudden moves, and do exactly what they say,” said Alex.

A diesel engine roared to life, swallowing his voice. A brilliant light whitewashed the green image of figures moving in his direction. He squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to move his hands to flip up the NVGs. A sizable vehicle screeched to a halt in front of him, a large-caliber weapon most assuredly centered on his body.

“Don’t move! United States Marines!” they screamed repeatedly.

He had no intention of moving, not even a twitch. He hoped Ed had the sense to do the same. Rough hands yanked his arms back while others groped for his rifle and pistol. He was disarmed in a matter of seconds. His night vision goggles were ripped from his head; then he was thrown face first onto the cobblestone.

The impact jammed the triple-stacked rifle magazines attached to his tactical rig into his chest and abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. He groaned as his face was pushed into the curb. His wrists were squeezed together, pulled unbearably tight by military-grade zip ties. Sharp surges of pain exploded at multiple points along his legs and sides as his gear was stripped with knives. He struggled, but was hit in the lower back with a rifle stock. The flat end of a bloodied knife was jammed against his right eye, the point digging into his temple.

“Stay down, or I’ll cut your fucking eyes out,” a voice hissed, the smell of wintergreen chewing tobacco inches from his face.

“Can you believe this fucker was trying to ghost us?” someone called out.

“He’s a stone-cold killer,” said Wintergreen.

“I wasn’t trying—”

The serrated blade pressed into his lips. Alex grimaced.

“Nobody asked for your opinion.”

He felt the marine’s hot, tobacco-heavy breath against the side of his face before everything faded.

Chapter 40

EVENT +43:10 Hours

^{Harvard Yard}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Alex fixated on the steady rumble of an industrial generator. He pulled at his restraints, confirming once again that he wasn’t going anywhere. The marines had stretched him prone and mercilessly secured his limbs to the four corners of the bare metal bed frame with zip ties. Moonlight from the room’s single window exposed a dark trickle rolling down his blood-encrusted left arm. His captors had tightened the plastic restraint too high on the wrist, digging into the thicker metacarpal bones.

The slightest movement reopened the wound, yet he still gave the zip ties an angry tug every few minutes—or what he thought was a few minutes. He had no idea. He faded in and out with no true concept of time. He knew it was nighttime, but that was about it. He couldn’t tell if it was the same night or three days later. He hadn’t soiled himself, so he guessed it hadn’t been very long.

He stared at the half-illuminated striped mattress lying across the desk next to his bed, one end sagging out of sight toward the floor. Another desk and bed sat pushed against the wall in the opposite corner. The marines had stripped Alex down to his underwear and left him to rot in a sweltering, stagnant college dorm room.

They’d done exactly what he would have done in the same situation: locked him up for later. They couldn’t afford to waste any time or energy on vetting Alex Fletcher. The situation in Boston would continue to deteriorate, occupying more of their attention and resources until the city reached a critical mass, forcing the marines to withdraw. He just hoped they didn’t forget about him. They’d have little warning when it happened.

He lowered his head onto the metal frame and prayed for sleep. Anything to get his mind off the fact that he had effectively doomed Ryan and Chloe. Best-case scenario, the marines released them without their gear and they returned to the Jeep to gear up and try again. Worst-case scenario, the city fell apart around the marines and they were forgotten—or discarded. He’d let his guard down approaching Sennott Park. A stupid, exhaustion-fueled mistake that could cost them everything. Alex yawned, welcoming the waves of fatigue washing over him.

The door burst open, causing him to tense against the zip ties. Bright lights focused on the bed; boots shuffled through the room. He turned his head to the right, anticipating a vicious punch.

“Get one of the corpsman in here! What the fuck did you do to this guy?” said a gruff voice.

“He tried to ambush us,” said a marine hidden behind one of the flashlights.

A hollow snap dropped Alex’s left leg to the bed frame.

“Careful with the snips. You guys already did a number on him,” said a staff sergeant, leaning far enough into one of the beams for Alex to make a rank identification.

One by one, the rest of his limbs fell to the steel frame. They felt heavy, almost useless. A CamelBak hose was pressed against his mouth, and he turned away.

“It’s just water, Mr. Fletcher.”

Mr. Fletcher? They must have checked his ID. He drank from the hose for several seconds, letting the excess water dribble down the side of his mouth onto the black-and-white checkered linoleum tile beneath the bed. The hose tasted like chewing tobacco, but he didn’t care. He let the hose drop from his mouth and closed his eyes for a few moments, letting the fluid settle.

“You need to drink more.”

“You got one that doesn’t taste like Skoal?” said Alex. “Just kidding, sergeant. Thank you.”

“This is going to hurt a little,” said the corpsman, sprinkling powder from a green packet onto Alex’s wrist.

He tried to yank his hand away from the intense stinging, but the corpsman held it in place.

“Fuck, Doc. What is that?”

“It’s a combination of Celox and disinfectant. The disinfectant part stings a little,” said the corpsman.

“No shit,” Alex groaned.

“I need to rub this in all of your cuts. I don’t have time to wrap all of them.”

“Sprinkle away, Tinkerbell,” said Alex, bracing for the burn.

“No time for that,” called a sharp voice from the doorway. “Battalion commander would like a word with you.”

“I need to wrap the wrist, sir. Zip ties cut him pretty deep,” said the corpsman, digging through his med kit.

“Tidy up the wrist, and get him down to the TOC (Tactical Operations Center), Corpsman.” He turned to Alex. “Can you walk?”

“I should be fine, Captain. They didn’t hobble me.”

“They should have dropped you dead on the pavement. That little disguise kept you alive long enough to generate some discussion with the platoon commander. You stumbled right into one of our platoon HQs,” said the captain.

“My lucky day. What about the other guy on the street with me?” said Alex.

“Mr. Walker is doing fine. Enjoying a cup of coffee with the battalion commander as we speak,” said the officer. “Get him down to the TOC, ASAP.”

“Got it, sir.”

Dressed in his original clothes, which now featured bloodstained, custom ventilation slits along his right thigh and ribcage, Alex followed Doc and Wintergreen through the cramped dormitory hallway. Deep red chemlights dangled from an overhead wire running the entire length of the floor, bathing everything in a muted, monochromatic crimson aura. They passed an information board titled “Hollis Hall.” Alex had studied enough Boston-area college maps to pinpoint their location. He reached up and plucked the wire, glancing behind him at the dancing lights.

“Having fun back there?” said Wintergreen.

“Sort of. Did the battalion take all of Harvard Yard?”

“Shit if I know. I’m not an alumni.”

“Alumnus,” said Doc. “And no, the battalion just took the buildings in the northwest corner of the Old Yard. It was mostly empty dorms when we got here. Six buildings form a perimeter around a courtyard, chapel in the middle. It’s about as good as it gets in terms of a naturally defensible position in the middle of Cambridge. We’re spread too thin for anything else.”

“Doc’s one of the smart ones,” said Wintergreen.

“Not smart enough to go here,” said Doc, opening a door. “Welcome to Harvard, America’s oldest institution of higher learning. Now home to 1^st Battalion, 25^th Marine Regiment.”

Alex stepped into the shadowy courtyard. A large tent was set up under the massive bare trees in the center of the courtyard. A flap opened, spilling bright light onto the grass. Two marines dashed toward the gap between Hollis Hall and a building with a small cupola protruding from its rooftop. Harvard Hall. Alex had reoriented himself quickly. Doc’s assessment made sense. The buildings formed a perfect rectangle, with minimum space between separate buildings. Half of the perimeter benefited from the formidable wrought-iron fencing along Cambridge Street. The two marines reached the opening and sprinted past sentries barely visible in the shadows.

“Sergeant, he’s all yours. I gotta get back to the triage center,” said the corpsman, splitting off.

