The Alex Fletcher Series

The Jakarta Pandemic (Book 1)

The Perseid Collapse (Book 2)

Event Horizon (Book 3)

Point of Crisis (Book 4)

Dispatches (Book 5)

by Steven Konkoly

Copyright Information

© 2010 - 2015 Steven Konkoly. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Steven Konkoly.

A list of military/government acronyms and definitions used throughout The Alex Fletcher Books is available via the Table of Contents.

Contents

The Jakarta Pandemic

The Perseid Collapse

Event Horizon

Point of Crisis

Dispatches

Work by Steven Konkoly

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Acronyms and Terminology Used in The Alex Fletcher Books

The

Jakarta

Pandemic

Alex Fletcher Book One

Dedication

To my wife—for her constant encouragement and support.

I would still be about “halfway” done without her.

To my children—for ensuring a balance between writing and family.

Mostly in their favor.

Prologue

Alex checked his watch for the tenth time in less than twenty minutes. 5:50 p.m.

Where are they?

Lying on the ground for more than an hour, while a vicious Nor’easter pounded him with snow and wind, was more than enough to test anyone’s patience—and physical limits.

He lowered the night vision scope for a moment and rubbed his eyes, hoping Charlie was keeping a better watch on the ambush site.

He’d better be, or they could stumble through undetected.

Alex had doubts about spotting them with the scope. The near absence of ambient light, combined with a blinding snowstorm, continued to degrade the already grainy image formed by the inexpensive, first-generation night device.

He twisted open the green ceramic thermos and poured the last of the hot tea prepared by Kate. Taking a sip from the thermos cap, he placed the cap down next to the rifle in front of him, and took another look through the scope. He could still see the Hayes’ house, but the image had degraded even further. Batteries were not the issue; he’d just changed them. As the snow intensified, he’d have to rely on Charlie to spot them in time to spring a coordinated attack. Alex didn’t want to think about what could happen if they slipped by. Nothing would stand between these psychopaths and his family.

Alex swigged the rest of the warm tea and replaced the lid, tucking the thermos into his backpack and checking his rifle again. Through the Aimpoint sight, the red dot still glowed faintly in the center of the image. He pulled back on the AR-15’s charging handle and ejected the bullet loaded in the chamber, leaving the brass cartridge in the snow where two other bullets lay. He’d ejected one bullet every half-hour to ensure that the freezing temperatures had not affected the weapon’s mechanical action. A malfunction tonight would spell disaster.

A sudden, insuppressible shiver rendered him useless for a few seconds. His time out here was limited. He looked through the night vision scope again; the green image confirmed that he was still alone. How did things spiral this far out of control?

So far gone, that he found himself lying under a neighbor’s play set in a blizzard, eagerly waiting to kill. He had to do it: for the good of the neighborhood and society in general, but most importantly—for the immediate safety of his family.

In the end, that was all that really mattered to Alex.

Arrival

Chapter 1

A loud pulsing vibration jarred Alex out of a deep sleep. He squinted in the darkness, laboring to turn his head toward the source of the persistent buzzing sound.

My phone.

The phone’s display illuminated a half empty glass of water on the nightstand. He watched, still helpless, as the phone moved closer to the edge with each vibration. Breaking through the murk of a broken sleep cycle, Alex reached for the phone to check the caller ID. Maine Medical Center. A jolt of adrenaline shot through his body, as Alex headed out of the bedroom to the hallway.

“Alex Fletcher,” he answered in a whisper.

“Oh…Alex. It’s Dr. Wright. I thought I’d get your voicemail.”

“No problem, Dr. Wright. I usually don’t keep my phone on the nightstand. Just happened to end up there tonight,” he said, closing the door to the master bedroom.

“I’m glad you’re awake, Alex. I’m fairly confident we’ve seen our first cases of the new pandemic flu tonight. Cases started rolling into the ERs early this evening.”

“You said ‘ERs’. More than one?”

“Yes. Three cases at Maine Med. Two came from Westbrook and one from Falmouth. And one case at Mercy, patient walked over from somewhere in the west end. I also have a confirmed case at Maine General in Augusta and possible cases at Eastern Maine Med up in Bangor.”

“Confirmed as what?”

“Confirmed as nothing I’ve ever seen before. That’s why I think we’re dealing with the new virus out of Hong Kong,” Dr. Wright said.

“That’s more than six cases. How did this pop up here first and not Boston? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Boston has been hit with several dozen cases, possibly more.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t see anything on the news, or on any of the websites. We’ve been keeping an eye on this,” Alex said.

“I don’t know what to tell you, but I know for a fact that Boston has been slammed. A friend of mine at Mass General called to tell me to get ready. He said that area hospitals in Boston saw dozens of cases trickle in overnight Wednesday, with more showing up as the day progressed. Several dozen more by the time I talked to him.”

“Why didn’t the media catch this yet?” he asked.

“Well, between you and me, and I don’t have to remind you that this entire conversation never happened—”

“Of course. Absolutely, Dr. Wright,” Alex said instantly.

“We’ve been instructed by the state health department to report all cases directly to them so they can coordinate resources and notify federal health agencies. I assume that direction filtered down from HHS. They also asked us not to notify the media, in order to avoid a panic. I can understand part of that logic, but if you ask me, I think they’re trying to keep this under wraps because they’re not prepared. Unfortunately, this is the only direction we’ve received so far from the state or feds. Or maybe that’s a good thing for now. Aside from rushing us more useless avian flu detection kits, nothing else has been done. Alex, I have to let you go. I have a long night ahead of me.”

“Sorry to hold you up. Thanks for the call, Dr. Wright. I really appreciate the heads up. Preliminary case fatality rates in Asia look high.”

“Yeah, we’re not taking any chances. This one is different than the avian flu, which was bad enough. Makes the swine flu look like a common cold. Thanks for making a trip over here yesterday, especially considering the fact that the state’s anti-viral stockpiles will fall under federal control if the flu spirals out of control. Your samples will really come in handy.”

“Could you use more? We’ve been instructed to keep our distribution of TerraFlu to a minimum, but I have no problem making another donation to the cause.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me at this point, but I don’t want you to get in trouble with Biosphere.”

“I’m not worried about them. What time works for you tomorrow? My schedule is pretty clear, so I can make a trip over any time.”

“How about 12:45? I plan to be back from the hospital at that point. My first patient is at one. We could take care of it then,” Dr. Wright said.

“Works for me. See you at 12:45. Good luck tonight,” Alex said and waited for a reply, but the line was already dead.

Alex sat down in the office, and checked the Boston Globe and Boston Herald websites. Nothing.

Next, he navigated to the International Scientific Pandemic Awareness Collaborative (ISPAC) site and checked their world activity map. Color-coded symbols littered the map, each representing a reported flu outbreak. Placing the mouse icon over one of the symbols activated a text box, which could be further expanded for more detailed information. Light blue: cases of interest, yellow: initial outbreak, orange: small-scale outbreak, red: medium-sized outbreak, violet: large-scale outbreak.

He zoomed in on North America.

Cases in Canada, Mexico, Central America…wait, wait, look at this, Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco. He looked at the East Coast and saw no colored icons. Alex adjusted the map to focus on southern California and placed the cursor over the yellow Los Angeles icon.

“Los Angeles. Population 4,089,245. Isolated outbreaks. 190+ cases reported. Uncontained. Isolated outbreaks among ethnic Asian populations.”

In a separate desktop window, he navigated to the Los Angeles Times homepage. He looked for the California/Local section. Here we go. He found an article and began to read:

Hong Kong Flu Hits Asian Community.

“Cedars-Sinai confirms at least a dozen cases of Hong Kong flu. Mainly confined to Asian community. UCLA Medical Center confirms several cases. Mainly Asian community. East LA Doctor’s Hospital sees its first cases late in the evening on October 31. Community leaders decry nearly one-day delay in reporting cases to the public. Employee at Cedars-Sinai contacts Los Angeles Times with information about suspected flu cases. Cases were being kept isolated from other patients and under a tight information seal. Times reporters launched an immediate investigation into all area hospitals, uncovering several dozen more cases.”

Alex put the cursor over the yellow San Francisco icon.

“San Francisco. Population 853,758. Isolated outbreaks. 100+ cases reported. Uncontained. Isolated outbreaks among ethnic Asian populations.”

He moved the map to China and saw that dozens of southern coastal cities were shaded either orange or red; Hong Kong and the surrounding areas were shaded violet. He passed the mouse over one of these areas.

“Greater Guangzhou city. Population 12,100,000. Massive outbreak. 8,000+ reported cases. Uncontained. Containment efforts focused on Guangdong Province.”

8,000 plus cases in one city? I thought there were only 26,000 altogether in China yesterday?

Alex passed the mouse over a few more cities in the area around Hong Kong and saw similar text fields. He quickly added up the other numbers and calculated roughly 77,000 reported cases in southern China.

He zoomed out of China and settled on a worldview. Colored dots appeared to sweep outward in a concentric wave from Southeast Asia. A solid perimeter of blue dots extended from Japan, through South Korea and Vladivostok, then reached across northern China and connected with Pakistan and India. India was covered in blue dots and yellow dots; orange icons appeared centered over several major cities within India. Oddly, Java Island contained no dots. He placed the cursor over Java.

“Java Island. Population 150,000,000. No reports.”

Something’s up over there.

Beyond Asia’s ring, blue-colored dots littered every continent, concentrated on nearly every major city. He almost wished he hadn’t seen the map. His stomach churned as a wave of anxiety blanketed him. The deadly flu raged uncontrolled all around the globe and now on their doorstep in the sleepy little town of Portland, Maine. The seriousness of the situation hit Alex hard as he walked back to the bedroom. Laying down next to Kate, he felt a little more secure as he tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

Chapter 2

Alex pulled into the parking garage at Maine Coast Internal Medicine’s (MCIM) flagship office building. The state-of-the–art, eight-story building housed nearly a hundred medical providers from several of MCIM’s previously scattered office sites. He parked as close to the main entrance as possible and grabbed his Biosphere computer tablet.

He arrived on the 5th floor, which housed over a dozen physicians. All of them were internists, and more than half of them specialized in infectious disease. MCIM provided infectious disease specialists to most of the hospitals in southern Maine, and he could only imagine how busy they might be today.

“Hey, Jodi. Did Dr. Wright make it in?” he asked the receptionist.

“He better have. He has patients scheduled every ten minutes until 4:00, and I’d like to get out of here on time for a change.” she said.

“Let me ring his office. I know he’s here. It’s been crazy.”

“I bet,” he said.

She dialed the phone and spoke into her headset.

“Dr. Wright, Alex Fletcher is here to see you.”

She listened. “All right, I’ll send him back,” she said and broke the connection. She looked up at Alex. “Go ahead, but don’t hold him up. It’s Friday.”

“I won’t, trust me. Have a great weekend, Jodi.”

“Yep. You too.”

Alex enjoyed walking back to Dr. Wright’s office, especially since most of Dr. Wright’s colleagues refused to meet with pharmaceutical representatives.

He knocked on Dr. Wright’s door, which was propped open.

“Come in, Alex, and shut the door behind you.”

Dr. Wright stood up and walked around the desk to shake Alex’s hand. He was tall and thin with dense black hair and thick eyebrows; his dark complexion suggesting a Mediterranean ancestry.

“Sorry to be curt, Alex, but I’m jammed with patients this afternoon, and I have to hit Maine Med when I’m finished. I only have a minute or two.”

“No problem, Dr. Wright. I’m just glad I can help before things spiral out of control at Biosphere,” he said.

“Okay—” Dr. Wright said, eyeing Alex suspiciously. “What’s up with Biosphere?”

“They’re holding all drug stock in reserve for some partnership with HHS (Department of Health and Human Services). We were told to stop giving samples of TerraFlu to all hospitals and physicians effective immediately.”

“You’ve got to be joking, Alex. Really? HHS? They couldn’t pick a worse partner. Those samples will never see effective use. Are you telling me I can’t get any more samples? Each one of those samples could save a life, if TerraFlu proves effective against this new strain. What a waste,” he said, clearly angry.

“They’re hell-bent on mismanaging this crisis at every level. I think they’re going to stop shipping to the pharmacies, and there’s even serious talk about concentrating Biosphere representatives in areas hit hard by the flu—to promote TerraFlu. I could get relocated to Hartford.”

“This is really tragic. I’m sorry things at your company have taken such a sad detour. You’re not going to be part of that redeployment nonsense, are you?”

“No. I’m staying put, no matter what they say, which brings me to my first and only agenda item.”

“I didn’t realize that you were a man of agendas,” Dr. Wright said, raising his eyebrows.

“There’s always an agenda,” Alex said, holding out his computer tablet.

Dr. Wright took it from him.

“Since I don’t anticipate working for Biosphere much longer, I don’t see any reason to assist them in making matters worse out there. If you’ll sign my tablet, I’ll give you all of my samples.”

Dr. Wright sat in his chair. “You’re not breaking the law by doing this, are you?”

“No, not at all. I’m just going to make some people very, very unhappy.”

“Thank you very much, Alex. This means a lot. The drug samples are an invaluable resource, especially at a time like this,” he said.

Dr. Wright signed the tablet and handed it back. “Seriously, this is a tremendous help.”

“My pleasure. If you can keep this on the down low for a while, I’d really appreciate it. I don’t want Biosphere to figure this out until I’m ready to deal with them. And don’t say anything about the Biosphere strategy to anyone. That could probably get me in more trouble than the samples. Confidentiality agreement stuff.”

“Not a problem. Actually, I don’t think I’m going to keep the samples here. Too tempting for staff and others. Drug samples have a tendency to disappear around here. I’ll pull my car around to your car and pile them in there for now. You fit all of it in your car?” he asked, surprised.

“I put all of the seats down, and it’s jammed full. It may not be as much as you think, but I just got a shipment a week or so ago, so it’s more than I usually have in my storage unit.”

“Whatever you have, I will gladly take off your hands. Where are you parked?”

“Second level, pretty close to the elevators.”

“Beautiful, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Alex picked up the computer tablet and checked Dr. Wright’s signature. He decided not to close out the transaction until he disabled the wireless card. If Alex pressed “complete,” the transaction would transmit automatically, setting off some kind of alarm at their data collection center. He felt confident that any current or future transactions involving TerraFlu samples would be flagged for immediate review.

“See you in a few,” said Alex, moving to open the door.

“Hey, before you open the door—”

Alex took a few steps back toward Dr. Wright’s desk.

“If I were you, I’d make a few trips to the store and stock up on necessities. A well-placed source told me the CDC is close to making an announcement about the classification of the mystery flu. Remember the talk I gave at your regional sales meeting down in Stamford?”

“Fantastic talk. Scariest thing I ever heard.”

“Think about the worst case scenario I laid out,” said Dr. Wright. “And use that as a starting point.”

“That bad?” said Alex.

“Worse. Way worse,” stated Dr. Wright.

Chapter 3

Alex walked out of Hannigan’s with his second shopping cart full of groceries. That afternoon, he made two separate trips into the store, the first one to buy nonperishable items, which nearly overflowed from the cart, and the second to buy refrigerator items. In order to avoid questions during his second trip, he managed to stand in a checkout line far away from the lane he used during his first trip.

The crowd inside the store was typical for a Friday afternoon, which, despite the looming threat, didn’t surprise him. The general public would wait too long, and one electrifying news report would send everyone into the stores at once—effectively crippling the food supply system. Most of the grocery stores, just like the big retail stores, had become so efficient that they carried little additional stock on hand to meet the slightest increase in demand.

Leaving the parking lot, he decided to call family and friends to urge them to hit the stores—while they still had the option.

***

Alex turned his company car onto their subdivision on Durham Road loop, glancing at Ryan through the rear-view mirror. The subdivision contained thirty-four houses, evenly spaced on half-acre lots around a loop. Since Durham Road and the streets surrounding it had been built on converted farmland, trees throughout the neighborhood were smaller than the substantial colonial houses. Compared to most of the older, established neighborhoods nearby, the trees on Durham Road still looked like saplings.

Todd Perry stood up from adjusting a sprinkler head in his front yard and waved. Todd was a good guy—a little hot tempered, but four kids could tamper with the calmest parent’s underlying personality.

Alex glanced as he passed a well-maintained gray colonial with dark blue doors and a three-car garage. Thick evergreen bushes crowded the sides of the walkway leading to the front door, standing guard over wide, raised beds filled with yellow and orange fall flowers. He waved at Julia Rhodes, who was examining her mail on the mudroom porch.

The Walkers’ house, a yellow contemporary colonial with green doors, showed no signs of activity. They usually started to spill home at around 5:30. First, Ed would arrive with at least two of their children. Then at about six, Samantha would pull in with whichever kid had a late practice. The rhythms of the neighborhood were familiar and comforting to Alex.

“Make sure you have all of your junk,” he said to Ryan, while pulling into their garage.

“Got it,” Ryan replied and opened his door.

Alex carefully slid behind his wife’s Toyota 4Runner, trying not to dirty his suit.

She never pulls in far enough , he mentally complained.

Hanging up his jacket and kicking off his shoes, the aroma of dinner being prepared greeted him.

“Hey, honey, smells great!”

“Yeah, I thought a stir-fry was in order for tonight,” said Kate.

Kissing his wife Kate and holding her for a minute in their kitchen momentarily eased Alex’s worries.

“Are you making rice for the stir fry?” he asked.

“Already made.”

In the mudroom, Ryan kicked off a shoe that loudly banged against the closet door.

“Take it easy on the house in there,” he yelled.

“Sorry, Dad,” Ryan said and flashed by them on his way upstairs.

“Hey, no hug for your mom?” Kate said.

“Sorry, Mom,” Ryan said and returned to the kitchen to begrudgingly hug Kate.

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Tell Emily to wash her hands and start making her way downstairs. You too. Love you,” she said.

“Love you too, Mom. I’ll be right down,” he replied and scooted up the stairs.

“Anything good happen?” he asked, nodding at the TV.

“The UN declared an emergency session. They’re considering a travel and commerce ban against China. Chinese officials plan to release more information about whatever is going on over there.”

“When?”

“Some time tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you change and grab the kids on your way back down. I’m pretty much done here.”

“You got it,” he said and headed up the stairs.

Alex closed the bedroom door behind him as he pulled off his tie. He turned on the flat-screen TV, which took a few seconds to display a picture.

“CDC officials have confirmed the flu strain as an H16 variant. Little is known about the new strain at this point, and many serious questions remain unanswered. So far, neither the CDC nor WHO has responded to demands for information. CNF news correspondent David Gervasey reports from ISPAC headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. David?”

“Denise, roughly fifteen minutes ago, we were fortunate to get a brief interview with one of their senior spokespersons, Dr. Allison Devreaux.”

The screen changed to the previously recorded interview with Dr. Devreaux.

“Dr. Devreaux, what can you tell us about the virus that we don’t already know?”

“The virus has been classified as a new subtype H16,” she answered in a French accent. “The strain is classified as H16N1.

“This subtype has never been seen before in humans or animals, so it is truly a novel strain. Right now, our own scientists are trying to match its genetic characteristics with previously seen subtype strains. In this way, we can make some rough predictions regarding its behavior.

“We know that the virus is highly contagious, and its acquisition by a host leads to typical flu-like symptoms, including high fever, marked weakness and pulmonary distress. In essence, it behaves like a highly pathogenic disease. We know this from our investigation of an ever-increasing number of cluster outbreaks throughout the far Pacific Rim, and we are extremely confident that the strain found by ISPAC investigative teams outside of China is the same as the strain causing the outbreak inside of China.”

“When do you anticipate further information to be available from your field teams?”

“We receive constant reports and engage in discussions with these teams around the clock. When new information is verified, we will post this information on our website. You can also subscribe to our Pandemic News Alert service and receive automatic email updates as new information is posted. We are striving to pass all relevant information on to the public so that they can make the most informed decisions to prepare for a potential pandemic virus.”

“Does this look like a pandemic on scale with the 2008 avian flu?”

“Based on its efficient capacity for human to human transmission, I feel confident projecting that this virus will rapidly reach all corners of the globe. Let us hope that this virus in not as deadly as the avian flu. Thank you, David.”

The screen cut back to a live broadcast from ISPAC headquarters in Atlanta. David Gervasey stood in front of the modern, ten-story glass and steel structure.

“You heard it here first, Denise. We’re going to remain in place to get the latest information as it becomes available.”

“Thank you, David. As you can see, live ISPAC website information is located at the bottom of our screen, and we will be broadcasting any new ISPAC website updates as they are posted. Stay with us, we’ll be back in a moment.”

Alex stared at the screen for a few more seconds, before changing into jeans and a long-sleeve fleece pullover. Stopping at the top of the stairs, he glanced at his office door and decided to check the Internet for updates.

He typed “Hong Kong International Airport” into Google. The search engine’s first link was the airport’s official website. He scanned the page and clicked on “flight information,” then “departures.” The screen filled with the day’s scheduled departing flights.

By noon on any given day, over a hundred flights departed Hong Kong for every major city in world, and by midnight that same day, flights originating from Hong Kong landed in major hubs on every continent. From there, these passengers embarked on journeys to every conceivable corner of the planet. Within sixteen to eighteen hours of leaving Hong Kong, an infected passenger could be sharing a pint of Guinness with friends in a Dublin Pub, sipping tea with family in the suburbs of Damascus, or meeting a friend for Italian food in Boston’s North End.

And this thing has been brewing in China for more than three days.

A cold sense of dread filled Alex as he scrolled through the countless flights leaving Hong Kong and other cities in China. Just as quickly, fear gave way to an iron clad sense of determination to protect his family, in the face of the looming disaster.

***

The Fletchers ate dinner sitting at a large rectangular pine table located between the kitchen and family room. Alex served a hearty butternut squash soup to everyone, while Kate started the evening interrogation.

“So, anything huge going on in class for anyone? Emily?” Kate said.

Emily replied, “Not much, we’re still learning some Spanish. I have homework again.”

“Yeah, you’re going to have a lot more than the one spelling test you had last year. Try homework like every night, and more tests. I have like two hours a night now,” Ryan complained.

“Well, I think we’re going to have about the same as you. I heard from Lauren that her friend in Mr. Leahy’s class already has over an hour of work to do every night,” Emily said.

“I doubt it. I never had that much work in third grade. Third grade is like kindergarten compared to middle school.”

“Okay, crazies, Ryan wins the award for most oppressed by homework. Anything other than that going on this week?” Alex said.

“We talked about pandemics in science. How the flu spreads, how scientists classify strains of flu, past pandemics. It was pretty cool. Pretty scary, too. Dad, do you think we could have another pandemic? Ms. Ullman said that major pandemics usually don’t happen so close together, and that’s why the swine flu pandemic never really took off.”

“Historically speaking, your teacher would be right. However, there are a lot of experts out there that think it can happen at any time if the conditions are right. So to answer your question, I don’t think anyone can really predict these things,” Alex said.

He looked at Kate and rubbed his chin. Kate picked up on his cue.

“You guys really don’t have to worry about it. You know that, right? We’ve made some preparations at the house over the past few years that will get us through any major crisis. Pandemic, major storm, whatever it might be.”

Both kids nodded their heads. They appeared to have anticipated this talk.

“You mean all of that stuff locked up in the basement?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, that’s part of it. We have plenty of food, water and supplies stored down there. We also have our own power supply: the sun. And we can keep the house warm with the wood-burning stove,” Kate answered.

“Can’t we heat the house with the furnace if we have solar power?” Ryan asked.

Alex laughed. “This kid’s too smart. Yes, we could, but the furnace eats up a lot of power. During the summer, when the sun is strongest, we could get away with it. But who needs to use the furnace in the summer, right? Other than to heat up water, that is. Winter is a different story because the sun is so much weaker. Even on a beautiful day, the batteries will charge more slowly than a crappy day in the summer. We’d really have to watch the charge level.”

“What I want you two to understand is that we are prepared for anything really scary and that you don’t have to worry about it,” said Kate.

“How will we know if it is happening?” Emily asked.

In a calm tone, Alex said, “Your mom and I know what to look for.”

“Right, and if something like that happens, we need to be ready to stay in our house for a very long time, without coming into contact with anyone, even friends and family. Unless they prepared like us,” Kate said.

“Like before? I hated that. Please don’t take us out of school for no reason again,” Ryan said.

“We didn’t take you out for no reason. Swine flu had the potential to be worse than the avian flu, and the avian flu killed close to fifty thousand people in the U.S.. We weren’t ready for it at all, and it really scared us,” Alex said.

“But nothing happened, and it was embarrassing. Plus, it took me forever to catch up! Remember some of the teachers didn’t want to let me make up some of my tests?”

“That won’t happen again,” Kate assured him.

“What does a pandemic do to you?” Emily asked.

“Sweetie, the pandemic flu makes you really, really sick. Worse than you’ve ever been before. That’s why people get a flu shot every year.”

“To keep from getting the pandemic flu?”

“No, you get the shot for the regular flu, which can make you pretty sick, too. The pandemic flu is worse though,” Kate said.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. No one in this family will get sick, I promise. Just finish your dinner and start your homework. Then we can have some dessert,” Alex said, glancing furtively at Kate.

Chapter 4

Kate and Alex sat together on a dark brown leather sectional couch in the great room. The flat-screen TV showed FBC news anchor Kerrie Connor framed next to Dr. David Ocampo, Director of the ISPAC’s Live Trend Analysis Division. Information displayed at the bottom of the split screen indicated that Dr. Ocampo was broadcasting live from ISPAC headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia.

“Rewind to the part about the WHO underestimating the flu’s potential,” said Alex.

Kate scrolled back to the segment.

“That’s it. Right there,” Alex said.

“…During the avian flu pandemic, hospital-based care remained available to a majority of sick patients, at least in most modernized and developing countries. This drastically improved outcomes and contributed decisively to the low overall case fatality rate. Although the situation in many developing nations approached—and in some cases crossed—the tipping point, most modernized nations’ systems were never truly challenged by the 2008 pandemic. This outcome would be different in the face of a deadlier and more infectious virus. The tipping point for inpatient healthcare availability, in both modernized and developing nations, would be reached quickly, and the result would be catastrophic.”

“Even for the United States?”

“Everywhere. In any given area, we calculate that all available inpatient services such as hospital beds, ventilators, and medical staff would be occupied within two to three weeks of a pandemic reaching that area. In the U.S. alone, based on 1918 pandemic flu patterns, every existing hospital bed would be occupied within a few weeks. Once inpatient capacity is filled, patients would be given a set of home-based care instructions and turned away.”

“Turned away? Where would they be sent?”

“Home.”

“Turn it off. I can’t watch anymore. This is really freaking me out.”

“I know, me too. Sorry to make you re-watch,” Alex said shutting the television and snuggling close to Kate.

“I just can’t believe the predictions that this thing could fill every hospital bed in the country within a couple of weeks. Being sent home to care for oneself doesn’t really sound like a winning option,” she said.

“No that’s why we have to make sure to not get the flu. The best way to ensure our safety is to quarantine ourselves until this blows over.”

“I agree, but when do we start?” she said pulling the blanket over them.

“I don’t know. Let’s just keep watching the reports and be flexible. We’ll know when it is time.”

“Gotcha,” said Kate with a loud yawn.

“I should check out our stockpile. I haven’t been down there in a long time, and it couldn’t hurt to see what we have on hand. I’ll be up in a few minutes. Why don’t you head to bed?”

“I think I will, I’m beat. Love you,” said Kate as she tiredly lifted herself off the couch.

Alex descended the unfinished stairs, which emptied into a large, well-lit, unfinished area encompassing two-thirds of the total available basement space. The area was filled with lawn furniture, several bicycles, two kayaks, assorted luggage, and a working refrigerator. Stacks of fifty-gallon plastic storage bins that held everything from summer clothing to painting supplies clung to the front wall of the basement, next to the stairway. Everything without a place in the upper floors of the house ended up stored in one of the bins, often never to be seen again.

He headed toward a door near the back of the basement, just beyond the spare refrigerator, removing a key chain from his pocket on the way. After unlocking the deadbolt and doorknob, he opened the heavy, reinforced door and reached into the pitch-black room to flip the light switch along the wall. Three overhead light bulbs, spaced evenly from front to back, exposed “the bunker.”

Unlike the basement area behind him, the bunker was immaculate and well organized. Floor to ceiling storage shelves stood flush against most of the outer concrete walls. In the back corner of the house, directly across from the door, stood two 275-gallon fuel oil tanks for the furnace.

A generator configured to store the electricity generated by their south facing rooftop solar panels, dominated the middle of the room. The full bank of green LED lights indicated that the system was fully charged and operational, free of any detected faults.

He glanced over his shoulder at a five-foot–tall, doubled locked black metal gun locker. The locks were opened by the same key, which hung on a small nail, hidden nearby in the basement rafters. The numerous weapons inside were clean, oiled, and ready for action. The locker also held a considerable supply of ammunition.

Turning toward the fuel tanks, Alex checked their levels. One tank was completely full; the other two-thirds. Three years earlier, he’d installed the second tank, in response to skyrocketing oil prices. He filled both tanks when the prices were lowest during the year, stretching the fuel during the coldest months of winter. Alex scratched a note in his pad: Fill second oil tank.

After the tanks, he started a detailed inventory of the entire locker, starting with their water supply. The Fletchers were in the habit of using and replacing the stored two-gallon water jugs on a weekly basis. A long bank of eight metal storage shelves extended from the door to the front concrete wall of the basement, containing spring water in two-gallon containers. Each four-level shelving unit held thirty of these containers, all on the lowest three shelves to keep the units from tipping. Five hundred gallons of water in total.

Every container was marked with the date of purchase, and each week, one of the oldest containers was removed and placed in the kitchen for consumption. During their grocery runs, the used container would be replaced, ensuring that the water supply stored in the basement was slowly turned over throughout the course of the year, preventing the inevitable decay of the plastic containers.

The system employed to rotate water through the shelves was also applied to most other stockpiled items. They regularly rotated food, water, medical supplies, batteries and other shorter shelf-life items into their daily lives, and replaced them on a weekly—or at least monthly—basis.

The Fletchers started their stockpile by first purchasing all of the shelving units, which had cost a small fortune, and slowly filling them with essentials. Purchasing a few items in each essential category, once or twice a week, until the shelves were filled with enough food and supplies to last a year.

In addition to the usual food and medical supplies, Alex made sure the family had enough prescription medications to weather any storm. At the end of the water row, he faced the first of eight shelving units placed along the front basement wall of the house. The first shelving unit contained health and medical supplies. The top shelf was fully stocked with over-the-counter medication: Motrin, Tylenol, Sudafed, and antihistamines. He grabbed a few to check their expiration dates, his random spot check finding nothing ready to expire.

Prescription drug samples occupied the shelf below. He had slowly and surreptitiously acquired from various physicians’ offices throughout his sales territory. Their stockpile contained over forty courses of antiviral therapy split between TerraFlu and Tamiflu. If a pandemic struck, he planned to reserve two courses of TerraFlu and one course of Tamiflu for each member of his own family, leaving twenty-eight courses for neighbors and friends. A quick look through the expiration dates on the medications reassured Alex that all were still in usable conidtion.

The bottom two shelves contained first aid supplies and vitamin supplements. Most of the space was dedicated to first aid, filled with gloves, masks, assorted size and shaped bandages, compresses, triangular bandages, medical tape, scissors, antiseptic solution, antibiotic ointment, gauze, eyewash, thermometer, hand sanitizer, several first aid manuals, instant cold packs, and alcohol wipes.

Two makeshift portable first aid kits sat on the floor in front of the unit. He had bought these military-style “butt packs” and attached two aluminum D-rings to their straps, so that they could be hooked onto anything. Each kit was filled with the basics for treating wounds and minor illnesses. One of the kits was marked with medical tape and contained a basic surgery kit. He spied several bottles of children’s and adult vitamins tucked away among the medical supplies.

The remaining shelving units contained food items. Dozens of large airtight plastic canisters filled with grains, beans, cereals, sugar, nuts, seeds, tea, dried mushrooms, dried peas, and other dried vegetables. The shelves also housed canned goods, which were regularly rotated. Checking the dates on a few of the containers, satisfied him that the food also remained fresh.

Overall, their food supply was more than adequate to last a year, possibly longer. He noted: “Buy more toilet paper.” This reminded him to make another note. “Go to Home Store and buy four large plastic buckets and lots of trash bags for makeshift toilets.” The batteries, camp stoves, fuel and candles were all fresh and abundantly stocked on the shelves. Standing silent and ready for the next disaster.

He made another note: “Fill up empty gas containers. Fill up cars.” They had several empty gas containers in the garage—enough to hold about twenty gallons of gasoline.

He glanced at the gun locker on his way out. The locker held a Colt AR-15A3, a Mossberg 590 shotgun and two semiautomatic pistols—plus adequate ammunition for each weapon.

Standing back and looking over the massive overstuffed room of supplies took his anxiety about the pandemic down a few notches. He took the defense of his family seriously and made sure they were well prepared, no matter what happened. Even if the raging pandemic became as bad as predicted, he knew the Fletchers would survive, he would ensure they did.

Chapter 5

Alex’s calf muscles burned as he pushed through the last hill on Harrison Road, turning onto Durham Road. He slowed his pace after the turn and started walking with his hands clasped together over his head. Morning runs were not his favorite, but he had awoken at five a.m., and couldn’t fall back asleep. Not wanting to stare at a computer screen again, waiting for pandemic updates, he decided to run to Hewitt Park to do some outdoor calisthenics. He left the park with the intention of an easy jog home, but the temperate, humid morning tempted him into a longer run.

As he slowed, the Quinns’ garage door started to open and he stopped to let George pull out of the driveway. It was early and the sun hadn’t yet peeked through the deep orange clouds on the low horizon, so he wasn’t taking any chances. A Honda Odyssey pulled out of the garage bay. Not George. He watched the car back down the driveway and stop even with him at the sidewalk. Sarah Quinn opened the car window.

“Nice run?” she asked. Sarah and her husband were competitive runners well beyond Alex’s league.

“Yeah. Not bad, actually. Felt like I was grinding away all of my remaining knee cartilage for the first ten minutes or so, but not so bad after that. No run for you guys this morning?”

“Maybe later. I’m heading over to Hannigan’s. Didn’t you read the paper?” she asked.

“No. I left the house pretty early. What did it say?”

“The new flu is everywhere. They think there might be upwards of around a hundred cases in Maine, most of them in Portland. New York City’s been hit the hardest on the east coast. Boston’s been hit. Hartford. They’ve known since Thursday night that it’s been in the greater Portland area. A reporter at The Herald broke the story. It’s even worse on the west coast.”

“I saw something yesterday morning about the west coast, LA and San Francisco,” he said.

“Yeah, they tried to keep it under wraps there, but one of the papers cracked it wide open. Why would the government want to keep this a secret?” she said.

“Probably trying to keep panic to a minimum.”

“Well, that didn’t work. Some expert from one of the disease control agencies said that everyone should have at least two weeks of food and essentials on hand, maybe more. He said that the virus is spreading faster than expected and that they predict major disruptions to the food supply…and all kinds of other stuff. Saw it on CNF. Anyway, we figured the stores would be mobbed. What about you guys? George is going to head over to Home Store when I get back. You two should head over together and take our pickup.”

“We’re actually set right now with food and supplies. Thanks, though. You should get as much nonperishable food as possible. Water, too. Is your oven propane or electric?”

“Electric,” she replied, looking slightly annoyed at his brush off and sudden lecture.

“Then George should get as much propane as possible. Small, green cans like the kind you use for camping, and a couple of the big ones like for your gas grill. If we lose power, you’ll lose your stove. You guys have a camping stove, right?”

“Yeah, and we probably have a bunch of those green propane canisters, too.”

“Get more. Hey, if George has any questions about stuff to buy, have him give me a call. I sort of did a project on this topic for my company. You should get going. Could you give us a call at the house to let us know what it’s like at Hannigan’s?”

“Sure, I’ll call when I get back,” she said, closing the driver’s window and pulling the car out of the driveway. She waved as the car accelerated out of the cul-de-sac.

Alex continued walking toward his house, taking the long way around the idyllic neighborhood, careful not to get hit by the neighbors’ sprinkler system. As he walked by the Murrays’ house, Greg Murray opened the mudroom door and called out to him.

“Sorry to ambush you like this.”

“No worries, man. I’ve certainly seen worse, but nothing like those plaid pajama bottoms. I hope nobody sees us out here. I’m a little worried about my reputation,” Alex said, staring at Greg’s orange, purple, green, and brown plaid pajamas.

“Nice. Carolyn got me these for Christmas last year, and I can’t exactly throw them away. She gets a little sensitive about presents.”

“A long time ago, I told Kate to leave the clothes shopping to me. She used to buy me the same type of stuff,” he said, nodding at the pants again. “Want to hear a conspiracy theory?”

“You always do have a new one brewing.” Greg laughed.

“This one’s old. I suspect that the wives buy stuff like this to keep the other ladies at bay, except there’s a fatal flaw in their plan,” he said.

“Sexy is sexy?” Greg said and raised both arms to flex his bicep muscles.

“There’s certainly that—but their plan backfires when they all buy stuff like this at the same time, and we all look equally ridiculous. Then it all comes down to good looks, where you and I have a considerable advantage. Unfortunately for you, I think Carolyn’s trying harder than the other wives.”

“I’ll let her know your theory. I’m sure Kate would love hearing it, too,” Greg said.

“Hey, I have to keep her sharp. So, what dare brings you outside in those pants?”

“Not much, I just wanted to see if you guys already went shopping. Did you see the paper?”

“Not yet, but I heard about it from Sarah Quinn. She’s on her way right now,” Alex said.

“We saw the evening news, and I thought about what you said the other day, so we both made trips last night to Hannigan’s. Thanks for the heads up. You sounded a little crazy until last night, then the news hit this morning. This thing is all over the country.”

“Yeah, I meant to call you again last night. I’m glad you got out. We finished the last of our runs yesterday. You might want to consider braving the madness and hitting the stores again.”

“We might. We did it with the kids last night, but I don’t think it would be such a good idea if the place is mobbed. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t more crowded last night. I definitely need to hit Camping Authority and Home Store.”

“Me too. Even with everything we have, I still never feel like it’s enough. If this thing goes code red, you guys are welcome to ride it out at our house. We have the solar power, the wood burning stove, and plenty of food. Everything we might need and plenty of it.”

“Thanks, Alex, but if it gets that bad, I’m pretty sure we’re gonna drive to my parents’ house outside of Albany. My parents’ house is pretty isolated, so we figured we’d hang out there until everything cools off.”

“The offer still stands if anything changes,” Alex assured him.

“Thanks, man, seriously. God knows we’d probably be better off at your house, but we should be fine at my parents. They stick to themselves and still have a functional sixties-era nuke shelter in their backyard. They’re stocked to the gills over there. I don’t think my dad ever bought off on the end of the cold war.”

“Sounds like it should be perfect. When do you think you’ll make the trip?” Alex asked.

“Good question. Carrie’s not sure how she can take off from the pharmacy, especially if a lot of people start getting sick. They’ll be swamped and probably have to double up on pharmacists.”

“She should consider getting out of that pharmacy as soon as possible. Every sick person in the town is going to walk up to that counter. Seriously, that’s one of the last places you want her to be. Maybe she could take a few days off to spend at her ‘grandma’s bedside.’”

A sly smile spread across Greg’s face. “Not a bad idea. I don’t feel comfortable with her at the pharmacy either. Patient zero in Scarborough is guaranteed to fill a script there.”

“Yeah, and judging by the apparent spread of confirmed cases, that may be a possibility sooner than you think.” Alex glanced at his watch. “I’m gonna head home so I can get a quick shower before the Weekend Review .”

“Sure thing, Alex. I’ll catch you later today.”

***

He leaned against the footboard of their sleigh bed, facing the television.

“You’re blocking my view,” Kate complained, propped up by a few pillows.

Alex slid over to the far left side of the footboard as Weekend Review started.

“Good morning, I’m Amy Robach, with Lester Berry. Welcome to Weekend Review, Saturday, November 3rd. Overnight, there have been several major developments related to the brewing pandemic, both domestic and abroad. First, yesterday evening, world health officials announced that the flu-like disease spreading like wildfire throughout China, and now starting to hit the rest of the world, is a new H16 subtype. H16N1. Previously, only fifteen influenza subtypes had been discovered in either humans or animals. So far, very little is known about the characteristics of the H16 subtype, aside from reports that the virus is highly contagious among humans.

“As a result of these early observations, the World Health Organization increased the pandemic warning level to phase four, officially recognizing that the new virus demonstrated efficient human-to-human transfer. Experts predict that the World Health Organization will soon upgrade the pandemic warning level again, in response to the flu’s rapid worldwide spread. So far in our own country, several hundred laboratory-confirmed cases of H16N1 have been reported, striking nearly every major city, with New York City and Los Angeles being the hardest hit.

“In a possibly related story, the Indonesian government just announced a strict travel and communications ban, barring all foreign journalists. Strict government control of media content has cast a thick shadow over Indonesia, and this latest move has launched some speculation regarding a possible major flu outbreak within Indonesian borders.”

When the broadcast concluded, Kate sat up in bed and turned the television off. Alex could see the strain on her face. She clearly felt the same fear that gripped him. This pandemic was spreading fast and deadly, especially to healthy young people.

“I’m worried. What if this is already here in larger numbers than we know? Are the kids safe going to school? Should I stay home from work?” she said as she climbed out of bed.

“Probably not a bad idea. I heard that ISPAC believes that the epicenter is Jakarta and that because of their close relationship with China, that country has an astronomical number of cases. What’s scary is that people travel through Beijing all the time. That’s why it’s spreading so fast,” Alex said grabbing her hand as she brushed by.

“I know. I also saw that they’re warning people that of they get exposed, they could likely die. The advice is to stock up on food and stay home if sick. Nothing like scaring people and then offering no good advice.”

Their home phone rang and Alex grabbed the phone off the nightstand.

“Alex Fletcher.”

“Hey, Alex, it’s Sarah. Hannigan’s is mobbed. I wouldn’t even bother trying to head over there. It’ll be empty in a few hours. Really unbelievable. It was a madhouse. When I left, every single cart was gone, and at least a dozen people rushed me while I was loading groceries into the minivan. It was scary. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“They have two police cruisers parked in front of the store with their lights flashing. I think it’s the only thing keeping the situation from falling apart, and they need more. Anyway, I just wanted to call and let you know. I wouldn’t bother right now. There was a line of cars extending at least a mile down Route One. It’s a total mess.”

“Thanks for calling, Sarah. Are you sure you’re all right? You sound a bit rattled.”

“No, I’m fine,” Sarah responded. “I’ve just never seen people acting that way before. It was fine when I arrived, but the store filled up within minutes. Crazy.”

“All right, Sarah, let us know if you and George need help with anything. Okay?”

“Sure, thanks, Alex. Say hi to Kate for me.”

“Will do.”

Alex hung up. “She said every cart was being used, and that a mob of people followed her out of the store to get her cart.”

“Wow. This is getting bad.”

“You got gas, right?”

“Yesterday,” Kate replied.

“Good. Both cars are full. I’m going to start moving the wood into the garage today and make a few trips out to buy some essentials.”

“Like Xbox games and HDVDs?”

“I think those count as essential.”

“Do we have any cash?” she asked.

“Not yet. We have $16,000 in our money market account. We can take that out any time we want. We can also borrow against our 401k and get a money wire into our checking account. If nothing happens, I’ll redeposit the money in our account. Call it a reallocation of investments. The market hasn’t done anything for us this year anyway.”

“That’ll be weird having big money like that stashed around the house,” Kate said.

“Mafia weird. Big money rolls stuffed in our pockets weird,” he joked.

“Yeah, but with nothing to spend it on.”

“How about a boat?” Alex suggested.

“Nice try,” she said, walking toward the bathroom.

Chapter 6

Alex approached Hannigan’s from the direction of the Maine Mall. The back of his Subaru was filled with “essential” items from Home Store and Great Buy. Neither store was mobbed like he had predicted.

As he approached a point about one mile down the road from the Hannigan’s Plaza, traffic began to slow. The oncoming lane was devoid of traffic, so he pulled over a few feet into the lane to get a better view down the road. A police cruiser with flashing lights sat near the only turnoff before Hannigan’s.

Alex wanted to check out the Hannigan’s parking lot on the way back, but he had planned a simple scan of the parking lot. Now he wondered if he could even get through without double backing around the store area. Traffic came to a halt a few hundred yards from the police cruiser.

“Come on, I really don’t need this right now,” grumbled Alex.

Alex laughed out loud at this thought. He really didn’t have anywhere to be at the moment. After several minutes of mindlessly tapping the steering wheel, he decided that he didn’t need to sit in traffic any longer, especially since he wasn’t part of the Hannigan’s rush. The police cruiser sat at the intersection, which could be used as a detour away from the main road. He pulled his car out into the oncoming lane and started to slowly roll toward the cruiser so he could ask the officer’s permission to turn around.

I hope this guy’s not too pissed off today.

As he continued to move past the cars to his right, a black Suburban lurched out from the line of cars to block his path. Whoa! Caught off guard, he jammed his foot down on the brake, bringing his own vehicle to an immediate stop close to the enormous truck. His smartphone flew off the front passenger, and the contents of the cargo area slid forward, hitting the back of his seat. The Suburban was positioned at a forty-five degree angle to his car, blocking most of the oncoming lane. The front driver window opened, and Alex opened his own to apologize to the driver and explain what he was doing.

A young woman with blonde hair, possibly in her early thirties, leaned her head out of the window and screamed at him. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back in line and wait like everyone else.”

He heard a similar sentiment from a few of the other cars. A scowling man in a small black sedan right next to him was waving emphatically and yelling, but he had no intention of lowering his passenger window to hear the tirade.

He addressed the woman in the suburban with a loud authoritative voice. “I’m not going to Hannigan’s, I’m trying to turn around.”

“I don’t care where you think you’re going. You won’t have any luck getting in from that direction either. I’ve been dealing with this for nearly two hours, so back off.”

She pulled her head into the car momentarily to yell into the tinted darkness behind her. “I told you all to keep it down! We’ll get there when we get there.”

Mom of the year.

His adrenaline surged making him want to escalate the argument.

Calm down. Nothing to gain from it.

She put her head back out as the police officer appeared in front of her truck. Alex could hear him tell her to roll up her window and get back to the other side of the road. He walked up to Alex’s window.

“I’m really sorry, Officer, I just wanted to get to the intersection so I could turn around and get home. I’m sorry I caused a little stir.”

“Not a problem. There’s been a run on the Hannigan’s. Started around seven this morning and has only gotten worse. Wait until that lady moves her truck, and continue to the intersection. Make sure you turn around. There’s no way to get through to Route One anyway, and I can tell you for a fact that nobody will let you through the line to try it. It’s getting ugly out here. Hannigan’s ran dry within a couple of hours, but there’s a rumor that they’re dispatching some more trucks today. That’s what everyone’s waiting for. Wishful thinking if you ask me.”

“Thanks Officer…Patrick,” he said, glancing at the officer’s name badge. “Good luck today. Looks like you might need it.”

“You said it. It’s going to be a long one. Probably an all nighter if the trucks don’t show up. You better get moving. Semper Fi.”

“Yeah, Semper Fi,” Alex replied, having forgotten about the U.S. Marine Corps sticker affixed to his rear left passenger window.

No wonder he didn’t reach in and throttle me for being stupid.

He moved past the black Suburban and slowly approached the intersection. A few more cars angrily honked at him. He gave Officer Patrick a “thumbs up,” as he completed the turn, wondering how long it would be before the officer had to don riot gear to execute his duties.

Chapter 7

Alex rinsed his plate in the sink and gingerly set it down on top of a small pile of precariously balanced dishes in the sink basin.

“Feel free to put that in the dishwasher,” Kate said from an unseen location in the great room.

“The kids didn’t,” he shot back.

“Nice try,” he said.

“I’ll take care of it after I talk to my parents,” he said and sat down at the kitchen island.

“You must really not want to empty the dishwasher.”

“Funny,” he said and picked up the cordless phone.

“Not in here, please. I’d like to unwind without you pacing around the house all stressed out.”

“Not a problem. Hey, can you call Sam on your cell and make sure that the kids don’t stray over to the McDaniels’? Matt and Jamie work in the schools, and I would just feel better if we kept a little separation from them. For now at least,” he said.

“Can’t you call?” she asked.

“I don’t like making calls like that. You’re better at these touchy situations,” he replied, slinking away toward the stairs.

“Better at the dirty work, you mean,” she grumbled, and he heard her get up from the couch. “I’ll take a walk over to the Walkers’. I could use some sun. Have fun on your call.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be a blast. Thanks, hon,” he said and vanished up the stairs.

Settling into his office chair, he dialed his parents’ home number; his mother answered.

“Hey, Mom, what are you guys up to?”

“Well, your dad just got back from the grocery store. Lucky he got there earlier in the morning. He said there was a line of cars stretching back something like two miles when he drove home. One of your dad’s golf buddies was over near the Dunkin’ Donuts and saw a mob start to form at the grocery store. Thankfully, he called your dad.”

“Same thing is happening here. I just drove by a line that was nearly a mile long.”

“This is insane, Alex. I still don’t see why everyone is so riled up right now. We watched the news last night, and they said that the flu was unlikely to get past immigration authorities in great enough numbers to drive a crisis.”

“Please tell me you didn’t hear this on your SPOT news?” said Alex.

“SPOT news is fine.”

“I know it’s fine, Mom, but not all of the networks are saying the same thing. Anyway, I’m glad you guys got to the store. You should get more food if you can. Where’s Dad now?” he said.

“He ran out to Home Store. He just called and said that it was mobbed, but not as bad as Alberts.”

“Mom, you guys should consider coming out here if things get really bad. Regardless of what you hear on TV, I don’t think the government will be able to contain this on any level. The head of Maine Medical Center’s infectious disease department agrees.”

“Yeah, but the HHS guy last night said that they were keeping tabs on everyone that comes into the country, even if they don’t show symptoms,” she replied.

“Do you really believe they can pull that off? What about the hundreds of people they come in contact with within the first few hours of arrival? Are they going to investigate all of them, too? This isn’t just coming at us from Asia anymore. It’s global. Any passenger, on any plane from anywhere in the world could be infected.”

“Well, there’s only so much that can be done, and at a certain point, you just have to deal with it.”

“I agree, that’s why you two need to take a trip to see your grandkids. If the situation out there deteriorates, you’ll be in the best place to weather the storm. You still have the TerraFlu that I sent, right?”

“Oh yes, it’s still in the upstairs bathroom closet. We don’t need to take that yet, do we?”

“No, not yet, Mom. If you experience flu-like symptoms, then you should start taking it. Fever, headache, exhaustion, congestion. I’m going to send you an email with a self-assessment guide. You won’t remember all of this.”

“Sounds good. How are the kids doing?”

“You really should ask them yourself, like within the next few days,” he chided, and then relented. “They’re doing great. Ryan is having an amazing cross-country season. He can almost outpace me on runs, and he’s probably the fastest sixth or seventh grader on the team. Emily is in the middle of the fall soccer season, and she wants to start running like Ryan. Between the two of them, we’re being pulled in every direction.”

“What does Kate think about all this flu stuff? Does she think you’re overreacting, too? She’s been the voice of reason in the family since you got back from Iraq. I still think the war made you a little paranoid. Sorry to say it, but it’s true.”

“Thanks for the psych eval, Mom, I’ll pass it along to the doctors. And for the record, she’s more worried than I am,” Alex said.

“Well, she probably doesn’t want to upset you.”

“Really, Mom, you guys should consider coming out. Make it your annual trip. If nothing happens in the next few weeks or so, you can go home having enjoyed the kids and one of the best times of the year to visit Maine. The leaves are turning, and the weather’s been great. Lodging is free, and we can take a couple of trips up north to check out the colors.”

“I’ll talk to your dad about it again. If things get really bad, we’ll seriously think about it. I don’t think your brother will consider it, though.”

“Who said he was invited? Just kidding, Mom. Hey, don’t let him make the decision for you. He chose to work nearly two hours away in Denver, and Karla isn’t exactly helpless.”

“Things are hectic for them. They’re both extremely busy with their jobs, and the kids are busy with sports and school activities.”

“What do you think we have going on over here?” Alex said.

“If you guys were closer, we’d help you too.”

“I think Danny is a little too focused on a big salary, and way too dependent on your support. Bottom line, they can deal with their own kids for a couple weeks without your help.”

“We’ll see how things go. I’m willing to bet this whole thing will clear up in a few weeks, just like the swine flu. A trip sounds nice, but…”

“I know. Danny and Karla need more time to figure out how to take care of their own kids. Sorry. I promised I wouldn’t. Anyway, just don’t wait too long, Mom. I think the situation has the potential to deteriorate very quickly. Think about it and let me know. You guys are always welcome out here, and so are my brother and his family. Love you guys.”

“Love you too, Alex. Give Kate and the kids a hug for me.”

“Will do, Mom,” he replied, knowing his parents wouldn’t take this seriously.

Chapter 8

Alex sweated profusely. In just under one hour, he had hauled roughly one-third of their firewood into the garage. Two cords of firewood were dumped on their driveway in late August, and with the reluctant help of his son, he’d finished stacking the wood along the outside back wall of the garage by the middle of September.

Alex grabbed another oversized stack of wood and started the grueling trek around the side of the garage. As soon as he cleared the rear corner of the garage, he saw Charlie Thornton walking across the street. Picking up the pace, he hoped to disappear into the garage bay before Charlie arrived. Alex had made a practice of tactfully avoiding him as much as possible. He placed the wood on a neat stack inside the garage.

Charlie was halfway across the street heading toward him.

“Hey, Charlie, not tromping around the woods today?” Alex asked, wiping his forehead.

“I wish. Linda’s still at the office, trying to unscrew the temp situation at National Insurance. Three of them walked off the job yesterday, unannounced. We still have no idea why, but if we don’t get some replacements in there by Monday, we could lose our contract with them. We have at least thirty floating around there.”

“I wonder if its related to the pandemic?”

“Don’t know. Anyway, we heard about the crowds at the stores, so I took off to try and get some grocery shopping done. I started over at Coar Club. Forget it. I couldn’t even get close to the place. Same story at Hannigan’s and Shale’s. Did you manage to get to any of these stores today? Linda and I have been so busy at the office that we never made our weekly shopping run. Our house is empty. Looks like we’re eating out tonight.”

“Yeah, you and the rest of the town. I couldn’t get near Hannigan’s this morning. Drove by around eleven, and the line was over a mile long just to get into the parking lot. That’s just in one direction. We have enough stuff on hand for now,” Alex said uncomfortably.

“I heard they closed all of the Hannigan stores in the area. Picked clean by ten. I’m worried about getting my dad’s meds. They should at least keep the pharmacy open at Hannigan’s. All I need are some refills.”

“You should ask Greg Murray about that. His wife might be able to hook you up. She’s a pharmacist over at the Scarborough Hannigan’s.”

“That’s right. Do you know if they’re home?”

“Carolyn might be home right now if the store is closed.”

“I’ll have to check. So why are you stacking your wood inside the garage. Don’t you normally keep it out back?” he asked.

“Well, ever since we put in the wood-burning stove, we make a lot more trips to get wood. Kate hates going outside to grab the wood, so I figured if it was inside the garage, she’d keep the fire going and quit turning up the thermostat.”

“You gonna move it all inside?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t think so. We won’t go through two cords this winter. Barely burned through one last year. But who knows what the boss will want,” Alex said.

“Wives. Give them whatever they want, right? Well, I gotta get back to the house and figure out dinner. Probably need a reservation to get in somewhere tonight. Hey, if I can’t get into a restaurant, you might hear the thunder of one of my rifles. I’ve seen fresh signs of deer in the woods back by the park.”

“No worries here. I’ve been on the receiving end of blasts that could make your ears bleed.”

“I’ll bet. You ever do any sniping?”

Alex didn’t think he could possibly be serious.

“No, but we routinely had snipers assigned to our battalion. They didn’t seem to enjoy their job much.”

“Hell, I’d give anything to trade places with them for a few hours.”

“Nothing out there shoots back,” Alex said and glanced toward the trees north of the neighborhood. “It’s a lot safer.”

They both looked at each other for a second, and Alex felt like he was being sized up.

“Good point. Anyway, have a good night, Alex. I’ll catch you later,” Charlie said and started walking back down the driveway.

“You too, Charlie.”

He returned to the wood stacked behind the garage, vowing to keep an eye on “Private Pyle.”

Chapter 9

Alex stepped onto the mudroom stoop and looked around for Kate. He didn’t see her in the front yard, so he headed down the driveway and spotted her a few houses down, petting the Coopers’ chocolate lab. Max wiggled and squirmed his way over to Alex, stopping short to roll over onto his back. Kate stood upright as he rubbed Max’s chest.

“Very good boy. Yes, you are. Any sign of Paul and Nancy?” he asked, without looking up at Kate.

Kate leaned in and rubbed Max’s neck. “No. I thought I saw their car drive by our house on the way out…maybe an hour ago?”

Alex stood up and took in the trees, his eyes straining in the direction of the Thorntons’, without turning his head. “Let’s get rolling before we attract some unwanted attention,” he remarked, nodding toward Charlie’s house.

Kate looked over at the Thorntons’.

“Don’t look!” he whispered forcefully.

“What are you, in third grade? None of their cars are out, and you know they never park in the garage.”

“I’d just like to get off the block without running into them,” he said, and they started to walk briskly toward their home.

They continued to walk through the loop, passing the Murrays’ and the Bishops’ houses on their way back home. The Cohen’s garage stood open revealing two fully packed vehicles. One of the cars had a cargo carrier on top, which was open and halfway stuffed with duffel bags.

“They don’t have any immediate family down here, right?” Kate asked.

“I was just thinking the same thing. I think Margaret’s parents are retired and live up near Bar Harbor,” he replied, still thinking about it.

“Yes, that’s right. Her parents own a huge place on the water up there. They spend a few weeks each summer up there and most of the weekends.”

“Looks like they’re taking off.”

The route they took home was one of their favorite walks through the subdivision. Several foot trails extended for miles through the land trust preserve which surrounded the neighboring park.

As they approached Harrison Road, a black Toyota Sienna minivan careened, tires squealing, onto Durham Road, barely making the turn.

“What the hell?” Alex exclaimed, pushing Kate slightly off the sidewalk onto the grass, putting himself between the van and his wife. He quickly recognized the Perrys’ van as it approached, still moving way too fast for a neighborhood road. He saw Todd Perry behind the wheel of the van as it closed the distance.

The van slowed as it pulled next to them, the window already down.

“Can you believe this shit?” Todd yelled at them.

“What’s going on?” Kate asked, sounding concerned.

“I’ve been all over Portland, and it’s the same story. I guess you have to get up at five in the morning to get groceries now,” he said, barely below the level of screaming.

“Yeah, I think from this point on, you might be right,” Alex said.

“What am I supposed to do, camp out with my entire family? Four kids in a minivan, just so we can fill up a cart full of groceries? They have to figure something else out. Not everyone can afford to sit around Hannigan’s all day,” he replied, his tone calming slightly.

“Todd, why don’t you have Susan give me a call? We can watch your kids for a few hours in the morning, and you can both head over really early. Take separate cars, get in line separately, then you can play a little catch up and get two loads of groceries. Don’t go together. They won’t let you grab two carts if they see you’re together,” Kate offered.

“They? Who the fuck are they ? Some punk ass kids working at Hannigan’s?” he said loudly.

“No, the police. Nancy Cooper saw the cops broke up a couple trying to load two carts into one car.”

“Unbelievable. It’s a police state already. Hey, sorry to bite your heads off. I’m just a little frustrated by all of this nonsense. I appreciate the offer to watch the kids. We may take you up on it. I’m gonna have Sue call her parents, maybe they can drive down from Augusta tonight and help us out. Thanks. I’ve been so pissed off, I can barely think straight,” he said, calm now.

“Just keep us in mind, Todd. We’ve got nothing planned for tomorrow, so it’s really no big deal for one of us to head over and keep the kids company, or you can pack them up in their pajamas and herd them over to our house. I’ll feed them pancakes,” Alex offered.

“Thanks, guys. I’ll run it by Susan.”

“See ya, Todd,” Kate said.

Todd accelerated the van to a reasonable speed and made a controlled turn toward his house. Alex and Kate started walking again.

“Loose cannon alert,” Kate said. “Susan told me he had a short temper.”

“Confirmed. Are you really gonna get up at the crack of dawn to watch their kids?”

“Oh, I’m not getting up. You are.”

“That’s what I thought.” He laughed.

They walked holding hands. A chilly breeze sifted through the towering maple and oak trees sending a cascade of dried yellow, red and brown leaves to the ground.

Chapter 10

Alex sat alone in his office, surfing through several bookmarked websites. He skimmed several stories and then jumped over to the ISPAC Pandemic Map, which he kept minimized for quick access. The map of China showed expanded red and violet areas, growing inward from the coast all the way east to Fuzhou. Shanghai and Qingdao, two major coastal cities, sat in areas shaded red. The greater Beijing area was colored orange, with several small red dots indicating medium cluster outbreaks within the area. Placing the cursor over the China icon, he read:

“China. Population 1,350,678,400. Massive outbreak. 820,000 reported cases. Concentrated WHO effort to contain outbreak unsuccessful. WHO teams status unknown due to communications blackout imposed by Chinese government. Uncontained.”

He went back to the news articles. “Indonesia to allow full WHO and U.N. support…submits formal apology to U.N. for treatment of inspection teams…pleads for immediate assistance…deaths estimated at 73,000…over 2 million cases of Jakarta flu.”

“More cases of Jakarta flu appearing in major European cities…London confirms several hundred cases…”

“That’s it for me,” Alex announced, rising from the chair to check on the rest of his family.

He really didn’t need to check on Ryan. His son never woke before 10 a.m. on weekends, but Emily was a different story. She usually got up at the same time on weekends as she did during the week, sometimes earlier. Alex peeked into both of their rooms. Ryan was buried in his covers, his dark hair barely poking out of the top of the blankets. He pushed Emily’s door open and walked a few feet into her room, peeking around the corner. She had tossed all of her covers off, but still looked solidly asleep. Both rooms were dark, with the shades pulled tight.

Alex walked down the hallway to the master suite and looked over at his wife. Like Ryan, Kate was buried in covers, her long black hair spilling out from the top of the blankets onto her pillow. He could hear her breathing deeply. Unlike the kids’ rooms, the master bedroom was bathed in light. Kate liked to rise naturally with the sun, or at least she claimed to like it, but he couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up within three hours of dawn, especially during the summer months, when the sun began to rise at four-thirty. He backtracked to the master bathroom and started the shower.

***

As Alex poured pancake batter onto a non-stick frying pan, he heard someone walking down the stairs. By the creak of the stairs, he could tell immediately that it was Kate.

“Good morning, my love. You’re right on time,” he said without turning around.

She took the final step down onto the hardwood floor in front of the stairs before responding.

“How did you know it wasn’t Ryan?”

Alex sensed a trap. “I can just tell,” he said, not taking the bait.

“All right…just as long as you’re not implying anything about my weight,” she said.

“Nope. Everyone has their own unique signature coming down the stairs. Ryan sounds like he’s stumbling down after being shot. Emily takes three years to descend. I fly down the stairs, and you glide gracefully with a purpose,” he said, smugly.

“Don’t push it,” she said, moving directly for the coffee maker. “Pancakes. Yummy. And the coffee is made. You’re my hero. How many times a week can we have pancakes with our current supplies?” she asked.

He flipped the pancakes over and stepped away from the stove to give her a hug and a kiss. The warm, cozy smell of Sunday morning pancakes and coffee filled their sunny kitchen.

“Do you mean if we go into quarantine, or in general? Because in general, I could eat them every morning, but in quarantine, we’re probably looking at no more than once a week,” he said, still holding her.

“Maybe one of us should stand in line at the store—just buy pancake ingredients,” she replied.

“Almost worth the risk,” he said, kissing her.

He returned to the stove, taking the pancakes off the pan and placing them under tin foil on a large plate.

“Actually, after today, I think we’re done visiting public spaces, or interacting with other people. Did you check the ISPAC map?” he asked, while pouring another batch of pancakes onto the frying pan. The oil around the edges of the pancakes sizzled when the batter hit the pan.

“No, I just came straight down when I smelled the pancakes.”

“They’ve named it the Jakarta flu, so I guess they’re fairly certain that the epicenter is in Jakarta. The Navy rescued a missing ISPAC team from Indonesian waters. Based on the flu casualty predictions I saw in one of the articles, I can understand why no one wanted them snooping around. The estimate I saw was two million cases.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kate asked incredulously.

“No. That’s why I think today is our last day out and about. The numbers are rising very rapidly here and abroad. It’s already out of control.”

“Hey, I’m good with starting our quarantine right now,” she said, taking a coffee mug down from the cabinet.

“I think we should let them hang out with their friends today and then call it good. That way we can start the quarantine on a better note. Emily has a play date set up with Jessica, and Ryan is planning to invite Connor and Daniel over today. I think that should be fine.”

“I don’t know…what if Jessica’s uncle visited them last night, after shopping at the Shale’s in Falmouth, right behind the wife of the guy, or the sister of the guy who’s in the hospital…”

“I understand what you’re saying,” he assured Kate, “but I feel confident we’ll be fine letting her go over there. She can wash her hands a lot. It’ll be fine. Let both of them enjoy the day. It’s beautiful out,” he said, pointing out of the windows over the kitchen sink.

“All right. I’ll talk to Elaine and make sure they wash their hands a lot. Maybe she’ll cancel the play date,” she suggested.

“Maybe, but don’t count on it. Even if she does, Emily will find another. At least Jessica’s parents seem pretty responsible,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess. Are some of the pancakes ready? I don’t feel like waiting another hour for the kids.”

“Almost. If you set the table, I’ll pour a few more.”

“Deal. Hey, did you see any cars in front of the Perrys’ this morning?” she asked, having just spotted the Sunday paper.

“No, I checked on my way out for a run at about seven, then again an hour later. I walked out about ten minutes ago, pretending to check the mailbox and still nothing.”

“What do you think they are doing?”

“I don’t know, maybe they all went out shopping together,” he suggested weakly.

“With four kids? I doubt it.”

“Whatever it is, I hope they were able to get some supplies. If this thing continues, we could all be home without help for a very long time.”

“Me too,” she said as she grabbed dishes and silverware.

Alex glanced at Kate as she set the table. He loved this quiet time with Kate on the weekend. Soon Ryan and Emily would wake, sending the house into the low frenzy only kids could manufacture. Savouring the last few minutes of quiet, he sipped his strong coffee and thought again about how fortunate they were to have each other.

Quarantine

Chapter 11

Alex looked away from the computer screen in his office, to watch Kate amble down the street. She stopped in front of the Carters’ house and walked up the driveway to pet their dog Kelso. Kelso enjoyed the full range of the half-acre lot, cut off from the rest of the world by an electric fence.

Occasionally, Kelso managed to escape his electric prison, and inevitably wound up in the Fletchers’ backyard, lavished with Milk Bones and other treats. Sometimes, the kids just let him in the house to hang out. He’s convinced that Kate and the kids just might steal a dog if they didn’t get one of their own soon.

When his mind drifted back into his office, Alex noticed Kate standing in their front yard, waving up at him and looking frustrated. Opening the window, he wondering how long she had been trying to get his attention.

“Hey, honey. Nice out, huh?” he yelled through the screen.

“Very nice. Another gift before the winter buries us. What were you staring at up there?”

“Nothing, just thinking about something,” he said.

“You must have been thinking really hard, you’ve been staring out of the window for over five minutes.”

“Nothing much. I’m just tired.”

“All right,” she said.

She definitely didn’t buy it. I’ll get a PTSD lecture within the next twenty-four hours. Guaranteed. Kate started walking toward the mudroom, and he kept watching her. He loved her more than anything.

Alex grabbed his “Checklists” folder and began thumbing through the contents. The folder held a few different checklists, specifically created for different emergencies or contingencies. He thumbed through them, seeing one for “Nor’easter” and another for “Coastal Flooding.” He finally found the “Pandemic” checklist.

Before glancing at the checklist, he shook the computer mouse to jar his computer out of standby mode. The flat-screen monitor jumped to life and displayed a family picture taken on a beach in Mexico. He took a close look at the list.

-Fill up oil tanks and propane. Need to do this anyway.

-Fill up cars. Done.

-Fill up all fuel canisters. Next time at gas station.

-Inspect solar power system. Done.

-Inspect stockpile and fill in any gaps. Done.

-Test walkie-talkies. I’m sure they’re fine.

-Test generator. I’m sure it works.

-Withdraw all cash from checking and savings accounts. Let’s not get crazy.

-Borrow from 401K to get maximum amount of cash. Overkill.

-Trade non-retirement investments for gold-backed funds or bonds. Paranoia.

-Contact schools. Done.

Even though they were well prepared for the pandemic. Alex couldn’t shake the unrelevting feeling of doom. Glancing at the list one more time, he tried to push aside his feelings as normal, given the circumstances.

***

Alex wandered down the stairs to find Kate pouring coffee into a mug. She looked up at him and smiled. He could hear the Morning News on the kitchen TV.

“Good workout earlier?” she asked.

“I actually went for a run again. It’s still pretty warm out. Hey, I have to hide in my office again for a teleconference at eight. This one should be really interesting.” He winced and gave Kate a quick kiss.

“Have you communicated to Biosphere that you gave away all of your samples?” she asked with a weary look.

“Not yet. I was thinking about hooking my computer back up on Tuesday. I may just do it today and get it over with. Ted’s going to flip out when he sees the drug sample inventory has been completely depleted. I wasn’t supposed to give all of those TerraFlu samples to Dr. Wright, but in this case, doing the right thing seemed more important than job security. Anything good on the Morning View ?” he asked, looking up at the TV screen.

“Not really. Still no word from the Chinese, our carriers are converging on the region, and Asia is crawling with the flu.”

“Yeah, I checked. The numbers have skyrocketed, and Europe is exploding, too. It’s gonna be the same here in about a week,” he said and grabbed a tall glass from the cabinet above the coffeemaker.

“That’s what they said. Not about the U.S. though,” she said.

“They didn’t mention cases in the U.S.?”

“Oh no, they definitely said over a thousand cases nationwide. Confirmed.”

“That sounds conservative. The ISPAC estimates the number of cases in the U.S. could hit 20,000 by the end of the week, based on all of their variables,” Alex said.

“20,000? Did they give their estimate for the Jakarta flu’s basic reproductive number?” she asked him, opening the refrigerator.

“Yeah, initially they set it around four, but they took pains to mention that this number fluctuates hourly in their projections, and that it may turn out to be higher.”

“Infectious about seven to ten…” her voice trailed off. Kate turned around from the open refrigerator and looked upward. Calculating. She responded to mathematical or statistical challenges like a deep-programmed Cold War mole, suddenly activated by a trigger phrase and trapped in a computational trance until released by the answer. Within a few seconds, she broke the spell and looked at Alex.

“Based on four as an average, the U.S. will hit roughly a million cases around November 20th . If the case fatality rate is similar to what they are seeing in China, we could be looking at close to two hundred thousand deaths.”

“Three weeks from now,” he added dryly. “The scope of this pandemic could be devastating to all of us. Let’s just hope we can keep our family safe.

“I agree.”

“Hey, did Ryan roll down? I thought I heard him rummaging around down here earlier.”

“Yeah, he was down here pouring some cereal. He forgot about our no school during a pandemic policy. He made a beeline back up to his room when I reminded him.” She laughed, nodding at the half-filled cereal bowl.

“I don’t think we’ll get much resistance from him right now. Emily on the other hand…I don’t know,” he said.

“She can be pretty tough to deal with.”

He smirked. “I wonder where she gets that from?”

“That’s why you love me so much,” she countered, bending over to pull the toaster out of a drawer in the island.

“Among other things,” he said and grabbed her from behind, pressing his body against hers.

“You bad boy. Why are you always so frisky in the kitchen?” Kate stood up and nervously looked over at the stairs.

“Probably because you bend over a lot in the kitchen. I can’t help it.”

“Yeah, well, you better make sure the kids don’t see you. I don’t feel like explaining it to either of them, especially Ryan.”

“No kidding,” he agreed.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” she asked, breaking their embrace.

“Some breakfast, teleconference, then I was thinking maybe we could all take a bike ride to the beach. Get everyone out of the house,” Alex said.

“Sounds nice.”

“We should make the best of the weather. Some Canadian air is coming our way toward the end of the week, and then another storm. The extended summer party is officially over.”

***

Alex sat in his office, checking his personal email, a Bluetooth earpiece resting in his right ear blaring intolerably optimistic music, as he waited for the rest of his sales district to join the teleconference. He heard a double beep, which indicated that someone had joined. He thought he heard Dave from Portsmouth mumble something.

“Is that you, Dave? It’s Alex.”

“Yours truly,” Dave replied.

“Hi, Alex. How are things up in Portland?” asked Karen, joining the teleconference.

“Pretty crazy. How about Concord?” he said, guessing it was Karen.

“Same thing. All the stores are jammed. I finally got through Hannigan’s yesterday.”

“Any flu cases?” he pressed.

“Something like a hundred cases since Saturday. I tried to get in to see some of the infectious disease people at Concord Hospital earlier this morning, but they’re not seeing drug reps,” she said.

“You probably don’t want to be anywhere near an E.R., or any hospital for that matter. It’s not worth it,” Alex cautioned.

“That’s a no shitter,” Dave said.

“What do you mean?” said Karen.

Is she kidding?

“Hey, guys, it’s Cheryl. Who’s on already?”

Two representatives covered each of the five geographic sales areas in Maine and New Hampshire. The entire sales team was on the call, except for Ted, their district manager. He heard another double beep.

“Good morning, team. Let’s make sure everyone is here,” Ted said, who then conducted a roll call. A few of his colleagues sounded excited to be on the teleconference. Alex purposely sedated his acknowledgment.

“Thank you for joining me on such short notice. I have some good news and some bad news.”

“Since I always like to end on a positive note, let’s start with the bad, though I hate to call it bad. More disappointing than anything else.”

“The disappointing news is that Biosphere will not enter into an official direct partnership with HHS.”

Alex heard grumbling on the line. He also swore he heard a muffled cheer.

“I know, I know…not exactly what I was hoping for either, but from what I understand, HHS wanted more control over Biosphere’s operations than our executives were comfortable with, so the negotiations are currently stalled. I am told that this may not be the end of a possible deal, especially given the rapidly deteriorating situation around the country. There is still hope.”

Dave interjected a comment, “Ted, I saw a blurb on CNF about Roche enhancing their deal with HHS.”

“Yes, but even without an official deal, Biosphere has taken steps to secure a prominent role. The executive leadership team agreed to relinquish 80% of Biosphere’s current sample inventory to HHS for regional utilization. I don’t have any specifics, but I assume that those samples will be added to the nation’s anti-viral stockpiles, which will be controlled by the government. I don’t know when that will happen or how, but be ready for the call. The remaining twenty percent will be retained by representatives for the most important part of this initiative,” said Ted, pausing before continuing. “I am excited to announce that effective immediately, our district will augment the Boston District’s efforts in northern Massachusetts.”

Complete silence permeated the call for several seconds.

“Ted, this is Steph. When is this going to happen?”

Stephanie Brennan lived north of Concord with her husband, Tom, and three young children. Alex figured she’d be on the fence about complying with this initiative, but would eventually cave in to Ted’s pressure. She’d be more concerned about losing her job and a comfortable income. He knew they’d barely scraped together enough money for a down payment on a house they purchased a few years ago, immediately after her husband was hired as a middle school science teacher in Concord, and he couldn’t imagine any way they could afford to stay in their house on Tom’s income alone.

“Good question, Stephanie,” Ted said.

“All of the assignments are made, and hotel arrangements are set, so we’d like to put all of you in place tomorrow.”

The phone erupted with protest, and Alex removed the Bluetooth earpiece, activating the speakerphone feature of his smartphone.

Ted was attempting to calm the group. “All right, all right. One at a time. I haven’t even given you the details. I realize this is short notice, but let’s face it, the pandemic is spreading quickly, and our corporate strategists agree that a huge opportunity exists if we execute this plan quickly.”

“What exactly is the opportunity?” Alex asked.

“Uh…well, the opportunity is to educate front line providers regarding the Jakarta flu. You’ll all receive new educational pieces to use in the field when you meet with your new coordinating manager down in Massachusetts. So, the first part of the opportunity is to assist healthcare providers with making decisions that can help contain the pandemic. And…and the samples you’ll have in your cars will let them treat patients with symptoms right in their offices, improving containment efforts.”

“This sounds like a PR scam,” Dave interrupted.

“Dave, you beat me to it,” Alex commented dryly. “I don’t see how this could possibly help the situation. The Jakarta flu is about to jump like wildfire across the country. I don’t see how injecting a few sales representatives into the situation will accomplish anything, aside from providing Biosphere with a nice press release. And getting each of us and our families sick.”

“I don’t know, Alex, if we get out there as quickly as possible with the samples and these new informational pieces, we might be the one factor that turns the tide. It’s worth a try at least,” Karen said with a cheerleader voice.

Karen Caldwell had little to lose, besides her life. Recently graduated from the University of New Hampshire, she rented an apartment with roommates in downtown Portsmouth and tirelessly committed all of her time to a career at Biosphere Pharmaceuticals.

“You can take my spot, Karen. I have a family to take care of and can’t afford to get sick for their sake,” Alex said.

“Look, nobody is taking anyone’s place. All of the assignments have been submitted to the regional office, so there won’t be any changes,” Ted said forcefully.

“I will email you all of the details. Hotels, coordinating manager contact information, all of it as soon as the teleconference is finished.”

“Ted, this is Mike. Why wouldn’t the Portland reps stay put? You know, to help contain any outbreaks in the more populated areas of Maine? Someone has to be left behind.”

“We will be keeping two reps in Maine for that purpose,” Ted answered.

“What are our assigned areas?” said Jack Hathaway, who was based out of Bangor, Maine.

“Well, I was going to send that in the email, but I don’t see any reason not to give you the basics. Let me start by saying that the regional manager wanted to minimize the geographical distance that the reps were displaced, to keep you as close to your families as possible. So…Jack and Brian, you’ll relocate to Portland and cover all of Maine. The good news for you is that you’ll still be working under me. The rest of you will have new temporary managers,” said Ted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mike asked.

“Take it easy, Mike. If you think—”

“Take it easy? You’re basing the northern Maine reps in Portland and moving the Portland reps down to Massachusetts? How does that make any sense?” he nearly yelled.

“What I was about to say, is that if you think about it, you’ll actually be closer to your family than the northern Maine guys. The regional manager wanted to make this as fair as possible for everyone,” he said with conviction.

“So, where will the rest of us be fairly and justly relocated by Biosphere?” Dave asked.

Ted read the rest of the assignments, each one invoking a minor protest, except from Karen in Portsmouth and Melissa in Concord. Alex remained silent, and Dave added a few more sarcastic comments. Mike injected a few well-timed obscenities, keeping Alex’s attention riveted to the call. Ted ended the conference call abruptly, reminding the group to check their email for the details. He never suggested that they take the rest of the day off to prepare for an immediate and indefinite relocation. Alex knew that Ted truly didn’t care about any of the reps or their families.

His smartphone rang.

Mike.

“Hey there, dissident,” Alex said.

“Why were you so quiet?” he said.

“You know, I felt like laying into Ted, but it suddenly hit me. Who cares? I have no intention of driving down to Lawrence tonight to check into a hotel. I gave all of my samples away last Friday. I’m pretty much done with Biosphere. There is no way I will leave my family alone during this crisis. Besides, what will happen to them if I get sick and die? No way. This job is not worth the personal sacrifice. It’s family first for me. What about you? You’re not heading down to Mass, are you?”

“I don’t know. If I don’t show up, all hell will break loose. I’m just not sure what to do,” Mike said.

Alex spun in his chair and looked over at the Thorntons’ house. He saw Charlie Thornton back out of his driveway.

“Well, what was your plan for leaving town if you needed to? I mean, how were you going to explain it to Ted?” Alex asked.

“You know, I thought we’d all just be doing the same thing we’ve always been doing. Calling on offices and driving around. I figured that if this thing got really bad, I could just call Ted and tell him I have the flu. I never anticipated being reassigned down to Boston this quickly. This twist jacked up the whole plan. I might head down to Lawrence for a few days and just pretend that I’m working, then call in sick and drive back. I won’t ever have to set foot in a doctor’s office,” Mike said.

“I don’t know, Mike. They know we’re angry about this. Especially you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you showed up and they stuck you with a district manager for a few days. You’d be calling on offices from sunrise to sunset…maybe longer.”

“Fantastic,” Mike complained.

“I think you should tell Ted that your wife is sick and that you need to stay in the area to take care of your kids. Maybe he’ll—”

“Hey, sorry to cut you off, but that’s him buzzing through,” Mike said, exasperated.

“Just stay calm, and tell him that your wife has severe diarrhea with vomiting, and that you probably won’t be able to leave town until it clears up in a day or two. That should buy you some time to work on another excuse,” Alex suggested.

“All right, I gotta go…”

“Diarrhea and vomiting…get descriptive, he’ll leave you alone,” Alex said, chuckling.

“Got it,” Mike said and disconnected the call.

Alex decided that now might be a good time to electronically log the sample transfer, so that he and Ted were on the same page. He flipped open the screen to the electronic tablet sitting on the right corner of the office desk and turned the screen so he could see it from his seat.

The desktop activated and he opened the “Wireless Pro” icon, selected “Wireless Device,” and moved the cursor to highlight “Wireless On.” He paused for several moments, staring at the screen. He looked outside at the clear sky, keeping his thumb on the “left click” internal mouse button.

“Adios Biosphere,” he said finally, and pressed his thumb down.

Alex checked the screen. The wireless icon in the lower right corner of the screen pulsed green. He guessed Ted would call by lunchtime—probably sooner. When he reached the kitchen, Kate was sitting at the kitchen island, sipping coffee and reading the paper.

Without looking up from the paper, Kate asked, “So, did it live up to your expectations? What is Biosphere’s plan to save the world and line their pockets?”

“And far exceeded them. I have to drive down to Lawrence, Mass., tonight, so I can report to my new temporary manager,” he said emotionlessly.

Kate immediately turned to him. “Really?” She looked like she might believe him.

“That’s what the company wants,” he said matter-of-factly.

“But you’re not…?” she said, oddly doubtful.

“No, I’m not going anywhere. My place is here with you and the kids,” he assured his wife.

“I didn’t think so,” she said, relieved, “but for a second there, you sounded serious.”

“Not a chance. Hey, are you sure you should be reading that paper?” he asked.

Kate cast a puzzled glance that read “why wouldn’t I read the paper?” She suddenly realized why he’d asked the question.

“I never even gave it a thought. One kid wrapping all of the papers could infect half the block, or the entire subdivision,” she said and held the section of paper she was reading up by the corner, between her thumb and first finger, like it was rotten. She got up and headed over to the trash.

“I don’t think it matters now, but that’s the kind of thing we need to watch. Nothing should come into the house, even the mail. Most of what we get in the mail is garbage anyway,” he said.

“What about the bills?” she asked.

“Well, we could…” he paused, stuck in thought. “I don’t know. I guess as long as we wash our hands and just keep it in one place it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“The flu can only survive a few days on the paper anyway, right? We can sort through it weekly, with gloves even. Look for any bills, and toss all of the junk mail. We’ll need the paper for kindling at some point.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed. “Anything good on CNF?”

“Nothing new, except for the new Flu Watch Center. All of the news channels have a version of it. Twenty-four hour flu updates. Situation Rooms, Pandemic Watch Centers, and The Pandemic Truth Zone,” she said.

“Up to the minute pandemic information for the whole family,” he said in an overly serious voice.

“Any sign of the kids?” she asked.

“I peeked in to check on them. Ryan is buried in his covers, no sign of life. Emily’s covers were pulled back, so she could roll down at any time. Did you call your office?”

“Yep. I told them I had diarrhea and a fever, and that I’d work on my files from home. Your diarrhea angle really works,” she laughed.

“Yeah, something about the possibility of dirtying in your pants or blowing out the office bathroom really cuts down on the questions. Nobody wants to be around someone with diarrhea, and they certainly don’t want to catch the diarrhea bug. That’s why you have to throw the fever in there. The fever adds the element of contagiousness to the equation. No questions asked,” he said proudly.

“I’ll have to take over the home office and work the rest of the morning. Maybe we can take a ride to the beach with the kids after lunch,” she suggested.

“If they wake up by lunch.”

Alex heard his smartphone ringing and realized that he’d left it in the office. He got up from his stool at the kitchen island and started toward the staircase.

“That might be Mike. He threw a fit during the teleconference. Really out of character for him. He’s usually a cool customer, even during the worst of Ted’s ideas.”

“Have fun,” she said.

“As always,” he replied.

Chapter 12

Sunlight poured into the great room from several oversized windows facing the backyard and the northeastern side of the house. Alex lounged on the couch, watching the HHS press conference. Assistant Deputy Director Paul Harding was already fielding questions from the press.

Walking into the room Kate asked, “Did I miss anything?”

“Yeah, HHS just announced their partnership with Roche to help combat the pandemic. I’ll bet their stock is going through the roof.”

“What is HHS doing with the samples?”

“Apparently they’re augmenting the Strategic National Stockpile. But you know the government, the samples could sit in warehouses for months, not being used while people die. As much as I hated violating a company directive, I really believe the samples I gave to Dr. Wright will save lives.”

“I didn’t hear anything about Biosphere,” Kate remarked.

Before Alex could comment, his smartphone rang. He checked the caller ID and froze, staring at the display. Ted.

“Are you gonna answer that, or—” She stopped when she saw the look of anguish on his face. “Ted?” she asked.

He nodded his head, wincing.

“Can you take the call in the study? I’d like to watch the rest of this,” she said in an overly unsympathetic tone, trying to force a little black humor into the situation.

“Great. Some wife I have,” he said, barely smiling. He got up from the couch and let the call go to voicemail. “I’ll check his message, then call him back. It would be nice to gage his tone before speaking with him,” he said and left the great room.

Kate called him back, “Honey?”

Alex poked his head around the corner.

“Good luck. I know this won’t be an easy call. Just stay calm, and let the cards fall where they fall. Let him do most of the talking. You already know your position. You really don’t need to explain anything to him. You did the right thing. If he gets out of hand, tell him to call you back when he’s feeling better.”

“Thanks, hon. That sounds like a better approach than the one I was formulating,” he said.

While Alex crossed the mudroom, his phone beeped twice, indicating that a message waited on his voicemail. He closed the door to the study and checked his voicemail. Ted’s message was short. “Alex, please call me immediately.” He auto-dialed Ted’s number; Ted picked up on the second ring.

“Ted Stanton,” he answered.

“Hey, Ted, it’s Alex. I got your message,” he said.

“Yes, I had a question that I figured you could resolve. After the teleconference, I logged into the manager’s database to take a quick look at inventories to gauge how much each of you should pack up for the trip down to Massachusetts. Anyway, I was cycling the records, and I saw that your inventory was empty. Something must be wrong with the system again. I just wanted to touch base with you to confirm that this was a mistake, before I call headquarters and start to raise hell with administration. I don’t want the system to create the false impression that we rolled down to Mass. without…you know, the maximum ammo load out.”

He contemplated his options. Lying to Ted would get him off the hook, at least until tomorrow morning, when Ted found out that he didn’t show up in Lawrence. It was also likely that he’d receive an alert message from the samples management division today, exposing the lie. Alex was convinced that all sample transactions would be flagged due to the moratorium placed on giving TerraFlu samples to physicians. Mostly, he didn’t relish the idea of lying, under any circumstance.

“Actually, Ted, the database is correct. I gave my entire sample allotment to the head of the Infectious Disease Department at Maine Medical Center. Dr. Wright, from Maine Coast Internal Medicine.”

“That’s a…ah, that’s a good one, Alex,” Ted replied.

Alex detected a mix of hope and doubt in Ted’s voice, leaning heavily toward doubt.

“Seriously, Ted, he asked me for samples last Friday, and I couldn’t refuse him. His department is best positioned to distribute those samples for optimal use against the Jakarta flu in the greater Portland area, and probably most of Maine. His argument was convincing, given—”

“More convincing than a direct order from the company to halt all, and I repeat, all sample transactions? Are you kidding me? Do you know what you’ve done?” he screamed into the phone.

“Yes, it was much more convincing. Morally, a better thing to do with the samples.”

“Morals? This isn’t about morals! This is about failing to follow direct company guidance. My guidance, you…you have no idea how this is going to look. You know what, you know what…I wash my hands of this. You’ve been a pain in the ass from the beginning. Since day one, you’ve made this job hard for me. And I never wanted to hire you in the first place. I’m reporting this immediately to the regional manager. We’ll see how much longer you’re around. I don’t think you realize how important these samples are to the company and to the ongoing negotiations with the government regarding a partnership—”

“You know, I just watched the HHS teleconference, and they announced a sweeping relationship with Roche Pharmaceuticals. I don’t think the government really cares about a relationship with Biosphere, and frankly, neither do I. Is there anything else, Ted? I don’t plan to be on this call much longer,” Alex replied, feeling flush.

“Be prepared to answer to the regional manager, human resources, everyone, for this. I’m making a few calls, and then I’m heading to Portland to confirm that your storage locker is empty. I’ll expect you to meet me there to open the locker.”

“I won’t be available for that, Ted. You’re authorized to access my storage locker. You know that, or at least you should. It’s on the rental agreement for the storage facility. I plan to be available by phone, and that’s about it. I don’t want to take any chances with the flu out there, you know. You live a little too close to Boston for my comfort.”

“You will show up when and where I tell you to show up, or I’ll report that too,” he asserted.

“That sounds good, Ted. I’ll talk to you later,” he said and started to move the phone away from his ear. He heard Ted talking loudly and put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, I missed that.”

“I said that you better not fail to show up tomorrow morning in Lawrence,” he barked.

“Or you’ll report me? Sounds good, Ted,” he repeated, before ending the call.

He deactivated the ring tone and switched the phone to vibrate, knowing Ted would probably place several more calls in an attempt to get the last word. Ted always insisted on the last word, at meetings, teleconferences, phone calls, and holiday parties. Probably read about it in one of the dozens of business leadership guru books he sickeningly cited on a regular basis. He could see the chapter in his mind: “Effective leadership tactic #45, Getting the Last Word.” He laughed out loud at the thought and sipped his coffee, trying to settle his rattled nerves. Jeopardizing his career was not on his checklist for survival, but he knew he had to do the right thing for the people of Maine, his neighbors and his family.

Buzzzzzz. He slouched in the chair and held the phone up to eye level. Yep. Ted S. For just a moment, Alex was tempted to answer the phone.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Not great, but not bad. He started to flip out, so I cut the call short.”

“I’m sure he appreciated that.”

His phone started to vibrate again, giving Alex a jolt.

“Yeah. That’s call number two since I hung up. Did I miss anything good?” he asked.

“Ah, not really. So what do you think will happen with your job now?” Kate asked, shifting the subject.

“Well, I figure they’ll fire me, especially when I don’t show up down in Massachusetts tomorrow, but who knows?”

“That’s asinine. Shifting all of you down there.”

“I know, believe me. The only thing I don’t know is how long it’ll take to get rid of me. I bet it’ll be pretty quick.”

“I’m glad we have some money saved up for this. I feel bad for the people who can’t quit their jobs. I can’t imagine how all the people who have little savings and must go to work are doing. It must be heart wrenching for them to leave their families every day, risking exposure just to financially survive.”

“I know. We’re very fortunate,” said Alex.

“And fortunate to have each other,” said Kate hugging him.

Alex’s smartphone buzzed again, dancing on the granite surface. He leaned over the phone to check the display and then shook his head as he looked at Kate.

“Again?” she asked.

“You know it. He’ll keep at this for a while. He hasn’t left a message yet, which tells me he really doesn’t have anything constructive to say.”