Alex stopped him briefly. “How bad is it out there?” he asked.

“Bad. Every hospital is beyond capacity and barely functional. Anyone in the city exposed to the flash got second-degree burns. Some of the older buildings collapsed. Lots of partial collapses. Anyone who got up to check on the flash got hit by glass or branches. They’re saying it wasn’t a fucking nuke, but nobody’s buying it. This is exactly what they described in NBC training,” said the corpsman.

“Then the EMP,” Wintergreen chimed in.

“Then that. Something doesn’t add up, and nobody’s telling us shit,” said Doc. “Good luck, man.”

“You too,” said Alex.

“Battalion TOC is up here,” said Wintergreen, leading him across the grass.

“Where is everyone?”

“Half of Comms Platoon is manning the perimeter here and providing security at the vehicle gate. Medical section is out that way somewhere,” he said, pointing at Doc’s vanishing profile.

“We have a quick-reaction force made up of some Motor T guys and nonessential battalion staff. Everyone else is out on the streets. I’m headed back to my platoon once you’re delivered.”

“Which platoon are you with?” asked Alex.

“Indirect fire. 81’s.”

“No tubes?”

“Thank God, no. Only individual weapons. Pretty light.”

“Hopefully you won’t need any of it,” said Alex, amidst the brief, distant pounding of a fifty-caliber machine gun.

“I’m not hopeful.” He turned to a marine standing behind the tree near the entrance. Sergeant Evans with Mr. Fletcher,” he announced.

“Go ahead,” he heard, followed by a quick radio transmission notifying another marine inside the TOC.

Wintergreen, aka Sergeant Evans, opened the flap, releasing the sound of radio traffic and hurried voices, followed immediately by the pungent stench of stale coffee and perspiration. He could use some of that shitty coffee. Alex ducked into the tent and squinted in the bright light.

Modular folding tables—jammed with laptops, radio receivers, digital plotting gear and maps—ringed the tent. Men and women in Woodland MARPAT uniforms and full combat gear crowded the tables. Some in chairs, others standing—all of them speaking into headsets. To an outside observer it made about as much sense as the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. To the initiated, it signified the right amount of controlled chaos necessary to run a marine battalion. Nobody turned to acknowledge his entry.

A sturdier table divided the tent in half, holding up two immense, side-by-side flat-screen monitors, one displaying a map of the greater Boston area. The other focused on Cambridge and the areas north of the Charles and west of Interstate 93. Icons flashed on each monitor. A movie screen hung suspended from one of the tent’s center ceiling braces, extending down to the top of the monitors. The words “No Input” flashed in the center of the blue screen. Two marines sat at the middle table with their backs to the entrance. Ed sat hunched over the far end of the table, cradling a metal canteen cup.

“Sergeant Evans reporting,” he said.

A few heads turned, but the noise continued unabated. Ed grinned and started to get up, but stopped when one of the marines seated at the center table stood to face them.

“Thank you for not killing Mr. Fletcher, Sergeant Evans. Dismissed,” said the lieutenant colonel.

“Yes, sir,” said Evans.

“Yeah, thanks for not killing me,” said Alex, offering his hand.

Evans shook it quickly, anxious to get out of the tent. The lieutenant colonel’s dark brown eyes fixed him with an unemotional stare. The marine looked familiar, but Alex couldn’t place him. A long, lateral scar extended from the top of his cheek to the middle of his ear. His head was shaved clean. His skin was weathered and cracked, thick crow’s feet extending past the corners of his eyes. He’d seen his share of the Middle East, Africa and Afghanistan. Either that, or he spent his off hours on the beach. Somehow, Alex doubted that. 1^st Battalion, 25^th Marine Regiment’s commanding officer had that undeniable, “been there, done that” look typical of senior marines. For the first time in years, Alex felt intimidated.

“So, what brings the infamous Captain Fletcher to Boston?” asked the lieutenant colonel.

Alex cocked his head and examined the marine’s face, finally recognizing it as one of the last faces he had seen in Iraq. Second Lieutenant Grady had taken shrapnel from the same rocket-propelled grenade warhead that had aerated Alex’s body. He’d just given Grady a set of medevac orders when the warhead detonated several feet from Grady’s Amphibious Assault Vehicle. Mostly protected by the AAV’s one-and-a-half-inch aluminum hull, Grady was hit by a single fragment, which opened his face to the bone.

“Sean Grady?” he blurted.

“About time. Am I that ugly now?” he said, rushing forward to hug Alex.

“Beautiful as ever. Careful, the wrist.” Alex winced.

“Sorry about that. You’re lucky they didn’t light you up out there,” said Grady.

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. You’ve met Ed. Hope he’s explained things a bit.”

Ed stood up with a pained look on his face.

“Sergeant Walker of the, uh… what was it again?” asked Grady.

“3^rd Special Operations Department,” stated Ed matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Sergeant Walker of the 3^rd SOD,” said Grady, raising his eyebrows, “hasn’t broken character, despite everything I’ve told him about you. He’s still some kind of spec ops technical advisor, and you’re his high-speed, ninja escort.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me? They have your wallet, Ed,” said Alex, shaking his head.

“I don’t break easy—unlike some people,” said his neighbor, taking a sip of coffee and leaning back in a folding chair.

“I can see that. They didn’t offer you some cookies to go with that?” said Alex.

“He refused a whole assortment of—”

“Colonel Grady! Fire Support platoon commander requests the QRF (Quick Reaction Force)!” yelled a marine. “Someone just drove a bulldozer through one of the concrete barricades at the far end of Western Avenue Bridge!”

“I want Raven coverage immediately,” said Grady, pushing past Ed to one of the tables on the opposite side of the tent. Alex followed, patting Ed on the shoulder.

“How’s the coffee, sergeant?”

“Shitty,” whispered Ed.

“Welcome to the Marine Corps,” said Alex, rushing to keep up with Grady.

“Did they try to drive it across?” asked the battalion commander.

“Negative. Pushed the concrete barrier into the river and stopped. Last pass by the Raven picked up a large group massed beyond Soldiers Field Road. They’re partially masked from our sensors. Probably hiding in the underpass,” replied the marine.

“Define large,” said Grady.

“Thirty to fifty, estimated.”

“Launch QRF. Put them on the bridge,” said Grady, turning to face Alex and Ed. “This has been going on all day and all night.”

“Are you guarding the bridges?” asked Alex.

“Hold on,” he said, shifting two tables down.

Two marines sat in front of a laptop monitor, watching a live, panoramic aerial feed.

“I want you scouring the areas beyond the bridges connecting to Harvard Business School. Anderson Memorial, Cambridge Street, Western Avenue, and Weeks. Any vehicles or groups of people on the move need to be tagged and sent to ground units in the area. Get it done,” said Grady, turning back to Alex.

“We’re loosely guarding the bridges, trying to restrict traffic. No vehicles. Pedestrians are stopped and searched,” said Grady.

“Both ways?”

“One way. Nobody is going south anymore. It’s not a very hospitable environment. 1^st Battalion, 101^st Field Artillery Regiment out of Brockton never linked up with our forward elements. We don’t think they made it north of Dorchester or Roxbury. I gave it twelve hours and yanked the marines back.”

“You’re not talking to the 101st?” said Alex, following Grady back to the monitors on the center table.

“We’re talking with 1^st Battalion, 182^nd Infantry Regiment out of Melrose, and that’s pretty much it beyond Homeland and a few local law-enforcement agencies.”

Grady stopped in front of the rightmost screen, which showed the greater Boston area broken into color-shaded sections. Everything south of the Charles River was shaded red. He pointed at the north shore.

“First off, the 182^nd has everything shaded green. East of the 93, up through Salem. We’ve got everything shaded blue. 93 west to Waltham. We were supposed to connect with the 101^st and help them with the areas west of Kenmore Square, but that obviously fell apart. All the better, really. We’re spread beyond fucking thin as it is. Take a look,” he said, shifting to the other monitor.

“I’ve split the Indirect Fires Platoon into two platoons. Same with the Large Caliber Direct Fire platoon. LCDF is lighter on personnel, so I have them working areas outside of the concentration zone. Somerville to Medford. Watertown to Waltham. We’re talking thirty marines max per platoon, including some of the guys on loan from the Short Range Direct Fire platoon. We called that the heavy-machine-gun platoon in your days.”

“That’s not a lot of coverage,” Alex pointed out.

“It’s more of a presence mission,” Grady explained. “We’re driving around with bigger guns than the criminals. It’s working.”

“So this is the area of concentration?” asked Ed.

“Sergeant Walker is all over this, Captain Fletcher. Better keep him out of danger,” said Grady. “I have four platoons working here. The Fire Support platoon, with a little heavy-machine-gun help, is spread out along the river, mainly watching the bridges. I have overwatch in the buildings and a ‘meet and greet’ team on the ground level. The other three platoons are stationed around Cambridge. You ran into one of the HQs at Sennott Park. They cover east of battalion HQ to the 93. We’re running vehicle patrols 24/7. Limited ‘walk and talks’ if the intel section thinks we need to dig a little deeper into one of the neighborhoods.”

Alex politely stared at the screen, a single question clawing to the surface. “How were you able to get here so quickly?”

Grady grinned. “False flag rumors have everyone on edge.”

“You have to admit it doesn’t look good. A marine infantry battalion rolls into town within twenty-four hours of the EMP, with working vehicles and communications gear?”

“Who said anything about an EMP?” said Grady.

“Come on. Asteroid strike? Sounds a little farfetched combined with a region-wide electrical outage.”

“The power outage isn’t regional. It’s nationwide—and the asteroid strike has been confirmed by local sources. There’s something bigger going on, no doubt about that, but we don’t have shit for information. We have our orders, and that’s about it.”

“It still looks suspicious. Mobilizing an entire marine reserve battalion within twenty-four hours?”

“Twelve hours, and it was pure luck, really. I had two of my companies at Fort Devens for the start of annual training. H and S was prepping for the rest of the battalion, while Weapons Company was knocking out some of their heavy weapons quals,” he said, shaking his head. “The rest of the battalion was scheduled to roll into Devens on Wednesday. Two more days, and I’d have been at full battalion strength. The plan was designed for a minimum of three out of the five companies. I have two.”

“If this had happened two days earlier, you’d be stuck in Fort Devens holding your dick. What is this plan you mentioned?” said Alex.

“Category Five Event Response ordered by the Department of Homeland Security. We’re supposed to prevent a widespread breakdown in civil order.”

Alex looked around. “Is that possible?”

Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady leaned in and whispered, “Not with two companies. I give it a day or two.”

“That’s why we hauled ass to get here,” Alex admitted, glancing at Ed. “Our kids are stuck over the river.”

“I was wondering what dragged my former company commander to Cambridge, Mass, geared up for urban combat,” Grady said. He reached under the table to grab a familiar rifle. “We’re confiscating shit like this on sight.”

“I heard. Category Five requirements?”

“Something like that,” said Grady, reluctantly.

“I dropped my son off at BU on Saturday. Ed’s daughter is a sophomore at BC.”

“That’s not good,” Grady mumbled.

“That’s what we keep hearing, but we don’t have a choice.”

“Maybe they got out early,” Grady suggested.

“Not likely. They had a prearranged plan. Stay in the safest of the two places, and wait for us,” said Ed.

“We have to make the trip, Sean. Even if the kids made it out, we have no way to verify it. One way or the other, we’re going into those badlands,” said Alex, pointing at the red-shaded zone on the monitor.

“You can’t walk across one of the bridges. Not with your commando gear. They’ll tear you apart.”

“What exactly is going on over there?”

“Rioting. Looting. Arson. Personal violence—”

“Rape?” said Ed.

“Everything. Large gangs are staking out territory.”

“Drug gangs?”

“Not really. We can’t discount a heavy criminal element based on what we’ve witnessed, but it seems like a typical power grab in the absence of authority. Early this morning, we stopped a mixed group of ten men and women trying to cross the Weeks pedestrian bridge with AR-15-type rifles and semiautomatic shotguns. They had the shit broken down and concealed in backpacks. I felt like I was back in Helmand Province. That group was sent across for a reason, and it wasn’t to seek a new life in the mountains of Vermont. We’re talking a hardened group of ex-con-looking types.”

“Colonel Grady,” said the UAV operator, “Raven is sweeping north to south over Harvard Business School. White-hot thermal imaging detected.”

“Copy. I’ll monitor from here,” said Grady. “Watch the screen,” he said, navigating to a new screen on his monitor.

A few mouse clicks and the blue screen changed to a grayscale aerial image of the buildings along the northern tip of the business school complex. The screen panned south until a white cluster appeared in the middle of Soldiers Field Road near the intersection of Western Avenue. The camera’s crosshairs centered on the cluster, and the image magnified.

“That’s why you can’t cross the river,” said Grady.

At least twenty armed figures huddled under the Western Avenue overpass, hidden from the building-based surveillance teams in Cambridge. The crosshairs focused on one of the individuals, who carried an AR-15 and wore a tactical vest.

“Where are they getting the hardware?” Alex asked.

“Take a guess. The weapons we grabbed were a mix of previously legal ARs and heavily modified Class Three shit.”

Ed said, “I thought Massachusetts—”

“The governor’s mandatory buy-back program was a joke,” Grady interrupted, “and Boston’s draconian firearms ban only succeeded in disarming people who followed the rules. The guns never went away. They just shifted into the wrong hands.”

“Any way we can get an armed escort?” Alex requested. “You could use the Raven to find a safe route. We’d be in and out in less than an hour. Your marines don’t leave their vehicles.”

Grady shook his head with a grave look. “I can’t justify sending anyone across, Alex. I’m strapped here. It’s no longer possible to move anyone, including heavily armed marines, past the river. We’ve tried it several times, with the same result. We eventually reach a point where we have to engage with small-arms fire to continue. I’m doing everything in my power to avoid that.”

“Sounds like the fifty cals are cleared for engagement?”

“Countersniper operations. My posts overlooking the bridges are taking persistent sniper fire. We’re only using the fifties when the sharpshooters get cocky and bunch up.”

“Fuck it. I’ll swim across.”

“Not a great idea. It’s anywhere from two hundred to three hundred feet across, and I’m sure they’re watching the water. It’s a full moon tonight.”

“I can swim low profile. Combat swimmer stroke. I’ll follow one of the bridges across. Swim between supports,” said Alex.

“You’ll probably get into a knife fight under the bridges. You’ll be better off swimming straight across. We’ll hold off on popping flares. No guarantee they won’t spot you,” said Grady, glancing up at the screen. “See that? Another group off Cambridge Street. Hiding out in a parking garage behind the Double Tree.”

“Second group, Colonel,” said the assistant UAV pilot.

“Got ’em. Nice job, Marines,” Grady said proudly. “Wave for the camera, assholes. Split the QRF between the Western Avenue Bridge and Cambridge Street Bridge.”

“Passing the order, sir,” said one of the operations marines.

“I wish we had some Reapers on station—with ordnance,” said Grady.

Alex looked at him. “I thought you were trying to avoid civilian engagements?”

“Trying. If either of these groups crosses with weapons—the trying part is over.”

“We should probably get out of your way. What about our gear?” said Alex.