Chapter 13

The sun was low on the horizon, preparing for its rapid plunge below the western skyline, but the day was still warm, carrying a comfortable southwesterly breeze through the screened windows. Alex savored the pleasant draft blowing through his office, knowing that a similar breeze might not push through the house again until mid-May.

He watched as Jamie McDaniels’ white Volvo Cross-Country station wagon pulled into the driveway across the street. She stopped the car short of the left bay door, as her two girls, Amanda and Katherine, poured out of the right rear door of the wagon. Jamie usually picked them up from after-school care and arrived home about an hour earlier than her husband Matt.

Her husband would arrive around five thirty, after a series of school administrative meetings. Matt McDaniel was the newly hired principal for the ailing Portland High School. Because of their close contact with the schools, especially Falmouth, Alex and Kate considered the McDaniels’ household to be at high risk. They planned to watch the McDaniel household very closely.

Kate yelled up the stairs. “Your phone is buzzing again. 860 area code. Why don’t you just turn it off if you’re not going to answer it? It’s starting to drive me nuts down here!”

Walking downstairs to Kate he could smell the warm shampoo-scented air funneling out of the bathroom.

“I’ll just put it in my office. I want to keep tabs on who’s calling. 860 is Hartford, I think. Could be the regional office.”

Kate stood in the kitchen holding his phone up to her ear, apparently talking to someone.

“No, I believe what he was trying to say is he will no longer do your bidding… Yes…Yes, I understand your position, but his hasn’t changed.”

Alex was momentarily stunned, standing at the end of the banister.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he pleaded, and she started to laugh.

“You know I would never do anything like that,” she said.

“Uh, I wouldn’t put it past you. Let’s just leave it at that,” he replied, snatching the phone from his wife and giving her a playful kiss.

“Where’s Emily?” he asked.

“She’s out on the picnic table with some books,” she replied.

Alex took a few steps away from the stairs and glanced out into the backyard. Dressed in brown pants and a light blue hooded sweatshirt, Emily sat at the picnic table with an open book.

“Hey, hon, if one of our kids is going to be out of the house, one of us should be with them. At least, really close by. I don’t think it’s a problem right now, and please don’t think I’m picking on you for any reason. I just think they need to get used to the idea of a more restrictive environment, and I’d feel more comfortable if we directly managed their contact outside of the house,” he said, cringing.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that being confined to the yard is not restrictive. I told her she had to stay in the yard, and I explained to her that if any of her friends came over, she needed to come tell me, so I could handle the situation. I think the rules are adequate.”

“I wasn’t implying that her being out there alone is wrong, I’m just saying that when the schools close, every kid on the block is going to be home, with nothing to do, and many of them with parents that still don’t fully grasp what is happening. We’ll need to be all over our kids.”

“I was keeping a close eye on her from the kitchen, but you’re right,” she conceded, looking out at Emily.

“Let’s see who called from 860,” he said and dialed his voicemail.

As he listened to the message, Ryan walked into the kitchen and sat with Kate at the table. Alex caught Kate’s glance and shook his head.

“Regional manager,” he called out across the kitchen, disappearing into the mudroom. Sitting in his favorite seat, he sat back deeply in the leather chair, and took in its rich smell while trying to calm himself for the call to Michelle Harke.

“Hi, Anna, this is Alex Fletcher up in Portland, Maine. I just received a call from Michelle indicating that she wanted me to call her immediately,” he said.

“Oh hi, Alex. Yes, she just let me know. I’ll put you through to her,” Anna said, her tone not indicating any knowledge of the issue at hand.

“Hey, Alex, thank you for calling me back so quickly,” Michelle answered.

He could read nothing from her tone, but Michelle had always been difficult to read. On the surface, she projected a warm, semi-casual approach to her job, but her word choice betrayed a business-only hardwiring that he never trusted.

“No problem at all, Michelle,” he responded.

“Ted told me that you depleted your sample inventory on Friday, which baffles me considering the amount of direction sent to representatives regarding the disposition of field samples. I know that all of the district managers communicated the no-sampling policy to their reps, and I know that headquarters reinforced and explained the policy via email. I didn’t think there could be any confusion about the policy, but clearly there might have been a miscommunication. Can you help me with this one?”

“I’m not sure I’m going to make this any easier for you, or maybe I will. There was no confusion about the direction. I just chose to ignore it and provide all of my samples to the head of the Infectious Disease Department at Maine Medical Center. As I told Ted, I felt a moral imperative to put the samples into his hands, and not let them sit around my storage locker—waiting for the next round of doomed negotiations between Biosphere and the government.”

“I guess I still don’t understand, especially given your military background. You’re saying that the direction was clear, but you chose to disregard the policy anyway? To disobey a direct order?”

Alex detected a shift in her tone. Although her corporate central processor gave her away after a few seconds of talking, her use of a condescending rhetorical question completely stripped away the camouflage. He expected the phone call to deteriorate from this point forward, not that it really started on anything he would consider a high point.

“Yes, I think that sums it up,’ he said, suppressing a desire to engage her sarcastically.

“Well, Alex, I’m having a tough time with this one. My first instinct is to let you go immediately, but the company is committed to maximizing the effectiveness and impact of the PRP. So—”

“PRP? I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Pandemic Redeployment Program,” she clarified.

“Got it. Moving us to Massachusetts.”

“Right. As I was saying, because of Biosphere’s commitment to this program, I don’t think this would be a good time to weaken our sales force by lowering the head count,” she said.

“You mean like firing me?” he asked.

“Well, yes. Under any other circumstances, I would initiate separation procedures, but Ted said that you seemed to fully support the PRP initiative, which surprised him since you routinely undermine his authority.”

“He thought I was on board because I didn’t say much about it during this morning’s teleconference. Everyone else beat me to it. Anyway, I feel really bad about dragging this out, so let me make this easy for everyone. I have no intention of abandoning my family during the pandemic and relocating to Massachusetts, even temporarily. I don’t really plan to leave my house until this whole thing has cleared up. So, would it be easier for the company if I just resigned?”

The line remained silent for a few seconds.

“Is that what you want to do?” she asked.

“Yes, I would like to resign my position. Right now. It doesn’t make any sense to continue this relationship. Do I need to send a letter to anyone? Or do anything officially?”

“No. I will initiate resignation procedures, and we should have you closed out in a few days. Ted will contact you with the details and a close out checklist,” she stated.

“At least the inventory should go smoothly,” Alex added, unable to resist.

“This might not be such a laughing matter to you after legal takes a closer look at your actions. I’ve already brought the matter to their attention, and between you and me, I don’t plan to let this slip away,” she warned.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. A legitimate sample transaction to a licensed physician. Head of the Infectious Disease Department, no less. I’m not worried. Thanks for taking this personally though,” he said, feeling the blood rise to his face.

“We’ll just let the lawyers figure that out. I’m sure they’ll find something, and we’ll be sure to help them along.”

Michelle’s parting comment broke down his remaining sarcasm barrier.

“Well, you’d better tell them not to drag out their investigation. I’d be willing to bet that in a few weeks, most of them will either be dead or hooked up to a ventilator somewhere in the greater New York metro area, if they’re lucky. Good luck avoiding the flu.”

He disconnected the call, initially satisfied with his retort. However satisfaction quickly dissolved into a bittersweet disappointment for having descended low enough to invoke such a ghastly image and wish.

Stepping into the garage he walked out onto the driveway and squinted, immediately hit with blinding rays of sunlight. It felt great to be outside, even if it was only to check the mail. Ed pulled into his driveway, just as Alex got to the bottom of the driveway.

“Hey, Ed. You’re home a little early,” yelled Alex, waving.

“Yeah, Samantha is running late at the firm, so I figured I’d grab some Chinese on the way to pick up the kids,” he said, walking over to Alex. “What about you guys? Abby said that Emily wasn’t in school, and Chloe didn’t see Ryan.”

“We’ve decided to keep the kids out of school until we’re sure what’s going on with the flu. Based on what we’re seeing, I imagine they’re going to close the schools at some point this week. But they’ll wait till the flu is already in the schools before making that call.”

Alex saw from Ed’s expression that he was seriously contemplating what he had just said.

“I wonder if I could shift to working from my home office and keep the kids home. I’d hate to take any chances with them at school. But…I don’t know if I could pull that off. I still have to meet with clients…or I could reschedule for later…I don’t know. Do you really think the schools are going to close? HHS officials sound pretty confident that this won’t get out of control,” he said.

“I wouldn’t count on it. Based on several unbiased projections from other organizations, the number of cases in the U.S. will exceed 2008’s total by the middle of next week. We’re really concerned,” Alex said.

“I’ll have to talk to Sam about it. I know she can’t work from home.”

“Well, if I were you guys—” Alex started.

“This can’t be good,” Ed interrupted jokingly.

“Oh, it’s not. If I were you, I’d get your home office gig rolling and keep the kids home. Then, I would have your wife call in sick with flu-like symptoms. You can wait a few days for this, just make sure Sam is really careful out there, avoiding public places, washing hands a lot, watching everyone around her. By the time she calls in sick, there’ll be enough cases out there that no one will question her not going into the office.”

“It’s not a matter of being questioned. She can take the next month off if she wants. She still has to meet her billable hours by the end of the year, or she loses money and looks bad as a partner.”

“I know. Kate has the same issue. In a few weeks, this flu is going to jam things up pretty good, and nobody’s going to be worried about billable hours, year-end bonuses, or client meetings. The next few weeks will be critical. Hey, if we’re wrong, then everything goes back to normal.”

“What’s Kate doing?”

“She called in sick, but told them she would work as much as she could from home. She can access most of her work from our office, so her firm shouldn’t care.”

“What about you? How long can you hide out? Didn’t you say they track all of your transactions with that computer thing?” Ed asked.

“They can. However…it won’t matter since I resigned a few minutes ago. Things were getting crazy with them. They wanted me to drive down to Lawrence tomorrow to boost the sales force there. I checked online this afternoon and the Lawrence/Andover area has been hit by a sizable outbreak of the Jakarta flu. Upwards of a thousand confirmed cases in northeast Massachusetts, probably more. Lawrence General, Lowell General, and a few other bigger hospitals are taking most of the cases. Biosphere is sending nearly all of the Maine reps down there, probably New Hampshire and Vermont reps, too. Indefinitely. I told them to go pack sand. There is no way, I was going to sacrifice myself for Biosphere’s bottom line.”

“Sorry, man. That’s rough,” Ed said.

“Actually, I feel kinda relieved. Biosphere was nothing like my last company. Things were dicey from the beginning. I have some good contacts at other companies for when this flu thing dies down. I’ll be fine.”

“So, I assume you guys are all set over there,” he said, nodding with a gesture toward Alex’s house.

“I think so. The kids are gonna be the biggest challenge, and possibly some of the neighbors,” Alex replied, looking around at the houses on their side of the loop. “Who knows how this’ll go down? What about you guys? You’re all set, right?”

“I think so. We have a decent amount of food stored up in the basement. Sam and I stocked up on canned food for a couple months after you guys scared the shit out of us with the swine flu, but that pretty much fizzled out. I’m not sure how long all of our stuff will last, but I think we have the basics covered. Our stove is propane and I have plenty of wood for the fireplace.”

“You should move that into your garage or basement. How much do you guys have?”

“I had a half a cord left from last year, and I just had them deliver another cord in September, which we probably don’t need. We just never seem to get around to making a fire. Shit. I really don’t want to move the wood into the garage. That’ll be a massive pain in the ass.”

“I know. I still have another cord or so to go. It’s a real chore for sure. Still, I wouldn’t leave it outside. Not if this thing takes a turn for the worse,” Alex cautioned.

“You’re probably right,” Ed said.

“Every once in a while I’m right.”

“Not according to Kate. Anyway, we should be good. We grabbed plenty of groceries for the next couple of weeks. We should be fine.”

Alex looked at Ed. “If you guys need anything, let me know. Seriously. Food, medical supplies, whatever. I don’t think we’re gonna have the luxury of running out to the stores for very long.”

“Thanks, Alex. It definitely makes me feel more secure about this whole thing. I just hope it all blows over.”

“You and me both,” Alex replied.

“Hey, I gotta get these kids settled in the house.”

“Have a good one, Ed.”

“You too.”

Alex walked up to the mailbox and opened the door, pulling out a handful of assorted mail: two magazines, bills, maybe a birthday invitation for one of the kids, advertisements. He looked at the mail and wondered exactly who, beyond their postal carrier, had touched these items. Mail from several different parts of the country, each piece touched by at least a half dozen different people. Finally, the postal carrier, who handled every piece of mail in the Fletchers’ mailbox, opened the mailbox door, and lowered the orange delivery flag. Dozens of points of contact. All of this now transferred onto Alex’s hands, as he closed the door and walked back to the house with the mail.

He decided that from this point forward, they’d wear gloves when they collected the mail and then sort it in the garage, leaving it there for a few more days to make sure it was safe.

He walked into the house, straining not to touch his face, which for some reason was nearly impossible to resist. The hot water hissed in the mudroom bathroom as he scoured his hand thoroughly. Then he thought about the doorknobs, garage door button, and faucet handles, that in theory, he just contaminated on his way in.

Walking into the kitchen, he commented to Kate, “Another stir-fry, super.”

“We have to use up the fresh veggies, especially the peppers. No sense in letting anything go bad,” she said.

“I wasn’t complaining,” he said.

“Yes, you were.”

“I’ll be down to help in a few minutes. I want to see what’s new on Facebook.”

“See you in an hour,” she said, winking at him.

“Funny. I won’t be long,” he said.

Once in his office, Alex jarred the computer out of standby and read several articles, which stated that the super flu was far more contagious than anyone had previous thought. It was also spreading faster than any of the predictions, because individual people shed the virus quicker than ever seen with any other flue virus. This sort of infection rate would make being in public extremely dangerous. Individuals who appear well could be actively shedding the virus without showing symptoms, infecting entire offices, offices, stores and places of worship. The death rate of those infected climbed to one in three, affecting the healthiest people the hardest. One sentence stood out in the sea of articles he reviewed.

Strict quarantine and social distancing strategies will be critical to mitigating the spread of this disease.”

“This is not good,” he mumbled, before heading downstairs to help Kate finish dinner.

Chapter 14

Alex led the last stretch of the run down Harrison Road, keeping a quick pace for the last half-mile of the run. The beach loop already carried them five miles, emptying onto Higgins Beach about halfway through their run. Alex loved this route, especially breaking out into the fresh ocean air. Occasionally, when the winds were off the ocean and conditions were just perfect, the same unmistakable traces of salt air filled their neighborhood.

Ryan led the first half of their run, setting an unsustainable speed—for himself. Despite young legs and seemingly boundless energy, Alex was pretty sure that the middle school cross-country team’s practice runs didn’t exceed four miles. Five at the most—and only occasionally. Figuring Ryan would hit a brick wall early, he took over the lead and slowed them down a notch. He hadn’t heard any complaints.

Ryan still looked upright and strong, keeping pace with his dad. They were close enough to home for him to pick up the pace. Only about a quarter of a mile, with a nasty little hill right before the turn into Durham Road.

He yelled back to Ryan, “Ready to pick it up for the hill?”

“Let’s do it,” his son yelled back.

Alex quickened the pace and lengthened his stride. The increased pace felt good, almost purifying, though he was glad that the burst of speed would come to an end within a few minutes. He could already see the turn onto Durham Road. Only a short, brutal hill stood in their way. They hit the hill, and his legs started to burn. His son kept pace, with a similarly anguished look on his face.  Alex’s heart thumped against his ribcage as they reached the top of the hill and turned onto Durham Road.

“Let’s loop around a few times for a warm down,” he grunted to Ryan.

“Sounds good to me, Dad,” he replied, sounding a lot less worn down than Alex.

His heart rate slowed down as they approached the fork in Durham Road, where he planned to lead them to the left. However, he glanced down the street toward their house and saw two Foresters in their driveway. His garage bay door was open, and the Forester directly in front of the bay was red, which led him to believe the car was his own company car—but he couldn’t see far enough into the garage to be completely sure. The Forester parked behind his car was black. Alex picked up the pace again and turned right, toward his house.

“What’s up, Dad?” Ryan asked, pulling up to him.

“I don’t know, but…hey, when we get home, I want you to stay clear of anyone you don’t recognize. All right?” he said, hauling past the Perry’s house, still two houses away from his own.

“Okay. What’s going on?” his son asked, keeping pace.

“I’m not sure, but this could be my boss, and he’s a real jerk, so just stay in the backyard. Okay?”

“Yep.”

Alex suddenly slowed down to a walk right in front of the Walkers’, wanting to slow his heart rate before he ran into Ted. If it’s Ted. Just as he finished this thought, he heard the unmistakable sound of his wife yelling. She sounded frantic. Alex sprinted ahead, yelling back to Ryan.

“Backyard!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Alex ran between the two cars, noticing Massachusetts plates on the black Forester.

“Get out of here, right now! Don’t you dare touch me!”

Kate’s screams could be heard as he rushed up to the mudroom door. A large man dressed in tight khaki pants and an even tighter blue polo shirt moved from inside the mudroom to block the door. The man’s biceps strained against the armholes of his shirt. Despite the smart outfit, Alex immediately categorized him as hired muscle.

Ted. I’ll kill him.

His wife continued to verbally assault someone deeper inside the house as he walked briskly toward the door. The man in the doorway looked alarmed.

“I think he’s here,” the man yelled back into the house.

“Stay right there, everything is fine,” he said, pointing at Alex.

He was still breathing heavily from the run, sweat pouring from his face, and wished that this encounter had occurred under different circumstances. He knew that he was running on pure adrenaline, and that it would soon run out.

“Alex! Get these jerks out of our house,” Kate yelled from the kitchen.

He suppressed his fury, and the urge to charge through the guy at the door. He decided to try a different strategy.

I just need to get into the house.

“Hi, I’m Alex,” he said, closing the distance with his hand out.

“Jeff,” the man responded, shaking his hand with a bewildered look.

Alex purposely gave him an excessively firm handshake and backed up a few feet, folding his hands in front to assume a non-threatening posture.

He heard his wife yell out to him. “Alex, where are you? These jerks have been all over the house!”

“Jeff, do you see any reason why I can’t come inside and help calm my wife? She sounds pretty frantic, and quite frankly, she’s not exactly stable. I really need to get in there,” he said calmly.

Just get me in there, so I can break Ted’s neck.

“Uh…I don’t really…”

Kate suddenly appeared in the mudroom. “I’ve got another meathead in the kitchen standing guard over me. Ted is searching the basement. Who do these—”

A massive hand connected to a huge, tattooed forearm extended from the kitchen into the mudroom and grabbed Kate’s right arm.

She shook loose of the grip. “Get your hands off me.” She flashed a faint smile at him as the other man stepped into the mudroom.

“Take it easy,” he barked at her, turning his head toward Alex.

The man was not as tall as the guy playing bouncer, but was clearly cut from the same mold. His muscles bulged through the khaki pants and blue polo. He had a thick goatee and a tattoo at the base of his neck, by his right shoulder, and both of them sported crew cuts. He stopped trying to grab Kate and walked a few steps toward the door. Alex noticed that he had two pouches attached to his belt. One looked like it could house a multi-tool, or knife; the other pouch was bigger. Pepper spray canister. He noted the same set-up on the guy at the door.

“Your woman is out of control. You’d better do something about her before she gets hurt.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do. May I calm her down?” Alex asked.

“Be my guest,” he said, nodding to the guy at the door.

So he’s the leader of team meathead.

He stepped through the doorway, inching past the bouncer’s chest, staring at him intensely. The guy’s expression changed almost imperceptibly, but Alex saw it. The guy had just realized that they shouldn’t have let him in until their job was done. Alex intended to prove him right. He walked up to Kate and hugged her.

“How long have they been here?” he asked, moving her into the kitchen and noticing that all of his computer equipment sat on top of the kitchen island, along with Ted’s briefcase and a few inventory sheets.

“About ten minutes. They pushed through the door and searched most of the house for your company equipment. They’ve been in our bedroom, your office, the kids’ rooms. Third floor. Everywhere.”

“Is Emily all right?” he asked, feeling his anger almost boil over at the thought of these guys barging into their little girl’s room.

“She’s fine. Really freaked out, but fine. They poked their heads in and left when they saw her. I told her everything’s fine and to lock the door,” she said, clutching him tightly as the leader walked into the kitchen.

“Are you all right? Did any of them touch you, beyond the obvious case of criminal assault that I saw in the mudroom?” he asked, emphasizing the point for the tattooed guy standing with his arms crossed near the open door to the basement.

“They pushed through me at the door, and this guy’s been trying to manhandle me ever since they got here,” she hissed, glowering at the guy.

“Hey, I’m just doing my job here, and she’s been out’a control. Pushing my buttons…she’s lucky,” the tattooed guy remarked.

“Lucky about what? That she just had three idiots break into her house and assault her? Just doing your job ain’t gonna cut it when they come to serve the warrant for your arrest,” Alex said, letting go of Kate.

“Where’s the king dummy?” he asked Kate, getting a laugh out of her.

“He’s still in the basement,” she said, and they both heard footsteps ascending the basement stairs.

“Hey, Carl? We’re going to need to bust open a door down here. I think that’s where all the samples are hidden. It has two separate locks and—”

Ted entered the kitchen and saw Alex. He looked surprised. Alex whispered to Kate, who walked toward the great room.

“Hi, Ted. Looks like you have everything you need here, so where do I sign? I’d like to conclude this transaction in less than two minutes, and I’d like to conclude it in the driveway, so please issue the appropriate orders to your crew of Neanderthals. Right now!” he snapped, taking a few steps toward Ted.

Carl unfolded his arms and cocked his head at Alex.

“Wait a minute right there, Alex. I have every right to be here. Company policy. I am required to make a visual search of your residence to check for any product literature or company property.”

“Let me get this straight, Ted. Somehow, Biofuck’s company policy trumps the Fourth Amendment? Don’t worry, Carl, I don’t think Ted knows what I’m talking about either, so I’ll explain. If the police can’t search my house without a warrant issued by a judge, why the hell do you think that Bioshit’s company policy gives you and your buddies here a free pass to break into my house and search it? Carl, I don’t think you’ve thought this through very well. You guys are breaking the law, and probably probation from the looks of you…”

“That’s enough with the jokes, pretty boy,” Carl snarled.

“Ted. Get the fuck out of my house. Now!” Alex yelled.

“I’m not going anywhere until you open the locked door in your basement. Nobody believes your fabricated sample transaction to Maine Med. I know you have it all hidden down there so you can sell it later. Don’t even for one minute—”

“Ted! Get out!”

Alex started walking behind the kitchen island to reach the cordless phone. Carl moved along the other side of the island.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.

Alex understood why; the phone was sitting in front of the knife rack.

“I’m just grabbing the phone to dial 911,” he said, swiping the phone from the counter.

Carl moved his hand away from the pepper spray pouch.

“Last warning, guys. Get that out of here, and—”

“Carl, I am required to see that room. If he won’t open it, then we’re going to force it open,” Ted squeaked from across the kitchen.

“Are you kidding me, Ted? Hold on. Let me make this call, so the police can be here when you and your soon to be cell mates are smashing down the door. I’ll be sure to mail you some lipstick, Ted. You’ve gotta look pretty for the guys. Right, Carl?” Alex taunted, walking back toward the great room with the phone.

Alex noticed a strong breeze blowing into the house from the open patio door.

“I’m busting that door down and putting those samples back into the regional inventory,” Ted said, with spittle flying from his mouth.

“The samples are gone, Ted. Gone. And now, I’d like for you to be gone. Last warning!” he warned, walking through the great room to the other doorway spilling into the foyer.

Alex stood at the foot of the stairs and watched Jeff appear in front of the island next to Carl. Jeff didn’t look comfortable with the situation. Next to the two behemoths, Ted looked pathetic. Carl’s forearms looked bigger than Ted’s neck.

“Gentlemen, I have a phone call to make. I expect all of you to be gone when I get back down. And take all of that shit out with you,” he said, pointing to the equipment behind them.

As he walked up the stairs, he heard them arguing in the kitchen. He heard Jeff ask if it was a good idea for Alex to be going upstairs.

No, Jeff, it’s not a good idea at all for the three of you.

He reached the top of the stairs and Kate poked her head out of Emily’s room. “Are they leaving?” she asked.

Alex saw that she was scared. “I don’t know. They’re arguing about whether to break into the storeroom downstairs. He thinks all of the samples I gave to Dr. Wright are hidden down there, and he thinks I’m going to open up a stand on the corner of our street and sell them or something. He’s lost it,” he said.

“But you do have some TerraFlu samples down there, right?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m not calling the police. I have a lot of drug samples down there, from several different companies. Technically, all stolen, really, so I’d rather not take any chances. I don’t know exactly what laws come into play, and I really don’t want to find out.”

He walked toward the bedroom, Kate and Emily trailing him.

“I still can’t believe they think they’re entitled to force their way into our house. Did you know they might do this?” she asked.

“I knew I’d have to inventory all of the company’s equipment with Ted, but I didn’t think they’d try to search the house. Ted looks frazzled, like he hasn’t slept in days. I’d be willing to bet that he’s taken some serious heat because of the samples. And you know what? I hope he has. Sorry about all of this, Emmie,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Dad, those guys are really creeping me out,” she said.

“I know, and I’m going to get rid of them. Sorry you had to hear all of that yelling, are you all right, sweetie?” he asked her.

“I’m fine, Daddy. I was worried about Mommy when you weren’t here. They weren’t very nice to her.”

He looked up at Kate; he could see tears forming in her eyes.

“Do you feel better now that Daddy’s here?”

“Yes,” Emily replied and hugged him.

“Good. I would never let anything happen to you or Mommy,” he assured her, looking into her eyes and smiling.

“Or Ryan?” she asked.

“Or Ryan. Hey, hon, can you take our little sweetness into the bedroom and call out to Ryan in the backyard? Just tell him to stay in the backyard, and that everything’s okay in here. I saw him stretching near the picnic table when I was on my way up the stairs. If you could do that now, I have some pressing business downstairs. I don’t think Ted will leave unless I can motivate him,” he said, still hugging Emily and giving Kate an urgent look.

“Hey, Emily, let’s make sure Ryan stays in the backyard, and we can watch some TV,” Kate said, taking Emily’s hand and walking into the bedroom.

Alex followed closely behind and slipped into the walk-in closet. He reached high up onto the shelf and pulled his Mossberg shotgun down from the top shelf. He had moved the shotgun to the closet a few days ago, late in the evening, creating a nest for it behind a long stack of sweatshirts. He took a key from a small hook along the inside of the closet door trim, opened the trigger lock on the shotgun, placed the lock on the shelf, and leaned the gun against the door frame.

He kicked off his running shoes and pulled on a pair of old, faded jeans. Slipping his shoes back on his feet, he grabbed the shotgun and moved with purpose toward the staircase. On the way, he heard the men still arguing in the kitchen. Ted’s unsettled voice, reassured him that none of them were in the basement. Alex needed them all in one place for his plan to work.

He got to the top of the stairs and stopped for a moment. The shotgun was unloaded, except for the four shells inserted into the stock’s speed loader. Alex could load the shotgun in a matter of seconds, if they called his bluff and escalated the situation—but would he? Even a justified shooting under Maine’s Castle Doctrine laws would put his family’s safety in jeopardy—and those laws were tricky. Regardless of the outcome, his house would be turned upside down with a thorough investigation, crime scene evidence processing and likely removal of his weapons. He had to smart about this, not stubborn. He didn’t have several months to simmer in jail, waiting for a decision. He’d keep the shells in the stock, just in case.

Halfway down the stairs, Ted announced that he was going to grab a sledgehammer from the garage and break down the door. Jeff protested the plan immediately. The squabble in the kitchen quieted as they realized that he was back on the ground floor of the house. His plan was to get behind them and force them out of the house. He’d prefer to drive them toward the front door and not the mudroom. By moving them toward the front door, they would be visible to him the entire time.

He assumed the sight of the shotgun would scatter them pretty quickly, especially Ted, though he was slightly concerned about Carl. Carl struck him as fearless, and Alex wouldn’t be surprised if Carl called his bluff. All of these thoughts floated through his head as he rounded the great room corner and confronted the bickering trio.

“I agree with Jeff. I think you should all leave. Right now,” he said in a conversational tone, keeping the shotgun pointed at the floor.

Jeff spotted the shotgun first. “Take it easy, dude, we’re on our way out,” he said, raising his hands in front of him.

Ted’s eyes widened to fill his glasses. Carl immediately put his right hand down to his pepper spray pouch, as Ted gasped and fell back into Carl. Ted hit Carl’s solid chassis and stopped. Carl pushed him aside with his free hand, knocking him into the wall. The impact of Ted’s body knocked loose a framed picture from the wall. It became lodged between Ted and the wall. Ted caught the frame and lowered it to the ground behind him, unbroken, never taking his eyes off Alex.

Alex moved into the dining area, swiftly putting the kitchen island between him and the men. He raised the shotgun above the level of the island’s granite surface to keep it visible, but did not point the weapon at any of them; instead keeping it pointed toward the mudroom, hoping to dissuade them from moving in that direction.

“That’s not exactly a good instinct you have there, Carl. Sudden moves and shotguns? Not a good idea at all.”

They watched him intensely. Carl wore a look of sheer hatred, which worried Alex. He looked like the type of guy that didn’t make good decisions. Ted looked paralyzed, which wasn’t ideal either. He had hoped that Ted would order them out of the house at the sight of the shotgun, but it appeared that he was no longer in control of either himself or the other men. Jeff showed a composed fear, edging toward the front door, which slightly eased Alex’s concerns about the situation.

“Jeff seems like the brains of this operation, so I recommend you all follow his lead and head out the front door. I’ll place all of this equipment on the walkway, and then Ted and I can finish the inventory, while the two of you wait in the car. I’ll leave the shotgun inside. Let’s go. Out the front door…now,” he snarled.

Ted finally managed to speak; his voice cracked. “This is legitimate company business, and you have no right to point a gun at us. I don’t—”

“I haven’t pointed a gun at anyone. Right, Jeff? I just wanted to show off my brand new shotgun to a couple of firearms enthusiasts. And regarding all of this as being legitimate? Give me a break, Ted. I’m sure Michelle wouldn’t approve of your plan to bust down doors with a stolen sledgehammer. Then again, she’s out of her skull, too. Keep walking, all of you,” he said firmly, moving around the side of the island to herd them toward the door.

Carl’s eyes burned a hole in Alex’s face, and his hand was still defiantly placed on the pepper spray pouch. All three of them continued moving down the hallway to the foyer. Jeff reached the door first and opened the glass storm door.

“Jeff, could you press the button down there to keep the door open?” Alex requested.

Jeff nodded and pushed the button on the bottom hydraulic closer with his foot. He let go of the door, and it stayed open for Ted and Carl.

“You know, it was Michelle’s idea to hire these guys. She was pretty pissed at you. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted,” Ted told him smugly.

“Then you’re both fucking idiots, Ted,” Alex said.

Both Carl and Ted exited the house and started walking down the walkway, toward the driveway. Jeff was well ahead of them, almost at Ted’s car. Carl was walking away, still watching Alex, his hand still on the pepper spray case. Alex placed the shotgun against the wall on the inside of the house and stepped out onto the rough granite block steps. Carl covertly flipped open the cap on the pepper spray, staring at Alex and slowing his walk.

“Bad idea, Carl. Bad idea. Ted, I want you to pull your car into the street. I don’t want these guys on my property. Carl here has a death wish. I’ll start loading the gear onto the porch when these two are off my property,” Alex said, stepping halfway into the house and keeping his eyes fixed on Carl’s enraged face.

“We’ll just have ourselves a nice talk with the cops about your shotgun,” Carl yelled.

“Oh, I didn’t bother to call the police, Carl,” Alex said.

“What the…you said…?”

“That I was calling 911? Nope. Keep moving or the next town official on the scene will be the coroner.”

Alex watched as Ted moved both cars onto the street. Carl took a seat on the hood of Alex’s former company car and lit a cigarette from a pack he pulled from his back pocket. Jeff stood behind Ted’s car, keeping an eye on the front door of the house. Momentarily satisfied that Carl didn’t plan to charge the house, Alex stepped back inside to grab the gear off the kitchen island.

He called up the stairs to Kate. “Hey, hon?”

“Yeah? Are they gone?” she yelled from the bedroom.

“Yeah, they’re outside waiting,” he said. He could hear her walking down the upstairs hallway, saw her appear at the top of the stairs, and shiver.

“Wow, that’s a chilly breeze. No more T-shirts, huh?” she said.

“Hey, the guys are out of the house. What’s Emily up to?” he asked.

“She’s watching the Disney Channel in our room.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She got really worried when I was downstairs alone with those idiots.”

He glanced back outside. Carl looked relaxed on the hood of the car. Ted was standing next to Jeff, looking over some paperwork on the hood of Ted’s car.

“Let’s get Ryan inside and upstairs. I’m gonna carry all of the computer stuff outside and sign whatever papers I need to sign to get them out of here. I’m really sorry about all this. I had no idea this would happen. Unreal.”

“Unreal is right,” she whispered, walking down the stairs to call Ryan inside. She walked to the sliding screen door and called him into the house.

Alex checked on the guys again. All in the same places. Good. He walked into the kitchen and picked up the laser printer, walked it over to the open door, and placed it on the walkway in front of the granite steps. I’m really going to miss that printer. Ryan walked up to him as he returned for the rest of the gear.

“Everything okay, Dad?” he asked before he spotted the shotgun leaning against the wall next to the front door. “Whoa, what’s that for? Is it real?” he said, pushing past Alex to get a closer look.

He grabbed Ryan by the shoulder. “Don’t touch that, just head upstairs. We’ll talk about it later,” he said, putting himself between the shotgun and Ryan.

“I didn’t know we had a shotgun. What is that, a Mossberg?” he asked, peeking around Alex while backing up to the stairs.

“How do you know what a Mossberg is?”

“Modern Warfare. Whenever I use a shotgun, I like to use the Benelli because—”

“Yeah, I know, semi-automatic instead of pump,” he said, ruffling Ryan’s hair. “Get out of here. We can talk guns later.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Kate added from the kitchen. She poured a glass of water from the sink and walked past Alex by the island.

“Why don’t you all stay upstairs until these bozos are out of sight,” he suggested.

“Sounds good to me,” she said, heading for the stairs.

Kate looked out at Carl again and shook her head before walking up the stairs. Alex made three more trips, offloading the computer tablet and the rest of the peripheral equipment associated with the computer. The last item he handled was Ted’s brown leather briefcase. He assembled the paperwork sitting on the island and stuffed it into the briefcase. He picked up Ted’s cell phone from the island and started to put it into a side pouch on the briefcase, when a better idea came to mind.

He scrolled through the BlackBerry’s contacts and found the regional manager’s contact information. He selected her cell phone number and pressed send. Michelle answered on the first ring.

Perfect.

“Hey, Ted, I assume the deed is done. Did you recover the samples?” Michelle asked.

“Actually, it’s Alex. I just killed Ted and the two thugs you hired. Shot them dead in my basement and beheaded them. I’m about to bury their heads in the backyard,” he said and paused. A few seconds went by. “Are you still there, Michelle?”

“Alex? Is this some kind of a joke?” she said.

He could tell she was unsure.

“Yes, this is a joke, Michelle. I didn’t kill Ted. Or the two criminals you hired. You might want to schedule a little HR review session for Ted. Somehow, he got it into his head that he could bust into my house when I wasn’t here, have his thugs restrain my wife, and ransack the place. They assaulted my wife and scared my little girl. This could have ended very badly, Michelle,” he said and motioned for Ted to come retrieve his gear.

Ted hesitated and started to edge around the front of the car.

“Come on, man, I don’t have all day! Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. Sorry about that, Michelle. It seems that I gave Ted quite a fright. He looks a little scared,” Alex said, stepping forward from the doorway and away from the hidden shotgun.

“We should have this wrapped up in a few minutes, Michelle, then you and Ted can chat. Unless you’d like to talk with him right now?”

“No, that’s all right,” she said blankly.

“As for the samples, you can contact Dr. Wright at Maine Coast Internal Med, and see if he’d be willing to return them. Or even better, you could hire ten more meatheads like the two here and bust some heads over at Dr. Wright’s office. Hey, Ted, Michelle wants to talk to you,” he said and threw the phone to Ted, who was standing about ten feet away from him.

Ted barely caught the phone, juggling it a few times before gaining control. He put the phone to his ear.

“Michelle?” he asked and started nodding his head.

Alex could hear her yelling over the phone.

“I know, I know. No, no, everything was done by the book…look, the policy isn’t exactly clear about the verification process…no, I didn’t touch his wife…I don’t know. No, I didn’t see the…can we talk about this when I’m done here? He’s standing right here watching…yes, I’ll call you as soon as I’m on the road.” He disconnected the call and closed the phone, cursing under his breath.

“That didn’t sound like a career enhancing phone call,” Alex said, standing with his hands on his hips in front of the pile.

“At least I have a career,” Ted muttered, barely making eye contact with Alex.

“This is everything, so let’s get this over with. Where do I sign?”

Ted took the paperwork out of his briefcase, located the inventory sheet, and matched the listed items with the array of equipment sitting on the red concrete pavers.

“Looks like it’s all here,” he said, “except for the samples you stole.”

Alex walked over to sign the inventory sheet. As he started to enter the date, he caught movement in his peripheral vision and spotted Carl halfway across the front lawn, heading directly for the two of them.

Alex froze for a few seconds, unable to react, giving Carl enough ground to make it impossible for him to retreat into the house. Carl’s face was deep red, snarled in a malicious glare. His intentions were clear, so Alex pushed Ted directly into Carl’s path. Ted’s stiffened body collided with Carl, causing Carl to stumble forward, off balance. As he pitched forward, he desperately aimed the pepper spray canister in his right hand in Alex’s direction and activated the canister. Carl trampled Ted’s body as he staggered.

The direction of the spray was not accurate, and the unit shot a thick fog in his general direction, which, if better aimed, would have enveloped Alex’s entire upper body in a caustic pepper spray cloud. Instead, the majority of the blast saturated the air to Alex’s left, getting caught in the strong breeze. The wind dispersed the pepper spray fog over all three of them.

His eyes and nasal passages burned as he rushed to neutralize the threat. Carl whirled around, still focused on using the spray, which gave Alex an advantage. He slid his right arm under Carl’s right arm and reached up across his massive chest. Simultaneously, he placed his right leg behind Carl’s legs and twisted his own core to the left, toppling Carl onto his back.

Alex quickly put Carl’s pepper spray arm into an extended lock and pushed down on the elbow, creating an unbearable pressure on Carl’s shoulder. Despite the size and strength of Carl’s arm, he immediately dropped the canister.

“All right, that’s enough!” he yelled through the grass, coughing and rubbing his eyes with his other hand.

He kept Carl’s arm under pressure with one hand and picked up the pepper spray canister with the other. His hands, neck and face felt like they were on fire.

Pissed off, Alex aimed the canister at Carl’s face and released a point blank blast of pepper spray fog. The effects were immediate, as Carl groaned and started to scream. He aimed casually at Ted, who was on the ground behind Carl, and dispensed the rest of the canister. The fog enveloped Ted’s body, causing him to pound the grass and squeal.

Alex disengaged the arm lock and ran toward the open front door, tossing the canister behind him. Jeff walked slowly over to Carl and Ted, his hands in the air.

Alex closed the door and watched the scene unfold; barely able to keep his fiery eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. Jeff helped Carl back to Alex’s old Forrester, having to restrain him a few times from charging the house again. Ted continued to cry out in pain, barely rising to his knees. His hands appeared glued to his eyes. He looked pathetic; hunched over on this knees—wailing in a crumpled navy blue suit.

I hope he doesn’t have asthma. Alex could see grass stains on the chest of Ted’s blue shirt. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that to him. Now how am I going to get all of this junk off my property?

He opened the front door.

“Ted, I’d like all of this trash out of here immediately,” he said, coughing.

Alex locked the front door, checking the mudroom before lowering the garage bay. He walked across the house and stood by one of the great room windows, watching Jeff load all of the equipment into Ted’s car. Alex bet they’d have to sit there for a while—before Ted could drive again. He’d keep a close eye on them until they were gone.

Chapter 15

Alex and Kate snuggled together on the couch to watch a recording of the FBC Evening News . The anchor, Kerrie Connor, appeared on the screen alongside a large flat-screen monitor. The studio monitor showed an image of an American aircraft carrier plowing through rough seas. Alex stifled a cough and shook his head, the pepper spray still burning his lungs.

“Good evening. Tonight’s top stories: Tensions with China increase as the fate of several hundred World Health Organization health workers remains unknown. At least two more U.S. aircraft carriers and an additional battle group are dispatched to the region. At the U.N. Delegates from Germany and Australia went so far as to blame China once again for exacerbating the pandemic situation by kidnapping WHO inspectors, a reference to China’s mishandling of the 2008 avian flu pandemic.”

“Here at home, the number of flu cases continues to rise, as the CDC and the Department of Health and Human Services race to stay one step ahead of the pandemic. Earlier this afternoon, the CDC reported that the number of lab-confirmed cases in the U.S. reached thirteen thousand yesterday, only six days into the crisis.

“Shortages of food and medical supplies have caused considerable disruption throughout the nation, as most Americans hurried to the stores over the weekend to stock up on groceries and essentials. Most had to wait hours to buy groceries, or were turned away altogether.

The screen cut to a commercial, and Alex started to fast-forward past them.

“Are the kids up in the attic?” asked Kate.

“Ryan was up there on the Xbox. They’ll love the new games. I got a bunch we can all play, and a couple for Ryan and me.”

“Let me guess, Call of Duty Future Warrior and Insurgency Three?”

“You peeked,” he said flatly.

“The other games look fun, I guess, but I’d have to be really bored.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. We could be in quarantine for a long time,” Alex said and stopped fast-forwarding.

“I know. I really can’t imagine this thing blowing over in a few weeks—or even months.”

“I’m glad I can spend it with you and the kids. It could be worse,” said Alex, pulling Kate in closer.

“Me too.”

The news made Alex more nervous than he would ever admit to Kate. If the pandemic continued to spread in the U.S. at the same pace as seen around the world, the electrical grid, emergency services, medical and food supply systems would collapse. Then things would get desperate out there—and that tended to change people for the worse.

Chapter 16

The next morning, Alex found Kate in the attic walking on the treadmill. Her pace was slow, but he could see that the treadmill was set to the highest incline possible. Kate was wearing maroon running shorts and a black cutoff running top, which to him resembled a bra. She was sweating and breathing heavily, as she struggled to keep her pace on the incline. She shot him an annoyed glance and didn’t say a word. Alex knew she didn’t like to talk during her workouts. He walked over to her and checked the time on the treadmill. Four minutes left. He decided to do a set of pull-ups. As he turned around, he heard the treadmill start to grind, as the incline was automatically lowered for her warm down.

He walked over to the freestanding pull-up bar and began a declining set, starting with twelve pull-ups. Halfway through the set, Kate interrupted.

“Hey, did you see that Portland’s considering school closures next week?” she said, out of breath.

Alex finished a few more pull-ups and hopped down to the floor. “No. Did they say anything about any of the other towns?”

“Falmouth closed today. They made the decision last night at an emergency school board meeting. They have six confirmed cases at the high school and a few more at the other schools in town. School officials made the decision because they suspect that there might be a dozen or more unconfirmed cases present at the school. I guess one of the original cases identified last week was a guy from Falmouth, who travels back and forth from New York every week for business. He has a son and a daughter at Falmouth high school. Had a son and daughter. He died early in the week,” Kate said.

“Was all this on the news?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, they just ran the story this morning,” she responded, pressing a few more buttons to slow the treadmill even further. “I hope the rest of the family is all right.”

“That’s really sad. I can’t imagine. Was there anything about Scarborough?” he said.

“Nothing. Just Portland and Falmouth. The governor’s office is looking into statewide school closures, but they will probably wait for the feds to make the recommendation. It has something to do with emergency funding, but it sounds like it has more to do with politics.”

“It always does,” he said and hopped up on the bar for a set of ten pull-ups.

“I still can’t believe you haven’t heard from Ted,” she remarked, stepping off the treadmill and onto a mat to stretch.

Alex finished, hopped down, and raised his arms above his head for a stretch. “I just hope I didn’t kill the guy. I did hear from HR. They left a voicemail on my cell phone letting me know that I am checked out, and should expect a final package shortly. God knows what’s in that package. Probably a non-disclosure agreement for me to sign, or something equally as asinine.”

“Nothing like a formal apology for the home invasion and pepper spray attack?” she asked incredulously.

“Not a mention. I really don’t care, either. I’m just glad to be done with them,” he said, hopping back up on the pull-up bar.

“I’ll be done soon, too, if I don’t come up with something better than diarrhea to keep me out of the office. I’ve cancelled several appointments already, and Jim left me a message yesterday asking when I could reschedule them. I’ll need to call him today. Monday at the latest.”

Alex finished several pull-ups and dropped back down to the floor. He started to cough again, which forced him to bow toward the ground. “Damn it! I can’t get rid of this,” he said, exasperated.

“Maybe you need to take it easy,” Kate said, wiping her face with a crisp white towel.

“Probably. Anyway, you just need to buy a little more time at work. The way things are looking, you won’t have to hide much longer. They’re starting to shut down the schools, and other steps will be taken by the state and the feds within the upcoming week. I’d just keep stalling them. Tell Jim you still have a fever, but you might be able to meet with clients. Trust me, they won’t want to see you any time soon. Speaking of calls, I still need to call my parents.” He paused. “I haven’t heard anything from them about bringing my brother’s kids out.”

Kate turned her head toward Alex and gave him a perplexed look. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he replied, buying himself a few more seconds.

“I don’t remember you mentioning anything about your parents bringing Ethan and Kevin out,” she said sternly.

“Well, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. I was talking to Daniel a few nights ago, and getting nowhere with him, as usual. My parents are stuck there babysitting and raising his kids, that’s why they won’t leave. They can’t. My brother won’t let them go ‘without some advance notice.’ Unbelievable if you ask me. ‘Karla can’t come home at three in the afternoon to babysit.’ And of course, God forbid they actually have to dig into their own pockets to pay for babysitting. I thought that if my parents brought Kevin and Ethan, then there would be no babysitting issue for Daniel.”

Kate waited patiently for his tirade to end. “First of all, Karla would never go for it, and neither would your brother. Second, your parents will never make the trip. For the same reason you just ranted about and many more. Same story with my parents. But that’s not why I’m a little upset with you…”

“Can I get a drink of water before we get into this?”

“You look like you’ll live. We’ve talked about all of this before. Your brother and my sister are off the list and have been off the list of people allowed to stay with us for quite a while. Things would not work out with them here for any duration of time. Pandemic, long weekend, short weekend, Super Bowl party. It doesn’t matter. It never worked before, and I can’t figure out why you continue to press the issue with them,” she said.

“I felt safe making the offer because they’ll never make the trip. I just feel that I have to at least make the offer.” That’s a weak excuse.

“I know. I have the same guilt with Claire, but her husband can be intolerable and so can she.”

“They’re not that bad. Not as bad as Daniel and Karla.”

“I think they’re worse. They try to take control of everything, and if you’re not on the same page, well, I don’t need to describe the scene any further. Bottom line? We can’t have them here in a quarantine situation. Plus, they think it’s all a joke anyway. I can almost guarantee that they would not take food rationing or quarantine protocol seriously, which could threaten our family,” she said, shaking her head.

“If they were on board with the whole idea from the beginning, I might have reconsidered and invited them, but they weren’t, so I have never mentioned it to them. I don’t know why you would even consider it for Daniel and Karla. They openly mock all of this,” she said, waving her hands around.

“You’re right, sorry,” he apologized.

“I can’t count the number of times you’ve lectured me about how important it will be to stick to our plan. ‘In a quarantine situation, there is no room for error. We have to stick to the plan. No variations.’”

“All right, you don’t have to mock me. I’m sorry. They’re not coming out anyway, so we don’t have to worry.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried that you didn’t think about the dangerous situation you might have created. If your brother took you up on the offer and sent the kids out with your parents, then what happens when your brother and Karla finally come to their senses about the pandemic all around them? Where do you think they’ll be headed? Here to join their kids. How would we deal with that? Tell them it’s too late, sorry? Head on back to Colorado, here’s some TerraFlu, we’ll take care of the kids? Not likely they’d leave. Do we let them in and try to quarantine them for ten days in the mudroom area and hope they’re not harboring the flu? Would they leave if they showed symptoms? If they won’t leave without their kids, do we send the kids out onto the streets with their parents and some supplies?”

She continued to look softly into his eyes. Alex had a hard time meeting them.

“You’re right. It could lead to a disastrous confrontation. I really never thought of it this way,” he said and leaned over to kiss her forehead.

“Do you think we should just forget about trying to convince our parents to come out here?” he asked. “I don’t feel like giving up on them, but you’re right. At a certain point…” his voice trailed off.

“I don’t know. I hate to give up on them, too. I’m still trying to get my brother out here. He’s only a few hours away, but I’m certain that he’ll head to Princeton when things get bad. He’s really tight with them. He always heads down there when they have something going on. If my parents won’t come to him, he’ll go to them. He still drags the family to Princeton for every holiday. They haven’t celebrated Christmas or Thanksgiving in Concord since they moved in.”

“He’s a momma’s boy. First child is always a momma’s boy,” he teased.

“You’re not,” Kate said. “I wouldn’t have married you if you were.”

He tightened his hug for a moment and kissed her neck. “They should all be going up to New Hampshire. Your parents included. They could easily ride out the storm up north. It kills me to think that your brother would abandon the perfect mountain hideout for New Jersey.”

“My parents have the same problem as yours. They’re stuck. I guarantee my sister will head up there when the flu racks the Baltimore area. She’s probably on the way already with the kids. They’ll all flock to Princeton. Trust me.”

“Well, at least the mountain camp will be empty. If the situation gets out of control here, we could always pack up as much stuff as possible and head up into the White Mountains. Does Robbie keep the place stocked in the winter?” he asked her.

“Not really. They have everything you’d find in a camp, but no food or stuff like that. I know he has enough firewood to keep the stove going forever, and a well, but that wouldn’t work if the electricity died. He does have a propane tank for hot water and the stove.”

“We can keep it in mind. We can definitely get there on a single tank of gas.”

“Probably,” Kate said.

“Well, anyway, I won’t push the issue with my parents. God knows I’ve pushed it enough.”

Kate squeezed his hand, and he hugged her tightly.

“I think we made all of the offers we needed to make. I don’t feel guilty at all about it. If they come, we’ll have to deal with it. Within a few weeks, we’re going to have all the guilt we can handle around here, dealing with our neighbors,” she said, and they both headed down the stairs.

Chapter 17

Ryan and Alex sat side by side on the edge of a dark brown couch, several feet in front of a large LCD screen TV. Alex was perched forward, intensely studying the screen. Both of them held Xbox controllers.

“Don’t do it, Dad. Use the remote optics on the rifle,” his son warned him.

“I got it. I…what? There’s no way they could hit me,” he yelled, flying back into the couch.

“I told you to quit peeking around corners. Use the gun camera. If you lose your rifle, you can pick up another one, or use your secondary,” Ryan explained.

“But I was quick peeking,” he complained, demonstrating with his head, moving it back and forth quickly.

“Everyone knows that trick,” Ryan quipped.

“Can we reset to right before I got my head splattered? I don’t feel like fighting through the entire shopping mall again,” Alex pled.

The smartphone on the table next to the couch began to ring.

“Hold on, Ryan,” he said, grabbing for the phone and answering the call. “Hey, Mike, did they pepper spray you yet?”

“Go ahead without me, Ryan,” he told his son, and Ryan nodded his head affirmatively.

Alex got up and walked down the stairs from the third floor to his home office as Mike responded.

“No, not yet, but probably soon. I just resigned about twenty minutes ago. I’m headed back up the turnpike.”

“What happened, man? You don’t sound good,” Alex said.

“I’m fine. I just can’t believe I quit my job. Still in shock, I guess. Anyway, it was unbelievable down there. So get this. I wake up this morning and head down to breakfast at the Courtyard Marriot, and I run into one of the reps from Vermont, who’s also temp assigned to the area, and she’s hacking up a lung all over the fruit station. I made sure not to go anywhere near her. She sits down at a table with three other reps, and one of the guys looks like they just dug him out of his grave to work.”

“Which could very likely be a new official Biosphere policy,” Alex joked, causing Mike to burst out laughing.

“No kidding, man. So I really start to rethink this whole thing. These people were fine at the beginning of the week. I remember seeing them at the orientation meeting. Now they look like extras from Night of the Living Dead . So I head out to my assigned area and start to make some office calls. Every office is like a scene from a zombie flick. I went into an internal med office in Methuen and walked right out. Three people in the waiting room were hacking and groaning. I’m not kidding, it was unreal. I sat in my car for a while thinking this over, after nearly taking a bath in hand sanitizer. I hope Biosphere didn’t cheap out on that stuff like they do everything else.”

“Have you been wearing a mask and gloves?” Alex asked.

“At first, but you feel like a complete imbecile walking into an office with a mask on your face. The gloves aren’t so bad, but what’s the point? If you touch your eyes or mouth with the gloves on, it doesn’t matter. The gloves only work if you throw them away after each office and don’t touch your face while you’re still in the office. I quit using them after day one. My hands are so dry from washing and using sanitizer that I could use them as sandpaper.”

“Dude, I’m glad you’re on your way home. Load up your cars, and caravan out to Colleen’s parents in North Conway. The number of cases is exploding. Did you talk to Michelle?”

“No, I talked to Ted. He didn’t take it very well. He wanted me to get in touch with the district manager down here and transfer my samples to her. I told him that I was already halfway home and would drop the stuff off at my storage locker for him to inventory.”

“You better recon the parking lot at the storage locker. He might be there waiting for you. And tell your wife to keep the door locked. Did you tell her what happened to Kate?”

“Yeah, she couldn’t believe it. How am I going to caravan out to North Conway if Ted repo’s my car?”

“Just pack up a load today and drive it out there tonight. It’s only a few hours away. Even if you only had one car, you could make multiple trips. Gas is still available everywhere for the moment. I’d make as many trips as you can with the company car and charge the gas to Biosphere,” Alex suggested.

“Yeah, that’s true. I keep thinking in terms of just making one final trip.”

“A few weeks from now, it might be a different story. One trip might be all you get,” Alex said.

“From what I saw down in Boston, that version of the story isn’t too far away. We were briefed by a Biosphere exec during a working breakfast yesterday. He proudly announced that Boston has one of the fastest growing numbers of cases. Almost three thousand confirmed cases so far, and the number of cases is expected to reach fifteen thousand by early next week. And that only takes into account the cases confirmed by a hospital lab. I saw at least twenty potential cases this morning alone and that’s just in a few offices. Not even big offices. I think this thing is about to break wide open.”

“How’s Colleen doing? Today’s Falmouth’s last day, right?” Alex asked.

“She’s relieved to get out of there. She didn’t want to call in sick or make up a story, but with the cases floating around the Falmouth schools, she was starting to get hysterical. She’s been off since Wednesday with the kids.”

“Good, good. Where are you now?” Alex asked.

“I’m coming up on the New Hampshire toll. I should be home in about an hour or so. Do you think I should skip the storage unit?”

“Do a drive-by and see. If he’s not there, I’d get the samples out of your possession. You don’t want him coming to your house looking for them. And make sure to tell him to stay clear of your house. You can tell him I’ll be over there showing you my favorite shotgun,” Alex said, laughing.

“I’m gonna buy him some pepper spray as a farewell present,” Mike said, laughing as well.

“I already took care of that,” Alex choked, barely able to get the words out through his own laughter.

“Hey, I gotta let you go. I’m gonna call Colleen and set this plan in motion.”

“All right. Good luck, and be careful. Okay?”

“Same to you. Say hi to Kate and the kids for me. Salud.”

He put the phone in the front pocket of his jeans and rejoined Ryan.

Chapter 18

Alex hung up the phone and yelled up the stairs to Kate.

“Honey, the Murrays are on their way over. They’re headed out to New York.”

He arrived at the bottom of the stairs as Kate appeared at the top.

“Right now?”

“Yeah. He said they were closing up the house. They should be here in a minute.”

“I can’t believe they’re leaving. I’m gonna throw on a sweatshirt. I’ll be right down,” she said and disappeared.

Alex heard her yell to the kids as he opened the front door. He took a few steps and glanced at the Thorntons’ house, wondering what that nutcase was doing?

The Murrays’ convoy materialized from behind the Thorntons’ house and glided around the corner, headed in Alex’s direction. As they approached, he saw Greg in the lead, driving their red four-door Honda Accord, and Carolyn picking up the rear in a black Honda Odyssey. Both vehicles had large, squat Yakima top carriers attached to the roof racks.

Alex met them on the driveway. Greg opened the door of his car and hopped out. Alex heard the minivan doors slide open, and the kids burst out onto the driveway. They ran by him on their way toward the house.

“Hi, kids,” Alex said, mostly to himself.

Kate intercepted them in front of the mudroom door and redirected them through the garage to the backyard. Alex heard her say something about snacks and drinks on the picnic table.

“Loaded down for war here, I see,” Alex observed.

“Yeah, we’ll probably get eight miles per gallon,” Greg said ruefully.

“So how are you escaping from National Semi?”

“Vacation. I have over three weeks on the books since we never made it out to see Carolyn’s sister in Virginia. They encourage us to use it up before the end of the year, and sales have been great this year.”

Carolyn walked up to the two of them.

“How did you end up driving the loony wagon?” Alex asked her.

“I drew the short straw. We’re gonna switch every couple of hours, supposedly. We’re hoping the trip won’t take much longer than eight hours, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Plus, they have every electronic distraction available at Great Buy to keep them busy. Sorry we can’t stay too long, Alex.”

Alex stepped out of her way and motioned to the mudroom door. “No worries. We understand. Really. What’s important is that you guys get over to New York safely. Kate’s got all the kids out back. Dosing them up with sugary drinks and high fructose corn syrup snacks.”

“Somehow I doubt there’s any high fructose corn syrup in that entire house,” Carolyn said, as she walked through the garage to the door accessing the backyard.

“Sorry about your job, Alex. That really stinks.”

“I’m not sorry at all. That job had a limited half-life. Biosphere was a terrible company, and my boss was clueless. He’s about six years younger than me, and all he ever talked about was Biosphere. This is all he’s ever done since college. I’ll miss the pay, but that’s about it.”

“Hey, maybe you could take your story to the Portland Paper. They’d love it. Local hero stands up to big pharma. You could sell them all your juicy stories about the pharmaceutical industry.”

“Unfortunately, there’s not much to sell, and the last thing I want to do is draw any attention to myself. Hey, before I forget, let me give you the TerraFlu samples we talked about. I’m giving you enough for twelve courses of therapy, which should cover everyone in your parents’ house,” Alex said, walking toward the garage. He turned around. “Remember, if anyone—”

“I know. If anyone shows flu symptoms, make sure we all take them. Got it,” Greg interrupted.

Alex laughed, grabbed a small plastic shopping bag filled with TerraFlu samples from a shelf near the mudroom door and handed them to Greg, who had followed him into the garage.

“What did you tell the kids about the trip?”

“Not much. Just that we’re going to visit my parents for a few weeks. I think the boys know what’s going on, but the girls really have no idea.”

“Yeah, same thing happening in our house, though I don’t think even Ryan really understands what this might mean for us. I probably don’t fully understand it.”

“No kidding. I keep thinking—hoping—that we’ll be able to come back in a few weeks. It still hasn’t sunk in that we might be gone for a lot longer. Carolyn said that it might take months to produce a vaccine.”

“Longer maybe,” Alex said grimly.

They spent the next ten minutes watching the kids run around the backyard before Carolyn and Greg reluctantly directed all of their kids back to their assigned seats in the cars. They all walked around the side of the garage to the driveway, and Kate helped Carolyn get her kids settled into the minivan as Emily and Ryan said goodbye and started to walk back up the driveway to their house.

“Take it easy on your parents. We’ll see you guys later,” Alex yelled into the van.

All of the kids had headphones and were occupied by various portable electronic devices. James and Justin, sitting in the second row swivel chairs, gave him a thumbs up, and he saluted them in return. The two younger girls were seated in the third row. Every conceivable inch of space between the kids and behind the third row was packed with gear. Alex walked up to Carolyn’s window and saw that the front seat was completely jammed with packages, nearly blocking Carolyn’s view of the passenger side mirror.

“Good luck. I hope the electronic distractions at least get you through to Greg’s shift,” he said.

She laughed loudly. “I was just hoping to get past the Kennebunk rest stop before the fighting started. See you later, Alex. Thanks again for everything. I really think this is the right thing for us to do, and if it wasn’t for you guys, we’d probably be making this trip three weeks from now, when it’s too late.”

“Hey, I’ve given this advice to dozens of other friends, and very few of them have taken it seriously. You owe yourself the biggest thanks. Am I sounding too much like one of those self-help books?”

“Yes, and I’m out of here before you really start emoting,” she said, backing the van down the driveway.

Alex jogged up to Greg’s car and leaned in the window. The entire back seating area, all the way to the roof of the car, was filled, and the passenger seat was similarly stuffed with bags and a large plastic crate.

“Good luck. Stay safe. And don’t worry about the house. We’ll keep a good eye on it,” Alex said, extending his hand.

“You got it, man. Keep the neighborhood under control,” Greg replied, shaking Alex’s hand.

Alex saluted him and walked back up the driveway to join his family. They waved to the Murrays as their two cars pulled out of the neighborhood. Kate’s eyes were watery and red, and he put his arm around her shoulder as they walked toward the house.

“Wash your hands!” he yelled as the kids ran past them into the garage.

When they got inside the mudroom, Alex hugged Kate fully, cradling her head in his chest and rubbing her back. Her hair smelled like lavender shampoo, and he took in a long breath through his nose. He saw the kids washing their hands in the mudroom bathroom. An argument broke out over the towel.

“I have a terrible feeling we might never see them again,” Kate said.

“They’ll be fine,” he assured her as the kids tumbled out of the bathroom, dripping water on the tile floor.

Chapter 19

“Wait till you see this,” Kate said without even looking up, handing a piece of paper up to him as he walked by the back of the couch. He took the sheet and started to read it standing up.

“What the heck…a neighborhood meeting? Today at two. To discuss neighborhood plans to address the impact of the flu pandemic. Come with ideas. Bring your own snacks and drinks. Some topics of discussion will include organizing neighborhood daycare, resource sharing, neighborhood security, phone tree, information sharing. Let me guess who put this out…location, #4 Durham Road. Signed, Sarah Quinn. You can attend this one, hon.”

“You knew this was inevitable. If it wasn’t Sarah, then Nicki Bartlett or Laura would have called the Durham Clan together eventually. You’re the pandemic expert, and the closest thing we have to a statesman around here, so the honor is yours,” she said.

“Yeah. Thanks. Don’t you think we could just skip out on this one? We are in quarantine, you know,” he reminded her.

“Nice try, but everyone in the neighborhood has seen you out running, or me out for a walk. Plus, I think we need to keep pace with what’s going on around here. The more we know what everyone else is doing, the better,” she said, looking up at him as he walked around the couch to sit in one of the leather chairs next to the wood-burning stove.

“I know. I just can’t stomach the idea of standing around while Sarah blares at everyone through that Mr. Microphone thing she likes to use at the summer block party. It’s obnoxious. Then Nicki will grab the thing and broadcast her shrill voice,” he said, exhaling dramatically.

“They aren’t so bad. I know they mean well. If you go then maybe you can talk sense into them. Tell them what a bad idea a neighborhood daycare would be.”

“You would think in a pandemic people would realize the best prevention is no contact with others.”

“I know. Organizing to help one another is a great idea, but that help has to come at a distance or we could all get sick.”

He walked over and kissed her on the forehead. “I better go prepare my speech for this afternoon. You’re right. I might be able to convice everyone to stay away from one another until this thing blows over. I really can’t think of better advice.”

“Thanks. You’re my hero.”

“Don’t push it.”

“The hero thing was a little much?”

“Yeah, but I still love you,” he said kissing her lightly.

***

Alex stood in the garage looking out at the Walkers’ house. The sun occasionally managed to stab through the dense gray cloud cover, momentarily warming the air; the temperature was in the high forties with a light breeze.

He wore a dark blue winter parka that he had owned for several years, a tight brown knit cap, and a pair of sunglasses, mainly to avoid eye contact with some of his neighbors, while he waited for Ed.

A few moments later, one of Ed’s garage doors started to open. Alex patted his jacket pocket again, to make sure he brought his smartphone, just in case Kate needed to get in touch with him. After Ted’s stunt last week, he didn’t plan to take any chances—ever again. He hadn’t heard anything from Ted or Biosphere since Michelle’s last voicemail.

Ed emerged from the open garage bay and started walking across his front lawn to meet up with Alex. As he crossed onto the Walkers’ property, Derek Sheppard opened his front door and jogged across the street toward them. Simultaneously, the McDaniels’ garage door opened, and Jamie walked out of the open bay door waving as she walked over to them. Alex and Ed stood in the driveway, waiting for Derek and Jamie to join them.

“Hey, Ed, Alex,” Jamie said, nodding at them as they all met at the bottom of Ed’s driveway.

“Hey, Jamie,” Ed said.

“How did Matt talk you into representing the McDaniel clan? I tried everything in my power to push Kate out the door,” Alex said, eliciting a laugh from Ed.

“Hell, there wasn’t even the start of a negotiation in my house,” Ed said.

Both Derek and Alex chuckled quietly.

“No choice for me either. Ellen wasn’t too keen on standing outside in the wind, though it seems to have died down a lot from this morning,” Derek said.

“Yeah. I went for a run earlier, and the wind was too much,” Alex remarked.

“I wish I had a choice, but Matt woke up this morning not feeling well at all. He’s been dragging around the house all day. Don’t you think Sarah’s going to have this inside?” she asked, sniffling and clearing her throat.

Alex tried not to look alarmed as he casually canvassed Jamie. She didn’t look nervous or worried about her husband’s illness. He didn’t plan to get any closer to Jamie. She was clearly underdressed for the weather, having assumed that the Quinns would host the meeting inside. He doubted they would. There were thirty-three houses in the neighborhood, which put the total attendance at a minimum of around thirty and likely higher. Alex planned to return home if the Quinns tried to jam everyone inside their house. Jamie already looked cold, standing in light brown corduroy pants and a waist level light blue fleece coat, and he saw that she was already shivering.

“I hope not. I’m not going to cram my body into a flu incubator,” Alex said, and they all started walking down the sidewalk.

“Does someone at the Quinns’ have the flu?” Derek asked.

“No. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for a member of every household in the neighborhood to be jammed into a closed space breathing on each other, touching the same doorknobs, and using the same bathroom. If this is indoors, one of you will have to take notes for me,” Alex said.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. I see a bunch of people on their driveway,” Ed said.

Alex looked over at the turn in the road, and saw nearly fifty people milling around the Quinns driveway. There were also about two dozen lawn chairs and folding chairs in place on the driveway, mostly occupied.

Several younger children were running around the lawn, kicking a soccer ball at a goal set up on the other end of the front lawn. Kids always seemed to have fun. No matter the circumstances.

“Crap. Maybe I should grab a warmer coat. I’ll catch a cold for sure if I stand out here in this fleece. I’ll meet up with you guys in few minutes,” Jamie said, turning back toward her house.

“Sounds good, Jamie,” Ed said as Jamie jogged toward her house.

Alex let about ten seconds of silence pass and then walked in front of the Perrys’ house, hoping that Todd Perry didn’t come out to join them.

“Did you guys catch that about Matt?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ed replied, flashing them a concerned look.

“What do you mean?” Derek asked.

“Matt’s not healthy enough to go outside? They both work in the schools. Now her husband’s sick, and she’s sniffling and coughing?” Alex looked at them with a face that said “not good.”

“I didn’t hear her coughing,” Ed said.

“She cleared her throat several times, but it sounded more like a suppressed cough,” Alex said.

“It could be anything. Anyway, I’m not planning to lock lips with her, so what does it matter?” Derek asked.

They all laughed.

“Good point,” Alex said, still laughing. “I guess all I’m saying is to be careful around her. You don’t want her coughing or sneezing near you, and you don’t want her touching you.”

“I wouldn’t exactly object to her touching me,” Ed laughed.

“No kidding,” Derek added.

“Gentlemen, I refuse to engage in this kind of banter, based on the one in a billion chance that Kate is paying one of you to wear a wire. And I especially wouldn’t engage in this kind of talk because…” He leaned close to Ed’s jacket collar and spoke up, “I love and respect my wife more than anything on this planet.” All of them broke into laughter.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing. We’re still close enough to your house to set off Sam’s radar. You’ll come back from the meeting to a kick in the nether regions,” Alex said.

Derek laughed harder.

Ed grabbed the collar of his own jacket and spoke quietly into it. “As you just heard, Alex’s love and respect pales in comparison to his fear of a swift kick in the you know what.”

They laughed harder.

“Anyway, I’d be really careful around anyone from the McDaniel house,” Alex added.

The trio approached the bottom of the Quinns’ driveway and the din of the crowd increased. Alex saw that Todd Perry was present and sitting in the front row of chairs. A few more neighbors were walking down the other side of the Durham loop toward the group, and Alex looked behind him to see Jamie walking up the street with Mary Thompson.

They all stayed at the bottom of the driveway. Alex turned around and scanned the crowd again, seeing Sarah Quinn at the top of the driveway, playing with her loudspeaker system. Her husband George scurried toward her with what looked like batteries for the microphone. She looked mad at George.

Poor George forgot to op check the system. He glanced at his watch. And now the meeting is two minutes late. George is going to pay for this. He chuckled to himself.

“I don’t see any Cheetos,” Alex remarked, still examining the crowd.

“I have a pack of gum in my pocket,” Ed said.

“Is it sugarless?”

“Probably,” Ed replied.

“You can keep it. No nutritional value. You’ll burn up more calories chewing it,” he said, smiling wryly at Ed.

Nicole Bartlett walked in their direction, handing a sheet of paper to everyone in the crowd.

“I’d take a pass on touching one of those sheets,” he said to the group as she approached.

“Hey, Nicki,” Alex said, bracing for her excessive perkiness.

“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming to the meeting. This is an agenda and some topic ideas. You can also take notes on it. Did you bring any pens?” she asked, holding the sheets in front of her.

“No, I didn’t think we’d need pens,” Ed offered, as Alex politely waived away her handouts.

“No worries. We have some extras floating around, though you’ll probably have to share one. Good to see you guys. Hey, you might want to move up closer.”

As she walked to the next group, Ed chimed in. “Wow, she’s unbelievably skinny.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of that going around the neighborhood,” Alex commented.

“Sam’s definitely noticed, and she’d like to figure out how to catch whatever they’ve got,” Ed said, laughing.

“There’s a direct correlation between staying home and emaciation, which I don’t quite understand. I’ve spent plenty of time home with kids, and all I want to do on those days is eat,” Alex said.

“I still haven’t recovered from the toddler years,” Ed laughed again, grabbing his slightly bulging stomach.

“I saw your wedding photos, Ed, and I hate to break it to you, but…” Alex said, raising his shoulders.

“Thanks. At least I didn’t deteriorate. Three kids,” he said, flexing his right arm in an overly dramatic muscle pose.

Alex spotted Paul and Nancy Cooper in the back row of seats, with their chocolate lab Max.

“Gentlemen, I’m gonna say hi to Paul and Nancy. Keep my spot in the back,” he said to Ed and Derek.

Ed nodded, and Alex walked up behind the Coopers. Stephanie and Eric Bishop were seated next to the Coopers, and the Bishops’ kids, Hunter and Evan, were playing soccer with the other kids on the lawn. Hunter was in the same class as Emily, though Alex rarely heard her talk about him.

“You didn’t bring me any snacks? How disappointing,” he said, laying his left hand on Paul’s shoulder. “But you did bring my good friend Max.”

Both Paul and Nancy turned around as Alex kneeled down to hug Max. He wondered if hugging Max was such a good idea and briefly contemplated his chance of contracting the flu from contact with a domestic pet. He wasn’t really sure, but made a mental note to research the topic on the internet. Offhand, he couldn’t imagine any reason why the flu could not be transferred from a dog’s fur to his hand.

“Hey, Alex. We weren’t sure you’d show up. Figured you’d be off limits by now,” Paul said.

Alex stood up from petting Max. “Believe me, I tried to get out of it,” he replied, and Stephanie Bishop gave him a strained look. He returned a slightly less strained smile.

“Why wouldn’t you want to be here?” she asked, annoyed.

“It’s not a good idea for all of us to come together in one place, when there’s a highly contagious flu virus spreading around Scarborough,” he said softly, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to catch the flu at this meeting,” Eric said. “The whole point of getting together is to figure out how we can all help each other.”

“Sounds great, but the best way for us to help each other is to stay away from each other. Hey, I’ll catch you guys later,” he said to Paul and Nancy.

“See ya, Alex,” they said in unison.

Alex caught Paul’s glance. Paul made a face signaling that he had no idea why Eric and Stephanie had acted so oddly. Alex walked back to Derek and Ed, who were now joined by Jamie, Mary Thompson, and John Anderson. He saw a few stragglers—Dave Santos and Charlie Thornton—coming in from the north side of the loop. Charlie waved to Alex, and Alex returned the wave, smiling. Alex stood next to Ed, glad that he didn’t have to actively evade Jamie, who was still shivering under several layers of clothing.

Derek fidgeted and looked uncomfortable standing next to her.

“Here comes Charlie,” Alex whispered to Ed.

Ed glanced over at Charlie. “I think he’s going to stand by us. Have you talked to him lately?”

“Not since he interrogated me by the woodpile. Nancy Cooper said she heard him ranting and raving in his driveway last week,” Alex said quietly.

“You know who else is a loose cannon? Todd. I’ve heard him screaming a lot lately. Screaming at his wife, kicking his car, knocking things around his garage. Every day something’s going on over there,” Ed said.

“Really? Hold on, here comes Charlie,” Alex whispered. “Hey, Charlie,” he said enthusiastically, keeping his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Can you believe what’s going on in this country? Unreal if you ask me. I can’t believe the government let it get this bad. Food rationing?” Charlie ranted, his face turning red.

“Take it easy, man, you’re gonna explode,” Alex said.

“Take it easy? That’s the last thing any of us can afford to do. What do you think this little meeting’s all about?” he asked. Before anyone could respond, he continued. “I’ll bet this is an attempt at a little socialist share the wealth program…for those that haven’t prepared over the past few weeks.”

Charlie was in rare form, clearly pumped up on something.

“Everybody, if you could grab a seat, or pull it in as tight as possible here, we’ll get this started,” Sarah Quinn said.

Nicki Bartlett and Laura Burton quickly moved to stand near Sarah behind the folding table. The kids continued to play on the lawn as the adults not seated in the makeshift auditorium started to crowd both sides of the seating.

From his quick glance around, he could tell that most households were represented. He couldn’t spot Phil or Julia Rhodes, which was odd, since he’d seen Phil grab the newspaper that morning. With two kids in college and one in high school, he couldn’t imagine why at least one of them wouldn’t be here.

Sarah looked ready to start the meeting.

“Okay, everyone, we’re going to get this started. First of all, thank you for coming together at such short notice. We’ve always pulled together as a neighborhood in the past, so when Nicki found out that the Scarborough schools would be closed this week…”

The group huddled on the Quinns’ driveway erupted into a cacophony of whispers.

“Is that confirmed?” Todd asked incredulously.

“Yes. One of Jack’s colleagues at the diabetes center is on the school board, and he confirmed that Friday was the last day,” Nicole answered.

Sarah continued, “Anyway, Nicki called me right away to see what I was going to do with my kids during the week and to ask if she could help out. This got me thinking that everyone in the neighborhood is facing the same challenge. Most of us have school-aged kids, and few of us can afford to quit our jobs, when this might only last a few weeks.”

“So we got together and started talking about the daycare issue. Then we realized that daycare wasn’t going to be the only problem out there. It’s no secret that the stores are rationing food, and who knows how long the food will last? Then we started reading the CDC website and found some links to articles about how essential services might be disrupted if things get really bad. Stuff like electricity, water, hospital service, phones, cable—”

“The electricity isn’t going to fail. A lot of experts are saying that this whole thing is likely to pass in a few weeks,” Mike Lynch interrupted.

“What a jackass,” Charlie whispered into Alex’s ear.

“Well, the articles only mentioned that it could happen, but it didn’t go into any details,” Sarah said, looking to Laura for support.

Jamie sneezed next to Derek, who glanced at Alex and Ed nervously. Alex could tell he wanted to move away from her, but he didn’t.

“Hey, Sarah? May I say something about the electricity?” Alex offered.

“Thanks, Alex. Everyone, you all know Alex Fletcher,” she said, relieved.

Every face in the crowd turned to look at Alex. Most still looked friendly, though he detected a strange underlying current in the group. He couldn’t determine the general aura of the group, but it made him immediately uncomfortable, which was not a common feeling for him.

“Right. Anyway, so if the flu pandemic becomes widespread and attacks a large percentage of the population, then two things will happen. Either people will be unable to work because they’re sick or dead, or people will stop going to work because they don’t want to become sick or dead. It’s really that simple. This shortage of labor will affect every aspect of society, from policemen to doctors to truck drivers. If the trains can’t deliver coal to the electrical plants, then eventually the electrical system will fail. God knows it doesn’t take much to knock out one of those grids. And if a grid fails, who’s going to repair it? If the electricity fails, the water pressure is soon to follow. You can apply the same logic to nearly every essential service. They all run on electricity. Think about it, if a storm knocks out the power in the middle of the pandemic, who’s going to repair the lines? They can barely get the power back up with a full workforce.”

“Yeah, but the power plants keep an emergency supply on hand for just this kind of a situation. Same with the water systems and cable companies. They all have backup power capability,” Mike challenged.

“Sure they do. The power plants are required by law to maintain a six-week supply of coal on hand for emergencies, but these laws are rarely enforced, and the recent audits put the average emergency reserve supply for a power plant at about one and a half weeks. Compliance at all other levels is pretty much the same.”

“Thanks, Alex. So, the whole reason for us to get together is to figure out what challenges we might face, and how we can help each other out. Nicki has put together a few categories, and some sign-up sheets. Nicki?” Sarah said and handed her the microphone.

Nicole Bartlett took the microphone from Sarah and stepped around the folding table. She wore a tight-fitting quilted pink vest, a white skin-tight long-sleeve turtleneck, and a thin light purple knit cap with a pink tassel falling to the left side. Completing her look was a pair of skin-hugging dark blue jeans, which Alex had seen before in the youth pages of the latest LL Bean catalogue.

“Okay, I’m going to get started on my little portion. Thank you all again for braving the cold weather,” she said, executing a fake shiver.

“So, what I have done is put together some categories where we can all help out. I’ve made sign-up lists for each one, and if we come up with any more categories, I’ll make another list.

“First, I think it would be awesome if everyone could update their contact information. You don’t have to do it here. You can send me an email with your home and cell phone numbers. My email address is on the sheet I handed out. The phone list I have is a few years old, and we have some new neighbors, so it’s important for everyone to update this. Please make sure you put your cell phones on the list, too, in case the power goes out. I know a lot of us have digital phone service, which is useless without the power.

“All right, the first issue which many of us will face is daycare. Most of us will have to make alternate daycare arrangements or take time off from work,” she said in a tone indicating that she might be in that same position.

“Why did she say that like she’ll be needing daycare, too? She doesn’t work,” Alex whispered to Ed.

“Probably because she’s always had her kids in daycare, preschool, or public school. She had her first two kids in daycare at least three full days a week before they started school,” Ed whispered back.

“So, the daycare list is for both those who will need daycare and those who will be home and can help provide daycare services for their neighbors. Please fill in the times you need covered, how many kids, anything like that. If you can open up your home to help, please note your availability. Once we get all of the names and information, we’ll put them together and try to find matches. We can even use this information in case someone in your family gets the flu, and you need to leave the house to take that person to get treatment. That way, you don’t have to drag the entire family out where they could get sick.”

Alex surveyed the crowd and saw that the idea was popular, which didn’t surprise him considering the number of dual-income families in the neighborhood. He shook his head and leaned over to Ed. “So, are you going to volunteer to watch Jamie’s kids while she takes her flu- ridden husband to the hospital? Or let your kids stay at Jamie’s while you head out to the office? This has bad idea written all over it,” he whispered.

“I agree,” Ed responded.

“The next list is for volunteers to take sick people to doctor’s appointments or the hospital. If both parents are sick and a child needs to be seen by a doctor, volunteers from this list would help out,” she said, smiling.

“This is right from the manual of how to guarantee a 100% infection rate in your neighborhood,” Alex whispered to Ed, who let out a loud guffaw, snorted, and quickly contained himself.

Several heads turned in their direction, including Stephanie Bishop, who shook her head and frowned, and turned to say something to her husband. Eric Bishop looked back at them, also frowning.

“Did you have something to add?” Laura Burton boomed, the other self-appointed pandemic coordinator.

Alex shook his head. “Nope. I already gave my opinion. Everyone needs to stay away from each other or we risk inflecting the entire neighborhood.”

Most heads returned to Nicki, though Mike Lynch drew out his glare a little longer than necessary.

“The next topic, which was suggested by Todd Perry, deals with basic necessities and supplies. As we are all painfully aware, food and other basic survival needs are in short supply at the stores. I tried to put together just one emergency kit earlier in the week and couldn’t find even a quarter of the things needed. CVS and RiteAid are wiped out daily. Same story with all of the hardware stores. Everyone is out there trying to assemble their own emergency stockpile from the federal disaster checklist.”

“I got all my stuff,” Charlie Thornton whispered, who had drifted over to Alex’s right side during Nicki’s speech. “Got it all the week before last. You’re smart to hide your firewood in the garage. I didn’t know what to make of it when I talked to you. I knew you were up to something, then it suddenly hit me. Of course. I moved all of mine in a few days later. I have to thank you. It got me thinking about the whole situation. I went on a few of the NRA websites, found a ton of survival information, and I got a jump start on those checklists. While everyone else was waiting in line for groceries, I spent the better part of three days buying up supplies and dried food, MREs from the surplus stores, whatever I could get my hands on. I bet you have the same thing over there,” he whispered with glee.

“I might have some supplies on hand,” he said, studying Charlie’s face.

“…so, if you could list on this sheet what supplies or food you have on hand, we can create sort of our own Durham Road stockpile. If someone needs a certain item, then they can get it, as long as they’ve put into the stockpile themselves. It’s kind of like a swap shop idea,” Nicki was saying.

“I don’t know. How would we manage this stockpile? Would it be located in one place? Or just a list of who has what and you can trade? It sounds kind of complicated, and…I don’t know,” Beverly Silva said.

A majority of the crowd backed her sentiment, and there was considerable protest from all corners of the driveway. Alex focused on Todd, whose face had turned a few shades redder since Beverly opened her mouth.

“Yeah, I don’t feel comfortable taking what I have and putting it in a central location. Is that what you’re suggesting?” Jamie McDaniels asked, who was visibly shivering.

“Uh, it’s just an idea, but if we all have an idea of how much food is available, then…well, we can work on a system,” Nicki said.

“The idea isn’t to start a communal soup kitchen, but like Nicki said, it would help to get an idea of what we have here if times get really tough,” Laura Burton said, looking to Sarah Quinn for confirmation.

Oddly enough, Sarah Quinn did not look pleased by this agenda item. As one of the lead coordinators, Alex had expected her to support the idea, but she appeared to have suddenly grasped the true meaning of the concept’s design—that everyone else in the neighborhood would know exactly how much food she had on hand, and that she’d be expected to share some of that food in the very near future. Alex remembered that Sarah was one of the first people on the block to head to the Hannigan’s when the massive food lines began forming.

“We can revisit this at the next meeting after everyone has had time to think about it. It’s a lot to ask, given the fact that none of us are in great shape when it comes to food. If you want to put this information down now on the sheet, you’re encouraged to do so,” Sarah dodged.

He could tell that the meeting was about to break apart on its own. The last agenda item had hit everyone deeply, and it was clear that nobody relished the idea of giving up any of their food. Alex saw Todd stirring in his seat.

“Can I say something here?” Todd asked, standing and facing most of the crowd on the driveway. “I’m not sure what everyone’s problem is with sharing food. To be honest, it seems a bit selfish to me, and frankly, I’m surprised. We’ve had parties at our house over the years, and we’ve always put out a nice spread for everyone. We’re all neighbors, right?” he asked, his face reaching a deep red color.

“Yeah, but that’s what you do when you host a party,” Michelle Hayes said cynically. “This is a bit different. I agree with Beverly and Jamie. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want any of you knowing how much food I have in my house. That’s my family’s business.”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you how much food I have,” Todd responded.

“How much food do you have, Todd?” Charlie blurted.

Alex inched away from him. “You’re on your own with this guy,” he whispered to Ed.

“What do you mean?” Todd responded, stunned by the blunt question.

“If you don’t care, then tell all of us how much food you have on hand,” Charlie demanded.

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I’d have to take a good look and figure it out,” Todd said, flustered.

“Nonsense. You know exactly what you have. In terms of a regular grocery week, how many weeks do you have on hand?” Charlie persisted.

“Probably…like, a few… I don’t know. Not much,” Todd admitted.

“Exactly. Now I know why you’re pushing this socialist agenda so hard. You don’t have supplies. That’s why nobody else likes this idea either. Because they don’t want to start supporting other households from the very beginning of this crisis. I agree with Alex here. This pandemic thing isn’t going to last a few weeks. More like a few months, maybe longer. And you want the handouts to start next week? You can still get food at the stores. It’s rationed, but the lines are faster, and each member of your family with a driver’s license can show up once a day. I suggest that everyone take full advantage of this system. There’s just no excuse for anyone to have nothing in their pantry so early in the game,” Charlie concluded.

Charlie looked red faced and breathless as he barked out his last comments.

Alex put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “You all right, man? I swear, you’re gonna explode.”

“Look, I’ve got four kids at home and—” Todd started.

“You work from home, Todd. The stores open at six a.m. Figure it out!” Charlie said.

Todd moved around the chairs and was restrained by his neighbor, Daniel Lewis.

Eric Bishop stood up and turned around. “Someone needs to slap a muzzle on him.”

“What’s your problem today, Eric?” Alex asked, and the entire crowd went silent.

“What do you mean, what’s my problem? You and your friend came here with the wrong attitude. This whole meeting was put together so we could help each other. Todd’s idea is just as valid as anyone else’s.”

“Great, another communist with nothing to throw into the pile but empty hands,” Charlie yelled.

“Charlie, you gotta take it easy. Okay?” Alex whispered to him.

Charlie actually looked composed compared to Todd, Eric, and several other jeering neighbors. He appeared at ease with the confrontation, which frightened Alex for a couple of reasons: Charlie was either slightly sociopathic, or he was carrying a weapon. Neither possibility comforted him.

“If you’re not here to help, then just leave,” Tom Hodges said.

Mark and Beverly Silva edged away from Tom and Vicki, as Mike Lynch echoed Tom’s sentiment. He saw Charlie stiffen.

“Take it easy, guys,” Alex cautioned, passing glances at Tom and Eric. “I happen to strongly agree. I don’t want anyone else shopping at my house for food or supplies. I can tell you right now it won’t work. I didn’t exactly see a lot of enthusiastic faces when Nicki described the idea. Nobody wants to put an inventory of their house out there. I sure don’t. So don’t get angry at Charlie. He said exactly what most of us were thinking.”

“Maybe we should just forget about helping each other at all. You don’t sound like much of a team player, Alex,” Eric said.

“I’m willing to help out, but we’re all dealing with a very unique set of circumstances. When the power goes out after a nasty spring storm, I have no problem opening my house to all of you. Everyone here knows that. We’ve all done last minute babysitting for each other. This is going to be very different. If we want to survive, given how contagious this flu virus is, then we need to isolate ourselves.”

“I guess I’m not getting it,” Andrew Greene said in a hostile tone.

“I can answer your question, but first, let me say that I really meant what I said about helping. We all probably have something to offer. As most of you know, I work…rather, worked for Biosphere pharmaceuticals, the company that makes TerraFlu, an anti-viral similar to Tamiflu. When I left the company, I managed to retain about twenty courses of therapy, which is enough for twenty people. I would be more than happy to relinquish these into a communal pool, and then as people get sick, they can be treated,” he said, mentally redoing the math.

28 to give out. Gave 12 to the Murrays. 16. Close enough.

“If anyone gets sick,” Andrew said.

“Which brings me back to answering your question. We all need to get a solid grip on the fact that some of you, maybe many of you, are going to get sick. Especially if you put some of these ideas into play,” Alex said, and the group erupted into a verbal geyser of doubt and anger, all directed at Alex.

“Hey, hey…let Alex finish,” Ed yelled.

“Yeah, I want to hear the rest of this,” Michelle Hayes called out.

The group calmed down, and Alex continued, though he seriously considered just walking away. He wasn’t sure if he was helping or hurting his situation.

“Don’t shoot the messenger. My point is that the only way to guarantee that you won’t catch the flu is to quarantine your entire family. That means zero, or at a minimum, very controlled contact with anyone outside of your family. That’s really the only way.

“So, am I going to put my name down on the daycare list? No. Am I going to volunteer to drive potentially infected people to the hospital? No. Am I willing to be part of a neighborhood crime patrol when police service is no longer available? Sure. You all need to start thinking like this, or the flu is going to spread through the neighborhood like wildfire.”

Eric and Stephanie Bishop were both shaking their heads, with disgusted looks on their faces. Alex made a quick mental assessment of the scene, dividing the group into two factions: those that thought he was an asshole, and those that either didn’t know what to think or seemed to support his ideas.

Right away, he put Todd Perry, the Bishops, the Hodges, Mike Lynch, Nicki Bartlett, Laura Burton, and Andrew Green in the hostile group. He left the Quinns out of the group, based on Sarah Quinn’s reaction to the food sharing idea, and the fact that she didn’t react either way to his last comments. Ed Walker, the Silvas, Charlie Thornton, the Coopers, and Michelle Hayes fell into the second group.

As he continued to scan the faces, he put Peter Brady and Michael McCarthy into the hostile group. They were standing side by side, with loathsome faces, talking to each other and glancing up at Alex while shaking their heads. Mary Thompson and Jamie McDaniels appeared to be quietly arguing with each other. Alex couldn’t make a determination one way or the other about either of them.

Todd calmly stepped around the chairs and approached Alex as the group continued to disintegrate into a chaotic mutter-fest. Todd’s face was no longer swollen red, but Alex could tell by his bearing that Todd was about to get something important off his chest. Most of the driveway went silent in anticipation.

“Let me handle this, Charlie,” he whispered to his left as Ed put a hand on his shoulder.

Todd stopped about ten feet in front of him. “You know, Alex, you really surprised me today.”

“Not me,” Eric Bishop said.

“I used to think you were a stand-up guy. All that talk about the marines, band of brothers, looking out for the guy next to you. I guess that was all just a bunch of stories. I’m starting to put together a pretty clear picture of your situation. Put in a wood burning stove and some solar panels recently…extra oil tank. You’re not worried about a thing. You don’t need anything from any of us. I see exactly what kind of guy you are now. I guess my only question is: why the hell did you show up to this meeting in the first place?”

Todd stood his ground with his hands on his hips, awaiting a response. Alex sensed that everyone else was waiting for his response as well. Most of the adults were standing in a loose perimeter around the current epicenter of controversy.

“I’m starting to ask myself the same question, though I have managed to accomplish one important task. I’ve identified the belligerent, nasty people on the block,” Alex said, letting his rising anger get the better of him.

Todd took a few steps forward.

“Well, my offer still stands. Sarah, I’ll bring the anti-virals over to your house later this afternoon. You can all figure out how you want to distribute them. I’ll catch you later, Ed. Derek. Jamie, give me a call when you get home. It’s important. Charlie,” Alex said, nodding to them as he started to walk toward the end of the driveway.

They all acknowledged him with various gestures and quiet responses.

“I wonder how much you’re keeping for yourself,” Todd grumbled.

“You just don’t quit, do you?” Alex said, turning around to face Todd.