“I’ll send it with you to Fire Support HQ. They’re set up at the Hyatt, right across the river from the university. Captain Baker has some individual river-crossing gear. Watertight bags. Tow lines. He may have some fins. He’ll set you up and get you into the river undiscovered. You’re on your own after that. I can’t send anyone in after you,” said Grady.

“Sounds like a plan. Any way I can grab one of your spare Motorolas to announce my return? Hate to get smoked coming back.”

“I can’t give you an encrypted radio, but I’ll give you an open frequency that we monitor,” Grady offered. “You can program it into the radio we took off Sergeant Walker. Yours is sort of smashed.”

“Great. What about a new tactical vest? I’m pretty sure your marines cut mine to pieces.”

“S-4 will hook you up. They’re set up on the first floor of Harvard Hall. I’ll let them know you need a—”

“QRF is in position at both bridges,” announced one of the radio operators.

“Copy,” said Grady. “Tell them to maintain blocking positions on the Cambridge side.”

“Colonel, I have both groups on the move! Transmitting data to the platoon commanders,” said the UAV pilot.

“Got it,” he said, turning to Alex and Ed. “It’s gonna be a long night for both of us. If you can’t get back across the river by sunrise, wait for tomorrow night. Hostile sharpshooters have been more of a nuisance than anything else—at night. Daytime is a different story. We’ve had some close calls.”

“Got it. You better be here when I get back,” said Alex.

“We’ll be here. I’ll have hot chow and coffee waiting for you and the kids. Lieutenant McGarrity?” he said, scanning the tent.

“Yes, sir,” said a stocky officer watching the UAV feed by the pilots.

“Escort these two gentlemen over to the main supply point and arrange a ride to Fire Support HQ. Supply has their gear. Replace anything we smashed or slashed. You better get moving. The situation over there could change in a heartbeat.”

“Thank you, Sean. I owe you one,” said Alex, shaking his hand.

“Careful what you say. I might cash in on that if you’re still handy with one of these,” said Grady, returning Alex’s HK416.

“I can hold my own,” said Alex. “One last thing. Sergeant Walker could use a weapons upgrade,” he said, patting Ed’s shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Ed.

“I’m not taking you over with a Ruger 22. If Colonel Grady can spare—”

“I’m not going,” he said.

“That’s the first thing out of his mouth that’s made any sense. Good luck. Get ’em moving, Lieutenant.”

Alex grabbed Ed by the arm and guided him through the tent flap. “I’m willing to take you, if you want to go.”

“I can’t walk another mile on these stumps right now—let alone try to swim the river,” said Ed.

“We’ll float you across,” said Alex.

“The river isn’t the issue. I appreciate you letting me come this far.”

“I wouldn’t have stopped you,” said Alex.

“It’s better this way. Trust me,” said Ed. “I’ll stay here and make sure you don’t get left behind.” He looked up at the ancient buildings crowded over them. “They have less than twenty-four hours, and Grady knows it.”

“I’ll get the kids back before it all goes to shit. Just a walk in the park,” said Alex.

“Make sure you write down all of our frequencies. I picked something up on my way out of the tent,” whispered Ed, pressing something against his ribcage.

“Either that’s a radio antenna in your pocket or you’re really happy not to be swimming the Charles,” said Alex.

“It’s both.”

Chapter 41

EVENT +44:58 Hours

^{Hyatt Regency}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

Alex paused on the eleventh floor stairwell landing and put his hands on his knees. Taking deep breaths, he fought the wave of nausea that had decided to join him on the seventh floor. Unlike the other landing areas, which were illuminated by a single red chemlight, the eleventh was bathed in green light from three chemlights taped just above the exit-door window.

“How we doing, sir?” said Corporal Rodriguez, his unflagging stairwell escort.

“Better than you,” grunted Alex.

“Good. We got six more floors to go,” said Rodriguez.

Alex sighed and straightened himself, embracing the fact that he was going to meet their platoon commander with vomit on his new gear.

“Just kidding. This is our floor,” said Rodriguez. “You should have seen the look on your face, though. You really going across?”

“My son is at Boston University.”

Rodriguez nodded with a blank look.

“You got kids, Rodriguez?”

“Family’s in Lowell. We’ve heard it ain’t so bad up there.”

“I came through Haverhill. Not much going on in that area. They should be fine,” said Alex.

“For now—until this mess spills north,” said Rodriquez, knocking on the door and standing directly in front of it. “It’s Rodriguez! I got your mystery guest!”

A face appeared in the window, and the door opened. “Get back down to the patio, Rodriguez. We got a situation on the riverbank,” said the marine inside the hallway.

Rodriguez disappeared down the stairwell before Alex could say a word.

“You gonna stand there all day?” asked the marine.

“No. Sorry,” said Alex, stepping into the dark hallway.

“NVGs,” said the marine, shutting the door and casting the hallway into complete darkness. “Fuckers across the river have some night vision capability. We’ve moved twice already.”

Alex flipped his night vision goggles down and followed the marine left. A night-vision-equipped helmet peeked around the corner at the end of the hallway. They slid past the hidden sentry, who reported their approach through his headset, and walked halfway down the long hallway to a door on the left.

“Welcome to platoon headquarters. Stay low, but don’t crawl. There’s glass everywhere,” he said, opening the door.

He followed the marine inside and scanned the room.

“This was your third choice?”

“At first we thought the Rain Man suite would be too obvious. Turns out it doesn’t matter where we set up. Bar is to the left—don’t mind the snipers,” he said. “Captain Baker, our battalion guest is here.”

“Bring him out, Staff Sergeant,” said a voice from the far right.

A crack shattered the quiet, flaring his night vision. Alex whipped his head left. A sniper team was set up behind the bar, their instruments of long-range death aimed across the room toward the empty windows facing the river. Seated on bar stools, they had adjusted the stool height to perfectly accommodate using the bar as a platform for the rifle and spotting scope. The sniper pulled back on the bolt and ejected the spent casing onto the shell-littered granite slab, sliding another round into place.

“I can’t see him anymore. Looked like a hit,” said the spotter.

“Busy night?” said Alex.

“Getting busier. Captain is out on the patio.”

They walked over broken glass to a wide patio spanning the entire length of the suite. Two marines crouched along the front of the patio wall, scanning the distance through their rifle optics. Three sat against the back wall of the patio under an empty trellis. An array of radios sat on the tile floor, cables snaking out to several tripod-mounted antennas next to the outer wall.

“Over here,” said one of the marines along the back wall.

They approached, staying crouched below the top of the patio wall.

“Grab a seat, Mr. Fletcher. The CO speaks highly of you. Sorry to drag you up here, but I have a little problem you might be able to help me with. I’m told you have a thermal scope?” said Captain Baker.

“It’s not rifle mounted,” said Alex.

“Even better. The battalion’s Raven is busy up north, and I think we’ve got a problem under the BU Bridge. There’s an old rail bridge that passes under it. I have a team watching it from the boathouse, but there’s still a shitload of intact foliage down there. We’ve caught some movement on night vision, but I’d like to take a look with thermals before I send a team,” said Baker.

“Be my guest,” said Alex, pulling his assault pack off and digging into one of the pouches.

“Excellent. It’s a little embarrassing, but we have no thermals. It was supposed to go into the response kit, but it never happened.”

“Was all of this part of a special kit?” said Alex.

“Comms gear and vehicles, yes. The rest is battalion issue. We didn’t have many equipment failures. Everything has been EMP hardened over the past five years,” said Baker, taking the scope. “Let’s have a look.”

They scooted to the forward wall, moving the two marines out of the way. Baker poked his head over the top and aimed the scope down Memorial Drive, toward the Boston University Bridge. He made a few minor adjustments and settled in, leaning against the concrete patio wall. The platoon commander keyed his Motorola.

“Boathouse, I have six thermal signatures about one hundred feet from your position, right along the riverbank. I’m going to roll one of the JLTVs right up Memorial onto them. Make sure they don’t slip by the boathouse,” he said. “Sniper section, up!”

He heard the sniper team scrambling over to their position along the wall.

“Set up right here,” said Baker, patting the balcony wall next to them. “Targets along the riverbank, one hundred feet from the boathouse.”

“Copy,” said the spotter from behind them.

Alex watched him extend the legs of the Scout Sniper Spotting Scope and position the optic. The sniper joined him, resting the feet of his rifle’s bipod on the top of the balcony wall. He started adjusting the AN/PVS-22 night vision scope immediately.

“Six hundred and fifty feet to the right front corner of the boathouse. I have no hostiles in sight. Can I get an IR mark?” said the spotter.

“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” said Baker, turning to Alex. “They can see the mark across the river. We’ll start taking fire.”

A snap passed overhead.

“Already taking fire,” said the spotter.

“Surprise, surprise,” said Baker. “Ramsey, send Raider Two-One. We’ll mark the targets for them. Fletcher, I’m going to guide your IR laser onto the group hiding by the river.”

Alex rose above the top of the balcony wall and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the concrete. Two successive snaps passed nearby, causing him to flinch.

“Nowhere close,” said Baker.

“Sounded close enough,” said Alex.

The spotter next to him said, “If you hear it go by, you’re good to go.”

“Funny,” muttered Alex, triggering his IR laser.

“Left and down—bring it back a little to the right—down a little—little more. Hold that,” Baker directed. “You guys got anything at that mark?”

“Affirmative. Movement along the riverbank, heading away from the boathouse. Range seven-five-zero feet, estimated. Too much foliage down there. Marking targets,” said the spotter.

A second green laser reached out from the balcony. The M40A6 rifle barked, drowning out the sound of the JLTV’s roaring diesel engine.

“Hit. Range eight-zero-zero.”

The rifle thundered again, and all hell broke loose on Memorial Drive. The M240G machine gun mounted to the JLTV’s turret fired an extended burst at the terminal point of the IR lasers. Red tracers streamed into the darkness, briefly illuminating the bushes, before ricocheting skyward across the river. The vehicle crept forward, mercilessly hammering the riverbank. The sniper rifle cracked. Adrenaline surged, and Alex’s breathing shallowed. His thumb touched the safety and his index finger caressed the trigger. A few muscle twitches and he could put some rounds downrange.

Nothing good would come of it.

“I see one hostile on the move. Headed toward the rail bridge,” said Baker. “The rest are down. No movement. Ramsey, have Raider Two-One deploy their fire team to confirm five KIA. We don’t need any surprises.”

“Got it, sir,” replied one of the marines by the radios at the back of the patio.

“We’ll mop this up and get you on—” said Baker, interrupted by a long burst from the M240G machine gun.

“Raider Two-One confirms hits to a single hostile trying to climb over the fence at the rail bridge,” said Ramsey.

A sharp crack dropped all of the marines to the patio tile.

“That’s what we call close,” said the spotter.

Captain Baker slowly raised his head back above the balcony wall. A distant metallic ping sounded from Memorial Drive.

“JLTV is taking accurate fire,” said Sergeant Ramsey from the back patio wall.

“Roger. Get Raider Two-One back to the staging area,” replied Baker, reaching out to grab the spotter’s arm.

“Set up inside again. I want you to find whoever is putting those rounds out. Sooner or later, they’re gonna get lucky.”

“Roger that, sir. Hey, is there any way our guy here might be willing to leave the thermal scope behind? Sure make our job a lot easier,” said the sniper.

“I’ll trade it for some sniper coverage on my way out,” said Alex.

“You headed somewhere?”

“You’ve seen the three identical buildings across the river?” asked Alex.

“Yes. Stacked up like dominoes. Fourteen stories each. One thousand, four hundred and thirty eight feet to the right corner of the rightmost building.”

“My son lives on the sixth floor of the leftmost building. Room 622. Faces the middle building. I’m getting him out of there,” said Alex.

“You’re not serious,” said the spotter, picking up his scope.

“Deadly serious. We got a deal?”

“I can cover you up to Storrow Drive, unless Battalion is willing to break out the fifties,” said the sniper.

“Lieutenant Colonel Grady won’t bend on that,” said Baker.

“Not yet,” said the sniper.

“Your .308 will work fine. I just want to avoid a riverside welcoming committee.”

“We’ll use the thermal scope to find any pickets along the waterfront. My guys will clear a path. We’ll also mark any other hostiles with IR laser. Steer you away from any bigger groups. Once you disappear behind the first row of buildings, it’s you and that rifle.”

“That’s all I’ll need.”

Chapter 42

EVENT +45:28 Hours

^{Hyatt Regency}

^{Cambridge, Massachusetts}

“You ready, boss?” Corporal Rodriguez inquired.

“Let’s do it,” said Alex, taking a deep breath.

Rodriguez rose from a crouch and walked toward the sliding glass doors at the edge of the lobby. The closed doors led to a moonlit breezeway connecting the hotel to the parking garage, where they could access the rear patio and emerge on the western edge of the hotel. The marine produced a set of keys and unlocked the sliding doors, muscling them far enough apart for them to squeeze through. He tossed the keys to a marine standing next to Alex.

“Coming back the same way,” said Rodriguez.

Alex looked surprised. “He’s not coming too?”

“We can only spare one babysitter for this,” said Rodriguez. “Piece of cake.”

“If you say so,” said Alex.

He plodded through the thick mud that had overwhelmed the entire lobby level of the hotel, feeling the crunch of broken glass between his boots and the marble floor. Like all of the buildings they’d passed on the ride down, most of the Regency’s windows had either imploded from the air blast or were shattered from the seismic shock. He squeezed through the door and joined Rodriguez in the muck-filled breezeway.

The marine lowered his NVGs and stepped through one of the shattered panes onto the back patio. Alex did the same, trying to step in the deep impressions left by Rodriguez’s boots. They plodded through the middle of the tables and collapsed umbrellas, pushing aside wrought-iron chairs to reach a tall stucco wall beyond a row of bushes.

Spanning the distance between the hotel and the parking garage, the wall formed the western boundary of the hotel. Rodriguez stood next to the wall and interlocked his fingers. Beyond the wall, an office building loomed, its few remaining windows reflecting bright green flashes of moonlight in his NVGs.

“You first. Check the other side for crazies before lifting me up,” said Rodriguez.

“I know the drill,” said Alex.

“Just checking. Been a while, right?”

“Sixteen years, but I feel it all coming back. Check the bottom of my boots for broken glass,” he said, lifting each foot for the marine.

“Good to go,” he said, taking Alex’s rifle.

Alex stepped onto his locked hands and launched upward, straddling the stucco wall. He made a quick assessment of the dark green shadows on the other side of the wall, seeing nothing out of place. A sea of mud separated the wall from the adjacent building. He reached down with his left hand and pulled Rodriguez up the wall.

“Just like the good ole days,” said Alex, taking his rifle back from Rodriguez.

“Not bad for an old man.”

Alex dropped to the mud, sinking to his knees. He scanned in both directions with his rifle and pulled his right leg out of the seaweed-encrusted mire with a slow sucking sound. Rodriguez thudded next to him and muttered a few obscenities.

“It’s not that bad once you break out of the impact crater,” whispered Alex.

“This is some serious-ass bullshit,” said Rodriguez.

“Haven’t you been out here?”

“Not on foot,” said Rodriguez.

“That’s encouraging.”