“I guess not. I don’t turn my back on friends, like some of us,” Todd said in a strained voice that betrayed an underlying fear of the situation.

“Well, that can be a positive quality in the right situation,” Alex said lightly, taking a few steps toward Todd. “Oh, Nicki, could you do me a favor and put me on the security roster? Especially if we need any heavily armed patrols. You know, if looters become an issue. Thanks.” He turned to leave.

“That jerk’s threatening us? I don’t believe it,” he heard someone whisper.

Alex heard Charlie call out to him.

“Alex,” he called again, and Alex turned his head while continuing to walk.

“What’s up, Charlie?” he asked, as Charlie closed the gap.

“That was a nice finishing touch.”

“We’ll see. I don’t have a good feeling about Todd. I think he’s going to need more than a veiled threat,” Alex said.

“You might be right. I should have said the same thing. I know that guy has it in for me, too.”

“Well, you called it like most of us saw it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry to have gotten you involved in that little fiasco over there. Looks like half the neighborhood hates us,” Charlie said, and Alex sensed that Charlie just might be happy about his new outlaw status in the neighborhood.

“Yeah, I’m a little surprised that so many people rallied against me. I’m not making any of this up. If they execute their little daycare plan, the neighborhood will not survive. How are you guys set? It sounds like you’ve been doing some prep work,” Alex said, as they passed Todd’s house.

“Pretty good, I guess. You’re probably the expert. We have at least two months of those Meals Ready to Eat…MREs, and freeze-dried meals. I couldn’t believe these were still on the shelves. I guess no one thought about it at first. Now you can’t find that stuff anywhere. Other than that, we have a bunch of dried stuff, like rice, beans, and nuts, a good amount of canned food, some jugs of water. I can melt snow if I have to. I have a bunch of those water purification tablets, from our deep woods hunting trips. Propane stove, plenty of firewood. I thought you were nuts putting in that solar panel system, but now it looks like a pretty good idea.”

“Yeah, it’s something we wanted to do for quite a while. For more than one reason,” Alex said.

“Like sticking it to the power company?”

“In a sense. Unfortunately, it’ll take another fifteen or twenty years for this system to pay for itself. But that’s definitely part of it,” Alex agreed, as they passed the Walkers’ house.

Charlie looked up at Ed’s house. “Ed seems like a good guy. How are they set for this thing?”

“All right, I suppose. Ed’s biggest challenge will be keeping his distance from the rest of the neighborhood. Ed understands the gravity of the situation better than most around here, but he’s not far enough along yet for me to say he’s good to go. He’s too nice. The best advice I can give you, Charlie, is to steer clear of the neighbors. If you have to interact, keep your distance, and for heaven’s sake, don’t provoke anyone. You and I both could use some help with that one.”

“For a minute there, I wasn’t sure if you were the pot or the kettle,” Charlie said.

Alex laughed, and Charlie joined him.

For the first time, Alex started to relax around Charlie. The guy was intense, but he genuinely understood what they were all up against. Charlie may turn into the ally the Fletchers need to weather this storm.

Alex and Charlie stood at the foot of the Fletchers’ driveway.

“I’d shake your hand Alex, but…”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly how we all need to start thinking. I’d definitely steer clear of the McDaniels. Jamie said her husband Matt couldn’t make it to the little soirée today because he’s sick. He’s head honcho for one of the Portland high schools, so who knows? Hopefully, he’s got a bad cold or a case of the seasonal flu. But with his proximity to the schools, I wouldn’t take any chances. Jamie didn’t look that great either,” Alex said.

“I noticed. Sniffling, coughing, and shivering with that winter jacket and hat. Do you really think it’s going to hit the neighborhood hard?” he asked.

Once again, Alex got a weird sense that Charlie might actually want the flu to break out in the neighborhood.

“If it’s already in the schools, we’ll definitely see cases in the neighborhood. If people keep going to work? If they implement that stupid plan to pass kids around among all the houses? It’s going to rage through the neighborhood like a wildfire,” Alex said.

“Friday was the last day of school for the Thornton clan. For everyone, I guess. I wish I had pulled them sooner. Is there any way to tell if they’ve already got the virus from someone at school?”

“If they show any flu-like symptoms, you could start them on anti-virals and take them to the hospital. Better now than later. At this point they can still get adequate care and treatment. In a week or two? Forget it. I can give you a few anti-viral treatment courses if they show any symptoms. Just keep it quiet, okay?” Alex said, wondering if it was a good idea to promise those to him.

“Thanks, Alex, that means a lot to me. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. We should keep an eye out for each other. Never know what’s going to happen around here. I have the ability to reach out and touch somebody, if you catch my drift. How about you?” he said, obviously referring to his hunting rifles.

“I’m set in that department,” Alex replied, ending the topic.

“Good to hear that. Hey, I’ll catch you later. Let me know if you hear anything,” Charlie said and started to walk down the block.

“You too, man.”

He walked up his driveway and looked down the street toward the Quinns’ before stepping into the garage. He closed the garage bay and squeezed by the 4Runner to get to the mudroom door.

“Kate?” he called, loudly enough to be heard throughout the first floor.

“In the great room,” she responded.

Alex removed his shoes and stacked them in the mudroom closet, hung his coat up on a row of hooks next to the door, and stuffed his hat in one of the pockets of the coat. He smelled freshly brewed coffee.

“Coffee? That’s a treat in the afternoon,” he commented, walking into the kitchen.

He heard Kate shuffling through the great room. She appeared, dressed in a thick gray turtleneck sweater and faded jeans.

“Yeah, I started to feel a bit chilly and sleepy, so I thought I’d brew up some of that Bolivian coffee your doctor friend gave to you. I figured you could use some, too, after standing out there. How did it go?”

“Well, the rest of the group is still out there,” he said, pouring coffee into an oversized blue mug and giving her an odd look.

“That well?” she asked, putting her mug down on the island.

He backed up from the coffee pot and took a seat on a black kitchen stool. He leaned into the backrest and took a sip of straight black coffee. “Well, it certainly could have gone better. I’m not sure how to describe the scene, but there is a definite divide between the other side of Durham and our side. Todd Perry is a nutcase, that’s confirmed. He’s gonna be a problem. He was pushing for everyone to disclose how much food they have on hand. Basic supplies, too. Apparently, he doesn’t have any supplies, and he was trying to institute a system of sharing food, I think. Anyway, a couple of people calmly voiced their concerns about this idea, and Charlie Thornton came at the idea with guns ablazin’…”

“Oh boy, Charlie?”

“You know, I think Charlie might be all right. Maybe a little unstable, but he really seems to understand what’s going on with the pandemic. He says he’s all set at his house with food, supplies, everything. We had a nice little chat on the way back, since we were both sort of kicked out of the meeting.”

“Are you serious? They kicked you out?” Kate exclaimed.

“Not really, but it was clearly time for me to go. Anyway, Charlie accused Todd of being a self-interested communist…or socialist. Either way, this really set off Team Hostile, which includes, but doesn’t appear to be limited to the Bishops, who seem to hate me for some reason, Mike Lynch, Andrew Greene, Laura Burton, and the, uh…Hodges up at the top of the street. None of them really cared for my ideas, so we’ll have to keep a close eye on these people as the situation deteriorates. Especially Todd. I think Mary Thompson hates me too now.”

“Sounds great,” Kate said sarcastically. “Anything in particular you said to upset everyone?”

“Well, I didn’t like the food disclosure idea, and I made that very clear. Though I have to say that a majority of the group didn’t seem too keen about sharing food either. Todd and the Bishops were all fired up about it. Other than that, I told the group that if they didn’t all stay away from each other, then the flu was going to run unchecked through the neighborhood and kill a bunch of people. Nobody really liked that. This really hits the spot, honey. Thank you,” he said, taking another sip.

“Did you tell the group that we are off limits here at the house?” she asked him.

“Pretty much. That was part of the ‘stay away from each other’ speech. One of the big ideas forwarded by the pandemic committee was to organize a neighborhood daycare system. And a volunteer roster to drive sick people to the hospital if the family can’t do it. I told them that these ideas were the quickest way to ensure that the neighborhood did not survive the pandemic. This was not received well. Oh, and I’m pretty sure that the McDaniels’ house is infected with the flu,” Alex informed her.

“What? How do you know that? Is Jamie sick?” she asked, sounding slightly frantic.

“No…well maybe. Matt is definitely sick with something. Sounds a lot like the flu. It could be anything really.”

“Yeah, but with their exposure to the school systems? I wouldn’t take any chances,” she emphasized.

“Well, it’s not like we hang out with them.”

The phone rang, and Kate walked over to the kitchen desk to pick it up, and checked the caller ID.

“Matthew McDaniels?” she asked.

“That might be Jamie.”

“Why would she be calling?”

“I told her to give me a call. I wanted to convince her to take her husband in to be seen.”

“Hello? Hold on, he’s right here,” she said.

“Thanks, honey, now can you give us some privacy?” he asked, covering up the phone’s mouthpiece.

At the frowning look from Kate, he assured her, “Just kidding,” and then, “Hey, Jamie, thanks for calling,” into the phone.

“Sure, Alex. I’ve never seen people act like that before. I almost got into a shouting match with Mary Thompson. I wouldn’t count on getting a Christmas card from her,” she said.

“Yeah, I saw the two of you going at it. What’s her deal?” he asked.

Kate, who didn’t seem interested in the conversation any longer, retreated to the great room, grabbed her iPad, and sat in the leather lounge chair next to the wood-burning stove.

“I really don’t know. She asked me if I could believe what you were saying, about not helping each other out with food. I told her I completely agreed with you, and she started into me. Really weird,” she said and broke into a cough.

He cringed at the sound and momentarily pulled the phone away from his face, as if he could catch the flu through it. “Hey, Jamie, the reason I wanted you to call is that I’m worried about Matt, and maybe you. You said Matt was pretty sick, right?”

“Yeah, it really hit him this morning. He woke up sweating and could barely get out of bed. He felt really hot, and I could tell he was really congested. He’s been on the couch most of the day,” she said, alarmed.

“Is he coughing much?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, that’s what woke us up so early.”

“Jamie, I think you need to take him to the ER and have him tested for the Jakarta flu. The hospitals aren’t slammed yet, and if he has it and you catch it early, he should be fine.”

“Do you really think he might have it? Oh my God, I don’t…I’m not sure if I can take him in today. I have the kids home, and I’d…”

“Jamie, you should all go in and get tested. You don’t sound so great either, and if both of you have it, there’s a good chance your kids might have been exposed. The earlier you catch this thing the better. This may sound weird, but if you’re going to get infected, then it’s better to get infected now, while the hospitals can provide the right services. Seriously, you should all hop in the car and head over to the Maine Medical Center. Pack an overnight bag for your husband.”

“Really? I mean he was fine last night. I kind of feel like we’d be jumping the gun. Don’t you think?”

“Jamie, you can’t be too cautious with this flu strain. It’s killing people, lots of people. Some within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You don’t want to wait around,” he advised.

“All right. I’ll, uh…I’ll talk to Matt about it. I don’t know about taking the kids. That might be a little too much for them. I might make an appointment with their pediatrician for tomorrow,” she said, and Alex could sense the hesitation.

“Your pediatrician might not have the field test yet. They’ll probably send you over to Maine Med, or tell you to go home and call if symptoms develop. You’re probably better off all going together. Think about it. You really need to go sooner than later. No later than tomorrow morning. Seriously,” he said.

Alex could hear a commotion in the background.

“Sorry Alex, I need to get going. Thanks for the advice. I’ll think about it,” she said, and the line went dead.

Chapter 20

Alex pulled his brown knit cap tight over his head and pushed the rake deep into the bushes. The temperature dropped rapidly as the sun sunk lower in the sky, and a southerly wind picked up. He considered going inside for a warmer jacket, when his smartphone rang. He wasn’t familiar with the number, but could tell it was a local prefix.

“Alex Fletcher,” he answered.

“Hey, Alex, it’s Ed. Kate gave me your cell number.”

Alex looked up at the Walkers’ house and saw Ed opening the sliding door to the deck. He waved to him and signaled with his hand for Ed to come over.

“Come on over, Ed. I’m not that paranoid. Unless you don’t want to be seen in public with me, of course, which I can understand,” Alex said.

“I don’t care what any of them think. My wife just got a call from Jamie across the street, and I don’t want her to see me scooting over to your house. Jamie just asked Sam if we’d watch the kids while she took her husband over to the ER. I guess he’s having serious trouble breathing, and she’s really freaked out. She sounded like shit too. I told Sam to tell her we’d call back in a few minutes. Alex, I really don’t want to take the risk, but I feel like a real jerk not helping her out,” he said.

Alex paused for a moment to consider his response.

“Ed, please don’t consider watching her kids. Odds are very high that all four of them are infected. I told her Sunday to take the entire family in to get tested, and she blew it off. She needs to take all of them to the ER. All of them. You can tell her I said so, I don’t care. I’ll call her myself if you want,” Alex said, walking over to Ed’s house.

He hung up the phone and continued walking over to Ed’s deck. Ed put the phone back inside and stepped out again.

“Wow, it’s cold out,” he complained, folding his arms. “No, I’ll call her back, but Sam seems to be considering the idea.”

“The whole thing is a bad idea. If she’s sick with the flu, they’re not going to just let her drop off her husband and hang around for a while. As soon as they see she’s coughing and wheezing, they’ll put her in a hospital bed too, if they have any to spare. They certainly won’t let her hang around the hospital if she’s an infection risk.

“According to the news, HHS just authorized active risk reduction measures, which means that they might simply detain her so she can’t go back into the community and spread the flu. You could be stuck with the kids indefinitely, which would be fine if they weren’t likely sick themselves. She needs to take them all in to be tested. I’ll call her and explain it,” Alex said.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll take care of it. This is really bad,” Ed said.

“I agree, but this is how it spreads. It’s going to get worse around here, and the decisions are going to get tougher. Did Jamie even mention the conversation I had with her on Sunday?” Alex asked.

“No, but she told Sam that she didn’t think you guys would help, and that we were her last hope since they don’t have any family around. Threw a guilt grenade on us.”

“Yeah, well, that won’t be the last one. Stand by for a few tactical nuclear guilt bombs. I look at this whole situation as a military operation. The main objective is to keep the Fletchers’ safe from harm, in whatever form it takes. The flu, crazy neighbors, whatever…”

“Is this a long speech, General Patton? I’m freezing out here,” Ed said.

“You better get in before you freeze. Your lips are turning blue.”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know how it goes,” Ed said, walking through the sliding door.

“Good luck, man.” Alex saluted Ed and walked back to his yard.

***

Alex watched Jamie McDaniels back her Volvo station wagon down their driveway and head straight to the Bartletts’ house. Jaime probably called Nicki to check and see if there were any volunteers to watch the kids, and as one of the neighborhood “leaders,” Nicki would have stepped up to set the example for the rest of the neighborhood. He grabbed the phone from the desk and dialed Ed’s number.

“Hey, Sam, it’s Alex. Is Ed there?”

“Let me see if I can pry him away from the window. I assume that’s why you’re calling?” she asked.

“Guilty. The McDaniels just took off. I was hoping they were all going to the hospital, but it looks like they made a stop on the other side of the block,” he said.

“Well, I wish we could have helped them, but I’m beginning to think you’re right about all this. I’ve seen a few lawyers and staff around the office that look and sound really sick. I’m really starting to get paranoid. I’m thinking about calling in sick for next week,” she said.

“At this point, you could probably just use the words ‘flu-like symptoms’ and nobody will question your decision to stay home. According to the evening news, absenteeism is on the rise in Maine,” he said.

“I can imagine. Anyway, here’s the other peeping tom. Take care, Alex. Say hi to Kate.”

“Sure thing, Sam.”

“Hey, Alex. Did you see where Jamie went?” Ed asked.

“I’m pretty sure it was the Bartletts’. I saw the car pass the McKinney’s, which eliminates the Green’s, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t get past the Cohens’…”

“It didn’t. I can fully see the Bishops’ house, and she didn’t land there either,” he said.

“Definitely disappeared behind the Cohens’, at Nicki’s house. Unbelievable. What is she thinking?”

“Who, Jamie or Nicki?”

“Either of them,” Alex replied.

“Well, Jamie was pretty upset, but said that she understood why we couldn’t help…”

“But she went ahead and pawned her kids off on another family?” Alex snorted.

“She said they weren’t symptomatic, and she didn’t want to risk bringing them to the hospital. She thought the state might yank the kids right out of the hospital if she was infected too,” Ed said.

“She might be right. I really didn’t think of that,” Alex conceded.

“Me either. It’s a bad situation for them.”

“Yeah, and it’ll probably get worse.”

“Way worse.”

***

Alex sat at the computer in the great room. He’d finally gotten an email response from Dr. Wright, almost a full week after he left him both a voicemail and an email, digging for any more inside information. According to the email, Dr. Wright had been contacted by Biosphere Pharmaceuticals to confirm Alex’s transaction, which probably explained why he hadn’t heard a word from Biosphere. The fact that he had been attacked on his own front lawn likely had something to do with Biosphere’s silence.

Dr. Wright explained that the situation in Maine was fast approaching the breaking point, with a large percentage of available hospital beds unavailable to new cases. Local area hospitals had canceled nearly all elective and non-critical surgeries to make room for the swiftly rising number of flu cases. Alex wondered about the McDaniels, who had left for the hospital earlier in the evening. Dr. Wright’s email was terse and filled with spelling errors, giving Alex the impression that he was exhausted and overwhelmed.

Mike Gallagher had left him an email announcing his family’s arrival in New Hampshire at Colleen’s parents’ house. He’d finally met Ted at the storage locker, two days after abandoning his Biosphere post down in Andover. Ted had arrived alone and hadn’t mentioned searching Mike’s house. Overall, Mike said that the closeout was painless and cordial.

Alex decided to work on an idea that formed when he’d noticed Jamie’s car stop at the Bartletts’ house. He pulled a piece of white poster board from the office closet and drew a rough sketch of the Durham Road loop. The schematic representation of the loop extended from one side of the poster board to the other, and he intended to graphically represent each house with a square, which could be filled with pertinent information.

Since the neighborhood was their primary area of operation, he wanted to gather and document as much intelligence as possible on his neighbors. Using a retractable pencil, he drew each house and labeled each with their street number and family name. He drew a line for each member of the household; he’d add individual names later. Alex wrote the letter “S” above each house that had sent kids to school, followed by the names of the McDaniel family. Next to Matt McDaniel he wrote “hospitalized with flu.”

Beside Jamie’s name, he also wrote “hospitalized with flu.” He hadn’t seen their car return, though he admitted that she could have easily slipped back in without him noticing while they were watching the television. Next to the children, Amanda and Katherine, he wrote “direct exposure to flu.” He circled the kids’ names and drew a line to the Bartletts’ house, putting a note above the Bartletts’ house next to the “S,” “Both McDaniel kids dropped off Nov 6th .”

Next, Alex raided Emily’s color markers, He put a red dot above the houses he strongly suspected of being hostile towards him. Green for the known “friendlies.” Any unknown households got a yellow dot. Within the span of five minutes, Alex had developed a workable threat matrix. Finally, he circled the houses that were empty, which included the Cohens’ and Murrays’. He wondered what Kate will think of his project.

Chapter 21

From the master bathroom, Alex heard the home phone start to ring. The ring cut off, when someone in the house had answered the call. He put on boxer shorts and stepped onto the scale, satisfied with the fact that nothing had changed since yesterday. The scale scraped the floor when he stepped off, creating a sound that could be heard in the hallway outside of the bathroom.

“Still weigh the same?” Kate asked from the other side of the door.

“What? Are you spying on me?” he asked, pulling on his jeans.

“Yeah, I don’t have anything better to do. Ed’s on the line, he said that Matt McDaniel died yesterday,” she said, lowering her voice for the last part of the sentence.

“Hold on,” he said, rushing to get dressed.

He opened the door and saw Kate standing by the couch, talking on the phone. “What happened?”

“Ed can fill you in,” she said, handing him the phone.

He took the phone, and Kate left the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

“What happened, man?”

“I just heard it from John next door. He was leaving for work when Todd flagged him down in the driveway. Todd told him that Matt died late Wednesday night,” he said, sounding exasperated.

“What about Jamie?”

“She’s in ICU. Confirmed Jakarta flu. From what Nicki told Todd, she’s not doing great, but they consider her to be stable. It sounds like her husband died from the acute syndrome,” Ed said.

“Yeah, from what you told me Tuesday, he had advanced ARDS symptoms. Respiratory issues usually come later as a complication of the flu.”

“What a mess,” Ed said.

“Yeah, and it’s going to get messier. So, what’s going on with Jamie’s kids? Are they sick yet?” Alex asked.

“I didn’t hear anything about that, but John said that they were over at the Bishops’ for a few days. Nobody knows when Jamie will be able to return home.”

“It really depends on how severe her case turns out to be. If she’s in the ICU and she’s stable, she has a pretty good chance of survival. She could be home in a week, or it could be a month. Either way, she’s going to feel like hell for quite a while. This may sound weird, but she’s lucky she got into the hospital when she did. Looking at the news today, HHS officials estimate that all inpatient services will be slammed shut within two weeks. ISPAC thinks less time than that,” Alex said.

“I saw that. Pretty unbelievable.”

“I don’t think people are taking this seriously enough. The estimated number of confirmed cases in the U.S. is around 90,000, which doesn’t sound bad, but it’s slightly higher than CDC projections. 90,000 will be half a million next week, and then nearly three million the week after that. The case fatality rate worldwide is steady around fourteen percent, mostly from ARDS, but most experts agree that this number will climb as people start dying from complications. Fifteen percent of three million is 450,000. That’s a lot of deaths.”

“Scary. Do you think it’s safe to get more groceries?” Ed asked.

“Yeah, as long as you don’t touch anything with your bare hands and wear a mask. I think they’re still just plopping pre-packed bags in your car and running your credit card. Honestly, it’s probably very low risk, as long as you’re smart about it.”

“What about the actual items?” Ed asked.

“That’s a little trickier. I don’t think you’ll get much produce, but I’d wash it thoroughly if you do. Everything else you could wash in the sink with soap and hot water. Wear gloves and don’t touch your face. Hey, I have plenty of food and supplies over here. Seriously, we’ll take care of you. You don’t have to take any risks,” Alex offered.

“I know. I’d just feel better doing as much as possible until it becomes a necessity.”

“I hear you. Hey, if it comes to it, you could always go deer hunting with Charlie. He said that the conservation land back there is full of deer.”

“We might all need to remember that,” Ed said.

“No kidding. Hey, thanks for the call. I don’t seem to be on the neighborhood distribution list anymore,” Alex said.

“Are your feelings hurt?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll catch you later, Alex.”

“Sounds good, man,” Alex said and hung up.

Chapter 22

Heavy rain pelted the windows of the master bedroom. Dark grey skies loomed through the half open shades in Alex and Kate’s darkened bedroom. Alex reached for the ringing phone.

“Who is that? It’s not even seven,” Kate asked in a groggy and annoyed voice.

“It’s Ed,” he said in a similar voice. “Hello?” he answered.

“Alex, sorry to wake you, but something weird is going on outside. I think you should take a look. Sam was up early in the office and saw Eric Bishop and Todd Perry walk over to the McDaniels’ house. She saw them walk up to the front door and then walk around to the back of the house. What do you think they’re up to?”

“Maybe they’re going to bring something over to Jamie at the hospital, or she asked them to take care of something,” Alex said, standing up to look out of the window at the McDaniel house.

“Yeah, but I have the key to their house. Why wouldn’t she have told them to get it from me? I don’t like this. And why would they both need to be there?” Ed asked.

“I don’t know. Are you thinking about heading over there? Wait. Hey, I can see them at the corner of the garage behind the house. It looks like Todd is trying to shoulder the back door open,” Alex said.

“I’m heading over there to find out what’s going on. I don’t trust those two,” Ed said.

“I’ll be right out,” Alex said.

“Thanks,” Ed said and hung up.

He headed toward the closet.

“What’s going on?” Kate asked, sitting up in bed.

“Nothing, I hope. Todd and Eric Bishop are over at the McDaniels’, and it looks like they’re trying to break in the back garage door. Ed is heading over to see what they’re up to. Maybe you should keep an eye on us out there, just in case. Call the police if something other than a fistfight erupts.”

“Are you kidding me?” asked Kate.

“Not really.”

“You’re not taking a gun out there, are you?”

“I can’t imagine that will be necessary,” Alex replied.

“That’s not really an answer,” Kate said.

He looked at her and considered her comment. “No, I’m not. I can handle myself against those two yahoos. Bringing a gun out there would only complicate the situation. The last thing we need is the police in our lives. I’ll be right back,” he said and headed out of the bedroom.

“Be careful,” he heard Kate say.

“As always,” he yelled back, descending the stairs.

Alex reached the mudroom and put on his old black leather combat boots. Zipping his Gore-Tex jacket all the way up, Alex braced for the cold wind as he stepped out of the protective cover of the porch. The rain and wind hit hard as he walked across the driveway. Ed had already crossed the street, walking up to the McDaniels’ garage. They acknowledged each other, and Alex jogged across the rain swept street to meet him.

“This blows,” Alex said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty miserable. You’re used to this, right?” said Ed.

“Nobody really gets used to this; they just get better at not complaining about it,” said Alex.

Alex held his index finger to his lips as they approached the corner.

Before they reached the corner, he leaned in close to Ed. “Be careful. Either one of these guys could have the flu. Don’t get too close,” he whispered, and Ed nodded.

They rounded the corner of the garage together, facing down the length of the garage. Todd and Eric stood on the slanted bulkhead door trying to open a window, oblivious to their presence. Ed stepped forward, Alex trailing him. Eric noticed them first and tapped Todd on the shoulder. Todd turned and stepped down from the sloping bulkhead door.

“Hey, I have a key if that would make things easier?” said Todd.

“That would really help. As a last resort, I was going to bust one of the window panes on the garage door to get in,” Eric said.

Alex kept his hands in his jacket pockets, which he felt was a neutral gesture. The rain hit them in sheets, clearly bothering Eric and Todd, who were facing directly into the onslaught.

“What do you guys need?” Ed asked.

Eric’s eyes darted almost imperceptibly toward Todd. “I wanted to get the kids some new clothes. It looks like they’ll be staying with us a little longer than expected. You heard about Matt, right?”

“Yeah, that’s tough. I hope Jamie recovers quickly; the kids are going to need her,” Ed replied.

“Have you told them yet?” Alex asked.

“No, I’m not sure how to handle it. I think we should wait until Jamie’s home. The girls are worried, but doing okay. She should probably be the one to break the news,” Eric said.

They all nodded, and Todd broke the moment. “Hey, can we talk in the house? I need to get out of this rain.”

Ed took a Patriots keychain with two keys on it out of his pocket, using one of them to open the garage door. They all stepped inside, into the empty bay, which was next to Matt’s dark green Honda Pilot. A faint gasoline smell hit Alex as he stepped into the dusty garage. Eric and Todd moved to the center of the bay, near a large faded oil stain on the concrete deck. Alex and Ed stood in front of a waist-level workbench along the back wall of the garage, next to the door.

“That’s better,” Eric said.

“Anyway, I’m going to grab some more clothes and a few personal items. They gave me a list,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket. “I’ll make sure to lock up on the way out. Thanks for opening up for us,” Eric said.

“No problem. I was pretty sure it was you guys. My wife thought she saw you head over, and Alex couldn’t be sure from his house. I’ll stick around to make sure it’s locked up and check on the rest of the house for Jamie,” Ed said.

“We’ll take care of that for you. Take a look around, make sure the windows are shut tight, turn down the thermostat, all that stuff. No reason for all of us to be out on a day like this,” Todd said.

“I feel responsible for the house and letting you guys in. I should be the last one out. I’d feel better that way. You guys can grab the stuff on the list, and I’ll make the rounds.”

“Ed, we can handle it. Really, you’re kind of making us feel like children. I’ll check around, lock up, and give you a call,” Todd said.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. We’re already here. It’ll go faster this way. You guys get the girls’ stuff, and we’ll check out the house. We should all be out of here in five or ten minutes,” Alex said.

“And why are you here?” Eric asked, staring at Alex.

“Why is Todd here?” Ed countered.

“Because I asked him to help,” Eric said.

“Same with Alex. Hey, we’re wasting time. Let’s get this going and get out of here,” Ed said.

“Ed, you’re not the one watching her kids. Okay? We’re the only ones that really need to be here,” Eric challenged.

“She gave me this key a few months ago, in case her kids got locked out, or for an emergency. I’d say this qualifies. I don’t see anyone else with a key.”

“And I don’t see anyone here volunteering to watch her kids either,” Eric said, gesturing with his hands to Ed and Alex.

“Her kids know about the key. They didn’t tell you about it?” Ed asked.

“No.”

“How did you end up with the kids, Eric?” Alex asked.

“What do you care?”

“Let’s just cut all of the crap. There’s a reason you want us out of here, and it has nothing to do with that supposed list in your hand,” Alex said.

Ed regarded Alex with a surprised but satisfied look. Alex took his hands out of his coat pockets and folded his arms in front of him.

“Fuck you,” Todd said, and Alex flashed him a mock smile.

Eric remained silent, with a look of rage on his face. He crumpled the yellow piece of paper in his hand.

“I’ll tell you what. You guys can get the stuff on that list and check the house. Ed and I will stay here in the garage and lock up when you leave. I’ll wait out in the rain. Doesn’t matter to me, or does that still ruin your real reason for being here?” Alex asked.

“Look, we’re going to get some more clothes for the girls, and…” Eric paused to look at Todd, who shook his head in response.

“And what?” Ed pressed.

“It’s none of their business, Eric,” Todd said.

“I’m not sure how any of this is yours either,” Ed said, staring at Todd.

“Will one of you just come out and say it. You’re taking the food too, right?” Alex said, getting to the point.

“Not all of it…” Eric started.

“You don’t owe them an explanation!” Todd yelled.

“Now it makes sense,” Alex said, pointing at Todd.

“Yeah, well, I’m taking the kids next week. Not that you even care about the well being of the kids,” Todd said.

“And you need to stock up now? Makes sense.” Alex shook his head mockingly.

“Nobody is taking any of the food in this house,” Ed declared.

“It’s only fair that if we’re feeding her kids, then we should be using their food!” Todd yelled indignantly.

“Take it easy,” Alex said.

Todd took a step toward Alex, and Eric put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. “It’s fine, Todd, don’t let him push your buttons. That’s what you’re really good at, isn’t it? Pushing buttons?” Eric directed at Alex.

“Only when they need to be pushed,” Alex replied.

“I know you think you’re top dog around here. Tough guy marine. Decorated veteran. All that meaningless stuff you and your wife have pushed on us over the past eight years. You may have impressed the rest, but your nonsense never worked with me or my wife,” Eric said.

“I’m sorry, did I just land in the middle of a different planet? What are you talking about, Eric?”

“You may not have ever said anything directly, but you’ve made it pretty clear that you think you’re better than the rest of us. Clear to me at least. You had most of us fooled until Sunday, when your true colors showed,” Eric said.

“Turned out to be a gutless loser,” Todd taunted.

Alex could feel his own blood rising and figured that the two of them could probably see that his face was reddening.

“Hey, if you’re watching the kids, you shouldn’t have to dig into your own supplies to feed them. Do you agree, Ed?” said Alex.

“Barely, but I’m listening,” Ed replied, staring intently at Todd.

“So what I propose is that you grab all of the stuff on that list, and then together, we’ll figure out how much food you should take.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me my business!” Todd yelled.

“Exactly, I’m not having you guys stand over my shoulder like a prison guard,” Eric said.

“Then get out of here,” Ed advised.

“You’d just be screwing over the kids by kicking us out of here,” Eric said, and Todd sighed agreement.

“Pathetic,” Alex said.

Todd lunged for Alex, who stepped aside and turned his body with Todd’s motion, sending Todd toward the workbench behind him. Knocked off balance, Todd stumbled full speed into the workbench with his hands and arms extended, which luckily absorbed some of the impact. Despite the cushion of limbs, his chest hit the edge of the bench hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He slumped to the garage floor, looking up at Alex, straining to breathe. Eric remained frozen in the middle of the garage, and Ed stepped clear of the potential melee zone.

“Do not try that again!” Alex warned, pointing at Todd.

“Here’s the deal. Eric, you get the girls’ stuff, and Todd will cool his jets down here in the garage. Ed, why don’t you put together some food for the girls? Find a suitcase or an athletic bag, something big enough to fill with plenty of food. The girls can carry it around with them until Jamie gets back, and we can refill the bag as needed,” Alex suggested, moving out of Todd’s immediate striking distance.

Eric nodded at Alex, still dazed by the sudden violence. “You okay?” Eric asked, walking over to Todd.

“He’s fine. He just lost his wind,” Alex said forcefully.

Eric stopped and backed up slowly into the Honda Pilot, which startled him and moved him into action. He scurried around the SUV and opened the door to the house. Ed began to move in the same direction.

“Nice one,” he said, looking down at Todd, who was still taking shallow breaths of air and staring intensely at Alex.

“I’ll deliver the food to the girls myself. I don’t trust these heroes,” Ed said, skirting around the back of the SUV to follow Eric.

“Hey, you should put together a package for the Bartletts, too. These guys couldn’t have gone about this any worse, but I see their point about feeding Jamie’s kids,” Alex said.

“Sounds fair, but I don’t want to totally deplete Jamie’s supply. She’s going to need it for all of them when she gets back.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Alex said, and Ed nodded over the hood of the SUV before disappearing into the house, leaving the door wide open. Alex turned around to face Todd.

“I’m sure you have a few ideas swimming around in your head, and I can assure you that none of them are healthy for you right now.”

Todd appeared to be breathing more easily, sitting with his back against a large green plastic bin stored under the workbench. Several tools lay in disarray on top of the workbench, knocked loose from their places on the pegboard behind the bench. Alex eyed a few of the tools warily, especially the hammer and a two-foot-long metal ruler.

Several minutes passed in complete silence between Alex and Todd, punctuated only by the occasional sound of rummaging in the house or sudden sheets of rain slamming into the sides of the garage. Todd finally stood up and dusted himself off, still glaring at him. Alex may have appeared relaxed and aloof to Todd, but inside, he was anything but calm. Until Todd moved away from the potential weapons on the workbench, Alex would keep his mind and body on high alert. As Todd beamed hatred at him, Alex struggled to keep his breathing under control.

Todd moved away from the workbench, never looking at it, and resumed his original position near the center of the garage. Alex stepped over to the bench, leaning his back against the same edge that had taken Todd to the floor, effectively blocking Todd’s view of the hammer and metal ruler.

“I have everything. Let’s go,” Eric said, holding a large pink nylon duffel bag.

“Are either of the girls sick yet?” Alex asked.

“Why would you care?” said Eric.

“Yeah, what a jerk,” Todd added.

“You two still don’t get it, do you?” Alex sighed.

“Get what?” Todd said, as they both moved to the garage door.

“That their dad died from the Jakarta flu and their mother is in the ICU. That the two of them are very likely infected,” Alex warned.

“They’re fine. We’ve been watching them off and on all week, and even the Bartletts said they’ve been symptom free. Hey, someone has to take care of them. Certainly isn’t going to be one of you two morons,” Eric said, grinning at his own jab.

“Losers,” Todd muttered.

“Shut up, Todd. Hey, are you still planning to take your turn watching the kids, or will you take a pass now that your free buffet ticket’s been revoked?” Alex asked, watching Eric closely for a reaction.

Eric looked to Todd for a response. Todd opened the door, letting in a wave of rain that poured into the garage, soaking the floor and the end of the workbench closest to the door.

“I’m done here,” Todd insisted.

“Good luck, Eric. Looks like the Good Samaritan is even more full of it than you,” Alex yelled.

Eric looked torn, almost confused, as if the possibility of being stuck with Jamie’s kids indefinitely had never crossed his mind. Ed stepped around the front of the SUV on the other side of the garage, pulling a medium-sized red suitcase with one hand and holding two stuffed plastic Target bags in the other. Everyone focused their attention on Ed.

“Eric, I’ll drop this off a little later. The suitcase is for the girls. One of these bags is for you and your family, to offset any food you’ve shared with the girls, and the other is for the Bartletts. How long have they been at your house?” Ed asked.

“Since yesterday morning,” Eric replied.

“Well, this might be a lot for just one day, but I know Jamie really appreciates what you’re doing,” Ed said.

Eric nodded his head in what might be his first genuine non-hostile act of the morning.

Todd didn’t look nearly so defused. “What do I get if I take the kids?” he asked greedily.

“A good neighbor ribbon,” Alex interjected.

“Alex,” Ed warned, giving him the “take it easy” look.

“Jamie’s kids aren’t going to be passed around the neighborhood for a food dowry,” Alex grumbled.

“Don’t worry about him. We’ll figure it out,” Eric said, pushing Todd through the door.

The two of them disappeared into the rain, and Alex saw them both pass quickly by the garage’s side window. Ed lowered the bags to the concrete, ran over to the door to close it, then turned around to face Alex.

“You really need to dial it back a few notches,” he cautioned.

“I know. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t expect Todd to lose it that easily.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem very stable, so I’d avoid sending him the wrong signals. Especially when I’m around, please. Anyway, I think this should be enough for them, at least for a week or so,” Ed said, tilting the bulging suitcase.

“What does their food supply look like?” Alex asked, picking up the two plastic bags.

“All right, I guess. I really can’t tell how many weeks, but it seems like a reasonable amount. Maybe I’m setting them up for problems with this suitcase,” Ed said, putting his face in his hands.

“Let Eric know that he should integrate the food into the house’s daily meals, and that the suitcase doesn’t represent a restriction. More like an adjustment for two more people. If they run out and he’s still watching the kids, you can refill the suitcase. I think he’ll understand the food idea.

“Eric, or Todd, or most anyone on this block would be fair to those kids. I just didn’t like the precedent that their home invasion might set. I think this will work out fine. I’m more concerned about Amanda and Katherine getting sick. After we drop this off at your house, I’m going to run home and grab some anti-virals to put in the suitcase. If they start taking them now, and continue the full course, then hopefully, their symptoms won’t be as bad, and they might be spared the worst the flu has to offer.”

“I’ll make sure they start taking those. They should probably try to keep it a secret. Are they the same ones you gave us last year?” Ed asked.

“Yeah, either TerraFlu or Tamiflu. Same thing, really,” Alex said.

***

Alex sat at the corner of the sectional sofa next to Emily, who was kneeling on the floor next to the coffee table putting away a board game.

“Well, that was fun. Next time we’ll play Trivial Pursuit, the 80s edition, and your mother and I will be on the same team. Two decades should be a comfortable buffer for us,” Alex said, ruffling Emily’s hair.

“Dad, stop it,” she protested, grabbing his hand.

“Hey, Cartoon Network is on all day long around here. How could you miss so many of those questions?” Ryan asked.

“Oh, I do everything I can to shut that channel out of my mind.” Kate laughed. “Most of the shows are either gross or confusing.”

“We all know your mother is pretty easily confused,” Alex teased.

Ryan and Emily laughed, and Kate moved over on the couch toward Alex.

“Whoa, no need to resort to violence here. Third time today,” he protested.

“Yeah, you’re an instigator, just like your son,” Kate said.

“I don’t instigate stuff,” Ryan countered with a completely insincere look on his face.

“Right. You and your father,” she said and managed to get one of her hands through Alex’s defenses. She dug her hand into his lower right side, knowing he was terribly ticklish around the waist, and he reacted by moving his lower body away from her hand.

“All right, that’s it! Stop it!” he said in between bouts of uncontrolled laughter.

Kate eased up on the attack, and Alex jumped off the couch and ran behind it.

“I told you not to mess with me,” Kate said, raising her eyebrows.

“I get the message. Kids, don’t mess with your mother, or she’ll tickle you.”

The phone interrupted them. Kate reached back onto the coffee table and picked up the phone, checking the caller ID.

“It’s your partner in crime, Ed,” she said and handed the phone across the back of the couch.

Alex answered the phone just as Ryan turned on the TV. “Hello. Hold on. Hey, can you guys turn that down?! Sorry about that, Ed. What’s up?”

“Hey, I just got back from Eric’s. I got a good feeling from Eric and Stephanie about the food and the kids. I don’t feel as stressed about it. I’ll tell you what, though, the Bishops’ house is a zoo. Everyone was over there. The Greens’ kids, the Bartletts’, the Perry’s. He said they’ve been swapping houses back and forth all week, so the ladies could get a break.”

“Wow. They really don’t get it.”

“No, they really don’t. Plus, one of Jamie’s kids doesn’t look so good. Katherine. She wasn’t coughing, but she had a nasty sniffle, and she felt warm. I put my hand on the top of her head, and her head was cooking. I told the girls that they had to take the pills and keep the pills out of sight. I also told Stephanie that Katherine had a fever. She said they’d keep a close eye on it.”

“Ed, you’ve done your duty to Durham Road and mankind. You’re a good man.”

“Thanks. I feel another one of your lengthy lectures coming on, and I really need to get out of these clothes. I’m soaked. I’ll catch you later.”

“Am I really that bad?” Alex asked.

“No, just bad timing. Later,” Ed said and hung up.

He sat back down on the couch as the kids dispersed.

“Hey, how many sets of anti-virals do we have left now? I’m starting to lose track,” Kate said.

“Twelve for us, plus three I kept for Charlie, if they need them. Minus two for the girls. Thirteen total.”

“Minus three for Charlie? That leaves ten for us. You’re already dipping into our core supply,” Kate lightly chastised.

“Yeah, I know, but I had to do something for those kids. Ten is fine for us. The plan for twelve gives us three courses of therapy each, way more than we’d need. Ten is more than adequate.”

“I’m sure it is, but that’s not the problem. You know what the problem is, right?” she said, looking into his eyes.

“Yeah, I need to listen a little more to my own lectures,” he said.

“A lot more. This isn’t going to be the last shitty situation on the block. Far from it…”

“I know,” Alex said, stepping on the first stair.

“I think from now on, we need to both be in on any decisions like that. You can be a tough guy most of the time, but when you give in, you really give in.”

“I know. I have a few soft spots,” Alex agreed.

She kissed him and walked toward the kitchen. “That’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. You’re a tough guy with a soft side.”

“Not that tough…”

“Tough enough,” Kate said.

Chapter 23

“Good morning, this is Matt Reynolds. Julia Williams is filling in for Diane this morning. Our top stories this morning focus on the Jakarta flu worldwide and at home. Simply put, the worldwide figures are staggering, with Asia in the middle of an uncontained, and apparently uncontrollable pandemic disaster, and Europe, South America, and Africa following a similar pattern. Here in the U.S., the situation is deteriorating quickly, with labor absenteeism rates skyrocketing, and the total number of Jakarta flu cases multiplying daily.

“According to CDC figures, the total number of confirmed cases of the Jakarta flu rose from around 90,000 last week to nearly 215,000 today, with a large majority of these cases centered near major metropolitan areas. Worse hit cities so far are New York City, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Atlanta, and Miami, accounting for over 125,000 of the total number of cases, with New York City alone reporting over 30,000 cases.

“This number only represents the cases confirmed by health officials through testing. As anyone on the street will attest, symptoms of the flu seem everywhere, and even CDC officials admit that the actual number of cases waiting to be confirmed could be three to four times the officially reported numbers.

“Hospitals and medical facilities in the heaviest hit metro areas are operating at near full capacity. HHS officials estimate that the nation’s hospitals will likely reach or exceed surge capacity by the middle of the week and have taken steps to deploy all remaining Federal Medical Stations to the hardest hit areas.

“Three of these stations have already been established in New York City, and one is operational in Los Angeles. Furthermore, HHS officials have assured state governments that all remaining Strategic National Stockpile assets have been slated for the soonest possible delivery to individual states.

“On Saturday, in a hastily assembled pandemic summit at the Department of Energy headquarters in Washington, officials from Department of Transportation, Energy, Labor, and Agriculture met with private sector food and energy leaders to develop and implement short-term solutions to the growing food and energy crisis. High absenteeism rates have plagued both fuel and food deliveries nationwide, nearly crippling the nation’s food distribution and supply system.

“Coupled with weeks of unusually high demand, industry officials state that the system has been stretched to its limit. Several states have already taken steps to activate all of their National Guard units, though their roles in the pandemic response effort have not been announced. Department of Defense officials refuse to comment on the possibility of using active duty military personnel to augment reserve and National Guard roles.

On Sunday, Energy officials at the pandemic summit voiced strong concerns over the continued operation of the nation’s electricity grid in the face of an unreliable coal supply to the nation’s network of coal-powered power plants. Department of Energy officials and energy leaders have already implemented a plan to divert coal reserves to power plants feeding the grid’s weak points.

“DOE officials are close to announcing the launch of a nationwide effort to conserve electricity. D.C. insiders predict that this announcement will be part of a presidential broadcast tentatively scheduled for later this week. The presidential address is rumored to include several broad sweeping measures designed to minimize the pandemic’s impact on the population and critical infrastructure. Let’s go to Maria Castelli for our international update.”

“Let’s not,” Alex said, muting the television.

“Not interested in the rest of the world?”

“I don’t know. It’s the same thing. The numbers are rising. Death rate’s increasing. I’m a lot more concerned about what’s happening right here in the U.S., New England in particular.”

“I keep thinking about all of the food and supplies we have downstairs, and I wonder if we’re making the right decision. If we shouldn’t make a hardcore assessment of how much we’ll really need to survive through the winter and come up with a plan to spread it around the neighborhood. I’m just wondering what it’s going to be like around here when the first wave of the flu passes, and everything starts to return to normal.”

“What do you mean?” Alex asked.

“Well, I guess I’m looking at how we’re going to fit in around here, if we choose to turn our backs on the neighborhood. I think if we make a better effort…”

“No matter what we do, this neighborhood will be a vastly different place in the spring. We have a lot of stuff in the basement, but nowhere near enough to make a lasting impact on the neighborhood. We have over thirty families here, and our stockpile can probably feed four, maybe five families comfortably for the duration of the first and second wave. If we open the stockpile to the neighborhood, it’ll be like opening Pandora’s box. The consequences of trying to shut it down, once opened, will be worse for us than never opening it in the first place. Plus, I’ve already promised Ed that we’d take care of his family, and I plan to stock up the McDaniel house when Jamie is released from the hospital.”

“How many of these promises do you have out there that I don’t know about?”

“That’s it. While we were at Jamie’s, Ed packed up a bunch of food in a suitcase for the girls, and I suggested that he pack up more food for the Bartletts, to compensate them for feeding the girls for most of the week. He didn’t want to stretch their food supply too thin, so I told him not to worry about it, and that I’d take care of it. I see it as a way to ensure the girls are treated fairly until Jamie gets back and can take care of them,” he said.

“You didn’t say that in front of Todd or Eric, did you?”

“I don’t think so…maybe. Things were pretty crazy in that garage. I might have,” he said tentatively.

“I really hope you didn’t,” Kate said, “because if you did, then Todd’s going to be all over us when things get really bad over at his house. So, basically, we’re supporting the Walkers and the McDaniels unofficially, and the Thorntons, too?”

“No, not the Walkers. I just told him that if his kids got the flu from school, I would hook him up with some anti-virals. I think we would have heard from him by now. He’ll be the least of our problems. He’s set for food, and he seems to get it about the quarantine idea,” Alex argued.

“Right, but if anyone in his family gets sick, you know where his first stop will be? And we’re down to thirteen courses of anti-virals,” Kate griped.

“If we do this right, and don’t get involved, we won’t need to use any of the anti-virals. Why are we arguing about this?”

“Because, once again, you’re out there making deals that conflict with our original plan, Alex.”

He set his coffee mug down on the island and took a deep breath, knowing Kate was right. His level of involvement within the neighborhood was slowly escalating, and may have already fostered enough negative sentiment toward them to jeopardize their safety. He turned in the chair and faced Kate, grabbing her hands.

“You’re right. There’s been a bit of a double standard…”

“A bit?” she interrupted.

“Hey, I’m trying to apologize here.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Go on.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry that I’ve been making decisions without you. You’re right. I need to limit my involvement to matters directly affecting this house and quit aggravating our neighbors. So, what I propose is that we honor any promises already made, but I…we won’t promise anything else. I wish we could help more people, but we can’t without jeopardizing our own situation. Aside from that, we should still maintain enough contact with our friends to make sure we know what’s going on around the neighborhood. We don’t want to get blindsided.”

“Apology accepted. I was really getting worried. I know that it’s hard to stick with a plan once you’re faced with the complexities and realities of real world adversity. You’ve been through some tough spots and probably know this better than anyone. We really need you to pull this off for us,” Kate said warmly.

He knew that she was talking about his time in Iraq. Unlike many combat veterans, Alex had shared details of his combat tour with his wife. Though he had excluded many of the grotesque details from his stories, Kate probably had a better understanding of his combat experience than most other veterans would allow. She definitely appreciated the fact that a combat plan rarely stood unchallenged, and that a successful leader would tweak the plan accordingly, staying on course and never forgetting the objective. Unfortunately, he had been subtly working against both the plan and the objective by creating challenges and hostility where it may not have existed otherwise.

“I understand what you’re saying. I need to focus more on getting us through this safely, and not get distracted by the stuff that doesn’t really matter,” he said.

“That’s easier said than done. There’s a reason you’re the one we’re relying on to keep us on track. If I thought I could do a better job, I would have already taken charge, but I know I can’t. We’d already have a line forming at our bulkhead door if I was the one out there in the neighborhood,” Kate said.

“True.”

“So, right now, we’ll keep you in charge of managing all external aspects of our survival plan…”

“Wait a minute, who’s we?” he asked jokingly.

“You didn’t think you were in charge of the whole operation, did you? I, of course, am still in charge of everything. That has never changed. You just got a minor field promotion, which can be revoked,” she said, easing out of her seat.

“Oh, really? I didn’t realize that I was still moving up the ranks around here. And what exactly is your rank in this organization?”

“Supreme Commander. That’s the highest rank attainable, and it’s a lifetime position. I’ve held it for fourteen years. Actually, fifteen. I appointed myself when we got engaged.” She hopped off the chair.

Alex got up swiftly and moved around the island toward Kate, who was laughing and circling the island. “Every now and then, the troops need to rebell and teach their leaders a lesson,” he said, closing in on her. He pulled her into his strong arms and kissed her passionately, lovingly.

“I could get used to this sort of rebellion,” she said pulling back slightly to look into his eyes.

Alex held her close, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing. He hoped more than anything that he had what it takes to protect Kate and the kids during this crisis.

Chapter 24

Alex sat at the great room computer desk, scanning the headlines from dozens of online newspapers. The situation nationwide had deteriorated significantly, as he had expected.

From the desk, he could see out of two sets of windows into the neighborhood. The temperature the past few days had been in the fifties, and the days had been sunny and clear, representing a welcome shift from the seemingly endless series of storms racking southern Maine over the past week.

Derek Sheppard played with his kids in his backyard. Although all three of Derek’s kids and their dog, ran around the play set, Ellen was nowhere in sight, and Alex hadn’t spoken with Derek since the neighborhood meeting.

The break in the weather also brought a few visitors, which they kept at a comfortable distance. Nancy and Paul Cooper stopped by Thursday morning to say hello while out for a walk with Max. Both of them had taken extended, unpaid leave from work, starting at the beginning of the week.

Charlie Thornton brought them some freshly cut venison steaks later that same day, compliments of the normally off-limits conservation land behind the Hewitt Park sports fields. Charlie said that the area was full of deer, and that he’d be willing to take Alex out there on his next foray. Alex invited him around back to the deck for a few chilled beers. Charlie looked thrilled by the invitation, and they sat there for about an hour talking about the neighborhood and the pandemic in general.

Kate’s accounting firm had closed indefinitely, and Kate hadn’t skipped a beat adjusting to a life of full-time leisure. Over the past two days, Alex mostly found her reading, napping upstairs, or taking long walks with Emily or Ryan. Despite the milder weather, Alex remained indoors, feeling that this was a better strategy for him, given the high profile he had been developing among his more hostile neighbors.

Alex unfolded the worn and smudged neighborhood status board, laying it on the coffee table. He had begun to highlight the names of confirmed or suspected sick neighbors with a yellow marker, and several yellow lines crossed the diagram, signifying known interactions with potentially infected neighbors. A red marker was used to indicate death. Currently, only one name was highlighted red: Matt McDaniel. He examined the diagram of the neighborhood and added a line connecting the Thompsons’ house to the McCarthys’, the apparent babysitting hub on their side of the Durham Road loop.

***

While sitting at the computer, Alex detected unusual movement down the street. He didn’t have a good view from the southeast corner of the house, so he grabbed his binoculars and ran upstairs to the master bedroom, nearly knocking Kate over as she emerged from the bathroom. With the binoculars, he saw James Thompson push a stroller, with another small child in tow, right up to the McCarthys’ house, and then return by himself. A few minutes later, both he and his wife, Mary, left in their Toyota Sienna. Alex assumed that their third child was in the van with them. Judging from the stroller, he figured it had to be either Emily or Madison, since their baby had to be in the stroller.

The Thompsons’ departure made sense, given the information that had been shared with him yesterday by Ed. Sarah Quinn continued to collect, verify, and pass along information to the neighborhood regarding suspected or confirmed illnesses. Her latest download to Ed hadn’t surprised Alex.

According to Sarah, Mary Thompson had been fighting flu-like symptoms for a few days, and based on what he had just seen, one of their children was likely sick also. They were probably on their way to see a doctor. He highlighted Mary’s name in yellow and randomly selected Emily, age three, for the other highlight. He found it interesting that Mary and James would take their children to the McCarthys’, despite persistent rumors that Jennifer McCarthy and at least one of her children was also sick with flu-like symptoms.

Sarah Quinn knew this because four days before, Jennifer had asked her for two of the anti-viral treatment courses that Sarah held for the neighborhood. Jennifer refused to give Sarah any details, but insisted that they needed the anti-virals immediately. According to Sarah, she didn’t sound good over the phone, and Michael McCarthy picked up the drugs from Sarah just minutes after the phone call. She should have asked for five, one for each member of the family, but Alex was certain that neither Michael nor Jennifer had invested any time into researching effective pandemic anti-viral treatment strategies. Then again, it was unlikely that Sarah would have given her five courses of treatment without more information. This transaction had left eleven courses of treatment for the neighborhood, which didn’t last long, according to Sarah.

Owing to her close friendship with Nicki Bartlett, she also knew that Nicki and two of her children were sick with high fevers, muscle aches, and worsening coughs. Nicki and her kids had been sick since the weekend, and Sarah gave them three courses of anti-viral therapy, bringing the remaining total to eight.

Nicki’s husband, Jack, an endocrinologist, insisted that they could be adequately treated at home, under his care. Apparently, he had access to medical supplies from the diabetes center, though Alex couldn’t imagine that the center had any antibiotics left in their drug sample closet, which would be critical for treating flu-induced pneumonia. Few companies made antibiotics any more, and the only antibiotic Alex had managed to sparingly find in drug closets over the past few years was Levaquin.

Logically, since the Bartletts’ had been hit with the flu, he wasn’t surprised to learn that both the Bishops’ and the Greens’ had been hit as well. Sarah had delivered four courses of antiviral therapy to the Bishops on Tuesday after Stephanie called to tell Sarah that her entire family had developed flu symptoms simultaneously on Monday morning.

All of their children had been closely intertwined since school was cancelled, and the McDaniel girls stayed among the Bartletts’ and Bishops’ for several days, nearly guaranteeing that the flu would be spread. Sarah asked about Jamie’s girls, and Stephanie said that Katherine was still sick, but didn’t seem to be getting any worse, and that Amanda had no symptoms at all. After delivering drugs to both the Bartletts and Bishops, Sarah was left with only four remaining treatments. Two of those went to the Greens, and the remaining two to the Burtons, who each reported two possible cases of the flu in their households.

Within the span of a week and a half, all of the anti-virals were gone, and as far as Alex knew, the only remaining anti-virals in the neighborhood sat in his basement and somewhere within Ed’s house. Alex had given Ed enough for his family nearly a year ago.

Sarah heard from Jennifer McCarthy that Ken Hayes might be sick. Michelle stopped sending her kids over to the McCarthys’ on the same day that Jennifer McCarthy called Sarah to ask for anti-virals. She told Jennifer that they had decided to stay home from work for a few weeks, and that nearly everyone in her husband’s office was sick. Jennifer wondered if one of the Hayes’ kids had brought the virus into their house. He highlighted Ken Hayes on the chart.

The last piece of news from Ed hit Alex the hardest because he knew it meant trouble. Todd Perry’s wife was sick and had been refused treatment at Maine Medical Center. She was given a basic home treatment kit, with no prescription medications, only basic pain and fever relief medications. Worse yet, she had brought her nine-year-old son, Michael, who was also suffering from escalating flu symptoms, and he received the same kit. Both of them were turned away without explanation. Alex expected a knock on his door at any time from Todd, right after he knocked on Sarah’s door to get some of the promised anti-virals, only to be told that Alex’s original promise of twenty courses had materialized as thirteen.

He ensured that all of the highlights on the diagram were up to date and then folded the poster board in half. He sat back on the couch and exhaled deeply.

“Done with arts and crafts hour?” Kate quipped.

“Pretty much. You want to check out the updates?”

“Can you just summarize them for me?” she asked, continuing to focus on her book.

“I saw James deliver two of his kids over to the McCarthys’ house about thirty minutes ago, then take off with his wife and one of the kids in the minivan.”

Kate looked up from her book with a puzzled look. “Isn’t Jennifer McCarthy and at least one other person in that house sick?”

“Based on my intel, I assume that’s the case.”

“What is wrong with these people? Why would she send her kids over there? I saw Mary outside yesterday in the backyard playing with the dog. Why couldn’t she drive by herself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she got worse and can’t drive. Either way, I’m surprised Jennifer agreed to watch the kids. None of it makes much sense.”

“Oh, I had meant to ask you earlier, but I forgot. Did the Carters leave town? I haven’t seen anything going on at their house since last week, and Kelso hasn’t greeted me on any of my recent walks,” she said, sounding more disappointed about not seeing the dog than the Carters.

“You mean Kelso hasn’t been rummaging around inside our house for the past few weeks?”

“Yeah, well, that’s unusual too,” she responded.

“I really don’t know, but I think you’re right. I circled their house on the board and put a big question mark next to it for the same reasons you mentioned. Ed hasn’t heard anything, so maybe they scooted out of town at night,” he surmised.

“Well, if Ed doesn’t know, then nobody knows.” She lowered her eyes back to her book.

“Maybe if I had an extra set of eyes on the neighborhood, we’d catch things like this.”

“Nice try. Besides, you’re doing a fantastic job right now, and it’s keeping you busy. You should consider staking out another window, like maybe the one up in the attic. Hey, who knows what you might see from a higher vantage point? Didn’t they teach you that in the Marine Corps?”

“Among other things. Like when someone was trying to get rid of you,” he said, picking up the poster board.

“Was I that obvious?” Kate asked.

“Oh no. Not at all.” He leaned over and kissed Kate on the forehead. “To the high ground,” he said and walked toward the stairs.

***

Alex emerged from the mudroom and set the phone down on the kitchen island. He walked over to the kitchen table and sat down without saying a word. Kate and the kids had already started to eat what had become a typical meal for the Fletchers since they’d exhausted most of their supply of perishable foods.

On a dark blue placemat in the middle of the table sat a bowl of seasoned pinto beans next to a small sauce pan filled with watery green beans. An open pressure cooker filled with a mixture of brown rice and barley sat on a separate placemat next to the beans.

The kids each had a glass of water in front of them, and a half-drained bottle of Syrah sat off to the side of the food. Alex served himself, still silent, as Kate eyed him nervously.

“They can’t seem to resist calling us right before dinner,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, still not committing to a conversation. He saw her glance at the kids, who seemed oblivious to the tension.

“How are your parents holding out?” she asked.

Alex took a deep breath and feigned a smile, not wanting to upset the kids. “They’re doing fine I suppose. They claim to be healthy, which I believe. If one of them gets a splinter, I usually hear every detail.”

Ryan did his best to generate a laugh, and even Emily muffled a snort, which let Alex know that the kids were better tuned in to his mood than he anticipated.

“How about your brother?” Kate asked, and he quickly shook his head, hoping the kids didn’t see him do it.

“Sounds like they’re doing fine, too,” he replied, staring at her with a serious face and shaking his head imperceptibly once again. He glanced at Emily and Ryan, who seemed too preoccupied with eating to have caught his wave off. Alex was amazed at how well they ate at meals, now that snacks were more or less a thing of the past. Two months ago, the two of them would have stared at this dinner in disbelief.

Kate received his message and didn’t pursue any more questions. Alex had just found out from his parents that his brother Daniel was hospitalized with a mild concussion and advanced stage pneumonia. Apparently, he had been spared acute respiratory distress syndrome, but continued to drive to work despite worsening flu symptoms. He never made it to work today. At some point during the drive, he lost control of his Land Rover and plowed into a guardrail on Interstate 25, nearly jumping it. Rushed to a hospital near Castle Rock, he was treated for minor acute injuries and admitted to the ICU for flu-related pneumonia.

That wasn’t the worst news. His nephew Ethan was sick with the flu. Alex thought about Daniel and about how he probably walked through the house, oblivious to the fact that he was getting sicker and sicker with a killer flu.

Even better, Karla couldn’t find the anti-virals he’d sent them a few years ago, so his parents were sacrificing theirs to give to both kids. He really wished his parents had taken him up on the offer to bring the kids out to Maine. They ate the rest of their meal in an awkward silence, punctuated by several unsuccessful attempts to jar Alex out of his gloomy mood.

***

Alex sat in his office scanning the Boston Globe website, focusing on a late-breaking story about riots breaking out in Dorchester and East Boston.

“For the third day in a row, major food stores throughout the greater Boston metropolitan area have remained closed, blaming a supply chain failure that has affected most of northern New England. Food shipments have been erratic at best for the past week, stopping altogether in areas like Dorchester, Roxbury, East Boston and Jamaica Plain. Fires and looting broke out midday as residents in these beleaguered areas, already pressed for critical supplies, learned that food stores would not open for the third day in a row.”

He skipped down further.

“City and state officials have augmented National Guard and law enforcement presence in these areas, anticipating a worsening of the situation. One anonymous state official stated that the food and supply situation was not likely to improve, as absenteeism and flu rates continue to soar.

“Several residents interviewed said that they would soon leave the Boston metropolitan area in search of less populated areas where the food supply chain was more stable, like the upper New England states.”

Alex leaned back into his chair and looked outside into their quiet neighborhood. The pretty, well cared for colonial homes were a stone’s throw from the city of Portland and the Atlantic Ocean. Most of the people in the idyllic neighborhood were innocently unprepared for an onslaught of desperate, hungry people from the rough suburbs of Boston. Alex knew the cozy, safe, insulated life everyone on the street coveted, was about to come to an end.

Kate walked into the office, startling him.

“Did you see what’s happening in Boston?” she asked, walking up to him.

“It won’t be long before people start to riot up here,” he said, swiveling the chair to face her.

“I don’t think there are enough people in Maine for a riot of any type. You’ve seen the anti-whatever rallies in Monument Square. Fifteen, maybe twenty people, even on the weekend. The biggest riot we’ve ever had here had something to do with American Idol tickets several years back.”

“That’s right. It was like the Cabbage Patch frenzy of the 80s all over again. Remember that? Moms and dads slugging it out for a place in line to get those stupid Idol tickets. And I thought fighting over dolls was crazy,” he said.

“Hey, I’m sure Ethan will be fine,” Kate attempted to reassure him.

“I hope so. I really do,” he said, grabbing her hands.

“Look at Jamie’s kids. They’re still sick, but they seem to be doing fine. They got anti-virals early and it made a big difference. The same thing will happen with our nephews.”

“If Karla doesn’t steal them for herself. She’s planning to drive the kids north to stay in a hotel while Daniel recovers, so they can be close to him. Clueless. I bet Daniel asked her to come. What does she think they’re gonna eat while they’re in the hotel? Take-out pizza? Thai delivery? The woman is dumber than a box of rocks, and she’s going to drive them out there without enough gas to get back, just to watch Daniel expire. Gas delivery is already highly sporadic. Won’t be long before that’s gone too.”

Alex stopped ranting and put both of his hands on his head, grabbing his thick black hair. “What is wrong with these people?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they don’t feel like they have a choice.”

“Choice to do what?” he asked, exasperated.

“To quit their jobs. To cash in their life savings to buy food. To stay away from their friends and family. We’ve been lucky so far. Nobody sick has appeared at our door with one of the dozens of golden tickets you’ve handed out.”

“You handed a few out yourself,” he responded.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. But we haven’t been pressed by family or friends to compromise our quarantine. Would you be able to turn away your parents if they suddenly arrived at our steps? Sick?” she asked.

“I don’t know how I’d handle it, but I can tell you one thing. They wouldn’t be sitting at the dinner table with our kids. I’d be applying every piece of information available to figure out the situation. The internet still works. It’s not like I paid anyone for this knowledge. You just type ‘home quarantine procedures’ and bingo. How about your parents? They’re still fine, right?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I suppose. My brother, Liz and the girls are with them right now. They’re all still healthy. It sounds like my brother has been paying more attention to us than I thought. Mom said he showed up with all kinds of survival gear and has been pretty much running the show over there. She said that the food was tight, but they should be fine.

“Claire still hasn’t shown up, which worries me more than anything. I tried to call her the other day, but the machine picked up at the house, and I got the voicemail on her cell phone. She won’t answer because she knows I’m going to try and talk her out of crashing at my parents’. She’ll push her way right into that house, sick or not, and try to take over. Luckily, Robbie has never taken any of her nonsense, so I’m hoping he’ll do what’s necessary to keep them all safe.”

“I’m more concerned about Claire making the trip up here. She’s no dummy. I could see her bypassing your parents for a safer haven up in Scarborough, Maine. It’s only a nine-hour drive. One and a half tanks of gas, unless they bring the Suburban,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks. Are you trying to sabotage my sleep tonight?” She squeezed his hands.

“Sorry, you’re right. Don’t worry about it, she probably won’t come up here. Let’s get to bed, I’m exhausted.”

Holding hands, Kate and Alex headed out of the office. The phone rang and he hesitated. 9:30 p.m. was a strange time for a phone call.

“Don’t worry about it. Whoever it is can leave a message.”

“Uh…hold on a second. I just want to see who it is,” he said, scurrying back into the office. The phone kept ringing.

“Alright, I’m going to bed.”

The caller ID read “Walker, Edward.” Alex picked up. “Hey, Ed.”

“There’s going to be another neighborhood meeting tomorrow at Sarah Quinn’s house to discuss the matter of neighborhood security. Everyone is pretty worried about the rioting in Boston and the possible flow of refugees into Maine. Sarah heard that there was a group going around looking for armed volunteers to man a roadblock at the Piscataqua Bridge to keep people from fleeing up into Maine.”

“That’s nothing new, Ed. Mainer’s have wanted to do that for decades. They tried to stop Kate and me when we drove out here from San Diego, but we just told them that we were here to do some shopping in Kittery and then to hit Bean’s.” Alex laughed.

“They should have checked your ID a little closer and saved us all some trouble,” Ed said.

“True. So what time does this little party start?”

“Ten in the morning at the Quinns’.”

“Are you going?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because half of the people who show up might have the flu. If you show up, make sure you wear one of those surgical masks and gloves. Seriously. This bug is all over the neighborhood. Eighteen households by my calculation,” Alex advised.

“Well, we can only see so much from these windows, and the phone calls with information have slowed to a trickle,” Ed said.

“You’re doing better than the Fletchers. Nobody calls us anymore.”

“Well, after the last meeting, most of the neighbors probably figured they’d be better off steering clear of the Fletcher-Thornton connection,” Ed said. “Of course, against my better judgment, I reluctantly decided to take my chances with you.”

“Thanks for the loyalty, Ed, you’ll be rewarded handsomely. Actually, the less attention on this house, the better. I don’t think Kate would let me out to that meeting even if I thought it was a good idea. You’ll have to be my eyes and ears out there. Give me a ring tomorrow,” he said and hung up the phone.

Alex walked to the bedroom, thinking that nothing good would come from the meeting.

Chapter 25

Alex gazed out of the dining room window, straining to see the small mob that followed Ed halfway down the street. The group, which consisted of Todd Perry, Mike Lynch, Eric Bishop and a few others, stopped in front of Todd’s house, but he lost sight of them as they wandered up Todd’s driveway. He grabbed the phone off the dining room table, and before he could start dialing Ed’s number, it began to ring. Ed.

“I know you can’t get enough of my charming…”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, there’s a small crowd gathered in front of Todd’s house, and they ain’t happy campers. I was pretty much chased back to my house by these lunatics. Todd started ranting and raving about you, and how you fucked over the entire neighborhood with the anti-virals and blah, blah, blah. I think they’re about to head your way,” Ed said.

“Are you serious? Sounds like it was a great meeting.”

“It was all a set up from the start. I think they were waiting for you to show up, so they could attack you or something. They turned on me as soon as it was clear you weren’t going to make an appearance. Scared the shit out of me. Oh boy. Looks like they’re on the move and headed your way,” he said.

“What’s going on? I see some people walking this way from Todd’s,” Kate said, having suddenly materialized on the stairs next to the dining room.

“Hold on, Ed,” Alex said and muffled the phone.

“Honey, I’ll be off in a second. It’s nothing we need to worry about.”

“Sorry, Ed, Kate’s freaking out…”

“Freaking out?” she yelled indignantly and grabbed the phone from him.

“Thank you for the heads up, Ed. Sorry to hang up on you, but I need to talk some sense into my ‘it’ll all work out’ husband.” She hung up on Ed and put the phone back on the table, turning to face Alex, who stood staring at the hand that just moments ago had held a phone.

“That’s funny, I could have sworn I was having a productive, adult conversation with a good friend of mine, when—”

“You’ll get over it. So now we have an angry mob headed toward our house?” she said, walking toward the great room.

“Why don’t we take a look? I’m not worried about these yahoos,” he said and followed her. As they crossed the great room, he passed Emily, who was sitting on her favorite chair, wearing earphones that were plugged into a tablet on her lap.

Emily looked up and smiled at them as they walked by. Kate walked to the front of the great room and peered through one of the windows facing across the Walkers’ yard. Alex joined her and saw the group walking down the sidewalk, headed straight for their house. The group was already halfway across the sidewalk in front of the Andersons’ house.

“Looks like you need to start getting concerned real quick. Those jerks are going to be at our front door in less than a minute. Emily, turn off the movie and go upstairs, please,” Kate said loudly.

Emily looked up and shrugged her shoulders. Kate briskly walked up to her and reached for the headphones. Emily took them off, annoyed. “What? What’s going on?” she asked.

“I need you to go upstairs right now,” Kate said.

Emily didn’t stir. “Why? What’s…” Emily started.

“Just get upstairs now! Go!” Kate yelled.

Emily closed the player and hopped out of the chair, mumbling a series of hushed complaints.

“Thank you,” Kate said as Emily exited the room.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Alex added. “All right, when they come to the door, we’ll see—”

“Come to the door? No way. We’re not letting them get that close to our house. You want to know why I’m freaked out? I don’t like the idea of these people just deciding to march on our house. We’re going to meet them on our driveway and tell them to get the hell away from us. Let’s go. They’re already in front of Ed’s,” Kate said and started walking back into the kitchen.

Alex paused to think about the situation, then followed her. “Do you want me to bring the rifle?”

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. You still have the pistol on you, right?’ she asked, and Alex nodded his head as he patted the small of his back.

“That should be more than enough if this gets out of hand.”

He and Kate both rushed to the mudroom and put on their shoes, grabbed jackets, and headed out of the mudroom door. As soon as they cleared the stoop, Alex was glad they had hurried. Six extremely angry looking men were already halfway across their lawn, headed straight for the mudroom door. Kate led him through the evergreen bushes on a direct path to intercept them. Todd appeared surprised by the sight of Alex and Kate.

“Can we help you?” Kate yelled with her hands on her hips. She looked irritated, and everyone stopped.

Alex moved next to Kate’s right side as the group paused for a few seconds before Eric Bishop attempted to respond, his words cut off by a violent coughing spasm. He took to a knee and turned to Steve McKinney on his left, who backed away quickly with a frightened look. Mike Lynch and Tom Hodges both moved in to help him, but withdrew as the hacking worsened. True to Ed’s words, Eric looked like he was about to die. His face was ashen gray, his lips purplish, and sweat was pouring down his face. Alex thought he saw a small amount of blood on the corner of his mouth, but couldn’t be sure. Bishop seemed to be rapidly deteriorating.

Todd finally answered Kate’s question. “We’re just out for a stroll. We all have the right to walk around the neighborhood, right?”

“Looks like you strayed off the sidewalk a little. I think you should all go home. You don’t look so good, Eric,” Alex said.

“I’d be doing a lot better if you weren’t hiding medicine from all of us. Sneaky jerk. I caught one of Jamie’s kids swallowing some pills earlier this week. Looks like you managed to hook them up, huh? Now they’re doing just fine, while my entire family is sick,” Eric said.

“What exactly do you want from us?” Kate asked.

“I want a full inventory of your food supply and any medical supplies you have, so we can divide and distribute them to those families that need help,” Todd demanded.

“This is ridiculous,” Kate fumed.

“It’s all right, honey. Really. I want to hear this,” Alex said.

Todd looked confused by Alex’s response and looked at Eric, who shrugged his shoulders.

“So is that your plan? Just inventory everything and divide it up?” Alex asked, trying to bring them back into the conversation.

“Yes, that’s sounds about right,” Todd hesitantly said, as if he was not sure how to answer the question.

“Just my house, or everyone’s?” Alex asked.

“Well…we should start with your—”

“But we’re going to move on to every house? Right?” Alex pressed.

“Sure, but I don’t think most houses will have—”

“Have what? Any food? Any supplies? That shouldn’t matter. Then what? Where will we store everything, and who will divide it up evenly?”

“Look, cut all this bullshit speech and debate crap. I don’t think we’ll need to go any further than your house, or his…or his,” Eric said, struggling to point at Charlie and Ed.

“So you just want to raid our houses because you suspect we have enough food and medical supplies for everyone? How much food do you think I have, Eric? Todd? Take a guess,” Alex challenged.

“I don’t know. That’s why we want to see, so we can figure it out,” Todd said.

“A year? Does that sound like a lot for one family? If we had enough food for a family of four for a year, should we divide it up for everyone?”

“You’re goddamn right. If you have a year’s worth of food…are you kidding me? I have less than a week,” Todd raved.

“Okay, so that’s fifty-two weeks, divided by thirty households. I’ve already done the math here. That’s 1.7 weeks per family, maybe more, maybe less. Twelve days. Not exactly a windfall. So, if I had that much food, which I don’t, you’d be asking me to give it all up so that we could all be equally screwed as the winter descends. It’s only the middle of November, Todd. We have a long way to go. Probably until springtime when the roads are cleared and the trucks can move supplies again,” Alex said.

“Cleared from what?” Mike demanded.

“From the snow. Do you really think the plows are going to keep up with the snow? When’s the last time you’ve seen a police car, or heard a siren? Everyone is either sick, or not showing up to work, and we’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg here. The worst is on the way, and it won’t get any easier. Especially if we sit around hoping someone else solves our problems,” Alex said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Todd asked angrily.

“It means that I believe you had every opportunity to stock up on food, Todd, even after the food crisis started,” Alex said.

“That’s bullshit! Every time I tried, the store closed before I set foot inside!” Todd yelled.

“Are you kidding me, Todd? I distinctly remember volunteering to watch your kids, at the crack of dawn, so you and your wife could get over to Hannigan’s early enough to make it through the store. We waited, and we waited, and you never called,” Alex reminded him.

Todd looked uncomfortable with the accusation, and Steve McKinney mumbled something to Mike Lynch. Mike Lynch fired back at Steve with a hushed “that’s not the point of this,” and then Mike stepped forward.

“Look, food is no longer the issue. You made your point. You don’t have enough food to carry the entire neighborhood along through the winter. Understood.”

“It’s still an issue for me,” Todd yelled.

“I know, but we can deal with that later,” Mike said to Todd.

“So what exactly do you want from us now ?” Alex said, exaggerating an exasperated look.

Before Todd could answer, Eric, still on one knee, broke into another coughing fit.

“Eric doesn’t look like he needs to be out here in the cold. He needs to be breathing warm, moist air to help open up his airway. This cold air is constricting his lungs, making it worse,” Alex said.

“He’s fine for now,” Todd retorted.

“And you’re a doctor?” Kate shot back.

“I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure if he’d received some of the drugs and medical supplies you’re hoarding, he’d be doing a lot better!” Todd said smugly.

“I already donated anti-virals to the community chest. That’s it,” Alex said.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Todd said, his face reddening.

“That’s it. And, uh…from what I understand, Eric received one of those courses of anti-viral therapy. Sarah told me that she handed over four of the thirteen courses to Stephanie. Unfortunately, it looks like it didn’t help him, which is not unusual,” Alex said.

Todd looked down at Eric, barely able to contain his surprise. Alex also detected a hint of anger flash across Todd’s face. “Maybe he didn’t take it.”

“Four doses. Four family members. You do the math. The flu affects everyone differently. Some get hit hard, some don’t even get symptoms. Others get slammed and die within a day or two, like Matt McDaniel. Anti-virals are no guarantee of anything. The best way to fight this thing is to avoid it altogether. So like I said before, you should all separate and button up inside your houses,” Alex advised them yet again.

“If you’re trying to talk me out of getting some anti-virals for my kids, save the lecture,” Todd said.

“This conversation’s over,” Kate said and turned around to walk away.

“No, it’s not,” John Hodges piped up.

Kate turned back around. “Get off our property right now. I said this is over, and that’s it! I don’t want to see any of you around here anymore. We have nothing more to say or give you. We’re done here.” She pulled Alex’s arm as she started back toward the mudroom. “Don’t even look at them,” she whispered, releasing his arm as they walked away from the mob. “Talking just encourages them. We’re through communicating with those jerks.”

Alex and Kate entered the house and closed the door behind them, muting the verbal tirade launched by the group. He glanced back out of the door and verified that they hadn’t moved any closer to the house.

“Your problem is that you continue to engage these guys until they reach their boiling point. You have to cut them off and walk away. They want you to provoke them,” Kate said.

“But I didn’t even get a chance to threaten to kill them, or something good like that,” he insisted, still watching the group.

“Yeah, that would have helped the situation immensely.”

“It doesn’t matter what we do. He’s raving mad. And, he is convinced that we’re sitting on enough of these supplies to save the entire neighborhood.”

“Maybe we could we give up some of our stuff and make him happy? We have a lot of food down there, way more than we need. We could put together a package for them. Just enough to get them off our backs,” she suggested.

“I think it could only make matters worse. As soon as they run out of whatever we decide to give them, they’ll be right back at our door, along with the rest of the neighborhood. Then we would really have problems,” he said.

“I don’t know, but we need to do something. We can’t sit here for months waiting for them to attack us. We can’t live like that.”

“Hey, I lived like that for several months while in Iraq. It can be done,” Alex said, stepping into the kitchen.

“Yeah, but the rest of us can’t. Let’s figure out what we need to survive. I don’t mind stretching our food supply thin if it will get them off our backs.”

“Off our backs for now,” he reminded her.

“Well, at least we’ll have a clearer conscience,” Kate said, following him into the kitchen.

Alex sat down at the kitchen island and poured a cup of steaming coffee into a brown mug, waiting for Kate to sit down next to him. “My conscience is clear,” he said, not sure he fully believed the statement.

“Really? You don’t feel the slightest amount of guilt that we are sitting on enough food for six families to last well past the winter or spring? Or that we have essential medical supplies that could make a difference to at least a few households? Hon, we have a ton of stuff down there.”

“I know. Believe me, I’ve thought about it, and that’s why I don’t mind helping out Ed, or Jamie’s kids…”

“Hon, we can’t pick and choose who we help. That’ll only make matters worse. We need to make an offer to those around us, but make sure they understand it’s final. That it’s all we can give up without…”

“Without hurting ourselves?” he asked.

“Yeah, something like that…” Kate said, her voice trailing off.

Alex heard her remove the coffee pot from the coffee maker.

He watched the mob through the mudroom door windows and saw them conferring with each other, obviously arguing about their next move. He saw Mark Silva shake his head furiously and hold up his hands, waving them, then start to walk back down the street. Eric managed to rise to his feet by himself, and everyone kept several feet away from him.

Todd continued to gesture wildly to the four of them. Alex saw some agreement in the faces and gestures of Mike and Tom, but Steve was clearly not interested in whatever Todd was proposing. Steve stepped back out of the group and started to head across the street. Alex watched as he walked between the McDaniels’ and Sheppards’ houses, soon disappearing behind the McDaniels’ on what Alex assumed was a straight line through the backyards to his own house.

The remaining four men started to walk down the sidewalk toward Todd’s house, soon escaping his view from the mudroom window. He hurried out of the mudroom and through the kitchen on his way to the great room so he could keep an eye on them the whole way back. He noticed that Kate was already at the front corner window.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, embracing her shoulders.

“Not really, just a bunch of bickering. Eric doesn’t look good at all,” she said, settling back into his grasp.

Eric kept shaking his head and coughing. His left leg collapsed and he fell to the ground in front of the Walkers’ house, managing to break his sideways plunge with his left arm. He ended up on his stomach, with his head turned away from Alex’s view. The other three knelt down around him, keeping back by a few feet. They didn’t appear enthusiastic about the prospect of lifting him back onto his feet. Todd stayed down with Eric, who was coughing so violently on the ground that his body appeared to convulse.

“Hon, you better call Stephanie and tell her to get over there. I’ll let them know she’s on her way,” Alex said, releasing Kate.

He rushed over to the front door, opened it and then the storm door, and called out to the group. “Hey, we’re calling Stephanie to come pick him up!”

The three of them looked up at him, and he repeated himself. He heard Kate on the phone with Stephanie.

“Just get over here and pick him up,” she was saying as she appeared in the hallway from the kitchen.

“What’s up?” he asked, keeping the storm door propped open.

“Nothing…let’s just say that she isn’t a big fan of the Fletchers either,” Kate said.

Alex shook his head and continued to monitor the situation outside. A few minutes later, the Bishops’ gray Nissan Pathfinder pulled up. Stephanie Bishop, dressed in blue sweat pants and a light brown hooded winter jacket, got out and ran to her husband. Todd helped her get him into the front passenger seat of the SUV. Stephanie stepped around and walked toward the Fletchers’ house.

“Here it comes,” he said to Kate as she joined him at the front door. Stephanie got halfway across the sidewalk in front of their house and launched into a tirade.

“You and your buddy over there,” she screamed, pointing at Ed’s house, “can take care of Jamie’s girls. I’m taking all—” She broke into a coughing fit that took her at least thirty seconds to overcome.

“Wow,” Kate whispered.

“Yeah,” he responded, never taking his eyes off Stephanie.

Stephanie continued, a little more subdued. “I’m taking my entire family over to the state triage center immediately, so the girls are going to have to find a new place to stay. I’m sending them over to your house in a few minutes. You and Ed can figure it out,” she said and turned around abruptly walking away.

Alex closed the door, and before he could even open his mouth. Kate spoke.

“They can’t stay here.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest that. They can stay in their own house. We can bring meals over to them and keep a close eye on the house. They’ll be fine over there. They can call us if something happens. Amanda is almost Ryan’s age. She can take care of Katherine, as long as we help out. They have electricity, water, TV…they’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t so sure about what he’d just said. The two girls would be terrified without their parents, or another adult at the house. Given all that they had been through over the past few weeks, Alex couldn’t imagine how this could work. Still, he didn’t want them in the house, just in case they were still shedding the flu virus. It had been about two weeks since Jamie dropped them off at the Bartletts’ house, and Alex thought they were just getting sick at that point, so it was conceivable that they were no longer contagious, though he couldn’t be sure about the timing. He certainly would never risk his family to figure out if he was correct.

CDC virologists confirmed that a patient exposed to the Jakarta flu would typically demonstrate symptoms within three to four days of exposure and remain contagious for about seven to ten days after that. He quickly thought through the timing of their family’s illness, as he knew it. The girls might be no longer shedding the virus. Then he remembered that children could remain contagious for up to three weeks after showing symptoms.

“I don’t think two pre-teen girls should be left alone like that, without their mother,” Kate said.

“I know, but there’s a possibility that they could still be contagious, so we can’t have them here.”

Kate paused, clearly struggling with the thought of the kids staying over there alone. “I don’t know. Could they stay in the basement, or…never mind, that’s silly. They’d be better off in their house with us checking on them,” she conceded.

“I agree. We can’t keep them locked up in the garage or basement like animals. They’ll be better off in a familiar setting. I’ll head over there later today and make sure the house is okay. They still have some food and snacks over there from what I remember, and we can bring them hot meals. It’s not perfect for them, but it’s the best we can do for them while protecting us.”

“All right,” Kate finally agreed.

“I’d better call Ed and let him know what’s going on.” Alex sighed.

“Do you think it’s all right for you to be walking around their house?”

“You mean because of the flu?” he asked, and she nodded emphatically.

“Yeah, it should be fine. At the most, the Jakarta flu can survive for forty-eight hours on a non-porous surface, less on a porous one. I can’t see any way that it could still be a danger in the house…however, I’ll be sure to wear gloves and scrub down when I’m done. I’m calling Ed and going over right now. If the girls show up, explain the situation and keep them in the garage. They can use the camping chairs in the sports bin. I’d wear a mask just in case, and give them some leftovers,” he said.

“Got it,” Kate said as Alex dialed Ed’s number.

Chapter 26

Alex called Kate as he made his way across the McDaniels’ lawn. Ed Walker waved goodbye and nodded to Alex as he split off and headed toward his own home directly across the street.

“Open sesame. I’m crossing the street,” he said to her when she picked up.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when I get in the house.”

He jogged up to the mudroom door as Kate unlocked the deadbolt and the doorknob. He took off a pair of surgical gloves and balled them up in his hand. Kate held the door open for him, and he walked in, careful not to touch anything.

“Can you do me a favor and open the door to the garage? I want to throw these in the trash,” he said.

Kate opened the door and he walked into the garage, right up to the town garbage container, used his elbow to lift the hinged green plastic top, and dropped the gloves into the quarter-filled container. Both this trash bin and the recyclables bin were located side-by-side in the garage. Normal trash pickup was scheduled for Tuesdays in their neighborhood, but he wouldn’t even bother to put the half empty bins out tomorrow.

Alex dropped the lid and walked back inside the open door, catching a glimpse of Ryan and Emily sitting at the island eating leftover pizza as he ducked into the bathroom to thoroughly wash his hands. When he was finished, he sprayed the sink’s hardware with a sanitizing cleaner.

“All clean,” he said, walking into the mudroom.

Kate was waiting for him to hear what he had to say. She walked over to him and they both snuck into the library.

“So, what’s going on?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to freak you out earlier, but the reason I took longer than I expected was that someone broke into their house through the back garage door and stole all of their food. Nothing else was touched, but every last bit of food is gone and stuff was everywhere. Nothing broken, but clearly the house was searched for hidden stashes. Every room. I wanted to put the house back in order before we let the girls in,” he said.

“Gee, I wonder who did that?” she whispered sarcastically. “Do you think it’s safe for the girls to be over there?”

“The girls will be fine. I did what I could to patch up the garage door window. Their mudroom door has a deadbolt, so they shouldn’t have to worry about it. I am done messing around with Todd and the rest of those losers. If they show up here again, I promise you I’ll put an end to their game,” he said.

“All right, let’s calm back down and have some lunch with the kids. They were really curious about the girls being over here,” Kate said.

“I wish they could stay here, but it’s too risky. I’m just glad to see that they look fine. They’re both still pretty beat from the flu, but not as bad as I expected. They aren’t coughing, or anything, so I think they’ll be fine. They just look exhausted. I can tell they’re relieved to be back in their house. Katherine was already playing with her Barbies by the time we left. We’ll keep a close eye on them,” Alex said, as they joined their kids for reheated pizza.

***

Alex heard the doorbell ring. He stood up from the couch, put his book down on the coffee table, and picked up his pistol, tucking it into his jeans. A dozen scenarios flashed through his head before the doorbell rang again. The timing between rings didn’t alarm him. Perfectly normal delay. He checked his watch and walked over to the bottom of the staircase, looking up just as Kate appeared.

“Can you see who it is?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, leaning over to peek through the windows on each side of the front door. “Not from here. Mudroom. I’ll check it out. I’m sure it’s fine. Doesn’t sound too insistent,” he said, as the bell rang again.

“Three rings qualifies as insistent. Be careful.”

“As always. I’ll be right back,” he said and walked through the dimly lit kitchen into the mudroom. He kept the light off in the mudroom and peered through the door. He recognized Derek Sheppard immediately, and his tension level dropped. He opened the interior door, keeping the storm door between them, quickly scanning the area around the stoop and determining that Derek was alone.

Alex cracked open the door. “What’s up, Derek?”

“Nothing really. I’m just really sorry about earlier today. I got caught up with Todd and his crew. I said some bad stuff to Ed about you. I’ve really felt terrible about it. I…my youngest two are sick, and I…I’m sorry, really. You’ve always been a good friend. Both you and Kate,” he said softly.

“No problem, man. I wasn’t even there to hear it. This is a bad time for everyone. Seriously, it wasn’t on my radar, but I appreciate you coming over. Sorry to hear about the kids. How long have they been sick?” Alex asked, stepping outside.

Derek stepped back off the stoop onto the walkway. “I don’t want to get you sick. I feel fine, but you never know. The kids…not long, about three days. It came on kinda slow. Slower than we would have thought, so we hoped it was maybe just a cold or something, but then it picked up pretty fast with the fever and coughing. The fever’s scary. Nothing’s really cutting it. The coughing hasn’t been so bad, but it’s been miserable, and we can’t take the kids anywhere for treatment.”

“Have you tried to get any help?” Alex asked.

“They won’t see new patients at any of the flu triage sites right now. We sat on the phone for hours trying to get through the HHS patient care line with no success, so we drove around for a couple of hours trying to find a site that would help. Everything’s locked down hard by the National Guard. Really creepy, like right out of a horror movie. All we got were some homecare instructions, which quite frankly aren’t very inspiring. I can deal with the fever, but the coughing has me worried.”

“How’s Ellen?”

“She just spiked a fever yesterday, and she’s having a nervous breakdown. I honestly don’t know which is worse. She’s got Owen on the third floor, away from Gavin and Taylor. We’ve all been exposed, right? I mean, is there any point to keeping Owen separated?”

“She has the right idea to keep Owen separate. Again, how long since they started with the fever?” Alex repeated.

“Three days, tops.”

Alex paused to consider an idea that was just materializing.

“I’m gonna call you in like ten minutes. I’m thinking about something that could help. I need to…let me call you in a few minutes.”

Derek looked confused. “All right, Alex. Sounds good. Hey, I’m really sorry I didn’t stand up for you, but…it just wasn’t a good night with the kids. Sad excuse, I know, but…”

“Derek, seriously, I know it’s gotta be scary for you guys, especially with Ellen getting sick. Really, I’m not angry at all, and I appreciate you coming over here like this. Apology accepted.”

“I would’ve come by earlier, but Todd and those guys scare me. Enough to wait until dark. I thought about sneaking around back to your deck, but I didn’t want to get shot,” Derek said.

Alex suppressed a laugh. “I’m not at the point where I’m shooting people yet, but it’s probably a good policy not to be sneaking around at night.”

“Be careful with those guys. It’s not over for them,” Derek warned him.

“I know. Believe me. Hey, I’ll be in touch in like ten minutes.”

“All right. Thanks again for being cool about this. I really feel bad.”

“No need, man. Talk to you in a few,” Alex said and stepped back inside.

Derek turned and walked briskly back to his house across the street.

***

Thirty minutes later, returned from delivering anti-virals to Derek Sheppard. He also stopped by Jamie’s house to check on Amanda and Katherine, who seemed to be handling their situation well. While inside their house, Alex smelled the meal prepared and delivered by the Walkers. He didn’t ask, but it smelled a lot like lasagna.