“Don’t worry, boss. You’re in good company. Hand signals from here to the river,” he said, stepping forward.

They hugged the hotel’s western side, staying behind thick rhododendron bushes until they reached the front corner. Memorial Drive was quiet, the dried mud and debris absorbing the full moon’s unfiltered rays. They faced a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot trek across open ground to reach the thick scrub east of the boathouse. Slow ground.

Their other option was to head directly across from the hotel, but the riverbank was bare and would provide no concealment from sharpshooters across the river. Alex would need at least five minutes to stow his gear in the watertight bag and strip down for the swim. Thick bushes near the boathouse would be their best option. Even if they were spotted leaving the hotel, they would disappear in the undergrowth. Alex could slip into the water unnoticed next to the boathouse. He tapped Rodriguez on the shoulder. Ready.

“Rodriguez moving to the riverbank,” whispered the marine into his helmet microphone.

They started out fast, legs fighting the mud as they shuffled diagonally across Memorial Drive. Alex shifted his rifle across their left flank, searching for any surprises east along the riverbank. A gunshot shattered the quiet, and he ducked. Rodriguez kept pushing across the road. Shadowy green buildings loomed across the river, superimposed over the naked trees. They were in the open and exposed to steel, unable to sprint. He forced his legs to pound and pull at the mud. Another crack echoed above them.

“Friendly fire,” whispered Rodriguez, “keep moving.”

By the time they reached the nearest clump of bushes, Alex’s legs burned. He made sure they were no longer exposed to the tall buildings across the river and leaned against a tree, lowering his body to a sitting position. Rodriguez crouched in front of him, scanning ahead along the water. Both of them breathed heavily. The marine held out his index finger, and Alex responded with a thumbs-up. A one-minute rest was all he would get.

Rodriguez set off at a slower pace toward the dark structure ahead, stopping to point at the thick cluster of bushes at the base of the boathouse’s eastern edge. A set of steps, barely discernible under the sludge, led down from Memorial Drive to a gate just beyond the bushes. Looked like a well-concealed place to put into the water. They arrived at the waterline, and Alex went to work.

Five minutes later, Alex waded into the Charles River, towing a rifle-length watertight bag through the mud. He submerged to his chest, inhaling sharply. Seconds later, he was fully immersed, bare feet planted in the river muck. The cuts across his body stung in unison, the pain fading quickly as he moved forward. He gave Rodriguez a nod and submerged, swimming underwater several feet toward the boathouse dock. His feet no longer touched the slimy bottom.

He surfaced slowly, raising his nose above the surface and exhaling quietly. The fixed dock was mostly destroyed. Formerly jetting into the river, thick planks of wood projected skyward in a twisted heap at the far end of the boathouse, casually swept aside by the wave of water travelling inland along the river. He saw no reason to swim any closer. He focused on the massive high-rise directly across the river and started to swim.

He didn’t feel the current, but he knew it was there. If he swam toward the high-rise, he’d still end up somewhere several hundred feet downriver. In fact, he counted on it. This would put him directly in front of his son’s dormitory building. A gun battle erupted somewhere in the distance. The crackle of rifle fire mixed with the deep, rhythmic thumping of a fifty-caliber machine gun for several seconds, stopping abruptly. They must have tried to cross one of the bridges further upriver.

The short duration of gunfire suggested the marines had put on a temporary display of fire. Enough to turn back the tide, temporarily. The situation was untenable, and Grady would eventually lose the city, no matter what his Homeland Security directives ordered. Alex desperately needed to be on the right side of the river before that happened. He might have to risk a daytime crossing. He’d slipped into the water at 2:46 AM, which didn’t leave him enough time to reach both kids and get back across at night. Not even close.

Automatic gunfire erupted from the high-rise ahead, and Alex dove for the bottom of the river, escaping the noise. He pulled at the water with his arms until the towrope attached to his belt yanked him to a stop, buoyed by the watertight bag. He turned left in the blackness and swam further. His lungs burning, he opened his eyes and slowly rose to the surface—blurry red flashes appearing overhead. Alex’s mouth cleared the water first, greedily sucking in the humid air. The sharp staccato battle rushed back to fill his ears.

Red tracers arched across the river from the Hyatt, bouncing downward off the face of the high-rise. Small explosions flashed across the building, stitched between the tracers’ impact points—fifty-caliber projectiles tearing into concrete and steel. An automatic rifle continued to fire from the high-rise, peppering the boathouse and dock. A single shot reached his ears, and the high-rise rifle fell silent. He kept a low profile in the water and kept swimming. The sudden, furious battle had been focused on the boathouse. Retribution for the massacre near the rail bridge, perhaps.

Halfway across the river, something hard bumped his head. He grabbed the obstruction, feeling a nose and teeth. A dark mass swung lazily with the current, lodging against his body. He kicked and pushed at the corpse, splashing the water for several seconds—until he realized what he had done. Alex submerged as far as the towline would allow, expecting to hear bullets slap the water in pursuit.

Perfect silence enveloped him for the next thirty seconds as he drifted downriver. Nothing. He swam forward and came up for air. The silence continued as he lengthened his sidestroke and angled for the shallow outcropping of land identified by the marines. Landing there would give him a buffer from Storrow Drive and some natural concealment from sharpshooters.

He switched to a frog kick and slowed, taking time to observe the riverbank. Even with a full moon, his vision was borderline useless without night vision goggles. The marine snipers would have to be his eyes for now. A few more strokes brought him in line with the shallow land projection that would give him some room to transition into his combat gear. He could drift the remaining fifty feet and save his energy.

Three heads surfaced near the river’s edge, moving slowly into deeper water. He stayed mostly submerged and drifted motionless—eyes pinned to the three men. Did the marines see them? A red dot appeared on the lead man’s forehead and disappeared. The red dot reappeared on the second man’s head and vanished. The spotter was telling him something. A plume of water exploded in front of the group, causing a gurgled scream.

Alex pulled furiously on the towline, dragging the watertight bag closer. The swimmers reacted, splashing toward him. He kicked in the opposite direction, bringing the bag into his hands. He fumbled with the holster attached to the bag’s external webbing, drawing his suppressed pistol just as one of the swimmers reached him. A sharp burning creased his upper left arm, and Alex kicked out hard, turning onto his back. He caught the faint reflection of a knife just above the surface of the water.

The figure lunged forward, and Alex pressed the trigger, snapping his head back. The second attacker swam for the shoreline. Alex took a deep breath, floating on his back, and lined up the glowing tritium sights on the splashing. He fired twice, and the frantic swimming stopped. Alex drifted with the three bodies toward the esplanade, hoping that this had been the extent of his welcoming party. He doubted it.

His feet sank into the soft river bottom, and he pushed off toward the riverbank, clawing up the steep muddy slope. He pulled the black bag through the mud, exhausted, but not daring to pause. Alex opened the zipper and pulled his rifle clear, chambering a round. His night vision goggles came out next, pulled tightly over his head. He swept the esplanade with the goggles, verifying no immediate threats. He dragged the bag to a small park bench, searching the contents for his first aid pouch.

Alex washed his arm with the CamelBak hose and removed a small packet of the same powder the corpsman had used on him in Harvard Yard. He tore it open and dumped it on his upper arm, hastily rubbing it into the deep cut and grimacing. He’d properly bandage later. Right now, he needed to gear up and get as far from the esplanade as possible. He was on the move within sixty seconds, sprinting from tree to tree on his way toward Storrow Drive.

A bullet snapped overhead, and he dropped to the mud. It was impossible to determine who had fired the bullet, and there was nothing to gain by assuming it had been the marine sniper. He scanned forward and saw a figure slump against the side of the pedestrian walkway over Storrow Drive. Alex raised his rifle and ran through the mud, eager to get off the esplanade.