Kate poked her head into the mudroom. “How did it go?”

“Uneventful, which is how I like it. The girls seem fine. Whatever the Walkers cooked up for them smelled a hell of a lot better than what we had tonight. It was some sort of Italian dish, and I swear I smelled cheese,” he said.

“Really? Cheese. Huh. How about the rest of your journey?” she asked.

Alex stepped into the darkened library and removed a walkie-talkie radio from the left cargo pocket of his tan desert camouflage pants, placing it on a high, unused shelf, along with his pistol and a spare clip of ammunition.

“Good. Derek’s doing all right given the circumstances. I gave him three courses, and he’ll be using two of them tonight. Owen’s sick too. It started off really rough, but Derek thinks he might be doing a little better.

“His wife’s a different story. She just started with the high fever, and she’s already extremely congested. Having trouble breathing. He’s really worried about ARDS, and I agree. It’s been hitting mostly healthy young to middle-aged adults, taking a lot of them down within a few days,” he said, standing up from the mudroom bench.

“Why would he use the drugs on Owen, if he’s getting better?”

“I don’t know. I recommended he wait and watch. If he’s stabilized and hasn’t been hit with pneumonia, then I think he should save the drugs. It’s a tough call. I gave him some antibiotics too, just in case. What are the kids up to?” he asked, moving into the kitchen to sit on one of the island stools.

“They’re both up in the attic watching a movie. Would you give Derek more drugs if he needed them?” she asked, settling on to a stool across from Alex.

Alex met her eyes as she took a sip of her tea. “I don’t know. We have ten courses left. I’d have a hard time refusing him.” He cast his eyes down and exhaled in resignation.

“Hon, you shouldn’t feel like that’s the wrong answer. I feel the same way. I wish we could help more people,” Kate said.

Alex looked up at her and saw a warm, compassionate smile that eased his regret. “I know you do. Sometimes I think about all of the drugs I gave to Dr. Wright. If I had just kept more of those, we could have made a huge difference around here,” he said.

Kate leaned forward, sliding her cup of tea across the island with both hands. “Giving those to Dr. Wright was the right thing to do. Keeping them for all of us at that point would have been totally illegal and would have yanked the moral and ethical chair right out from under you when it came to your final dealings with Biosphere,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I was already teetering on that chair. I’d hardly call it a moral or ethical high ground,” he said laughing.

“You’ve never done anything clearly out of bounds. Taking a few samples here and there. So what? Every other rep out there does it, and so do the doctors and their staff. Please don’t tell me you think that all of the TerraFlu samples sitting in those office bins went to patients. You and I know exactly where most of those samples went. You could have kept most of those samples and forged Dr. Wright’s signature, but you didn’t. You delivered them to the right place at exactly the right time.”

“I still kept an extra case from that load,” he reminded her.

“And you think Dr. Wright didn’t? He’s got a family, too.”

“We have ten more courses of therapy left. Four of those stay here for us. That’s non-negotiable, no matter who crawls up onto our porch. The other six we can give out. I have no problems with that. Hon, I don’t want you feeling guilty about this. You’ve been doing an unbelievable job with all of this,” she said, getting up from her stool.

“I’ve been doing what I think is right, given the circumstances,” Alex said.

“And you’ve done an amazing job.” She wrapped her arms around his chest from behind, nestled her head over his shoulder, and leaned her body into his, squeezing him tightly. Alex nuzzled his head against hers.

“I’m just worried that the situation out there is going to deteriorate as the winter gets worse. God forbid the power goes out. The decisions will get tougher, and they’ll have to be made quicker. If things get really bad in the neighborhood, we need to be prepared to make some tough calls, right on the spot. My mission is to keep you and the kids safe at any cost. I need you to understand what this might come to mean,” he said softly.

“I’m a mother, believe me when I say that I understand what it means to protect our kids unconditionally.”

Alex believed her every intention, but was still not convinced that she truly understood the full scope of what each of them might have to do in order to ensure survival in the face of a worst-case scenario.

“Nobody messes with the momma bear?” he asked.

“Damn right,” she said and gave him an extra tight squeeze before letting him go and walked around the island to grab her cup of tea.

“What are the kids watching?”

“I don’t know. Probably something borderline inappropriate, like every other movie they want to see nowadays,” Kate replied.

“Still no Nightfall on demand?”

“No. They haven’t put a new movie on that feature for a couple of weeks now. Not since the theatres closed.”

“I hope Emily’s forgotten about it,” Alex said, wincing.

“No, she had another emotional blowout earlier today about it. She checks the on-demand menu like three times a day for it,” Kate said, grabbing her book.

“Great. Is she still blaming me for not seeing it?”

“Of course. I’ve made sure to keep the blame focused on you,” Kate said.

“Thanks. Hey, I think I’ll head up and watch the movie with them. You coming up?”

“Why, you still worried about me sitting down here by myself?”

“I’d certainly feel better if you were at least in our bedroom, or somewhere a little closer to the rest of us.”

“Don’t you want to watch the evening news? It’s recorded,” she said.

“Not really. I’ll catch up with everything later on the internet. Anything really big going on?” he asked.

“Department of Energy officials estimate that most coal-fired power plants are already operating on their emergency reserve supply. The White House is calling for a nationwide conservation plan to extend the coal supply until the whole system starts to come back online. Coal mining, transportation, all of it is nearly shut down,” she told him.

“I guess we should turn off some of these lights and sit upstairs with the kids watching a movie,” he said, glancing around the kitchen and smirking at her.

“Nice try,” she said and walked to the bank of switches next to the sink. She turned off the under-cabinet lighting, which darkened the kitchen. The soft glow of a lamp in the great room cast more than enough light into the kitchen for them to see. Alex looked out of the wide window over the kitchen sink and stared at the numerous lights in the windows of the several houses within his view.

“Looks like nobody else cares,” he said, nodding toward the window.

“They’ll care when the power fails,” Kate replied, walking over to the great room. “It’s a good practice anyway…pandemic power failure or not. We keep way too many lights on around here.”

***

Bathed in the soft glow of his office computer screen, Alex examined the ISPAC world pandemic map. He placed the cursor over the United States: “United States. Population 310,810,109. 1,920,341 reported cases. Borders closed. Uncontained.”

Before opening the ISPAC site, he read several articles confirming that the national healthcare system’s surge capacity had been exceeded nationwide. This assessment included all of the available mobile Federal Medical Stations, which, as of late last week, had all been deployed to major metropolitan areas. At this point, almost no effective inpatient or outpatient care was available for the treatment of new cases.

He moved the cursor across the Pacific Ocean to China: “China. Population 1,350,678,400. Massive outbreak. 152,843,000 reported cases as of 11/26/013. Further case reporting to be based on data samples and mathematical estimates. Borders closed. Uncontained.”

Reluctantly, he pushed the cursor over Maine: “Maine. Population 1,415,484. Large cluster outbreak. 88,434 cases confirmed. Uncontained. Surge capacity exceeded.”

“Portland. Population 66,144. Large cluster outbreak. 21,400 cases reported. Uncontained. Surge capacity exceeded.”

Alex resisted the urge to analyze Boston, knowing the situation would be considerably worse, and that way too many of those people were already on their way up to Maine. He was mostly concerned with eastern Massachusetts, specifically the densely-populated areas around Boston. Headlines throughout greater Boston strongly indicated that the area was on the brink of exploding into a full scale civil riot. If that happened, the city would turn into a war zone, further escalating the refugee situation and the desperation of those fleeing north.

Alex put the computer into standby mode and turned off the screen, which darkened the room. He stood up from the chair and kneeled down to peer through a two-inch opening at the bottom of the office window shade. With the lights out in the office and the adjoining hall, he could scan the neighborhood unobserved. Only a few scattered lights were visible, mostly on the second floors of homes in the neighborhood. He stared at a fixed point above the Sheppards’ front door for about one minute, relying on his peripheral vision to detect any movement in the neighborhood.

Alex contemplated the McDaniel house, wondering where Amanda and Katherine bunked for the night, hoping they took his advice to stay in the same room and barricade the door with a folding chair. The girls were instructed to call either Alex or Ed if they heard anything unusual inside or outside of the house. He felt bad that the girls were alone, but not bad enough to risk bringing the flu into their house.

Chapter 27

Alex was startled out of a shallow sleep by the telephone on his nightstand. Damn it, again?

He found the phone and brought the light blue LED illuminated handset to his face. “Walker, Edward.”

“Hello? Ed?” he answered.

“Alex,” Ed said urgently, “someone forced their way into my basement, through the bulkhead door. I heard it creak open. I think they might still be here. I have the kids in our room. I don’t want to—”

“Just stay where you are, Ed. I’ll be over there in less than a minute,” Alex assured him, shooting up out of bed.

“Should I call the police? I don’t know if you—”

“You can try, but I don’t think we’re going to see any cops around anytime soon. Ed, stay in your bedroom, away from the door. Open one of your back windows. I’ll be right over. I’m hanging up now.”

He rushed over to his closet and pulled on a pair of jeans that were lying in a heap on the closet floor, hastily pulled a gray sweatshirt over his head, and grabbed the Mossberg shotgun. He pulled down a box of “double ought” buckshot shells and opened it, stuffing several of them into the front pockets of his jeans. As he emerged from the closet, he heard Kate’s voice emanate from the bed.

“What’s going on?” she murmured.

“Ed thinks someone has broken into his basement. I’m going over to investigate.”

“Why doesn’t he call the police?” she mumbled.

“Because it’ll take the police hours to respond…if they respond. You should bring the kids into the bedroom, or at least lock their doors. I’m heading out right now.”

He didn’t want to waste any more crucial time talking to someone that he knew wouldn’t be capable of a lucid conversation for at least another ten minutes, and right now, he didn’t have time to brew the coffee necessary to speed up the process.

Alex grabbed his keys, stuck his bare feet into his running shoes and took a powerful, compact LED flashlight off the shelf. Slipping into the frigid air of a dark, overcast November night, a violent shiver overtook Alex as his body registered the change in temperature.

High in the western sky, Alex could barely perceive the moon’s glow, which cast no useful illumination through the thick layer of clouds. As he reached the trees, the open bulkhead doors materialized from behind the Walkers’ deck. Alex kneeled behind one of the trees, extending his head out far enough to monitor the doors. He took a shotgun shell out of the speed feeder in the stock of the shotgun and loaded it into the bottom of the shotgun, repeating the procedure two more times.

He pumped the shotgun, loading a shell into the chamber, stiffening at the sound of the pumping mechanism, hoping that the sound didn’t carry all the way to the Walkers’ house. In close proximity, the sound of the pump action was unmistakable and usually enough to stop even the most stubborn adversary. At this distance, he didn’t think the sound would be loud enough to elicit the same response. He ensured that the safety was off and moved swiftly toward the Walkers’ deck.

He crouched slightly, carrying the shotgun by the receiver with his right hand, struck by the absolute silence of the night in the late fall. Halfway to the deck, a dark figure darted out of the open bulkhead door, sprinting toward the Andersons’ backyard. A second figure emerged from the evergreen bushes on the border of the Andersons’ and Walkers’ property, and ran to join the intruder toward the back of the lot.

Alex changed his own direction to match that of the two figures and sprinted toward them yelling, “Stop! Police! Stop! Don’t move!”

One of the figures slowed down and turned around, but Alex couldn’t tell in the blackness if it was the intruder or the lookout. Both figures merged at the edge of the Walkers’ property, and he lost track as they dodged between evergreens. Either way, one of the burglars had no intention of stopping, and Alex didn’t want to lose either of them. He yelled another warning as he approached the closest figure, who was now at a standstill. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The runner didn’t slow, and Alex fired the shotgun straight up into the air. The man in front of him took a few panicky steps backward and fell over a railroad tie into the hard dirt of the Andersons’ empty vegetable garden. The runner slowed considerably, and Alex fired another shot into the air, which stopped the man in his tracks. He chambered another shell and started walking toward the downed figure in the Andersons’ garden, his ears ringing from the two blasts.

“Get back here, or I’ll blast your friend all over the yard! Now!” Alex said, aiming the shotgun at the figure on the ground.

He drew a deep but quiet breath, straining to regain his wind after the brief sprint. He’d keep drawing quick shallow breaths through his nose until he felt steadier.

“Hey, don’t shoot me, you don’t have to shoot me,” the man said.

Alex had the feeling he recognized the speaker’s voice, but was unable to immediately identify him.

“You better call that fucker back over here. He looks like he’s going to bolt, and if he does, I’m going to blast one of your legs off, and then hunt him down,” Alex said, pointing the barrel at the man’s right leg.

“Todd! Todd! This guy isn’t messing around. You need to get back here!” Mike Lynch said, twisting his body far enough to face Todd.

Alex heard the distant figure muttering. A few seconds later, the man started to walk back across the Andersons’ yard, toward Alex.

“Are either of you armed?” he asked Mike.

“No, just a walkie-talkie. We didn’t…we weren’t trying to hurt anyone. We were looking for…”

“Don’t say another fucking word, Mike!” Todd said, approaching them nonchalantly.

Alex saw what looked like a radio in his hand. “You might want to take this a little more seriously, Todd,” he said, pointing the shotgun towards Todd’s head.

“Don’t point that gun at my head!” Todd protested, waving his hands uselessly in front of him.

Alex could see that he was holding a small radio with a thick, stubby antenna. “I’ll do whatever I want right now. Stop right there and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“You’re not gonna fire at anyone,” Todd said.

Alex pointed the shotgun back at Mike. “What do you think, Mike?” he asked.

Mike looked up at Todd and shook his head. “I wouldn’t mess with this guy, Todd. I think he’s a little…off right now.”

“‘Off’ is a good term. Right now I’m looking for any reason to permanently erase the two of you from my list of worries,” Alex said, shifting the gun’s aim back at Todd.

“Quit pointing that thing at me!” Todd said.

“Or what?” Alex asked, shaking his head at Todd.

Mike started to slowly get up, clapping his hands together to clean off the dirt.

“Stay where you are, Mike,” Alex warned, keeping the gun aimed at Todd.

Mike lowered his body back down into the dirt.

Alex heard one of the Walkers’ windows open, but didn’t turn to look.

“Alex! Who are they? What’s going on?” Ed yelled in a whisper from above.

“It’s our good friends Todd and Mike! Out for an evening stroll!”

Alex scanned his two neighbors, both of whom were dressed in blue jeans, hiking boots, and dark-colored jackets. Alex guessed that Todd’s was dark blue, and that Mike’s was a natural shade of green, like pine, although he couldn’t be sure. Neither of them appeared to be carrying or hiding anything.

“Didn’t find what you’re looking for?” Alex asked.

“I’m out of here,” Todd said.

Just as he finished his sentence, a woman’s voice emanated from the direction of Todd’s house. Through the darkness, Alex perceived movement in one of the windows above Todd’s garage, and he suddenly felt exposed standing in the open. He moved to his left, putting Todd between himself and the open window.

“You stay right there, or your wife is going to remember this night for the rest of her life,” Alex said, raising the shotgun to his shoulder and aiming directly at Todd’s head.

Todd raised his right hand out in front of his face.

“Don’t bother, you’ll lose the hand and your head.”

“I don’t really give a shit, Alex. My wife probably won’t have the memory of you killing me for very long. I just hope she passes before one of the kids does. That’s a memory I don’t want her to carry for even a minute,” Todd said.

“I’m sorry, Todd,” Alex said, truly meaning it.

“Are you?” Todd asked and shook his head.

Alex lowered the gun barrel, pointing at the ground between Mike and Todd. Todd’s wife was still yelling out of the window, but Alex couldn’t make out what she was saying. Todd looked back at the window, then turned his head slowly around to Alex.

“If you’re planning to shoot us, now would be a good time. Otherwise, I’ll see you later,” he said and started to walk toward his house.

Mike remained on the ground, eyes darting back and forth between Alex and Todd.

“Last warning, Todd. If I find you on either of these two lots again, I will kill you on sight. Same with the McDaniels’ house. Actually, if I find you sneaking around anywhere in the neighborhood, you’re a dead man. Keep to yourself. The same goes for you, Mike. Do you understand me?”

Mike acknowledged him immediately with a vigorous nod and a weak “yes.” Todd muttered “whatever.”

The sudden deafening detonation of the shotgun dropped Todd to his knees. As Alex’s hearing flooded back, he picked up screams from Todd’s master bedroom window. Todd was frozen on his knees and didn’t look back. Alex racked the slide of the shotgun again, although the shotgun’s ammunition cylinder was empty, and he pointed the shotgun at Todd’s back.

“I’ll ask you that question one more time. Do you understand my terms?” he asked quietly over the relentless screams pouring out of Todd’s house.

Todd nodded his head and muttered “yes.”

“Good. Now get out of here. Both of you,” Alex said, lowering the shotgun.

Both of them rose up quickly and sprinted toward the back of Todd’s house. Alex watched them disappear behind Todd’s house, and turned toward the open window on the second floor of the Walkers’. He engaged the safety on the shotgun.

“You need to keep your bulkhead door locked,” he said wryly.

“Yeah, like I haven’t checked my bulkhead thirty times since this started,” Ed replied, suddenly appearing from the bulkhead steps.

“Does it look jimmied?” Alex asked, taking the flashlight out of his back pocket.

“Hold on,” Ed said, descending the stairs.

Light poured out of the basement a few seconds later as he reemerged to examine the locking mechanism. Alex activated his flashlight and pointed it at the locking bolt.

“Wow, what do you have a million candle power coming out of that thing?” Ed asked, shielding his eyes.

“Sorry.” Alex shut off the light. He leaned down by the mechanism, which consisted of a thick metal bolt, curved on both ends to keep it from falling out of the sliding mechanism. There really wasn’t much to it, and from casual observation, it looked intact and undamaged. Alex glanced over his shoulder toward the Andersons’ yard. “Sure you locked it?” he asked.

“Positive,” Ed replied.

“I’d hate to think it’s that easy to manipulate one of these. I have the same thing at my house.”

“I don’t know. It’s not exactly a complicated system, and the bulkhead itself isn’t exactly airtight. I’m gonna try and jam some wood between the bolt and the door, wedge it in place better.”

“That should do it,” Alex agreed.

“Did you have to fire that thing three times? What was going on with them?”

“I needed to convince Todd that I was serious,” Alex replied.

“What about the last shot? It looked like you were aiming at him,” Ed said.

“I was aiming between them, plenty of room on either side. I was just using birdshot anyway. I needed Todd to escalate his level of care at that moment. He was a little dismissive, which wasn’t the tone I was looking for.”

“Well, I think you got his attention. He was running sort of funny on the way back. Like he’d pissed his pants.”

“I hope so,” Alex said.

“I need to find the three expended shells. I can see Todd’s wife calling the cops. So if you have everything under control here, I need to remove the evidence from your backyard.”

“Have at it. I’ll be down here jamming wood into this stupid door.”

“Maybe there’s a place where you could put a padlock or something and jam the mechanism shut?” Alex asked, backing up out of the light.

“I’ll let you know if I figure something like that out. Happy hunting,” Ed said.

“Yep,” Alex said and turned on his flashlight.

Ten minutes later, Alex unlocked and opened the door to his garage. Opening the garbage bin lid, Alex tossed the three expended shells inside, making sure they filtered out of immediate sight.

“Hey, hon?” he called out, after slowly opening the inside door.

Kate sat at the kitchen island.

“What happened out there? I heard some gunshots, so I rushed down here to check on you. By the time I got out into the backyard, I could see you and Ed chatting by his bulkhead. Seemed like everything was under control.”

“Mike and Todd pulled off a little B and E at Ed’s, through the bulkhead, so I put the fear of Mossberg into them…hon, the hammer’s back on that gun,” he said dryly, leaning the shotgun against the kitchen desk. He stepped around Kate to examine the pistol lying on the kitchen island next to her tea cup. “Which means that just about four pounds of pressure on that trigger and…”

He picked up the weapon, keeping it pointed toward the mudroom, and depressed the de-cocking lever with his thumb. The hammer fell lightly. He then pressed the magazine release mechanism at the base of the trigger guard. The magazine slid out into his left hand, and he placed it on the island. He then racked the slide and the chambered .45 caliber round popped out of the weapon, hit the island, and rolled off. Alex heard it hit the seat of a stool, then the floor. Kate looked tense as the bullet rolled off the island onto the floor.

“Don’t worry, you can’t set one of these off by dropping it. You can, however, set one off by keeping the hammer cocked while you traipse around the backyard in the dark. Good way to trip and shoot yourself in the head,” he said, moving to retrieve the bullet from the floor.

“Yeah, well, I got a little worried when I heard gunfire in the backyard. You know, I don’t think it’s such a great idea for you to be charging through the dark either,” she said, nodding at the shotgun. “We’re not the only ones around here with guns. You have no idea what might have been waiting for you in Ed’s backyard. You’re lucky it was only those two idiots. What did they want?”

“Food, medicine…both. I’m sure they’re convinced that Ed has a huge stash of drugs, too,” he said and sat on the stool next to Kate.

“Do you think they’d try the same thing here?”

“Not after tonight, although Todd does seem to have some sort of death wish. I don’t think Susan’s doing well at all. He made a comment about how she won’t be around much longer. The more desperate everyone becomes…who knows what’ll happen around here?”

“Not much else we can do at this point,” she said, kissing him on the forehead and standing up from her stool. “That’s it, I’m done. I don’t want to be a zombie all day,” she added, shuffling toward the staircase.

“Big day tomorrow?” he asked.

“You know it,” she said, laughing softly. “What day is it tomorrow? Today, actually.”

“Tuesday. Not that it really matters,” he replied.

“Yeah. No kidding. I love you,” she said and started up the stairs.

“Love you too.”

Chapter 28

Alex walked across the darkened kitchen into the great room and was pleasantly surprised to find everyone quietly reading. The shades had already been pulled shut, and the room was bathed in the soothing glow of a few strategically placed reading lamps. Kate was on the leather sectional couch, staring at the screen of her iPad, which was propped up against her bent knees. Ryan occupied the other side of the couch, holding Alex’s iPad. A few days before, Alex had shown Ryan how to find and download books, and Ryan found several science fiction books that interested him. Alex had encouraged him to keep searching and ordering books. If the power grid failed nationwide, he wasn’t sure how long they would have internet access, and without books, they would all be facing an extremely long winter.

He stepped into the family room and put his hand on Emily’s head, softly stroking her hair. She was curled up in one of the oversized leather chairs right inside the great room entrance, eyes closed with a book weakly grasped in her right hand. Emily opened her eyes slowly as he petted her head.

“Hey, sweetie. Whatcha reading?” he asked.

She stifled a yawn and stretched her shoulders back. “Just one of the Explorer series books. I still have like four or five more in the series that I haven’t read yet.”

“You still like those, huh?” he asked, kneeling down next to her chair.

“Yeah, I forgot how good they were.”

“Even without vampires or the undead floating around? Hard to believe.”

“Even without vampires, Daddy.”

“Sounds good, cupcake. Why don’t you close your eyes and go back to sleep?” he suggested.

Emily nodded and started to drift away.

Kate looked up from the iPad. “How is everyone?” she asked quietly, glancing at Ryan, who appeared undisturbed.

“Not bad overall,” he said, signaling her with his head to meet him in the other room.

Settling into a leather club chair in the den, Alex said, “So it looks like my brother is going to be fine. My parents picked him up from the hospital in Castle Rock this morning and brought him to their house. He still has pneumonia, but I guess he responded well to antibiotics and the intensive intervention that was still miraculously available at that hospital. Lucky bastard. Broke his arm in the car crash.”

“Why did Karla make your parents drive over an hour out to Castle Rock?” Kate asked angrily.

“Karla died at the Fort Carson flu triage center last night. My parents had a long day yesterday,” he said flatly.

“God, those poor kids. I can’t even imagine. Did you know she was sick?”

“No. I haven’t talked to them for a week. Just a few emails to make sure they were okay. Mom said she came down with symptoms really fast. The kids were already sick, but never got worse. They all took the anti-virals. My mother tore Daniel’s house apart and found the drugs stashed in one of the bathroom closets, still in the original box I sent. Unopened,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. “Anyway, Karla’s dad still lives in Colorado Springs. Made it to Colonel before retiring right outside of Fort Carson. He pulled some strings to get her into the triage center on base. It sounds like she went fast. Complete respiratory breakdown within like a day and a half. Ethan and Kevin are staying with my parents, along with Daniel. It doesn’t sound like Daniel is out of the woods yet. They gave him some strong antibiotics to take home, but he really needs to stay on an antibiotic drip. I don’t know. Sounds like they were actively clearing hospital beds and ventilators for other patients.”

“I’m really sorry to hear about Karla. I can’t believe it. So fast. She was the world to those kids,” Kate said.

“That’s why we can’t take any chances here. This thing really seems to be annihilating younger, healthy adults. Karla, Eric Bishop, Joe Burton. All you hear on the news are reports of healthy adults being taken down in the course of a few days. Gone. That’s why we can’t afford a slip up,” Alex said.

“I know,” Kate agreed. “Should we say anything to the kids?”

“No. It would just freak them out.”

“All right. I’m so glad your parents are watching them. I don’t think they would stand a chance if it wasn’t for them,” she said.

“That’s what I told them. I also told them to go ahead and take the TerraFlu I gave them. They each have two courses of therapy. I forgot I gave them more than one. With the kids and Daniel in the house, they’re bound to get sick. If TerraFlu is in their system before they show symptoms, then they might not even develop more than a mild fever or cough.”

“Good. You’re right, they’ll be fine. I know they will. I am going to work on some dinner,” Kate said, getting up from her seat.

“Your clan isn’t still considering a migration up to your brother’s place are they?” he asked her.

“No, I got an email from them this morning. Too many moving parts. Three cars, barely enough gas to pull it off. They’ve stockpiled a lot of stuff over there, and they’d have to move that too. Princeton is still pretty quiet, but the mayhem is getting closer, spilling out of Philly…New York…northern Jersey. They’re nervous about it, but they’re way better off staying put. God only knows what could happen to them on the road. They’d be forced to transit some highly populated parts of Jersey and Mass…places that look like borderline warzones right now.”

“I think they made a good call,” Alex said, following her out of the room.

“How does pasta and sauce sound? Throw some beans in there, maybe?” Kate suggested, opening the pantry door.

“Works for me,” he said, leaning over to dig an onion out of a red net bag on the floor of the pantry.

“How many more of those do we have?”

“Four more in this bag, and we have another bag of about twelve in the bunker.”

“We do?” she asked.

“We do. You should spend a little more time down there. You might find all kinds of nice little surprises.” He laughed.

“Maybe I will.” She took a box of pasta and a large can of crushed tomatoes to the counter next to the stove.

Alex followed behind her and took a large squat knife out of the knife rack. He put the knife behind his back in a reverse commando grip and moved behind Kate, never exposing her to the blade. Just as he reached the wooden chopping block, their phone rang. He put the knife and onion down and grabbed the phone from the island.

“Ed,” he said to her and answered the phone. “What’s up, Ed? More funny noises in the basement?” Alex asked.

“Now that it’s clear that I have Rambo guarding my house, I highly doubt we’ll see either of those two again. Thanks again, I guess. At least you didn’t blast a hole in my house,” Ed said.

“Nice. Any time, Mr. Appreciative,” Alex replied, smiling at Kate, who was watching him. “Hold on, Ed, while I seek some privacy.”

“Who is it, Dad?” Ryan called out from the family room.

“It’s your girlfriend’s dad, Mr. Walker,” Alex said.

“Great,” Kate sighed.

“Dad! She’s not my girlfriend!”

“I’ll be sure to tell him that,” he said and slid the pocket door to the mudroom shut to add a layer of soundproofing, in anticipation of the uproar he may have ignited. He heard Ryan still grumbling to Kate about what he’d said, and he shut the door to the den, locking it to prevent intrusion by an embarrassed twelve-year-old.

“I’m sure Ryan was happy to hear you say that,” Ed cracked.

“Yeah, it was like setting off a bomb in the kitchen for Kate to clean up. What’s going on?” Alex asked, switching on the overhead light.

“I think Jamie’s home. We saw a car pull away from the house about ten minutes ago. Never saw it pull up. Now there are lights on over the garage in the master bedroom. The girls never turned those lights on.”

“Should we go over there and make sure everything is all right?” Alex asked.

“I think I’ll call first. Maybe it’s a relative, her parents or something,” Ed said.

“I thought their families were pretty far away?”

“Midwest somewhere. That’d be a long trip.”

“Really long. I doubt it’s a relative.”

“You’re probably right,” Ed replied.

“Yet to be wrong,” Alex quipped.

“Keep running around the neighborhood with a shotgun, and that might change.”

“That’s what my wife thinks.”

“She might be on to something,” Ed said. “Anyway, I’ll give her a call. If she’s home, we could bring over some supplies for them later tonight.”

“Keep me posted,” Alex said.

“I’ll call you later.” Ed hung up.

Alex reentered the kitchen and briefed Kate on the most recent development.

Chapter 29

Alex lay awake in bed, staring at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Kate’s arms were wrapped around him, and her body was pressed snuggly into his back. He heard Emily breathing deeply on the other side of Kate. Having both of the kids in the master bedroom made him feel better, more at ease, given the unstable climate in the neighborhood. Their rooms seemed so far away at the other end of the house, and with the staircase emptying in front of the entrances to both of their rooms, he worried about being able to reach them in time if they had an intruder.

As Alex started drifting back to sleep, he heard the doorbell ring.

“Who’s that?” Kate mumbled.

Alex sat up slowly, feeling exhausted by the unplanned two-hour interruption to his sleep last night. He slid out of the covers and walked over to the front window, raised the shade halfway, and saw that a police cruiser was parked on the street in front of their mailbox. He could read “Scarborough Police” on the side of the car.

“It’s the police. Stay in bed, I’ll see what’s up,” he said and pulled a pair of dark brown corduroy pants out of the closet.

“If you insist,” Kate said.

Alex looked through the mudroom door window and saw a police officer standing on the stoop; another officer stood back several paces on the walkway. The furthest officer took a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth, and Alex could clearly see his breath.

Neither looked particularly contentious or alarmed, and Alex felt only the typical apprehension he might experience finding two police officers standing outside their door.

He slipped on a pair of Crocs and opened both the interior and storm doors to greet the officers, and was met by an expected rush of bitterly cold air.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, stepping out onto the stoop with the officer.

“Morning. Mr. Fletcher?” the officer on the stoop asked.

The other officer nodded a friendly, but stiff greeting. Alex considered the officer standing a few feet from him. From inside the house, the officer looked like any uniformed law enforcement official he had seen before, prior to the pandemic, but on closer inspection, Alex immediately spotted the considerable strain these officers must be facing.

Officer Hale, as he read from the name badge, looked like he hadn’t shaved in at least two days. That, combined with the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, led Alex to believe that he hadn’t slept much either in the past few days. The condition of his uniform betrayed the same ordeal. Although still far from unserviceable, his uniform was no longer the crisp, heavily starched and pressed navy blue uniform he surely wore just a month ago.

Glancing furtively, Alex saw that one knee of his uniform pants was dirty, or possibly just worn through. He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t plan to take another look. The last thing he noticed in his cursory examination was that the officer was wearing some kind of enhanced body armor under his cold weather parka. Whatever he was wearing, it didn’t resemble a standard ballistic vest; this one was much thicker, giving his upper body a significant barrel-like appearance.

“Alex. Just Alex. How can I help you guys?”

“Mr. Fle…Alex, we’re looking into the possible discharge of a firearm in your neighborhood. Happened two nights ago…and…”

Officer Hale was having trouble forming the words, probably due to sheer exhaustion. The other officer helped him out.

“One of the neighbors reported several gunshots coming from over there. Shotgun,” he said, pointing in the general direction of Ed’s house.

“I didn’t hear any gunshots last night. Pretty quiet around here,” Alex said, as they gathered near the mudroom overhang.

“Actually, the report came in two nights ago,” Hale said, stealing a glance at Downes.

“Nothing all week, actually,” Alex said, starting to feel a warmth creep over his face.

“Well, the person who called insisted they saw you in the backyard, behind the Andersons’, right about the same time as the gunshots. Around two thirty in the morning.”

“And they’re sure it was me?” Alex asked.

“The report makes it pretty clear that they thought it was you.”

Alex shrugged. “Well, I can guarantee you that I don’t make a habit of running around the neighborhood in the wee hours of the morning with a gun. Especially these days. Did anyone else report the shots?”

“We got a call from the street behind you and two more from your street, just reporting what they thought was gunfire. Mr. Fletcher…Alex, do you own any firearms?” Officer Hale asked.

“You guys want to step in the garage? I’m freezing out here. I’d invite you in the house, but we’re enforcing a strict quarantine until the flu tapers off,” Alex offered.

Officer Hale looked at Downes, who nodded.

“Sure,” Hale said.

“Let me open the door. I’ll be right back.” Alex opened the far garage door, and the officers stepped into the empty space, which was considerably warmer than the open air. Alex met them in the empty bay and leaned against the 4Runner’s rear passenger door. The two officers stood several feet away from him, in the middle of the empty bay, with their backs to the double-stacked woodpile. Both officers crossed their arms, almost in unison, taking what Alex interpreted to be a neutral, yet interrogative stance.

“That’s better. Anyway…uh, yes, I own a handgun, which you guys probably know already. I have a concealed carry permit filed with the town.”

“No shotguns or rifles?”

“I’m not a hunter, so I don’t have any need for a long gun,” he replied.

“Well, the reason I brought it up is because one of the other officers at the station remembers seeing you with a shotgun at the Fish and Game club. Said you’re pretty handy with a shotgun. Mossberg, he thought,” Hale said, glancing briefly at Downes.

“I have a few friends that are really into guns, and I’ve taken them to the range before. He probably saw me with one of their shotguns. One of them has a Mossberg. My personal favorite. Defender model very similar to the one I trained on and used in Iraq,” Alex said, feeling like every motion he made was betraying his lie.

Alex felt uncomfortable lying to the officers, but he didn’t want to give them any more reason than they already had to enter his house. Neither one of them appeared sick, but they had to be in constant contact with the public, so Alex didn’t want to take the chance. Plus, with the level of violence escalating region-wide, he certainly couldn’t risk having his firearms confiscated, which is a course of action he could envision them taking.

The last thing the police needed was a loose cannon running around any of the neighborhoods, and his behavior last night stood a good chance of landing him on the loose cannon list. He was certain that if these guys could verify with one hundred percent accuracy that he owned a shotgun, they’d take measures to remove it from the premises, along with every other weapon in his gun safe. The best strategy would be to continue to play dumb about a shotgun.

“When did you serve?” Downes asked.

“’94 to ’04. Got out after the invasion of Iraq,” Alex said.

“Small world. I was army. In for five years active, left as a sergeant in 2009. I’m still in the reserves. 94th MP detachment down in Saco,” Downes told him.

“Oh boy, here we go,” Hale said, smirking.

“What unit were you with on active duty?” Alex asked.

“2nd Brigade Combat Team, 4th ID…”

“Out of Fort Carson?”

“Yeah, you been there?” Downes asked.

“My folks still live in C Springs. My sister-in-law’s parents live right outside Ft. Carson. Her dad’s a retired Colonel. His last post was at Ft. Carson, I think. Anyway, she died a few days ago,” Alex said.

“Flu?” Hale asked.

“Yeah. She went quick.”

Both officers put on somber faces, probably more out of courtesy than anything else.

“Sorry to hear that,” Hale said.

“Yeah, that’s tough,” Downes added, “there’s too much of that going around.”

“I imagine you guys are running into it all day,” Alex said, not sure if that was the right thing to say.

“We’re too busy to respond to those calls. Hell, you’d be lucky to get an ambulance out at this point. EMT crews got crushed by the flu. At this point, the department is at less than half strength. We’re lucky to have two cars out at any given time, and those are usually twenty-four hour shifts. It’s a real mess. We’re pulling strictly volunteer duty to try and clear up any notable reports of violence or civil disorder, which brings me back to the point of our visit,” Hale said.

“We’ve seen too many neighborhood disputes escalate over the past week or so. People are getting desperate. My best advice is to keep to yourselves, and if anything happens, avoid confrontation, try to make an ID, and give us a call. We might not respond right away, but we’ll do our best to get to the bottom of it. Sometimes just our showing up and asking a few questions goes a long way.”

Alex grinned, knowing that Hale’s last statement was directed at him. “Nobody likes having the police pay a visit,” he said, as they all started to walk out of the garage.

“Unless they call 911,” Downes added.

“So, how bad is it out there? I mean beyond Scarborough? Those vests aren’t standard issue. Pairing you guys up when they could double the number of cars out on patrol?” Alex questioned.

Both officers stopped and turned around just short of leaving the garage. Hale wore an exhausted expression that betrayed a concerned caution. “It’s not too bad up here yet, even in Portland or South Portland. Just the usual stuff. Lots of break-ins, vandalism, minor fights…some major ones, but nothing crazy yet.”

He touched his vest. “Tri-City Special Response divvied up all the gear last week. Not enough trained guys left on the roster to field a response team. Everyone that goes out on patrol has the option to take one of these. We got some assault rifles too, though nobody’s really been trained by the department to use one, other than the Special Response guys. Officer Downes is the only member of the team from Scarborough still fit for duty,” Hale said, glancing at Downes.

“We only contributed two guys to the team. Most of them were from South Portland, so we didn’t get a lot of the gear. Four sets of body armor, some night vision, other goodies. I hope we never really have to use any of it,” Downes said.

“Amen to that,” Alex said.

“All right, we have to get moving here. Lots of ground to cover before one of us passes out. Do you have a radio that can scan police channels?” Hale asked him.

The question caught Alex off guard, and he paused, not really sure how to answer the question. He owned a Uniden multi-channel radio with this capability that he kept in the basement, but he hadn’t yet considered using it to eavesdrop on local law enforcement. His silence crossed over into discomfort, as he continued to ponder what he should say.

“We don’t care if you have a police scanner. They’re perfectly legal in Maine. It’s amazing how everyone clams up around us.” Hale laughed.

“Well, it’s not like you guys are here for beers. It’s like when you’re driving, and suddenly you see a cruiser in your rearview mirror. You could be driving your grandma back to the nursing home, and you would still be paranoid,” Alex said, causing both officers to chuckle.

“That’s a scary thought. Anyway, if you have one, you should start scanning local and county channels. We haven’t seen too many refugees from Mass up this far, but they’re coming. They’ve been slipping into the state slowly, mainly up the turnpike, but we think that’s all about to change,” Hale said.

Downes leaned in a little close, like he was about to share a secret. “We’ve heard from a few sources that the situation down in Boston is about to go critical. They’ve already seen limited riots and fires, but from what we’ve been hearing, they’re on the brink of a complete breakdown. Once that happens, we can expect a lot of people streaming north, most of them with nothing, and all of them looking for something.

“This has already caused some problems down in York County. These folks drive up with just the fuel in their tanks and whatever they thought to jam in their cars. No plan, no contacts up here, just the misguided idea that Maine wasn’t hit as bad. They get here and quickly figure out that nobody’s really keen on having them up here, and that’s when it starts to get ugly. On both sides.”

“Where do they end up staying?” Alex asked.

“Some check into hotels, if they have the cash. Credit cards are almost useless now—no one accepts them. Most just live in their cars until they can figure something out, which won’t be an option for very long,” Downes added, glancing up at the sky.

“Either way, none of them have enough food to last more than a week. Many have way less than that, so they start scoping out the neighborhoods during the day, maybe stopping to ask questions about food or the possibility of vacant houses on the block. Then they return to cruise the neighborhood after dark, looking for houses with no lights. They’ll just break into those houses outright, and you’ll wake up with new neighbors.”

“Can we do anything to keep them off the block?”

“That’s where it’s gotten ugly downstate. Even if you blockade the entrance to your loop, they’ll pour in on foot from the other streets, night and day. It’s almost better to have them inside their cars. At least that way you can see them, and you don’t have people sneaking through your yards at night. We’ve heard reports from some York County sheriff’s deputies about nighttime battles erupting in neighborhoods down in Kittery and York, some reports from Sanford, too. Way too many guns in Maine, and way too many people eager to use them,” Hale said.

“Yeah, but if someone’s breaking into your house, and the police can’t respond…I mean, it’s not your fault, but…” Alex started.

“Most of these aren’t break-ins. Some for sure, but there’s been a lot of indiscriminate shooting. Blasting away at shadows. Even a few cases of pre-planned ambush. Anyway, nice talking with you, Alex. Pull out that scanner and keep any guns you own inside the house. You’ll be better off that way. Good luck,” Hale said and started to walk toward the cruiser.

“Keep it safe, guys,” Alex said.

“You too,” Downes replied.

Alex watched the two officers walk back to their patrol car, neither looking very enthusiastic about returning to duty. He was pretty sure he could end their voluntary shift pretty quickly if he offered them a beer, even at this early hour. He felt the cold penetrating his Crocs again.

“Hey, Officer Downes! Were you with Ironhorse?” he yelled, as he backed into the garage.

“Yeah! How did you know?” Downes yelled back as he reached for the passenger door handle.

“I was in Iraq as a company commander when the war started. Rolled all the way up through Baghdad. I’ve read everything written about the war. 4th ID rolled in late 2007, Task Force Ironhorse. You guys did some incredible work out there.”

“Thanks, I just hope we can all survive this!” Downes called, glancing around the neighborhood.

“We’ve seen worse.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think we’ve seen anything yet!” Downes said, ducking into the car.

Alex watched the patrol car drive in the direction of the Thorntons’ before he walked over to shut the garage door.

A few minutes later he stood in front of their espresso machine at the far end of the kitchen counter, waiting for the green indicator to illuminate. He heard one of the top stairs creak and guessed that Kate was coming down to check on him. Several more steps confirmed his guess as Kate’s unmistakable stride brought her to the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in pink and gray flannel pajama bottoms, and a thick, oversized maroon Boston College sweatshirt.

“So, are you under arrest?” she asked, walking toward him.

“No, I traded some information for my freedom. They’ll be back to haul you away after you’ve had some coffee. I told them you’d go quietly that way, or at least quieter,” he replied.

“Good call on your part. So, what did they want?”

“To talk about my possible involvement in the discharge of a firearm.”

“Please tell me you didn’t admit to it,” she said, and walked over to the pantry.

“I told them I didn’t hear a thing that night.”

“Did they buy it?” she asked, laughing a little as she walked up to the counter next to the stove with a container of quick oats.

“They really didn’t seem to care.”

***

Alex turned the last light off downstairs and headed up to the office. He passed Emily’s room and heard Kate and Emily talking, but couldn’t figure out any of their conversation. As he moved down the hall, he started to hear sounds of computerized violence and mayhem emanate from the attic doorway near the office. He entered the office and closed the door to drown out the sounds of simulated automatic weapons fire, screaming and explosions. Even through the door, he could hear Ryan’s muted battle raging across the flat-screen in the attic.

Alex hadn’t received any messages on his smartphone in several days. Barely any calls to the house either. Even email traffic had slowed to a near halt over the past week. At first he wondered why, reasoning that people should have nothing but time on their hands. Plenty of time to stay in touch.

It didn’t take him long to realize that his own situation certainly didn’t resemble anything close to the most typical scenario out there. Most people were probably just barely getting by. Sick or not, supplies of everything were low. Even households untouched by the flu must be quickly coming to the realization that they were about to enter dire straits.

He sat down at the computer and saw that Kate had been checking out the weather forecast. He noted that the national weather service had predicted a major storm for the weekend, estimated to arrive on Sunday. “Mixed ice and snow. Possible ice storm followed by periods of heavy snow.”

He clicked over to one of the local news channel’s websites and checked their storm center predictions. Theirs was more detailed and outlined the conditions meteorologists believed would likely cause a severe ice storm. He read quietly aloud, paraphrasing the prediction.

“Remnants of a late season tropical storm from the Gulf of Mexico encounters polar high pressure zone over New England early Sunday morning. Persistent polar air mass could result in a stalled warm front and enduring precipitation in the form of frozen rain. Great. Freezing temperatures on the ground will make the situation worse. Eventually moist air will push through stationary cold front. Possible transition to intense snowfall if warm layer thins before leaving the region.”

He navigated back to the news station’s homepage. One article caught his eye above all of the standard pandemic news. “Maine Militia plans to barricade I-95 bridge.”

But as he read the rest of the article, he started to think that maybe these guys had the right idea.

“The York County Militia consists of several chapters in southern Maine. Group organizer and leader, Harrison Campbell, of Sanford, says that the group is growing in response to the threat from outsiders. ‘We’ve been subjected to an out of state invasion for decades. Property taxes are driving Mainers out of their homes, and there’s new construction everywhere. Hardworking Mainers can’t make a living in their own state anymore. Now they’re gonna stream up here and ransack the place?”

“York County sheriff’s officials stated that they would likely station their own deputies at the bridge, in anticipation of the group’s action to barricade the I-95. An anonymous source within the sheriff’s department casts serious doubt on the department’s ability to remove the group from the bridge, pointing out that the deputies are already stretched to the breaking point around the county. Kittery police officials declined to comment on their planned reaction to a standoff on the bridge.”

“Sounds like the makings of a mess down there,” Alex said out loud.

“Do you always talk to yourself in here?” Kate asked from the doorway to the office, startling him by her sudden appearance.

“Whoa! What is it with all of you people sneaking up on me?” he asked.

“Who’s ‘you people’?” she asked, walking over to the desk.

“You and that son of yours.” He swung the chair around to face her.

“Did you see the storm warning?” she asked.

“Yeah, I hope it’s just a snowstorm. An ice storm will take down the power.”

Kate was staring past him at the article on the screen. “What’s that all about?” She was squinting to try and read it from where she was standing.

“Some nutbags are planning to barricade the bridge.”

“What about the Route One bridge?”

“I don’t know. What, do you want to be on their planning committee?” Alex joked.

“Someone has to keep the refugee situation under control,” she said.

“Yeah, somehow I think that’s a job better suited for the Army Reserves or National Guard, not a bunch of gun-toting crazies who believe they are the reincarnated spirits of the Lexington and Concord Minutemen.”

“Who do you think makes up the Guard and Reserves?” Kate asked.

“I have several friends in the Guard, and they run a quality operation.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just saying that regular civilians from all walks of life make up the Guard. Same people who are part of that group.”

“True, but either way, an untrained and undisciplined gaggle of armed civilians barricading a bridge is a recipe for major disaster,” he said, turning back to the screen.

“Yeah, but I can’t help thinking I’m glad they’re doing something to keep these people from creeping into our neighborhoods.”

“I know. I feel the same way,” he agreed.

“Speaking of the Guard, they fully mobilized all Maine units. Same for New Hampshire, Massachusetts and the rest of New England. I think there was a national mobilization ordered by the president. I caught a bit of it on the TV in our room a little earlier,” Kate said, lingering in the doorway.

“I didn’t see that. Hold on.” He started a search. “Wow, you’re right, it was a presidential order. They’re talking about the deployment of units to areas outside of assigned states.”

“Can they do that?” she asked, stepping back in to the office.

“Do what? Fully mobilize or send units out of state?”

“Both.”

“I’ve never heard of them mobilizing every single unit, but I know units travel out of state to augment disaster efforts, like major floods, or something like the disaster in New Orleans. Still, I’m pretty sure that’s usually authorized by the state governor as a courtesy. I can’t imagine any of the state governors volunteering to send any units out of state. This is unprecedented as far as I know.

“The president or the secretary of defense must have taken control of the National Guard. Not sure how, but I can guarantee this’ll just add to the mess out there,” said Alex.

“I wouldn’t show up. Not with my family’s safety on the line. I’m going to take a shower,” Kate said and left the room.

Alex mumbled agreement, though fundamentally, he didn’t agree with her sentiment. He had no qualms ditching his job at Biosphere, but military service was a different story. He could never refuse an authorized and legitimate call to duty.

He navigated to one of the major Boston newspapers and spotted a disturbing article featuring the sudden decline of civil order within the Boston metropolitan area. The article’s submission time indicated that the article had been filed online only several minutes ago.

According to the article, similar problems in all major cities along the northeastern coast were erupting. The National Guard has been recalled nationwide to handle growing civil unrest.

The article’s author went further to blame the civil disorder on a “now nearly complete breakdown of the food and essentials supply chain in the northeast, compounded by an overwhelmed healthcare system that has far exceeded its capacity to handle the flu pandemic.”

Survival

Chapter 30

Distracted by the bright gray and white sky, he almost missed the minivan turn onto Durham Road. Alex grimaced and raised the pair of binoculars hanging from his neck. He jotted “White Sienna”onto a legal pad balanced on the windowsill. The minivan lumbered slowly down the street in his direction. He focused the binoculars on the front license plate, and then scanned for occupants. “Massachusetts,” he mumbled.

He saw a man driving and a woman in the front passenger seat. They were both scanning the houses to each side of the minivan. The car edged past Todd’s house, almost stopping in front of the Walkers’.

Just before the minivan reached his house, Alex put the binoculars down to examine the vehicle with unaided eyes. He confirmed two adults in front and possibly one more adult in the second row. He also caught the silhouette of a smaller person in the back seat, as the car passed directly in front of his window.

“Three adult, one pre-teen,” he wrote.

The minivan was in good shape, and through the binoculars, the man and woman looked normal; no different than anyone else on the block. The three vehicles that had previously crawled through the neighborhood looked a bit sketchier, and the people in the cars gave him an uneasy feeling.

Short of using force, he didn’t see how they could stop these people from occupying the empty houses on the block. If it was inevitable, maybe they could at least decide who stayed in the houses? Maybe flag down the normal-looking ones, and tell them which houses were empty. He thought about the four carloads of people he’d seen so far and who he’d choose. He decided to scrap this new idea for now.

So far, none of the cars had stopped. He expected the cars to disgorge their occupants for some door-to-door action, but he hadn’t seen any “feet on the ground” yet. He wasn’t looking forward to this, and he hadn’t really come up with a plan to handle the inevitable summons. Even in his coldest, iciest survivalist frame of mind, he couldn’t bear the thought of opening his door to a family with kids, only to send them on their way. Even thinking about it made him cringe.

As he stared pointlessly at the rear gate of the minivan, he detected motion in his peripheral vision. A light blue sedan approached the fork at the top of the street and turned toward an inevitable encounter with the minivan. He wondered if there was any informal nomadic etiquette already established between all of these travelers.

Alex snapped out of the reverie when the blue sedan popped into view around Charlie’s house. He lifted the binoculars and scanned the license plate. “Beat up blue Honda, Mass. 5 poss 6 occup,” he wrote, after scanning the windows, with dread, hoping they did not stop.

The car crawled past the Fletchers’ house, and Alex was spooked by the look of sheer desperation on the driver’s face, which nearly filled his view through the binoculars.

***

The doorbell rang for the eighth time. He peeked through their plantation shutters. After the first group started walking through the neighborhood, Alex ensured that all ground level shades or shutters were shut tight. For the first time in four years, he was happy that Kate had insisted on putting curtains over the small windows on each side of the front door. The doorbell rang again, and Alex started to shake with a combination of rage and anticipation of a fight.

None of the previous three groups had rung the doorbell more than a few times before moving on, giving him hope that they could avoid confrontation. That hope vanished several minutes ago, when a rusted, 80s vintage, wood-paneled station wagon stopped in front of the Todd Perry’s house.

The driver of the car, a rough-looking, no-necked scruff, yanked a young girl out of the back seat. The girl, dressed in a light purple jacket more suitable for early fall, fell onto her knees in the grass and started to pull away. Without taking his eyes off the Perry’s house, the man nearly pulled her emaciated arm out of its socket and forced her to walk with him to the Perry’s, where they spent several minutes.

Alex couldn’t see the interaction on Todd’s mudroom stoop, but he smugly mused over how this idiot had picked the worst starting point in the neighborhood. His smug look faded, as the skuzzy-looking child abuser walked through the Andersons’ yard, picking up speed as he headed in his direction. Alex’s self-assured look morphed into a pained frown, when he realized Todd sent the guy to him.

The doorbell sounded again, but this time it was a triple tap, signaling clearly to Alex that he was not the only one losing his patience with the situation.

Just then, he heard Kate from the top of the stairs. “What is going on?” she yelled.

Alex hopped up from his crouched position and walked swiftly through the doorway leading to the foyer and started up the stairs. He saw Kate at the top in a thick white bathrobe, her wet hair spilling over her shoulders.

Alex cut her off with a wave of his hands and pointed at the door. Through the white curtains, he could see that the man outside was trying to peer through any possible opening in the curtains. Kate was startled by a sudden banging on the door, and Alex walked up the stairs to her.

“He’s been at it for a while. I saw him come straight here from Todd’s house,” he told her.

“That jerk ,” she whispered.

“Yeah. Who knows what he’s telling them? But judging from this guy’s persistence, it isn’t good.”

The doorbell rang repeatedly.

“Hon, you’re gonna have to do something, or say something. We need a better plan than ignoring the doorbell,” she said.

“I know,” he said, with no clear plan forming.

“Just get rid of him. What if he thinks we’re not home and tries to break in later tonight?”

“I’m pretty sure he knows we’re home. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ll be right back.”

He planned to walk out of the mudroom door and address them from a distance. Reaching behind the small of his back, he checked the USP pistol tucked snugly into his jeans. Alex stepped outside and eased the storm door shut without making a sound, cautiously approaching the front corner of the house.

“Daddy, over there,” she yelled excitedly.

The man let go of the girl and jumped off the granite steps into a sea of evergreen bushes.

“Stop right there,” Alex barked, still keeping most of his body behind the cover of the house.

The man faltered as he struggled to push through the evergreens, but ultimately ignored Alex’s warning. His face pulsed red, and Alex saw a dangerous combination of persistence and vacancy in his bloodshot blue eyes.

“Crap,” Alex mumbled and retreated inside the house.

The man hurled himself around the corner just as Alex finished locking the storm door. If the guy tried to take down the storm door, he would shoot the man dead and leave the body where it fell as a deterrent for the next group.

While he processed this internal dialogue, the man put one hand on the door handle and the other on the glass. Alex quickly shifted his hand behind his back to clear his shirt from the top of his pistol. He could see the worn Red Sox logo on the front of the man’s sweatshirt, which was now pressed against his storm door.

“Whoa! Red Sox! Take it easy!” he yelled.

As if suddenly possessed by a little logic and reason, the man took his hands off the door and backed up a few steps, leaving a fog mark from his breath on the glass.

“Why the hell didn’t you answer the door? I’ve been out here half the morning ringing that damn doorbell. What’s the matter with you?” he yelled out in a thick Boston accent.

“I just woke up, thanks to you. You need to move on. There’s nothing in this neighborhood for you,” Alex said forcefully.

“Bullshit, you just woke up. I saw you moving around in there from the start, and I know you got a ton of food and supplies. Your friend down the street said you’ve been handing out food,” he said, putting both hands on his hips.

The man’s daughter came around the corner, and Alex found himself once again fighting the urge to shoot the man dead on the mudroom stoop. The girl’s hair was matted and her face was filthy. Stark signs of neglect and abuse made it difficult to determine her age, though Alex guessed she was no older than Emily. Dark circles ringed her unfocused blue eyes, frighteningly contrasted by bright red rims. Alex’s eyes were immediately drawn away to a large bruise on her right cheek—another on her neck.

“Stay out of the way, Skyler,” the man said and stepped off the stoop to reach out and grab her. He missed, and Skyler retreated behind the front corner of the house. Not wanting to lose ground, he stepped back onto the stoop under Alex’s murderous gaze.

“There’s nothing for you here. You need to leave now,” Alex said, shifting his gaze between the two of them and becoming more enraged every time he saw the girl’s condition.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere until you dig around…”

“You’ll be leaving right now,” Alex yelled in a controlled, forceful way.

The man was surprised by Alex’s sudden change, and a flash of genuine concern washed over his face. He paused and backed up a few steps without looking behind him. One more step and he’d topple off the stoop. Alex continued to stare at him with intense hatred. After a few seconds, the man turned around and stepped off the porch.

“Let’s go,” he roared at the girl. The man turned around and grinned, flashing crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. “Well, maybe we’ll be seeing more of each other. We could be neighbors soon.”

The man turned around to leave, and Alex opened the storm door. “Hey, Red Sox!” Alex called and lowered his voice when the man turned back around.

“If I see you around this house again, I’ll blow your brains out of your head. Understand? The same deal goes for my friends’ houses.”

“Which ones are those?” the man said snidely.

“You won’t know until your brains hit the ground,” Alex said and closed the storm door.

He shaped his fingers like a gun and pointed them at the man. “Bang,” he mouthed silently, while the mock pistol in his hand recoiled. The man’s face went slack, and Alex smiled.

Alex continued to grin as the man grabbed his daughter and hurried her back to the station wagon. They piled back in and the car lurched forward, picking up speed and passing the Fletchers’. Alex traced its progress around the block and watched as it left the neighborhood. He closed the door and went back to his post in the family room.

As soon as he slid the shutters open a few inches, he saw two more Massachusetts plated cars enter the neighborhood. He didn’t recognize either of them. They followed each other around Durham Road. One of the cars, came to a halt in front of the McCarthys’ house, and the other, kept cruising down the street, eventually stopping in front of the Fullers’ house.

***

Alex stood in the far left corner of his front yard with a large rubber mallet in his left hand and a makeshift sign in the other. His AR-15 was slung across his back with the barrel pointing toward the ground. A heavy winter coat fought against the bitter wind that followed the clouds.

Right after Red Sox had left, Alex constructed three semi-sturdy signs to post in the front yard. One sign for each end of the sidewalk, and one to be placed in a conspicuous location near the entrance to the driveway. Eventually, someone would stay. The Carters’ house received a lot of traffic. At least two groups walked around to the back of the house, probably trying to confirm that it was empty. It is only a matter of time before someone breaks in and makes a new home for themselves.

Alex looked at the sign in his left hand, which looked like a first grade art project. The kind of sign you’d expect to find marking the entrance to the Little Rascals hideout. He wasn’t known for carpentry detail work, or any woodwork for that matter, and he didn’t feel like trying to get fancy on this job. He wasn’t even sure he could pound the stakes into the ground. It was late November and the ground felt pretty solid under his feet.

He selected a spot right next to the sidewalk and tried to work the stake into the frozen ground. Managing with considerable difficulty, he twisted the stake into the hard grass and drove it in the rest of the way with the mallet.

Ed appeared behind him, holding a coffee mug.

“What’s up, man? It’s been a few days,” Ed asked.

“I was enjoying the peace and quiet until all of this shit started,” Alex replied. Waiving his hand toward the street.

“Yeah, the door’s been ringing all morning. We’ve been ignoring it. Kept a few lights on inside so they know we’re home. Nothing crazy yet,” he said, folding his arms around his chest.

“We’ve been doing the same, but I had one guy about forty minutes ago that wouldn’t give up. I saw him come straight from Todd’s. Guy said that Todd told him I had plenty of food to hand out…or something like that.” Alex shook his head, glaring down the street at Todd’s house. “I figured some signs might help,” he said, testing the sturdiness of the sign with another light shake.

“The kids help you with those? What does it say? Keep away?” Ed asked, staring at the other two rickety signs, then up at Alex with a thin smile.

“They’ll do the job.”

“At least you have signs. I should probably put something together,” Ed said, shivering again.

“Yeah, let me know when you’re ready to post them, so I can come out and take a look at your expert handicraft. I have some tools you can borrow.”

“Tools? I could use my teeth and come up with something better than that,” he said, and Alex broke into an outright laugh. “I mean, is that magic marker, or crayon? I’m surprised you didn’t use finger paints,” Ed continued, and Alex’s laughter intensified.

“That’s it, man. That’s it. You’re killing me,” Alex was barely able to say through continuous laughter.

As they finished laughing, a black SAAB sedan passed the Lewis’s house, quickly moving down the street toward them.

“This is probably the wrong day to be outside yukking it up,” Alex said.

“You better hope they have kids to decipher your Sesame Street project,” Ed said, and Alex stifled another laugh.

“Nice. Let me do the talking if they stop,” he said, a steely grimace washing over his face.

“Jez, you changed your face like a schizophrenic,” Ed commented between his teeth.

“You’re killing me…Connecticut plates,” Alex whispered back as the sedan pulled up to the two of them.

Alex dropped the rubber mallet on the ground and reached back to shift his rifle into a position that he could quickly transition to the offensive if necessary. He didn’t plan to take any chances, especially after Red Sox.

“Yuppies?” whispered Alex.

“That’s probably what they’re thinking about us,” Ed mouthed, as the passenger window rolled down.

An attractive, angular-faced woman with dark brown hair appeared from behind the window. At first glance, Alex could tell she was wearing makeup, which surprised him, given the likelihood that they were pretty far away from their starting point. She didn’t exhibit any of the signs of malnutrition or exhaustion that he’d seen on most of the refugees’ faces over the course of the morning. To Alex, she looked to be in better shape than most of his neighbors.

He peered in further and saw a man with medium-length jet-black hair—wearing thin black rimmed glasses. The woman suddenly put her right arm over the edge of the open window, and Alex tightened. His left hand reacted by swiftly moving across his stomach to grab the hand guard of the rifle, and if necessary, pull it forward into a firing position.

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to…sorry,” she said and put her hand back inside the car.

“It’s fine. Everyone’s just a little jumpy around here,” Alex said, easing his hand back to his side.

“We’re really sorry to ask you this, but we’re looking for a place to stay. We left the Hartford area late last night and took back roads all night to get up here. It’s a disaster down there, pretty much everywhere further south. I hate to do this. I’m sure you’ve been dealing with this for days, but we’re just looking for a place that’s safe…”

“I wouldn’t exactly call this neighborhood safe,” Alex said, keeping a completely neutral look on his face.

“Maybe we should move on, honey,” the driver said.

“Did you two bring any food?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, honey, I think we better move on,” he said again, panicky, and starting to fumble with the gear shift.

“We’re not going to take your food. I just want you to know that the stores have been empty for quite a while, and the spirit of sharing has long since left the neighborhood. Maine is not the Shangri-la everyone seems to be expecting.”

“What did you guys see on the way up here?” Ed asked.

The guy leaned across the center console of the SAAB, suddenly enthusiastic. “It was scary. People out of control everywhere. We tried to avoid bigger towns, but couldn’t avoid all of them. Some fires. People were out on the streets. We left at midnight, figuring the streets would be clear, but they weren’t.”

“How did you guys get across the state border? We heard that the bridges from Portsmouth might be barricaded,” Alex said, finding himself more at ease with this couple.

“We read the same rumors on the internet, so we eventually caught up with the ninety-three and took that north—then east on side roads across the border, trying to avoid any towns. We eventually made our way to the twenty-five and then here. We rented a place down in Higgins Beach last year…” she trailed off.

“Our neighborhood was a little too close to Hartford and a little too well off, if you know what I mean? We had to leave in a hurry when the looting started, because it sure wasn’t confined to the business districts like the news might have you thinking. They were starting to ransack the suburbs. Sorry to bother you guys, looks like this place is wrapped up pretty tight,” the driver said and started to shift the car out of neutral.

“Hold on. It sounds like you brought food with you, right?” Alex asked.

The woman hesitated to answer and looked at the driver, who also looked skeptical about answering the question.

“Really, we’re not planning on taking your food. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re gonna become a problem if you stay here. We’ve had some problems, and most of them have been related to the food shortage,” Alex said.

Ed looked at him approvingly.

“What have the other problems been related to?” the driver asked.

“Medical supplies. Most of the houses on the block have been hit with the flu. There have been some deaths. I’m not sure how many.”

“Well, we have both. My husband is a surgeon—”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a surgeon. One year into a general surgery fellowship—”

“You’re a surgeon. Anyway, he managed to stockpile some anti-virals and other medical supplies when this whole thing started. We both collected groceries while the stores still had food. We’re set for now. We just need somewhere safe to stay until things cool down enough to head back to Connecticut,” she said, her voice cracking.

She looked like she was about to break down.

“So, first things first. I’m not going to point because everyone’s watching around here. If you look down the road toward the right, two houses past mine, you’ll see a yellow house with blue doors. That’s the Carters’ house, and they vanished a few weeks ago, maybe earlier. Nobody really knows where they went, but I haven’t seen any signs of anyone living there, and I keep a pretty tight eye on the houses in the immediate vicinity. You should go around to the back of the garage and bust a window to open the door. Pray that the door from the garage into the house isn’t locked. If it is, you might have to force your way in. Make sure to patch up the window with something. Cardboard, wood, anything,” Alex said.

“Thank you so much. I really can’t tell you how much this means to us,” the woman said.

Ed leaned toward the car and peered into the back seat, his eye caught by something. Alex saw this and felt his body start to tense.

“Hey, looks like they have a golden retriever puppy stuffed back there between the boxes,” Ed said, easing back from the car with a smile.

“Yeah, her name is Karma. She’s really friendly. You guys can go ahead and open the back door and…”

“Not a good idea out here. Anyway, the Carters’ house has seen a lot of traffic this morning. Some people have gone around back to take a look. If you see any windows broken, or any doors busted, someone might be there already. Drive on back, and I’ll point you in the direction of another house,” he said.

“Also, keep to yourselves, and don’t get involved with anyone on the block. Definitely don’t mention the fact that you have medical supplies and food, or that you’re a doctor. Your neighbors to both sides have been hit with the flu, and some of the neighbors are not very stable at this point. The last thing you want anyone to know is that you have anti-virals or medication,” he said, and the couple nodded.

“I can’t stress the importance of staying out of sight. Don’t answer the door for any of the people you see driving or walking around, and get your car in the garage immediately,” Alex continued.

“Sounds good. Thank you again. By the way, I’m Ben Glassman, and this is my wife Hannah,” the driver said.

“Alex and Ed,” Alex said.

“I’m Ed,” he said dryly.

“And this will probably be the last time we talk until this whole thing blows over. Nothing personal, but we pretty much keep to ourselves. You’re on your own when you get into the Carters’ house,” Alex said.

Hannah looked hurt by his statement, but Alex truly didn’t care. He allowed himself to like them only enough to justify using them as a block for any future interlopers in the neighborhood. He’d much rather have the Glassman’s on the block than Red Sox.

“Thank you again, guys. Really, if there’s anything I can do for you. If anyone gets hurt or sick. Really, you, uh…you know where to find us,” Ben said.

“Thank you,” Hannah said, and she rolled up her window as the car moved forward and stopped one house past the Carters’.

Chapter 31

Kate sat down at the kitchen table as Alex surveyed the remains of yesterday’s Thanksgiving Day feast. Barley mixed with dried cranberries and sliced almonds; green bean and fried onion casserole; sweet and sour lima beans; chickpea soup with dried dill; homemade wheat bread and mashed potatoes with gravy. The only thing missing was the main course and the abundant portions usually associated with Thanksgiving.

The phone rang and Alex glanced over his shoulder at the receiver on the kitchen island. Calls to the house were pretty rare at this point.

“You should answer that,” Kate said.

Alex got up from the table and walked over to the phone. “Hello, Ed,” he said, answering the call. “What’s up?” He walked toward the library.

“I don’t know. I’ve had my eye on this one car for the past hour or so. Just circling the neighborhood, over and over again. Really slow like the rest of them…”

“They all do that,” Alex said, stepping inside the room.

“Yeah, but this one stopped in front of the McCarthys’ house like thirty minutes ago and hasn’t moved. Nobody got out. It’s just sitting there under the street light. I think they’re planning to spend the night there,” Ed said.

“That’s ridiculous. They’re probably going to canvas the neighborhood on foot in a few minutes, or something.”

“Is everything all right?” Kate called from the kitchen.

Alex covered the receiver on the phone. “Yeah. Everything’s okay, honey. Just talking about a car that’s still cruising the neighborhood.”

“Sorry. That was Kate,” he said, returning to the call.

“How’s she holding up with all of the visitors?” Ed asked.

“Fine. Just a little jumpy having people crawl around the neighborhood. We’ve had a few groups walk up onto our deck in back and try to peer inside. Not sure how they missed my signs. How’s Sam doing?”

“Same thing. Nervous about these people. I’m nervous about them, too. Sarah Quinn called about an hour ago to talk to Sam. She heard from Jack Bartlett that a family moved into the Cohens’ house,” he said, recalling exactly who they had guided to the Cohens’.

“The balls on these people. How are the Quinns doing?” Alex asked.

“Not bad, given the circumstances. Sarah’s not looking forward to losing power. Says if the storm doesn’t kill it this weekend, the grid probably won’t hold up for another week anyway. Have you heard that too? I saw it on a couple of sites, but I haven’t heard word one on the news.”

“Which news channel? They’re all mostly broadcasting national coverage and federal updates, and I think the feds are trying to keep the national coal reserve numbers under wraps. I’ve seen estimates that fall in the week to two weeks range. Once the coal reserves at any of the power plants are depleted, say adios to the grid. We’ll be lucky to get past this weekend. Did Sarah say anything about the Bartletts?”

“Yeah, I guess they’re doing okay. Their little girl Grace got hit the worst, but she’s doing better. The rest of them didn’t get hit nearly as bad. Jack didn’t get it at all, which is weird.”

“Who knows? He might still come down with it. One of Ryan’s friends…his family got the same thing. Mild cases. Lucky if you ask me, but all well within the realm of statistical probability I suppose.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty sure about the case fatality rate at this point. Right around twenty percent, with a clinical attack rate of forty percent or so. Odds are definitely in your favor if you get this thing,” Ed said.

“I’m still not rushing out to get it,” Alex replied.

“Neither am I.”

Alex heard what sounded like a solitary firecracker explode.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Ed, rushing out of the library into the kitchen.

“What was that?” Kate asked sharply from the dining room.

He walked swiftly, trying to conceal his panic. Alex knew the noise was not from a firecracker.

“Honey, why don’t you take the kids down into the basement for a few minutes? Follow your mom, guys. Ed? Did you hear that?” he repeated and moved around the house shutting off lights.

“Hold on. Look at that. He just shot the light out,” Ed whispered.

Alex heard Ed tell his own family to get into the basement as Kate and the kids disappeared down the stairs, Kate last. She left the door open, and he walked to the head of the stairs.

“Just in case someone is shooting. I think everything is fine,” he said to her.

Kate nodded and turned the corner with the kids.

“Ed, did you say someone shot out the street light?”

“Yeah. I ran to one of the windows and saw someone getting back into the car that’s parked under the streetlight. The light is out now. I thought the guy had a gun, but I can’t be sure,” he said.

“Are you sure the light was on before?”

“Positive. Actually, I was wondering why he would park directly under that street light.”

“How many people are in the car? Were you using binoculars?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, I have a small bird watching pair. I couldn’t see how many people were in the car.”

“But when he opened the door and the lights went on, could you see other people?”

“The lights didn’t go on. It’s pitch black over in that corner.”

“Are you sure the lights didn’t go on? What kind of car is it?” Alex asked, heading upstairs with his own binoculars.

“I’m sure the lights didn’t go on. It looks like a gray or maybe blue Volvo station wagon, one of the new ones. I couldn’t see the guy very well in the dark, but it looked like he was carrying something. Why would he park under a light and then shoot it out?” Ed wondered aloud.

Alex continued up the stairs to the master bedroom. “Hold on,” he said, walking across the bedroom to one of the northeast windows facing the Thompsons’ house. He chose the one closest to the street and raised the shade an inch, obtaining an unobstructed view of the car. Even in the dark, he could tell that the car was parked on the wrong side of the road, facing his own house.

He studied the car for a few seconds and closed his eyes to create a mental map.

“You still there? This is freaking my wife out,” Ed broke in.

“Yeah, I’m here. I have eyes on the vehicle…”

“Eyes what?”

“Eyes on the vehicle. Don’t you watch any military or police movies? I’m watching the vehicle. My eyes are on the vehicle, Ed.”

“Why can’t you guys just talk like normal people and just say I’m watching the vehicle?”

“Because it doesn’t sound as cool. Anyway, a couple of things disturb me here…”

“Like the gun?”

“If he has a gun. But yes, that’s number one on my list,” Alex said.

“Let’s assume he has a gun,” Ed said.

“I’m with you on that. But here’s what’s really creeping me out about this guy; he turned off the internal lights on purpose. He thought that one out. He knew that if he shot out the light, someone might take a look, and he didn’t want them to see into the car when he hopped back in. I’m not sure I would have thought of that. This guy’s either really smart, or he has some experience not wanting to be identified at night. Both scenarios bother me.”

“The last one worries me the most,” Ed said.

“Yeah, it’s not good news. He also picked a good spot to watch over half of the neighborhood. Notice he’s parked on the wrong side of the road to be facing this way. But parked over there, he can see all the way down our road, and all the way to the Murrays’. Plus, he’s far enough back in the neighborhood to avoid any attention from Harrison Road. I think this guy has some experience with this kind of activity. Shooting the light out leads me to think that this guy doesn’t care. We’re looking at a bad combination of traits my friend,” Alex said.

“No kidding. How long until he figures out that the Murrays’ house is unoccupied? It’s the only one left.”

“Not long. The signs I put up won’t deter him if the lights stay on. I should have put that doctor and his wife in the Murrays’.”

“We got some decent people in here,” Ed said.

Alex considered his comment. They did the best they could with the choices they had. The Carters’ house was filled first, though in retrospect, he would have been better off putting that couple in the Murrays’ house. The Fullers’ house went to a family from Connecticut driving a BMW sport utility vehicle, and the Cohens’ to a family with kids, from somewhere just west of Boston. The parents looked preppy and drove an Audi station wagon. Alex and Ed didn’t ask them many questions, just directed them to the Cohens’ house. At that point, the sun was setting, so they both gave up their valet duties for the night, leaving the Murrays’ house unfilled. Alex didn’t recall seeing the Volvo station wagon during daylight hours.

“Yeah. I just think it might have been a mistake not to fill all of the houses. There were some cars that didn’t look too bad. I’m gonna have to sneak out tonight and turn off the lights inside the Murrays’,” he said thoughtfully.

“Do you really think it’s necessary?” Ed asked.

“I have a bad feeling about that car. I think I might have to hang out in the house for a few hours and progressively turn the lights off like a family retiring for the night,” Alex said.

“And leave your family alone with those nutjobs camped out on the street? I wouldn’t. We might be totally overthinking this. They might be just fine. Maybe it’s just someone like you, smart and covering all the angles? You know, keeping their car in a safe spot.”

“Where do you feel the safest at night? Under lights or in the pitch black?” Alex asked him.

“Uhh. I guess in the light, but I don’t know…”

“Your first instinct is right. We’ve been conditioned since birth to fear the dark. Most people would feel safer in the light, unless they’ve been reconditioned, which takes time and experience using the dark to your advantage. Trust me, if this guy gets into the Murrays’ house, or any house, we’re going to have a serious problem on the block.”

“Do you think we could get them to leave?” Ed asked.

“I don’t know. But I do know that approaching that car in the dark is probably not a very good idea.”

“And leaving your own house is an even worse idea, Alex,” Ed cautioned.

“If I don’t make it look like someone’s in the Murrays’ house, we might as well start baking cookies for their welcome party.”

“How many lights did you turn on in the Murrays’ house?” Ed asked.

Alex shifted knees, keeping his binoculars trained on the car. “A few on each floor. Enough to fit in with the rest of the occupied houses.”

“I wouldn’t leave the house. Can you see anything with your night vision?”

“Hey, hon? Can we come up now?” Kate yelled from the basement.

“Hold on, Ed.” He raised his voice so she could hear him from downstairs. “Yeah. I think it’s fine. Let’s keep everyone on the second floor for now. In their rooms away from the front windows, please,” he yelled back.

“Sorry about that,” he returned to Ed. “Night vision. Hold on. Let me grab them.”

He moved the empty black nylon pistol holster out of the way, grabbed a stubby black night vision scope, and took it back to the window, unscrewing the lens cap and activating the 4X scope.

He heard Kate and the kids talking as they came up the stairs.

“You still there?” he asked Ed.

“Yep,” Ed replied.

“All right. I can see the front seat. One man…or woman in the driver’s seat.”

“You can’t tell?”

“This is a cheap Russian knock-off of a field scope. 4X magnification. You get what you get with these. Anyway…I can’t see into the back seat due to the downward angle. Maybe if I move down…”

“Only one in the front?” Ed asked.

“Hold on,” Alex said, squinting through the eyepiece, searching the green image.

“Hold on,” he said again, wishing he had better night vision goggles.

“Do you see anyone else in the front seat?” Ed repeated.

Alex felt the weight of the HK USP tucked into the back of his jeans and suddenly craved heavier artillery.

“No,” he whispered flatly with a strong suspicion that someone else was out there.

The phone handset suddenly glowed orange and illuminated the side of Alex’s face. Pulling the phone away from his ear, the phone’s LCD bathed the front corner of the bedroom in a deep orange glow. Alex slammed the phone down to the floor, face down, put the scope on the window shelf, and lay down to check the caller ID on the phone. Charlie. He heard Ed through the phone and put the phone back to his ear.

“Charlie’s on the other line. I’ll call you right back,” he said.

“Okay,” Ed said and hung up.

Alex switched over to Charlie.

“Hey, Charlie. You watching, too?” he asked.

“Did you see him shoot it out?” Charlie asked.

“No, but Ed saw him get back into his car immediately after he heard the shot. Thought he saw a rifle in the guy’s hands.”

“I think I spotted someone creeping around the Murrays’ house. Might be the guy missing from the front passenger seat of the car. Car’s jam-packed with people, except the front. One of them is out scoping houses. If I see a gun on him, he’s dead. I should take out the guy in the front seat of the car right now,” Charlie said.

“Don’t go shooting into the car. Never know who you might hit. Bullets bounce around, Charlie.”

“Not when I’m using a 10X night vision scope on my Remington Milspec. The only thing that’ll bounce is his head,” Charlie countered.

“Please don’t shoot into the car.”

“I’m not gonna shoot into the car…unless I have to,” Charlie promised.

“What can you see in the car?”

“I see…in the driver’s seat, one male with what looks like hair coming more than half-way down his neck. He’s either a hippie or that’s a mullet. My guess is mullet. In the back seat, I counted four people. One more adult male, but I can’t see him very well. He’s on the far side from me. In the middle are two kids. I can’t tell the ages, but I’d guess under ten. One boy and one girl. And…one female adult in the rear passenger side seat. This one talks to the driver a lot. There is a lot of back and forth between the two of them. There’s a third row of seats, and I can see one more kid. Looks like a young boy…elementary school age maybe. And…another adult female. Looks like the woman is holding something. Could be a baby…but it looks like something bigger. Like a young toddler-aged kid. I can’t tell very well. The back row seats are blocking my view.”

“Are you pointing your rifle at them?” Alex asked.

“Yeah. Linda’s got the spotting scope looking around for the other one,” he said.

“Just be careful and keep the safety on. You don’t want to accidentally shoot any kids,” Alex warned.

“This gun doesn’t go off by accident. Have you ever seen the 5R Milspec? It’s modeled after the M24 sniper rifle used by the Marine Corps. Beautiful weapon. Hard to get your hands on one. I could find you one if you wanted. Mine’s fitted to shoot 300s instead of the standard .308. I use it deer hunting. Unbelievable accuracy. It’s a Remington 700 on steroids,” Charlie bragged.

“Those are pretty nice weapons…but I think the Marine Corps sniper rifle is called the M40-A3. They’re all modified versions of the 700, but the Marine version is handcrafted and built in Quantico. Either way, you have a nice piece of equipment there,” said Alex, wondering how many weapons Charlie possessed.

“That’s right. The army uses the 24…hold on a second,” Charlie broke off, and Alex could hear some yelling in the background at Charlie’s house. “Linda just saw a guy dodge between the Hayes’ and Coopers’ house.”

Alex heard the floor creak inside the bedroom and turned around briefly to see Kate standing in front of the closets.

“What’s going on out there?” she whispered.

“Not now. Hold on,” he said and turned back to look through the night vision scope.

He directed the scope at the opening between the Coopers’ house and the McCarthys’, figuring that it was the closest and darkest approach to the car.

“Charlie, I’m watching the opening between the Coopers’ and McCarthys’. You keep a tight watch on the car.”

“Roger.”

Alex felt his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. Within the span of a few seconds, a thin film of moisture formed on his face.

“Got him. Coming between the Coopers’ and McCarthys’. Moving right toward the car,” he said to Charlie.

His senses were acutely focused on the scene developing through the scope, distracted only momentarily by Kate kneeling down next to him. He watched the man as he jogged to the driver’s side of the car and knelt down next to the window. The driver motioned angrily for the man to get into the car, and the man with the hat quickly crossed in front of the Volvo and entered the front passenger side door. The car’s interior lighting failed to illuminate, just as Ed observed.

“They have the interior lights turned off. Sneaky mothers,” Charlie muttered into the phone.

“Yeah. This crew worries me.”

He watched as the man with the hat pointed with his left hand in the direction of the Murrays’ house. The driver immediately pushed the man’s arm down and nodded toward Alex’s house, talking at the same time. He probably saw the light from the phone. Alex wondered if Charlie would really be willing to take them out.

“I think you’ve been made, buddy,” Charlie said.

“Yeah. My phone lit up when you called. Nice orange beacon for him. Hey, can you see the license plate?”

“Already checked it out. Maine for sure. Hold on…looks like they’re leaving.”

Alex’s right eye was blinded by a sudden green flash in his scope as the Volvo’s headlights bathed the street with light. He closed the eye and put the scope on the window sill next to his binoculars. “I’ll let you know where they go,” he said to Charlie.

“Good, because I can’t see out of my right eye,” Charlie said.

“Me either.”

The Volvo’s headlights moved toward Alex’s house. He moved to a front window and watched as the car drove slowly past his house and headed down the street toward the Perrys’. He expected the car to continue around the loop to the Murrays’ and was surprised when it turned toward the neighborhood exit.

“Huh. He’s headed back out onto Harrison Road,” Alex commented.

“Who?” Kate asked.

“Maybe he didn’t like the idea that some of the neighbors are watching him,” Charlie said.

“I don’t know. He might be driving over to Everett Road to park and walk his family through the backyards over to the Murrays’. Or he might just come back at three in the morning. Either way, I expect to have new neighbors in the morning.”

“I hope not. They look like bad news. Car’s jammed full of people, but that’s about it. I didn’t see any supplies, or anything that even looked like a bag,” Charlie said.

“Do you think it’s strange that the car had Maine plates?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe their house got destroyed, or burned. Who knows? Maybe they stole the car a bit further south. They didn’t look like Volvo station wagon types.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Well, I’ll keep an eye on the Murrays’ tonight, see if anyone shows up. I’ll give you a call if I see anything,” Charlie said.

“Right. I’ll probably be up all night watching for those yahoos, too,” Alex replied.

“If I see them running around at night again, I might make them one fewer.”

“I wish I could say that I didn’t like the sound of that…have a good night, Charlie.”

“You too, Alex.”

Alex disconnected the call and put the phone back in its receiver.

“What was going on out there?” Kate asked.

He walked over to the bed and lay down. Kate followed him and they both lay staring at the ceiling, side by side, arms hooked together.

“A Volvo station wagon parked under the light, and the driver shot the light out…”

“No,” she whispered.

“And Charlie saw a guy snooping around the Murrays’. We both saw this guy emerge from the McCarthys’ backyard and get in the car, then they left. I’m pretty sure they’re coming back for the Murrays’ house. These guys seem to know what they’re doing. Like they’ve cased houses before. I think they had a close look at the Murrays’ and weren’t fooled by the lights.”

“What makes you think they’ve cased houses before?” she asked.

Alex explained his theory about the interior car lights, the position of the vehicle and the license plates.

“I don’t know,” she said, unsure.

“The guy brazenly blasts out a street light? Trust me. These are not the kind of people we want in the neighborhood, Kate.”

He left out the likelihood that the driver had spotted him, not seeing any reason to escalate her anxiety.

“You don’t think they’re from Maine?” she asked.

“I doubt it, and I’d hate to think about what happened to the owners of that car. I hope Charlie does some hunting tonight.”

“We don’t need Charlie shooting at people in the dark. You and Ed have made some nighttime trips, and you’re lucky nobody took a shot at you.”

“Maybe. Either way, I don’t think there’s any reason for anyone to be alone on the ground floor after dark from this point forward. At least until we figure out what’s going on with these guys. Okay?”

“Sounds reasonable,” Kate said.

“I don’t want to sound paranoid, just cautious.”

“You can’t fool me. I always thought you were paranoid,” she said nuzzling closer to him.

Wrapped in Kate’s arms under a cozy pile of soft blankets made Alex momentarily forget about the men that were surely creeping about the neighborhood.

Chapter 32

Alex peered through a small gap between the windowsill and the bottom of the shades in his darkened office, scanning the block in both directions with his night vision scope. He had alternated between the window and his computer for the past three hours. So far, the computer had proven more interesting.

Maine Medical Center and Mercy Hospital were no longer accepting any new patients. The decision was announced late Thursday, prompting protests outside of Mercy Hospital that required National Guard intervention.

Several state-funded triage centers had been established over the past week around the greater Portland area and had filled with patients even before they officially opened on Thursday, leading to more protests and a near takeover of the triage center located at the Maine Medical building in Falmouth. Local law enforcement and State Troopers had kept the situation from escalating out of control until elements of an Air National Guard unit could be airlifted into a nearby strip mall parking lot.

As of Friday afternoon, most Guard units had been reassigned to provide security for area hospitals and state triage centers, leaving local authorities to handle any civil unrest within Portland.

Portland’s situation seemed no different than that of the rest of the nation. Every treatment facility was overwhelmed, understaffed, and days away from exhausting critical medical supplies. Federal and state emergency supply packages couldn’t meet the demand and would likely be exhausted within the next few weeks. The country was on the brink of a complete breakdown, and New England was now facing a storm system that most meteorologists agreed would be a uniquely devastating early season storm.

Alex stopped his scan and focused in the direction of the Murrays’ house. The scope’s green picture was different on this scan. His last good scan of the neighborhood had occurred about thirty minutes earlier.

“All right, what’s going on here?” he whispered to himself, half asleep.

He squinted into the scope noticing that the area didn’t appear to be as bright as before. Alex turned off the scope and opened the battery compartment to replace the batteries. The discarded batteries made way too much noise for two in the morning as they clanged against the metallic waste can. He cringed from the noise and listened intently for any signs of disturbed sleep throughout the house.

He turned on the scope and resumed his inspection. The scene was slightly brighter, but still darker than before. He stared at the scene for another minute, before lowering the scope.

“Goddamn it, they’re in,” he whispered aloud. He considered calling Charlie or Ed, but was pretty certain that neither household would appreciate a call at two thirty in the morning.

“This is not good.”

“What’s not good?” Ryan said out of nowhere.

Alex barely held onto the night vision scope as he took in a short quick breath and whirled on his knees to face the direction of Ryan’s voice.

“Ryan,” he whispered forcefully, “please do not surprise me like that. I swear you and your mother are trying to give me an infarction.”

“What’s an infarction, Dad,” Ryan asked groggily.

“A heart attack.”

Ryan smiled. “Sounds like the technical term for farting.”

“That’s flatulence,” Alex corrected.

“So what’s going on out there? I don’t think Mom likes it when you do this kind of stuff,” Ryan said, kneeling next to him.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Going tactical.”

“What do you mean?” Alex asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

“I think she gets worried when you get too into the military stuff. Like staring through night vision in the middle of the night. She doesn’t think it’s healthy for you.”

“Does she talk about it with you?” he asked Ryan.

“Sometimes. Mostly when you space out. Like at the beach this summer. She was really worried for a while.”

Alex could immediately tell that Ryan was unlikely to say more on his own. “What was she worried about?” he prodded.

“I don’t know. Just worried,” he said vaguely, and Alex knew that he didn’t want to talk about it.

He had never suspected that she talked to the kids about his problem. He’d just assumed that she treated it the same way that he did, like it didn’t exist. Now he wondered if it bothered her on a daily basis.

“Buddy, I know you really don’t want to talk about this, but I need to know something, and I’ll never bring it up again. And I won’t be mad at anyone. All right?”

He looked at Ryan, who nodded his head but was clearly struggling with the conversation.

“Was Mommy worried that I might hurt one of you?” Alex asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head emphatically, “she was…”

Alex put his arm around Ryan and hugged him.

Ryan hesitated to answer and cast his eyes down again, turning his head back toward the window shade.

“Really, buddy, does Mommy think I might hurt you guys?”

Ryan shook his head again, still staring at the shade in front of him. An uneven wave of anger washed over him, anger directed at Kate. He could barely stomach the thought that she believed him to be capable of hurting the kids, or her. He barely suppressed the thought and had to press his lips closed to keep the words from escaping.

He wondered if Ryan could sense his anger. The anger was immediately doused by a rush of guilt. His flashbacks had increased in intensity and duration over the past three or four years, since returning from deployment in Iraq. Kate pleaded with him to see a counselor at the Veteran’s Center, or a private psychologist that specialized in PTSD.

This realization was beginning to sink in when Ryan finally answered.

“Mommy knows you’d never hurt one of us. She always tells us that.”

He hesitated, and Alex sensed that he was not finished.

“But you’re not sure?” Alex whispered.

“I know you wouldn’t do anything to us like some of the guys that came back, but…”

He let Ryan’s long pause go uninterrupted and heard him sob softly, taking in several quick breaths through his nose.

“But Mommy thinks that one day you’ll go down into the basement and not come back up.”

Alex hugged him tightly. “I would never leave you guys like that. Ever,” he whispered fiercely by Ryan’s ear.

Ryan hugged him even tighter, and Alex felt tears drop onto his neck.

“But that’s what happens to a lot of guys who come back,” Ryan barely managed to get out between sobs.

“Very…very few soldiers take their lives when they come back. It’s extremely rare, and when it happens, it happens pretty soon after they return. I’ve been back for eight years, and I’m not going anywhere. Hey, I finally got you mowing the lawn, and I enjoy listening to the lawn mower from the couch way too much to make an early exit,” he joked, and Ryan’s sobs were stitched with a few stifled laughs.

He loosened his grip on his son and held him in front of him by his shoulders.

“Seriously, I love you guys too much to do that, and I swear to you that I’ve never considered it, not even once, since I returned from Iraq. I can’t remember ever thinking about suicide. Ever. I just don’t think it’s part of my programming. I can’t envision any circumstance under which I would do it. Now, before, ever,” Alex assured him.

“Like, even if you were captured by terrorists, and they were going to torture you in the worst way possible and then cut off your head on TV?”

“Well, if it was an Al Jazeera pay-per-view event, and all of the proceeds went to Muslim fundamentalist terrorists…then I might consider ruining their show. Where did you get that crazy idea?”

“I don’t know. From the news. I can never understand why the people in those internet videos just let them hack their heads off,” Ryan said.

“You haven’t watched any of those videos? Right?”

“No. No, but they showed one of them on the news, right up until the terrorist started hacking, and the guy in the video just let it happen.”

“I’m not sure those guys really, truly believed it would happen to them. Or maybe they just didn’t want to give the terrorists the satisfaction of reacting at all. We’ll never know.

“I’m sorry about telling you what Mommy said. She really didn’t want me to say anything, but I get scared thinking about it,” Ryan admitted, finally looking at Alex.

Alex could see that his eyes were still sad, though the tears had stopped.

“No, you really have nothing to be sorry about. I’m fine, but I’ve been acting a little strange at times. I can see why you guys are worried. Really. You don’t need to feel bad about this. You guys are looking out for me. That’s what a team does, and we’re a tight team here. Task Force Fletcher. You guys take care of me, and I’ll take care of you. We’re all doing a pretty good job so far. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah. You’re doing an awesome job. Mommy tells us that all the time. I feel bad for everyone else out there, but I’m really glad we’re safe in here.”

“My job is to keep us all safe, and I’ll do anything to accomplish that mission.”

“What are you checking out?” Ryan asked, nodding at the night vision scope.

“Here, take a look,” Alex said and handed him the scope.

“First take an unaided look over toward the Murrays’ house. Can’t really see much because the Sheppards’ house is blocking most of the view, and the houses on the other side of the loop aren’t helping either. At most, you can see part of one garage bay. Now that you have a wide frame of reference, aim the scope in that direction and try to find that same garage bay.”

Ryan searched through the scope for nearly a minute until he settled in on one point. “I have it. I love this thing. It’s like daytime,” he exclaimed.

“Yeah. There’s a lot of ambient light out there from the streetlight a few houses down. That’s all this scope needs to turn the block into daylight. If that light was out, it would still work, but not this well. So…I’ve been keeping an eye on their house for the past few hours, and even though you think it’s pretty bright over there through the scope, it’s definitely darker than it was about thirty minutes ago. I left some of the lights on at the Murrays’, and although I can’t see the windows from here, I could sort of see the ambient glow coming from the house. I don’t see that anymore, if that makes any sense.”

“Yeah, kind of. So why aren’t the lights on anymore?” Ryan asked, looking up from the scope at Alex.

“That’s the million dollar question. Who turned out the lights?” Alex took the scope to take a look for himself. “That’s why your dad is up at two in the morning staring at the neighborhood through night vision.”

“You think it’s those people in the car?”

“Yeah, that’s my guess.”

“And you’re pretty worried about them?”

“Yeah. Something’s not right about them. That’s really why I’m up past the witching hour. What are you doing up?” Alex asked.

“I had to go to the bathroom, and I heard you talking to yourself in here. Kinda freaky.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. It is kinda weird. Well, I think I’m done here for the night. Not much else to see out there. You need to get to bed, too. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Really?” Ryan exclaimed.

“No. Not really, but you should get your sleep anyway, so you’ll be rested up for your afternoon nap.”

“Nice,” Ryan said dejectedly, “you had me hopeful there for a second.”

“Hopeful for what? Until the pandemic lifts, all we should hope for are uneventful, boring days. Safe days. Task Force Fletcher’s mission is to make your life as dull and unmemorable as possible.”

“Mission accomplished so far.”

“Thanks. Now get back to bed. Love you, buddy,” Alex said, still kneeling in front of the window.

Ryan surprised him with another hug. “Love you too, Dad,” he said and walked out of the office.

Alex took another look through the scope. He heard Ryan close the bathroom door. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to stay boring for very long,” he whispered to himself, staring through the scope toward the Murrays’ house.

Chapter 33

Alex sat up in bed, exhausted, awakened by the doorbell ringing. It rang again, several times in fast succession. Kate stirred next to him.

“Are you going go check that out?” she murmured.

“Yeah. Give me a minute. How long has that been going on?” he asked softly.

“A while, I think. I fell back…”

“Hey, Dad? Someone’s been ringing the doorbell for like the last five minutes. Nonstop,” Ryan interrupted, suddenly appearing around the corner of the bathroom with Emily in tow.

“Yeah, they woke me up, too. Is it the police again, Daddy?” Emily asked.

Alex rubbed his eyes and got out of bed. “I don’t know, guys. I’ll check it ou—”

His sentence was involuntarily cut off by a huge yawn.

“Sorry…I’m zonked. I’ll check it out, guys. Why don’t you jump in here with Mommy and go back to sleep or watch some TV?”

As Emily passed, he hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “Love you, sweetie.”

“I love you too, dad,” said Emily, squirming away to get into the warm bed.

“Stay in bed. No wandering,” he ordered.

Alex watched them settle into bed with Kate, burrowing for warmth, one on each side of their mother. Another burst of doorbell blasts rang out. Peering out the front window cautiously, he saw no cars in the driveway and no one in the walkway.

“See anything?” Kate asked, sounding a little more awake.

“No. Whoever’s ringing the doorbell is standing right on the mudroom porch.”

He headed over to the closet.

“Careful, honey,” she said getting out of bed.

“I know. Keep the kids up here. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He passed the closet on the way out, deciding to grab both the shotgun and the pistol. Alex arrived at the bottom of the stairs and glanced at the front door curtains, still not seeing anyone.

Turning toward the kitchen area, the shadow of a figure loomed beyond the blanket covering the slider door to their deck. He ducked behind the kitchen island and peeked over the counter. The figure moved to the kitchen window, which was partially covered with a flimsy, semi-transparent lace curtain. As doorbell rang again, Alex wondered if he could move fast enough to blast the head peeking through the window and still catch the guy on the front porch. Probably not.

The kitchen shadow vanished, and Alex slowly peeked up over the island. Seeing no movement on the deck, Alex quickly moved to the mudroom. He thumbed the shotgun’s safety and leaned it up against the pantry door, just inside the kitchen, feeling for the pistol behind his back. Stepping into the mudroom he examined the man persistently ringing their doorbell.

Dressed in a worn black leather jacket, the man took a step forward when Alex appeared. His dark brown, shoulder-length hair was stringy and matted, and he wore a brown and gray camouflage patterned baseball cap. The outfit alone disturbed Alex, but not as much as the man’s face.

He stared into the man’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes. He had seen those eyes before, but not for a long time. The man’s eyes flicked to the left, returning quickly to Alex. At that moment, Alex knew his adversary was capable of anything.

Not needing to know anything else about the man. Staring at the man for fewer than five seconds, he knew that the best outcome for the entire neighborhood would be a bullet between the eyes—right now. Alex knew that sooner rather then later, he’d be weighing this option again.

Alex remained silent, letting the man initiate first contact. When the guy didn’t react to Alex’s silence, he started to second-guess the strategy. Staring at the man’s face more closely didn’t help the situation. His skin was pale, almost grayish, mottled with angry acne scars; broken blood vessels tracked across his reddish-purple nose. Hollow blue eyes sat underneath thick eyebrows and a deeply wrinkled forehead.

“Is this how it’s gonna be around here?” the man yelled loud enough to be heard through the two doors.

“How’s what going to be?” Alex replied.

“This,” he said with a minor hand gesture and a queer smirk, “nobody answering their fucking doors. We’re gonna need some help. It was a long trip up from Mass.”

“Had to change cars a few times?” Alex asked.

The man cracked a sly smile. “The Murrays didn’t exactly leave anything useful behind,” he said.

“I don’t think they were expecting squatters,” Alex said and crossed his arms.

“So, are you gonna help us out, or not?” the man asked, and his smile dissolved.

“Look, you’re not going to find any help around here. Everyone’s struggling, and there’s nothing to go around,” Alex said.

“You don’t look like you’re struggling,” he said, never taking his eyes off Alex’s.

The man’s eyes suddenly darted to the right. A bolt of fear hit Alex, as he remembered the other guy out back. He glanced to his left, at the door to the garage, knowing that the door was locked with a deadbolt. Same with the exterior door to the garage, thereby preventing a sneak attack on him.

“You’d be better off heading further upstate. Trust me. No one’s happy to see you here. You, or your friend back there,” Alex said, motioning with his head toward the back of the house.

“So you’re not gonna help?” the man pressed.

“No.”

“I’ll remember that,” the man said, nodding his head. He pulled a folded sheet of slightly crumpled yellow legal paper and a pen out of an interior jacket pocket. Alex recognized the green and yellow TerraFlu pen. The guy must have lifted it from Greg’s house.

He unfolded the paper and started writing.

He’s making a list and checking it twice. Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice. Scumbag man is coming to town. He knows if you’ve been eating, he knows if you have heat…

Alex started to smile as the tune played out in his head.

“Something funny?” the man stopped writing to yell.

“Nope,” he said and paused, “I don’t want to see you guys around this house again.”

“Or what?” the man said. He folded the paper back up into his jacket pocket.

Alex just shrugged his shoulders. He considered telling the guy to stay away from Ed’s house, but decided against it. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but his gut told him that it would be a mistake, that it could possibly have the opposite effect. The man watched Alex with dead, cold but calculating eyes for a few more seconds before he turned around and left the mudroom stoop.

Alex watched him walk through the bushes in front of the walkway toward Ed’s yard. A second man dressed in black jeans and a faded woodland patterned camouflage jacket joined him as he reached the far left edge of Alex’s house. The second man’s bright red and blue knit cap stood in stark contrast to both of their outfits.

Alex scrambled back into the kitchen, nearly knocking over the shotgun, and grabbed the cordless phone. He dialed Ed’s number.

“What’s up, man?” Ed answered.

“I don’t have time to explain, but whatever you do, do not answer the door in the next couple of seconds. Don’t even go downstairs. The nutcases we saw last night just cased my house and rang my doorbell for like ten minutes. The guy I talked to at the door looks like a pure sociopath. Real scary.”

“I’ve been watching them work their way around the block. One guy goes to the front door, and the other guy snoops around the back. I don’t think anyone’s answered their door,” Ed said.

“We need to start calling around the block to make sure no one does. I’m telling you, man, the guy at the front door looked scary. I’ve seen his look before and it scares me to see it again. This is not the kind of guy you want setting foot inside your house. Trust me,” Alex said.

“I didn’t plan on letting him in—”

“I wouldn’t even show your face. A guy like this feeds on fear. If he senses hesitation, a lack of confidence, any weakness at all, he’ll act on it immediately. At the minimum, he’ll exploit it later, when he’s truly desperate, which might not be too far away. I don’t think they brought any food with them.”

“Geez, he’s already ringing the doorbell. Alex, I’ll call you in a little bit. I need to make sure no one answers the door.”

“Gotcha. I’m gonna let them know you’re not going to answer. That nobody will answer their doors. Start making calls to everyone on the outside of the loop. I’ll take the inside,” Alex said.

“Okay, will do. Later.” Ed hung up.

Alex returned to the mudroom and contemplated what he had just told Ed, wondering if going outside was a smart idea.

He had two main concerns. His first consideration was the third male adult that Charlie had seen in the car. If a third guy was following a few houses behind the first pair, he could be taken by surprise from behind. Ed had only seen two guys, but Ed probably wasn’t looking for a third.

He reached behind his lower back and adjusted the sweatshirt to cover the pistol, just in case the third man was watching.

The other concern was less immediate, but no less troubling. He was fairly confident that he’d already made this man’s shit list, but by drawing even more attention to himself, he was likely to end up at the very top of the list.

He slipped on his sandals, unlocked the mudroom door’s deadbolt, and stepped through both doors onto the mudroom stoop. A frigid wind whipped into the semi-enclosed stoop, biting into his hands and stinging his face.

Alex stepped down onto the walkway and faced the Walkers’ house. The Walkers’ mudroom stoop was blocked from his view by their garage, forcing Alex to move several feet into his own front yard. He could see the backside of one man standing at the Walkers’ mudroom door, the man’s outfit confirming that he was the same man that had rung Alex’s doorbell. His accomplice was busy peering into the windows.

“Hey, Manson!” he yelled over the wind.

The man turned around slowly and took a few steps toward Alex. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d react if the man continued to move toward him. The man didn’t answer, only nodded his head upward once, and stared at Alex.

“The word’s out, and nobody’s gonna answer. You’d be better off moving on to a happier hunting ground,” he yelled at the man.

“And I have you to thank for this hospitality?” he asked, reaching quickly into his coat pocket.

Alex stiffened and fought every impulse to grab his pistol. In a fraction of a second, Alex’s logical side overrode the irrational. His hand only managed to move a few inches back along his right leg during the mental battle. If the man drew a gun, he could negate the man’s advantage by darting to either side and pulling his own weapon. At that point, it would be an even shooting match…or maybe not. The man could be an excellent shot, or he could have no experience at all. Alex figured it more likely that the man knew his way around firearms. Either way, his instinct was to actively avoid a pistol duel at twenty meters with anyone, especially out in the open.

A flash memory of the man’s yellow legal paper, located on the same side of the jacket settled the struggle, and his hand stayed alongside his leg. The man pulled the notepad and pen out of a pocket inside his jacket, and Alex felt his body start to relax.

He started to write in the notepad again.

“You gonna give me a ticket for my lack of hospitality?” Alex asked with the start of a grin.

“Just keeping track,” Manson said and put the notepad back inside his jacket.

Alex watched the man’s movements closely and decided to head back toward his house.

“Not much left here to go around. You might have better luck up north. Less people, less problems…”

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere. Not with a storm coming in,” the man interrupted, looking up at the thick gray sky.

Alex’s eyes followed skyward as another gust of frigid northern air washed over the neighborhood, bathing him in arctic air. He fought the urge to shiver and thought about the impending storm, a low pressure burst of warm, tropical air, soon to collide with this stationary high-pressure system. A storm of this size could be a disaster for anyone already living on the edge.

He shrugged and started to back up toward his mudroom door, never turning his back on the man. Just as he reached his mudroom, the second man came into view from around the far side of Ed’s house. He walked up to Manson, and they started talking. They both glared at Alex with intense hatred for several seconds before walking across Ed’s yard to the Andersons’ house.

Alex stepped inside the mudroom and locked both doors, quickly entering the garage to verify that the doors were still locked and dead bolted. He tested the three windows to make sure they were secure.

Satisfied with the garage, he walked back into the mudroom and locked the door behind him, doorknob and deadbolt. Then he walked back over to the mudroom entrance door and checked the locks again, despite the fact that he locked them less than two minutes before. He glanced at the garage door again and shook his head, before kicking off his sandals and heading upstairs to check in with Kate. After that, he’d start making some calls to the neighbors on the inner loop. Alex rounded the bedroom corner and saw Kate and the kids burrowed under the covers.

“What was going on out there?” murmured Kate.

“Just the new neighbors. The Manson family replaced the Murrays,” he said.

“That bad?” she asked, poking her head out of the covers.

“Maybe worse. Their front man looks extremely dangerous. I haven’t seen a wild look like that in a long time. We’ll need to have a serious talk about nighttime security around here. I gotta make some calls. Ed and I are warning the neighbors not to open their doors to these guys,” he said and walked out of the bedroom.

***

Alex peeked out of the family room window scanning down the street and peering between houses. He tried settling his eyes on stationary objects to activate his peripheral vision. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary besides an increasingly menacing dark gray sky. The neighborhood was once again quiet after the surprisingly brief influx of refugees from the south.

He had convinced himself early on Friday that they would be forced to deal with slow-moving vehicle traffic for days and was now pretty sure that the weather forecast had something to do with the absence of travelers. Ryan’s footfalls on the staircase behind him interrupted his thoughts.

“Grab a seat, buddy,” he said to Ryan.

Ryan rolled over the back of the couch onto Emily.

“Ouuuch. Cut it out, jerk!” she cried, kicking out both legs simultaneously.

Ryan caught both feet directly in the chest while upside down and was propelled off the couch, landing on his back. He sprung back up to retaliate, but was brought right back down to the ground by Kate, who had jumped up from her cozy leather chair a few feet away from Ryan. Alex watched Kate take Ryan off balance and gently ease him back down to the floor.

“That’s enough for now,” she said calmly.

Ryan didn’t physically protest and instead verbally lashed out at Emily. “That’s not fair! She had no right to kick me for real. I was just playing, and she could have paralyzed me!”

“Quit being a baby!” Emily taunted.

“Take it easy both of you!” Alex said.

“But, Dad, she’s such a little—”

“That’s it! I’m not kidding. If she doesn’t want you crashing into her ten times a day, then lay off. And you need to be more careful, pointing at Emily. This isn’t an ultimate fighting arena.”

“But, Dad, someone needs to beat him down,” Emily said.

“Nobody’s beating anyone down except for me,” Kate proclaimed, still holding Ryan to the ground. “If I let you go, do you promise not to attack your sister?” she asked.

“Yes, Mom,” he answered unconvincingly.

“I think you should just sit on him for the next few minutes,” Alex said, eliciting a shrill laugh from Emily.

“Dad, you told her to knock it off, and now she’s laughing in my face!” Ryan cried.

“Promise your mother you won’t retaliate, and mean it,” Alex said forcefully.

“All right, I won’t bother her anymore. Sorry,” he muttered.

“Thank you.” Kate released Ryan’s sweatshirt. “Now grab a seat away from your sister. We just need to go over a couple of new rules for the house. Something has changed, and we need to be more cautious.”

“Is it those skuzzy people that moved into the Murrays’?” Ryan asked as he walked over to the other leather chair.

“Yeah. Your mom and I are a little concerned.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Ryan asked.

“Are there any kids?” Emily added.

“Uh, I’m not completely sure…about the kids. There might be some, but the problem is that one or more of the adults look dangerous. Not the kind of people we’re used to having around here at all.”

“Remember the guy that we didn’t like this summer after the Red Sox game?” Kate asked the kids.

“The one that asked Daddy for money, then followed us to our car?”

“While his buddies trailed us, too,” Alex reminded them.

“Yes. This guy reminds your dad of that guy. Something’s wrong with him, and without food or supplies, we think he might be a danger to the neighborhood, and to us.”

“Worse than some of our neighbors?” Ryan asked.

Alex laughed, not really sure if Ryan was serious or joking. “I think this group is way worse,” he said.

“Can we give them some food, Daddy?” Emily asked.

Kate smiled at her. “That’s a nice thought, sweetie, but it’s probably not a good idea…”

“Why not?” Emily pressed.

“Because I think they would want more, and if we couldn’t give them more, they would cause trouble,” Alex told her.

“How do you know?”

“They’re scummy looking,” Ryan yelled.

“Well, it’s not just that they look scummy,” Alex said, glancing at Kate.

“Your dad talked to them this morning—”

“Twice,” Alex interrupted.

“Twice, and his gut instinct is that there is something seriously wrong with them,” Kate said.

Alex stepped back over to the front corner window and stared down the street toward the Perrys’ for a few seconds, then down the other side of the street, thinking about all of the doors and windows in their home as he walked over and took a seat next to Emily. Mentally he reassured himself that all of the doors and windows were locked. However, he sorely wished he had enough ply board to cover each window from a possible intrusion.

“So what we’re going to do is be a little more cautious around the house. Pretty much what we’ve been doing before, but a little different, especially at night. First, like always, nobody answers the door for any reason. Mom and I will take care of answering the door. Second, I want you guys to have one of us with you when you’re downstairs. Day or night, okay?”

“But what if I just want a drink of water?” Ryan asked.

“Then you keep a cup upstairs and get a drink from the bathroom.”

“But Mom doesn’t like us to drink from the bathroom faucet. Something about poop particles in the air.”

“I’ll make an exception in this case,” Kate said.

“But what…”

“Just get one of us to go down with you, all right? One of us is down here most of the day anyway, just be a little flexible about this. I don’t know what these people might try, okay?” Alex said.

“Okayyyy,” Ryan said, barely convincing Alex.

“All shades are open during the day. All shades are closed at night. After dark, kids upstairs, and we keep inside lights to a minimum. The other thing that will be different is that I will be visibly wearing a handgun, and you might see a few of my rifles around the house, and under no circumstances are you two to touch them. Don’t knock them over, don’t move them at all. They will be loaded with real bullets. Here’s what you might see.”

He stood up and pulled out his shotgun and assault rifle from behind Kate’s chair.

“Cool,” Ryan whispered.

“Great, those were behind my chair?” Kate asked.

“This is a shotgun, and this is a rifle. Don’t touch either of them. I may have one of them sitting up against the island, next to one of the doors, or in my lap on the couch. No matter where you find them, or see them, do not touch them. Understand the rules, Mr. Ryan?”

“Why am I being singled out?” he asked with an overly incredulous look on his face.

“Because you’re the only one in the room that said ‘cool’ when I pulled these out, and I know Emily could care less about guns,” Alex said.

“Guns are stupid and dangerous,” Emily said.

“Exactly,” Kate agreed.

“You want me to break them apart and bury them in the backyard?”

“Not today, baby but maybe after all of this blows over,” Kate said with a wink and nod to Emily.

Alex raised an eyebrow and smirked. “They might be stupid, but still, don’t touch them. Are we all clear?”

“Yes,” the kids said in bored unison.

Alex looked at Kate.

“You’re including me in your solemn swear?”

He nodded his head slowly.

“I gotcha,” she said.

“And if you see something outside that doesn’t look right, let one of us know right away. Like someone peeking from the trees, or even just walking around the neighborhood,” Alex added.

“What’s weird about walking around the block?” Emily asked.

“It’s weird because nobody does it anymore. Nobody just takes a walk for the sake of getting fresh air. If they’re out, they have a purpose, and I want to figure out what that purpose is.”

“That’s it for me. You got anything, Mommy?” he concluded.

“Nope, this was your show,” Kate said dryly.

“Anything else from the peanut gallery?”

“What’s for lunch, Mommy?” Ryan asked.

“Tuna salad on crackers, with leftover peas and carrots,” she said.

“Sounds like a feast,” Alex said.

“Sounds like…”

“Don’t even think about continuing that sentence, little man,” Kate said to Ryan, cutting him off.

“…like the best lunch ever,” he said, flashing a sly smile across the room.

“I’m keeping a close watch on you,” Kate told him. “Lunch, of course, is self-serve,” she added.

Ryan got up and headed back upstairs. Emily moved over to her favorite chair and turned on the flat-screen TV. Before Alex or Kate could vacate the family room, the silly screams and sounds of the Cartoon Network filled the room.

Kate and Alex met at the kitchen island.

“How bad do you think it will get?” she asked.

He sat up from leaning the rifle and shotgun against the island. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I made it clear enough that screwing with us would be a costly idea for them.”

“Well, if you’re not sure, then assume you didn’t. You’re not exactly the best at making things clear. What’s the plan then?” she asked, leaning over the island with her glass of water.

“Stay vigilant. Make sure we see them before they see us.”

“What are you going to do if they show up again demanding that you share the bounty Todd probably told them we have?”

“Tell them to pack sand,” he said.

“Pack sand? I don’t think these guys are going to respond to an ancient nautical insult. In the interest of direct communication, you might want to think of a more modern one,” she advised.

“I’ll probably stick with something closer to ‘go to hell.’”

“I hope they don’t mess with us. Do you really think Todd told them we have lots of supplies? That would be a mean and dangerous thing for him to have done.”

“He did it a few times the other day. He picked the most unstable-looking people and sent them straight on over. I have little doubt that we’ll be hearing from our new neighbors soon. Ed saw them spend a considerable amount of time at Todd’s. My biggest concern is exactly how we’ll be hearing from them. We have to plan for the worst-case scenario,” he said.

“Which is what?” she asked, gently clasping his hands across the island.

He glanced into the family room and saw Emily in the oversized brown leather chair, intently watching the TV.

“She can’t hear us. I can barely hear you over the TV,” Kate said.

“I know. Old habits. Anyway, we need to be ready for a direct assault on our house. Probably after dark. If I were planning this…”

“Which sounds scary. I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said and released his hands.

“Do what?”

“Think like they do. This isn’t good for you,” she said with a pained look.

“What do you mean not good for…never mind. I know where you’re going with that. We can talk about it later. I have to try and plan this out from their perspective, so we can prepare ourselves. All right?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. So what do you think they’ll do?”

“I think they’re watching us right now, looking for some kind of pattern. Something they can use. I’d look for an opportunity to take one of us down and storm the house. They can’t see into our house during the day, but we can see out. This gives us an advantage during daylight. As the sun sets, we need to shut the shades before the reverse occurs. At night, they can see in…if we have lights on. I’m going out a little later to put up the Christmas floodlights. We have enough for the front and back…maybe one of the sides,” he said, pointing to the side of the house next to the family room.

“I’ll put them out a little farther than usual so they cover more space. If we keep the inside dark, we’ll see shadows if they come between the lights and the house. We also have the motion lights on the garage in front and back. If it’s dark in the house, we’ll see those trip, too.”

“What if they cut the wires or just unplug them?” she asked.

“Then we’ll know something’s wrong pretty quick. The lights will go off. Plus, they’d have to approach the house to unplug the lights.”

“Can the battery system keep this going all night? After this storm, we might be on our own for power.”

“I don’t know. I doubt it, but the outdoor sockets can be turned on and turned off from the switch in the foyer hallway, so if we lose power, we can use the lights if we hear something outside or at random intervals. But until then, I think we should have them on all night.”

“And we all stay upstairs after dark?”

“Yeah, once the shades are shut, we’re blind except for the outside lights. Even then, they might be able to crawl and not cast a shadow. The ground floor would be their point of entry, maybe the basement. If they burst in while all of us are down here, it’ll be chaos, and I won’t be able to effectively protect everyone.”

“What about dinner?”

“We’re gonna have to eat earlier. Three thirty or four at the latest, or we eat upstairs. We’ve been shutting the shades at about four, so we should be fine if dinner goes on the table at roughly three-thirty.”

“That’s workable. We’ll eat and close the shades. Send the kids upstairs and finish cleaning up. Then what?” she asked.

“We turn off the lights downstairs; maybe keep the stove light and the mudroom bathroom light on. The interior lighting scheme on the second and third floor should stay the same throughout the night, so they can’t track our movements through the house. Turning lights off is fine, but turning lights on is not.”

“What about when we all go to bed? Won’t they know that we’ve all turned in when all of the lights are out?”

Man, she’s the perfect devil’s advocate.

“It’s not a perfect plan by any stretch. Ideally, we would keep the same lighting profile all night. We could keep one small lamp on in each bedroom all night. Shouldn’t suck too much energy out of the batteries, if the power fails for good. One on the third floor, too. Four light bulbs should be fine,” he said.

“I don’t think it’ll matter. They know we’re all gonna fall asleep eventually. I don’t think the lighting scheme will be that important. They’ll figure it out pretty quickly. We need to set up some kind of early warning system in the house, so you can wake up if something happens.”

“I wish we had a dog or an alarm system. I can set up some beer bottles or cans, but it’s no guarantee. I hate to say this, but I think I might have to change my schedule around. Nap during the day, and stay up at night. At least until they go away, or we’re pretty sure they don’t plan on trying to cut our throats in the middle of the night.”

“Do you really think they would try to break into our house? I mean, that’s crazy. What kind of psycho would do that?” she asked.

“You should see this guy. He looks like he doesn’t really need a reason to kill. Hungry, cold… sick family? I don’t think we should take any chances. I’ll visibly wear my pistol at all times, and if I have to go outside, I’ll sling the assault rifle. I’ll take it out with me when I set up the lights a little later. If they’re watching, it might be enough of a deterrent for them.”

Kate walked over to the pantry and pulled out a large can of tuna fish, placing it near the sink.

“Maybe they’ll bother Charlie enough that he’ll just shoot them from his bedroom window,” Alex said.

“Charlie’s all talk and no action. I wouldn’t count on him to line up his crosshairs on a human.”

“He’s all we’ve got at this point.”

He walked around the island and started to pull down some plates to help with the meal. Kate opened the can with a hand operated can opener that he hadn’t seen in years.

“Where’d you find that antique?”

“Stuffed into one of the island drawers. I figured I’d get used to it,” she said and cranked at the can again, sloshing tuna can juice on the counter.

“I think we’ll be able to run the electric can opener if we need to.”

“I suppose. It just seems ridiculous not to use something like this, if we have it at our disposal. Why don’t you call Ryan down for lunch?” she suggested.

“Sure.” He kissed her on the lips, took a few steps toward the stairs, and turned back around. “You all right with all this?”

She looked down at the pistol in his hip holster. “I guess so. I haven’t seen this guy yet, but I trust your judgment. Seeing you this worried makes me pretty nervous,” she admitted.

“This guy is definitely a piece of work. We’ll be fine if we stick together and keep to our plan. Nothing to it.”

“Maybe you should go over the basics of that pistol you bought for me,” she said quietly.

“I’ll dig it up later. You can dry fire it, get used to it. That’s not a bad idea at all. You never know…”

He yelled up the stairs and heard Ryan’s faint reply from the attic.

“Here comes the tuna on crackers stampede,” Alex said.

“This is his favorite lunch. Watch.”

Two seconds later Alex heard thumping from above as Ryan hurtled down the stairs.

Chapter 34

Alex tipped a cold bottle of pale ale into a pint glass and watched the golden beverage settle—mesmerized by the bubbles. Kate placed a steaming pot of spaghetti on the table in front of him, breaking his concentration. He turned toward the kitchen, watching Kate grab a large, green, ceramic bowl with oven mitts.

“It smells awesome, Mom,” said Ryan.

“Thank your dad for the sauce. There’s enough here for a couple days.” She cautiously edged her way over to the table.

A heavy gust of wind buffeted the house, and Alex’s mind drifted back to the windows as he took a long swig of beer. He was nervous about nightfall. The sun would set a few minutes after four, and there would be ample light outside for at least another half-hour, even under overcast skies. He wasn’t sure that sitting in the dining room together was a good idea at all.

He had expected to hear from the Mansons earlier in the afternoon, but as the afternoon grew longer, and the sky darker, he’d come to the uncomfortable conclusion that the Mansons wouldn’t tip their hand so quickly. He took another oversized swig of beer.

“No wine?” Kate asked as she carefully lowered a bowl of sauce on one of the placemats.

“No, it makes me too sleepy. Might be a long night.”

Kate got up to retrieve the bottle of red wine from the counter, while Alex scanned the windows again. He couldn’t help watching the outside, knowing that the Mansons would likely hit their family before it became completely dark, while they all sat together eating at the table.

“You all right?” Kate asked and placed the bottle on the table with a serious look.

“I guess so…I just don’t know about this light. Something…”

“There’s still plenty of light, right?” she asked and took an unusually long sip of wine.

Alex looked at the kids, who appeared oblivious to their concerns, as they slurped down their pasta. A pile of peas, broccoli and olives grew on the corner of each of their plates.

“Eat the veggies, too, guys,” he urged.

Ryan made a weak gesture with his fork toward the veggies. Emily ignored the request altogether. Alex looked back up at Kate, smiling thinly.

“The whole neighborhood is starving, and my kids are picking at their food,” he said ruefully.

“They’ll polish it off, don’t worry.”

“Anyway, the light’s fine, but we were always cautious when the sun set. The eyes have to constantly adjust to the changing light, otherwise they can be easily tricked. I’m more comfortable when the dark completely settles in.”

“They’ll have the same problem,” Kate said.

Alex saw that Ryan was listening to their conversation and nodded.

“What? It’s not like you’re in a private forum,” Ryan said defensively.

“We didn’t say anything,” Kate said.

“So are we all right having dinner now?” Ryan asked.

Now Emily focused on the conversation.

Kate raised her eyebrows and gently blew air out of her mouth, which was her patented non-verbal “here we go.”

“Now that we’re all part of the conversation…let’s just finish eating and get upstairs. Everyone’s in our room tonight. All night,” Alex said.

“What?! Come on, I don’t want to sit around your room all night watching her stupid shows. Why can’t we sit on the third floor? She can watch TV on the other side,” Ryan complained.

“Then all I’ll hear is your stupid machine gun games,” Emily whined back.

“I’ll use headphones,” he said.

“Is anyone still playing online?” Kate asked.

“Earlier in the month it slowed down a lot, but it’s starting to pick back up again. A bunch of my friends are on, and they’re fine,” he told her.

“Good, let’s finish eating, so we can close up down here and…”

Alex’s sentence was interrupted by a hard knock on the mudroom door. “Everyone upstairs immediately. Let’s go,” he barked as he slammed down the half empty pint glass.

Alex shot up from the table and moved over toward the refrigerator, ensuring his pistol was in his hip holster and grabbing the M-4 assault rifle leaned up against the kitchen desk. He pulled the bolt handle back and let it slap forward, chambering a round. After checking the safety, he slung the deadly weapon over his back, edging over to the doorway and peeking through the mudroom at the door. He met Manson’s lifeless eyes.

“I thought we were done here,” Alex yelled.

“You gonna open the door and talk to me civilized?” the man said, again never blinking.

“No. You need to move along,” Alex said, as a powerful burst of wind filled the mudroom stoop and buffeted Manson.

“There hasn’t been a lot of help for us around here. Fucking rude ass people mostly…”

“I hear it’s a lot friendlier up north.” He stepped into full view of the man.

Alex noticed a slight change in the man’s eyes as he registered both the hip holster and the rifle.

“Who is it, Alex?” Kate yelled from the kitchen.

“Nobody we know. Just some drifters,” he said firmly.

He felt composed and in control of the situation. Openly carrying these two weapons reminded him of an era filled with supreme confidence. Only body armor, a helmet and immediate access to a dozen similarly equipped Marines could boost him up higher.

“Don’t you think that’s a little overkill?” the man yelled, nodding at Alex’s gear.

“Not in my experience,” he replied.

The man momentarily laughed under his breath. “And what experience might that be?” he demanded.

“Enough to know that your arrival here is bad news. You guys aren’t planning on shooting out all of the streetlights, are you?”

The man snickered at the comment. “Look, I know you’re holding out on me. Your good friend Todd told us you have a ton of food stored away and that you’ve been handing it out to some of the neighbors.”

He glanced over his shoulder at another man who suddenly appeared on the sidewalk in front of Alex’s house, near the driveway.

“We just want our cut of this charity, and we won’t bother you after that. We’ve got two families, so we’ll need at least…”

Alex’s glance drifted to the man near the street. Same type of clothes, hats, shoes, but it’s not the same guy from before. No long hair. There might be another guy out there.

Suddenly he didn’t feel very secure. Behind the door, he couldn’t see below Manson’s mid-stomach, or below his elbows. For all he knew, Manson was holding a sawed-off shotgun down low. If this were the case, I’d never be able to react in time. His mind flickered to Emily, Ryan and Kate, his innocent family depended on him now more than ever.

His eyes darted out beyond Manson and the man on the sidewalk, to the numerous bushes and evergreen trees within view across the street, knowing the third man could be sighting him.

Glancing back over his shoulder into the library, Alex suddenly realized his back had been to the library window the entire time. An accomplice could easily hop up on the bulkhead door under the window and blast his head off. A queasiness hit him, but he maintained his posture and focus. Reaching back without looking, he closed the library door. Just as he began to feel more secure, he again realized his vulnerability. From where he stood in the kitchen, someone could easily see him through the family room windows.

They could blast me through one of the side family room windows from here.

All of his attention was focused on the front door. Alex couldn’t believe he had made such an elementary tactical mistake. He stepped forward into the mudroom, eliminating the family room windows as an opportunity to take him down, and refocused on responding.

“I gave away all I had to spare. That’s it. I need you to get the fuck out of here. Now!” he shouted.

“That’s bullshit! You got plenty hidden in there…” the man started, with his right hand pointed accusingly at Alex.

“Someone’s in the backyard!” a panicked voice screamed from deep inside the house.

He instinctively slung the rifle around with his left hand, twisting his body slightly to the right. The AR-15 rifle pointed high on the man’s chest within the barely discernable flash of a second, and he disengaged the safety before the barrel settled. The man grinned, showing his brown-stained teeth. Alex could see what looked like blackened decay on one of his incisors.

“Get him around front where I can see him, or I’ll kill you where you stand!” Alex hissed. “Ten seconds! Ten…nine…eight…”

The man raised his hands to his mouth, and Alex almost pulled the trigger. He took a few shallow, controlled breaths, and eased all pressure off the trigger, shocked at how far he had involuntarily pulled it. The man whistled three times, three short, sharp whistles.

“…seven…six…five…”

“He’s running around front!” Kate yelled from somewhere near the top of the stairs.

Alex kept his own focus just to the side of the scope. At this range, he wouldn’t miss, even without sighting in. The man stared at him impassively.

“…four…three…”

Before Alex reached “two,” Manson barked something toward the driveway, and the third man suddenly appeared. Manson yelled for him to join “Rick,” and Alex watched as the third man walked over to “Rick” near the top of the driveway. The man tried hard to conceal a weapon on the right side by his body. Alex couldn’t determine the weapon type, but guessed it to be a modified shotgun, with either a shortened barrel or no shoulder stock.

The phone rang and he ignored it. He needed to focus on the man standing on his mudroom stoop.

“Charlie Thornton’s calling!” he heard from upstairs.

“See what he wants!” he yelled back, shifting his gaze from the man on his porch to the two men standing on his sidewalk.

“He says the man that just ran out has a shotgun!”

The man on the porch didn’t appear to have heard her and continued to stare at Alex.

“You gonna quit pointing that thing at me?” Manson grunted.

Alex lowered the barrel a few inches, but kept it aligned with the vertical center of the man’s body. “Not until you’re out of my sight. Come back again, and I’ll kill you. If I see you approach this house with that shotgun your friend is carrying, or any other weapon, I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t worry, Alex…you won’t see us next time,” Manson warned, turning to leave.

Alex considered shooting him in the head, and then gunning down the other two. He’d probably get one of the others right away, hopefully the guy with the shotgun, then pop out of the mudroom door and tag the other one. It would all be over in a matter of seconds, but something stopped him. The pressure eased off the trigger, and he was once again surprised by how close he had come to killing the man.

Manson walked straight across the landscaped bed, pushing through tightly spaced, waist-high evergreen bushes and trampling the remnants of a large, decayed perennial. The gunman no longer made any attempt to conceal the short-barreled shotgun and brazenly slung it over his shoulder.

“Charlie thinks you should start blasting away. He’ll back you up!” Kate said from what sounded like halfway down the stairs.

Alex knew she was right. If he opened up on them while they stood in a tight group like this, he would most likely hit them all right away.

“Get back up with the kids and keep them away from the windows. All shades shut. I’m not starting a gun battle in the middle of the street. I’ll end up sending bullets through Derek’s house,” Alex yelled.

“I’ll call Derek and tell them to get in the basement if that’s what’s really stopping you. He was sneaking up on us with a shotgun, Alex. Charlie has the guy with the gun sighted in,” she yelled back.

He ran through the kitchen to the foyer, yelling at her as he moved to the formal dining room for a full view of the street.

“Tell Charlie to cool it! They got the message!”

He knelt down a few feet back from the window ledge and aimed his rifle at the group standing on the street in front of his driveway. The tip of the rifle’s barrel scraped the glass and Alex slid back a couple of inches along the hardwood floor, taking in the view of the street. This new position would allow him to watch the group walk all the way around the bend near Charlie’s house, assuming that they headed back toward their newly acquired residence. Charlie could visually escort them the rest of the way.

“Tell him yourself,” she said and walked down the stairs to hand him the phone.

“Goddamn it, hon, I don’t…” he protested as the phone was forced into his trigger hand. “Can you get me the binoculars and then get upstairs? I don’t want the kids near any of the front windows,” he said, annoyed.

“Sorry about that, Charlie…” he started, focusing his attention on the phone.

“The kids are on the third floor. They’re fine,” she interrupted.

“Just check, and get me the binoculars from the kitchen and a pad of paper. Pen, too,” he snapped and nervously glanced at the Mansons out front.

The trio began walking northeast down the middle of the road in the direction of the Murrays’ house. Manson looked back at the house, pointed his finger, and grinned wickedly.

“They’re on the move,” Charlie whispered excitedly into the phone. “This is our chance, Alex. We may not get another.”

“We can’t just start ambushing people walking down our block.”

“They just tried to sneak up on your house at sundown with a shotgun. That’s it in my book. What else do you need?” he asked, emphasizing the last part of his statement.

“They’re heading back. Keep an eye on them, and call me if they don’t park it back at their new digs. The storm’s gonna cool them off. Looks like it’s gonna hit late tonight and continue through most of the day. They won’t be playing outside for a while.”

Kate set the binoculars on the windowsill, the pad and pen on the dining room table.

“I’m going to check on the kids,” she said.

“Thank you, honey,” he said with a thin smile.

“Charlie, I need to take some notes here. Keep an eye on them,” Alex said and hung up.

He set the rifle against the white trim of the windowsill and grabbed the binoculars, sighting in on the three men walking away and wishing they were facing him, so he could take in more of their details. He’d made an easy, but nearly fatal error earlier that he didn’t intend to make again.

To a casual observer, the man standing on the sidewalk looked like the sidekick Alex had seen earlier in the day: same type of clothing, same rough look. Pretty much everything was the same except for the hair. He should have noticed the change immediately.

No longer satisfied to be a casual observer with this crew, he grabbed the paper and pen from the table and started to write as he talked out loud.

“All right, we have three guys. Let’s name them Manson, Daryll and Rick. Manson wears a brown-patterned hunting baseball cap and has brown shoulder-length hair, brown leather jacket. No facial hair, blue eyes, brown work shoes. Daryll also has long hair, but it’s distinctly lighter, almost blond. Red and blue Patriot’s winter hat, jeans, leather boots, green camouflage patterned field jacket. Goatee. Didn’t notice that when he was sneaking around the houses. That leaves Rick. Faded OD green Vietnam-era field jacket, black watch cap pulled tight, no hair showing under hat, faded black jeans, black high top sneakers. Huskier than the other two and taller.”

He picked up the binoculars again and focused in on the shotgun.

“Let’s see, pump action, barrel shortened all the way to the feed cylinder. Looks like a full stock—”

“The kids are fine up on the third floor. I told them to stay clear of the windows,” Kate suddenly announced from the staircase. She sat on the stairs, just below the first floor ceiling level.

“Thank you for checking on them,” he said, putting the binoculars back on the sill, “and I’m sorry for barking at you. I was just a little frazzled…a lot frazzled.”

“I’m not mad either really. I just…” she paused.

“Wanted me to kill them in the middle of the street? Three bodies riddled with bullets in front of the house? The next visit from the police wouldn’t be a cordial chat. I can’t risk losing these guns, Kate. Nor can we risk having me arrested and taken away. These three could be just the beginning of what we face. I need to be here, protecting our family. Not locked up in a jail cell waiting for a trial that won’t happen for months.’”

“But at least they’d be dead,” she stated.

“Then what? The police confiscate our guns and haul me away leaving you and the kids on your own?”

“You know what they tried, right?” she asked softly.

“Yeah. Exactly what I predicted. He kept me pretty distracted in the mudroom. If you hadn’t seen the other guy, we might not be having this conversation,” he said, keeping an eye on the group meandering down the street.

“Lucky I chose to close Ryan’s shades first. I just barely saw him darting through the trees,” she said.

“But you saw him, and that’s all that counts. Help me shut all of these shades. We’ll get the lights on and hunker down for the night. Storm’s gonna hit a few hours past midnight. I highly doubt we’ll hear from them again tonight, but we’ll be ready just in case.”

He picked up the assault rifle and engaged the safety, removed the thirty-round magazine, and slid back the bolt handle, which ejected the .223 caliber bullet onto the hardwood floor. The bullet made a loud metallic clattering sound against the gleaming floor reminding him of how crazy things had become. Checking on the Manson’s one more time, he saw them disappear around the block. The branches on an evergreen tree in Charlie Thornton’s yard swayed in response to a powerful gust of wind. It would be a long, cold, stormy night.

Chapter 35

Alex shifted on the great room couch and drifted out of a shallow sleep. He remained motionless and listened intently, feeling certain that something woke him, but he couldn’t be sure. For the past two hours, he’d drifted in and out of sleep on the couch since the freezing rain started pounding just after midnight. He checked his watch and put his hand on the pistol grip of the assault rifle lying across his chest.

Something’s different.

He stayed in place under the wool blanket for a few more moments, scanning the house for sounds.

Nothing.

Before lying down on the couch, he had checked on Kate and the kids in the master bedroom. Kate and Emily were snuggled together in bed, and Ryan was in his sleeping bag on the floor next to Kate’s side of the bed.

After checking the family, he proceeded to check the sound traps he had set earlier in the evening. The traps were basic. He placed stools from the kitchen in front of the doors to the mudroom porch, garage, front stoop and basement. On top of each stool, he balanced a short two by four plank from his remnant pile in the garage, pushing one end of the plank up against the door. On the planks, he arranged several empty vegetable cans, which would hopefully tumble to the hardwood floor if the plank moved. Given his shallow sleep tonight, Alex was confident that none of the traps had been triggered.

In the dark great room, he sat up and squinted waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It’s really dark in here.

Another wave of freezing rain pummel the great room windows, highlighting the frequent, unpredictable gusts of wind and rain which had prevented any semblance of restful sleep.

Something else woke me up this time.

Rising from the couch, he let the blanket slide to the floor between the couch and the coffee table, glaring at the empty coffee mug on the table.

A lot of good that did me.

Alex labored to figure out what had put him on alert, fighting the urge to whisper his thoughts aloud.

The outside lights are out.

Alex turned his head toward the front and back of the house.

Jesus! How did I miss that? Brilliant.

The last time he remembered being awake, the outdoor floodlights cast thin beams of light through the minute openings along the sides of the shades, creating a brilliant lattice work high on the walls and the ceiling. Now there was nothing. Alex’s mind ran through several possibilities in a matter of seconds, starting with the worst and most unlikely scenario.

Doubtful in this storm—and they’d have to pull two plugs. One by the mudroom door and one on the side of the great room. Simultaneously.

He stopped the mental process and looked at the flat-screen TV and home theatre system. The power is out. There were no lights on the system that would indicate energy flowing to the electronics. No green clock on the cable box, no red “off” indicator buttons on any of the electronics. In the kitchen the lights on the microwave and stove were similarly dead, casting the house into an eerie silence punctuated by the dangerous gusts slamming their home.

Very unlikely that they cut the power to the house.

He crept into the kitchen and glanced at the basement door; the plywood and cans remain balanced on the stool. Continuing past the basement door to the hallway leading to the foyer, his heart pumped faster.

Alex stared down the hallway toward the front door. His eyes had adjusted enough for him to determine that the trap was intact.

Two more to go.

Moving silently across the kitchen, Alex approached the entrance to the mudroom. He could already see from the kitchen that the cans were still propped up on the plank set against the garage entrance. Moving his head around the entrance corner, he spied the contraption set against the front mudroom door.

Intact.

He walked up to the mudroom door, careful not to disturb the planks and stared into the night.

Nothing .

The storm prevented him from distinguishing the Sheppards’ house directly across the street through the mix of sleet and rain. No ambient light emitted from any source within the neighborhood.

I wonder if this is localized?

Although he looked into the sky, above the houses, given the thick weather conditions, he doubted South Portland’s lights could be seen on the northeast horizon, even if they were still energized.

Alex didn’t look forward to fumbling around the basement, not that it would be any darker than where he was currently standing. Just the thought of going down into the basement at night made him feels uneasy. His first order of business would be to make sure the bulkhead door was still locked, and that none of the telltales he had left near the bulkhead entrance had been disturbed. Once he convinced himself that the bulkhead door had not been breached, his worries would be reduced to the occasional spider web, and the ever present, completely unreasonable feeling of panic that might accompanied anyone into any dark basement.

“I hate going down there without the lights,” he whispered and pulled a powerful compact LED flashlight from his right front pocket.

***

The next morning, bright sunlight poured through the sliding doors behind the kitchen table, and Alex set a steaming mug of coffee down on the kitchen island. The microwave blinked the letters “PF” as another reminder of the frightening power failure the night before.

Outside, the storm gave way to an ethereal—almost other-worldly landscape. The ground shimmered with color and light as the sun’s rays scattered through millions of ice-encased blades of grass. Larger reflections sparkled from the ice that burdened the branches of the bare trees and empty bushes, pulling them closer to the ice-encrusted ground.

The evergreen trees sagged, and he saw several snapped evergreen branches throughout the yard. Most of the maples and birch appeared intact, aside from the loss of some smaller branches. He imagined there must be heavy damage to the large trees across Harrison Road, which had stood for nearly half a century and towered over the homes there.

Without thinking, Alex moved the wooden bar jammed into the sliding door’s track and opened the glass slider. He took in the cold air for a few seconds and stepped out onto the deck holding onto the doorframe for balance. The entire deck was covered by a one-inch-thick slab of ice.

Don’t be stupid here.

He tested his footing and decided that the icy surface was rough enough for him to slowly walk across to the railing on the opposite side. Reaching the other side, he used the railing to navigate the steps down to the icy grass. The grass crackled under his weight; every blade individually encased in ice. A distant cracking sound, followed by a loud crash echoed through the quiet yard causing him to duck.

Maybe this isn’t the best idea.

Alex scanned the horizons. The eastern sky held a thin, white layer of high altitude clouds barely visible over the distant tree line; the western sky told a different story. A solid mass of dark gray, extending north and south along the horizon, loomed nearly overhead, making it clear to him that the sun’s rays would probably never get a jump-start melting all of the ice. He started carefully back up the stairs.

***

Later that morning, Alex watched his son from the kitchen island. Ryan had been staring at the backyard for the past ten minutes. The snow had started falling steadily about an hour ago and had picked up intensity over the past twenty minutes, joined by sporadic bursts of wind.

“You gonna grab something to eat?” Alex asked.

Ryan slowly turned his head toward the kitchen, still in a daze. “Uh…yeah. Can I make toast? Or does that use up too much electricity?”

“You could make toast if we had any bread left,” Alex said.

“Oh,” Ryan said and plopped down on one of the island stools.

“Or if your mom ever dusted off the bread maker in the basement. We have everything we need to make it.”

“How long do you think the power will be out, Dad?”

“Pretty long time. Longer than we’re used to. I’d be willing to bet that the ice knocked down a bunch of lines. With the flu out there, I’d be surprised if CMP had the manpower to make a dent in repairing the downed lines.”

“So…can I play Xbox?”

“Not all day. We’re gonna try to figure out how much battery power basic stuff like that will drain from the system. Right now, let’s shoot for an hour of playtime, then we’ll see about adding time. Who knows? We might be able to run the TV up there all day and not have to worry. Right now all we’re running is the fridge, which we really don’t need, the furnace and some computer equipment. Everything else is unplugged for now,” Alex said.

“Have you tried the cable?”

“Sorry, buddy. Cable TV is dead. Good news is that the internet still works. I’m still running power to our router,” he said optimistically.

“Good, I can still go live on the Xbox,” Ryan said.

“I don’t know how many other people will be on there anymore.”

“There should still be a bunch of people outside of New England. There’s usually people from all over.”

“Maybe, but probably not for long. Most experts estimate that large portions of the country’s electrical grid will fail within the next few days. Fuel deliveries to the power plants have been sporadic or non-existent for the past few weeks, and most plants are using up all of their reserve coal to keep operating,” Alex told him.

“We’re really gonna be here for a long time, aren’t we?” Ryan replied wistfully, staring out at the near-blizzard conditions.

Alex nodded his head.

Chapter 36

Alex stared at the dark ceiling, listening to Kate’s deep rhythmic breathing, unable to find sleep. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion bearing down on him from the previous evening’s scattered sleep, he was too anxious to drift away. Every time he started to slide into an unconscious haze, another paranoid thought struck, triggering a small adrenaline rush.

The paranoia hit him as a desire to check and re-check the doors, the windows, and his Jerry-rigged alarm system. If he got up and actually checked on the house, he’d start an obsessive cycle. Instead, he lay there, accepting the finite amount of rest granted by almost falling asleep, over and over again.

Drifting off, he jerked awake, fully convinced that he’d heard a noise from downstairs. He peeled away the blankets and comforter, careful not to wake Kate or Emily, and sat on his side of the bed.

There’s nothing down there. I know it.

“I’ll just listen at the top of the stairs,” he whispered to no one, taking his pistol off the nightstand.

Twenty minutes later, convinced that nothing was wrong, he sidestepped the alarm contraption next to the railing and entered his office, leaving the door open. He turned on the swing arm desk lamp and lowered the arm until it was only several inches off the desk. Most of the light was cast directly onto the desk, and not the rest of the room.

If I can’t sleep, I’ll surf the web until my eyes fall out.

Alex spent the next hour alternating between staring at his computer screen and listening intently to a completely silent house. From the computer he managed to assemble an ominous picture of the situation in the Northeast. The storm had swept along the eastern seaboard and tangled with arctic air north of New Jersey starting late Saturday night. Gradually, over the course of Saturday evening and early Sunday morning, the arctic air dominated most of the Northeast, wreaking havoc on New England.

Widespread power outages were reported across Maine, and state authorities offered little hope that the power would be restored any time soon. ISPAC officials expected regional power grids to fail within a week as critical power plants ceased to generate power. Rolling blackouts prior to permanent darkness could be expected on a regional and then national level. ISPAC officials urged the Department of Energy to take steps to regionalize blackouts and prevent a nationwide failure.

CDC and ISPAC officials predicted absenteeism to peak during that same week, topping 90% nationwide, as the population isolated itself in fear of the H16N1 virus.

It’ll be higher up here with this storm.

He couldn’t imagine anyone beyond the National Guard, medical community, or police leaving their homes. Alex turned off the computer screen and lifted the window shade a few inches to stare out of the window.

Nothing.

Astonished that he couldn’t see the trees less than forty feet from the house, he considered the criminals hunkered down at the Murray’s. Probably burning their firewood.

I don’t think he ever got a delivery of firewood this fall.

Alex envisioned the Mansons sawing apart Greg’s dining room furniture to toss into the fire and shook his head.

They’ll run out of furniture in a day or two—then they’ll be on the prowl again.

He shut the shade and resolved to get some desperately needed sleep.

***

Alex felt Kate stir in the bed. She got up several seconds later, kissed him on the forehead, and replaced the covers. Bright sunlight poured into the bedroom from the transom windows, and Alex struggled to move, fighting the grogginess to check his watch.

Ten in the morning.

He wasn’t surprised to see the time, since he barely slept the night before. The toilet flushed in the master bathroom, followed by water running in the sink. Kate emerged from the bathroom. She walked over to the front windows and raised the shades.

“Hey, looks like the plow made a run down the street. It’s all clear. We got a lot of snow,” she said.

Alex rose up onto his elbow and squinted at her over the blankets. “Two feet, they thought. Is the street really cleared?”

“Yeah, but you’re gonna have to do something about the driveway. The plow made a wall at the end,” she said and turned toward the open bedroom door.

He knocked off the covers and sat on the side of the bed facing the door. “I never heard it come down the street. Usually sounds like a 747 crashing into the neighborhood.”

“None of us had a chance to hear it through your snoring. You were dead to the world this morning. The kids got up early and went back to their rooms it was so bad,” Kate said.

“Sorry. It’s been a long couple of nights,” he said apologetically.

“You should really crash out some more. You need the rest.”

“No, that’s okay, I need to get up and move around. If you get some coffee started, I’ll cook up some pancakes,” he promised.

“You read my mind. I’ll get everything going,” she said and disappeared through the door.

Alex stood at the side of the bed and raised his arms in the air, stretching his hands toward the ceiling. He leaned over and reached for the floor, coming nowhere remotely close to the carpet.

I need to start stretching again.

“Hey, hon?” he heard from somewhere down the hallway.

“Yes?” he responded, pushing the stretch further.

“Am I gonna get hurt trying to take this thing apart?” she asked.

He straightened his back and walked toward the door. Down the hallway, he saw Kate standing at the top of the stairs.

“No, just take the cans off, and step over the trip line. I’ll move the line in a minute,” he said.

“Okay, I just didn’t want to get hit in the head with a paint can or something,” she said, walking down the stairs cautiously.

“Very funny.”

She stopped a quarter of the way down. Alex could still see her head. “Before you do anything, check all of the doors, and make sure nothing is disturbed.”

“All right,” she replied, and he detected a shift in her tone, from playful to cautious.

Chapter 37

Alex watched the second snowstorm of the season taper to a wispy, indecisive powder. Sipping lukewarm coffee, he tried to gauge the amount of fresh snowfall lying undisturbed on the street. The chance of a snowplow coming by again had to be minimal.

Kate emerged from the master suite bathroom wearing a white knee-length cotton robe. Her black hair, still wet from a shower, draped over the robe and behind her shoulders.

“Nice shower?” he asked, hoping his tone hadn’t come across wrong.

They hadn’t seen more than a few hours of solid sunlight since the first storm, and Alex had watched the Power Cube battery status shrink at a predictable, yet slightly alarming rate. As of last night, the Power Cube’s LED showed the battery reserves at fifty-three percent, which was a marginally comfortable level for him, given six days of impenetrable cloud cover. With two or three clear days in the forecast, the system should regain most of the lost charge. Either way, he planned to make a few suggestions to stretch the battery life during long overcast stretches of time. Robbing Kate of a long, relaxing hot shower was not one of his immediate suggestions.

“Beyond excellent. It’s amazing how good a hot shower feels after going a few days without one,” she said.

“Yeah, we’re pretty lucky. There won’t be many hot showers in this neighborhood for quite a while,” he acknowledged and kissed her lips.

“I’m not hugging your rifle,” she said, holding his shoulders and avoiding the AR-15 rifle slung barrel up behind his back.

“Don’t worry. She doesn’t like anyone handling her but me.” He kissed her again.

“I guess I have more in common with her than I thought. She still sleeps on the floor though,” Kate said.

“Fair enough. Besides, there’s no more room in our bed with Emily sprawled out between us,” he said and walked toward the front window next to the office.

“No kidding. I keep expecting Ryan to crawl in next. How much snow did we get?” she asked.

Alex reached the window and stared down at the street. “Easily another foot. Foot and a half maybe? It’s hard to tell from the house.”

He peered between the Sheppards’ and Bradys’ houses with the binoculars and focused on the Murray’s chimney.

“What are you staring at?” she asked, moving up next to him.

“Murrays’ house. See the other houses with chimneys? How most of them are puffing white smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there was smoke coming from their chimney yesterday afternoon, and now there’s nothing.”

Kate shrugged her shoulders.

“I have a theory. I think they’re out of wood, and if they’re out of wood, there’s going to be trouble. I saw the Coopers out yesterday with Max, and I’m pretty sure they were moving their wood indoors. I guarantee they’re not the only ones that have spent a little time over the past few days safeguarding their only source of heat—especially after the Mansons’ daylight wood gathering foray,” he said.

“We’re really going to be dealing with them for the rest of the winter, aren’t we?”

“Pretty much. I don’t see them going anywhere.”

“This has really changed things for us,” she stated flatly.

“Look on the positive side, maybe they’ve scared Todd and any of the remaining Fletcher haters out there. The loop has been pretty quiet.”

“Yeah, but I feel like more of a prisoner than I did before. It was bad enough when it was just the flu and Todd’s crew, but now we can’t go outside or stand near our windows without worrying about being shot. It’s ridiculous.” She walked back toward the main hallway.

Alex followed her and wondered if they were both visible from the street. He doubted it, especially with the screens still in place. Kate stopped and turned around to face him.

“This doesn’t bother you? You spend most of the day and night dressed like a commando—spying out of our windows and talking to all of our equally stressed out friends on the block. How can we continue to live like this?” she said with her hands on her hips.

“I don’t really see how we have a choice. Shooting them in cold blood on the streets isn’t the answer. It might solve the problem for now…”

“I think it would completely get rid of the problem,” she said.

“Temporarily, but we’d still have a house full of women and children over there. We can’t exactly walk them at gunpoint to the end of the block and tell them to beat it.”

“They can drive out of here.”

“Nice. At some point we’ll have to answer for it.”

“Answer to who?” she asked.

“I just can’t justify it, Kate,” he whispered. “Deep down I want to do it, but I can’t get past the fact that it would be murder.”

“More like a preemptive strike. You said it yourself—it’s only a matter of time before they kill or hurt someone around here. Nobody would hold it against any of you. Charlie…or Ed.”

“I wouldn’t involve Ed,” he said, “and I’m not sure about Charlie. I’m worried that he’s way more talk than action.”

“Hey, you go to war with the army you have, not the army you want,” she said, cracking a smile.

“Thanks, Rummy. Right now, I’m gonna keep watching. We’ll figure something out. I don’t want to keep doing this all winter either.” He adjusted the rifle sling on his shoulder.

“I just don’t think you should wait much longer. They have to be getting more and more desperate by the day, and it scares me to think that our house would be the ultimate prize for them, Alex.”

“For anyone. That’s why I don’t think it’ll matter. Even if we get rid of this one group, we won’t be able to let our guard down,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“You’ll be able to let it down several levels. Before they showed up, I think you were just keeping yourself busy, and having some fun with it. It’s completely different now.”

Alex grimaced. “Yeah, it’s very different,” he admitted.

“You should enjoy a hot bath or a nice hot shower and then take a long nap. You look terrible. I don’t know how long you can keep this up, but it’s starting to take a visible toll. I’ll rub your back, too,” she said, concerned.

“I’m good for now with the shower. I still need to clear the snow. But I’ll take a little siesta after lunch.”

“Don’t worry about the battery, we have a few days of sun coming our way. Take the shower. You need it,” she said, and with a devilish smile, added, “plus, you’re turning a little ripe.”

“Nice. Always an ulterior motive.”

“I do what I can to survive around here,” she said and headed back into the bedroom.

Chapter 38

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Kate said to Alex as he opened the door to the basement.

“I’ll be right up,” he called and headed down the stairs.

The smell of baby powder hit his nose as he flipped on the light and headed straight to the bulkhead door. A paint can tied to a shoelace hung precariously from the end of the crude lock mechanism’s bolt. Even if an intruder managed to relock the door on the way out, there was no conceivable way for them to re-hang the paint can from the outside. Plus, the paint can’s lid was loosened and would likely open if the can was tipped, making a complete mess. The baby powder on the floor around the bulkhead door stairs served as the final, unavoidable telltale. A fine layer of undisturbed powder extended in a roughly six-foot circumference around the base of the short abbreviated stairway.

Alex walked over and unlocked the bunker door, turning on the light as he stepped in. He glanced around quickly, noting that everything was the same as yesterday. The Power Cube indicated it was up to sixty-eight percent. Not as much as he had hoped. Three predominantly sunny days had given them about fifteen percent of their charge back. Six days of constant cloud cover had drained nearly fifty percent of the charge, and he felt like they had been pretty conservative with their power use. A few more weather cycles like this, and the system will hit bottom. And every time it hits bottom, the batteries won’t hold as much charge during the next charge phase.

Alex locked the bunker and walked upstairs. When he reached the kitchen, he had to admit to that the stew smelled pretty damn good. The bowls had been arranged on the table, along with Kate’s recently invented pancake-style biscuits. Alex saw the obligatory canned vegetable side dish in a small saucepan set on a mat in the middle of the table.

He couldn’t imagine what their neighbors were eating, and he didn’t want to think about it. The kids were already seated, looking eager to eat. Two months ago, barley stew would have led to a revolt. With the days of unlimited snacks long gone, the kids anxiously milled around the kitchen before dinner. They ate without the constant prodding that had become a daily dinner ritual for Kate and Alex.

“Everything set downstairs?” Kate asked as she began ladling out the chunky brownish-tan stew.

“Yeah. Good to go. The batteries are almost back to seventy percent,” he said. “Smells great, hon.”

“I know—kinda looks gross. Not much I can do to dress it up. I threw in some carrots, but the orange chunks aren’t really helping.”

“Looks good, Mom,” Ryan added reassuringly.

“Thank you, my favorite little man,” Kate said, giving him an appreciative smile.

Emily couldn’t contain herself. “He just said it looked like dia…”

“Never mind, sweetie. It’ll be delicious, and we are very, very lucky to be eating this. Let’s be thankful for our abundance and to your mom for making us dinner,” Alex interrupted before she could complete her sentence.

Everyone thanked Kate at the same time.

“Eat up. Dinner’s a little late, and we need to close up shop down here,” she said.

Spoons hit the soup bowls as he gazed at the long shadows cast by a few of the trees at the rear of their property line. He turned his head and looked across the table, past Kate and out of the great room windows. The sun had already ducked behind the Walkers’ house. Even without seeing the sun, he knew that it was probably only a few degrees over the artificial horizon formed by the thick trees to the southwest. They had about fifteen minutes to finish eating.

“Is seventy percent enough for the batteries?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah. We’ll be fine. I think we have a small storm brewing later tomorrow and part of Friday—then some decent weather for the weekend. We should all make sure to take showers tonight—clean off. We might set the thermostats a little lower to keep the furnace from running as much,” he said.

“They’re already set pretty low. Fifty-seven in our room,” Kate said.

“I know. I don’t want to set that one any lower, but the heat keeps coming on at night. I can feel it seeping out from behind our bed.”

“Our room’s cold because it’s over the garage.”

“I think if we take it down to fifty-four, we’ll be set. I got up to check the room temperature last night when the heat kicked on, and it hit fifty-six. I’ve never seen it below fifty-five in our room, even with the heat off. We’ll have to burrow in a little deeper under the covers.”

“We can try it,” she said.

“So what are the two of you up to?” Alex asked, digging into his bowl of lumpy brown stew.

“Nothing,” Emily said, “just reading a book on Mommy’s iPad.”

Ryan shook his head. “Nothing much.”

“Anything good, sweetie?” he asked Emily.

“Mommy downloaded like five of the Alissa Storm series books. I just started reading the series at the beginning of the school year.”

“That’s the series where Alissa can time travel in her sleep, or something like that?”

Ryan gave him a look.

“What?” Alex asked.

“She sees the future in her sleep, like a dream. She solves mysteries, prevents disasters, stuff like that,” Emily explained.

“Sounds cool, sweetie. Not a word from you,” he said and stared at Ryan, who was on the verge of what Alex could only presume was a statement likely to drive Emily to tears.

“The books are middle school level reading. She’s really doing awesome. I’m going to download as many as possible before the service is interrupted,” Kate said.

“You might want to get them all tonight, Mom. I keep losing my Xbox live connection. I think the internet is close to dead,” Ryan said.

“Doesn’t surprise me. We might be living on whatever is recorded in the two DVRs,” Alex said.

“That would kind of suck,” Ryan said.

Alex just raised his eyebrows. Kate didn’t even notice a word that would have been censored from the kids’ vocabulary a month ago.

“Maybe we should download some books for you, too. After dinner, we’ll sit down and you can pick some books,” Kate said.

“Cool,” Ryan agreed.

The light continued to drain from the room as the sun sunk further below the tree line, leaving an orange glow on the horizon to each side of the Walkers’ house.

“Let’s eat up and secure the perimeter. We can chat upstairs later. If the internet and cable is down, we’re gonna have more quality time together than either of you ever dreamed possible,” Alex said.

“More Scrabble?” Emily asked.

“And we might start to allow bad words, though that might put your mother at an unfair advantage.”

“Nice,” she said.

“Keep eating, guys. Upstairs in a few minutes, please,” Alex said. He caught Kate’s warm smile, and they both relaxed for a few moments.

***

“Your cell phone’s ringing!” Kate yelled over the sound of automatic weapons fire and military radio transmissions.

Alex put down the game controller and got up from the couch in their attic. “Pause it,” he said to Ryan and flew down the carpeted stairs.

Kate stood at the bottom of the attic stairs. “I don’t think you guys should have that on so loud. Especially at night,” she said with an acutely serious face.

“Yeah, I know. I’m trying to find it,” he said.

“Hey, Charlie,” said Alex answering the phone.

“Alex, did you hear anything weird a few minutes ago?” he asked.

Charlie’s voice sounded distant, almost muffled.

“Hear what? Are you guys all right?” Alex asked, walking down the hall to the attic stairs.

“Did you hear gunfire?” Charlie asked.

“No, I didn’t hear anything,” he said. “What did you hear?”

“Well, the girls were watching a movie in the bedroom with the volume kinda low, and I thought I heard some kind of popping sounds. Like when you’re driving up the road at the Fish and Game club. I jumped up and turned off the TV. By the time the girls quit complaining—I’m pretty sure I heard a shotgun blast.”

“Did you see anything outside?” Alex asked Charlie.

“No, I rushed everyone downstairs into the basement. I’m starting to think we should just stay down there at night,” he said.

Alex grabbed his rifle and backpack from the top of the attic stairs. The backpack contained his binoculars, night vision scope, and spare ammunition for both the rifle and the pistol. He headed back downstairs toward his office.

“Probably not a bad idea if you think you heard shots. I don’t mean this to sound condescending, Charlie, but are you absolutely sure you heard gunshots?”

“I’m pretty sure about the last two. It was pretty quiet in the room at that point…aside from the hysterics,” he said, raising his voice. His twin twelve-year-old girls were obviously within earshot. “My dad was reading in his room. He said it sounded like the Tet Offensive out there.”

“Your dad was in Vietnam?” Alex asked.

“No, and he can’t hear squat, but he swears he heard a gunfight. Small and hard calibers he says.”

“Hard calibers? What does that mean?”

“Hold on…what?” Charlie yelled.

Alex heard someone yelling in the background, and then Charlie’s muffled voice. He yelled something about someone not being able to hear anything.

“Sorry about that,” he said, then lowered his voice. “My dad is driving me crazy. Anyway, he heard booming shots and smaller ones, like sharp cracks. It’s what I thought I heard over the TV. Small pops followed by louder thumps. Shotguns.”

“All right, we should take a look around. Use your night vision. I’ll take a look, too. I can’t see the Murrays’ house, so you should concentrate there,” Alex said.

“Sounds good. Call you in a few.”

Alex hung up and dug into his backpack for the night vision scope. He raised the shade in his office a few inches and poked the scope through, aiming toward Charlie’s side of the block and scanning the area. He increased the magnification and started to comb the area for more detail, focusing on the houses that he could see from his office window: the Coopers’, Bradys’, McCarthys’ and part of Charlie’s. He could see the house occupied by the surgeon and his wife, but the angle was shallow—only two side windows faced him. There was nothing unusual about the neighborhood houses. Most had visible flickering candlelight.

He pulled the shade down and called Charlie.

“Hey. I didn’t catch anything on the scope, but I don’t have much of a view from here. Did your dad say how close he thought it was?”

“He said it had to be across the street, but with my dad’s hearing loss, it could have been in the kids’ bathroom. Either way, it had to be pretty close for him to hear it. His room faces the street. Could have been from down your way, or up past the Bartons’. I don’t know, but I don’t plan to sit around and wait for those criminals to bust into my house and shoot it up.”

“I don’t think anyone’s shooting up houses, Charlie.”

“You don’t sound very convinced, Alex.”

“Let’s sit tight and observe. In my experience, when there are more unknowns than certainties, it’s the best course of action.”

“Sometimes sitting around and doing nothing is the worst thing you can do. We need to take the offensive. Bring the fight to them, on our terms…”

“Charlie, come on. We can’t just storm their house commando-style and blast anything that moves,” Alex said.

“Maybe we can set up an ambush outside their back door. Catch ’em by surprise when they head out,” Charlie said and cleared his throat.

“Too many unknowns. We’d have to set up on their turf, on their timeline. It’s way too risky. These guys may be psychotic, but I don’t get the sense that they’re stupid. Too many things can go wrong.”

“We should at least start going door to door and checking on people. Make sure they’re all right.”

“And stand out in the open knocking on the door of a possible murder scene. That’s definitely not a good idea, Charlie. We need to step up our observation and gather more information,” Alex insisted.

“We’ll see. I’m not gonna sit around forever.”

“I agree, but we need more to go on here. Let me know if you see anything.”

“All right. Later.”

***

Alex disconnected the call and walked over to the bedroom with the backpack and rifle. He found Kate lying on the couch with Emily, a recorded movie playing on low volume. She made eye contact and raised her eyebrows.

“What’s up?” she asked and propped herself up a little more, shifting Emily.

“Not too much,” he said, signaling for her to follow him.

Kate apologized to Emily and got up from the couch, following Alex into the darkened hallway outside of their bedroom. He leaned the rifle against the wall and dropped the backpack.

“Charlie is pretty sure he heard some gunfire in the neighborhood…”

“Are you sure he didn’t just hear you guys playing Xbox?”

“Ha ha ha. Seriously, his dad heard it too. Two distinctly different guns. Probably a pistol, and Charlie thinks a shotgun.”

“Well, if anyone knows the difference, it’s probably Charlie. Did you guys take a look around?” Kate asked.

“With night vision. Neither of us saw anything.”

“Did you check all of our doors?”

“Yeah, and I set all of the noise makers. I’ll set up the one on the stairs, and then we should all head into the bedroom. I really hate that we have to live like this in our own house.”

“Really sad is what it is. I wish we had a real alarm, or a dog. I just can’t see us hearing anything asleep with the door shut,” she said.

“I’ll hear any noises downstairs. Don’t worry, hon,” Alex assured her, kissing her forehead.

“You haven’t heard yourself snore lately. You’re sleeping harder than I am now.”

“What are you guys whispering about out there?” Emily called.

“Nothing, sweetie,” he said back.

Alex put a hand on each of Kate’s cheeks and looked into her eyes. He didn’t see any fear. She could be pretty resilient in a crisis.

“We’ll be fine. I’ll grab Ryan, and you make something up so Emily’s not worried,” he said.

“Did you call the police?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You need to call the police and sit on the phone for as long as it takes to get through. Even if they can’t respond right away, it might set the wheels in motion to get someone out here to take a look at the situation. Maybe they’ll get booted from the house, and out of our neighborhood.”

“I don’t know. I’ll call again, but even if I do get through, I don’t see the police taking any action. I’m sure rooting out squatters is pretty low on their priority list. I don’t even know how they’d get out here.”

“That’s not your problem to fix. Make the call, and start the process. If the situation deteriorates further, and the police can’t do their job, then you’ll have a clearer conscience to take action.”

“I guess it would also cover our behinds with the cops if something happened,” he conceded.

“Exactly.”

“All right. I’ll call Ed—then 911. Don’t wait up for me.”

“I love you. Make sure you send Ryan down,” she said and kissed his lips.

“I love you more,” he said and walked back to the attic staircase.

Chapter 39

Alex sat in bed next to Kate, while she read. Emily’s warm little body snuggled in between them. He had been watching Kate nod off, fighting sleep for the past twenty minutes. The novel slipped off her knees, through her hands, and slid down her red and green flannel pants to its final resting place on her maroon Boston College sweatshirt. When she didn’t stir, he knew she was officially done for the night.

He put his iPad on the nightstand and leaned over to straighten her legs. She stirred from the movement and scooted herself down the bed so her head rested on the pillow.

“I love you,” he whispered, and she mumbled something back to him.

He turned off the light and pulled the comforter up to his neck, slowly drifting away, when a distant thump brought him back. He grabbed the night vision scope and USP pistol from the top drawer of his nightstand and walked toward window at the front of their bedroom. His cell phone rang, and he doubled back to get it. Charlie.

“Hey,” he whispered into the phone.

“I heard it again. Closer this time, and it sounded like a shotgun,” Charlie said.

“I heard it, too. Very faint. Definitely gunfire. I’m checking it out right now. I’ll get back to you.”

“I’m headed upstairs,” Charlie said, and the phone went dead.

Alex raised the window shade a few inches and scanned the neighborhood. The scope provided a clear green image of everything, despite a near complete lack of ambient light among the houses. He searched for any signs of activity, moving the scope one by one over the seemingly lifeless structures in his neighborhood. A few times, he spotted light flickering from a house, which he figured to be candlelight or a fireplace, but saw nothing out of the ordinary in the immediate vicinity of his own home.

He shifted his focus to where Durham Road curved into the other side of the loop, passing over the Carters’ and McCarthys’, and again saw nothing unusual. He saw a faint wavering light inside the McCarthys’ house, which was normal. Passing the scope slowly over the Coopers’ house he stopped. Something was not right.

He increased the magnification of the scope until he could only see the Coopers’ house, watching an erratic light show play out behind the Coopers’ curtains. The lights flashed in the room above the garage, which he assumed was their bedroom. From the shaky movement of the lights, he assumed they were flashlights.

Moments later, the lights moved to the other windows on the second floor, suggesting that someone was going room to room. One of the lights moved downstairs, and he caught a brilliant flash in the night vision scope, as one of the flashlights briefly shined out of a front door window. He watched closely as two more flashlights came down the stairs and faded deeper into the first floor of the house, indicating there were possibly three people in the house.

They moved around the first floor, but he could not pinpoint their location. The light show deep inside the house continued for a few minutes, finally disappearing.

Alex reduced the magnification of the scope, providing a wider view. Watching patiently, three dark figures emerged from behind the Coopers’ house and moved swiftly across the gap toward the Hayes’ house. He zoomed in on the group, confirming three unknown persons.

Two carried long guns, either shotguns or rifles.

He also saw that they were each carrying large bags. Alex walked out of the bedroom and called Charlie.

“I saw them cross between the Hayes’ and Murrays’. It’s definitely the three scumbags crashed out at the Murrays,” Charlie said, before Alex could utter a word.

“Are you one hundred percent sure it was them? I saw flashlights in the Coopers’ house, upstairs and downstairs. Then I saw three figures moving between the houses, too. I’m pretty sure one of them was wearing a ball cap, but my scope isn’t powerful enough to get a close enough look.”

“I couldn’t see anything inside the Coopers’, but I tracked them in the open, before they disappeared behind the Murrays’ house. I’m one hundred and twenty percent sure it was them. No doubt. I’m using an 8X Trident night vision scope. Trust me, I got a good look.”

“I lost them behind your house,” Alex said.

“Alex, I have no doubt it was them. They were moving pretty slow with all of the loot they took from Paul and Nancy. Holy smokes. What do you think happened? Should we head over there right now?”

“No. Whatever happened there is over, I guarantee it. I’ll head over in the morning.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“No, I’ll need you to cover me. Plus, I can move unobserved around the back of the houses. I’ll call you in the morning when I’m ready, and you can cover me with that nice sniper rifle of yours. Maybe you’ll finally get a chance to put it to work.”

“I sure as shit hope so. You gonna call this one in to the police?” Charlie asked.

“No. It took me over an hour to get through last night, and the best the dispatcher could do was promise a call from an officer. I’m still holding my breath.”

“Sounds like we’re on our own, Alex.”

“You’re right, Charlie. We should’ve done something about them earlier. I should’ve trusted my gut and your assessment of the situation.”

“Hey, don’t start second guessing yourself now. We’ll check out the houses, and come up with a plan from there,” Charlie said.

“Keep a good guard tonight, Charlie. It’s still early. I’ll call you in the morning before I head over.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you then, Alex.”

Alex sat down on the dark brown love seat next to the couch and leaned the shotgun against the outside of the cushioned armrest, glanced toward the bedroom door, and felt the urge to get up and check it. He knew that the bedroom door was locked, and that the house was rigged for the night, but his mind wouldn’t let it go. Nancy and Paul are likely dead. Hayes too, probably. Killers had moved into their quiet little neighborhood, and there were no police to stop them. It would only be a matter of time before his family was attacked.

His eyes wandered back to the bedroom door, and he took a deep breath. The house was silent beyond the deep respiration of his slumbering family. He wished he could fall asleep, but he was not optimistic about his chances. Fear gripped him as he thought about the dangers they faced. Kate and the kids were more precious to him than life itself. He would do anything imaginable to keep them safe.

Chapter 40

Alex pulled a turtleneck sweater over his T-shirt and took a pair of thick wool socks out of the closet. He walked over to Kate’s side of the bed and sat down to put the socks on. A groggy voice addressed him.

“Any…uh, particular reason you’re sitting there…and not lying in bed?” she asked, focusing on the battery-powered clock.

“I’d say I have a pretty good reason. While you were in dream land last night, I’m pretty sure I witnessed a break-in and murder at the Coopers’,” he whispered.

“What!”

“Sssshhhh…don’t wake up the kids.”

“What are you talking about?” she whispered forcefully.

He laid down next to her to whisper, “Right as I was falling asleep last night, I heard a faint thumping sound. Gunfire. Charlie called a few seconds after it stopped. He heard the same thing. Said it was just like the night before.”

“Holy crap,” she breathed.

“I grabbed the night vision scope and looked around the neighborhood. When I got to the Coopers’ house, it looked like several people were going through the house, room by room, with flashlights. Then I saw them leave, three of them, and walk toward the Hayes’ house. One of them looked just like that scumbag that keeps coming to our door. Long hair and ball cap. Charlie’s one hundred percent sure it was them. He watched them walk between the Hayes’s and the Murrays’, loaded down with stuff they took. I’d bet you anything they broke into the Coopers’ and killed them. I’m gonna check it out and confirm what happened. Charlie’s gonna cover me. We need to figure this out, and figure it out quick, so we can deal with these lunatics immediately. It’s only a matter of time before they make their way through the entire neighborhood to us.”

“Wait, so what are you doing again?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and sitting up.

“I’m heading over to Paul and Nancy’s. If I find them dead, then the neighborhood is going to have to deal with the Manson family fast. Who knows where they’re headed next? I might check the Hayes’ while I’m at it. Their house is between the Manson’s and the Coopers.”

“Do you have to do this right now? You just woke up and its so early,” she said, lying back down and pulling the covers back up to her chin.

“Actually, I’ve been awake for an hour, and most of the night. No. I need to do this now. Then we’ll have most of the day to come up with a plan for tonight,” he said.

“No one’s going anywhere tonight. We have a huge storm moving in.”

“Hopefully, this whole thing will be settled by the time the storm moves in. One way or the other.”

“Be careful, and bring me one of the radios. I’ll hang out at the window and keep watch…just as soon as I can make some coffee. Can you wait a few minutes?” she asked, sliding out of bed.

“I’ll head down and get the coffee going. Then I’m starting my reconnaissance,” he said.

“You know what worries me about you?”

“I have no idea, my love.”

“Deep down inside, I think you enjoy this. Actually, it’s not deep down inside. You can barely suppress your excitement.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to make this trip. I hope I don’t find anything.”

“Just be careful and stay out of sight. Leave a walkie on the island. I’ll be down in a few minutes. How are you gonna keep in touch with Charlie?” she asked and stopped in front of the walk-in closet.

“Cell phone.”

Alex stepped into the closet, reached up to the highest shelf, and pulled down a black nylon holster rig and two spare magazines from pouches attached to it. He tucked the magazines into his right front pocket.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, looking at his wife, and checking the pistol already jammed into his jeans behind his back.

She leaned over and kissed him. “Hurry back, okay? And don’t forget to switch your phone to vibrate. If Charlie is your early warning system, you don’t want him tipping off the entire neighborhood.”

“I got it…thank you. We’re professionals,” he said and winked.

“Just hurry up and get back. Nothing fancy. I love you,” she said and headed back to the master bathroom.

Alex pulled his cell phone out of his front left pocket and walked toward the stairs.

“Where’s the rifle?” she asked.

“In the closet. I don’t think it would be a good idea to sneak around the neighborhood with it. Someone might shoot me from one of the houses behind us,” he replied. “Plus, I want to travel light on this one. In and out. Fast,” he added.

“I think you should take it.”

“I’ll be fine. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

***

Alex approached the corner of the Coopers’ house and peered cautiously into the backyard. He saw that the entire area near the back of the house was full of footprints and dog tracks, including the deck. Several piles of dog feces poked out of the trampled snow near the back door to the garage, competing for his attention with several yellow splotches in the same vicinity. None of this appeared out of the ordinary to Alex, since he’d seen Paul and Nancy play daily in the backyard with their dog, Max. The door had no obvious signs of a forced entry.

He knocked on the glass of the deck sliding glass door and backed up, contemplating his image in the reflection of the glass. Jeans, blue winter jacket, black wool hat and gloves. Nothing out of the ordinary. Alex knocked more forcefully on the door and stepped back again, wondering if he did this too early. After a minute, he walked to the far side of the deck and examined the back windows.

Blinds are drawn of course.

Alex noticed tracks in the snow leading from the Coopers’ yard to the Hayes’ yard—going in both directions. The tracks followed closely along the back of the Hayes’ house and stepped off the deck, returning to the garage door. There was no sign of Max at the door and Alex suddenly worried Max would attack him if he tried to break into the house.

He contemplated trying to sneak around to their mudroom to ring their doorbell, but decided against it. No electricity, dummy.

Alex tested the doorknob to the garage door, finding it locked. Shouldering his body up against the locked door, Alex shoved inward. The door gave way easily and flew into the still garage banging against shelves along the wall behind it. The force cause Alex to stumble head first into the garage, nearly falling into several white plastic bags filled with trash. More white trash bags sat in front of the silver Volvo parked next to him. The Coopers’ firewood was thrown in a disorganized pile that extended from the front of the cars to the garage bay doors. Several small dents and scrapes were evident on the doors of the black Toyota Highlander parked in the farthest bay.

Didn’t waste any time getting the wood inside.

Alex turned his attention back to the door, examined the strike plate set into the back door’s trim, and found it completely loose, indicating he was not the first person to shoulder the door.

The door had not been fitted with a deadbolt. A few years before, after a rash of burglaries in Scarborough, Kate had insisted that they install deadbolts on all of their outer access doors, including the door between the garage and mudroom. He took the handheld radio out of his right jacket pocket and called Kate. “You there, hon?”

“Yep, kids are still asleep up here. Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m standing inside the Coopers’ garage. Looks like someone muscled their way through the back door. I’m going to check out the rest of the house. I knocked on the back slider several times. No answer.”

“They could be sleeping. Did they break through the deadbolt?” she asked.

“They don’t have a deadlock back here.”

“Really? I hope they’re all right.”

“Me too. I’m gonna check out the other door and head inside. I’ll keep this on. Anything going on outside?”

“Nothing so far. Keep me posted,” Kate said.

“Yep, talk to you soon, out.”

Alex put the radio in his jacket and removed his handgun. With the pistol in hand he walked around the stinking trash bags and slid alongside the silver Volvo sedan.

The door to the house showed considerable damage to the trim consistent with a break in. He leaned against the door with his left shoulder and pushed lightly on the door. Like the garage door, the mudroom door offered no resistance and swung halfway open, and Alex saw splinters of wood on the floor. The door frame around the strike plate was splintered inward, indicating to him that the door had been forced open. Holding the pistol with both hands in front of him, with his finger off the trigger. Crouching slightly, he walked forward, aiming into the house, pushing the door open with his extended arms. The mudroom appeared to be in order. He called out to the Coopers.

“Paul, Nancy. It’s Alex Fletcher. Hello?”

No response.

Alex edged forward and looked into the kitchen. Several broken glass jars lay on the floor in front of their pantry, covered by empty Tupperware containers and silverware. The bathroom door in the mudroom was closed. He walked up to it and listened, before opening the door and looking inside. Nothing seemed out of place.

Stepping carefully around the broken glass, he found the rest of the kitchen in complete disarray; every cabinet door or kitchen drawer was open, and the contents of several cabinets lie smashed on the brown-speckled granite countertop. As expected, the pantry next to him had been emptied. A few bare plastic containers sat against the back wall of one of the lower shelves. Two blenders, a stainless steel toaster, and several large mixing bowls sat untouched on the top shelf. He walked around the other side of the island, crunching some of the glass. The sink was full of glass shards and half shattered wine glasses.

“Paul! Nancy! It’s Alex Fletcher! Are you guys all right?”

Where’s Max?

Alex moved carefully around the other side of the kitchen island and approached the stairs, aiming the pistol at the stairway. Keeping the gun pointed ahead of him, he walked to the top of the stairs and glanced to the right, noting that the door to the master bedroom was shut. He decided to check the two guest rooms first, entering the room facing the street first. Piles of clothing from the open dresser littered the hardwood floor and neatly made bed. The closet door was imbedded in the wall by the door handle. Dozens of dresses lay scattered at the bottom of the closet floor.

He backed out of the room and ducked into the second open door in the hallway. The exercise room contained an elliptical machine, recumbent bike, and a full set of dumbbells. All appeared untouched.

Walking out of the quiet exercise room, Alex dreaded opening the closed master bedroom door.

Suddenly, his radio crackled to life, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body.

“Honey, what’s going on over there?”

“Jesus, Kate, you scared the hell out of me. The house has been ransacked. I’m about to open the master bedroom door. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”

“Be careful.”

He turned down the volume and tucked the radio back into his jacket, walked up to the door and stood to the side of it, pressed up against the door trim. He listened intently for any signs of life on the other side of the door and heard a low whine, which sounded like a dog.

Max?

He knocked on the door, keeping his body out of the doorway.

“Paul, Nancy. It’s Alex Fletcher,” he called and waited.

A dog barked inside the room, but received no response from the Coopers. He grabbed the doorknob with his left hand and turned it, keeping the pistol pointed at the door as he pushed it open.

The smell hit his nose before the door struck the wall. He’d thought he had forgotten the smell of death, but the distant memory of the putrid, unmistakable stench seized him. The acrid odor of gunpowder competed with the nauseating smell. Standing pressed against the wall froze, he willed himself to move into the room. Max barked, jarring him out of his thoughts.

“I have to get Max out of here,” he said to himself and stepped into the room.

As he walked past the master bathroom, the entire macabre scene came into view. A transom window lining the back wall of the bedroom let in enough direct morning sun for him to see clearly. A king-sized dark pine sleigh bed sat under the transom windows, flanked by two dark wooden nightstands.

A massive crimson stain on the wall above the right nightstand caught his attention first, spreading across the far corner of the room onto the adjacent wall. The backboard just above the pillows on the right side had been hit by a shotgun blast, leaving a basketball-sized hole. Several smaller holes surrounded the massive gap.

“Double ought” buck. First blast was a miss?

He couldn’t see behind the right side of the bed, but feared the worst. As he walked past the bed and looked at the floor behind it, a body appeared—face down, covered with drying blood.

A three-legged wrought iron lamp was wedged between the nightstand and the adjacent wall, its tan lampshade blood-splattered and torn. The hardwood floor surrounding the body was covered in a dark, semi-reflective fluid. The pool of thickened blood extended all the way to the front of the bed and to the wall next to the body. He couldn’t immediately tell if it was Paul or Nancy; most of the head was missing. The body was dressed in a blood-soaked gray sweatshirt and dark blue sweatpants. He spotted a black men’s athletic wristwatch.

On the left side of the bed, another body lay completely covered underneath a blood-soaked light blue comforter. The bloodstain radiated in a rough circular pattern, at least four feet in every direction, from a large, dark red hole in the heavy blanket. Thick splotches covered the dark pine headboard. He saw no blast marks on the wood above the second body.

Alex stepped closer, the intensity of the nauseating smell causing him to gag. Voided excrement now overpowered the acrid smell of gunpowder. By looking at the shape under the blanket, he concluded that the body was on its back. The shotgun blast lined up with the chest. Small blood-speckled feathers lay diffusely scattered on the comforter and nightstand. He saw long, dark brown hair, matted with thick blood, falling down the side of a crimson-stained pillow. A blanket covered the face, but he didn’t need to see Nancy’s face to know it was Nancy. She was shot at point-blank range, while hiding under the blankets.

He checked the left side of the bed and found a small pool of blood on the floor just under the bed.

Jesus, the mattress must be drenched.

Suddenly realizing he was holding the pistol in a death grip, he eased off the handle, took a few steps back and turned around. Max’s cage was tucked into one of the bump outs facing the street, pushed all the way back under the window, covered with a dark green comforter. Max began to whine and bark frantically, scraping the cage with his paws as Alex approached.

He looked around for a dog leash, or anything he could use to lead Max out of the room and hoped that Max was at least wearing a collar. Getting him out of the room could be very difficult without one. He remembered seeing several leashes and dog collars in the mudroom, along with the dog food.

He tucked the pistol into his jeans and knelt down by the front of the cage, where Max was scratching frantically at the cage door.

“Hey, Max. Good boy,” he said in a gentle, soothing voice. “Oh yes, you are a good boy. I’m going to open up your cage, buddy. Good boy.”

He removed the comforter from the cage, and Max sat attentively, looking up at him. He couldn’t tell if Max’s tail was wagging, but the dog seemed calm.

“Good boy,” he said again, and Max cocked his head.

Alex slid open the latch and slowly opened the cage, afraid of Max’s reaction, given the circumstances.

“Come here boy,” he urged.

Max bounded forward with his tail wagging, nuzzling him and licking his face, then turned and moved toward the bed. Relieved to see Max was wearing a dark purple collar, he dragged the dog out of the room. Max continued to tug in the opposite direction, with his tail wagging, but soon looked back at Alex and gave up.

“You want a treat, boy?” he asked, hoping to distract the dog.

Max’s ears perked up, and Alex led him out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the stairs. Max frequently stopped to smell the carpet and walls on the way down to the mudroom. Once there, Alex grabbed one of the thick black nylon leashes and attached it to Max’s collar. He slipped two large choke chains and another red collar into his jacket pocket. Finding a box of dog treats in the closet next to a bag of dog food, he fished one out for Max, who followed him closely. Alex heaved the bag of dog food over his left shoulder, holding the leash and dog treat box in his right hand, and walked out of the mudroom into the garage. He sat the dog food and treats just inside the back door and stepped outside with Max. While Max urinated on the grey siding, Alex took the walkie out of his pocket.

“Hey, honey, you there,” he asked.

“Yep. Nothing’s moving out there. What did you find?”

“You really don’t want to know. We have a very big problem here on Durham Road. I’m headed over to the Hayes’ to check out the situation there,” he said and started to walk across the snow toward the Hayes’ house.

“What happened to the Coopers?” she insisted.

“Are the kids listening?”