A green laser appeared to his left, marking the base of a tree fifty feet away. A snap passed through the branches above, hitting the metal fence behind the illuminated tree trunk. Alex knelt in the soft mud and thumbed his IR laser, placing the green line at the edge of the trunk. He rested the rifle magazine on his raised knee and eased the laser an inch past the edge of the tree. A dark blob peered around the trunk, and Alex fired, striking the figure in the head. Time to put some distance between himself and the river.

He jogged toward the waist-high, metal picket fence separating the esplanade from Storrow Drive, clearing it with little difficulty. Across the road, he jumped onto the raised concrete wall beyond Storrow Drive, and grabbed the bottom of the chain-link fence above it. He hung there for a moment before pulling himself to the top of the concrete and scaling the fence. His drop holster snagged on the top of the fence, knocking him off balance and pitching him prostrate into the mud. He lay immobile for several seconds, breathing heavily—his eyes heavy.

I could fall asleep here, he thought for a few more hazy moments. The distant sound of a vehicle engine jarred him back into action.

He pulled himself up by the chain-link fence and jogged to the nearest street corner, leaning against a brick wall. An engine roared nearby, somewhere deeper in the city. He glanced around the intersection for a street sign, wasting precious time. Street signs were a rare sighting on side streets in Boston. He considered the GPS, but with the pedestrian walkway behind him, he was pretty sure the street in front of him was Silber Way. The Warren Towers were less than two city blocks away.

A raised pickup truck careened onto Silber Way from Commonwealth Avenue, tearing through the mud. A figure with a rifle swayed behind the cabin, holding onto the truck’s utility rack. The truck raced in his direction without headlights, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the road ended before Storrow Drive. Alex triggered the IR laser and aimed at the truck, placing several tightly spaced shots through the front windshield.

The truck swerved into a line of parked cars and rebounded into the street, turning sideways and flipping. Alex pulled back from the wall just as the truck careened past, tumbling over the pedestrian walkway and crashing down onto Storrow Drive.

This was insane.

Chapter 43

EVENT +46:19 Hours

^{Boston University}

^{Boston, Massachusetts}

Alex crouched between two cars in the parking lot across from the Warren Towers, waiting for the slow-moving SUV to pass Granby Street. Beams of light randomly stabbed through the darkness above him, gradually moving left through the parking lot and disappearing. He risked a look, catching the taillights turning off Commonwealth Avenue.

Gunfire erupted in the distance—the familiar thunder of a marine fifty cal. What he wouldn’t give for some heavy-machine-gun support. Nothing said “everything’s going to be all right” like the sound of a fifty. He eased onto Granby Street and approached Commonwealth, pausing behind a low hedge at the corner to visually sweep the wide road.

The four-lane road looked still. He craned his head back and stared at the Warren Towers, noticing that the rightmost tower was crooked, leaning several degrees to the left. Maybe that was just his angle of view. His son’s tower, to the left, looked straight, but he couldn’t shake the marine’s description of the towers. Dominos. He had to get Ryan out of there.

Glimpses of flickering green light played across dozens of windows, advertising occupants. Ryan would know better than to give his position away like that. They’d talked about these things. He counted six floors up on Ryan’s building and scanned across. Two of the windows shimmered. He had no idea which room was Ryan’s. Room 622 didn’t mean anything to him from the outside. They’d only visited his room once, and he’d been too busy hauling boxes to pay close attention to the room’s location. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Alex raced across the street, passing underneath the “T” wires that cut a path down the middle of the wide street. He reached the other side and ducked into a vestibule, checking the street. Nothing moved, though he doubted that his trip across Commonwealth had gone unnoticed. The vestibule contained a door with a keycard reader. He pulled on the handle, which failed to budge the door. No surprise there. All of the external doors would be equipped with the same electronic system, all designed to prevent unauthorized access in the event of a power failure.

He was familiar with two ways into Warren Towers. The parking garage, which he had used to offload most of Ryan’s college possessions, required a housing card to access the stairwell or elevator. That left the front door. Not the stealthiest entry point, but the large floor-to-ceiling windowpanes next to the double doors would have undoubtedly shattered, allowing easy access to the lobby. “Easy,” of course, being a relative term on this side of the river.

Keeping his rifle pointed forward, he shuffled along the front of the building, his damp, mud-lined pants grinding away at his inner thighs. He arrived at the entrance, scanning the street for any onlookers, then stepped through one of the missing windowpanes. The lobby was empty. The couches and tables he remembered were gone, replaced by a mud-streaked tile hall. He activated the IR designator and probed the room with the green laser, walking steadily toward the escalator bank.

He moved slowly and deliberately up the escalator, watching for signs of an ambush. A head peeking around a corner. A carelessly exposed rifle barrel. The slow movement and concentration triggered a cascade of fatigue. His legs felt heavy and sluggish, barely clearing the lip of each metal stair. He reached the top and crouched in the escalator, contemplating the P-STIM tablets given to him by the corpsman. Eventually, he’d have to pop these. He was approaching forty-eight hours with minimal sleep, which he knew from experience was the “hazy point.” He’d start making poor decisions, unaware of the consequences. Without anyone to second-guess him, one of those decisions would kill him.

Alex caught himself staring blankly at the grooved metal stair in front of his face. He rubbed his eyes and peered around the metal balustrade, surprised to find the student union area completely abandoned. Once again, the furniture had been stripped, leaving nothing but scattered papers and broken glass strewn across dirty tile. Maybe the students had barricaded themselves on the upper levels, using the furniture to block the entrances. He hoped not. He was too tired to fuck around with obstacles.

He jogged across the empty student lounge, searching for the central hallway spanning all three towers. He’d made this trip once before, but the monochromatic image cast by his night vision goggles looked alien, giving him no recognizable visual cues. He knew the hallway was located beyond the student union, so he kept moving until he approached the far wall and found several sets of doors leading into the long, empty passage to Fairfield Tower.

The green image darkened as he reached the end of the corridor, indicating a complete lack of light in the area. He flipped his goggles up and triggered the rifle-mounted flashlight, bathing the hallway in light. Small piles of concrete fragments lined the corridor at scattered intervals, the walls above them deeply cracked. He shifted the light to the ceiling, exposing a twisted puzzle of metal gridwork and warped ceiling panels. All bad news for the long-term survival of the building.

Thick streaks of mud swerved out of the hallway into the empty elevator lobby, ending at a door marked “stairs.” He switched back to night vision and entered the stairwell, which felt ten degrees cooler. He paused for a moment to examine the long fissures in the cinderblock-wall enclosure. The concrete landing and stairs leading to the next floor appeared undamaged. He took the stairs cautiously, clearing blind corners and paying close attention to the doors leading to each floor.

By the time Alex read the sign “Sixth Floor,” he couldn’t hear his own thoughts over his heartbeat. Fighting every instinct to yank the door open and run to room 622, he put his back against the wall next to the door and tried to steady his breathing. Once his breathing hit a slow, rhythmic pattern, Alex pushed down on the door handle and tried to nudge the door inward. It didn’t move.

He leaned into the metal door with his left shoulder and gave it a hard push, shifting the fire door a few inches.

“Someone’s trying to get in,” a voice hissed.

“Stab him in the face!” yelled a woman.

“Just shut the fucking door!”

Alex pulled a rifle magazine out of his vest and wedged it through the opening at the bottom.

“I’m trying! It’s jammed. Can you see who it is?”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“I’m here to find my son!” yelled Alex.

“What did he say?” said the female.

“I don’t fucking care! Shine a light, and see what’s blocking the door!” said the male.

“My son is in room six twenty-two. Ryan Fletcher. I’m here to bring him home!” added Alex, flipping up his NVGs to avoid being blinded.

“Does anyone know Ryan Fletcher?” said the female.

More voices joined them in the hallway, and several flashlights shined through the crack in the door.

“He’s got it jammed at the bottom with—fuck, get away from the door! It’s a machine-gun mag,” said someone.

“Isn’t there a roster or something? Ryan Fletcher lives in room six twenty-two. He’s my son. Doesn’t anyone know him?” said Alex.

A hand fumbled with the rifle magazine at the bottom of the door, and Alex stuck his foot against it, pinning it in place.

“Someone stab his foot!”

Alex backed up in the tight stairwell and front-kicked the handle side of the door, driving it back several inches. Screams erupted inside the hallway. He hit the door again, opening a two-foot gap.

“He has a gun!”

Alex triggered his rifle flashlight, scattering the students. One of the large couches from the downstairs lobby sat against the wall, several feet down, covered by a sleeping bag and pillow. He squeezed through and pulled the door shut, directing the light into a tangle of wooden chairs pushed against the wall. A male student in jeans and a mud-stained yellow polo shirt lay curled up under the chairs, shielding his eyes with one hand. The other arm was trapped under the chairs and looked hyperextended at the elbow. Possibly broken.

“Dude. Is this a rescue?” said the kid, lowering his hand slightly. “Are you, like, Special Forces or something?”

“I’m not Special Forces or the military. Where’s room six twenty-two?”

“Six twenty-two is locked,” he said. “It’s the only one we couldn’t get into.”

“Where is it?” he said.

“Around the corner. At the end of the hallway. You’re not with the military?” he said.

“How many times do I have to tell you? My son lives on this floor,” he said, stepping over him.

Alex flashed his light around the corner, seeing the door to six twenty-two directly ahead. Everything was starting to look familiar again. He knocked first, calling out his son’s name and trying the handle. Nothing stirred beyond the door. More students wandered into the hallway, muttering about the military.

“Does anyone have a spare key?” said Alex.

“The RAs took off when the bomb hit. We searched their rooms, but didn’t find any,” said a boy from the dark.

“He kind of disappeared,” said another kid.

“What do you mean?” Alex asked.

Someone muttered, “I wouldn’t say any more.”

“You want to see my driver’s license?”

“That would be a start,” said one of the girls.

“Shouldn’t all of you be hiding in your rooms? I am still holding a rifle, right?”

“Nobody’s come up here with a specific name before. You might be legit.”

“Might be legit?” said Alex. “Strong SAT scores apparently don’t translate into strong survival instinct.”

Alex removed a red chemlight from his vest and snapped it, throwing it to the floor. A crimson glow illuminated the weary students. He shook his head and opened a small pouch on his vest, tossing his identification at the young woman who appeared to be in charge.

“He’s totally military. Look at the gear,” uttered a voice.

“Ex-military,” said Alex.

“He could be a merc. Paid to rescue whoever that kid is.”

“You guys play way too much Call of Duty,” said Alex, pounding on the door while several students examined his license with flashlights.

“He checks out—for now,” said the girl, handing his license back.

“Thanks for the endorsement. So where’s my son if he isn’t here? Can I get the young man who spoke up earlier?” said Alex, knocking on the door again.

“I remember seeing him here late Sunday night. Around eleven maybe? A bunch of us were hanging out in the hall, and he came by. Said something about a girlfriend at Boston College. He was gone after the blast.”

“I saw him heading for the far stairwell right after the shockwave hit. He had a backpack and some kind of bucket,” volunteered another student.

Alex knew exactly where to find his son.

“Is there a second lock on these doors, maybe above the handle?” said Alex.

“No. Just the handle” said someone.

Alex kicked the door, causing everyone to back away a few steps. The door didn’t budge.

“You should shoot the door,” stated one of the kids.

“Good idea. Clear the hallway!” he yelled, pointing the rifle at the door and activating the visible red laser.

While the students broke into pandemonium, tripping over each other to get clear, Alex steadied the laser and fired three bullets into the space between the handle and the doorjamb. The hallway fell deathly silent after the last shot, everyone frozen in place.

“Holy shit. Did he really just shoot the door?” said a kid on the ground to his left.

“He totally shot the door! Dude, your silencer doesn’t work for shit!” yelled a student hidden in one of the rooms.

Alex kicked the door, knocking it against the interior wall. He took a step and stopped. The room smelled like Ryan. Like their home. Alex deactivated the Surefire light and stood there, remembering everything the way it had been—before. He felt like a distorted time-traveller. The past forty-eight hours expanding over eternity.

“You need this?” said a young woman, holding out his red chemlight.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“Is everything okay? You don’t look… the same,” she said.

“I’m fine,” said Alex, walking forward.

He swept the Spartan interior with his rifle light. A crumpled blue comforter hung off Ryan’s bed, draping the tile floor. An empty plastic bin lay tipped over on the bed. Most of the cardboard boxes stacked on the floor were unopened, his priorities upon arrival clearly focused on a young lady at Boston College. A few books and pictures covered his desk. One picture of the Fletchers and—Ed was going to love this—several pictures of Chloe. He couldn’t believe how badly they had underestimated that relationship. He threw the chemlight next to the bin on Ryan’s bed and deactivated the rifle light.

Alex sat on Ryan’s bed and leaned back against the cinderblock wall, wondering if he could take a small nap. Just the thought of closing his eyes for a few moments caused him to sink down the rough wall to the mattress. He dug into his front pants pocket and pulled out a dark tab, ejecting a small pill directly through the foil into his mouth. Designed to release its contents upon contact with saliva, he held the P-STIM under his tongue for thirty seconds, kick-starting the amphetamine boost. It worked immediately.

He lay there calculating the time it would take him to reach Chloe’s apartment, no longer contemplating sleep. Moving cautiously, a 3.1-mile walk through the back streets of Brookline shouldn’t take him more than an hour and a half. Two at the most. His watch read 2:37.

Plenty of time.

He took the family picture from the desk and removed the picture from the silver frame, straining to see the image in the dim red aura. He knew it well enough. The four of them in cushioned wicker chairs, on the wide porch at the Chebeague Island Inn. He stared at the picture, unable to put it away.

“Nobody’s coming for us?” said a girl standing in the doorway. “You’re really just someone’s dad?”

The gravity of the situation came into sharp focus, weakening his knees. He’d been so single-minded kicking his way into their lives that he hadn’t stopped to consider their predicament. The kids were stranded, waiting for a rescue that would never arrive. He folded the picture and tucked it into the pouch holding his license.

“You need to seriously consider leaving this place,” said Alex, brushing past her.

“And go where? What happened out there?” she said.

Alex stopped outside of Ryan’s room and glanced around the hallway at the flashlight-illuminated faces. They were just children. He swallowed hard, barely able to meet their stares. How many had shown up for early orientation? Hundreds? Thousands? His thoughts drifted to the parents experiencing the ultimate nightmare just days after sending their babies into the world. They’d said goodbye this weekend, unaware that some of them would never see their children again. The odds were long against most of these students surviving. Without food and water, they would have to venture into the city.

“What’s going on in the city? What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Has anyone here been outside of the towers? I mean outside of the building?”

“We didn’t think it was a good idea. The shooting started yesterday afternoon and got worse all night. That’s why we blockaded the stairwells. We figured we’d wait for the military or police to start evacuating us,” she said.

“Taking their sweet-ass time, too,” said a kid holding a baseball bat over his shoulder.

“You guys don’t know, do you? Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Know what? What don’t we know?” said the young woman, directing her flashlight in his face.

“The power outage isn’t confined to Boston. It’s everywhere. We’ve been hit by an EMP,” said Alex, pausing. “Nobody is coming for you.”