“Hold on,” she said. A few seconds later she was back on the radio. “Okay, I’m in the bathroom. They’re still crashed out.”

“They were killed in the bedroom. Looks like shotgun blasts. One took off the top of Paul’s head, and the other…”

“That’s enough…I get it. Why are you going to the Hayes’? I think we know what you’ll find there.”

Alex considered her argument, which sounded reasonable, but didn’t satisfy him.

“I have to be sure. Charlie heard more shooting the other night. Someone might still be alive, though I seriously doubt it. I’ll take a quick look and scoot back home. I have Max with me. He’s fine.”

“Don’t take him over there. Why don’t you come home? Bring Max back. He must be scared out of his mind.”

“He’s a dog. A few treats and he’s fine. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Plus, I feel better having him with me. Nothing can sneak up on us. I’ll be home in less than ten minutes.”

“Can you find any food for Max at their house? I know you probably don’t want to go back in there.”

“I’m one step ahead of you. I have a thirty-pound bag waiting for the return trip. I’m almost at the house. Call you in a few.” He put the walkie away.

He reached the corner of the Hayes’ garage and looked across the street at Charlie Thorntons’ house. Alex had crossed between the two houses and couldn’t remember if the Murrays’ house had come into view. He’d been talking to Kate and not paying attention.

“Damn it. I can’t believe I did that,” he said aloud.

He decided to try the back door first and moved along the back of the garage, staying as close to the wall as possible. Although he couldn’t see the Murrays’ house, he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks.

Brown cardboard on the inside of the Hayes’ garage door completely blocked his view into the garage. The door opened with little effort, and Max unexpectedly pulled them both into the dark space. The smell of concentrated garbage overwhelmed him, as he regained control of the dog and quickly scanned the garage.

With the door closed behind him, the garage was plunged into complete darkness. Alex waited several seconds for his eyes to adjust and slowly walked forward, moving past the neatly stacked firewood against the far wall. He stumbled through several plastic trash bags trying to slide along a minivan to get to the mudroom door.

The door opened effortlessly, having been forced open just like the Coopers’. He took in the slack on Max’s leash and stepped in the house. A fine layer of white dust blanketed the mudroom floor and a dark pine bench. He didn’t see any footprints in the powder, or anything else out of order in the mudroom.

Strange.

A sickening odor begged him to turn around and leave. Evidence of a gun battle combined with the stench to confirm his suspicion. Visible shotgun blast damage existed on the half-wall between the eat-in kitchen area and the family room. Like the Coopers’ house, the Hayes’ kitchen was ransacked.

Direct sunlight poured into the kitchen through the uncovered windows over the sink, fading beyond the kitchen and making it difficult to see into the family room, where all of the shades were closed. The dust was thicker in the kitchen and covered every horizontal surface. Max kept quiet, with his tail between his legs. He looked up at Alex and trembled nervously.

Alex edged forward, careful to navigate Max around any broken glass. He wanted to get a closer look at the shotgun damage. The shotgun blasts were concentrated on the corner of the half-wall near the opening to the family room, punching holes clear through the wall and shredding the wooden trim cap. Surprisingly, the decorative pillar on the ends of the half-wall were mostly intact, with only superficial damage around the base. The concentration of multiple blasts focused on the corner of the wall perplexed Alex. The intensity of the gunfire was at odds with what he’d seen in the Coopers’ bedroom, where each shot appeared to have had its own deadly purpose.

Bullet holes riddled the white trim around the doorway leading into the mudroom. Three more holes appeared in the light blue mudroom wall just beyond the kitchen entrance.

There was another bullet hole in the refrigerator and one more in the cherry wood cabinet above the stove. The holes appeared to be from a small caliber weapon. Likely the pistol shots Charlie heard before the shotgun blasts.

He shook his head and turned back around to face the half-wall. The shotgun blasts and bullet holes told him everything he really needed to know about what had happened to the Hayes’. He crept forward, mentally fortifying himself for the scene beyond the half-wall.

The smell intensified and became excruciating as he approached the family room, so he breathed shallowly through his mouth; a trick he’d learned in Iraq. The carnage was visible through one of the holes in the wall. Alex fought the urge to turn around, knowing what he’d find.

Pressing forward with Max on an extremely short lead, the entire family room came into view. Alex stood frozen. An intense anger and hatred arose in him as he stared at the twisted sight in the family room.

The entire room was blanketed in the same dust he’d found throughout the house, but it appeared thicker. The dust come from the blasted drywall.

A light blue slip-cover couch sat against the half-wall a few feet down from the blasted corner; a rectangular oak coffee table sat a few feet in front of it. Paper plates and cups littered the table along with chunks of drywall. One of the plates held several pieces of thick tubular pasta, partially buried under white powder. Several pistol caliber shell casings lay covered with powder on the floor near the obliterated corner.

Without actually stepping into the room, Alex leaned in and saw that the back of the corner wall had been vaporized by the blasts, creating the thick layer of drywall dust.

A useless large flat-screen TV sat atop an entertainment center in the corner of the room, nest to a fireplace, appearing undamaged. A small stack of wood sat silently in a black wrought iron wood carrier. A giant family portrait, taken at one of the local beaches, dominated the wall above the fireplace mantel. The Hayes’ smiling faces stood over the room in sharp contrast to death all around him. Three rolled up sleeping bags were stuffed behind the chair closest to the fireplace.

Kenneth Hayes was not right behind the wall where Alex had expected to find him. A wide reddish-brown stain, thick and pasty from the drywall powder, extended from the hardwood floor near the corner of the wall to his body lying in front of the coffee table several feet away. A thicker pool of dried blood extended from his torso toward a window-height bookcase underneath the rear picture window. Like everything else, it was sheathed in fine powder. Kenneth lay on his stomach, a gaping hole in the middle of his upper back, squarely hit by at least one blast at close range. He was shot in the back while crawling away.

He glanced again at the bloody trail in front of him, assuming that Ken was also hit somewhere in the chest or stomach as he crouched to fire at his attackers. Alex knew he needed to confirm the fate of the rest of the family. If any of the kids were still alive, they needed to be taken out of here immediately.

He was pretty sure that Michelle Hayes was still in the hospital. Ken took her to the emergency room a few weeks ago, and then returned with only the kids.

His attention was drawn to the two-tiered bookcase extending the entire length of the back picture window. The end of the bookcase almost reached the far end of the couch, creating an open space in the corner of the room. He walked a few more feet into the room.

The smell of decomposition and feces immediately overwhelmed his shallow breathing trick, forcing him to raise his left arm and breathe into his Gore-Tex jacket sleeve, which did little to help. Max had no problem with the horrifying odor, pulling on the end of the leash. Convinced that the dog would try to lick the blood-paste mixture on the floor, he kept a constant tension on the leash to prevent Max’s muzzle from reaching the floor.

Alex stepped toward the fireplace to put a little more space between Max and the body. As he moved forward, he caught sight of a tiny foot protruding from the small gap between the bookcase and the corner of the couch. His chest tightened, and he started grinding his teeth—immediately fighting back tears.

No, no, no…this…is not happening. This did not happen.

Holding Max’s leash tightly, he edged forward with the knowledge that he was about to see something would stay with him forever.

He tried to rationalize leaving, but concluded that he had to be sure, he knew he would want his neighbor to check on his own children. If there was any possible way to save their child, he would do it. Switching the leash in his hands, Alex edged forward until he could see small quarter-sized splotches on the wall just below the arm of the couch. A few more steps, and he saw a small foot protruding from the gap between the couch and bookcase. It lay in a separate pool of blood that extended from the bookcase and reached the coffee table, stopping short of joining the pool of blood spilled from Ken’s body. Poor kid was trying to hide behind the bookcase when they shot her too.

I will kill every single one of them for this.

Alex processed the scene from a distance. He saw the top of a head behind the couch and the foot. Not enough to determine the fate of both children.

I can’t leave until I know what happened to all of them.

He carefully stepped backward and tied Max to the leg of the oak table between the oversized chairs on the other side of the room. Swallowing hard, Alex walked angrily past Ken’s body toward the dark corner of the room. Both children lied in twisted bullet riddled piles. Their tiny innocent bodies brutalized by desperate people in search of food. The sheer waste and horror of the Hayes’ situation weighed heavily on Alex, as he struggled to remain focused. A swirl of images ran through his mind of his own family lying dead, shot by Manson and his team.

Alex quickly moved through the house. Standing in the mudroom, trying to force back tears and vomit. They Hayes’ were his neighbors. He watched the kids grow from babies to lively, playful children, no different than his own. Mentally, he knew that what he saw in the corner of that room would follow him for the rest of his life.

He spit a few more small chucks of vomit onto the gray tile floor and wiped the remaining tears from his eyes. The rest of the vomit was sprayed on the couch and coffee table in the family room, some of it ending up on Ken’s body. Strangely, Alex felt terrible about that.

“You ready, buddy?” he asked Max in a normal tone.

Max looked up at him and yawned.

“I don’t blame you, Max. Let’s get out of here. I know some people who can’t wait to see you.”

He opened the door and stepped into the darkened garage. The smell of rotting garbage was a welcome relief to both Alex and Max, who immediately started pulling to get at the trash. Alex fought his way through the debris, pulling Max along with him. Max nearly tripped him getting out the door. Both were eager to leave the macabre scene behind.

Dammit, Max.

Max started barking and straining against the leash.

“Oh no,” he mumbled, quickly reaching for the pistol behind his back.

A man stood close to the border of the Murrays’ property, still on the Hayes’ side. Alex’s hand remained behind his back, gripping the pistol and trembling slightly.

If I had opened that door one minute earlier.

The man’s body pointed toward the Murrays’ yard, but his head was turned toward Alex. He wore faded jeans and a brown leather jacket; a black winter cap stretched tightly over his head. Matted, shoulder-length brown hair protruded from the sides of the hat, splayed on the shoulders of the jacket. The goatee unmistakably identified him as Daryll. He held an oversized load of firewood in front of him and sneered at Alex, clearly contemplating his options. Deciding whether to keep walking or go for it. A hunting shotgun was slung over his right shoulder.

Alex calculated the range between them to be about forty yards, which was too far for him to guarantee a hit with his pistol; forty yards for a shotgun was similarly less than optimal. The shotgun blasts in the house indicated that these guys were using “double ought” buckshot, which could certainly reach Alex at forty yards, but would require a proficient shooter.

He hoped that the man kept walking. As much as Alex would like a chance to kill the man in his tracks, he knew that a gun battle outcome couldn’t be guaranteed, especially with Max in the middle of the fight.

Did Charlie have a shot? Probably not. He was pretty sure the man’s position was still obscured from Charlie by the Hayes’ blue colonial, plus Charlie had never called to warn him. The thought of Daryll’s head exploding from a high-caliber hollow-point bullet was too much to ask at this point. Alex nodded at the man and moved his hand around the front of his jacket, making it clear that this was not the chosen time or place for a shootout. The man turned his head and walked hurriedly in the direction of the Murrays’.

Alex turned and ran through the snow with Max, who sprinted ahead of him in delight—oblivious to the human drama playing out around him. He kept checking over his shoulder as Max strained at the end of the leash. Alex had a lot of distance to cover, and he was worried that one of the Mansons might try to shoot him as he dashed home. If he died outside, his family would be alone to fend for themselves. As he passed the Coopers’ house, he thought about grabbing the bag of dog food but kept running instead.

He heard Kate’s voice on the radio as he lumbered through the snow and reached into his pocket and removed the walkie.

“Kate? Hey, I can’t talk. I ran into one of them…I need to keep moving,” he huffed into the radio.

“What? Who did you run into? The Hayes? Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked frantically.

“No, not the Hayes. They’re dead. I ran into one of the Mansons. Hon, I can’t talk and run here. I don’t want them to take a shot at me. Open the back door,” he yelled.

“Okay…okay, I’m headed down now. Where are you?”

“Just past the Coopers’. Gotta go!”

He stuffed the walkie in his jacket pocket and pulled his pistol out of the back of his pants, then tucked it into the other jacket pocket, making sure the velcro caught on the pocket.

Alex stayed close to the houses, hugging the decks and ducking behind corners on this trip back. Physically wiped out by the time he reached his garage, he stopped a few feet from the door and knelt, laboring to breathe. Max moved in and started licking his face. Alex pushed him away and continued to take deep breaths. The door opened, and Kate appeared, still dressed in her pink flannel pajamas. Max immediately ran over to Kate, who bent down to hug him.

“Good thing I didn’t need a rescue,” he said.

She looked down at her outfit. “What? I was on lookout duty.”

“Yeah, you missed one. He was carrying a stack of wood back to their little headquarters at the Murrays’,” he said, still panting.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” she asked seriously.

“Why didn’t I shoot him? Trust me, I thought about it, but he was too far away and had a shotgun. I did the math, pistol against shotgun. No thanks. I have a plan to get them all at once,” he said, standing straight and taking a deep breath.

He walked into the garage and kissed Kate, making sure to double lock the door behind him. Inside the house, Max’s claws frantically scraped the mudroom tile to build up momentum for a run through the house to find the kids. Alex locked the door behind him and engaged the deadbolt. The house felt like the Caribbean compared to outside.

“I’m sorry I missed that guy…I went to the bathroom.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. Charlie missed him, too. I’m just a little disturbed that he got by both of you in broad daylight,” he said, stroking her hair.

“What happened over there?” she asked softly, searching his eyes.

Alex avoided her glance. “You really don’t want to know.”

“The kids?” she asked, embracing him.

Alex stayed silent.

“No. All of them?”

He nodded.

“I can’t believe this is happening. They killed the kids? What kind of people do that for food and firewood?” she said visibly shaking.

“Evil people,” he replied, holding her a few seconds before freeing himself.

“We should definitely call the police,” Kate said.

“What’s the point? This’ll all be over long before the police show up. They’ll move against us pretty quickly. Probably tonight. I’m gonna use that to our advantage.”

Alex walked toward the kitchen, leaving puddles of melted snow on the tile floor.

“We’re getting slammed by another Nor’easter tonight. This might have to wait.”

“These guys aren’t going to wait. They’ve killed two nights in a row…that we know of. I have no doubt they’ll be paying us a visit. Storm or no storm, we have to be ready for them,” he said, opening the basement door.

“What’s your plan?”

“First, I’m going to talk to Charlie and see if he’s willing to help me take them down. I don’t imagine that’ll be a hard sell. I figure they’ll leave the Murrays’ after dark and make their way behind the houses to get here. I’m going to hit them along the way. Catch them in a crossfire with Charlie; take them by surprise. The storm’s timing couldn’t be better actually. They’ll never expect it,” he said.

“You sound like you’re enjoying this again,” Kate said, with a worried look.

Alex leaned his head back into the kitchen to face Kate. “After what I just saw…you’re probably right to some degree. I made a mistake not killing them when I had the chance. I’m going to correct that.”

Chapter 41

Alex kissed Kate and held her tightly. They stood several feet inside the darkened garage clutching each other, neither one ready to let go. A frigid wind blew through the back door, bathing them in arctic air and dusting them with fresh snowflakes. Kate shivered, and Alex broke the embrace, still holding her hand.

“I’ll be fine. Cold, but fine. You can talk to me all night,” he said.

“I still don’t understand why you can’t take care of this from the house,” she said, squeezing his hand harder.

“They’ll be expecting some form of resistance at the house. We need to catch them off guard and put an end to this on our terms—not theirs. I don’t want them anywhere near the house. Who knows what kind of firepower they have? Don’t worry, once it starts, it’ll be over quickly. Just keep the kids in Ryan’s room tonight. That’ll put the most house between you and whatever happens out there…”

“I’ll be sitting in a chair, keeping watch on that house. If I see anything, I’ll buzz you on the walkie.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to see anything, but that’s fine. Just make sure you don’t have any lights on behind you. When I tell you to get into Ryan’s room, you have to promise me you’ll do it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said.

“No matter what you hear outside, stay with the kids, and keep the Sig Sauer with you at all times. Remember, there’s no safety on the gun. You just pull the trigger and boom. Remind the kids of that again, especially Ryan. All right, it’s getting darker, and I want to be in position when the light is gone,” he said, kissing her one more time. “I love you.”

“I love you more. Be careful. Those people are…” she trailed off, letting go of his hand.

“I know, and pretty soon, they’ll be gone. I love you. Keep in touch, but remember, Charlie has one of the spares. Once we start shooting, stay off unless there’s an emergency at the house. Charlie and I will need to talk. See you in a few hours.” He stepped through the open back doorway into the backyard.

Alex closed the door and watched Kate through the windowpanes, waiting to hear deadbolt click before waving goodbye. Trudging toward the back of their property, he looked over his shoulder to the west, unable to determine the sun’s azimuth or location on the horizon through the dingy, shapeless low ceiling of ashen gray clouds.

Darkness would start to envelop the neighborhood within the next twenty minutes. In less than an hour, the block would be pitch black. The Mansons would make their move soon after that. At least he hoped they would; he wasn’t sure how long he could last out in the snowstorm.

He pushed through the snow, following the same path he’d traveled during his outbound morning trek. His footprints were still visible in the snow along the back of his property, where the yard sunk into a shallow drainage ditch. The channel connected all of the yards on his side of the neighborhood to a water retention area beyond the McCarthys’ backyard. He planned to use the natural cover to arrive at his preselected position undetected.

Alex slid into the ditch and proceeded north. The snow was slightly deeper here, so he slogged forward slowly, watching the corner of his house. A few more steps and he would briefly cross the Manson’s line of sight from the Murrays’ house. After the morning’s encounter, he guessed the Mansons might be keeping watch on his house. He lowered his silhouette and nudged forward until he was clear of the gap.

Once past the gap, he proceeded at a faster pace, more interested in getting to his position than remaining stealthy. Charlie had been watching the Murrays’ house for the past hour, looking for any signs of activity. Alex doubted they’d use any of the front doors, instead opting to sneak around the back. Where Charlie would hopefully spot them moving between houses. Charlie was perched at the window closest to the Murrays’, watching with binoculars and an 8X wide-angle night vision spotting scope. His other night vision device, a 10X scope, was attached to a hunting rifle; the same rifle Charlie planned to use tonight.

Alex’s night vision options were considerably limited compared to Charlie’s. He’d attached an Aimpoint sight to his AR-15 rifle early in the afternoon, while preparing the equipment needed for their night ambush. Similar to the sighting system he used in Iraq, the scope provided an illuminated red dot for quickly engaging targets—during the day. Unlike Charlie, he’d have to first pick out targets with his hand-held night vision scope, hoping to somehow find them with the Aimpoint sight. Not optimal, but he’d done this under worse conditions. Besides, the plan called for Charlie to do most of the accurate shooting. Alex’s job was to keep them bottled up between houses.

He worked his way across the Thompsons’ backyard. Their house looked empty, though he knew for a fact it was occupied. A few days ago, James Thompson wandered across the backyard, carrying a shovel into the woods behind their house. Alex concluded he was looking for a burial site in the woods behind their property. James had returned several minutes later, too quickly to have made any serious progress digging. At this point in December, Alex didn’t think it was feasible to dig a proper grave without heavy equipment.

He paused and searched the woods. The conservation woodland located at the eastern corner of the neighborhood contained a path that connected with Hewitt Park and hundreds of additional acres of protected forest and trails. Jim’s lone footsteps were visible in the snow, approaching a trailhead that disappeared into a tangle of mature evergreens, oaks and birch. As he turned back to the path a strong gust of wind raked him.

Aside from a small area of exposed skin below his ski goggles and above his mouth, Alex didn’t feel the effects of the bitter northerly wind. He wore two layers of full-length thermal underwear, covered by two pairs of expensive snowboarding pants, two layers of thick wool socks, a wool turtleneck sweater, and his favorite blue weatherproof winter jacket.

He’d ditched his combat boots for a pair of storm boots. Wool inserts and the warmest waterproof gloves he had ever owned covered his hands. His head was sheathed in a black balaclava. A black watch cap, further enclosed by the jacket’s oversized hood, kept the wind and snow off his head.

The ensemble felt like overkill for the conditions, but he knew better. Once the sun dropped below the horizon, and the storm picked up, conditions outside would deteriorate rapidly. Lying prone in a static position would only make matters worse.

He continued across the Thompsons’ yard, paying the same caution when crossing between the Thompsons’ and Carters’ property. Peeking above the top of the ditch, he saw that the Murrays’ house was completely obscured by the Thorntons’. As he crossed the Carters’ property, he heard his walkie-talkie crackle to life, the voice muffled in his front jacket pocket. He stopped, his heart racing as he fumbled to open the pocket zipper and grab the radio.

“This is Alex, say again, over.”

“It’s just me, Kate. I can’t see you anymore. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” her voice crackled over the speaker.

“I’m fine. I’m almost past the Carters’. Let me get in position, and we can chat a little. All right?”

“Okay. How is it out there?” she persisted.

“Miserable. I’ll probably end up pouring the hot tea over my head in a few minutes. Could you stoke up the wood-burning stove really good? I’m going to be frozen when this is over. Talk to you later, out.”

“Love you,” she added.

“Love you too, out.”

Alex hooked the walkie onto the shoulder strap of his backpack and pressed on, seeing his first choice of firing positions: the McCarthys’ play set. Darkness poured into the neighborhood, and he checked his watch. 3:59. According to his handheld GPS back in the house, sunset was set for 4:04. The end of civil twilight, or the glow on the horizon, would be 4:37, but with the thick storm clouds, there would be no glow—only sheer darkness.

He picked up the pace, struggling through the snow as he safely crossed between the Carters’ and McCarthys’ lots. The Murrays’ house appeared briefly between the two houses, almost completely obscured by the snowstorm. Alex lowered himself to a crouch as he pushed through the ditch.

At the far corner of the McCarthys’ property, Alex left the ditch and approached the play set, which was located halfway between the McCarthys’ house and the edge of the drainage area. The vast drainage area was significantly lower than the McCarthys’ lot, forming a steep slope along the entire back edge of the property.

He considered a position along that ridge, but decided against it due to the distance. A position there would add another fifty yards to his engagement range. Given the storm’s increasing intensity and the lack of light, he wanted to fire from a position closer to the Coopers’ house. He reconsidered the ridge momentarily, looking at a spot closer to the Coopers’ property, which might give him the same range. Finally he decided that he wanted to stay between the Manson’s and his own family.

Alex arrived at the play set and slid his black backpack to the snow. Removing a small foldable shovel from the back of the pack, he ducked under the main tower of the play set and waded into a three-foot snowdrift. After clearing an area twice the width of his body, he kneeled on the packed snow under the tower and carved a large hole into the front of his new snow fort. The opening provided an unobstructed view across the Coopers’ and Hayes’ yards.

Satisfied with the firing-position’s orientation, he set his rifle on the heavy log stretched across the base of opening—more or less convinced the heavy wood frame of the sandbox would provide excellent protection from any return fire. When Alex stood to retrieve his backpack, the wind gusted, pelting him with thick, horizontal waves of snow.

Alex detached the radio from the shoulder strap and put it back into his coat pocket, before lying down in the fort to arrange his temporary shelter. First, he removed a gray and brown wool blanket, pushing it toward the front of the fort. Several magazines for his rifle came next—stuffed into the lower cargo pockets of his snowboarding pants. He left the pockets unzipped, hopeful that the backup Velcro tabs would keep the spare magazines from spilling out. He tapped the black hip holster on his right leg, which held his .45 H&K USP semiautomatic pistol and two spare magazines.

Finally, he removed the night vision scope and binoculars, setting both down on top of a blue towel retrieved from another compartment of the backpack. Closing the backpack, he pushed it against the right side of the hideout before standing up to fold the wool blanket in half. He spread the folded blanket on the packed snow and kneeled down, pushing himself forward into the fort. Lying prone, he faced directly into the ambush zone. Perfect . He strained to see past the Coopers’ yard as darkness descended. His watch read 4:17.

“Charlie, this is Alex, over.”

“Alex, this is Charlie. Read you loud and clear.”

“Glad to hear your voice. I’m in position, with a clear view of the Coopers’ house and yard. I can see into the Hayes’, but the snow is really picking up out here. How does it look from your end?”

“Pretty good. It’s getting pretty dark, and the snow is a problem, but I can see clearly between the houses. Night vision is working perfectly. Wish I had bought some kind of thermal imaging a while back. That’d be perfect for this kind of weather.”

Alex couldn’t imagine why anyone would need a thermal imaging device. Then again, most people would wonder why he needed a night vision scope.

“No kidding. These conditions are optimal for thermals. I haven’t checked out night vision yet. I can still see without it. Not for long I imagine.”

“No worries though. We’ll pick them up if they move your way.”

“Roger that. I have a good position and a great angle to hit them between the Hayes’ and the Coopers’. Once we know they’re coming, I’ll need you to let me know when they are about halfway between those two houses. I don’t have any way to judge the distance from here. I want the gap between those two houses to be their most logical escape from my fire. That way, they’ll be lined up for you. Remember, you shoot first. Got it?”

“Got it,” Charlie confirmed.

“Keep your rifle ready to fire at all times, and get ready to shift firing positions. Once we see them, this’ll go down quick.”

“Roger, I cut a huge section of the screen out earlier today. I’m ready for this, Alex.”

“All right, check in with me every fifteen minutes. Stay sharp.”

“Be careful out there, man. We got your back over here, out.”

Reaching into his right thigh pocket, Alex withdrew three rifle magazines and placed them on the towel next to the rifle. Alex nestled the rifle’s stock into his shoulder and searched through the Aimpoint scope for the far corner of the Coopers’ house. In the fading daylight, the red dot washed out the remaining image, so he reduced the intensity of the red dot, until it was barely visible. He closed the scope’s lens cover and lay the weapon down on the towel, before picking up the binoculars.

There was just enough light for him to see all of the way to the end of the Hayes’ house, though it was hard for him to pick out details other than windows and doors. If the Manson crew appeared now, he would definitely spot them with the binoculars. Within fifteen minutes, night vision would be his only hope of spotting them early enough to spring the trap.

Alex set the binoculars down and picked up the night vision scope, activating the device. The previously dreary view was replaced by a sharp green image. He found the furthest back corner of the Hayes’ house, shifting briefly to the Cooper’s. Satisfied with the view, he deactivated the scope to conserve batteries.

Alex watched the last vestiges of light spill out of the backyard, amazed how dark the neighborhood became without streetlamps or house lights. He sat up high enough to look over the snowdrift at the McCarthys’ house. Faint traces of light penetrated the blinds on the sliding glass door, indicating that they were probably huddled near the fireplace, unaware of the possible firefight that might erupt in their backyard.

Although he could still see into the Coopers’ backyard, and most of the way to the Hayes’ house with the binoculars, it wasn’t far enough, he needed to switch to night vision before calling Kate.

“Kate, this is Alex. You there?” he whispered into the walkie.

“I’m here. It looks horrible out there.”

“I hadn’t noticed, but thanks for the reminder. I hope this goes down soon, I’m not sure how long I can stay out here. How are the kids doing?” he asked, taking another look through the scope.

“They’re fine, staying warm by the stove with Max. I’ll move them upstairs as soon as you guys spot them.”

“Thanks. I need to concentrate on the scope now. Love you, honey. Are you still in your lookout post?”

“No, I can’t see a thing past the Thorntons’. I’m with the kids. Don’t forget about the thermos of hot tea. I love you, and don’t do anything stupid,” she reminded him.

“Like sit outside in a snowstorm waiting to shoot someone? I love you too. Out.”

He turned the volume on the handset to the highest setting and checked the night vision scope again.

Nothing.

At 4:45 the walkie crackled to life, and Alex grabbed the rifle.

“Alex, it’s Charlie, just checking in. No movement over there. I can see some light in the house, but I can’t tell anything by it.”

He relaxed his grip on the rifle. “Thanks, Charlie. Let’s hope they’re just as impatient as we are to get this going. I really don’t know how long I can stay out here. The snow is piling up right on top of me,” he said, shaking snow off his body.

“I don’t think we’ll have to wait long.”

“I don’t know. The Hayes’ were killed in their kitchen, and the Coopers were shot in their bedroom. Could have been any time for the Hayes’, but last night’s shots happened around eight thirty. We could be doing this for hours,” Alex said.

“I don’t think so. They know you saw their handiwork. I bet we’ll see them within a half-hour.”

“I hope you’re right. We’ll chat later. Oh hey, Charlie, make sure you get your family down in the basement when this starts. You guys are too close to the action.”

“Roger, first sign of the Manson crew, and they’re heading down below. Talk to you in fifteen. Out.”

Alex stuck his right hand into the backpack and dug around for the large green ceramic thermos, locating it at the bottom. He removed the lid and watched the steam escape, thankful to Kate for insisting he bring it.

***

Alex shivered while examining the green image in the night vision scope. He had changed the batteries a few minutes earlier, after noticing a dimmer picture. The storm had intensified over the past hour, reducing visibility even further; however, he could still see as far as he needed to see into the Hayes’ yard. He sipped the last of the tea and considered his options.

At this point, the cold had penetrated every layer of his outfit, and he didn’t expect the weather to improve. If anything, the storm would strengthen, and the temperature would continue to plummet. Thirty minutes earlier, he’d stood up to shake off the snow and stretch his aching limbs. When he knelt back down, he pulled half of the wool blanket over his body, feeling no difference in the temperature.

Remaining outside was not a permanent option tonight. In another hour or two, he’d be forced to seek shelter, drawing the fight closer to home. He could use the house as a warming hut, moving quickly to a secondary ambush site when Charlie sounded the alarm.

Relocating presented a few major challenges. The biggest being that Charlie might not be able to help. The current shooting gallery between the Coopers’ and Hayes’ was ranged perfectly for Charlie’s rifle—lined up with his front windows. Without Charlie’s rifle, the fight would rest on Alex’s shoulders. Not a problem, but less than ideal given the advantage Charlie’s rifle could provide.

His radio activated.

“Alex, they crossed over to the Hayes’! I only saw the last one! Do you see anything?” Charlie asked in a panicked voice.

A sudden wave of adrenaline washed through his body; the cold a distant memory. He ripped off his outer gloves and grabbed the night vision scope, focusing on the back of the Hayes’ house.

Son of a bitch, here they come!

He picked up the walkie.

“Got ’em, Charlie. Looks like three of them, moving slowly along the back of the Hayes’ house. Reposition now. I say again, reposition now, and get ready. Let me know when they cross into the space between the houses. You fire first, then I pin them down. Remember to take the safety off your gun!” Alex whispered forcefully into the walkie.

“I’m on my way!” said Charlie.

Alex clipped the radio onto his jacket and gripped the rifle, laying the upper handguard on the wooden log to steady the weapon. He scooted into the snow fort, jamming the rifle in his shoulder. Everything felt good. He opened the lens covers and peered through the sight, flipping the selector switch to “fire.” Pressing the night vision scope against the rifle, he estimated the three targets to be at the closest edge of the Hayes’ house.

This is moving too fast.

He tossed the night vision scope aside, searching frantically through the Aimpoint sight. Beyond the faint red dot, he located the corner of the Hayes’ house. The image was dark and washed out by snow, but he quickly picked out his three targets contrasted from the surroundings. He shifted the red dot to what he perceived as the last in the line of targets.

They have to be moving across the gap.

He heard an excited voice from his radio.

“Alex, they’re almost halfway across. Moving slow. I have the lead guy in my sights.”

Fire, Charlie, fire! We could get two right right now. Come on, Charlie. Kate must be out of her mind listening to this.

Alex watched the dark masses move struggle through the deep snow. For the first time, he noticed that all three of them were armed with some type of long guns.

Damn it, Charlie!

He added pressure to the trigger.

Can’t wait. Here we go.

His target stopped and turned, as the sharp echo of Charlie’s first shot reached his ears. Alex sighted in again and pressed the trigger twice, keeping the red dot on the target for each shot. The rifle kicked and settled in his shoulder. He acquired the same dark shadow, firing six rounds in rapid, but controlled succession.

I have no idea if I’m hitting anything.

He saw a few flashes through the scope and heard a bullet strike the play set. He targeted the corner of the Coopers’ house, where he saw another shadow, and fired another six rounds salvo. He heard gunshots and saw more flashes from the area between the two houses, but had no overall perspective on the entire scene.

He picked up the night vision scope and panned across the scene, seeing two men clearly in the fight. A man stood exposed to Alex at the corner of the Coopers’ house, aiming a shotgun in the direction of Charlie’s house. The second was on his knees, struggling to reload his weapon while staying propped up against the corner of the Haye’s house.

I’ll take care of this one.

Before Alex dropped the night vision scope, the man’s head snapped against the side of the house. The figure slumped lifelessly to the ground, revealing a dark stain on the siding.

Two down.

Alex switched back to the rifle sight and tried to find the last target near the corner of the Coopers’ house. The man disappeared between the houses before he could press the trigger. He changed rifle magazines, keeping the sight of the scope on the corner of the house.

The radio in his jacket buzzed.

“Alex, last one coming at my…”

He heard a sharp crack followed by several lower-pitched explosions, all in rapid succession.

Shotgun.

He grabbed the night vision scope and his rifle, skimming the bottom of the play set tower with his head as he sprinted toward the street. A sharp crack penetrated the howling wind, followed by rapid, small caliber gunfire. He stuffed the night vision scope in his cargo pocket while running, snatching the radio from his jacket.

“Charlie, Charlie, I’m moving between the Coopers’ and McCarthys’. What is your status?”

He heard another shot from Charlie’s rifle.

“I can’t hit him. He’s at my front door. Where are you?” Charlie shouted in a panicked voice.

“Almost around the corner. Hang on, Charlie,” he said, stuffing the walkie back in his pocket.

He reached the corner and slowed down, raising the AR-15 to his shoulder. He looked over the scope, not wanting to limit his field of vision, and spotted a figure standing on Charlie’s covered porch with a shotgun. The shotgun erupted three times, followed by screaming through the radio.

Alex placed the red dot on the figure, who had backed up to shoulder-ram the front door, and fired two shots. The man stumbled backwards, falling down the porch steps. Alex pushed through the snow toward Charlie’s house, keeping the red dot on the fallen target. He crossed the street, still sighted in on the heap at the bottom of the porch.

No movement.

When he reached the low snow bank on the opposite side of the road, the front door to the Murrays’ house swung open, silhouetting a figure against a dim light inside. Alex threw himself against the snow bank and fired several hasty shots at the new threat, not bothering to use the scope.

He low crawled along the snow bank and popped up, searching through the scope for a target. The figure was no longer visible through the open front door. A dark shape stepped out onto the porch, and he added pressure to the trigger, centering the red dot on the dark mass. A smaller figure appeared, and Alex eased off the trigger. Both figures hopped off the right side of the porch, disappearing into the bushes. He reached into his cargo pocket for the night vision scope.

Where’s the scope?

He quickly checked the other pocket.

Gone. Goddamn it.

He stayed low and called Charlie on the radio.

“Charlie, come in.”

“Still here, did you get him? I assume you got him. That was you shooting, right?” he asked, less panicky.

“I hit the guy at your door. He’s down. I haven’t checked him yet. Someone popped out of the Murrays’ house while I was crossing the road. I need you to scope out the front of the Murrays’ house. Two people jumped off to the right of the porch into the bushes. I can’t tell what’s going on. Watch yourself up there.”

“Gotcha. I’m moving.”

Alex looked over at the body near the bottom of the Thorntons’ porch. He brought the rifle up over the snow bank and centered the red dot on the figure. An arm clawed at the snow.

“Alex, Alex,” Charlie said through the walkie.

He pressed the talk button and realized that his hands were freezing.

Adrenaline is wearing off. I’ll get the shakes soon.

“Go ahead, Charlie,” he said, beginning to shiver.

“I don’t see any threat there anymore. I think we’re fine.”

He shifted his glance out of the scope and looked over at the Murrays’. He could see three figures standing on or around the porch. The one standing in the doorway looked like a child. Their screens punctuating the night.

I need a better SITREP than that.

“What exactly is happening over there? What are they doing in the bushes?” Alex demanded.

“Alex, I don’t, uh…what about the guy down here? Is he dead?”

Through the scope, a dark mass edged toward the street. Alex pulled the trigger three times, centering the dot on the shadow, which instantly stopped moving altogether. He heard screaming from the Murray’s house.

“He’s done,” Alex said. “What is going on at the house?”

“Alex, they’re fine. I don’t see any weapons. Trust me, we don’t have to worry about them,” Charlie said, and Alex sensed once again that he was keeping something from him.

“Just tell me what you see. I’m not moving until you convince me it’s safe.”

No response.

“Charlie, I’m cold, and I’d like to go home. If you don’t tell me what’s going on over there, I’ll blast the entire front of the house away,” he said irritably.

“Well, it looks like you shot one of the kids…I’m sorry, I don’t…they’re picking the body up now. They’re not armed as far as I can tell,” Charlie said.

“I saw an adult pop through that door. It wasn’t a kid.”

It could have been a dog for all I know.

He aimed the rifle at the front door, staring through the scope at the group. The image was grainy, but he could see three figures carrying a body up the stairs of the porch. The smaller figure in the doorway reached up to grab the body. People in the house shrieked, as the front door slammed shut.

“Let’s grab all of their weapons and check the bodies. We don’t want any surprises. Meet me on the street. Out,” said Alex jamming the walkie in his jacket pocket.

He looked around at all of the houses, which appeared as black shapes rising from an endless, flat, dark-gray sea. Blankets of gray snow washed over the scene, providing the only movement he could detect. He reached the snow bank on the other side and retraced his steps back toward the corner of the house, finding the night vision scope buried under half an inch of snow. Ten more minutes and he might not have recovered it. A faint flickering light filled the Murray’s windows. All else appeared calm.

He turned off the night vision and dropped the scope into his left cargo pocket, zipping it shut. Charlie opened the front door and joined him in the street. They shook gloved hands as the wind whipped around them. In the darkness, Alex noticed something whipping around Charlie’s head.

No way. A fur hat?

“That thing’s dead, right?” said Alex.

“Very funny. It’s a Daniel Boone cap. My dad gave it to me in the sixth grade, and it’s the warmest hat I’ve ever owned. It also happens to be a good luck charm. I’ve never missed a shot with this on my head.”

“Well, I think your record is still intact. Nice job,” Alex said.

“I had the easy part. Warm house. Target rich environment.”

“Nothing easy about killing someone, even these guys. Trust me. Let’s get this done, and get back inside.”

“I’ll grab the two guns between the houses. You’ve done more than your share tonight,” Charlie offered.

“Actually, we should go together. Just in case. I don’t mind a few more minutes out in this wonderful weather.”

Snow and wind pounded them as they approached the bodies. Alex slung the rifle over his shoulder and put his hand up to protect his eyes, wishing he had the goggles in his backpack. He took solace from the fact that the wind would be at his back for the trip home. The radio squawked. Kate .

“Hello. Hello!”

“Alex?” Kate said, though he could barely hear her while walking into the storm.

“It’s over, honey. We got ’em. All of them. I’ll see you in a few minutes. I love you!” he yelled into the walkie.

“I love you too!” she said back.

They leaned into the storm and pushed forward until the first body appeared, slumped on the ground against the Hayes’ house. A massive dark patch stained the siding a few feet off the ground. The shotgun lay a few feet in front of the body, partially buried in a drift; quickly on its way to disappearing under fresh snowfall. Charlie pulled it out of the drift by the shoulder stock and unloaded the weapon, dropping the shotgun shells into the snow.

They searched for the last body, but couldn’t immediately locate it in the storm. Alex pulled out a flashlight and searched the area between the two houses.

“Where’d you drop the first guy?” asked Alex.

“Got him maybe a third of the way across. He turned his body, like he was thinking of coming my way, and I hit him square in the upper chest. Went down like a bag of rocks.”

Alex jogged toward the Hayes’ house, spotting a bolt action hunting rifle. He brought his rifle around to a ready position and thumbed off the safety. Charlie drew his pistol and stepped forward, even with Alex.

“Looks like he crawled a little. Definitely some major blood loss,” Alex remarked.

They found Manson face down about twenty feet from the rifle. Alex centered the light beam on the prone, motionless figure. A dark red pool of blood spread in the snow around Manson’s upper body.

“Sure he’s dead?” Charlie asked.

Alex took a few more seconds to examine the body with his light. No signs of respiration. Even if Manson was faintly alive, the weather and blood loss would finish him off quickly.

Let him suffer.

“He’s done and I’m done. Let’s grab the rifle and get out of here. I still have to grab all of my things behind the McCarthys’ house,” Alex said, turning away from the relentless wind.

“Think we should take a closer look?”

“If he isn’t dead, he will be dead within the hour. Dead and buried under a foot of snow.”

Chapter 42

A muted bark settled into a low growl, which lasted a few seconds before it stopped. Through foggy eyes Alex saw that it was well past nine in the morning, which didn’t surprise him. The night before, he emerged from the blizzard still wired and jittery from adrenaline. Thirty minutes later, he descended into a delirious exhaustion that even a strong cup of coffee couldn’t shake. Less than an hour after that, he had fallen into a deep, coma-like sleep, holding Emily on the bedroom couch. He vaguely remembered watching TV on the couch with her, but had no recollection of moving from the couch to their bed.

THUNK.

Max barked once and popped his head up over the top of the couch. He barked weakly, following it with a low growl that tapered off. Alex shifted in bed.

THUNK.

Alex heard a voice originating from the backyard, then the sound of something clearly hitting their house right behind their bed.

“Something is hitting the house!”

He jumped out of bed, throwing the comforter on top of Kate.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” she whispered forcefully.

“Hold on.”

He moved quickly to the rear window of their bedroom, peeking out of the side of the window blind. They both heard another cracking sound against the side of the bedroom, and he pulled his head back. Max growled from his curled up position on the couch with Ryan, but made no move to get up. Alex walked toward the bedroom door.

“Honey, keep the kids away from the back windows, I don’t want them seeing this.” He paused, rethinking his choice of words.

“And I don’t want them to get hurt standing near the windows. Todd is standing in our backyard in jeans and a T-shirt, throwing rocks at the house.”

“What? Why would he…”

“I don’t know. I thought I was done, but now Captain Caveman is having a mental breakdown in our backyard,” he yelled back into the bedroom.

Kate got out of bed and walked over to the closet. She reached it just as Alex emerged, holding the shotgun in one hand and a box of shotgun shells in the other. He leaned the shotgun against the wall and removed four shotgun shells from the box. Kate stared at the shells, shaking her head. He grabbed the shotgun and efficiently slid each shell into the underside loading breech.

“Four rounds should do it. I really don’t want to hurt him, but enough is enough.”

He walked down the hallway to the stairs, Kate following closely behind.

“Hon, there’s probably a reason he’s here. Don’t just go out and shoot him. He hasn’t bothered us in a while, and if he wanted to break a window, he could have done it by now. He’s probably out of his mind. Maybe he lost another one of his kids. Imagine how you would feel?”

Alex started down the stairs, stopped halfway and replied. “What am I supposed to do, let him vent a little? Thanks for laying that guilt on me, but I am not going to sit around and be thankful that he hasn’t hit a window yet. Maybe he’ll take a shot at the solar panels. I am going out there to put an end to this. All of it.”

He paused before continuing, “I am going to do everything in my power not to use this. Just keep the kids away from the windows.”

“Take it easy on him.”

“I’m gonna knock some sense into him, and if that fails—”

Once in the kitchen, Alex got a bottle of water from the pantry, took a long drink, setting the bottle on the kitchen island. He skipped the snow pants and slipped right into his insulated boots, contemplating the snowshoes stacked in the small study adjacent to the mudroom. He was not sure how much snow last night’s storm had dropped, but figured it to be at least an additional foot. Given the effort it had taken to move across the yards the night before, he seriously considered using them, but ultimately decided against it.

He’d need mobility when he reached Todd, even if it meant trudging through snow. Alex also decided against a winter jacket, not wanting to wear anything bulky that could get in his way. He had no idea what he might have to do out there.

Worst case, I’ll have to drag a corpse off my property.

He pulled a black watch cap tightly over his ears and stepped into the library to check the old fashioned bulb thermometer just outside the window. He caught a glimpse of Todd in a short sleeved shirt standing behind the garage and ducked.

The thermometer read thirteen degrees Fahrenheit, and he saw gusts of wind shake snow from the pine trees in the backyard. Todd must be freezing out there.

Leaving his jacket behind, he grabbed one of the radios, but quickly changed his mind and put it back into the recharging cradle. The last thing he wanted was Kate chiming in.

Alex slung the shotgun over his shoulder and disassembled the planks and cans sitting on the stool in front of the door leading to the garage. Despite seeing all three of the Manson crew dead, he had recommended that they keep the sound contraptions in place at night until they felt completely comfortable with the situation in the neighborhood and the greater Portland area.

The warm steam of his breath puffed in the cold garage, causing Alex to instantly regret not putting on a coat. Todd appeared through the back garage door window. The loud clunk of another object hitting the wall startled him. Alex turned the deadbolt slowly until he heard the distinct release of the lock.

Alex pulled the door inward and stepped outside, slamming it closed behind him as a strong gust of wind pelted his face. His glare returned to Todd, who stood knee deep in snow, wearing faded blue jeans and an old Boston Red Socks T-Shirt. Todd had lost a considerable amount of weight and looked crazed. Only Todd’s footprints were visible in the freshly fallen snow. And no other neighbors appeared to be out yet.

Todd seemed oblivious to his presence and picked up another solid object from a blue duffel bag at his feet. He cocked his arm back and hurled it at the side of the house. THUNK! Alex started walking toward him, but movement proved difficult in the snow bank behind the garage. A considerable drift had developed overnight, and Alex fought his way toward Todd. Todd never looked at him. Instead, he leaned over, reached into the duffel bag again and pulled out a baseball.

When he bent over to reach into the bag, Alex caught sight of something tucked into his jeans, but the object disappeared before he could figure out what it might be. He thought that it may have been the wooden handle of a revolver, but as far as he knew, Todd did not own a firearm.

Todd pulled his arm back, aiming at the house again. However, instead of throwing it at the house, he suddenly pivoted his left foot, stepped toward Alex, and whipped the ball at Alex’s head. At twenty feet, he didn’t have much time to react, barely moving his head as the ball sailed past and struck the side of the garage with a much louder smack than anything else he’d heard this morning. Alex fought every instinct to point the shotgun at Todd. At that range and speed, the ball could have killed him.

“Todd, what’s going on here? I thought we had an understanding,” Alex said.

Todd responded in a barely audible tone. “They’re all piled up inside the bulkhead door, frozen. The animals can’t get to them there. All I have left is Jordan. I’m sorry about this, Alex.”

When he finished speaking, Alex took in a deep breath of freezing air and let it out with a sigh.

“Oh no, Todd, I’m sorry, I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”

Todd didn’t reply. He just stared at Alex. Bloodshot and glazed, his desperate brown eyes strained deep in their sockets. Todd’s mouth twisted into a disturbed grin, which, combined with months of unkempt facial growth, made him look completely unstable. Todd barely resembled the man he had been in early October. Several weeks of starvation, fear, and perpetual tragedy had dragged him to the brink of existence.

He continued to stare intently at Alex, then spoke again. “I didn’t really have a choice, Alex. I’m…”

When Todd’s right hand slowly moved behind his right hip to the small of his back, Alex shouldered the shotgun. The motion was swift, and within a fraction of a second, Todd had a shotgun pointed at his head. The sudden movement surprised Todd, and he furtively moved his hand back around to the front of his thigh. His hand was empty.

Alex racked the slide mechanism on the shotgun, chambering a shell into the chamber. The safety made a soft click as it moved into the off position. The barrel of the shot gun pointed directly at Todd’s chest.

“Time to go, Todd, one way or the other.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Todd said.

Todd reached down to pick up another object out of the duffel bag. It looked like a large rock to Alex.

“Suit yourself,” Alex mumbled.

An image of Todd’s daughter, Jordan, flashed through his head, deflating his anger.

Todd’s eyes flickered left, and Alex simultaneously caught movement in his peripheral vision. His first instinct was to pull the trigger. Todd set him up, and if the trap was set right, it might be his only chance of killing at least one of his attackers. Or he could swing the shotgun barrel to the left and try to engage what he assumed was the more pressing threat. Since neither option kept him alive for long, he charged Todd, hoping for the best.

One of the pine trees on the edge of the Thompons’ yard exploded, shedding most of its snow. A distinct snap passed behind him. Todd reacted hastily and whipped the rock at Alex, which glanced off his right arm. Alex closed the gap before he could turn and run, striking a blow to the upper left side of Todd’s head with the butt of the shotgun. The impact dropped him instantly.

Before he could turn the shotgun toward the Thompsons’ yard, the tree exploded again. A sledgehammer-like blow struck his upper left torso, spinning him ninety degrees and knocking him off his feet. He landed on his side; his face jammed straight into the fresh drift. He lay there physically stunned, but acutely aware that he no longer held the Mossberg. A wave of fear and helplessness gripped Alex as he thought about his family.

Alex tried to slide his elbow out from under his body, with the intention of using it to lift himself off his side, but got no response from his arm. He shook the wet snow from his face and glanced at his shoulder, seeing bright crimson stains spattered in the snow. A deeper stain started to melt through the snow piled around his shoulder.

Straining to lift his head to look for the source of the gunfire, he hoped this involuntary prone position had given him some cover from the shooter. The small rise between the Thompsons’ yard and his own might be enough to keep him out of the shooter’s sights long enough to recover the shotgun. Despair overcame him at the sight of a brown camouflage patterned baseball cap rising above the snow.

Manson came into view aiming a pump action shotgun at his head. He held the shotgun in the crook of his right arm, with his left hand on the trigger, apparently unable to raise the shotgun to his shoulder. He quickly determined why. Manson’s right arm was wrapped in a makeshift, reddish-brown stained sling. Alex clawed at the snow with his right hand as he casually closed the distance, keeping the shotgun trained on him the whole time.

A surged of adrenaline enabled Alex to roll onto his back, freeing his arm. He tried to use the arm again, but only managed to shift the useless arm over his thigh.

Sharp, stabbing pain raced through his shoulder, radiating down his arm.

Mason grinned wickedly, as Alex fumbled in the snow with his right arm—desperately searching for his weapon.

“You ain’t anywhere close. Your little pop gun’s by your feet. Nice one, too. I think I’ll add it to my collection”.

A wave of helplessness washed over him as the man walked up to his feet, towering over his nearly unresponsive body. He focused on Manson’s cold, blue eyes, harboring no delusions of being spared.

“Wondering how I’m still around?” he asked and squatted in front of Alex.

Alex nodded once, his mental acuity fading as the pain in his shoulder spiked. He thought about the garage door and was thankful that he hadn’t unlocked the door handle from the inside, knowing the lock would slow Manson down, even for a short time.

“Hurts like a bitch. Don’t it? Hurt like hell when I got hit last night, but I was a lucky son of a bitch. Bullet passed right through. In and out. Still dropped me like a rock though. Once I got my senses, I crawled as far as I could into the yard before I heard you coming back to finish me off.

“You should’ve let your buddy put one in the back of my head. You were pretty much right though. I wasn’t going anywhere lying face down in the snow, and I sure as heck couldn’t have crawled back. But I got lucky again. My sister-in-law was hiding by the Hayes’ deck with a shotgun. She came looking for us when the shooting started. Of course, she had no idea that her husband’s brains were splattered on the side of that house just twenty feet away, or that you’d shot her son in cold blood. If she’d known that…who knows what might’ve happened? After you left, she dragged me all the way back to our house…”

“Not your house,” Alex grunted.

“It’s my house now,” he said and kicked Alex’s leg. “Anyway, my wife did a couple of years in the ER at Good Samaritan before the kids came along. Came in real handy last night. It’s almost like I got a guardian angel keeping watch over me.” He sneered.

“Lucky me,” Alex said, and Manson responded by viciously kicking his left thigh.

“Kept my little nephew alive, too, though he’ll probably never be able to use one of his hands again. Skimmed one off his head, too, but that should heal up fine. I knew you were all business, but I didn’t think you had it in you to blast away at kids.”

I should have gone over there and finished everyone off.

“What was that? Nothing? Well, we’re gonna need some serious medical supplies and plenty of food to recover,” he said and glanced in the direction of Alex’s house. “Shouldn’t be a problem now that we’ve found ourselves a new home.”

Alex looked at his house and tried to say something, but the words faltered. Waves of fear, nausea and regret filled him.

Manson glanced over at Todd’s slack body. “You did a good job on Todd. I didn’t expect that at all. For a second, I thought this might not go my way. But…here we are, Alex. Ain’t so chatty now, are you? Don’t fade out on me!” he said, kicking one of Alex’s feet.

Alex struggled to talk, and the pain in his shoulder slowly subsided. Neither development was a good sign.

“Everyone knows. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you,” Alex said.

“Before what? The cops show up? Haven’t seen much of them lately, have you? Besides, you think they’ll put up much of a fight against that assault rifle you got locked up in there? Heck, by the time they show up for real, we’ll be long gone. Fact is, there’s a new sheriff on the block, and nobody’s gonna mess with him.”

Todd stirred again. Without warning, Manson pointed the shotgun at Todd and fired.

Manson pumped the shotgun, ejecting an empty red shotgun shell, which sizzled when it hit the snow near Alex’s head.

“No need for him anymore.”

He kept the shotgun in his left hand, pointed at the ground. “I’m not seeing much need for you either, although I might need a little leverage to keep that wife of yours from blasting away at me.”

“Either way she’ll take your head off.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he said, flashing a sickly pleasant smile at the house. “Up on your feet, soldier. We have some work to do.”

“Marine,” Alex corrected.

“Whatever. Get off the ground,” Manson ordered.

“No.”

“Get off the ground, or I’ll kill every last one of them. Or worse,” he said with a scowl.

“You’ll just have to take your chances against an assault rifle and my wife. Good luck. She wanted to kill all of you days ago,” Alex said dryly.

“Sounds like my kinda woman. Maybe we’ll spend some quality time together,” he whispered, followed by a scream. “Now get the up!”

Alex shook his head slowly.

“I’ll leave them all alone if you walk into that house with me. I don’t have a problem with them,” he said in a calmer voice.

“Just like you didn’t have a problem with the Hayes’ kids?” Alex asked.

Manson flashed a wicked smile and relaxed his stance. “You and me ain’t that different…Alex. We’re both just doing whatever it takes to keep our people safe. I’ll kill every person on this block before I let my family suffer.”

“Looks like you’re off to a good start,” Alex muttered.

“What, you think you’re different? The only difference between you and me is that I don’t have the choice to sit around. I gotta hunt for my family. I’m a predator now, Alex.”

“You should get your own Animal Planet show,” Alex said quietly.

“Think about this, smart guy. How many people around here have you killed by doing nothing? You’re like those Germans that lived around the gas camps. Just ignored what was happening,” Manson said.

“Bad analogy.”

“Time to get up. You tell them everything’ll work out just fine.”

“Can I get another one of your history lessons instead?” Alex asked.

“Look here, one way or the other the house is mine. We can do this the easy way, or the very, very hard way. I promise I’ll make it horrible for them,” Manson threatened.

“Good luck.”

“Fine.” Manson braced the shotgun in the crook of his right arm and swung it toward him. Alex turned his head slightly to the left and looked up at the nearest bedroom window, hoping his family would not witness his assassination.

Mercifully, all he saw in the window was the muted reflection of a dull gray sky. As he turned to face his executioner, the bottom right pane of the window shattered. A warm spray hit Alex’s face, and Manson dropped to his left knee; a substantial, jagged exit wound in the back of Manson’s left thigh. Supersonic cracks filled the air as the snow between the two men erupted skyward.

The enraged killer twisted toward the house and fired the shotgun, obliterating the top windowpane. As the ear-shattering drum of the AR-15 rifle ceased, Manson fired the shotgun again, striking the grey siding several inches below the window. Alex tried to get up in the snow, desperate to reach his shotgun, which lay just a few feet away. He’d managed to almost reach the shotgun with his fingertips, by the time Manson turned to face him.

The distinct snap of a single bullet passed over Alex’s head, punching a small red hole between the Manson’s eyes. Manson grunted incoherently and dropped face first into the snowdrift, as the sound of a second single gunshot echoed through the backyard. Alex gently lowered himself down onto his back. He looked up at the window and saw both Ryan and Kate peer down.

“Oh no!” she yelled and disappeared.

“Yeah. I’m…I’m going to need some help,” he mumbled to himself and dropped his head all the way back onto the snow.

Alex heard snow crunching behind his head, from the direction of the Walkers’ yard and twisted his body to the right, writhing in the snow toward his shotgun.

“Alex! Alex! Take it easy. It’s me, Charlie,” he heard. He relaxed and twisted his head back around. The crunching got closer as Charlie bore down on him, holding an assault rifle similar to his own, and knelt in the snow by his head.

He heard someone else approaching from the direction of Ed’s house and tried to contort his body to get a better view.

“It’s just Ed. You need to lie still until we figure out what to do. You took a hit to your left shoulder,” Charlie said and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

A few seconds later, Ed arrived, holding a .22 caliber bolt-action rifle in his right hand. He stood over Charlie, staring at Manson’s body first, then Todd’s.

“Did I hit him?” Ed asked in a daze.

“Right between the eyes. He was dead before I got around the corner. I wanted to kill that jerk myself. Nice shooting,” Charlie said.

“I can’t believe I actually hit him. I haven’t fired this thing in forever,” Ed said.

“Punched one right through his skull,” Charlie crowed.

“I used to shoot this with my dad every weekend,” Ed said, still staring at the bodies in disbelief.

“If I hadn’t stopped to put these gloves on, I would’ve been there to blast his head clearly off his shoulders,” Charlie said.

“I should’ve let you finish him off last night,” Alex whispered weakly.

Ed snapped out of it, kneeling next to Charlie to take a closer look at Alex’s wounds.

“We need to get you some help, buddy. I’m gonna load you up on a sled, and we’ll pull you over to that surgeon staying at the Carters’. You just hang in there. You’ve lost a little blood,” he said and dug his hands under Alex’s back.

Ed propped Alex’s torso up, applying direct pressure to the mangled shoulder. Alex winced and cried out. Charlie walked over to examine Todd’s body.

“Sorry, man. You’re bleeding, but not too badly. Nothing spurting. I just need to slow this down a little.”

“Make sure he’s dead,” Alex whispered again.

“Which one?” Ed asked.

“This guy’s definitely dead, but Todd’s still breathing. Barely. Want me to finish him off?” Charlie asked.

“I don’t care,” Ed said.

“No, leave him alone. We can’t orphan Jordan,” Alex said.

The garage door opened, and Kate spilled out, followed by Ryan. Both were still dressed in their pajamas. Ryan moved forward, pointing the AR-15 at Manson’s body and then shifting it to Todd’s. Kate ran up and grabbed Alex. Ryan followed her closely, standing vigilant guard with an empty rifle. Alex could see that the grisly, blood-splattered mosaic in the snow disturbed Ryan.

“Careful! Careful! Where’s Emmy?” he asked Kate.

“She’s hiding in the closet with Max. She’s fine. We need to get you to a hospital immediately. I’ll start up the car,” Kate said.

“I have a better idea,” Ed said. “Let’s get him over to the Carters’. The young couple there…the guy’s a surgical fellow, or something like that. Grab as much medical stuff as you can, and meet me over there. I’ll drag him over on one of your sleds.”

“I don’t know. I think we need to get him to an ER.”

“The hospitals are slammed with the flu. He needs attention now. This guy can do what needs to be done right now, Kate, he’ll sew Alex up fast, and pump him up with meds. We can take him later if we need to.”

“All right. We have a makeshift surgical kit that might work. I’ll grab everything and meet you there. The sleds are on the wall in the garage.”

“Charlie, get the medical kit from Kate and run it over to the Carters’ house. Let the surgeon know what happened, and that we’ll be there with Alex in ten or twenty minutes,” Ed said, taking charge.

“Got it,” Charlie said.

“You might want to leave that behind,” Ed said, glancing at Charlie’s rifle.

“Not while any of those guys over there are still alive.”

“How are you feeling, hon?” Kate asked, caressing his face.

“Like I’ve been shot. Are you sure Emmy’s okay?”

“She’s scared,” Kate admitted and stood up.

“Kate, have her dress up in her snow gear and head over to our house. Sam and the kids can take care of her while we’re dealing with this,” Ed said.

“All right. I’ll get her over there with Max,” she said and sprinted back to the house.

Charlie and Ed followed her, and Ryan turned toward the house.

“Ryan!” Alex called.

Ryan walked over to kneel next to him, still clutching the rifle. He looked pale and nauseous. He avoided looking at Alex’s shoulder and could barely look at Alex’s blood- spattered face.

“I love you, Dad. You’ll get fixed up quick,” he said.

“Darn right I will. Whose idea was it to use the rifle?” he asked.

“Mom’s, but she didn’t know how to work it. Sorry, I barely hit him. I just kept pulling the trigger. I didn’t want him to kill you, Daddy,” he said and broke down crying, leaning into Alex.

Alex grabbed Ryan with his right arm, grimacing through the pain. “You did great, buddy. Two hits was all it took,” he said and squeezed his son.

“I didn’t know how to reload it, Dad,” he said, sniffling into Alex’s good shoulder.

“You didn’t have to.”

Ryan hugged him harder.

“All right, all right already. You’re starting to dig into the shoulder,” he grunted.

“Sorry, Dad.” Ryan stood back up and picked up the rifle.

“Let me see that for a second,” Alex said to him. Pain shot through his entire left side as Ryan held the rifle out. Alex slowly moved his right arm and pointed to a button on the right side of the weapon, just forward of the trigger well. “Press this and the magazine slides out. Put another one in, and pull back…”

“On the handle,” Ryan said and placed his right hand on the charging handle.

“Right,” Alex whispered as a wave of nausea passed over him.

“I saw that in Modern Warfare. Just never saw the magazine release button,” Ryan said, managing a smile.

“I don’t think your mom’s gonna complain about that game anymore. Go help her out. I love you, buddy.”

“Love you too, Dad,” Ryan said and disappeared into the garage.

Just as Ryan vanished, Ed emerged from the doorway with a green sled. “This is the biggest one you have in there,” he said as he approached Alex. “Can you fit on this?”

“You calling me fat?”

“Oddly enough, you’re probably the fattest man on the block right now,” Ed said as he carefully lifted Alex and tried to slide him onto the sled.

“Aghhhh. Careful, man,” he said.

“Sorry. This might hurt a little.”

“Thanks for the warning. What about Todd?”

“You’re my only priority right now. He can wait,” Ed said, staring angrily at Todd’s motionless figure.

“He won’t make it if we don’t help him. Jordan’s home by herself. She’s gonna be really freaked out,” he mumbled.

“We’ll take care of her. Just stay with me, buddy.” Ed lifted him again.

A wave of heaviness dropped over Alex, and he tried to lift his head. His vision narrowed, and Alex vaguely remembered being lifted onto the green foam sled. Ed tugged hard on the sled’s towline jarring Alex back into consciousness.

They broke through a deep drift, and Alex lifted his head to see where they were. Ed struggled to pull his dead weight forward through the deep snow. His gaze settled on the back of Ed’s dark green jacket as he faded out again.

Chapter 43

Alex kicked his legs against the weight holding him down. His eyes struggled to focus, but all he could see was a shaky, blinding light above him.

“Hold his legs down,” someone yelled.

Something solid pushed against his legs.

“So much for that plan,” the same voice yelled.

“Alex? Alex? It’s Ed,” he heard.

A vaguely familiar man with a medical mask hovered over him.

“What are you doing?” muttered Alex.

“Alex, I’m Dr. Glassman, and I’m trying to remove the shotgun pellets from your wound.”

“Without anesthesia?” Alex asked lucidly.

“Sounds like he’s back,” said Kate.

Kate held his legs down on the makeshift operating table. Ed loomed above him again, pinning his right arm and chest down on a hard surface. A thin towel or shirt rested under his head. He was in someone’s formal dining room, but not his own, or Ed’s. A young, dark-haired woman stood next to Ed holding a bright flashlight.

“Alex, I can give you some Percocet for the pain, but it won’t kick in for a little while. I need to get you stitched up pretty quickly. You’ve lost a little more blood than I would have hoped.”

“How much would you have hoped for?” he asked.

“Ah…I don’t know what…”

“He’s messing with you, Ben,” Kate said.

“All right. Okay. He’s got a strange sense of humor,” Dr. Glassman whispered. “Okay, so we’ll give him the Percocet, and then I’ll start. Alex, this is going to hurt…I wish I had some anesthetic to give you. I have to dig the pellets out and close you up. Ten to fifteen minutes tops.”

“Sounds great. I’ll manage,” Alex said.

Alex stared straight at the chandelier, his vision fading with the hope of unconsciousness.

Kate appeared next to the doctor’s wife. She smiled and mouthed the words, “I love you.” He managed a smile and did the same, before resting his head on the table and closing his eyes.

“Alex, I’m going to start by digging around. If I can get it all out that way, then I won’t have to cut—”

“You’re not going to announce every move like that, are you?” Alex asked.

Hannah Glassman started to laugh.

“Thanks, honey,” Dr. Glassman said.

“You do like to talk everything through,” she said, laughing louder now.

“You don’t want me to tell you what’s coming?” he asked impatiently.

“Not really,” Alex said.

“Okay,” said the doctor.

Several seconds later, a focused, burning pain erupted in his upper chest, followed by darkness.

Chapter 44

Alex lounged on the leather, sectional couch in the great room, inhaling the warm, slightly aromatic spring breeze flowing through the open windows. The damp air carried a sound he hadn’t heard since last November: children playing. He wondered how long it would take for Ryan and Emily to hear it.

Moments later, feet pounded the stairs, followed by the sharp sound of Max’s claws on the hardwood. Both kids hit the foyer landing and rounded the corner, running into the room with Max.

“Mom, Dad, can we ride our bikes? All the Walker kids are out, a bunch of other kids too. Everyone’s out playing,” said Ryan excitedly.

Kate startled from a shallow sleep, sitting up on the other side of the couch. He still marveled at her recently discovered ability to function within seconds of waking. She had taken on the role of chief security officer at the Fletcher household, meeting the challenge well. Fortunately for everyone, Durham Road fell deathly quiet after the shootings. The remaining Mansons vanished, leaving deep tire tracks in the snow as the only evidence of their hasty nighttime departure.

“What’s going on out there?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Everyone’s outside playing, even Chloe and Abigail,” Emily said.

“Daniel’s out, too, Dad. They’re riding bikes. Can you get the bikes out of the basement?” Ryan added.

“Hold on a minute.”

Alex winced as he pulled himself off the couch. His shoulder radiated a dull, painful ache, eliciting a muffled grunt. Even daily stretching did not improve the limited range of motion and constant pain in his shoulder.

Ben Glassman had done the best job he could with the limited resources on hand. The surgery wasn’t pretty, and Alex had three nasty scars to prove it, but thanks to Dr. Glassman, there had never been any doubt that Alex would survive the damage done by the shotgun blast.

“Can we go outside right now, Daddy? Please! Please!” Emily begged.

Kate answered without hesitation, “The CDC says it takes two weeks to build up a full immunity to the flu. For children it may be longer. We only have five more days…”

“I think they’ll be all right,” said Alex, purposely ignoring her glare.

“I don’t know. We’ve gone this far, this long. Another couple of days won’t kill them,” she said authoritatively.

“Aw, come on, Mom! Dad says it’s fine,” Ryan said.

“Take it easy, Ryan. Your mom’s right, plus a lot more than just the flu happened on this block. Things won’t be the same. We need to be cautious.”

“Everything’s pretty much back to normal. The stores are open, cable works, the flu is pretty much gone…”

“Everything is far from normal. The electricity fails daily, and they’re still rationing food at local distribution centers. We’re burning candles at night to conserve the generator’s power, if you haven’t noticed. Why don’t you guys head back upstairs and let your mother and I discuss it.”

“What is there to discuss?” Ryan countered angrily.

“There won’t be anything to discuss if you keep up your tone. Get upstairs. We’ll call you down when we’re done,” Alex said, on the verge of yelling.

“Can we play in the backyard with the Walkers while you guys talk?” Ryan asked, insistent.

“How is that going to work if everyone else is out playing? They can walk right into the yard?” Alex asked.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever going to just walk right into our yard, Dad,” Ryan said solemnly.

“Give us a couple minutes.”

“We promise we won’t go out front.”

“Just give your mom and me a few minutes to talk about it. All right?” he said again and glared at his son.

“Let’s go,” Emily said, tugging at Ryan’s arm.

“Five minutes and we’re coming back down,” Ryan said and started to walk away.

“You’ll come down when summoned,” Alex said in an outrageous Monty Python-like British accent, hoping to cut some of the tension.

“All right, all right. No more. We’ll go,” said Ryan.

Both kids stomped up the stairs. He waited until their footsteps hit the soft carpet upstairs.

“They’re going crazy,” he said, walking over to the front windows.

“I know. Do you really think it’s all right for them to be out in the neighborhood?”

“Damn, the Walker kids are out in front. Getting ready for a bike ride, too. Are you still worried about the flu?” he said.

He didn’t see Ed or Sam.

“Not really. Not at this point. I’m way more nervous about the neighborhood. I don’t think a few months are long enough to recover,” she said and got up to join him at the window.

“I don’t think it’ll ever be the same, or anywhere even close to the way it was before. We all turned on each other in some way,” he said.

“Don’t start the guilt trip again, honey. It doesn’t do us any good. We did what we did, and kept our family safe—helped plenty of others along the way. We just couldn’t help them all.”

“I know,” he whispered.

He looked across the street and saw Derek and Ellen Sheppard playing in their backyard with their three boys. They passed a soccer ball back and forth. Derek lightly kicked the ball to their five-year-old son, Gavin, who reached his foot out to tap the ball, but missed. Instead of chasing the ball, he stood slightly slumped, feet fixed to the ground.

From this distance Alex couldn’t see the portable oxygen tank and nose tube that Gavin would be forced to wear for the rest of his shortened lifespan. The flu had devastated his pulmonary alveoli, reducing his lungs’ capacity to transfer oxygen efficiently to his bloodstream. Derek mentioned that Gavin couldn’t live with the tank forever, and Alex hadn’t asked any more questions.

“Is that Gavin out with them?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Alex said.

She put her hand on his shoulder. “They’re lucky they get to spend this extra time with him. That’s how they look at it, and I think they’re right.”

“I know. It still makes me feel bad. I don’t know what to say when I see them,” he said.

“You don’t have to say anything. They don’t expect it,” she said, turning her attention down the street. “Jamie’s girls are heading across to the Walkers. I guess I feel all right about sending them out—as long as they stay on our side of the loop. I don’t want them riding out of sight. Maybe the bikes can wait,” she said.

“Sounds like a reasonable compromise. Want to call down the troops?” he asked.

The kids suddenly descended the stairs.

“Wait up, Ryan!” Emily squeaked.

Ryan hit the landing and raced toward the front door.

“Hold on!” Alex said. “You understand the restrictions, right?”

“No bike riding. No going on the other side of the block,” Ryan said.

Emily eagerly joined Ryan on the landing, nodding her head in agreement.

“No going out of our sight,” Kate added.

“All right. No going out of sight of the house,” Ryan confirmed.

“Negative! You stay in our sight at all times. That’s where we start. Got it?” Alex asked.

“Got it. We promise. Let’s go,” Ryan said impatiently, flying out the storm door onto the front granite stoop.

The door flew back and almost knocked over Emily, who chased after him yelling.

“Beer?” Alex offered.

“Sure.”

He headed to the refrigerator and retrieved two pale ales, twisted open the caps, and walked to the front door.

“I’m gonna relax on the front stoop.”

“And spy on the kids?” she asked, taking one of the beers.

“Of course,” he replied.

Alex and Kate sat down on the cool granite, of their front porch, seeing signs of life everywhere. He looked up at the clear sky and saw one contrail heading south. One month ago, the skies were empty. Kate caught his eye.

“It’d be a lot easier on your parents if they would just fly over with your brother’s kids,” she said.

“My dad hates flying. He only flies to warmer weather, plus, the seats were like three grand a pop. They need the SUV to fit all of the kids’ stuff anyway,” he said.

“We could’ve sent them the money and shipped all their stuff. It’s a long drive out.”

“I offered. They’ll be fine. They’re leaving tomorrow. Probably take them five or six days, tops. It’s perfectly safe,” he said.

“I know. It’s just a long trip for the kids. It’ll be nice having them here.”

“It’s going to be a major adjustment,” he said.

“It won’t be that bad. The kids really get along.”

“They did as cousins, but as brothers and sisters, all bets are off,” he said.

“True.”

Daniel and Karla had never identified godparents for their children, Ethan and Kevin, so custody fell upon his parents after Daniel died from a massive secondary pulmonary infection. Alex and Kate offered to adopt the kids, and a plan was hatched to deliver them once the pandemic situation cooled. His parents also hinted that they would use the trip to scope out the real estate situation in Maine. He wondered if they would ever drive back to Colorado.

Ed Walker stood in front of his garage. Catching Alex’s eye he held a beer above his head and nodded to Alex and Kate.

“Look. Great minds think alike,” he said, and they raised their beers to Ed.

“I could get used to this,” Kate sighed. “I can’t believe I agreed to head into work tomorrow.”

“You should hit them up for a raise.”

“I’m coming back as an equity partner, which will be a huge raise…if we can get the firm back on solid footing.”

“As long as there’s money, there’ll always be a need for accountants. Your firm will be up and running in no time. Statistically speaking, the firm only lost about twenty percent of its clients. The real problem is that most of your clients have probably lost all of their money. On paper at least.”

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

“The money?” Alex asked.

“No. The twenty percent,” Kate said, taking a long drink from her bottle.

“Hey, look at the bright side,” he said, baiting her.

“I can’t wait to hear your interpretation of the bright side.”

“You’ll have a much more difficult time counting all of our money this year,” he laughed.

“I still can’t believe it.”

She was referring to Alex’s early November reallocation of the entire non-retirement portion of their Fidelity Account to gold-backed mutual funds. Their decision had been based on an economic study sponsored by the ISPAC, which painted a devastatingly bleak picture of a modern post-pandemic economy. A complete collapse of the international credit system, sparked by the default of nearly every major institutional and national loan, would change everything and force an international rewrite of economic rules, or worse.

ISPAC economists recommended a fifty percent reallocation to precious metal funds in the face of a serious pandemic threat, but Kate and Alex could only stomach thirty percent, even after Dr. Wright’s ominous midnight phone call. The non-401K portion of their portfolio was an easy target, since it equaled roughly one-third of their total assets.

“What was the last price?” Alex asked.

“Nearly $12,000 an ounce and rising.”

“Unbelievable. The only successful investment decision I have ever made,” he said.

“Well, if you had agreed to fifty percent, I wouldn’t have to go back to work.”

“Neither of us really has to go back to work,” Alex said and drained his beer.

“Biosphere is hiring. I saw four open positions in the paper.”

“In Portland?”

“Southern Maine,” she commented.

“I’d rather work for Al Qaeda.” He stood up to stretch.

“I don’t think Al Qaeda pays well.”

“Probably not, but the work environment might be a little friendlier. Take a look at that,” he said and nodded toward the top of the street.

A large, dark blue Ford F-150 pickup truck rounded the corner at the top of the loop and passed Todd and Jordan, who were standing in their driveway. Todd pulled his daughter in close as the truck continued past the Andersons’ and Walkers’. It slowed down in front of the Fletchers’. The powerful engine hummed as it passed. Alex saw two men in the front.

“I thought they got ’em all,” Kate whispered.

“No, Jim didn’t want them disturbed. Gave the town hell about it.”

By the end of the second week in December, an unsettling reality had descended on most of New England. The sheer number of deaths caused by the flu solidly overtook local efforts to handle the dead bodies, and the coroner’s office no longer responded to civilian requests. Temporary morgues located in any and all available refrigerated spaces, including refrigerated trailers, filled up within days, leaving most households with no real option for removing a dead body.

It didn’t take long for outdoor morgues to materialize, usually within a securely fenced industrial facility, or a local baseball park, and nearly everyone with deceased family members was directed to one of these sites by early December. The outdoor morgues became loosely monitored dumping grounds, quickly descending into disorder and plagued by nasty rumors. Many households opted to keep their own dead safe in a shed, or just inside their basement bulkhead doors, where they would remain refrigerated or frozen until spring.

James had dragged the bodies of his wife and seven-month-old child into the conservation woods in late March and buried them in shallow graves that took him nearly a week to dig in the solid ground. The bodies had to come out before the ground thawed and the wildlife returned. He’d probably made an arrangement to have them cremated.

All of the kids in front of the Walkers’ house fell silent and watched as the pickup truck pulled into the Thompsons’ driveway. Ed said something to the kids, and they all started walking toward Ed’s house. James Thompson appeared at the top of the driveway to meet the truck. The men from the truck hopped out shook James’ hand. The driver, a man dressed in faded jeans and a flannel shirt, patted him on the shoulder. The second man displayed a badge and tucked it back into his back pocket. James nodded to them and walked back into his garage.

The two men went to the back of the pickup truck and lowered the gate. The driver pulled two shovels out of the bed, and the deputy removed what Alex knew would be two dark green, military-issue body bags. They met James, who carried a shovel over his shoulder, at the top of the driveway, and James led them around the garage.

“I think we should go inside. Last thing he needs is for the whole neighborhood to watch as they load his wife and baby on the truck.”

“Should we tell the kids to come in?” Kate asked, reaching a hand up to Alex.

He pulled her to her feet. “No, they’re fine with Ed.”

He looked over at Ed, who nodded toward them and turned to go about the business of moving the gaggle of kids over to the opposite side of his house.

“I don’t like them out of sight,” Kate said.

“They’ll be fine for a couple minutes,” he assured her, and they both stepped inside.

They walked back into the kitchen, where Alex placed his empty bottle down on the island and opened the refrigerator to get another beer.

“Someone called while we were out front,” Kate announced and picked up the phone.

“Probably Ed or Charlie.”

Alex fished around the refrigerator for a beer buried near the back.

“Actually, it was the police,” she said suddenly.

Alex lifted his head above the refrigerator. “Really?”

“Yep.”

He quickly pulled a beer from the back of the refrigerator and almost knocked a yellow ceramic bowl filled with bean salad onto the floor. He caught the bowl between his left forearm and thigh, burying his elbow in the beans. Kate came around to help him.

“Nice catch, huh?”

“Yeah, I love the taste of elbow in my food. I’m tempted to stand back and see how you’ll figure this one out, but I’m afraid to see what might go into the beans next.”

She reached for the salad bowl.

“Thank you, my love,” he said and backed out of the way of the refrigerator.

“I thought the cops were done with us.” She placed the bowl back on the bottom shelf and closed the door.

“I have a feeling we’ll be hearing a lot more from them. Frankly, I was surprised they didn’t spend more time around here…once they finally got around to checking it out.”

During the third week in January, state police officers arrived to conduct a preliminary investigation into the reported murders and shootings. They walked a half mile in snowshoes, from High Rise Road, which was the nearest passable road in the area. Escorted by Charlie and Ed, they took a look at the Hayes’ and Coopers’ houses. Their response was underwhelming, but expected. They said that the bodies couldn’t be removed any time soon, and that nobody should disturb either crime scene.

Charlie and Ed also led them to the retention pond, to show the officers where they had dumped the three neighborhood shootout casualties. The troopers took a few notes and asked even fewer questions. Apparently, the shootout on Durham Road didn’t qualify as unusual to either of them. They took a cursory look through the Murrays’ house, which was once again empty, and took a few more notes before leaving the neighborhood.

Alex twisted off the top of his beer and took a long swig. “Well, let’s see what they want. I’ll be up in the office.”

“I’m gonna head over to Sam and Ed’s. Meet me there when you’re done.”

“Love you,” he said.

“Love you more.”

He walked upstairs and took in the neighborhood from his office window. It looked like nothing had happened. A warm breeze rolled gently in, lazily displacing a few sheets of loose paper on the desk.

The phone rang as he reached for it to return the call to the police. The orange LED screen flashed. “Murray, Gregory.” Alex picked up the phone, hopeful that their friends had finally made their way home.

****

CONTINUE READING RED DRAGON, the prologue to THE PERSEID COLLAPSE (ALEX FLETCHER BOOK 2)

Red Dragon

Prologue to The Perseid Collapse (Alex Fletcher Book 2)

By Steven Konkoly

Several years after

The Jakarta Pandemic…

Chapter 1

EVENT -04:56 Hours

Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region

People’s Republic of China

Liang Zhen approached the shiny steel door and swiped his keycard, activating the biometric scanner. He pressed a shaky hand to the glass panel and waited for the system to verify his identity. He started to look over his shoulder, but stopped. They would read it on his face. The station’s endgame rapidly approached, and he had no intention of going down with his ship.

The pneumatic door opened, and he stepped into a new atmosphere—filtered of rank coffee breath and body odor. His sanctuary. The door hissed shut, and he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees.

Breathe deeply. Get control.

He straightened up and cinched his tie. Loyalty be damned! His destiny did not include dying 450 feet underground, and he strongly suspected that Station Three would not survive the morning.

Station Three had served a single purpose since he arrived two years earlier: to prevent the world’s discovery of “ME8192019.” Working in shifts, the men and women of his station held a constant vigil over the vast digital fraud and network manipulation required for Operation Red Dragon to succeed.

Now that the operation had entered the terminal phase, his station remained the only loose end, and he wasn’t naïve enough to exclude the likelihood that Beijing would “close the loop” on Red Dragon.

He walked swiftly toward a stainless-steel door at the end of the hallway and entered the daily code into the keypad. Green light. Beijing suspected nothing. He opened the door to a brightly lit concrete stairwell, which rose several levels to a private elevator lobby. From there, Liang could summon one of Station Three’s elevators and escape the facility.

He felt like a traitor leaving everyone behind, but someone had to survive, and he was the only member of the crew authorized to leave the station. Any attempt at an unauthorized mass exodus would trigger an immediate response. He couldn’t wait to see the Directorate’s sour faces when he resurfaced. Shock would eventually yield to relief that the genius behind China’s recovery had survived.

Liang Zhen, then second director of the Cyber Warfare Recovery Directorate, had been the first to propose the Republic of China wage a more active, silent war against the West, with the ultimate goal of destabilizing European and North American economies. Liang oversaw the program from 2014 until 2017, when the Future Vulnerabilities Group discovered an “event” with the potential to do far more than temporarily destabilize the United States.

They immediately sent Liang Zhen to Cyber Warfare Station Three to oversee Operation Red Dragon and fulfill China’s destiny. He was simply taking measures to ensure that the chief architect of that destiny still had a seat at the table when the dust settled. Thick dust.

Liang reached the ground lobby and scurried up three stories of metal stairs to the surface. The wide stairs ended at a thick iron door, which opened into the center of a vast, empty warehouse. Gusts of wind buffeted the building’s thin metal walls as he walked rapidly through the roasting heat toward the door.

The driver better be there.

The station was located in one of the most isolated sections of the former Lop Nur Nuclear Test Range, over sixty kilometers from the nearest inhabited post. He had little chance of surviving an escape on foot, and he had brought nothing to the surface with him, aside from his wallet and identification card.

The door swung open, propelled by a burst of stifling hot wind. Squinting through his fingers, he spotted the SUV. Perfect timing.

He struggled against the gale, pausing once to look behind him at the lone warehouse situated between two windswept ridges. One hundred and eleven Chinese citizens had worked on Red Dragon for twenty months, buried deep below the surface. Dead and buried from the start. They just hadn’t known it. None of them had—until recently.

Would they cut the power and let it die slowly? Poison the air supply? Did the station already have some kind of self-destruct failsafe installed? Whatever happened, he planned to be as far away as possible.

Halfway to the vehicle, he shook his head. The damn driver was asleep! He had better be resting for the marathon drive ahead. He found the front passenger door locked and knocked on the dust-caked window. The driver didn’t move. He banged on the side of the door. Just his shitty luck. The executive service sent an incompetent fool! He wiped the thick layer of dust off the passenger window and stumbled backward, falling to the hardened clay surface.

How could they know?

He turned on his stomach and scanned the horizon. Several figures sprinted toward him from the left side of the warehouse. He was a dead man. How long had they waited for him? The lead figure penetrated the sandstorm. Chinese Special Forces. Death would be a luxury.

“Director, I need you to return to your post immediately,” stated the soldier, extending his hand.

He nodded eagerly. It made sense to him now. If killing everyone had been the plan, they wouldn’t send him back down alive. He kept his eyes focused on the soldier’s feet. What a fool he had been. He’d flushed away everything. The Special Forces team would report his escape attempt, and the career he had cultivated for the past forty years would be finished. Acceptable in light of his irrational behavior. How could he face Tin and the rest of his deputies below? He would have to come up with an excuse.

An emergency meeting at the surface!

“Please, there is little time,” said the soldier, helping Director Zhen to his feet.

Chapter 2

EVENT -04:48 Hours

Jewell Island, Maine

The wind rose gently, nudging the campfire’s spectral plume toward Alex. He squirmed in the collapsible aluminum chair and turned his head as heated exhaust from the dying fire washed over him. The gust intensified, focusing the column of sparks and gases in his direction for a sudden, uncomfortable moment. Just as suddenly, the smoke drifted skyward on the confused breeze.

The mosquitos returned within seconds, causing Kate to mumble a few obscenities and wave a futile hand above her head to disperse the pests. He took her other hand and squeezed, finally catching her gaze. The soft firelight illuminated her gentle face and exposed the first genuine smile he’d seen since they left Boston yesterday.

“He’s really not that far away. We can visit him any time we want,” Alex said comfortingly, kissing her hand.

“I know. He’s just really on his own now,” said Kate, returning her eyes to the fire.

They had dropped Ryan at Boston University in the middle of the afternoon, after dining al fresco in Winthrop Square, a late-summer tradition they had enjoyed since Ryan and Emily were in grade school. The definition of al fresco dining had changed over the years, as the children matured. Lounging as a family, on blankets spread over the trampled grass, had inevitably yielded to scarfing down pizza and subs on the outskirts of the park. Still, they never failed to take time out of their annual Boston pilgrimage to visit the iconic Harvard Square gathering place and its eclectic assortment of musicians and vendors.

This year’s visit had been slightly awkward, if not tense for the family. Ryan had been anxious to be ferried across the Charles River, but Kate was in no hurry to surrender her firstborn. She prolonged the stroll through Cambridge, pushing Ryan’s barely tested patience to dangerous levels. Alex could sense the strain, and had spent most of the day implementing one subtle intervention after another to keep them from exploding before the inevitable outburst at the foot of Ryan’s dormitory building.

Kate remained silent for most of the drive back, punctuated by Alex’s occasional failed attempt to distract her from the significance of the afternoon’s farewell. Ryan was truly on his own, free to follow the path of his choosing. Every phone call that flashed his name would flood them with a mix of joy, apprehension and ultimately relief. Any conversation from this point forward could instantly morph into a defining moment for Ryan. Anything was possible. He had taken the first steps toward escaping his parents’ gravitational pull this afternoon. Ryan couldn’t understand this yet, but Kate and Alex had effectively released him, which is why Kate’s somber mood was nearly impenetrable.

“He’s a smart, cautious kid. Just like his mother,” said Alex.

“He has a wild side that worries me,” she whispered.

She was right to a certain degree. The events surrounding their experience during the Jakarta Pandemic had drawn out aspects of his personality that might have lain dormant for years, fueling a confidence that more resembled recklessness at such a young age. He didn’t have the maturity to temper the confidence that came with saving his father from a brutal psychopath at age twelve and standing guard over their house as the world recovered from the pandemic. He never crossed any lines that landed him in trouble with the school or police, but he was far too comfortable walking the line. Ryan was destined for something important. Kate just wanted to make sure he survived until that point.

“ROTC will keep him in line. There’s only so much crazy shit you can get away with enrolled in that kind of program,” he sighed.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? We’ll be at war with Iran by the time he graduates.”

“We were supposed to be at war with Iran last year—and the year before that. Nobody’s going into battle any time soon. He’s Navy ROTC anyway,” said Alex.

“He’ll switch to Marine-Option the first chance he gets. He was placating me with that song and dance about the navy. So were you.”

“Why are you guys whispering?” interrupted Emily.

“No reason. Has anyone seen a meteorite? We shall remain at the mercy of these mosquitos until everyone has spotted at least one. That’s the tradition,” said Alex.

“It’s meteor, Dad,” said Emily.

“What is?”

“A meteorite is a meteor that lands on Earth. Up in the sky, they are called meteors.”

“It could be a meteorite,” Alex argued.

“Maybe, but not until it officially hits the earth,” Emily insisted. “That’s why they call this a meteor shower.”

“Ethan, do you agree with Emily’s scientific assessment?” said Alex, trying to draw him into the conversation.

“She’s rarely wrong about anything,” said Ethan, with a hint of humor.

“I know someone else that is rarely wrong,” said Alex, glancing at Kate.

“Rarely? More like never,” said Kate.

Ethan laughed at their exchange, which comforted Alex. This had been the first year that they had been able to convince Ethan to join them on the sailboat, or any family trip for that matter. The idea to adopt his brother’s children quickly fizzled when Ethan and Kevin had arrived in Maine. The sudden death of their parents during the pandemic had firmly attached them to Alex’s parents. The situation was complicated, especially in the aftermath of the pandemic, and the Fletchers didn’t see any reason to disturb what little stability and family dynamic the children had left. Alex’s parents remained the legal guardians, eventually adopting Ethan and Kevin in 2015, when they could finally obtain the proper paperwork and affidavits from the State of Colorado.

They lived with Tim and Amy Fletcher on an isolated farm near Limerick, Maine, thirty-two miles west of Scarborough. Alex had purchased a large parcel of lakefront property and built a custom-designed, sustainable home for them, with the idea that the farm would serve as the Fletcher family stronghold if another disaster or pandemic ever hit Maine. Alex and his clan spent at least two days a week at the farm in the summer, helping with the massive garden, which required constant attention. Over the course of five years, the two families had turned the twenty-acre parcel of land into a self-sustainable family compound.

“Is Kevin looking forward to starting middle school?” Kate asked.

“He seems pretty excited,” said Ethan.

Alex met her glance, but didn’t hold it. Their relationship with Kevin had been strained since he arrived with his brother in Maine, playing a major role in the decision to abandon the original plan to adopt their orphaned nephews. Kevin had been openly hostile toward them from the start, which had been an understandable reaction to the loss of his parents. Alex didn’t need to read the latest “post-pandemic” psychology articles to understand what Kevin might be experiencing. He was well versed in the broad spectrum of emotions and symptoms related to post-traumatic stress disorder.

A brilliant streak flashed across the dark blue sky, just above the tree line to the northeast.

“There’s the first one!” said Alex.

“Where?” Kate snapped. “You’re full of shit. I was watching the whole time.”

“You see, kids, that’s why you shouldn’t drink underage. You lose your ability to see meteors,” said Alex.

Emily looked at Alex. “Mom isn’t underage.”

“Really? She doesn’t look a day over twenty to me,” said Alex.

Kate slapped his shoulder. “Your dad—Uncle Alex, is truly full of—”

“Don’t say it, Mom!” yelled Emily and Ethan at the same time.

“I meant twenty years old in the dark. In broad daylight you’re clearly thirty.”

“Nice recovery. You were about to get a stale beer hat,” she said, lifting one of the empty beer bottles over his head. “There’s one!” she said, pointing. “Move your chairs, kids. They come out of Perseus Constellation. You can barely see it above the trees. The quicker we each spot one, the sooner we can get away from these mosquitos.”

“We’re catching the tail end of the shower, so it might take a while,” said Alex.

Just as he finished his sentence, two near simultaneous flashes traversed the sky, appearing to head west over the coast of Maine. He was surprised that they had seen this many in such a short period of time. The Perseids typically peaked one week earlier, as the earth passed through the densest part of a debris field left by the comet Swift-Tuttle, on its 133-year orbital journey around the sun.

“That’s it for me. You can watch the rest of the show from the boat if you don’t mind being eaten alive,” said Kate, putting an end to the land portion of their evening.

“It just started,” said Alex.

Kate shook her head. “It’s past midnight, and I’m done. We’ll have to get out a week earlier next year.”

Ten minutes later, they plied the calm, moonlit waters on an eight-foot, inflatable rubber dinghy, plying through the silky black cove at low throttle. Alex loved navigating the dinghy at night, relying on little more than instinct to bring them back to their sailboat, a dark mass anchored in the middle of the tight cove.

They never bothered to display their anchor light in this snug harbor. Aside from the occasional late arrival in the anchorage, the cove in the northwest corner of the island was protected from marine traffic on all sides, except for its entrance. Any boats entering the cove at night would proceed cautiously enough to spot a boat anchored in these waters. Nine boats now lay at anchor within it, and only the two larger sailboats near the entrance displayed mast lights.

Alex pulled the motor’s tiller into his body, taking the dinghy to the right of an illuminated luxury powerboat. They slid past the boat at a distance of fifty feet, giving the occupants as much privacy as possible. Inside the topside cabin, Alex could see four adults watching television. As they pulled astern of the monstrous cabin cruiser, he heard raucous laughter ripple across the water.

He eased the dinghy alongside the Katelyn Ann and placed the throttle in neutral, grabbing the nearest rail to keep them from drifting away. Ethan stood up and gripped the toe rail with both hands, walking the dinghy back to the fixed swim platform a few feet away along the boat’s stern. He helped Alex keep the dinghy in place as Kate and Emily stepped on the swim deck and entered the cockpit area.

“Thanks, Ethan. I appreciate the help,” said Alex warmly. “I’m glad you decided to come along on the trip.”

“I’m glad I came too. This is really cool. Kevin would really like this,” said Ethan, stepping onto the platform.

“We’ll get everyone out next year, before college starts,” said Alex.

He tied the dinghy’s bow line to one of the cleats attached to the stern of the boat and climbed onboard, surprisingly tired from a day of leisure. Being out on the water always drained a good portion of his energy, especially during the first few days of any trip. Even in calm weather, the constant movement of the boat took its toll, readying him for sleep.

“Who’s planning to sleep under the stars and watch the Perseids?” Alex asked.

“Not me,” said Kate. “The mosquitos got enough of my blood tonight. Wake me if the meteors really pick up, and I might watch from inside the cabin.”

“Emily?”

“No way. Your mosquito net contraption doesn’t work,” said Emily.

“Ethan?”

“Don’t let him talk you into it, Ethan,” Emily said. “You’ll be eaten alive unless you bury yourself in the bag. Then you’ll overheat. It’s a lose-lose situation. Seriously.”

“It’s really not that bad. The net covers your face, and as long as you stay tucked in the sleeping ba—”

“I think I’ll trust the women on this one,” said Ethan, stepping into the cabin.

“Smart man. The earlier you start listening to them, the better,” said Alex, swatting at the swarm that had already found him.

“I heard that,” said Kate. “Close the hatch, Ethan. If he wants to sleep outside, he can keep the mosquitos to himself.”

Alex stared into the sky. “The love is gone.”

A few moments later, the screen door opened, and his sleeping bag was dumped into the cockpit, along with a water bottle and a can of bug spray.

“The netting is inside the bag. How can you say the love is gone?” she said, quickly closing the screen door.

“Don’t I get a kiss?”

Kate pressed her lips against the screen, and he gave her a quick kiss through the thin plastic mesh. He turned his head and pushed his cheek against the barrier, feeling the warmth of her face.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you more,” she replied.

They held their faces together for a few moments before Kate pulled away from the cabin door.

“I can see the mosquitos swarming your head. Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna miss the show,” he protested, swatting at his arms.

“Not worth the price of admission. Holler if you need anything else, like a blood transfusion,” she said, eliciting laughter from the cabin.

“I’ll be fine. I have a plan.”

“Just don’t fall overboard, okay? I do not feel like taking a midnight swim.”

He smiled and went to work. A few minutes later, he nestled into a sleeping bag suspended over the cockpit by a hammock. He lay still for a moment, trying to gauge whether the contraption would work. Previous attempts to hang the hammock had resulted in a series of spectacularly embarrassing failures he didn’t care to repeat. Suddenly striking the fiberglass deck at two in the morning was guaranteed to provoke laughter and a well-deserved string of “I told you so’s.” He’d tested the new hammock arrangement at their club mooring with a few mid-afternoon naps and felt that tonight would mark a new era in sleeping comfort aboard the Katelyn Ann.

He adjusted his arms inside the sleeping bag and contemplated the empty cockpit. This would be the first time he had slept out here alone. Ryan never turned down an opportunity to sleep outdoors, especially on the boat. Before the hammock idea took hold, they slept opposite each other on the cockpit benches, watching the stars and talking for hours, mosquitos be damned. He was going to miss having Ryan around.

The faint red strobe light of a high-altitude aircraft distracted him from the thought. Travelling in a northeasterly direction, he assumed it was a red-eye flight bound for Europe. Alex could barely separate the aircraft’s lights from the growing field of stars superimposed against the velvety black sky.

Later in the night, the Perseid radiant would drift over the mouth of the cove and continue west, remaining in full view from their anchorage. As long as the evening’s prevailing winds continued to blow from the southeast, the boat’s position in the water would afford him with a continuous, unobstructed view of the meteor shower.

The sound of a distant motorboat competed with the lapping water, growing stronger until the ugly racket dominated the cove. Sound travelled deceptively far across the water, with surprisingly little deterioration. The deep rumble reached its peak and faded south, as the fast-moving vessel navigated the narrow pass between Jewell and Cliff Islands and sped toward Portland.

An arc of light raced across the sky, burning brilliantly for the briefest moment. He counted two more streaks of light before the distant hum of the motorboat evaporated, enveloping Alex in the absolute silence he would enjoy for the rest of the night. His hammock rocked gently in the light breeze as he waited patiently for the next piece of cosmic dust to strike Earth’s atmosphere, unaware that his breathing had slowed and his eyes had drifted shut.

Chapter 3

EVENT -02:53 Hours

Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region

People’s Republic of China

Deputy Station Director Tin Jianyu raced his fingers over the plasma keyboard, pausing only to swipe at images on the 65-inch, paper-thin, curved OLED-T screen wrapped halfway around his station. He added a few more strings of code and raised his hand a few inches away from the screen, hesitant to drag the folder to its cyber destination in his centralized directory. He’d run out of ideas, and if this didn’t work, nothing would. He “hooked” the folder and moved it. Gone. A few more keystrokes and—nothing.

“Damn it. They must have physically separated the controls,” said Tin.

“How could they have done that? The whole station is connected,” said Fan Huning, his direct subordinate within the cyber warfare section.

“They must have designed the station like this. I haven’t found a single connection to Zhen’s office,” said Tin.

“How did we miss this?”

“We never looked for it. Zhen played us like a sheet of music to the very end.”

“And there’s no way to override the elevator controls?” said Fan.

“Same problem. I can’t find a single outgoing connection that gives me access to the elevator system root directory,” said Tin.

“The security station? They have direct feeds to the cameras in the elevator. I’ve seen them panning the cameras. There has to be a connection that can be exploited.”

Tin shook his head. He had already thought of this. The security camera feeds were wirelessly linked to the security station servers, and presumably Zhen’s private office, but attempts to piggyback the wireless signal only led back to the security servers. Either Zhen wasn’t watching the camera feeds, or he had his own camera feeds from a separate hardwire connection to the elevator. Either way, Tin had exhausted all options to access the elevators at this point.

They were trapped four hundred and fifty feet below the surface, with no way to escape. All they could do at this point was hope for mercy from the lunatics that had dreamed up Red Dragon. He wasn’t optimistic. The information he discovered, while sifting through ultrasecret, highest-level government communiqués, painted a very bleak picture of their survival.

A brief “eyes only” message to the Centralized Military Commission from a Second Artillery Corp liaison embedded in the National Space Agency had piqued his attention. The message itself was purely administrative, containing nothing suspicious; however, reference to Red Dragon in a Second Artillery Corps communiqué seemed out of place.

The Second Artillery Corps controlled China’s nuclear arsenal, and had never been connected to Red Dragon in any of the ultrasecret meetings he had attended with Director Zhen. With his curiosity raised, he dug deeper within the Second Artillery Corps servers, discovering that a ten-kiloton nuclear device had been delivered to the National Space Agency several months ago. More untraceable snooping yielded a nasty secret that had effectively doomed them from the beginning. Cyber Station Three’s two-year mission wasn’t the most insidious aspect of Red Dragon.

“We could package up what we’ve found and bury copies on multiple outside servers, with time-release instructions. We force them to let us out of here, or their secret will be exposed,” said Fan.

“They’ve already shut us down. We’re cut off from the surface,” said Tin.

“What are you talking about? They’re still doing their jobs,” said Fan, motioning his hand toward the concentric circle of frantic workstations.

“I think we’ve been interacting with mimic servers for the past twenty-four hours. Cases continue to stream in at the same rate, but we haven’t interacted with a new network or server since yesterday around this same time,” said Tin.

“When were you planning to let me in on this discovery? We could have forced Zhen to take us out of here,” hissed Fan.

“I discovered it accidentally about ten minutes ago, when I tried to access a private server used by some hackers I know. These guys can design code that makes my stuff look amateur. I thought I might turn to them for ideas. I couldn’t reach the server—or any new server.”

“What about taking control of the mimic servers? Look for something there? They have to be talking to the outside world,” said Fan.

“I doubt it. For all we know, the mimic server farm could be located right above us, hardwired to the station—or connected by satellite to another cyber warfare station thousands of miles away. Either way, it will be isolated from the real Internet.”

“So that’s it? We just wait for them to pull the plug on this place?” said Fan.

“Unless we can force open the elevator doors and try to climb out of here. I don’t think the security section will react very well to that plan.”

“Maybe it’s time we told everyone the truth about this place, including security. Let them make up their own minds. The security people have families too. Nobody wants to wait around here to die.”

Tin touched the screen and tapped a code into the window to unlock its contents.

“According to security protocols, any individual, unauthorized attempt to leave the station will be stopped using a combination of lethal and nonlethal measures. Any attempts to leave the station involving more than one person will be immediately met with lethal force. If any single attempt, or combination of attempts, creates an unresolvable evacuation caucus among station personnel, release of a nonpersistent, lethal nerve agent is authorized at the discretion of the security chief,” recited Tin from the screen. “They’ve planned for this.”

“We killed ourselves by sharing this with Zhen.”

“We were dead as soon as we stepped off the elevator two years ago,” said Tin.

Before Fan could respond, a screen activated in the bottom left corner of his wraparound screen. Tin quickly dragged it into the middle.

“Security feed for the elevator?” asked Fan.

“Yes. Looks like Zhen is returning to the station.”

“Maybe we let our imaginations get the best of us.”

“We’ll know shortly,” Tin said resolutely.

They watched the screen for several seconds, observing Director Zhen’s impassive, unchanging face as the elevator descended. From his workstation, Tin could hear the elevator machinery humming from the doors located in a small vestibule next to the security room.

“Maybe this is a fake feed too,” said Fan.

“He always looks like that,” responded Tin.

Tin’s hopes faded when he heard the elevator doors open in the vestibule. Zhen had never directly accessed the cyber-operations level using the elevator. It was against security protocol. Expecting a tight formation of black-clad commandos to fan out from the hallway, he was surprised to see Zhen emerge alone. The director lumbered toward them, carrying something dark and heavy on his back. Olive-drab shoulder straps tugged mercilessly against Zhen’s dust-coated, black suit jacket. Second Artillery Corps had contributed heavily to Operation Red Dragon. Tin relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath before asking his last question.

“Did you know from the beginning?”

Zhen shook his head slowly and raised his right hand, which held a gray “dead man” trigger mechanism.

“I should have known. I’m sorry, Tin,” said Zhen, opening his right hand.

Chapter 4

EVENT -02:49 Hours

Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty Organization Headquarters

Vienna, Austria

Romy Nadel took a sip of steaming coffee and leaned back in her chair. As the International Data Centre’s (IDC) lead analyst, one of her primary duties entailed preparing the previous day’s Reviewed Event Bulletin (REB), which compiled all of the IDC’s confirmed and corrected seismic or acoustic events for distribution to member states. Once approved, data from the REB was automatically screened by the IDC’s mainframe system to determine whether the event was natural or manmade.

The automated criteria used to differentiate events had been agreed upon by member states during the ratification phase of the treaty, eliminating any possible accusation of bias against the organization should a violation occur. The IDC simply collected, compiled and disseminated raw data. What the member states did with the information was their own business.

She was seconds away from approving the weekend’s report when an “Event Alert” window appeared in the lower right-hand corner of her flat-screen monitor. Events meeting the criteria for immediate review were extremely rare, usually the result of an isolated meteorite strike or massive earthquake with unusual characteristics. The software classifying worldwide events kept these intrusions to a minimum. Her videoconferencing software activated less than a second later, opening another window. Walter Bikel’s caustic, angular face appeared in the upper left corner of her screen.

“Romy, have you seen the alert data?” he asked.

“No. It just popped up on my screen,” she replied, opening the alert window.

“Magnitude 4.7. Estimated 4-5 kiloton explosion at Lop Nur,” he said.

“Hold on. Let me take a look.”

Nadel saw several other videoconference requests appear on her screen below the initial data assessment. She ignored them and concentrated on the neatly packaged seismic information. The data screen showed initial waveform patterns with a software generated assessment of the cause. Walter was right. China had apparently violated the nuclear-test-ban treaty.

Fast moving P-waves were off the chart compared to the slower moving S-waves, indicating an explosion or sudden detonation of some kind. They couldn’t officially rule out a large meteorite strike, but the geographic epicenter left little doubt in her mind as to the cause of the explosion. Lop Nur had served as China’s only nuclear testing facility for nearly forty years. The Chinese government issued a formal moratorium on nuclear testing in 1996, the day after conducting their forty-fifth and supposedly final nuclear test. The site had been quiet for twenty-three years, which struck her as odd. They had no intelligence to suggest the Chinese were in the process of renewing their nuclear testing program. Why would they suddenly detonate a nuclear device?

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Nadel said. “Maybe they had an accidental detonation. The Chinese keep a sizeable weapons stockpile at Lop Nur.”

“Seismic data suggests that the explosion occurred deep underground. They don’t keep their stockpiled weapons underground. Nobody does,” said Bikel.

“I know; I’m being optimistic. Sorry to cut you off, but I need to make a few calls,” said Nadel.

“I imagine you do. Good luck.”

Chapter 5

EVENT: -00:04 Hours

USS Gravely (DDG107)

Norfolk Naval Base, Virginia

Chief Fire Controlman Warren Jeffries took a long swig of bitter coffee from a worn USS Gravely travel mug and stared at the unchanging console screen. Three hours until one of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-Two’s teams arrived and resumed responsibility for this watch, allowing his sailors a much-needed break before the start of the work week. As Atlantic Fleet’s designated Launch On Remote (LOR) Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense (HBMD) platform, Gravely maintained a continuous state of readiness to fire her RIM-161 Standard Missile Three (SM-3) shipboard missiles at ballistic missile threats to key infrastructure assets in Washington, D.C. With an operational range of three hundred miles, the Block IIB version carried onboard Gravely could conceivably protect New York City.

Chief Jeffries stepped away from the console manned by Fire Controlman Clark and sat down at a deactivated console station several feet away to rest his eyes for a few seconds. The watch required two qualified fire controlmen, who would conduct last-minute checks and sound the appropriate shipboard alarms in the unlikely event that Gravely ’s weapons and sensors were remotely co-opted by the Missile Defense Agency. Aside from running system diagnostic checks every two hours, they did little more than keep each other awake. Jeffries settled into a deeply relaxing state, letting the hum of the Combat Information Center’s active equipment lull him perilously close to sleep.

“Chief, I think we have something,” said Petty Officer Clark from the designated C2BMC console.

“What is it? Another system-wide test? Always at five in the goddamned morning,” said Jeffries, opening his eyes and reaching for his coffee mug.

“No. This looks—holy shit! Missiles away in thirty seconds!”

“Bullshit. Get out of that chair,” said Jeffries.

He barely waited for Clark to vacate the seat before jamming his slightly oversized body into the fixed chair to scan the display.

“Son of a mother! Activate the general alarm and read this over the 1-MC,” he said, unclipping a laminated card from the console and handing it to the petty officer.

“When you’re done with that, get over to the VLS console and make sure the birds are ready. I’ll take care of the Aegis array. Go!”

Missiles started to cycle out of the forward Vertical Launch System before either of them had completed their diagnostic checks, shaking the ship’s superstructure. Buried deep within the ship, inside the Combat Information Center, they barely heard each successive launch over the piercing shrill of the ship’s general alarm. Jeffries ran back to the console to see if the C2BMC system had given them any further information regarding the threat that continued to drain his ship’s SM3 missiles. Glancing at the screen, his first thought was that somebody or something had fucked up big time.

None of the data made sense. The missiles would arc into a western trajectory to intercept a target identified by the PAVE PAWS (Phased Array Warning System) station at Beale Air Force Base in California. Not a typical threat trajectory for the East Coast. One target parameter stood out as terminally flawed. Target speed. His Mach 7.88 missiles had been sent to intercept a target moving at Mach 58. This had to be a mistake. Russia’s most updated ICBMs topped out at Mach 23. He wasn’t even sure if Gravely ’s AEGIS system could provide terminal guidance to intercept a target moving this fast. It really didn’t matter, because it was out of his hands.

The missiles stopped firing, and he ran to the active AEGIS tracking console, still shocked to see the digital representations of his missiles streaking west over Virginia to intercept a track originating from the southwest. Not a single BMD training scenario had involved a missile threat from that direction.

Thirteen missiles had been fired without “skin on track” by Gravely ’s AN/SPY-1D phased array radar, meaning that the ship’s radar had not acquired the target. The C2BMC system would guide the missiles until Gravely ’s powerful sensors picked up the track. At that point, the ship’s fire control system would provide terminal guidance to ensure that each missile’s Light Exo-Atmospheric Projectile (LEAP) collided with the threat.

The entry hatch to CIC flew open, spilling a panicked contingent of crewmembers into the dimly lit space. Dressed in the digital blue camouflage-patterned navy working uniform, Gravely ’s command duty officer, Lieutenant Mosely, pushed the first sailors out of the way and ran to Jeffries.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Our ship remote launched thirteen SM-3s at an inbound target identified by C2. It’s moving Mach fifty-eight out of the southwest. That’s all I know, sir,” said Chief Jeffries.

“You mean Mach five point eight,” corrected the officer.

“No, Lieutenant. Fifty-eight. Have you called the captain?”

The lieutenant glanced around for a second, clearly confused by the entire situation. Jeffries could understand the officer’s hesitation. Less than a minute ago, the ship had been quiet. Within the span of forty-five seconds, Gravely had autofired thirteen antiballistic missiles, and they had very little information. For all any of them knew, they could be on the verge of a full-scale nuclear war.

“I’ll call him right now. Are you talking to anyone at IMD?”

“Not yet. We barely got our checks done before the missiles launched,” said Jeffries, turning to type into the BMD console.

“Get IMD on the line. They’re running the show.”

“I’m on it, sir. Petty Officer Clark, start making calls to the Integrated Missile Defense command. Get me anyone that knows what’s going on. Numbers are on the card,” said the chief.

He stood up from his chair and turned to the half-dozen sailors hovering near the hatch. “The rest of you get out of here!”

Two minutes later, Chief Jeffries and Fire Controlman Ben Clark watched the AEGIS display in horror as Gravely ’s missiles disappeared one by one over central Virginia. Gravely ’s fire control system acquired and tracked the target for nine seconds before it vanished in the vicinity of Richmond, Virginia.

“That wasn’t a missile, sir,” said the chief.

“What are you saying, Chief? Hold on, Captain,” said the lieutenant, covering the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Radar cross section was ninety-six thousand,” he said, his voice trailing off in disbelief.

He still couldn’t process his emotions. Everything had happened too fast. Repeating the radar cross section brought a single emotion to the surface. Fear. His family lived ten miles from here, in the direction of Richmond. His vision narrowed, and he barely heard the lieutenant’s reply.

“Meters? That can’t be right,” said the officer, walking toward the AEGIS console. He glanced at the data over the chief’s shoulder and shook his head.

“We have to get IMD on the line, Chief!” yelled Lieutenant Mosely.

“Captain, Chief Jeffries just confirmed that the target had a radar cross section over ninety thousand. Something has to be wrong. That would put the diameter over three hundred meters!”

Jeffries waited for the lieutenant to continue, but heard nothing. He looked up at the officer, who pressed his ear against the receiver and squinted.

“Captain? Can you hear me? Chief, I think my call—”

He was interrupted by a complete and sudden darkness. The Combat Information Center went dead for a second before bulkhead-mounted, battery-powered LED “battle lanterns” started to provide illumination. The eerie silence continued.

“Shore power’s out. We should get power from one of the generators in a few seconds,” said the lieutenant.

Ten seconds elapsed, yielding no change to the eerie silence.

“I think we lost more than shore power,” said the chief, starting to get out of his seat to help Petty Officer Clark with the communications console.

Before he reached Clark, the entire ship slid laterally, knocking everyone inside to the metal grated deck. A severe rumbling enveloped CIC for several seconds, followed by silence. Jeffries grabbed onto Clark’s seat and began to pull himself to his feet when a panicked voice filled the darkened space.

“CDO, they need you on the quarterdeck!”

Chief Jeffries stood up and walked with Lieutenant Mosely toward the hatch, but stopped when the metal beneath his feet shuddered again. Once the ship settled, he unsheathed a powerful LED flashlight from his belt and illuminated the doorway, finding a wide-eyed Hispanic woman in dark blue Gravely sweatpants and a white T-shirt. She wore an expression of terror.

“What happened?” asked Mosely.

“Norfolk Naval Base is on fire—and the ship broke free of the pier.”

Chief Jeffries stared at her with disbelief. All he could think about was his wife and two teenagers.

Chapter 6

EVENT 00:00 Hours

Boston University

Boston, Massachusetts

Ryan Fletcher squinted at his alien surroundings. Unnaturally brilliant light penetrated the translucent curtains, exposing beige cinderblock walls and sparse furniture. The glaring view of his dorm room faded quickly, replaced by a soft flickering light. He raised his head a few inches off the pillow to view the digital alarm clock resting on his desk. A dark object stared back. He raised his left hand to his chest and stared at the illuminated dial until it made sense. 4:59.

Brutal.

His eyes eased shut, and he started to drift back to sleep, until the steel bedframe under his thin mattress rattled against the wooden dresser behind his head. Angry thoughts of the “T” waking him every morning of his freshmen year yanked him out of the murky depths, and he sat up, fully awake and pissed off at his room assignment. Nobody had mentioned the fact that the train made stops inside his dorm room . The vibration intensified, accompanied by a deafening roar.

“No way I’m dealing with this for an entire year,” he mumbled.

The bed heaved upward, tossing him face down onto the carpeted floor. Distant car alarms sounded. He lay prone for a few seconds, stunned by the violent upheaval. Another massive jolt rocked the room. He needed to get out of here.

Ryan grabbed the bedframe and tried to stand, but the room pitched violently, dropping him to his hands and knees. He crawled in the darkness toward the door, tumbling sideways into the wooden dresser beyond his bed as the building swayed. Ryan scurried into the small vestibule next to the door moments before both of the room’s heavy, wooden dressers crashed to the floor. He leaned his back into the cold cinderblock wall and pressed his bare feet against the opposite wall.

Adding and releasing pressure on his legs to stay in place, Ryan moved with the building, hoping the walls didn’t collapse. Not that it mattered at that point. The building was nearly fifty years old, and if the interior walls failed, rescue teams would be lucky to find any of them alive. He dug his feet into the wall in front of him and closed his eyes. He was on autopilot, too disoriented and terrified to put any effort into anything beyond his immediate survival. He knew that he should be sitting under the doorframe, but he couldn’t convince his body to give up the stable position he had established between the two walls.

Moments later, the shaking abated, and the thunderous rumble yielded to distant car alarms and screaming. Ryan stood on wobbly legs and braced himself against the walls with both hands, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea. A strong campfire smell drew his attention to the flimsy curtains flapping gently through the jagged remains of the window. A wave of dizziness struck, buckling his knees.

Bright yellow and orange light danced against the room’s dark interior, arousing his curiosity. He had to see what had happened outside of the building. Testing his legs, he edged out of the vestibule and stopped in front of the fallen dressers. Glancing up at broken windows, a flash flood of rational, analytical thoughts overloaded him.

First things first.

He tilted the top dresser upward, letting all of the empty drawers fall to the floor as he heaved it against the opposite wall. His dresser was next, but he took care to keep the drawers pushed firmly shut. Ryan dug through the dresser and quickly replaced his athletic shorts with jeans. Thick wool socks covered his feet, followed by a pair of well-travelled, dark brown hiking boots. He saw no sense in cutting his feet on broken glass before he left his room. He stepped over to the window and brushed aside the flimsy curtains. Flames engulfed western Boston, extending as far as he could see from his sixth story window.

Ryan stared at the inferno, transfixed by the enormity of the blaze. Pyres undulated and crackled, draping the city in a dancing blanket of fire. He scanned for wreckage on Commonwealth Avenue, desperate for clues to explain the apocalyptic scene. He’d expected to see the tail section of a commercial airliner or a colossal crater, but the street looked untouched. Even the buildings across “Comm Ave” looked undamaged. Something was off, but he couldn’t bring it into focus. He followed the fires lining Granby Street, tracing them toward the Charles River and beyond.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

The city’s confusing grid of tree-lined streets had been brought to life by the flames, leaving the structures intact.

Could a solar flare do this?

Ryan had no idea. He started to pull away from the window, but stopped.

That can’t be right.

He checked his watch again. 5:01. Sunrise was still an hour away, but the lights were out across the city. Despite the near daylight conditions created at street level, he couldn’t identify a single light—anywhere.

Ryan fumbled for the desk lamp. Click . Nothing. He swiped his smartphone and wallet from the hutch and sprinted to the vestibule, trying the side-by-side switches. The room remained dark.

This has to be a solar flare. What else could knock out the electrical grid and set fire to the trees?

Another thought crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. They would have been hit by the shockwave already if it was a nuke. Either way, his only mission at this point was to reach Chloe and figure out what to do next. Stay in Boston or trek north? He lifted a blue, twenty-gallon plastic storage bin from the closet floor and dropped it on his bed.

The bin had been the last item to leave the car, hidden under a blanket by his dad. Ryan had nearly refused to take it up to his room. Of the 21,000 incoming freshmen, he didn’t want to be the only one with a “paranoia pack” taking up precious space in his closet. Of course, that was the point of the bin. Boston University represented a small city of students, most of them completely dependent on the university’s infrastructure for their basic survival needs. With his mom in tears over dropping him off at college, he decided to take it and spare her the worry. Based on what he had experienced over the last few minutes, Ryan was fairly certain that the university’s infrastructure had ceased to exist. The emergency bin didn’t sound so ridiculous anymore.

The container held an olive green backpack, two CamelBak water bladders and a sealed plastic bucket of dehydrated food pouches. The backpack had been outfitted with enough gear and food to support a two-day journey. Each of the bladders held three liters, which was the theoretical minimum he should drink per day if hiking. Realistically, he’d need more, which was why his dad had stuffed a Katadyn microfilter into the backpack. His first task upon leaving the dorm room was to fill both of the CamelBak bladders. Beyond that, everything he needed to walk back to Maine with Chloe was inside the backpack.

The pack contained a hat, old sunglasses, maps of Boston and New England, a compass, extra cash, parachute cord, a thirty-foot section of remnant sailing line, a small emergency radio, first aid kit, fire-starting kit, flashlight, three MREs, a Gore-Tex bivouac bag, N95 respirator and an emergency blanket. The only thing he didn’t have was a knife. Any knife, no matter how small, was classified as a weapon by university police and strictly forbidden. Even a Swiss Army knife could get you expelled. He dug through one of the outer pouches and found the flashlight. He aimed the LED light at the window and tested it, relieved that it filled the entire room with a bluish-white light. He had no idea what kind of damage a solar flare could do to battery-powered equipment.

He considered unpacking the dehydrated food bucket, but there was no way he could stuff anything else into the backpack. The bucket would be awkward to carry, but it had a sturdy handle, and he wasn’t going far enough for it to become a real problem. He’d cover the three miles to Chloe’s apartment in thirty minutes. Forty tops. He heaved the backpack onto his shoulders and tightened the straps. With the bucket in his left hand, he leaned against the door and listened. The screaming had faded to sporadic yelling.

Ryan unlocked his door and stepped into the darkness. Without exterior windows, the hallways were pitch black. A beam of light blinded him.

“You all right, dude? Can you believe this?” said a male voice.

“Did you see what happened?” asked Ryan, locking the door to his room.

“The whole city blew up, brother. We got nuked or something.”

A different voice spoke up. “It wasn’t a nuke. There’s a huge contrail in the sky, running from west to east. It disappears at about a forty-degree altitude over the southern horizon. We’ll see more of it as sunrise approaches. I calculate that it struck somewhere off the coast, due east of here.”

Ryan flashed his light at the two of them.

“Dude, watch it with the light. It’s like a million times brighter than this,” he said, directing his beam into Ryan’s eyes.

“Thanks for the demonstration. What do you mean ‘it struck’?” asked Ryan.

“I think we got hit by an asteroid or some kind of—”

The student with the flashlight interrupted. “That was probably an ICBM fired from China. West to east, it makes sense.”

“I’ve seen the ground footage of the space shuttle reentering the atmosphere, and this is about twenty times thicker.”

“It still doesn’t explain why the lights are out. Nukes create an EMP,” said the first student.

“Not if they hit the ground,” said Ryan, pushing past the two of them.

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here. If the power’s out for good, you need to start filling up any kind of container that will hold water. Even a trashcan,” said Ryan, pushing open the bathroom door.

“Wrong bathroom, dude,” he heard as the door closed.

“Hello. Anyone in here?” he yelled, before flashing the light along the row of stalls.

“Definitely not the men’s room,” he whispered.

Directing the light in the opposite direction exposed several sinks set into a long Formica counter. The wall-length mirror anchored to the wall behind the sinks had shattered, filling the white basins and covering the tile floor with razor-sharp pieces of broken glass. Satisfied that he was alone, he dropped the backpack on the floor next to the nearest sink and pulled out both of the water bladders, filling them with cold water.

He hoped the others took his advice about the water. Without power to run the building’s water pumps, pressure wouldn’t last very long on the sixth floor—or any floor. He’d just tucked the second bladder into his backpack when a thunderous explosion rattled the bathroom, rebooting the hysterical screams he had heard earlier.

Maybe we did get hit with a nuke.

Ryan crouched against the wall next to the sink and waited several seconds in the dark, hearing nothing but continued screaming. Activating his flashlight, he opened the door, finding the hallway thick with dust.

Not good.

A female student bolted out of the cloud, knocking him out of the way. He grabbed her arm and held her in place.

“Hold on! The floor is covered in glass!”

Coughing and sobbing, she yanked her arm free and stood there in bare feet.

“What just happened out there?” asked Ryan.

She looked up at him with a vacant stare. Her jet-black, curly hair was coated in dust, and she had several small cuts across her face.

“Something exploded in Boston,” she stated flatly and started crying again.

“Like a bomb?”

“I don’t know. I was facing downtown when all of the fires started to go out. Then it hit us. It was like a shockwave or something. How is my face?”

“Small cuts. Nothing serious. Where’s your room?” Ryan asked, shining the light on her.

“On the other side,” she mumbled.

“You need to go back to your room and put on some shoes and long pants. Hiking boots if you have them. Then fill up any container you can find with water. Tell everyone to do this. It’s extremely important,” he said, stepping out of the doorway to let her by.

“Okay. Water—uh—all right,” she said and disappeared.

Ryan directed his light forward along the left side of the hallway, looking for the door to the stairwell he had used last night. He pushed it open and heard the hollow echo of screams and feet clattering against the stairs. Air quality in the stairwell vestibule was markedly better than the hallway, and he could see across to the door leading to the other side of his floor. The far door opened, and a shirtless student wearing red soccer shorts and flip-flops entered the vestibule, shining a flashlight in his face. The student nodded and rushed past him, yelling unfamiliar names into the hallway Ryan had just left.

He joined the mass exodus in the dark stairwell and let it carry him to the ground floor, jostled and shoved until he spilled through a pair of double doors into the main thoroughfare connecting the three Warren Towers dormitory buildings with the cafeteria and main lobby. The lighting situation remained the same on the ground level, utterly dependent on the few students who had thought to bring flashlights to college.

The emergency lighting system had failed to activate, which didn’t come as a surprise to Ryan based on conversations with his dad. Hardwired into the building’s electrical grid, the battery-powered lights were susceptible to a solar flare or EMP-generated electrical surge.

He spotted a gap in the oncoming flock of students and dashed to the other side of the hallway, his feet crushing gravel as he ran. He flashed his light at the ground, exposing small pieces of concrete and dust. Before he could aim the beam at the ceiling, someone yanked the light from his grip. The light moved quickly away, darting through the swarm of students headed toward Warren Towers’ main lobby.

“Fucking asshole!” he screamed, pushing his way in the direction of the wavering light.

He considered chasing the thief, but quickly gave up the thought. The flashlight had already served its primary purpose, and the risks of pursuit far outweighed the return of an item he could replace at Chloe’s apartment. If the crowd became agitated by his antics, he could lose his bucket of dehydrated food or, even worse, his backpack. Ryan turned his back on the stolen flashlight and moved along the wall, against the flow of students, searching for one of the lesser-known exit doors leading directly onto Commonwealth Avenue. He ran into the door handle a few seconds later and stepped into a pitch-black stairwell, closing the door behind him.

Ryan reached into the blackness and edged forward slowly, groping for the railing. He could pop one of the chemlights in the backpack to light the way down, but he wanted to save those for a real emergency. Walking down one flight of stairs while clinging to a railing didn’t qualify. His hand found the smooth metallic railing, and he took the stairs carefully. Less than a minute later, he emerged from Warren Towers and stepped onto the glass-covered sidewalk. The fires in most of the trees and bushes had been extinguished by the blast, but a few continued to burn, casting a hazy glow over Commonwealth Avenue.

Burning ash, pulsing like orange fireflies, floated down the street—carried west by a warm breeze. A lone police siren wailed in the distance. Ryan walked into the eastbound lanes of Commonwealth, checking for traffic out of sheer habit, but he’d be surprised to see any cars. All signs indicated that the power outage had been caused by some kind of power surge, and he still couldn’t find a single light on the horizon. He continued east on the deserted road until the southern sky appeared behind Warren Towers. Ryan stared at the sky in awe.

Definitely not an ICBM.

An ugly column of uneven gray and white smoke streaked diagonally across the sky above the four-story buildings set back from Commonwealth Avenue, terminating high above Boston. He detected a faint difference between the distant, shadowy buildings and the lowest points of the sky. He checked his watch. Only eighteen minutes had elapsed. The sun would be up in thirty-five minutes.

Staring at the trajectory of the contrail over southern Massachusetts, he roughly calculated that it must have landed in the Atlantic somewhere just beyond Boston. A chilling thought hit him. His family was on a sailboat off the Maine coast.

Shit.

Ryan took the smartphone out of his pocket and pressed the home button. The device activated, but couldn’t locate a signal, further evidence that the grid had been taken down by some kind of electrical phenomenon. But did that make any sense? If this whole mess had been caused by a rogue asteroid or meteorite, there should be no EMP—maybe. He tried the phone one more time, hoping it just needed a few moments to locate a signal. “No Service.” He really hoped his family was safe.

Warren Towers disgorged a steady flow of panicked and injured coeds onto Commonwealth Avenue, quickly blocking the eastbound side of the road and spreading laterally. The lone siren had faded. He glanced at his phone one more time, just in case the initial cell tower failure had been a temporary glitch. “No Service.”

He assessed the dense crowd approaching from the center of the dormitory complex and decided to head in the opposite direction. He’d been one of very few students wearing a backpack during the exodus and the only student carrying a bucket of dehydrated food. The crowd was more confused than hostile, but it wouldn’t take much to bridge the gap. If one enterprising and unscrupulous individual recognized the opportunity represented by Ryan’s gear, the situation could be turned against him. His best strategy was to avoid crowds.

“Are you getting a signal?” yelled someone behind him.

Ryan turned to face two guys supporting a blonde female student. She wore a pair of running shorts and a loose fitting T-shirt. In the dim monochromatic light cast by a dying tree fire, her ankle looked severely swollen. A two-inch vertical cut above her right eyebrow bled down her face.

“We need to get an ambulance. She’s really messed up.”

“I can’t get a signal,” said Ryan, approaching them, “and I don’t think help is coming. I heard one siren, and that’s it.”

“Shit. Her ankle is smashed, dude.”

“Looks like it’s broken,” said Ryan, kneeling in front of her leg. “I assume you can’t put any weight on this?”

She shook her head and grimaced.

“You need to get her to a hospital. I can patch up her head, put a compression wrap on her ankle—but that’s about it,” said Ryan.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” asked one of the students.

“On the other side of the turnpike,” said Ryan, pointing south. “Brigham and Women’s Hospital. They should be able to fix her up.”

Ryan led them to a small park next to Warren Towers, where they could avoid the prying eyes of several hundred desperate students. He carried a limited medical kit with enough basic supplies to treat three people for relatively minor injuries. Attracting a crowd might end badly. Treating the girl carried enough risk, but it was the right thing to do for now.

“How far is the hospital?”

“Less than a mile. You need to go west to St. Mary’s Street and take that south over the turnpike. You’ll keep going south. I don’t know the streets. What’s her name?”

“Elsie. I think she’s from Denmark. You don’t think we can flag down a car or something to take her?”

“I haven’t seen a single car. If we got hit by an EMP or solar flare, you might not see one all morning.”

“This is un-fucking-real,” said the student. “I need to get back into my room.”

“You’ll be better off at the hospital. Set Elsie down on this bench,” he said, stealing a peek at the crowd.

The ground-level structure blocked most of his view of the crowd, which was good for now. He dropped his backpack while they set her down, and removed the kit. Basic was an understatement for a disaster scenario like this. He could easily go through most of the gauze pads just treating the cut on her head.

“Is this good?” one of them said, standing next to the bench.

“Perfect. Do me a favor and keep an eye on the crowd back there or any people approaching us. This isn’t a big kit,” said Ryan.

“Got it. Are you an off-duty EMT or something?”

“No. I showed up here with the rest of you.”

“Where did you get all of this stuff?” said the other student.

“My parents are a little paranoid. Elsie? How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Dizzy and my leg hurts,” she croaked in a faint Scandinavian accent.

“Swedish?”

“Ja.”

“My parents took us on a tour of Scandinavia. Stockholm first, then we drove along the coast to Helsingborg, crossing over to Denmark. We stopped in Iceland on the way back. One of our best trips.”

“I love Iceland. We travel there every other year,” she said.

“Elsie, I’m going to give you some ibuprofen to help with the pain, but—”

“It’s not going to help,” she interrupted.

“Exactly. Better than nothing, though. I need to disinfect your wounds, which will hurt. I can’t do much for your leg. Good to go?”

“Good to go,” she said, extending a thumb.

A few minutes later, Ryan packed up the kit and donned the backpack. Elsie sat up on the bench with three butterfly bandages on her lower forehead and a clean face. He checked the compression wrap around her ankle one more time before replacing her sock and shoe.

“That should keep everything under control until you get her to Brigham,” he said.

“I don’t know if we should go. I have shit in my room, and—”

“Do you have any food in your room?” said Ryan.

The guys shrugged. “Some chips.”

“Guess what? The cafeteria is closed. Permanently. The stores are closed. Permanently. This is a major deal. Relief efforts will naturally focus on the hospitals. You want to be at a hospital, not here. Warren Towers is an empty shell. Eventually, you’ll have to leave. You safely deliver her to the hospital and find a way to help out. Get in at the ground level of volunteers. You’ll get a hot meal, water and a roof over your head, which is more than anyone around here will be able to say in two days.”

They both nodded.

“You cannot abandon her. It’s one mile. If you don’t want to stay at the hospital, you can be back in your tomb up there within fifteen minutes. You guys good with this?” said Ryan.

“Do you really think this is an EMP? What about that?” one of them said, pointing at the sinister contrail south of Boston.

“I don’t know what that is, but I guarantee this is not a regular power outage. We’d see some backup lights out there. I didn’t see anything from my room. Get her situated at the hospital, and talk your way onto some kind of volunteer detail. It’s the best you can do right now.”

“Sounds like the best plan we’ve got. Thanks for helping out, man.”

Ryan shook both of their hands and tightened his backpack.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry?” said Elsie.

“Boston College to find my girlfriend. Then north,” said Ryan.

“How far north?” she said.

“Maine.”

“Sounds like a long way.”

“It’s far enough to be trouble, but it’s closer than Sweden.”

“Thank you for helping,” said Elsie, glancing nervously at her two caretakers.

Ryan nodded and walked toward the road that took him behind Warren Towers. He agonized over the decision to leave Elsie, doubtful that the two students would carry through with their promise. He muttered, pounding his fist against his thigh. A diversion to Brigham and Women’s Hospital would cost him too much time. If he didn’t show up at Chloe’s apartment soon, she might come looking for him, which could put her in danger. Every scenario their parents had discussed led to the same conclusion. Ryan was the one to travel in the event of a disaster.

Ryan kept walking, fighting the urge to look back. He reached the street and stopped. Damnit! He couldn’t shake the image of Elsie crawling along the sidewalk, trying to escape a wall of water. He returned to the park bench, noting that no progress had been made toward getting her ambulatory.

“I’ll take her to the hospital. Go back to your bag of Fritos,” said Ryan, grasping her hand and pulling her onto her one good leg.

The two students took off toward the dormitory without saying a word, validating Ryan’s decision. They would have ditched her somewhere out of sight, where their cowardly act went unnoticed.

“Thank you. Those two would have left me for dead. They rushed to my room after the quake. You know—to help.”

“Imagine that,” said Ryan.

“Exactly. They’ve been attached to me like glue since I arrived, but they didn’t look too enthusiastic to help when they saw my leg.”

“A busted leg is a deal breaker, even if you’re a hot Danish chick,” said Ryan.

“Swedish.”

“I remember,” said Ryan, putting her arm around his shoulder.

“I really appreciate this. I know you’re in a hurry,” said Elsie.

“We’ll have to move fast. As fast as we can manage,” he said.

“I’m not sure how we’re going to do this. I can’t put any weight on the leg, and I don’t think hopping a few kilometers will work.”

Ryan looked down at her leg. She had it bent at a shallow angle to keep her foot from striking the ground. Judging by the pained expression she displayed when he pulled her to her feet, he knew she was right.

“How much do you weigh?” he said.

“Is that a polite question to ask?”

“It is if someone’s going to carry you a mile,” he said. “I don’t see any other way.”

“I’m sorry this became your burden. 48 kilograms—give or take.”

“I’m sure our paths crossed for a reason. What is that, like 220 pounds?” he said, receiving a playful slap to the shoulder. “You ready? This is going to hurt you a lot more than me.”

“I guess.”

He kneeled and reached under her good leg.

“Now lean over my backpack and reach your right arm over my shoulder,” he said.

She groaned as he lifted her off the ground into a fireman’s carry. He hooked his right arm under her knee and grasped the hand she had draped over his chest, freeing his left hand to pick up the bucket. Ryan took a few uneasy steps forward, wondering how the hell he was going to do this.

Chapter 7

EVENT +00:15 Hours

International Space Station

Commander David Stull, United States Navy, drifted away from the Harmony node to the adjoining Destiny Laboratory, using his fingertips to guide him. He was several minutes behind the rigid daily schedule imposed by NASA mission controllers, though his effortless flight down the equipment-packed passageway betrayed no sense of urgency. The draconian NASA itinerary served a purpose: to regulate the astronauts’ natural biorhythms in the face of a ninety-minute cycle of light and darkness experienced by the station’s low earth orbit.

An unresolved communications glitch had put him behind schedule today. The station’s connection to NASA had been interrupted during the final moments of their morning briefing and could not be reestablished. His initial diagnostics check indicated no obvious issues with the communications equipment onboard the station. Of course, he wouldn’t know for sure unless he inspected the radio link equipment directly, running a series of sophisticated checks on the transmitters. To do that, he would need to enter an unpressurized section of the Z1 Truss structure above the Unite node. This simple thirty-minute voyage into unpressurized space would require an entire day of planning.

He glided into the Destiny node, where Cosmonaut Sergei Moryakov waited. Moryakov’s permanent, good-natured smirk was gone. Something was wrong.

“Roscosmos station in Moscow lost all communications with NASA fifteen minutes ago,” said the cosmonaut, in perfectly structured Russian-accented English.

“So it’s on their end. Saves us the hassle of accessing Z1,” said Stull.

“It’s more complicated than that. You need to see something,” he said, gesturing for Stull to follow him.

Before either of them moved, the lights in the Destiny node flickered. Moryakov’s ice-blue eyes darted around the crowded laboratory compartment. In seventy-two days onboard the station, he had never seen the lights flicker—and he’d certainly never seen the Russian exhibit nervous behavior.

He floated behind Moryakov to the Tranquility node berthing connection, tapping the walls to propel his body through the cramped corridor. The short trip ended over the Cupola, the station’s seven-window observatory. A pair of legs dressed in a royal-blue jumper extended into the berthing node.

“Take a look. Then we need to talk. We don’t have much time,” said the Russian.

Commander Stull pushed off the floor with the tip of his boot and flipped upside-down, squeezing into the Cupola next to Cosmonaut Viktor Belekin, who stared through a spotting scope aimed through the center window.

“What the—”

A thick, orange-black smoke trail stretched from the outer stratosphere to the east coast of the United States. From four hundred and sixteen kilometers above the earth’s surface, the smoke trail appeared to penetrate a pulsing red magnetic aura that blanketed the Midwest.

He felt nauseous. His wife and children had flown to Boston on Friday, staying with friends for few days until joining his parents on Cape Cod for their annual vacation. The smoke trail ended in New England. His vision narrowed, and he squinted, shaking his head. He was overreacting. Larger meteorites always left massive trails of smoke when they traveled through the atmosphere, even if they were only a few meters in diameter.

“Can I take a look?” asked Stull.

“This is bad, my friend. Very sorry,” said Belekin, handing him the powerful scope.

Stull followed the magnified trail across Mexico into the United States. The single inbound object had separated high over northern Georgia, splitting into four tightly packed, but distinctly separate reentry signatures. The smoke trails terminated in a narrow elliptical pattern beginning in Virginia and ending in Nova Scotia. He couldn’t pinpoint the two additional impact points through the atmospheric reentry stream.

He hoped his wife had decided to spend an extra day with friends in Braintree. The Cape was too exposed. Who was he kidding? All they could talk about last week was getting to Cape Cod. How could Spaceguard have missed something this big? Something else bothered him about the scene below him.

“Where are the lights?” he asked.

“I can’t believe I missed that,” the Russian murmured. “Most of North America is pitch black.”

“That’s the real problem,” interjected Moryakov, hovering above them.

Commander Stull backed out of the Cupola, along with Belekin.

“Our mission control registered a massive radiation flux on the station-based monitors. X-ray levels spiked, causing a minor system-generated EMP. Everything appears to function as it should, so latch-up must have been minimal.” Moryakov ran his hand through his hair. “We’ll have to run our own diagnostics, of course, and we’ll have to go outside to inspect the solar array coatings. Moscow isn’t optimistic about the long-term survival of the station.”

Stull shook his head. “What do they think happened?”

“All evidence indicates that a thermonuclear device was detonated in low orbit over the United States, causing a massive EMP event. Most of the United States is dark, consistent with this theory,” said Moryakov.

Commander Stull stared back into the Cupola, noting the eerie, reddish, spectral glow in the atmosphere over the Midwest.

“The aura,” he whispered. “Could it have been caused by whatever passed through the atmosphere?”

Moryakov shook his head. “Radiation readings were highest on the sensors aimed toward the ground. Moscow strongly suspects the radiation is from a manmade source.”

“The arrays?”

“Bad timing. All arrays were in Night Glider mode, pointed straight at the earth when the readings spiked. Another eighty-two seconds and they would have been aimed away from the blast, at the sunrise,” Moryakov explained.

“We’ll have to inspect the coatings for thermomechanical damage,” said Stull. “We can’t stay up here if the arrays fail.”

“That was Moscow’s assessment.”

“Is everything all right down there?” asked Stull.

“For now,” said the Russian.

He didn’t like Moryakov’s answer.

****

CLICK HERE TO LEAVE A REVIEW for The Jakarta Pandemic . Even a short, one line review can make all of the difference. Thank you!

Go back to Contents

Turn the page to read Book 2 in the Alex Fletcher Series:

The Perseid Collapse

The

Perseid

Collapse

Alex Fletcher Book Two

About THE ALEX FLETCHER BOOKS

The Perseid Collapse takes place six years after the H16N1 virus ravaged the world in my first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic . Feedback and reviews for The Jakarta Pandemic exceeded all expectations, with many readers asking me to write another novel featuring Alex Fletcher and his family. I shelved the idea for two years, before I started putting some serious thought into the possibility of bringing them back.

To pull it off, I knew I’d have to accomplish two critical tasks. First, I had to create a unique disaster scenario. Not an easy task given the recent flood of post-apocalyptic books. Second, I needed to rain hell down on the Fletcher’s world. They would not have the option of “bunkering up” within the confines of their home. The final disaster concept hit me like a meteorite, nearly derailing the publication of Black Flagged Vektor . I feel confident that you’ll share in my excitement, within the first few pages.

Time in The Perseid Collapse world is measured in plus (+) or minus (-) Hours:Minutes from the EVENT. Book One in The Perseid Collapse Series chronicles the first 48 hours post EVENT.

A list of military/government acronyms and definitions used throughout The Alex Fletcher Books is available via the Table of Contents.

PART I

“SINK OR SWIM”

Chapter 1

EVENT 00:00 Hours

Jewell Island, Maine

Alex buried his head in the sleeping bag, slightly annoyed at the light penetrating his eyelids. He peeked out of the bag, expecting to find Kate standing over him with a flashlight. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Instead, the island reflected a rich, sunset-orange hue, long shadows extending from the trees and clumps of rocks along the granite walls. A low-grade tingling sensation enveloped his body.

Lightning!

He rolled out of the hammock, still encased in the sleeping bag, landing hard on the fiberglass deck. He ripped frantically at the zipper, unable to get out of the polyester body bag. A glimpse of the sky eased his panic. The sky bristled with stars—hardly a meteorological condition conducive to lightning.

He took a deep breath and gave the zipper another try. When it didn’t move, he tore it open.

“Problem fucking solved,” he muttered, slipping out of the bag and kicking it aft.

Alex stood on the cockpit bench and took in the unusual scene.

Either the sun had risen in the wrong place, or the fall from the hammock had knocked him silly. Alex had spent enough time at anchor in this cove to orient himself without a compass. He scanned his surroundings one more time to be sure.

His boat pointed southeast, pulling lazily against the anchor line. A typical early morning setup at Jewell Island. The cove’s narrow opening lay directly off the port side, and the Katelyn Ann faced directly into a tree-lined, rocky cliff. The sun always rose over that cliff, but today it appeared due south, hidden behind the tallest part of the island. He watched as the distant light rapidly faded to reveal something more ominous.

A brilliant, undulating reddish glow appeared in the southwestern sky, high above the visible horizon. He closed his eyes and shook his head, seriously wondering if he might have a head injury. Nothing he had felt or seen since opening his eyes this morning seemed normal. Of course, he assumed it was still morning.

He checked his watch: 5:01 AM. Sunrise was at 5:50. Morning Nautical Twilight began twenty minutes ago. He looked over his shoulder toward the east and could see a slight difference between the blackness above and the sky showing between the trees. The sun was rising in the right place.

He turned back to the surreal lightshow to the west. The reddish-purple spectacle changed shape and appeared to pulse over the entire southwest horizon. He’d seen this before. He shook his head.

“No way,” he said, knowing there was only one way to find out.

Alex stepped aft, positioning himself behind the wheel where he could see the boat’s magnetic compass dial. He pressed a button on the center console to illuminate the compass, and pressed it again, getting the same result.

He took a small LED flashlight out of his pocket and jabbed at the on/off control. A shaky light bathed the compass, bringing the nightmare to life. The compass direction moved slowly from the direction of the fading, red aurora toward what he knew to be the right cardinal settings.

He fumbled to activate the digital chart plotter and navigation system mounted above the wheel. Nothing. He thought about calling out to Kate, but reached for the engine ignition panel instead. He turned the key, not sure what would happen. The engine sputtered for a moment and started.

“All right. All right. That’s a good sign,” he mumbled.

The forty-horsepower Yanmar diesel engine hummed, vibrating the cockpit and shattering the cove’s tranquility. He pulled the kill lever, secure in the knowledge that they could reach the Portland Harbor without getting wet.

A light from the forward berth illuminated the cabin, flickering back and forth as the source drew closer to the cabin door. He stepped forward in the tight cockpit to intercept Kate at the screen door. Woken by the unexpected engine start, she would no doubt be in a hurry to investigate. The door slid open just as he arrived.

“Why did you start—”

“Shhhh,” he said, putting a hand out to stop her. “Let’s talk out here.”

“Did we slip anchor?” she asked, shining the light in his face.

“Not in my face, please. We’re right where we should—”

“Something is wrong with the lights.”

She was in rapid-fire mode, no doubt brought on by her sudden maritime wake up. Kate was a notoriously deep sleeper at home, who did not respond well to being jarred awake. On the boat she was an entirely different person. She understood the fluid nature of boating, which required quick decisions and immediate action. Boats slipped anchorages, storms arrived unannounced, and equipment failed—often in the middle of the night, and always at the least opportune time.

“Are you done?” he asked.

“You haven’t really answered any of my questions,” she said.

Alex pulled Kate through the cockpit door and pointed to the bright red and purple aura to the west.

“What do you think that is?” he asked.

She stared off into the distance, shaking her head slowly before finally shrugging her shoulders. “Looks like the northern lights, but the wrong color. And that’s not north, is it?” she asked, finally rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Southwest,” he stated, gripping her hand.

“Why did you start the diesel?” she insisted, her gaze captivated by the lights dancing playfully above the southwestern horizon.

“Because I didn’t think it would start. I’ve seen pictures like that at Quantico. Looks a lot like the atmospheric nuclear tests they did out in the Pacific,” he said.

“You don’t think that was a nuke, do you?” she asked sharply, stepping off the cockpit bench.

“I don’t know, but I saw a massive flash of light from the south,” he said, pointing to the island off the starboard side, “then I felt a strange tingling, like I was about to get hit by lightning. Now none of our electronics work. I’d say we were hit by an EMP.”

Kate pushed his hand away and descended the cabin steps. Alex heard her try to activate the VHF marine radio at the navigation table.

“The radio is dead. So is everything else at the nav station.”

“All of the navigation gear is either connected to the radio antenna or the GPS receiver—all located at the top of our mast. An EMP wave would travel right down the wire and fry everything,” he said.

Kate directed the flashlight at his face.

“Will you stop blinding me with that damn light?”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Kate said. “Have you checked the portable electronics?”

“Not yet. I’m going to see if I can restore electrical power to the lights and a few other systems.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the lights. It’s almost dawn. Get the water pumps and the head working. What about the bilge pump?” Kate said.

“It’s hardwired to the battery bank, like the engine. Should be fine, but let’s check.”

Alex waited for Kate to gather the handheld electronics from a cabinet above the navigation table and move to the small couch across from Emily’s bed. Their daughter had begun to stir, but still remained asleep. He really hoped she would stay asleep until they figured out what was going on. They needed a little more time to think before adding a panicky teenager to the mix.

He illuminated the electrical panel and noticed that all of the breaker switches had been tripped. No surprise there. He flipped all of the switches and tried the light mounted to the navigation table. Nothing. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The electrical surge generated by an EMP didn’t give surge protectors or breakers time to react to the change in current.

Beyond the microwave oven, radio and the navigation equipment, most of the gear connected to the boat’s electrical system didn’t contain any of the sensitive microchips susceptible to an amplified EMP wave. If the breaker mechanism itself had been damaged, they would have to do without the electrical system on the return trip to Portland.

“I’m pretty sure the breaker is fried. We’ll have to use the manual pumps to draw water. As for the head, I’m not sure what we can do. I don’t think it works without electricity,” he whispered.

“Not a big deal. We’re not that far from Portland. The handheld stuff seems to work fine. Can you tell if we are getting a signal?” she said, holding up the illuminated GPS plotter screen toward him.

“Let’s see,” he said, taking the unit.

The small satellite icon in the upper right corner of the screen indicated that the unit was receiving a satellite signal. He navigated through a series of onscreen menus to get more information.

“It says we’re tracking six satellites. That’s good news. See if you can pick up anything on the radio. Let’s take this topside so we don’t wake the kids,” he said.

Kate followed Alex up the steps and into the cockpit, where a refreshingly cool sea breeze greeted them, evaporating the small beads of sweat that had formed on Alex’s forehead in defiance of the chilly, coastal air. Despite his demeanor, he was terrified by the prospect of what might lie ahead for them. If something big had indeed gone wrong, he had little doubt that society would quickly collapse. Confidence in the government’s ability to handle a major crisis was at an all-time low after millions were left to fend for themselves during the 2013 flu pandemic. Widespread rioting, looting and violence that continued unabated in cities like Atlanta, Dallas, and Los Angeles. Even the Mid-Atlantic cities saw their share of the devastating civil unrest that ultimately claimed just as many lives as the H16N1 virus.

Alex and Kate understood that the United States could not weather another nationwide disaster, and had taken the appropriate precautions to ensure the safety of family and friends. They would all converge on the isolated farm in Limerick, Maine, where they could live off the grid indefinitely, until society settled back into a routine.

Alex considered the flash of light. It had come from a different direction than the red aura. Was it possible that the United States had been attacked with nuclear weapons? One flash. That was all he had seen. He expanded the scale on the handheld GPS plotter to make a quick calculation. He created a waypoint over Boston and started the navigation function. The system plotted a straight course from the boat to the waypoint.

Standing in the open cockpit of their boat, staring at the blood-red aura, his vision narrowed. He sat down next to Kate and took a deep breath.

“We have to get back fast. I give it two, maybe three days before all hell breaks loose in Boston. We need to get Ryan out of there,” said Alex.

Kate sighed. “If it hasn’t been nuked.”

He stood up and compared what he saw on the GPS chart to their physical orientation in the cove.

“The flash was centered there,” he said, pointing his entire hand directly south. “Boston is almost twenty-five degrees to the right of that. A nuke would go off directly over the city. This is somewhere pretty far off Cape Cod,” he said, not completely convinced by his logic.

Alex placed the GPS receiver on the top of the cabin and pulled Kate off the bench. He embraced her tightly, but kissed her neck gently. He drew his face even with hers.

“I’m just as scared as you about Ryan. He’s going to be fine. We’ll get this boat back to Portland, and I’ll bring him home, I promise,” he said.

She nodded and met his lips for a brief moment, then laid her head on his shoulder.

“I know it’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” she said, sitting back down and rubbing her face.

“I think we should wait until there’s enough light to see the lobster pots on the water. The last thing we need is to tangle the prop and kill the engine. It’s 5:09 right now. Sunrise is at 5:50. We get underway fifteen minutes after that. That gives us plenty of time to secure for sea—maybe try to raise someone on the handheld radio. I wish we had one of the satellite phones. If the GPS satellites are still working, maybe the satphone network is still intact,” said Alex.

“Remind me why we don’t bring a satphone out on the water?” she said.

“Because we don’t go far enough out to need one. We never leave Casco Bay.”

“I think we need to add that to the required equipment list,” Kate said.

“If we take another sailing trip, I’ll make sure to throw one in the bag.”

Kate stood up. “I’ll wake the kids and start tidying up below.”

The wind picked up, and the boat started to swing on the anchor line to face due south. Alex heard a few trees snap in the distance.

“Get below!” he yelled. “Now!”

Through the clear vinyl window of the dodger, he saw the leading edge of a powerful blast wave explode through the trees. He pushed Kate down the stairs and ducked his head below the cabin overhead moments before a dark wave of rocks and tree limbs pounded the sailboat. The boat lurched sideways with the initial blast, knocking Alex into the galley, where he tumbled to the deck and smashed his elbow against the counter. Within seconds, the debris shower abated, leaving them in absolute silence. The sailboat’s hull creaked against something in the water.

“Ethan! You all right back there?” he yelled through the open hatch a few feet away behind the galley.

“I’m fine. What happened? The lights don’t work,” said Ethan.

“Grab your flashlight and get dressed. I need you out here in thirty seconds. Emily, change in the vee-berth. All hands on deck immediately,” Alex ordered. “We have a problem.”

“You think?” said Kate.

“You have no idea. We need to go topside to clear the mess and assess damage. We don’t have much time.”

Kate looked at him quizzically. “I thought we weren’t leaving for another hour?”

“I don’t think that’s an option anymore. Talk about this topside?” he said, pointing at the open hatch at the top of the stairs.

When Alex’s head emerged through the cabin hatch, the first thing he noticed was a half-inch-thick layer of dirt covering every horizontal surface in the open cockpit. Rising further, he scraped his head on something solid. He directed his flashlight upward to see a jagged, two-inch-diameter branch protruding above his head, blocking him from climbing the rest of the ladder. He pushed the branch to the right and squeezed through the opening.

“Be careful coming up,” he called behind him to Kate.

The branch had speared the left vinyl window of their dodger, stopped by the thick tangle of smaller branches that struck the dodger’s dense, aluminum frame. If he hadn’t pushed Kate out of the way to get down the ladder, the shredded edge of the branch could have impaled him. He felt dizzy and wanted to take a seat, but there was no time for it. He pushed the near death experience out of his head and stood on the cockpit bench to assess the situation.

His flashlight revealed the rest of the fifteen-foot branch hanging over the starboard side of the boat, straining the sailboat’s lifelines. Kate’s flashlight probed the port side of the boat.

“I see a few branches and rocks, but nothing else. How’s your side?” he asked.

“Same. This branch is the worst of it,” she said, directing her light at the torn end protruding through the dodger window. “Jesus,” she whispered, touching the sharp edge of the branch.

“Jesus is right,” he said, moving quickly aft to the back of the cockpit.

Their gray inflatable dinghy bobbed in the water along the stern, apparently undamaged. He stepped out of the cabin and onto the swim deck, pulling the dinghy next to the boat.

“Can you clear that branch? I need to check the dinghy and start the motor,” he called.

“Got it.”

He stepped into the dinghy and pressed down on each side of the craft with both hands. The cold plastic exterior gave slightly to the pressure applied, consistent with early morning inflation levels. The boat was undamaged.

“Now for the fun part…” he mumbled, staring at the motor.

He had battled off and on for nearly four years with the four-horsepower, gasoline-fueled contraption, having consigned it to a watery grave on more than one occasion. It should be simple. Open the air vent. Open the fuel valve. Open the choke. Start the engine. That easy. In four years, he could count the number of times it started without incident on his middle finger, which he often lifted to protest the manufacturer. Alex ran through his mental checklist and took a deep breath.

He pulled the starter cord, and the motor caught, puttering quietly at idle. He revved the throttle for a moment, letting the engine warm, before pushing in the choke. The motor continued to idle.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Everything had worked perfectly, which meant that he had wasted his one good start of the year on a test. Brilliant. He stopped the motor, leaving everything in position for a quick start. He heard the branch fall away, followed by a quick scream. He flashed his light forward, searching for Kate, but couldn’t immediately find her on the deck.

She fell overboard.

Alex jumped onto the swim deck and reached for the Lifesling preserver attached to the starboard rails, when Kate appeared from behind the mast.

“Damned thing almost took me in with it!” she yelled.

“You all right?” he said.

“I’m fine. A few scratches,” she said, starting to walk back along the deck.

“Stay there. I need to check the anchorage,” he said.

He made his way forward and met her at the bow.

“We need to talk while I do this,” he said, reaching through the forward rails to grip the nylon line stretched into the water several feet below. “That air blast came from the same direction as the flash of light. Took eight minutes to arrive. Only a massive explosion could create something like—”

“Boston,” she muttered.

“I’m pretty certain that’s not the case. The wind came from the direction of the flash, which puts the explosion in the Gulf of Maine,” he said, tugging on the anchor line.

“I hope so.”

“Me too, but if the explosion was over water, we could be hit by a tsunami. We need to decide whether to stay onboard and ride out whatever crests the island, or abandon the boat for the concrete lookout tower near the cove.”

“I don’t think we should leave the boat,” Kate decided. “If it gets swept away, we’re stuck here.”

“I agree, but we have no idea how big the wave will be. Remember those videos of the tsunamis in Thailand and Japan? Solid walls of water travelled inland for miles.”

“How long do we have?” Kate asked.

“I’m not sure. If it took the wind eight minutes to get here, I’d guess we have at least another hour? I have no idea. Could be thirty minutes. The anchor feels fine,” he said, standing up on the bow. “We might not have a problem at all, honey. From what I remember reading, tsunami waves are barely noticeable out at sea. The problem occurs when the wave hits shallow water. We’re several miles from the mainland, and this is a small island. A tiny blip in the ocean for a tsunami. It might not rise up enough to mess with us.”

“Then I say we stay on the boat,” she said.

“We’ll keep the engine running in case we break free of the anchorage,” said Alex, starting toward the cockpit.

“If a wave makes it over the island, I don’t think the anchor will matter. It might cause a problem for us if it gets snagged on the rocks,” she said.

He flashed his light at the anchor line tied to the forward cleat. He couldn’t imagine climbing forward to cut the anchor line while the boat pitched violently. They needed a way to detach the anchor if necessary.

“Start securing the boat for heavy seas. I’ll run the anchor line back to the cockpit. We can cut it from here. I’m glad you thought of that,” he said.

“I’m good for an idea or two,” she said, brushing against him on her way back.

“That’s one more than I’m good for,” he said, grabbing her hand. “We’ll be fine, hon. I’ll be in Boston tomorrow, picking up Ryan. Nothing to it. We’ve been through worse.”

“I know. I’m just scared for him. He’s alone in a new place. No friends. Nothing.”

“He knows what to do. Ryan’s the least of our worries. He’ll probably be waiting for us at the house when we get back,” he said.

She buried her head in his chest and didn’t respond. The sound of rustling leaves raised her head, and he let go of her to grab the nearest deck-mounted handrail. They wouldn’t have time to get into the cabin if another blast wave hit them. A stiff gust of wind buffeted them for a few seconds, swinging the boat on its mooring to face an easterly direction. No flash preceded the airwave, which told Alex that the explosion had occurred over the visible horizon. The only thing due east of Jewell Island was Nova Scotia. When the wind completely died, he stared in the direction of the first explosion, wondering if his plan to stay on the boat would send them to a watery grave.

Chapter 2

EVENT +01:08 Hours

Jewell Island, Maine

Alex sat on the starboard side stern rail and stared at the thick stand of trees lining the island’s ledge wall. The damage caused by the air blast was fully visible in the crisp, dawn light, mostly confined to broken tree limbs and flattened grass. The cove remained awash with leaves, stirred only by large severed branches that occasionally bumped up against the hull of the Katelyn Ann . He listened intently, trying to pick up any sounds beyond the distant, piercing cries of seagulls.

Only the constant, muffled drum of the sailboat’s engine competed with the birds, but he had already filtered this sound out. Alex had no idea what he might hear when the tsunami hit, but with two thousand feet of tightly packed island to cross, he figured they would have plenty of warning.

The large cabin cruiser anchored off their starboard side roared to life, causing Alex to jump up from his seat. The overpowered engine steadied into a deafening growl that masked every natural sound in the cove. He hoped they were getting underway. Compared to his forty-horsepower engine, the cabin cruiser’s three- to four-hundred-horsepower engine sounded like a commercial jet liner revving for takeoff. He couldn’t blame them for running the engine. He was doing the same thing, in case something went terribly wrong at their anchorage, but with the cruiser’s engine drowning out his thoughts, he would have to pay close attention to the island and rely on visual cues. They might lose a few seconds of warning, but it shouldn’t matter. All he needed to do was get below and shut the cabin door.

Once the wave hit, they would assess and react accordingly. The decision to stay with the boat hadn’t been an easy one. The safest course of action would have been to pack up as much gear and food as possible and ride the dinghy to the cove’s southwestern shore. From there, a ten-minute walk would put them in one of the island’s towering concrete World War Two lookout posts. While assuring their short-term safety, this option almost guaranteed they would lose their transportation off the island. He had considered putting Kate and the kids in the tower and taking his chances alone on the boat, but he had a feeling that the tsunami wasn’t going to give him the option to return.

He planned to ride out the initial impact below deck, scrambling topside when the boat settled. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late to react at that point to save the boat. If the boat were dashed against the rocks before he could take control and engage the engine, they would be at the mercy of the elements, forced to swim back to the island.

Alex looked through the cabin hatchway at Kate, who stared back at him, waiting for any sign that the wave was inbound. She wore one of the boat’s self-inflating life jackets over khaki pants and a waterproof sailing jacket. Next to her, on the starboard settee, sat a digital camouflage-patterned rucksack tied to an orange type two life preserver. The kids, wearing custom-fit vest preservers, sat across from her in the portside lounge, hugging their own life preserver wrapped backpacks.

They had stuffed most of their food, medical supplies and survival-related gear in five backpacks, affixing the cheap life preservers to keep them afloat. If they had to jump into the water, the packs would be connected to their respective owner by a ten-foot length of parachute cord. They were prepared for the worst-case scenario, which involved losing the boat right in the cove. All of their essential gear was either attached to their bodies or buried in the packs.

He patted his hand against the drop-leg holster on his right hip, making sure that the pistol was tightly secured under two layers of nylon and Velcro straps. Kate hadn’t given him a second look when he removed the pistol and holster rig from his rucksack. Before the Jakarta Pandemic, Kate would have ceaselessly berated him for bringing a firearm on a family trip. Now she understood better than anyone that preparation without security was meaningless, especially in the face of a widespread disaster.

The cabin cruiser’s engine throttled higher, drawing his attention away from the island one hundred feet away. He watched the thirty-foot boat pull forward while the anchor line retracted, breaking free of the mud surface below the water. A man dressed in white shorts and a red polo shirt steered the craft toward the mouth of the cove, picking up speed before the anchor appeared. He puffed on a fresh cigar from his perch on the boat’s flying bridge, saluting Alex as he passed.

The anchor emerged from the surface and banged against the boat’s fiberglass hull before snapping into place on the bow-mounted anchor arm. The cabin cruiser increased speed, reaching the mouth of the cove and turning into the narrow confines of the pass between Cliff and Jewell Islands. Alex watched him take the red navigational marker to port and turn sharply. A few seconds later, the cruiser lurched forward at full throttle, leaving a sizeable wake behind as they rocketed southwest, in the direction of Portland Harbor.

Alex was both surprised and relieved that the cruiser’s engine started. His sailboat’s diesel engine was directly wired to the battery bank and didn’t rely on any type of electronics to operate. The cruiser’s gas-powered engine was more complicated, and judging by the relatively new look of the boat, he figured that the engine was connected to a series of microprocessors designed to optimize performance. The fact that the gas engine started gave him hope that recent government-sponsored EMP research and assessment efforts hadn’t been bullshit.

The EMP Commission’s Critical National Infrastructures (CNI) Revised Report released in 2016 took into account the newer, more sensitive technologies present in nearly every electronic device reliant upon a semiconductor. CNI’s 2008 report predicted a 10% failure rate for automobiles, which stood in direct contrast to previous predictions by independent researchers and caused considerable outrage. The revised report admitted the difficulty of predicting the effects of an EMP, and raised the failure rate to 60%—still a rosy picture compared to earliest predictions.

Alex, along with preppers everywhere, cast a suspicious eye on the sudden change, wondering if the whole thing was a government ruse to ease fear in the aftermath of their spectacular failure during the Jakarta Pandemic. Trust in the U.S. government reached an all-time low in 2013, and hadn’t improved much since.

Jealous of the cruiser’s speed through the water, Alex kept his attention fixed on the boat’s rapid escape from the cove. They would probably reach Portland in twenty minutes, maybe less. He wondered if they wouldn’t be better off doing the same thing. Tsunamis generated most of their power when they arrived in shallow water. Maybe their chances would be better in open water, and not behind an island. He and Kate had studied the nautical charts closely, noting that the depth in Casco Bay didn’t vary much from the water off Cape Cod. The depth decreased gradually on the approach to Casco Bay, but not enough to trigger a plunging wave over open water—or so they theorized. Still, they’d decided to stay in place, not really trusting their Google-powered theories enough to risk an open water transit with a possible tsunami inbound. Maybe nothing would happen at all, and they were wasting precious time.

A sharp crack drew his attention back to the island. He stood up slowly, scanning the trees. Another snap caused him to take a few steps toward the cabin hatch. The tops of tall pines wavered and collapsed in the distance.

“It’s coming,” he said, calmly taking position in the hatchway.

“Get inside, Alex,” said Kate.

“Hold on…”

He wanted to see what they were up against before dropping below. A cacophony of snaps rapidly approached, followed by an advancing line of fallen treetops.

Any second now.

“Alex!” yelled Kate.

He stole one more glance at the tree line.

A wall of water crashed through the thick pine forest, reaching one-quarter of the way up several mature trees. Alex dropped below and slammed the hatch shut, quickly sitting next to Kate on the starboard settee. A deafening roar filled the cabin, and the boat pitched aft, rising. The kids screamed, and Kate locked her hands around his arm. The sudden wild motion stabilized for a moment; then Alex felt the boat twist to the right. He knew what would happen next.

“Hang on!” he yelled.

The boat heeled more than forty-five degrees to starboard, launching Emily across the cabin into Alex and Kate. Ethan had managed to grip the wooden handrail above him and dangled in mid-air for a moment, before the boat violently heeled to port in response to the sudden change in the craft’s stability. He dropped safely onto the cushions below him. Everybody else was unceremoniously tossed onto the wooden deck in a tangle of life preservers and flailing limbs. Alex pulled his way out of the pile, feeling the boat continue to spin while drifting rapidly through the water. He needed to cut the anchor line and take control of the boat immediately.

“I’m going topside! Grab the handrails like Ethan!” he said, stabilizing his body between the kitchen and the navigation table.

He held the side of the wooden steps tightly with one hand and opened the hatch with the other, preparing for the worst. A solid wall of seawater struck the rear of the boat and continued over the stern, filling the spacious cockpit like a bathtub. Alex pushed against the water pouring through the hatch and reached to the right, pulling a serrated diving knife from the hard plastic sheath he had tied to the cleat holding the anchor line. He swept the razor-sharp knife across the taut line. The line snapped through the hole in the dodger made by the tree branch and disappeared over the bow before he could sheath the knife.

Alex slugged through the waist-high water to reach the wheel, praying that the massive intake of water hadn’t somehow killed the engine. Salt water stung his eyes as he tried to gain his bearings. He had seen nothing but forest through the hatch initially, which indicated they had been turned one hundred and eighty degrees to face west. He gripped the wheel and scanned his surroundings, shocked to see the roof of the small cottage on the western side of the cove almost directly off his port beam.

He engaged the transmission and shoved the throttle forward, feeling the boat respond. Unlocking the rudder, he attempted to steer the boat, which turned out to be a mistake. Powerful currents jammed the rudder hard to port, once again twisting the boat parallel to the onrushing water. Alex tried to turn the wheel but couldn’t budge it. Realizing the impending consequences of the mistake he had made, he used the last available moment to clip his harness to the rail behind him. The D-ring snapped shut a fraction of a second before the boat heeled drastically to starboard, breaking his wet grip on the rail and flinging him against the lifelines.

An incredible, jolting pain surged through his neck and upper body, radiating down into his left arm. He couldn’t tell if he had been thrown overboard, just that he was no longer in control of his body. The D-ring had been attached to a twenty-foot line. Long enough to prevent him from hanging uselessly over the side, but short enough to keep him floating close to the boat. Alex dropped into the cockpit, which kept him in place while he coughed uncontrollably. The boat lurched forward and stabilized, giving him a chance to drag himself up by the center console. His first mission was to straighten the rudder and lock it.

While the boat drifted parallel to the wave, he turned the helm and managed to center the rudder. Once it was locked into place, he reduced the throttle to idle and put the engine in neutral. In a few moments, they would clear the cove and reach open water, where the force of the wave would dissipate, giving him the opportunity to maneuver.

“Kate!” he yelled at the open hatch. “How are we looking down there?”

“We’re fine! We have about a foot of water!” she shouted back.

Kate appeared in the hatchway and flashed him an uneasy look.

“Your head is bleeding! Holy shit…” she muttered, looking beyond the boat at the wave slamming into Cliff Island to the west.

Before Alex could turn to look, the boat shuddered and rolled starboard, stopping dead in the water, but continuing to heel at a dangerous angle as water slammed the port side of the hull. Kate disappeared from sight, falling back into the cabin. He squeezed the stainless-steel handrails mounted to the center console, bracing his feet against the cockpit seat in an attempt to remain on the boat.

Water poured over the starboard deck while the boat teetered. Just when Alex became convinced that the boat would tip over, the Katelyn Ann slipped sideways and returned to a normal angle, turning with the rushing water. They had broken free of whatever had struck their keel. He hoped it had only been the keel, and not the rudder or hull. Damage to the latter would severely jeopardize their chances of reaching Portland Harbor.

His best guess was that they struck the western side of the cove, which was solid ledge, and drifted beyond it into open water. Barring critical damage to the steering or hull, they were in good shape to escape the tsunami relatively unscathed. The Katelyn Ann was in open water with a functional engine, which was a start. If their rudder was still intact, they would be in business. As the boat settled on the same course as the surging water, the southern shoals of Cliff Island swung into view, rapidly approaching.

Alex put the engine in gear and jammed the throttle forward, deciding to take a chance. He had just added eight knots (9 MPH) of speed to the boat’s already ridiculous rate of closure with the island. He needed the propeller wash to steer the boat, not wanting to send them into another uncontrolled spin. Holding the wheel in a death grip, he eased the rudder gently to the left, painfully aware that he may not get another shot at this. They had already crossed more than half of the 1000-foot distance between islands.

The Katelyn Ann responded to the change in rudder angle, and he watched the bow start to swing left, pointing the boat into safe water beyond the visible rock barrier. Afraid to spin the rudder any further and lose control, Alex watched helplessly as the turn stalled, and the boat drifted back in the direction of the tsunami. Alex straightened the rudder and let the water carry them, building up speed for the next turn. The short period of time the boat had spent drifting to port had made a difference, and they were lined up a little further south along the island.

He waited a few seconds and eased the wheel a quarter of a turn more than before. The rudder tugged at the helm, threatening his grip. Attempting to stabilize the wheel, Alex wrapped his right arm through the thick metal spokes and piled his body against the wheel, knowing that his bones were no match against the force of the current pushing against the rudder. He felt the metal bar press tightly against his right tricep, just above the elbow, creating a pressure that caused him to moan.

The boat eased to port, fighting against the continuous volume of water pouring over Jewell Island into the pass. The pressure on the wheel eased when the boat stopped turning, having reached the limit of its rudder-induced maneuver against the current. He untangled his throbbing arm from the wheel and stared at the approaching shore for a moment.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he hissed. The Katelyn Ann again faced the rocks, unable to break free from the tsunami’s grasp.

Alex centered the rudder, careful to hold the wheel tight as the boat careened toward the ocean-sprayed ledge barricade seemingly obsessed with claiming the boat as a victim.

“One, two—move you son of a bitch!” he said, yanking the wheel left and sliding his arm between the spokes.

The thirty-eight-foot sailboat executed another strong turn to port, causing him to bite his lower lip as the metal spoke exerted a nearly unendurable pressure against his arm and shoulder. He growled at the wheel, biting his lip as it dug into his humerus, grinding muscle against bone. The pressure eased, and he struggled to his feet. The bow was pointed into safe water, and the visible end of the island drifted rapidly to starboard, less than one hundred feet away. He still wasn’t convinced that they would clear the island. Alex had always been good with angles, especially at sea. He did the math, comparing the tsunami direction with their position and shook his head.

“Kate! Get everyone on the starboard side! Heads down! I don’t know if we’re going to make it!”

He heard a flurry of activity below, accompanied by crying he hadn’t noticed during their violent journey out of the cove. He wished they had a more powerful engine. Sailboats were so damn underpowered for their size. At the last possible moment, Alex put the engine in neutral to keep the propeller from fouling, and straightened the rudder with his left hand. The bow cleared the leading edge of the rocks with thirty feet to go, still turning with the current.

“Brace for impact!” he screamed.

He squeezed the wheel as the ledge disappeared beneath the starboard rail next to him. The massive jolt that would shipwreck them on Cliff Island never came.

“That’s right! Nobody fucks with the Katelyn Ann !” he screamed at the jagged obstacle, putting her back into gear and increasing the throttle to three-quarters.

He turned the rudder to port and eased the boat away from the southern shore, with plenty of safe water to maneuver ahead of him. The tsunami’s energy had faded quickly, allowing him to steer further port without being pushed back. A mile away, off the starboard bow, he watched the leading edge of the tsunami strike the low-lying, western half of Cliff Island, sending geysers of foamy seawater fifty feet into the air. The water swallowed the inhabited stretch of the island whole, sweeping away homes and dropping wooden utility poles. Everything disappeared. Gone.

“What’s going on!” yelled Kate.

“We made it. You have to see this.”

Kate emerged hesitantly, scanning around to gain her bearings. Her gaze once again settled on Alex.

“What happened to you?” she said, rushing over to help him.

“I decided to punch myself in the mouth for agreeing to buy a sailboat,” he said.

“It was your idea,” she said, reaching out to touch his lip.

“How are the kids?”

“Shaken up. Emily has a few bumps and bruises. I think we got lucky.”

“You have no idea,” he said, nodding behind the boat at the rocks.

Kate stared aft for a few moments, no doubt examining the boat’s wake through the water.

“You almost crashed us,” she remarked.

For the briefest moment, he thought she might be serious. He could tell she was trying desperately to suppress a grin, which in Alex’s mind saved her from being pushed overboard. Without warning, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, causing him to wince. She released the hug immediately.

“What happened?”

“I think my arm is broken. I used it to keep the wheel from turning with the wave. No lectures, please.”

She looked at Cliff Island and turned to him. “I’ll give you a pass this time. Where’s the dinghy?”

Alex scanned the water behind them, quickly turning his attention back to the open water ahead of the boat.

“Shit. I didn’t notice it was missing. I was a little preoccupied.”

Kate reached over the stern safety rail and pulled on the orange line tied to the stern cleat. The line flopped onto the swim deck, frayed at the end.

“I hope the pier is still intact back at the club,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a feeling we’re in for a little swim,” Alex said. “Maybe sooner than later. Our stern hit those rocks. We need to check for leaks.”

“I’ll inspect the aft berth for damage. We still have a foot of standing water in the cabin. The bilge pump light is on, so I assume it’s working,” she said and waded through the knee-level water in the cockpit.

Alex leaned back and examined the stern. He saw a steady stream of water pump from the hull into the bay. “I see water coming out of the discharge. If we don’t have any serious leaks, the cabin should be dry in a few minutes.”

He didn’t know the specific output capacity of his bilge pump, but based on talk around the club, he figured the boat had been equipped with a pump that could remove up to twelve hundred gallons per hour. A sizeable hull breach could easily overtake that capacity. All they needed to do was keep the boat afloat for another ninety minutes. They had buckets and a few handheld pumps if the situation became dire. Kate reached the hatchway and turned her head to face him.

“Nobody fucks with the Katelyn Ann ?” she said.

“Nobody,” he said to the boat’s namesake.

Chapter 3

EVENT +01:10 Hours

The Walker Residence

Scarborough, Maine

Ed Walker poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee and turned his head to look at the clock on the microwave, confirming the same thought he’d expressed minutes earlier, when he started to pull the toaster out of the cabinet next to the stove.

I’m an idiot.

A sudden, massive blast of wind had knocked out the power, along with most of the neighborhood’s south-facing windows, roughly an hour ago. This hadn’t stopped him from repeatedly flipping light switches and trying to activate every electronic device in the house.

His wife, Samantha, had salvaged their two-burner propane camping stove and aluminum coffee set from the garage after they had finished cleaning up the glass. The microburst had shattered every backyard-facing window in their house. They spent at least thirty minutes picking up the visible pieces, relying on flashlights and the rising sun to identify the most noticeable shards. Without the use of their central vacuum system, they would have to wear shoes.

They still had no idea what had happened. The sky was clear, except for the odd reddish glow that had persisted over the southwestern horizon for twenty minutes. Sarah Quinn insisted that she and her husband had seen a brilliant flash while stretching out on the deck for their daily run. By the time they had walked around the house to investigate, the glow had vanished. She thought it had come from the south, but her husband, George, contended that the light had shone from the east. Ed more or less thought that neither of them knew what they saw. He did know that Sarah and George had gotten lucky. Whatever they saw had delayed the start of their run, keeping them sheltered behind their house when the gust hit.

Ed lifted the mug and took a sip of hot coffee, his eyes spotting something shiny among the apples piled in a bowl on the table. They would have to be really careful around the house. He walked to the sliding patio door, noting its absence. The screen door had been severely warped by the blast, but it remained intact like most of the screens in the house. At least they would be spared the mosquitos. A cool breeze poured through the opening, providing a brief respite from the miserable day that lay ahead. Samantha walked into the kitchen from the mudroom.

“No cell phone signal yet. I’m worried about Chloe. The same thing might have hit Boston,” she said.

“This was some kind of microburst. They’re usually very localized. Probably knocked out power to the cell towers,” said Ed.

“I thought the towers had their own backup generators?”

“Most of them should,” he admitted. “If we can’t reach her by eight, we’ll leave the kids with Charlie and head to Boston. We can bring her back if there’s a problem down there.”

Ed had a sinking feeling that there was more to the morning’s power outage than strange weather. He’d retrieved their emergency radio from a box of camping supplies in the garage and taken it out on the deck, hoping to gain some basic information regarding the wind gust. Instead of the choppy, digital NOAA broadcast, he heard static. He anxiously cycled through the AM and FM bands, still unable to located a signal. Ed checked and rechecked the radio, cranking the hand-power generator for at least a minute before trying again. The radio’s LED burned brilliantly green throughout the process, telling him what he already suspected. The radio wasn’t the problem.

A sharp knock at the front door caused him to jump, spilling coffee on his hand.

“Damn it. Who the hell…?” he mumbled, setting the mug on the table.

He opened the door to find Charlie Thornton panting on his stoop. Charlie glanced over his shoulder twice, looking at the sky.

“They EMP’d our asses. Both of my cars are dead, and nothing works in my house. We’re sitting ducks,” said Charlie.

“Who EMP’d us?”

“The Chinese! Who else? They’ll probably start landing paratroopers within the hour, like Red Dawn !”

Ed regarded his neighbor for a moment, hesitating to invite him inside. Charlie stood there barefoot, dressed in faded jeans and an oversized white Red Sox T-shirt. He clung nervously to a black, AR-style rifle fitted with some kind of scope. Ed wasn’t keen on letting him inside, especially given the fact that Charlie had chosen a rifle over shoes.

“You gonna let me in or what? It won’t be long before we’re under direct attack,” he said, looking past Ed. “My guess is we’ll be hit by drones first.”

“Is the safety engaged on that thing?” Ed asked.

“Do I look like some kind of idiot?”

Ed glanced down at his bare feet and gave him a pained look.

“The safety’s on, for shit’s sake,” grunted Charlie.

Ed let Charlie in, closed the door and followed him to the kitchen.

“What did you mean about the cars?” he asked.

“Oh hey, Samantha,” Charlie said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. Damn. Still glass everywhere,” he said, lifting a small piece off the kitchen island.

“The cars, Charlie?” Ed prompted.

“Oh yeah. Both of them are dead. The batteries turn over, but the engine won’t start. EMP fried the electronics. Have you tried yo—”

“What EMP?” interrupted Samantha.

“There’s no EMP, honey. I’m sure the cars are fine,” Ed said.

“You need to check them now,” Charlie insisted.

“I’m not running out there to—”

Charlie grabbed Ed’s T-shirt, pulling him toward the garage, but something caught his attention through the kitchen window.

“What the hell is that?” he said, releasing Ed’s shirt to run to the screen door.

Ed heard the problem a few seconds before he saw it. A thunderous crescendo of sharp cracks approached, violently shaking the tops of the largest trees visible over the row of houses directly behind them. At first he thought it was another wind burst, but the loud snaps sounded more like entire trees falling. The burst of wind that had knocked out their windows was powerful, but it had left little more than leaves and branches strewn across the yard. This was different. Something slower and more deliberate.

Before he fully digested the thought, the top of a young maple tree shook and dropped out of sight beyond his backyard neighbor’s six-foot privacy fence. By the time the sound of the tree’s death reached Ed’s ears, he had figured out what they were up against.

“Get upstairs right now!” he barked at his wife, who reacted immediately, dashing past him for the center hallway.

Charlie glanced at him with a seriously puzzled look. Beyond Charlie, Ed saw the wooden privacy fence disappear, replaced by a solid wall of water. He didn’t stick around long enough to see Charlie’s reaction, but based on the steady stream of profanities catching up to him in the hallway, he figured that his friend had never moved faster.

Ed caught the banister and swung himself onto the stairway, making room for Charlie, who had closed the gap quicker than Ed had thought possible. Both of them paused to look over the railing just as the wall of water hammered the back of Ed’s house, snapping the railings on his deck and exploding through the screen door.

“Get out of there!” said Charlie, pulling him by the arm up the stairs.

A powerful torrent of muddy, debris-filled water slammed against the front door and quickly filled the foyer in a swirling eddy of dirty foam that lapped against the bottom stairs. The volume and speed of the water terrified Ed. In the next five seconds, he watched the water rise halfway up the door, showing no signs of slowing down. Two of his kitchen chairs rushed down the hallway half-submerged, piling up against the door momentarily before breaking loose and spilling through the foyer. The rest of his kitchen furniture had already streamed past in the initial onslaught. Somewhere below, he heard glass shatter over the incredible roar of the unending flood plowing through his house. His wife appeared from his son Daniel’s bedroom next to the stairs.

“You have to see this!” she said, with a look of sheer disbelief.

Ed hesitated, not wanting to take his eyes off the rising water below him. Half of the staircase was submerged.

“Dad! The whole neighborhood is flooded!” yelled Daniel from the same room.

Ed stood up, feeling slightly unsteady. “I’m sure Linda and the twins are fine,” he said to Charlie.

Charlie continued to stare at the floodwaters below. “They were still sleeping when I left,” he replied, nodding absently.

Ed joined his wife and two children at the rightmost, front window of his son’s room, nearly falling to his knees again. A surging mass of murky brown water covered the ground as far as he could see, carrying large branches, pieces of fencing, plastic garbage bins—anything that had crossed its path since striking the shoreline. The maple tree that normally blocked his view of the Sheppards’ house had been knocked into the street, providing his only direct view of the tsunami’s effects.

The Sheppards’ front door had been blown inward by the force of the wave. Water poured into the previously shattered front windows, likely creating the same effect he’d seen inside his own home. A quick, nearly inescapable flood. Water continued to push up against the house, creating incredible pressure along fifty feet of solid frontage, but he didn’t detect any obvious signs of structural failure. He estimated the tsunami’s height to be between five and six feet.

Over a mile and a half inland, the initial wave had retained enough energy to topple young trees and pound open doors, but lacked the punch to collapse homes—so far. Water continued to rush through the neighborhood at an alarming rate, and Ed remembered reading that tsunami waves rarely traveled alone, and the first wave wasn’t always the largest.

“What do you think?” asked Samantha.

“I think we’re lucky we don’t live on the water. I can’t imagine what happened to Higgins Beach,” said Ed.

“Good God,” she mumbled.

“Is my house still there?” asked Charlie from the bedroom doorway.

“I can still see the roof. Take a look. It’s un-fucking-believable,” said Ed, backing away to make room at the window.

“Language,” Samantha warned.

“Sorry about that.”

“I don’t care,” said Daniel.

His daughter Abby, who had moved to another window, said, “Neither do I.”

“Well, I do,” insisted his wife.

“Sounds like you’ve been outvoted,” said Charlie, turning his attention to the scene beyond the window.

Samantha glared at Charlie. “This isn’t a democracy.”

“Neither is my house—holy shhhh—moley!” said Charlie. “The whole fu—farping neighborhood is fu—fragged to shhhhmeg. Damn it. Can’t they just plug their ears?”

Both of the teenagers laughed nervously.

“Can’t you complete a sentence without ten expletives?” said Samantha.

“Not under these circumstances,” he said, turning to face them.

“Look at that,” Ed said, pointing out of a window on the other side of the room. “Water is gushing out of the Fletchers’ windows.”

“The water’s coming out of the top of the windows,” said Samantha.

They looked fearfully at each other and nearly collided running for the bedroom door.

“Shit,” Samantha mumbled, peering around the corner of the door.

The swirling water had climbed three-quarters of the stairway, passing the first floor ceiling level by a few inches. The volume of water pouring into their house through the wide opening created by the shattered slider door couldn’t empty quickly enough through the windows. Ed wondered how high the water would rise within the house. He knew logically that the house couldn’t fill up to the attic like a container, but seeing this frightened him on an instinctual level.

“Shit, indeed,” he said.

“I’d throw a few f-bombs in there for good measure, but the good lady strictly forbids it,” mused Charlie.

“I think the language restrictions have been temporarily lifted,” said Samantha. “Are we safe in the house, Ed?”

“As long as it doesn’t collapse, we’re totally fine—not that we have any other options. The water will start to go down in a few minutes. You’ll see. I bet your house is doing a lot better, Charlie. Only the right side was exposed directly to the surge. Probably pouring in the windows, but not sweeping through like a freight train,” said Ed.

“I hope you’re right, not that it really matters,” Charlie said ruefully. “We’re all totally screwed.”

“How does a tsunami fit into your EMP theory? Can’t offshore earthquakes cause wind gusts?” asked Ed.

“I don’t think so. Maybe the Chinese threw a nuke at Boston and missed, blew up Cape Cod instead. Everything’s coming at us from the south. I think a ten-megaton bomb could cause a tsunami like this,” said Charlie.

Ed shook his head. “You totally just made that up.”

“It’s an educated guess. Sarah Quinn swears she saw a flash, then the wind. Now we have a tsunami? Something big hit us.”

Ed had to admit that none of this added up. A sudden gust of wind powerful enough to knock out windows; electronics on the fritz; tsunami; possible flashes of light bright enough to turn night into day? Charlie was right about one thing: Whatever this turned out to be, they were most definitely screwed. And that was the least of their immediate concerns. Their daughter Chloe had just moved into an apartment on the outskirts of Boston College, with three other sophomores. Boston College was several miles from the coastline, which eased his fear of a tsunami reaching her, but now they had no way of reaching Boston.

“I hope you’re wrong,” said Samantha.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that she had started to walk toward the master bedroom. He caught up with her, and she stopped. He could hear her sniffling, trying to stifle the need to cry. He wrapped his arms around her stomach and pressed his chest into her back, kissing her ear.

“It’s going to be fine, honey. We’ll figure out a way to get down there and bring her back,” said Ed, nuzzling his forehead into the back of his wife’s neck.

“What if it’s not fine? What if Charlie’s right and the cars are dead? Shit. They’re probably flooded and useless anyway.”

“She’ll be fine. Alex’s son is a few miles away at BU. Ryan’s like a mini-Alex. They’ll find each other and survive until we can get them back. Ryan has her address, and unless I’ve read all of the signals wrong, the kid is still crazy about her. I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but he’s probably on his way to her apartment right now,” Ed whispered.

Samantha relaxed infinitesimally and nodded, which was a start.

“The water’s receding!” Charlie announced.

Everyone piled into the hallway to verify Charlie’s dubious report. Daniel pushed past them and walked down the stairs to the waterline.

“This is unreal,” he said, plucking their wooden napkin holder out of the water.

“Careful, Danny,” cautioned Ed.

The water’s retreat was barely noticeable, but Charlie was right. The water sat an inch below the ceiling line and appeared to lower another inch while they watched.

“Samantha?” Charlie called.

They all looked back at their red-faced, crew-cut neighbor.

“You don’t worry one bit about Chloe. I’ll help you get her back safe. You can count on me for that. If we have to push a shopping cart to Boston to get her, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Thank you, Charlie. I really don’t know what to say,” said Samantha. Her eyes moistened, but she held back the tears.

“You don’t have to say anything. I consider you guys family. That’s just what we do,” he said. Ed opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Charlie interrupted. “Don’t get all feminine on me, Ed. One thank you from the family is all I can handle,” he said, slapping Ed on the shoulder.

“Thanks anyway. That means more than you know. One question, though. Why the hell would we need to push a shopping cart to Boston?”

“I don’t know. That’s what they do in all the apocalypse movies and books.”

Chapter 4

EVENT +03:42 Hours

Portland Harbor

Portland, Maine

The Katelyn Ann cut through the debris-clogged water off Portland’s Eastern Promenade at five knots, as Alex did his best to steer between the larger obstacles, ignoring the smaller ones. His real concern was the quality of the water. Whatever had reached the outer harbor through Portland’s main shipping channel had churned up the bottom, dragging along an incredible amount of seaweed and mud. The seaweed tended to wrap around the propeller shaft, putting an additional load on the engine. The muddy water congested the filter supplying seawater to the engine’s cooling system.

Feeling a solid thump against the hull, Alex glanced over the side and saw a partially submerged, overturned motorboat, roughly half the size of the Katelyn Ann , pass astern.

“That’s the kind of stuff you need to call out!” he yelled to Kate, reengaging the propeller.

“I didn’t think you could miss that!”

“Well, I did miss it! I’m watching the gauges!”

Kate nodded, mumbling under her breath. No doubt a few caustic words, fueled by the tension of their approach to the harbor. Kate had been stationed on the bow for too long. The hour and a half transit turned into two and half hours when they decided to avoid the main shipping channel.

The harbor was eerily devoid of activity as they approached Portland’s first commercial marina along the Eastern Promenade. It didn’t take long to figure out why.

The mooring field off East End Beach was in complete disarray. Most of the boats had been flipped, either sinking in the shallow water or floating overturned nearby, still attached to their mooring balls. A dark blue-hulled sailboat stood defiantly at its mooring, appearing untouched by the morning’s disaster, while a similar boat lay on its side, keel exposed on the beach. Off his starboard bow, Portland Boat Service’s mooring field and docks looked the same. Devastated. None of the business’s shore structures had survived the wave, and dozens of boats littered the flat expanse of ground that previously held the Portland Boat Service’s massive storage warehouse. Everything was gone, including the century-old brick buildings that marked the beginning of the Eastern Promenade Trail.

Kate looked back at him from the bow and mouthed, holy shit , shaking her head. The wave had continued unopposed, sweeping through Portland’s tightly packed “Old Port” commercial district. Many of the older, historical buildings on the outskirts of the Old Port between India Street and Franklin Street had been toppled, but the visible damage stopped there. The taller, more venerable brick buildings and hotels in the same area still dominated the cityscape like nothing had happened. Alex knew differently.

Without warning, a wall of water had washed down Commercial Street and Fore Street, at an unimaginable speed, taking parked cars with it. Anything or anyone caught in the open would have been swept down the streets and dashed against the concrete structures. Fortunately, the tsunami struck at roughly six in the morning on a Monday. Dozens of people had been tragically killed going about their early morning routines, but the casualty numbers would have jumped twenty-fold if the wave had struck an hour or so later, when the Old Port was filled with thousands of employees.

Kate pointed at the water a hundred meters ahead of the boat and signaled for him to turn to port. He eased the rudder over until she gave him a thumbs-up. He never saw the obstacle she had detected.

Alex had been so focused on dodging obstacles and gawking at the Eastern Promenade that he nearly missed the most obvious damage caused by the tsunami. A massive oil tanker sat high and dry with its propellers and rudder exposed. Listing forty-five degrees on its starboard side, the vessel had been ripped from the concrete pier and stranded in shallow water, its contents gushing into the harbor

Kate pointed toward the grounded tanker and shook her head. He simply nodded. There wasn’t much to say. Portland Harbor was ruined. Every nook and cranny would reek of crude oil for years to come. Given the deeper disaster scenario unfolding, he couldn’t imagine the harbormaster or Coast Guard engaging in efforts to contain the spill to the harbor. All of Casco Bay would be contaminated in short order.

He reduced the throttle as they approached the most congested part of the inner harbor and did his best to avoid larger objects that could foul the boat’s propeller. The next time Kate turned her head to confirm that he received her hand signal, he yelled out to her, “Can you tell if we’re cruising through oil!”

The surface of the water was thick with mud, silt and foam, making it difficult for him to determine if they were pushing through petroleum. The engine temperature had spiked into the red zone over the past few minutes. Lowering the throttle hadn’t lowered the temperature. Kate lowered herself to the deck and pushed half of her body through the bow rail, examining the boat’s waterline along the bow. She sat back on the deck, facing him, and nodded.

“We have a thick layer of oil running down the side of the boat!” she replied.

Shit .

Now he wasn’t sure what to do. Reduce speed further to delay the inevitable? Speed up and get there faster? Pull right into Portland and deal with the walk across the bridge? Was the bridge even safe? He decided to go for the club or Coast Guard station. He didn’t want to deal with the mess in Portland and the trek to find a passable bridge.

“I’m taking us in! Look for a pier on the other side!” he said.

As soon as she nodded, he turned the wheel, pointing the boat at a tangle of wooden piers and pilings across the harbor. Reluctantly, he increased the throttle, accelerating the boat toward its final destination.

“Kids, I need you topside to help. We might only get one chance at bringing the boat alongside,” said Alex.

Emily tumbled into the cockpit first, her auburn hair pulled back tightly by a black scrunchie.

“Do you have makeup on?” he asked.

“Yeah. Why? It’s not like I didn’t have the time,” she said, looking at him like he was an idiot.

He couldn’t really argue with her logic, though in the context of their situation, he could have said, Are you out of your friggin mind? and satisfied most adults with his response. He let it go, marveling as the “center of the universe” stepped onto the deck and walked carefully toward the bow. He couldn’t wait to see Kate’s reaction. The two of them had been battling each other like gladiators for the past year. Ethan stepped through the hatchway with his backpack firmly strapped to his back, distracting him from the potential melee between Kate and Emily.

“Ethan, you don’t want to have that on your back for this. You might have to jump James Bond style from the boat to the pier,” said Alex.

Ethan removed the pack from his thin frame, placing it on the starboard cockpit bench. He adjusted his hunter green ball cap, tucking his hair under the brim, and surveyed the harbor.

“Where do you need me, Uncle Alex? Stern line?” he asked, noting Kate and Emily on the bow.

“Exactly. Why don’t you take down the lifelines on both sides and get ready to make the jump when we pull up. I’m taking us wherever we can get alongside a solid-looking pier. Could be either side. Just remember, don’t sweat a perfect tie up. Get the line secured quickly and head down the pier to grab Aunt Kate’s line.”

“I got it,” said Ethan, staring ahead with a serious look. “Are you going to be able to get us in?”

“I don’t know. It’s not looking good,” Alex said, as his view unfolded.

Astoria Marina’s vast floating pier system had been swept across the mooring field and sat pinned against what used to be South Portland Yacht Club’s dock. Boats from Astoria were scattered everywhere, some still floating, attached to the dock, most sunk in the shallow water, their masts or flying bridges standing useless vigil, scattered haphazardly across the waterfront. Thick streaks of black oil were evident on every waterline surface.

“What do you think?” he yelled to Kate.

“You might be able to pull into one of those slips,” she said, pointing at Astoria’s mangled dock, “but I can’t tell if it’s connected to land. I can see at least a dozen boats under the water and a ton of other stuff! Go to the Coast Guard station!”

Alex steered the boat to port, passing by several empty mooring balls, and increased his speed. A few minutes later, they approached the seemingly undamaged station, which stood on a raised concrete platform that jutted six hundred feet into the harbor. Coast Guard personnel on the easternmost concrete pier waved urgently at him. Oddly, their gestures didn’t appear welcoming to Alex. It almost seemed like they were trying to wave him off.

He slowed to bare steerageway and searched for a place along the fifteen-foot-high pier that had a ladder or an access dock lower to the water. A large Buoy Tender occupied much of the water between the eastern and western piers, blocking his view of the inner pier area. Alex altered their course to starboard and edged closer to the station. At this point, he could clearly tell that the station personnel did not want him to approach any closer. Dressed in dark blue uniforms with body armor, at least two of them carried carbines slung across their chests. As soon as he saw the rifles, his mind flashed to the drop-leg holster snugged against his upper right thigh.

The holster faced away from the pier, which gave him hope that it hadn’t been spotted. He couldn’t imagine that they would be happy to see someone openly carrying a firearm on the water. The state of Maine had no prohibitions against openly carrying a firearm, and he was licensed to carry a concealed weapon in the state, but he had no idea if bringing a firearm on the boat in coastal waters was legal. He’d never given it a second thought. He decided that this wasn’t the time to push his luck, so he reached down to start the process of removing the holster.

Before he could pull the first Velcro latch from his belt, one of the Defenders roared into view from behind the western pier. Alex moved his hands away from the holster and placed them at the top of the boat’s steering wheel. The Defender’s forward-mounted M-240B machine gun remained trained on the Katelyn Ann as it closed in on the sailboat’s starboard side. Kate raised her hands, which set off a chain reaction of hands-raising throughout the boat. The Defender’s roof-mounted loudspeaker roared.

“Put your engine in neutral, and place your hands on your head!”

Alex quickly complied as the Defender came alongside, facing aft, disgorging its armed boarding team onto the sailboat’s deck. Dressed in blue digital camouflage uniforms and full ballistic body armor, the four-member team split up. One group moved toward the bow, approaching Kate and Emily, pointing their weapons at them. The second group immediately secured Alex and Ethan, removing Alex’s pistol and pushing the two of them into the portside cockpit seat. The petty officer manning the M-240B kept it trained on Alex the entire time. When the boarding officer was satisfied that the boat was in neutral and that everything appeared under control, she signaled for the crew of the Defender to lash the sailboat securely to their craft. Without glancing in Alex’s direction, she tossed the pistol over the stern.

“Was that really necessary?” asked Alex.

“None of this would be necessary if you hadn’t insisted on approaching the station. You were warned repeatedly,” she replied.

“My car is over at the yacht club. We couldn’t go pier side anywhere but here. I apologize for putting you in this position. I imagine the station is dealing with a lot right now. Do you know what’s happening? I’m pretty sure we were hit by an EMP.”

The boarding officer glanced at the other petty officer, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“Boarding team, stand down! We’ll tow them back to the station. Let’s go!” she announced, turning her attention back to Alex.

“We don’t know what’s happening, but the National Terrorist Advisory System issued an imminent warning, with no threat specifics. The station went dark at about 0500, damage to the systems onshore and onboard our vessels was consistent with your assessment of an EMP. We have our hands full, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to bring you pier side for two minutes to offload. After that, I’m putting her on the nearest mooring.”

“So I guess a harbor cleanup isn’t high on your priority list?” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“We have some buckets and a row boat if you’re volunteering,” she said.

“Don’t piss her off, honey. Please. We’re very grateful for your help,” said Kate, approaching them along the port-side deck.

The petty officer nodded and turned to board the Defender, stopping briefly to address Alex.

“Sorry about the pistol, but the NTAS warning came with orders to disarm civilians on sight. I think it’s bullshit, but not everyone agrees with me. Either way, you weren’t getting on the station with that pistol. I’d be a little more discreet next time,” she said.

“Disarming civilians is a little strange, don’t you think?”

“I have the distinct feeling that we haven’t seen the beginning of strange yet,” she said.

Chapter 5

EVENT +04:38 Hours

South Portland, Maine

Kate stood facing the chain-link gate, staring at the water-swept, gravel parking lot. The cars had been rearranged, and damage to the clubhouse appeared more extensive than they had observed from several hundred feet away on the water. Structurally, the one-story building looked intact, but all of the windows had been shattered, and part of the steward’s shack had been swept off its foundation. The small wooden shack sat teetering on the edge of the rock wall facing west toward the Coast Guard station. She peered through the fence, scanning the parking lot one more time. They would have to walk home.

Alex removed his backpack and grabbed the fence with both hands, gauging its steadiness.

“I don’t think there’s any point,” Kate said.

She didn’t want to waste any more time getting back to their house. The car had been parked along the seawall, several feet from the edge, along with the rest of the cars that were either missing or standing vertical in the water. The cars in the lot had all been shifted at least twenty feet by the water, which would put their SUV in the oily soup mixture that now constituted Portland Harbor. She didn’t even see its tailgate, so there was no reason for Alex to climb the fence and confirm the obvious.

Just their luck. Finding a spot for their SUV in the less cramped, outer edge of the parking lot on a clear Sunday morning had been a stroke of fortune yesterday. Now they faced a wonderful five-mile walk with overstuffed backpacks in the stifling heat that would only get worse as the day progressed. Alex either didn’t hear her or was purposefully ignoring her. Neither possibility pleased Kate.

He’d already put them more than an hour behind schedule by confronting the Coast Guard station’s commanding officer about the lost pistol and the fact that they were treated like terrorists while approaching the station in a sailboat. It didn’t matter anymore, but he couldn’t let it go.

Under normal circumstances, she appreciated his proactive approach to sticking up for the family, but this was far from an ordinary dilemma. They could have walked right from the pier to the front gate in five minutes, but he kept pushing, and they were detained while their credentials were verified. It was pure harassment, infuriating and unnecessary,. Alex should have known better than to push their buttons.

Now it was hotter outside, and her last vestige of patience was about to be completely erased by Alex’s Spiderman routine. The quicker they got home, the sooner they could figure out how to get Ryan out of Boston. They needed to stay focused on that goal. Climbing a fence to confirm the obvious wasn’t on her list of things to do right now.

“The car’s gone. We’re heading out,” she stated, signaling for Ethan and Emily to follow.

She took several steps down the road before hearing Alex’s footfalls approach from behind.

“Take it easy, Kate. We’re on the same page here. I just thought we might be able to salvage something from the car if it was sticking up from the water like some of the others,” said Alex.

She softened the look on her face and turned her head. “We can’t carry any more crap. It’s hot, it’s humid, and I want to get home so we can come up with a plan to get Ryan. We have everything we need at home.”

“If our house is still there. These packs might be it. We have to think worst-case scenario,” he said.

“Every house is still standing. Even the clubhouse on the edge of the water. I’m sure our house is intact,” said Kate, picking up the pace.

“You’re going too fast for the kids. A regular walking pace would be best, especially with the heat. These packs will feel twice as heavy by the time we reach Highland Avenue.”

“Yep. I can feel this damn thing digging into my shoulder already. They’re not exactly the most comfortable packs. How long do you think it will take us to get home?” she asked, slowing down to fall into step beside him.

“Five miles? I’d say two to three hours, depending on the burden of these packs and the temperature. That’s assuming we can follow the usual roads, which is a fair assumption. Even if the water made it that far inland, we shouldn’t be looking at anything more than an occasional downed tree or power line—maybe some debris. We should be home before the day gets ridiculously hot.”

“Sounds like fun. This isn’t exactly the weight-loss plan I had in mind, but I’ll take what I can get,” Kate said, adjusting the pack on her shoulders.

Kate wished she had taken the time to pick out a more suitable backpack. Alex had given her the opportunity to look through options, but she had deferred the decision to his judgment. Less than a quarter of a mile into their trek, she regretted not taking a little more interest in the backpack he had chosen.

He had selected the same design for everyone, opting for an OD green, military-style, three-day assault pack. From a purely practical standpoint, the assault pack met their requirements on every level. The “three-day” designation referred to sustained combat operations, where a soldier would carry large quantities of additional ammunition, radio batteries, and other squad- or platoon-based items, in addition to food and water, taking up most of their “personal” space. Alex had chosen the assault pack for its large cargo-carrying capacity and unique interior arrangement.

Internally, the pack contained over a dozen zippered or snapped compartments, making it easy to organize and access the different categories of gear required for an effective bug-out bag. They had bought two backpacks for each member of the family. One for the house and one for travel.

For the boat, Alex staged each backpack with an imbedded three-liter CamelBak hydration bladder, three stainless-steel one-liter bottles, three full MREs (Meals Ready to Eat), a folding knife, one LED flashlight and a basic first aid kit. Everyone was required to add two full changes of clothing and a pair of running shoes, in a sealed three-gallon Ziploc bag, to the bottom of their pack. The rest of the space belonged to the owner, which left more than enough room to pack clothing, toiletries and other essentials for a week-long trip, if you didn’t mind wearing the same items for a couple of days in a row. Kate always brought another bag for trips over three days on the sailboat.

Alex always loaded his own pack with additional survival gear. Fire-starting equipment, signaling gear, a pair of handheld radios, an enhanced first aid kit, water purification tablets and a number of items she had already forgotten. His pack always looked like it was about to burst apart at the seams and had to weigh at least fifteen pounds heavier than the other packs.

Not many families travelled like the Fletchers. Whenever they journeyed by car as a family, four of these backpacks, filled with the required basics, would be stuffed into the vehicle next to their regular suitcases and luggage. Alex had become obsessed with the idea of “bugging out” of every possible situation—an obsession that had paid off handsomely this morning.

“Honey, you should tighten the waist belt a little more. It’ll take some of the load off your shoulders. The straps are padded decently enough, but I’d guess that the pack was generally designed to go over body armor or some kind of load-bearing vest system. Kids, if you feel like the pack is rubbing your shoulders too much, tighten the waist belt as much as you can stand. It’ll make a big difference an hour from now,” said Alex.

Several feet in front of them, Ethan and Emily hiked their packs higher on their shoulders and made the adjustment. Kate did the same, tightening her own waist strap as much as she could stand, which significantly lessened the pressure on her shoulders.

“That’s much better, until the straps start digging into my stomach,” she remarked.

“Wait until you’re drenched with sweat. Once your shirt is soaked, the chafing is ten times worse,” said Alex.

“Wonderful. Any other good news?”

“We’ll all probably have blisters or a hot spot on our feet within the hour, most likely on the dominant foot. The extra weight on your back changes the friction coefficient between your sock and shoe. We’ll stop every forty-five minutes and check, make some adjustments—maybe change socks.”

“I don’t think we should stop,” Kate said.

“Trust me, you’ll be glad to stop. We did it during road marches in the Marine Corps. Marines would check their feet and drink water, while the corpsmen ran up and down the column repairing blisters and checking on guys who looked like they were about to pass out. We savored those breaks,” said Alex.

“You didn’t have a son trapped in Boston, waiting to be rescued.”

“Good point, though I have a feeling he’s not lying in bed sucking his thumb,” Alex said.

“That boy needs his mom,” Kate insisted.

“He is sort of a momma’s boy,” Alex joked. “Kids, make sure you keep sipping water! Don’t be afraid to stick that hose in your mouth.”

“That didn’t sound right,” whispered Kate.

“That was the G-rated version of what my gunny would have said.”

Chapter 6

EVENT +05:07 Hours

South Portland, Maine

A lone car approached from behind, causing Alex to stop on the sidewalk. He stood with his family in the shadow of the three-story, red-brick middle school situated on the southeast corner of the intersection at Broadway and Ocean Street. Since turning onto Broadway, Alex had counted four cars of various makes and models. There was no discernible pattern to what type of car survived the EMP, or whatever disturbance had caused the electrical grid to fail. He had expected to see more cars based on the Critical National Infrastructure’s (CNI) revised report findings. Three cars in thirty minutes on a major road didn’t support the assertion that forty percent of all cars would remain drivable.

They all watched a gray Subaru Outback pass them and stop at the intersection, which was occupied by a functional South Portland Police Department cruiser and three police officers. The Subaru edged forward, but the officers signaled for the driver to stop the car. Alex was pretty sure that he heard them tell the driver to turn off the engine.

“Keep moving. Cut the corner and keep going down Ocean toward Highland. I’ll catch up,” said Alex.

He kept walking along the curved sidewalk and stood behind a tree, while his family moved along the front of the school in the shade cast by the tall building. Satisfied that they were leaving the scene, he turned all of his attention back to the unfolding drama. Since there was no other vehicle traffic, or any background noise for that matter, he heard the entire exchange.

“Sir, I need you to step out of the car,” said the officer by the driver’s-side window.

The second officer had taken position on the front passenger side, while the third officer circled the hatchback, examining the back seat and cargo area of the vehicle, before joining the first officer.

“Did I do something wrong?” asked the driver. “I stopped where I normally would, even though there’s no light.”

“Can you please just step out of the car? You’re not in any trouble,” said the officer.

“Well, I don’t see why I need to get out of my car. I have my license and registration right here,” said the driver, holding up the documents for the officer to see.

The officer calmly retrieved the man’s driver’s license, barely examining it before continuing.

“Mr. Reynolds, the Department of Homeland Security has declared a national state of emergency. We need to replace vehicles that were knocked out by the EMP. I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds, but this vehicle temporarily belongs to the South Portland Police Department. Please step out of your car.”

The officer standing next to him took a few steps back and rested her hand on her service pistol. The driver saw this subtle shift and received the message, opening the door and stepping onto the pavement. He was dressed in khaki shorts with cargo pockets and a gray T-shirt. Nothing about him raised any alarms or gave Alex concern that this might end badly.

“Officer Harker will drive you home. We’re really sorry about this, but we have to get the rest of our officers out on patrol. You’re better off at your house anyway,” said the officer.

“I need to fill a prescription for my daughter at Shaw’s and try to find things—like food. I don’t suppose Officer Harker will be on loan for the next hour or so to drive me around?” asked the driver, staring down the police officer.

The police officer shook his head and held up the license, which the driver deftly snapped out of his hand. The driver kept both hands in the air, one holding the plastic license, and walked backward, shaking his head, and Alex knew there was far more to the unassuming man in shorts and a T-shirt than met the casual eye. Based on the speed and dexterity of the man’s movement, Alex had little doubt that he could have “repossessed” his car and left the three officers on the pavement in a tangle of limbs.

He had to remember this critical lesson for his own upcoming trek. Make no assumptions based on appearance. There were plenty of people out there who were quicker, stronger and craftier than he was.

“I’ll walk from here,” the man said and turned to head north on Ocean Street toward the supermarket.

He stopped several steps into his journey and turned to address the officers, who had already begun to set up for the next car that might amble into their trap.

“Hey! We forgot to fill out the paperwork! What, no paperwork? Imagine that. Enjoy the car, assholes!” he said and jogged away.

Alex slipped away from the tree and located Kate sitting in the shade of the furthest entrance stoop from the intersection. He headed in their direction, nervously looking over his shoulder. The police seemed cordial enough, but they didn’t hesitate to take away a citizen’s property in the name of emergency powers. They would have to be cautious around law enforcement. Within a few hours of the event, whatever it turned out to be, law enforcement agencies had started confiscating cars and disarming citizens.

Given the circumstances, neither of these actions qualified as a sudden decline into a “police state,” but Alex couldn’t shake distant thoughts about some of the theories popularized by Internet conspiracy pundits. “False flag” came to mind, but based on what he’d witnessed since the initial flash beyond Jewell Island, he quickly dismissed the idea as paranoia.

Alex imagined that the conspiracy pundits were going crazy with theories—made even worse by the fact that they had no Internet to propagate them. On a whole, he didn’t buy into these theories, but given what he had just witnessed, it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the big picture. He reached Kate, who sat on the first step of the doorway, and saw that the kids were hidden deeper in the alcove, seated against the building.

“Everything all right over there?” she asked him.

“I don’t know. The cops just seized that guy’s vehicle in the name of the federal government.”

“What?” said Emily. “They can’t do that.”

“Federal government? That doesn’t sound right,” said Kate.

“I agree, which is why I don’t know what to think. The officer cited Homeland Security and a state of national emergency. Said they needed working vehicles to get the rest of the police department out on patrol,” said Alex.

“That makes more sense,” Kate said with some relief. “I’m sure that’s all they were doing.”

Alex shook his head and checked his watch. “That’s the fifth car we’ve seen on Broadway in what—twenty or thirty minutes? How many cars does the department need to replace? If they just started seizing cars, it makes sense, but it’s been over three hours since the tsunami hit. I think we need to avoid any law enforcement roadblocks or checkpoints from this point forward.”

“How the hell are we going to get to Boston if the police are stealing cars?”

“Let’s get home first,” he said, extending his hand to Kate.

She lifted herself off the step and immediately hugged his sweaty frame, burying her head in his shoulder.

“We don’t even know if our other car will work,” she whispered, lifting her head.

“We’ll figure something out. I’ll ride a bike to Boston if I have to. Everything will be fine. I promise.”

Kate shook her head. “You can’t make a promise like that.”

“I can promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen. You know I’m good for that,” he said, kissing her moist forehead. “Let’s get moving. If we’re sweating like this at ten in the morning, I’d hate to see us at noon.”

Alex kept his eyes on the police cruiser to the north, wondering how many cars they had added to the department’s inventory this morning. He couldn’t shake the deeply imbedded suspicion that nothing was as it seemed this morning—and the fear that nothing would ever be the same again.

Turning onto Highland Avenue a few minutes later filled him with a momentary sense of relief. All they had to do at this point was follow Highland Avenue for three and a half miles to the firehouse, where they could pretty much stumble into their neighborhood. They had walked for less than a minute before hearing the distant sound of a vehicle. Alex quickly scanned his surroundings and made a decision that surprised him.

“Honey, take the kids and hide behind that car,” he said, pointing at an older model minivan in the adjacent parking lot.

“Are we hiding from cars now?” she snapped, grabbing Emily’s sleeve and pulling her toward the minivan.

“Maybe I’m being ridiculous,” he said, walking with them.

The white sedan rounded the bend heading into the police trap. Alex changed his mind about hiding and moved swiftly to the street, waving his hands over his head.

“What are you doing?” hissed Kate, holding her hands palms up in an annoyed gesture.

“Get behind the car!” he said over his shoulder.

The car slowed enough for him to yell at a blond woman through the open driver’s-side window.

“There’s a police roadblock at Broadway. They’re seizing cars!” yelled Alex.

The car screeched to a halt several feet before the intersection, and Alex jogged along the sidewalk, careful not to approach the car directly and possibly frighten the driver. The woman leaned her head out of the window. She had a laceration on her forehead above her right eyebrow, which had bled profusely at some point this morning given the amount of congealed blood plastered to the right side of her face. Her hair was matted to her head above the wound.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

Alex caught up with her, staying on the sidewalk to keep at least a car’s length distance between them.

“The police have a cruiser set up in the middle of the intersection at Broadway and Ocean. I watched them stop a car and force the driver out. Emergency seizure,” he said.

“What about further down at Cottage and Broadway?” asked the driver.

“We just came from there. It was clear fifteen minutes ago,” said Alex.

“Good. Did you notice if any of the stores are open?” she asked, glancing around nervously.

“The variety store on the corner of Broadway and Mussey was open, but they didn’t have power. Cash only. We saw a slow but steady stream of people walking down Cottage toward the shopping complex. What’s the situation like down Highland? We’re headed to Scarborough.”

“I heard that the water reached Highland, but I haven’t confirmed that. There’s all kinds of weird talk out there. EMP, Chinese invasion, volcano erupting in Boston…”

“What happened to your forehead?” Alex asked.

He suddenly felt slightly exposed standing on the side of the road. If the water hadn’t reached her house, why did she look like she had been in a knife fight? What else did they face walking down Highland Avenue?

“One of my—neighbors —decided that I wasn’t entitled to one of the few working cars on the street,” she said, staring blankly through the front windshield.

Alex didn’t care to press the question. He knew what had likely played out in her driveway, and that the neighbor had lost the fight.

“I’d stash this thing as far from the Hannaford parking lot as possible and walk the rest of the way. You might be able to handle one jerk on your own, but every eye in the parking lot will be on your car.”

“There were three of them,” she said, “and only one of them wanted the car. Savages.”

“Sorry. I assume you…” he paused.

“I took care of them,” she said, touching the crusted wound on her forehead. “Keep a tight eye on your family,” she added, nodding toward the minivan to the left of Alex.

The sedan pulled away and stopped at the intersection momentarily, while the driver undoubtedly confirmed the information he had passed. She accelerated the car and disappeared behind the chain-link fence that bordered the middle school’s athletic field.

“All right. Let’s go,” he announced.

Kate rose from her dubious hiding spot near the rear bumper of the minivan and walked toward the sidewalk, joined by Ethan and Emily.

“Ethan, turn around and let Emily grab the knife out of your backpack. Outer left pocket, Emily. Then Ethan gets the one out of your pack, sweetie. Turn around, honey, and I’ll get yours,” he said.

“What did she say?” Kate asked. “She looked like she’d been attacked.”

“She fought off three guys trying to steal her car,” he replied quietly.

“Keep the knife in your front pocket, out of sight, and keep sipping water. That CamelBak should be empty by the time we reach the high school,” he announced, then whispered the rest of what the woman had told him about the attack into Kate’s ear.

Kate’s expression instantly sharpened to an angry grimace.

“I really wish that Coastie hadn’t tossed my pistol,” he said.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, snapping open the three-inch serrated blade to examine his choice for their bug-out packs. “Just fine.” She closed the knife and put it into her front cargo pocket.

Chapter 7

EVENT +08:15

Scarborough, Maine

Alex watched Kate stop and exhale at the intersection. She stepped off in the direction of their neighborhood, without bothering to glance at the lifeless fire station on the opposite side of the street. He knew what was bothering her, their son was alone and over a hundred miles away in a heavily populated urban center.

“Nobody at the fire station?” he asked.

“I guess not,” mumbled Kate. “How much water damage do you think we have?”

“Based on the high-water mark here and the fact that most small trees have been knocked down, I’d guess that our basement is completely flooded—and our first floor has been wiped clean.”

“There’s a lot more standing water here—and mud. It didn’t look this bad back up Highland,” she said.

“We’re almost a mile closer to the beach at this point,” he said.

“Everything’s been stripped away. This is unbelievable.”

He stared down Harrison Road and saw the proverbial “forest through the trees.” Aside from the houses, larger trees and utility poles, the landscape had been completely denuded by the tsunami, replaced by a foot and a half deep layer of mud and ubiquitous, randomly scattered piles of debris.

Across the street, he spotted another gray, Town of Scarborough trash bin. They’d seen several along Highland Ave over the past thirty minutes, where evidence of a stronger wave surge became evident. He knew the bins hadn’t originated from any of the neighborhoods in Harrison Hill. Trash day was Thursday for this part of town. He’d also seen roofing tiles and splintered sections of cedar siding buried in the mud or stuck in the lower branches of the trees of the forest preserve. A tattered lobster trap lay on its side, half buried in silt a few feet away from an overturned neon green plastic bucket. The entire landscape was littered with these bizarrely juxtaposed confirmations that humanity had been violently upended further down the line. The tsunami must have obliterated the beach communities.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, they had reached Everett Lane, one street from Durham Road. Alex wondered if an inconspicuous approach to their house would be a better idea under the circumstances. He didn’t feel like parading down the street, attracting everyone’s attention. Most of the neighbors would look to him for advice, and he couldn’t afford to get bogged down.

If his suspicions were correct, he faced an extremely tight timeframe to rescue his son. In less than a microsecond, this morning’s EMP burst had permanently disabled the United States’ essential services infrastructure, far exceeding the damage and impact caused by the slow burn of the Jakarta Pandemic. In 2013, it took several weeks of food and water shortages before the riots spiraled out of control, and most people still had electricity. Cities burned, and hundreds of thousands of deaths were attributed to the violence and chaos that ensued. For New England, the extreme winter weather had been a blessing and a curse. The cold undoubtedly killed thousands, but it drove all but the most hardcore to seek shelter, extinguishing the civil rampage that burned entire cities to the ground in the south.

He gave it two days until the collective masses realized that nobody could flip the switch and turn America back on. When this realization took hold, memories of the suffering and misery endured during the darkest hours of the Jakarta Pandemic would flood to the surface, fueling the greatest breakdown in United States history. He wanted to be far from Boston, or any urban area, when that started.

“Honey, let’s sneak in through backyards. We’ll pass fewer houses that way.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kate said, taking a step forward and stopping.

“Mother ffffffuuuuh,” she hissed.

Alex saw that her left foot had emerged from the mud without the shoe.

“These things are useless at this point,” she said, leaning against him to use both hands to retie the shoe.

“They’re protecting our feet from a puncture or cut. That’s about it. We’re almost there. Twenty minutes,” he said.

“More like thirty at this rate,” she said, finishing with her shoe.

He kissed the back of her moist neck, tasting her salty sweat. “You’re doing an amazing job. If it weren’t for you, the kids would be sitting in the mud on the side of the road a mile back,” he whispered.

She turned and kissed him briefly on the lips. “Thanks. That’s all I needed to hear to keep me going,” she said, flashing the first genuine smile he’d seen from her all morning.

“All right then, let’s bring this crazy train home. Kids, I want you guys up here,” said Alex, motioning with his hands for them to fill the gap between him and Kate.

“Why?” said Emily.

“So I can watch over you. Come on. Let’s go.”

“It’s just our neighborhood,” she said, with a hint of teen condescension.

Alex faked a smile and mumbled under his breath, “Yeah. That’s what I’m worried about.”

PART II

“DURHAM ROAD”

Chapter 8

EVENT +08:37 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

Alex held the rucksack over his head with both hands and pushed through the chest-high mess that filled the water runoff ditch. A similar ditch ran on the other side of the neighborhood, emptying into the same retention pond. He could only assume that the retention pond had been instantaneously filled by the initial tsunami wave, rendering the entire runoff system useless. He climbed out of the soupy mud, trailing thick strands of seaweed. Neither Kate nor the kids looked eager to step down into the light brown slush. He dropped his pack in the mud at his feet and slid down to the edge of the water.

“There has to be a better way to do this,” Kate said.

“You can walk around to the front of the neighborhood and say hi to everyone on the way in,” said Alex.

She shook her head and swung her backpack around, hesitating to take the plunge.

“Don’t worry,” Alex said, smiling, “the water’s warm.”

“Very funny,” Kate said, then mumbled, “I’ve heard that before.”

She stepped down into the water, quickly sinking to her waist, then the top of her neck. She teetered trying to keep the rucksack in the air, nearly toppling into the water. Alex really hoped that didn’t happen. Normally, he might find the idea of Kate falling unexpectedly into water utterly hilarious, and if the circumstances were right, he’d consider facilitating the situation. This wasn’t one of those times. She didn’t look the least bit amused.

“Are you going to stand there and watch me sink in to my eyebrows, or maybe help me with this pack?”

“I hadn’t decided yet.” Alex smirked. After a short pause, he waded into the water and grabbed her pack.

“That’s yours now, by the way,” she said, scrambling up the side of the ditch.

He broke into laughter. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you back in the water.”

“You can try.”

“I’ll ferry the rest of the packs across,” Alex offered. “I didn’t realize the water would come up so high on you—though I was really hoping there for a second.”

Alex heaved the last pack up to Kate and helped Emily out of the water, pulling her with both hands. He was surprised by the difficulty the group experienced crossing the small ditch. The five-mile hike in the blistering sun had pretty much sapped all of their energy, turning the simple act of crossing a waist-deep ditch into a chore. He felt a pair of hands on his back.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, without turning around.

“Maybe another day. The water felt good, though,” Kate said, pulling him by his left hand.

“It did feel good, even though my pants are filled with mud.”

A minute later, they stepped onto the muck-swept street. The storm drain in front of the Murrays’ old house gushed dirty water onto the street, creating a shallow swamp that covered the street in front of several houses and crept up the driveways. Between the houses, the entire neighborhood resembled a mudflat, littered with downed trees, seaweed, and persistently scattered debris—complete with a small lake forming.

He didn’t see anyone standing outside, which struck him as odd. For some reason, he’d expected more activity, but the neighborhood was quiet except for the excited chatter of birds. He kept forgetting that the wave had hit them over six hours ago. By now, most of them would be exhausted from a combination of fear, stress, heat and humidity. He hoped they stayed inside for the rest of the day. By tomorrow, he would be long gone.

Alex looked up the northern side of the Durham Road loop toward the top of the development. Water pumped less forcefully from the other storm drains he could observe, creating rivulets through the mud that fed the street pond. He stared in awe at the new landscape. Aside from the obvious orientation of the houses, there was nothing to indicate he was standing on a road. Something shifted in the pond, catching their attention. He knew what it was before anyone spoke.

“Is that…a body?” asked Kate.

“I think so. Let’s keep everyone moving. Don’t stop for—”

“Alex! Alex! Thank God almighty you’re here!” yelled Charlie Thornton from his front porch a few houses away.

Dressed in Vietnam-era, tiger-striped camouflage, clutching an over accessorized AR-15-style rifle, Charlie sprinted down the granite stairs leading off his farmer’s porch. He grazed the light post to the left of his red-brick walkway with his left shoulder, nearly tumbling into the mud, and stomped through the slush across two lawns. He screamed their names, along with something about Chinese paratroopers. So much for a stealthy entry.

“I need this like a hole in the head right now,” mumbled Alex. “Take the kids home, and start filling containers with tap water. Bathtubs, glasses, coolers, anything that’ll hold water. I’ll be right there.”

“You’re alive! You made it! We’ve got a fucking invasion on our hands. I’ll get you a rifle—hold on. Bring everyone up to the house. We’re totally screwed, Alex. This is what we’ve been preparing for! Christ, what the hell happened to you? Looks like you stepped on a landmine. Hi, Kate,” said Charlie in a rapid-fire, adrenaline-induced stream of words.

“Hey, Charlie,” she responded and immediately turned to Alex. “I’ll see you at the house, honey.”

“Wait! Let me get you some weapons,” said Charlie.

“I think they can make it to our house without an armed escort. I’ll be right there, honey. Is the safety engaged on your rifle, Charlie?”

“Why does everyone always ask me about the safety?” Charlie asked, furtively thumbing the safety switch.

Alex put a hand on Charlie’s right shoulder. “Because I could see from thirty feet away that it wasn’t on, and you just bounced off a light post with your finger on the trigger. Good to see you, by the way. Is everyone all right in your house?”

“Uh, yeah, everyone is fine. The wave scared the shit out of the girls, but it didn’t tear through my house like the rest,” said Charlie.

“Anyone we know?” said Alex, motioning to the body stuck in the street pond.

“I don’t think so. Nobody in the neighborhood is missing. That one must have been completely buried in the mud until the water dislodged it. It’s not the first. We cleared a few out of the drainage ditches, and I hear that the Carters found one against the back of their house.”

“We saw bodies in the harbor, but none on the road. How is your basement?” Alex asked, knowing the answer.

“Completely flooded,” Charlie replied. “Came in through the shattered cellar windows in back. I hauled a lot of stuff up when I saw that glow in the sky to the west and our cars wouldn’t start. Mostly weapons and our bug-out bags. We’ve been hit by an EMP. That’s why I’m running around with my rifle. Chinese jeeps could come tearing through the neighborhood at any second.”

“I highly doubt we’re facing a Chinese invasion. We’ve definitely been hit by something, but I don’t expect paratroopers to appear in the skies above Scarborough any time soon,” said Alex, starting to walk on the sidewalk toward his house.

“That’s the problem, Alex. Nobody knows what’s happening. The radio is dead silent. No emergency broadcast. Nothing. We have to assume this is a full-scale invasion until proven otherwise. Where’s your pistol?”

“Taken by the Coast Guard. There’s really nothing being transmitted?”

Charlie shook his head. “Nothing at all. Hey! What do you mean taken by the Coast Guard?”

“Things are changing rapidly. Give me about an hour to assess the situation at my house; then we’ll meet up to figure out a game plan.”

“You’re going to Boston to get your son, right?”

“Yeah. I may leave tonight if it’s feasible. I’ll grab Ed’s kid too,” said Alex.

“You make sure to count me in on that one. I’m serious,” said Charlie, grabbing his arm and stopping him.

“I can’t ask you to follow me down there, Charlie.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I really appreciate that. I’ll keep you in the loop. Promise,” said Alex.

“I’ll keep myself in the loop, if you don’t mind. The thought of you and Ed cruising down to Boston on a search-and-rescue mission makes me cringe. Ed’s about as tactical as a circus clown.”

Alex couldn’t help laughing at the image. Charlie had an indomitable sense of humor that was infectious—to a point.

“What are we looking at with the rest of the neighborhood?”

“Everything seems calm for now,” said Charlie. “I went around with a few others to make sure everyone filled up on water. The basement flooding kind of fucked up a lot of people’s emergency stockpiles. They’ll be fine once the water drains—if it drains. Wait until you see the retention pond—I mean lake.”

“Looks like I’m in for some snorkeling. I have some shit I need down there, and I don’t have that kind of time. Give me an hour, man,” said Alex.

“You got it, buddy. Hey, I might need to borrow one of your snorkeling masks. I didn’t get all of my toys out of the basement. Forgot the thermal scope.”

“Thermal scope? You’re crazy. You know that, right?”

“Doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it?” said Charlie.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t. By the way, I think you’re about five decades behind with your camouflage choice. I haven’t seen anyone wear tiger-stripe cammies since—”

“John Wayne. Green Berets. The guy was a legend. I watched that movie with my dad when I was nine years old. We watched it every year since. This was the first and only pair of camouflage I’ve ever used hunting. Well, I’ve made some modifications over the years, and replaced the trousers due to sizing issues, but you get the picture.”

“John Wayne.” Alex laughed. “He also played Davy Crocket in The Alamo , which means you should be wearing that squirrel cover of yours too.”

“He wore a coonskin cap, and his had the raccoon face in front. I have a collector’s edition in my office, but it’s in a glass case. You’re talking about this one,” said Charlie, pulling his famed coonskin cap out of his right cargo pocket.

“Damn, that thing’s ugly. Looks like it’s seen better years,” said Alex, exaggerating a look of dismay.

“Never missed a shot wearing this baby. You know that better than anyone,” he said, proudly donning the cap and creating the most ridiculous-looking outfit Alex had ever seen.

“That I do. See you in a few.”

Alex saluted Charlie and picked up Kate’s backpack, turning toward the southern side of the Durham Road loop. Kate and the kids had already disappeared behind the Bradys’ house, which made him slightly nervous. He wasn’t sure why, but Charlie had made a solid point. Without any information, they truly had no idea what they were up against. While Charlie’s theories about a Chinese invasion force were too farfetched for Alex’s vivid imagination, nobody could deny that they were on the receiving end of a massive, wide-scale “event.” Man made or natural, he didn’t think it mattered. The result would be the same.

Chaos.

Chapter 9

EVENT +08:45 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

The mud wasn’t as deep immediately in front of Alex’s house, most likely because the house had deflected the initial surge and created a buffer. He stepped between two pine bushes that defiantly protruded from the muck and landed on what he knew logically was the slate walkway connecting the front door to the driveway. He could hear activity in the house, and hoped that Kate would open one of the doors for him. He didn’t feel like dragging her pack through the backyard.

The act of finally arriving at their destination had suddenly deprived him of energy, as if his mind had involuntarily dampened his sympathetic nervous system, reducing production of the hormones responsible for his fight-or-flight response to the day’s event. It didn’t surprise him, considering that he’d been engaged in this mode since five in the morning. There would be no break in his immediate future. Right now, he needed to make an assessment of their situation, starting with their Chevy Tahoe.

He saw Kate’s face appear in the mudroom door window and headed for the granite stoop. He had a bad feeling that the word “mudroom” was about to take on a whole new meaning. She cracked the door a few inches, allowing a thick stream of water to pour through the opening onto their porch before pulling it the rest of the way. He glanced at the bottoms of the double garage doors and saw a thin stream of water leaking from the far left bay. Shit. His garage had filled too. So much for their bug-out vehicle.

Kate appeared with a tired look. “I’m estimating that to be about a foot and a half. The family room’s the same. The rest of the floors are covered in about six inches of this wonderful shit slime. Be careful once you’re inside. It all looks the same depth.”

“Have you checked the basement?”

“I came right here to let you in. We had to climb over what’s left of the deck,” said Kate.

Alex handed over her backpack, and she hung it on one of the empty coat hooks while his eyes adjusted to the shadowy interior of their house. The first thing he noticed was the high-water stain on the drywall, less than an inch from the ceiling. That couldn’t be right. He scanned the entire mudroom and saw the same line just below the ceiling. He nearly tripped over one of their kitchen island stools examining the roof. He heard the water pipes running in the house and looked through the doorway to the kitchen.

“The kids are filling up the bathtubs,” she responded.

“Good. At least the water still works—what are the chances that the Tahoe still runs?”

“Give it a shot,” Kate said. “If it works, we’ll have half a chance to get Ryan.”

“I’ll get him back no matter what,” Alex said, stepping over to the door.

“I know. I know. I just…looking around here, I’m not hopeful about his chances if this thing hit closer to Boston.”

Alex stepped away from the garage door and held her tight, nestling his head next to her ear and kissing her neck.

“He’ll be fine. I’ll start walking tonight if I have to. This is nothing. A minor bump in the road. In three days, we’ll be eating at a picnic table with my parents in Limerick,” he whispered.

“Not if you’re walking,” said Kate.

“Ten days. Let’s check the Tahoe and see what we’re dealing with.”

Alex opened the door to the garage and was greeted by a foot of mud, which reached the bottom of the truck’s doors. Silt and small debris covered the black Tahoe from top to bottom. The deluge of water, which at one point had risen above the Tahoe, had upended the garage. A red plastic gas can sat on the SUV’s roof, while the rest of the garage’s tools and sporting goods equipment was nowhere to be seen, presumably under the water. He pressed the key fob to unlock the SUV and was rewarded by the familiar chirping sound. He pressed it again and heard the door mechanisms activate.

“Good news, honey,” he said, hopeful for the first time since waking up this morning.

He jumped into the mud and splashed across the empty bay to reach the SUV, tripping on something submerged below the surface. Quickly regaining his balance, he yanked the door open, which released a small quantity of foamy water into the muck below.

“That’s not a good sign,” she said.

He pocketed the key fob and hopped into the truck, pressing the keyless ignition button. The batteries turned the engine over, and for a few glorious moments, he thought the Tahoe might start. He should have known better. The 2018 Tahoe hybrid was one of the most technologically advanced heavy SUVs on the market. The commercials likened it to a fly-by-wire aircraft, where every aspect of its performance was monitored and controlled by multiple onboard computers. It was one of the safest, most fuel-efficient vehicles of its kind thanks to cutting-edge technology. Now this revolutionary beast was simply in the way of the bicycles hanging on the far side of the garage. He looked at Kate and smiled.

“I always wanted to mountain bike all the way to Boston on the Eastern Trail.”

Kate stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “I’m just trying to picture Charlie on a hundred-mile bike ride.” She chuckled.

Alex hopped into the water and walked to the garage door in the empty bay.

“I remember him doing that trek across Maine thing a few years ago,” said Alex, pulling on the red garage door manual release toggle above his head.

“Uh—I’m pretty sure he rode an ambulance most of the way back,” said Kate.

Alex pulled the door upward, releasing a flood of sludge down the driveway. He lifted the door all the way and was startled to see Ed standing a few feet away, holding two coffee mugs.

“This is what I get for bringing over fresh coffee?” he said, staring down at his dirtied shoes.

“Is that really coffee?” said Kate, her caffeine instincts savagely activated.

“French roast. Had just enough to make two cups,” he said, extending the mugs.

Alex and Kate accepted the mugs and carefully sipped the steaming hot liquid. Alex felt the caffeine immediately, which provided a needed boost to counteract his mental fatigue.

“You’re a life saver, Ed,” he said, shaking his hand and guiding him into the garage. “Come on in. I’d offer you a seat, but—”

“Our house got it the same. You should have seen it, man. Charlie was over when it hit. One minute I was trying to convince him that the Chinese hadn’t invaded, the next we were running for the staircase. The water flattened the fence behind us and slammed into the house a few seconds later. Filled the first floor to the ceiling within minutes—no shit. It was unbelievable.”

“We got lucky here. I’ve seen roofing tile and other debris that must have come from Higgins Beach,” said Alex.

“They found a sign for the Higgins Beach Lodge up at the top of the street. That used to be up on the third floor of the hotel. The beach has to be gone,” said Ed.

“How’s Samantha holding up?” said Kate, taking her lips away from the coffee for the first time.

“All right, given the Boston situation,” he said.

“I’m going to supervise the water hoarding and let the two of you plan the next move. Ed—you’re a lifesaver,” she said, holding up the mug of coffee. “I’d kiss you, but Alex might be mad that I stole his kiss.”

“Nice. Get a little caffeine in her and she’s ready for improv,” replied Alex.

After Kate disappeared into the house, Alex addressed the primary concern of both families.

“We have to get the kids, and it’s not going to be an easy trip. The families will go to my parents’ farm in Limerick, and we’ll head to Boston,” said Alex.

“Sam’s not taking this well at all. I didn’t want to say that in front of Kate, but she’s on the verge of a breakdown. We have no idea what’s happening out there. Nobody does,” said Ed.

“Chloe will be fine. She knows what to do in case of an emergency like this. Ryan and Chloe will link up at one of their places and wait for us. Five days is the plan,” said Alex.

“What if they don’t wait? This is something different altogether. The city will start falling apart by tonight,” said Ed.

“That’s why we aren’t going to waste any time getting down there. They’ll be there when we arrive,” said Alex.

“That’s what I told Sam. She wanted me to leave earlier this morning. Try to get both of them, but—man, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. There was no way I could have pulled that off. Sorry, that sounded terrible. I’m just glad you guys made it back. I wasn’t hopeful, sailboat and all. You look like shit by the way. Almost as bad as John McClane at the end of a Die Hard movie.”

“It wasn’t good. I think we got lucky, to be honest,” Alex said, suddenly aware of the pain shooting down his right arm.

He switched the coffee mug from his right to left hand and tried to extend his arm into the air, barely able to get the upper arm a few degrees over the plane of his shoulder.

“I thought you got that fixed?” asked Ed.

“That was the other side,” he said, referring to the multiple surgeries required to restore full mobility to the shoulder destroyed by a marauder’s shotgun blast during the chaos of the Jakarta Pandemic.

“This is part of my new suite of injuries. I jammed my arm between the spokes on the steering wheel so—”

“On purpose?”

“It was the only way to keep the wheel from spinning out of control. We almost lost the boat,” Alex said.

He raised the sleeve on his T-shirt and saw that a baseball-sized area on his upper tricep had turned a sickening black-purple color that looked more urgent than simple bruising.

“You need to have someone look at that. I’m surprised you can use the arm at all,” said Ed.

“It’s fine. The more I use it the better.”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine until you wake up tomorrow and can’t move it at all. You need to at least put some ice on that and take some ibuprofen. Check your freezer. You should still have some ice.”

“All right. Give me a few—”

His sentence was interrupted by the sound of running footsteps. Charlie Thornton appeared, running full throttle up the driveway, waving a satellite phone in front of his face. Alex glanced at his rifle.

“The safety’s on, you fucking nervous nellies,” Charlie said peevishly.

“That wasn’t an hour. More like five minutes, Charlie,” said Alex.

“I know, but Samantha said Ed was over here. Take a look,” he said, waving the phone in Alex’s face. “Damn thing’s been quiet all morning, then whammo! Emergency broadcast! Just like they said it would work. Looks like all the money FEMA spent on this didn’t go to waste.”

“Can I see it?” asked Alex.

Charlie handed the phone to Alex, and they all huddled over the digital screen to read the broadcast.

“The Department of Homeland Security has declared a national state of emergency, effective immediately for the continental United States. The European Space Agency has confirmed that a large space-borne object entered Earth’s atmosphere at approximately 0455 EST and broke apart over the United States. Impacts have been registered from Virginia to Nova Scotia. Widespread power outages have been reported. Citizens are encouraged to remain at their residences and avoid travel until further notice.”

The information created just as many questions as it answered. If the tsunami was caused by an asteroid strike, what caused the EMP? Widespread power outages? No kidding. Why didn’t NASA confirm the strikes? Are they offline? Why mention Homeland Security instead of FEMA? He handed the phone back to Charlie.

“Well, at least we’re not dealing with a Chinese invasion,” said Charlie.

“Unless the Chinese sent that message,” said Ed.

“Ed,” Alex warned, “don’t screw with him like that. Please.”

“He’s right, though,” Charlie admitted. “None of this makes sense.”

“Why would you do that, Ed?” pleaded Alex.

“I love to sit back and watch the two of you argue about this stuff,” said Ed.

“Thanks. I think we’re fine, Charlie. There’s more to what they’re telling us, but the asteroid thing makes sense. A second burst of wind hit us from the east, which is the direction of Nova Scotia,” said Alex.

“I sure as shit hope so,” Charlie replied. “I don’t plan on letting them put me into a forced labor camp to make smart phones for the Europeans.”

Alex sighed. “All right. I really need, like, thirty minutes to go through the house and figure out where we stand.”

“Forget about anything in the basement,” said Charlie.

“Unfortunately, I need to retrieve some essential gear for our trip. One of our bikes is down there too. I need that for Ethan,” said Alex.

“Why don’t you just give him yours?” Charlie asked, pointing at the rack of bicycles hanging on the far wall.

“Because there’s four in my group, and I only have three bikes in the garage? I don’t plan on walking to Boston.”

“Who said anything about biking to Boston? Ed’s Jeep survived the EMP.”

“Shit, Charlie! Will you keep that down?” hissed Ed, pulling them deep into the garage. “I wasn’t going to say anything until we got inside, Alex, but we’re taking the Wrangler down to Boston.”

“Isn’t the fuel system contaminated?”

“I checked it out,” said Charlie. “It’s fine as far as I can tell, and I know a thing or two about cars.”

“I didn’t think you could submerge a Jeep,” said Alex.

“You can’t, but it didn’t get submerged.”

“How? The water in my garage reached the ceiling. We can’t run the risk of that engine seizing up ten miles down the road, Ed.”

“It was pure luck. I went into the garage to start the cars, but decided to open both garage bay doors first. After opening the second door, I thought about the hand-cranked radio on one of the shelves. I brought the radio inside and got distracted. From what I could tell, the water never rose over the wheel wells. Just flowed right out of the garage,” said Ed.

“Un—believable. You win the EMP car lottery and take it one step further by accidentally saving the car. You need to hit Vegas when this is over,” said Alex.

“If Vegas ever goes back online, I’ll book the first flight.”

“I guess we have some planning to do,” said Alex.

“We should probably leave for Boston in a few hours,” Ed suggested. “Two hours there, two hours back, give or take an hour or two. We should be back before dark.”

“It’s not going to be that easy. We have no idea what happened down in Boston or the seacoast of New Hampshire. We could be looking at this,” he gestured to the neighborhood wreckage, “times ten.”

“We can swing further inland once we cross into New Hampshire, get away from the 95. Between the two cars, I have a full tank. That’s twenty-two gallons, more than enough to get to Boston and back to Limerick. We can throw a few extra gas cans in the Jeep to give us more range.”

“Distance won’t be the problem. There’s something else. We watched the police commandeer civilian vehicles in South Portland, and one of the petty officers at the Coast Guard station said they had been instructed to disarm civilians on sight. They tossed my pistol in the water without hesitation. What if the police are doing this everywhere?”

“I would have flattened any son of a bitch who tried to take my pistol,” said Charlie.

“I had a 240 ‘bravo’ pointed at my head, Charlie. Not a lot of choice there. I think we need to give the police a day to simmer and replace their motor pool, then set out first thing tomorrow with a solid plan,” said Alex.

“That’s almost twenty-four hours away. Samantha’s gonna flip out when she hears this,” said Ed.

“We’ll get everyone together and explain the situation. Based on what I’ve seen so far, putting a functional vehicle on the road today is a risky move, especially considering the type of equipment we’ll need to bring with us to ensure our safety in Boston. If they’re tossing civilian pistols into the water without a second thought, imagine what’ll happen when we try to explain a trunk full of combat rifles.”

“What’s to stop them from confiscating our car tomorrow? We’d be in the same situation, except we’d have lost a day,” said Ed.

“There is no guarantee. Just a gut feeling based on experience. By tomorrow, people will start venturing out onto the roads. Anyone with a car will try to leave the more populated areas. They know it’s only a matter of time before the situation explodes. With more cars on the road, the police will have their hands full. The most I expect to encounter is a checkpoint or two along the way. They’ll be focused on traffic heading north. We’ll be headed south. I’ve seen this before. Every time we rolled up on a city in Iraq, the same thing happened. The streets went quiet while everyone tried to figure out if we planned to launch a major offensive or bypass the city. The next day? Mayhem. Cars backed up into the city along the main roads, families fleeing on foot, carrying suitcases and valuables. If we wait until tomorrow, we’ll be able to blend in and lower our risk of attracting attention.”

“I’m going to need you to explain this to my wife. She’s ready to drive down to Boston herself.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking overall. Early tomorrow, we put the families on bicycles and send them out to my parents’ place in Limerick. It’ll take them four hours tops to get there.”

“Longer if the roads are like this across town,” said Ed.

“True. They’ll have to walk the bikes down Harrison Road at least a mile before it eases up. Maybe longer. Anyway, at the same time, we head south for Boston. If all goes well on our end, we’ll be back with the kids in time for dinner. Everyone is welcome to stay at the farm as long as they’d like. It’s up to you guys. I don’t plan on returning here once we retrieve the kids,” said Alex.

“Thanks, Alex. I’ll have to talk it over with Sam. A lot will depend on what we see out there.”

“I know Linda will want to wait it out, but maybe I can convince her to do the waiting in a less populated area,” said Charlie.

“We’ll have running water and electricity, if that helps sway your decision,” said Alex.

Charlie asked, “Won’t the solar panels be fried?”

“We have two banks of solar panels, each fully independent, with its own controller, inverter and battery storage bank. One of the two systems is disconnected at all times. No link to the grid and all cables detached. The solar panels themselves should be fine, according to the manufacturer,” said Alex, shrugging his shoulders.

“The prospect of hot showers and cold drinks might sway the vote, my friend. It’s going to get really rustic around here—really quick,” said Charlie.

“That’s a fact. How about we give you some time to dig through the house?” Ed asked. “I’ll bring cold beers over in an hour or so, and we’ll work out the rest of the details. I should have Sam onboard with the plan by then.”

“Sounds good. Hey—does anyone else know about the Jeep?” asked Alex.

“Jamie was in her garage across the street when I started it. I let it run for a few minutes to make sure the fuel system was fine. Both of her garage doors were open.”

“I suggest you shut both bay doors and reengage the manual release. Make sure it’s locked. How about the door on the side? Looks like mine was busted open by the water.”

“Busted, along with the windows,” said Ed.

“At some point sooner than later, we need to shore up your garage so nobody can get in and try to steal your car. I’d be willing to bet that Jamie wasn’t the only person in the neighborhood to hear the engine start. The only thing I’ve heard so far is the water spilling out of the sewers.”

“I heard him start the car from inside my house,” said Charlie.

“Then it looks like we may be spending the night at Ed’s house and posting a watch. You’re holding the winning lottery ticket, Ed, except your ticket is a thousand times more valuable than any of this weekend’s winning mega-bucks tickets. I’ll swing by when I’m done taking an inventory here. Stay safe, guys. We all know what can happen around here when things get desperate.”

Chapter 10

EVENT +09:13 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

Alex started his mental inventory before Ed and Charlie had disappeared down the driveway. He’d have to adjust for their updated transportation situation, which would simplify the process but force them to make some painful decisions. They would have to leave most of their gear and supplies behind, opting for lighter, more practical immediate survival load-outs suitable for bicycle or foot mobile operations. The Fletchers’ bug-out plan had always been relatively simple, since they had never anticipated travelling any farther than Alex’s parents’ farm roughly thirty-five miles away. The comprehensive escape plan accounted for the use of two vehicles, but could be scaled down to accommodate any level of timeframe and transit mode. In this case, they would have to reconfigure for a bicycle trip and a forty-eight-hour, low-intensity urban combat mission. Two vastly different operations, with distinctly different objectives.

The bicycle group’s individual load-out would be designed for thirty-six hours, with a focus on additional hydration. He would recommend that each person carry ten liters of water, in a combination of three-liter CamelBaks and additional stainless-steel bottles. Four MREs, a dozen energy bars, a flashlight or headlamp, one change of clothing and footwear stuffed in a waterproof bag, one emergency blanket, and a serrated folding knife would round out the mandatory individual load. Within the group, they would have to carry a first aid kit, road maps, enough camping tents to accommodate everyone, binoculars to scout the road ahead, toilet paper, a satellite phone, and of course—firearms.

His vision for the Boston mission involved a twenty-four-hour tactical kit, for operations in and around the city, and a forty-eight-hour sustainability pack in case they were forced to abandon the vehicle at any point during their journey. They could carry extra gear and “luxuries” in the Jeep, but Alex would configure their essential equipment for immediate evacuation. If something went severely wrong on the road, he didn’t need Charlie and Ed fumbling around the SUV, trying to collect their shit. Vehicles had a tendency to attract projectiles in that kind of situation.

He’d instituted a “five second” rule for his Amphibious Assault Vehicle Company in Iraq. If one of his vehicle commanders gave the order to abandon their AAV, each Marine had their essential gear stashed where they could “grab and go” within five seconds. The rule had saved numerous lives on the road to Baghdad. The road to Boston wouldn’t be lined with rocket-propelled grenades, machine-gun teams and improvised explosive devices, but it had the potential to be just as deadly. Their Jeep would undoubtedly attract the wrong kind of attention, topping the list of high-value targets wherever they drove.

His group would be heavily armed, but a gunfight before reaching their destination would most likely represent the loss of their vehicle. A numerically superior force would push them away from the SUV. They might escape with their lives, but they’d lose the Jeep. A smaller group could irreparably damage the car, leaving them in the same situation. They would seek the path of least resistance to the outskirts of Boston, even if it meant adding significant mileage and time to their trip. Detect and avoid . The complete opposite of his mission in Iraq.

He stepped into the mudroom and moved the stools into the bathroom shower stall, glancing at the sink, which was filled with dark brown silt. The sink burped, splattering a small bubble of silt onto the walls. The sewer system was useless at this point. He wondered what would happen if they tried to flush the toilets.

“Kate?” he yelled.

“Yeah?” she replied from the kitchen.

“Is the sink backed up in there?”

“Sort of. It’s filled with mud, but I’ve managed to clean some of it out. It’s draining really slowly.”

“How about upstairs?”

“Everything looked normal up there, like nothing happened,” she said.

Alex leaned out of the bathroom door. “I think we should restrict our use of the bathrooms to the upstairs, and stop using the toilets at the first sign of a backup. I’m afraid to flush the one down here. The last thing we need is raw sewage in the house.”

“I’ll let the kids know; then I’m going to start on lunch. I think we can skip the water hoarding. Between the garage and closet, we’ll be leaving most of it behind when we head out,” she said.

“Yeah, I agree. Sounds like they finished filling the tubs, anyway. That should be enough, just in case something keeps us from leaving.”

“So Ed’s Jeep works?” she added.

“Apparently. It’ll get us to Boston a hell of a lot quicker than biking down,” said Alex.

“Why don’t we ferry the rest of the group back and forth to Limerick? I don’t know about leading a group of nine women and kids on bikes through this crap,” said Kate.

“Once you get a mile or two inland, you’ll be on dry pavement,” said Alex.

“Easy for you to say, cruising by in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. You could at least get us to Route 11.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Kate. It’ll take at least two round trips if we do it that way. That Jeep will have a big bull’s-eye on it wherever it goes. We can’t have it repeatedly cruising back and forth through Scarborough, or any towns, for that matter. We especially can’t bring it back here. The neighbors will be all over us. Once that Jeep drives out of the garage, it can’t come back. Which reminds me, before we leave, we have to sanitize the house of any information that could lead people out to Limerick, or we’ll have a refugee camp on our hands.”

“Could you turn any of these people away if they showed up out there?” Kate asked.

“No, but I don’t plan on making it easy for them to find us.”

Kate flashed him an annoyed look, which he could live with for now. He crossed the sludge-covered floor to the small study that Kate and Alex used as a temporary refuge from the noise level created by teenagers and the ever-blaring television in the family room. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelf had been emptied of its contents, with the exception of the top shelf, which had stubbornly held onto several overturned picture frames. Hundreds of books lay in various states of damage at the base of the bookshelf, forming a two-foot high, unstable pile of soggy pulp and wilted hardcovers. The brown leather chairs were covered in half-dried filth, one of them home to a mangled, brushed silver lamp and one half of the window’s plantation shutters. He remembered seeing the other white shutter under the bench in the mudroom. He opened the study closet to take his first real inventory. In all likelihood, they wouldn’t need much more than what he could salvage from the closet—aside from the guns, ammunition and a few select gadgets. Actually, this closet was just the “tip of the iceberg.”

The right side of the closet housed built-in shelves that held a dozen 2.5-gallon jugs of spring water, two 120-serving “grab and go” buckets of freeze-dried vegetables and a black nylon duffel bag filled with twenty military-grade MREs. This stockpile represented more than enough food and water to satisfy the needs of his family during tomorrow’s exodus. He knew that Charlie and Ed kept similar stockpiles on their first floors, so there would be no need to waste time retrieving additional food or water from the basement. Two dark green, metal .50 caliber ammunition cans sat on the top shelf, below the wall’s high-water mark. He pulled both of them down and set them on the antique cherry wood desk against the interior wall of the house.

He opened the canister marked “EG” to confirm that it had not leaked. From what he could tell by visual examination, the waterproof seal had held as advertised, sparing the electronics gear from any water damage. The converted storage can held two Iridium satellite phones, a handheld GPS plotter, a pair of two-way VHF handheld radios, a handheld radio scanner and three thirty-round .223 AR magazines. He reached deep into the canister to feel for water or moisture. Thankfully, it was bone dry. He pocketed the full AR magazines before closing the canister.

The second canister, marked “RG,” held each item’s charging kit and adapter, in addition to a folding solar panel, battery power pack and AC inverter. Ziploc bags filled with loose AA and AAA batteries sat at the bottom of the can. He quickly checked for water damage, finding the same result. No leakage.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the individual BOLT (Basic Operations for Limited Time) kits assigned to each member of the family. Stuffed together on the floor to the left of the shelving unit, each rucksack was identified by a strip of duct tape with a name. The mud and water that had reached the ceiling earlier had peeled the tape and faded the lettering, but he still recognized the names. He plucked his pack out of the mud and grunted at the waterlogged weight. They’d have to unpack each kit and scavenge for items they could add to the dry rucksacks hauled out of the sailboat.

He hoped that the national state of emergency had shut down the court system. There was little doubt in his mind that Kate would present him with divorce papers after riding for thirty-five miles with the “three day” pack on her back. Kate was going to kick his ass when she heard the news, but there was little way around it. The larger, infinitely more comfortable internal frame packs he’d chosen for their BOLT kits wouldn’t dry by tomorrow morning, and their commercial hiking packs were buried under ten feet of water in the basement.

He carried the MOLLE II rucksack to the kitchen island, and dropped it onto the granite. Kate, who was in the middle of preparing cheese sandwiches on an area of the counter she had cleaned, stared at the pack with a look of disgust. She shook her head.

“I can’t ride to Limerick with that piece of shit on my back.”

“It’s smaller than this pack. Might be easier to balance while riding,” offered Alex.

“No. We can dry these in the sun on the patio. I’m not putting that thing on my back again. Mayonnaise on your sandwich?” she said, displaying her patented “I’m happy” smile.

“I love you,” he said, unzipping one of the outer sustainment pouches on the pack.

“Really? Even though I fully blame you for ripping my shoulders up with your crappy backpacks?”

“Especially after that,” he said, pulling a compressed, lightweight sleeping bag out of the sustainment pouch.

She eyed the dripping, down-filled ball that once qualified as a sleeping bag.

“I have a feeling those won’t dry by tomorrow,” she said.

He shook his head and removed the other item stuffed in the pouch, expanding the grayish, universal camouflage-patterned Gore-Tex sleeping bag shell and shaking the water from it.

“This is probably all you’ll need if you get stuck overnight. Maybe one of the emergency blankets. I’ll strip the packs down and hang them on what’s left of the deck in the sun,” he said.

“I’ll have some lunch ready in a few minutes. Sandwiches and canned vegetable soup, plus a bag of barbeque chips that I found in the family room,” she said.

“Sounds like heaven,” he replied, turning his attention to the basement door.

He pulled an LED flashlight out of the MOLLE pack and tested it, pleased to find that neither the water nor the EMP had knocked it out of commission. As far as he could tell, most handheld electronics or battery-powered devices continued to function, consistent with the CNI Revised Report’s assessment of the effects of an EMP burst on portable electronics. Then again, the Revised Report seemed to be all over the place in terms of accuracy. The predicted 60% failure rate for automobiles seemed generous at this point. His own observations supported a rate in the high nineties.

Alex opened the door to the basement and flashed the light down the stairwell. The light reflected a Stygian pool that reached the fourth stair from the top and rose above the bottom of the basement ceiling. He extinguished the flashlight and stepped into the stairwell, closing the door behind him. He was immediately cast into absolute darkness and silence. Peaceful, yet suffocating. He let his eyes adjust for a few moments, peering into the water, searching for any sign of light from the basement windows. Nothing. This wasn’t good. He needed a few specialty items locked away in his bunker. Actually, he didn’t really need them, he wanted them. And he wanted them badly enough to consider taking a swim in the blackness beneath him. He opened the door, grateful for the sunlight.

“The basement is a total loss. Water up to the ceiling. Look at this,” he announced, looking back down into the impenetrable darkness.

Kate joined him at the door. “I don’t think you should go down there.”

Alex shut the door. “Who said anything about me taking a swim?”

“I can tell by the way you’re staring down at the water, like your mind was plotting something that it really shouldn’t.”

“My night vision gear is down there, along with most of the weapons and ammunition,” said Alex.

“Uh huh. I thought there was enough ammo in the BOLT kits.”

He didn’t feel like getting into it with her. She was right, sort of. Each pack held two full, thirty-round AR magazines, in addition to two fifteen-round 9mm magazines for the Heckler and Koch P30C pistol. When you added it to all of the ammunition available in the study closet, it equaled far more than enough to handle a worst-case scenario, “guns blazing” transit from Scarborough to his parents’ farm, but Boston presented a whole new level of shit storm to the equation, and he had no intention of underestimating the level of chaos he might need to navigate to find their children.

Even his firearm situation was less than optimal given the circumstances. He had a rifle, shotgun and one pistol upstairs, which once again sounded like overkill, but he’d need the rifle and pistol for Boston, leaving Kate with the shotgun. Not exactly the ideal firearm to haul along on a bicycle. He needed to grab his backup AR and a pistol for Emily, some rifle attachments stored in one of several sealed canisters next to the gun safe, ammunition for the rifles and pistols, and his night vision gear. The night vision would provide a significant tactical advantage inside Boston, allowing him to detect and avoid most potentially hazardous human situations.

“I’ll grab the kids for lunch,” he said.

Alex removed his shoes once he reached the top of the staircase, wondering why he’d bothered. Judging from the multiple mud prints leading in every direction on the hardwood floor, neither Kate nor the kids had bothered to do the same, and it probably wouldn’t make much of a difference. His whole body was still dripping dirty water from their ditch crossing. For tactical reasons, he supposed he should keep them on, especially with the state of uncertainty smothering them from all sides, but he’d already left them at the top of the stairs. He turned left into Emily’s room and found her packing a laundry basket of personal belongings. Small items from what he could tell.

“You all right, sweetie?”

“We’re not coming back here, are we, Dad?” she asked, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Not until it’s safe, which could be a while.”

He stepped into her room and touched one of her picture collages on the wall near the bedroom door. They’d given her a framed collage of family photos every year on her birthday, starting when she was three. He loved looking at them, though they visually represented how quickly she had changed from a squeaky little girl to a headstrong young woman. They’d have to leave all of this behind, and hope it would still be here when they returned. He turned around with watery eyes and fought not to say anything about the laundry basket of stuff she wouldn’t be able to bring.

“Mom made some sandwiches. Everyone needs to fuel up on some real food before we get to work this afternoon. We still have a long day ahead of us.”

“What’s happening out there? I mean, what is this?”

“Mr. Thornton got a broadcast on his satellite phone. They say that an asteroid broke up over the U.S. and hit the East Coast. I think we got lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” Emily said, wiping her eyes and walking to the door.

“I do. I’ve got you and your mom safe. Ethan too. Once we get Ryan back, I’ll be the luckiest man on the planet,” he said, hugging her tightly.

“You’re the corniest dad on the planet. You said Mom made some real food? What’s the occasion?”

“Digging on your mom and dad in the face of the apocalypse?” said Alex.

“You know I love you, Dad. I’ll get Ethan and meet you downstairs,” she said and disappeared.

He glanced at the laundry basket, wondering if there was any way he could sneak the contents into one of the spare rucksacks and stash it in the Jeep. Not likely, but he might give it a try anyway. Alex ran into Ethan and Emily on the way out of her room.

“Tell your mother I’ll be right down.”

Once they had descended the stairs, he hurried into the bedroom and vanished into the darkness of the walk-in closet to change out of his putrid clothes into shorts and a T-shirt for now. His right arm ached as he lifted the shirt over his head. He’d have to tend to this injury immediately after lunch. Losing the effective use of his dominant arm would be a showstopper for Boston. He pushed the pain aside and finished changing. He reached for the bedroom door, but paused, thinking about what Charlie had said. He didn’t expect Chinese paratroopers to drop from the skies, but it couldn’t hurt to be ready for trouble.

Alex parted the shoulder-level curtain of clothing at the back of the closet and touched the keypad, illuminating the numbers. He’d felt confident that the keypad would function, but had the option of opening the gun safe manually with a hidden key if the electronics had succumbed to the EMP. Alex punched in the eight-digit code on the keypad mounted on the stand-up gun safe, and heard the mechanisms within the door shift.

He pulled on the handle, activating a small blue LED light within the safe, removed the HK P30 pistol sitting on the shelf above the rifles, and started to move it to his drop-down holster. He stopped, realizing that he’d have to thoroughly clean the holster first. The pistol could wait.

The rifle emerged next, along with a green polymer thirty-round .223 magazine. He inserted the magazine and rapidly pulled the charging handle, chambering a round. He placed the rifle against the side of the safe and took the MOLLE tactical chest rig from a hook on the back wall. He donned the rig over his clothes and filled the eight magazine pouches with spare rifle magazines from the top shelf of the safe, bringing his immediately available total to twenty magazines, or six hundred rounds. He may not have to dive for the additional .223 ammunition from the basement, which suited him fine.

He swapped out the two mud-encrusted pistol magazines from his holster rig and replaced them with clean polymer fifteen-round 9mm magazines from the safe. Three additional pistol magazines filled the smaller pouches on the left side of his modular chest rig. A total of six pistol magazines would be more than enough. Standing in his closet, he carried more ammunition than he’d fielded during combat operations in Iraq. Alex closed the safe and picked up the HK416 rifle.

He ran into Kate at the bottom of the stairs, holding a plateful of sandwiches out to him.

“We’re already at this point?” she commented, nodding at his gear.

“We were there as soon as the EMP hit. Eating upstairs?”

“We could all use a break from the mud. The kids will bring the rest of the food up. I say we clean up and start over. Wash the day off while we still have running water. Lunch once everyone looks and smells human again,” said Kate, handing him the plate.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’ll grab one of the coolers from the garage. I put some beers and sodas in the freezer for now. I’ll dump the drinks and some ice in the cooler and meet you upstairs,” she said.

“Good. I could use a beer before swimming around the basement,” said Alex.

“You’re still planning on going down there?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t see any other option, unless you want to ride to Limerick with a shotgun.”

“No thanks. You still need a shower, by the way—not that I can smell you over myself.”

“The whole neighborhood is going to smell ten times worse in a few days. This crap isn’t going anywhere,” he said.

“Good thing we won’t be here.”

Chapter 11

EVENT +09:57

Scarborough, Maine

Alex sat on the top stair and splashed his feet in the pitch-black water, desperately trying to convince himself that he didn’t need any of the equipment in the basement. He could think of twenty good reasons why he shouldn’t submerge himself in the darkness below, most of them safety related, some of them purely irrational. His overly active imagination had swept the worst sea creatures conceivable two miles inland with the tsunami, to be deposited through the basement window.

He wore a blue swimsuit, tight-fitting polyester running shirt, and swim fins. A diver’s mask and snorkel, which he’d taken from the boat and stashed in his rucksack, sat on his lap. He’d gotten lucky with that decision. Since the Maine coast wasn’t exactly renowned for its crystal-clear waters, the rest of their snorkeling gear was in the basement, where it waited for a trip to Florida or the Caribbean. They’d always carried at least one snorkeling kit onboard the sailboat for practical reasons. Over the past five years, he’d gone over the side more times than he could count to clean seaweed from the propeller or disentangle a lobster pot line from the rudder.

His biggest fear was the electricity. What if the grid was restored while he was submerged? He knew this wouldn’t happen, but the thought dogged him. The waterline was well above the breaker box, exposed directly to the house’s external utility feed. He pushed this thought as far away as possible, focusing on the more immediate, tangible challenges he’d face underwater. Breathing always came in at the top of his mental list.

From what he could tell, the water pushed up against the basement ceiling. He might find a pocket of air between ceiling joists if the water level was a few inches below the floorboard, but the air would be limited. Using the snorkel to access the air presented a few risks. With only a few inches of dry space, he would have to be extremely careful not to tip the snorkel and inhale water. Low on air deep inside the basement, a panicked moment could kill him. This assumed he could find a few pockets of air. If not, he’d have to take the entire operation slowly, making multiple trips to unlock doors, safes, clear debris—all culminating in a few long, unobstructed trips to haul out his perceived bounty. Fortunately, everything he needed was clearly labeled and conveniently located in one place inside the “bunker.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to attach a line or something?” asked Kate.

“Are you coming in after me if something goes wrong?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Then I’m definitely not attaching a line. One of us has to survive this,” he replied.

“I think I’m capable of swimming twenty feet and dragging your ass out of there. I’m a better swimmer than you,” she pointed out.

“Then maybe you should be the one making the dive,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not familiar enough with your system down there.”

“Having a line attached is just one more thing I have to worry about. I’ll be fine. If I’m having trouble, I’ll come right up. Promise.”

“All right, but I wish we had a way to communicate,” said Kate.

“I’ll check the first few joists for an air pocket. If I don’t find air, you’re going to see me back here every thirty seconds or so. If I find air, I’ll try to use the snorkel to clear the whole path in one trip. You can sit in the water with your goggles and watch my light. The water’s pretty warm,” he said.

“You always say that,” she said, taking a transparent pair of goggles off the kitchen island.

“It’s at least ten degrees warmer than the beach water. Probably heated up over land,” said Alex.

He heard a knock from the mudroom, followed by Charlie’s voice. “You guys here?”

“Come on in, Charlie,” Alex called. “I’m about to take a swim.”

Charlie walked into the kitchen with his AR suspended at chest level by a one-point tactical sling. Alex noticed that he had completely rearranged the attachments on his rifle since he’d last seen him. Instead of a long-range scope, the rifle now featured an EOTech holographic sight with flip-up magnifier, a laser/flashlight combination and a bipod. Alex’s rifle lay on the recently cleaned granite island, along with the rest of his tactical gear. Charlie’s eyes immediately diverted to the rifle.

“You sprang for an ACOG? Dammit. Now I feel like I cheaped out on this,” he said grumpily.

“I think that EOTech combo costs the same. I almost went with that,” said Alex.

“But you didn’t,” said Charlie, still staring at Alex’s rifle.

He finally broke the attachment-envy-induced trance and joined them at the basement doorway.

“Christ, it’s dark down there,” Charlie remarked. “Did you open the bulkhead door?”

Alex looked up at Kate and shook his head. “We’re fucking idiots.”

“I’m not saying another word,” said Charlie, winking at Kate.

Five minutes later, the underwater world below looked vastly different. With mostly clear skies and fierce sunlight penetrating the southeast corner of the basement, he could see the outlines of the bottom stairs and a few of the shelves along the submerged facing wall. He felt better about the situation, though it did nothing to alleviate the oxygen situation.

“You think I should be able to find some air?” said Alex.

“Definitely. I’ve been marking the water progress on the wall next to my stairs,” said Charlie. “It’s dropped at least six inches in the last three hours. Before that it didn’t move. There has to be a pocket of air. You could always wait until later.”

“We don’t have another three hours. I need to know if the gear is part of our plan or not. It’s almost three. We’ll get everyone together when I’m done with this.”

“You could always use one of the garden hoses to breathe. I assume it’s still connected to the house,” said Charlie.

“I’ll take my chances holding my breath. That hose has been there for fifteen years.”

“How about I stick around while you go swimming—just in case?”

Alex nodded and activated the LED light attached to his mask. He’d used over a dozen rubber bands to tightly affix the waterproof flashlight. He had the option of using several head-mounted lamps scattered throughout their rucksacks, but couldn’t convince himself that they would continue to work submerged. He knew for a fact that this light would work, and in the environment below, he needed one-hundred-percent reliability. The light from the bulkhead opening would illuminate his path to the bunker door, but the area inside the bunker would be pitch black. He wasn’t taking any chances. He fitted the mask and adjusted the light to face directly forward.

“I always wanted to go cave diving,” he said and slid into the water after a deep breath.

The first thing he noticed was the cut on his forehead, which burned like someone held a match against it. A dozen other cuts and scrapes sounded off for a moment, but nothing could compete with the exhilaration of swimming through salt water in his basement. The cuts were a distant memory by the time his feet touched the concrete flooring.

He propelled himself forward, glancing around for a moment. He was surprised by the clarity of the water, which allowed his LED flashlight almost unlimited range in the basement. It made sense. The basement had more or less been a closed, undisturbed system for the past eight hours, giving most of the sediment time to settle. Alex propelled himself upward, just under the lip of the ceiling, and searched the area between the first two joists. He pressed the mask lens as high as possible, finding a three-inch pocket of air. Craning his neck backward, Alex grabbed the joists and attempted to bring his mouth above the waterline, but found the position to be too unstable. His lips barely breached the surface, which wasn’t enough.

He put the self-clearing snorkel in his mouth and used his hands to align the top of the snorkel with the floorboard between the joists. Once nearly flush with the ceiling, he expelled the air in his lungs, purging the snorkel through the valve below the mouthpiece. He tentatively sucked air back into the snorkel, encountering little resistance. Alex breathed deeper, bringing nothing but air into his lungs. He took several breaths, alternating the position of his head and snorkel, until he was comfortable using both hands to steady himself on the joists.

Nothing to it.

He popped up in the stairwell and gave his audience a thumbs-up. “I found air. Three inches at least. No problem. I’ll be done with this in ten minutes. Why don’t you start gathering the troops, Charlie. Is Ed’s house any cleaner than ours?”

“His and mine. We’ve been moving slop for hours,” said Charlie.

“Let’s go with Ed’s. That way Kate and I can sneak around back so it doesn’t look like we’re having a big meeting. You’ve been going back and forth all day. Linda needs to be there. Can you leave the girls behind?”

“I sure as shit have no intention of leaving my house unguarded. They can hold their own.”

“Good. I’ll haul some extra ammunition and magazines up for everyone,” said Alex. “If we have time later, I’ll fetch your thermal scope.”

“You won’t be disappointed with that thing. It’s unbelievable. Can’t see through walls, but it can pick up heat signatures inside windows, which more or less accomplishes the same thing,” said Charlie.

“Infrared reflections or ambient shadowing,” Alex corrected. “Unless the windows are closed. IR signatures can’t transmit through glass.”

“Snipers don’t typically fire through closed windows,” countered Charlie.

“You guys are out of your minds. Can we get on with this?” Kate snapped, descending the stairs into the water. “Warm water, my ass,” she added.

“What a lovely couple. We’ll start making our way over to Ed’s in about thirty minutes,” Charlie said and disappeared.

“Ready?” Alex asked.

“Play it smart. I won’t be able to see you very well in the bunker,” she said, illuminating her own waterproof flashlight.

Alex sank into the water and swam toward the bunker door. He arrived several seconds later and questioned why he had been so worried. He had two locks to open, which shouldn’t take much time. He considered trying to open the door before his next oxygen break, but decided against it. Before committing to any kind of task, he needed to verify that another pocket of air existed above him. He’d do the same when he reached the gun safe.

Repeating the process used near the stairs, he relaxed and breathed through the snorkel, flooding his system with oxygen. Kate floated lazily underwater near the bottom of the staircase, pointing her flashlight in his direction. He smiled with the snorkel in his mouth and gave her another thumbs-up sign. She broke for the surface and returned several seconds later. When she returned, Alex used one hand to retrieve the keys from the zippered pocket on his right thigh. He had removed the keys from his larger key chain and put them on a separate ring, wrapping duct tape around the base of the deadbolt key for quick identification. The third key on the ring was the circular gun safe key, which was easily distinguished from the traditional flat keys used to lock the bunker door. With the duct-taped key in hand, he descended a few feet and unlocked the deadbolt. A few seconds later, he had opened the doorknob lock and gained entry to the bunker, which was pitch black as expected.

The sole window to the backyard was blocked by mud, and the light from the bulkhead door barely penetrated more than a foot or two into the abyss. His flashlight cast a bluish-gray beam across the room, spotlighting the oil tanks, which he suddenly suspected were leaking. Another thing he hadn’t anticipated. He swept the beam over the room, taking in the eerily monochromatic scene. Unlike the first floor, the water must have filled the basement slowly through the single one-foot-tall by two-feet-wide window in front of him. Aside from the packages of dehydrated food, MREs, and medical supplies bobbing between the joists in the far northwest corner of the bunker, very little had been disturbed by the tsunami.

He turned to his right to face the gun safe and nearly bit his tongue. All of his air vacated in an attempt to scream, and he bolted out of the dark chamber, swimming as fast as possible toward Kate. He scrambled past her and surfaced, grabbing hold of the handrail and ripping the mask off. He coughed violently as the mask drifted away toward the bottom of the stairs. Kate enveloped him, turning his face toward her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked urgently.

He coughed a few more times to clear his airway. “There’s a body down there. I wasn’t expecting it, and I panicked. It was a little girl, or boy—I couldn’t tell. Ripped apart pretty bad—fuck.” He exhaled.

“You don’t have to go back down there.”

“I’m going back down. That won’t be the last body any of us sees close up. It was just bad timing. Like a horror movie. One second I was surveying the room, the next I’m staring into a dead child’s eyes. It’s all good. At least I didn’t drop the keys,” he said, showing them to her. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m good. Seriously. Seeing that body gives me all the more reason to get everything I need out of there. Ryan needs me to have every advantage possible entering Boston. That’s what I’m doing down there,” he said, glad that the salt water gave him an excuse to continuously wipe his eyes.

“All right. I think you should move the body to the bulkhead. Get it out of your way and up so the authorities can find it. Someone will be looking for that kid,” said Kate.

He didn’t want to break the bad news that nobody would be looking for the kid floating around in their basement. At least nobody in her immediate family.

“Back down. You don’t have to keep an eye on me. I think I’ve got the technique mastered at this point,” Alex said.

“I can handle seeing a dead body,” Kate said, “and you missed hitting your head on the doorframe by about a centimeter. I can’t rescue Ryan, Alex. You’re the only option we have.”

He kissed her forehead and dove into the water to retrieve the mask. Ten minutes later, he had returned with four sealed ammunition cans, an M4 carbine and a 9mm HK USP pistol. One of the cans contained a pair of generation two, head-mountable dual night vision goggles, a small, rifle-mountable generation two, night vision monocular, and a dual-beam IR aiming laser. The other cans contained ammunition and magazines compatible with his rifle and pistols.

He was surprisingly tired from the brief underwater foray. “This should do it.”

“I’ll start hauling this stuff up,” Kate said.

“I’ll get the body out of there. I think it might be better to leave it inside the bulkhead doors. Tie it to the stairs or something. I don’t like the idea of it sitting in the sun where the animals can get to it.”

“I’m not sleeping in a house with a dead body in it. I’ll help you drag it to wherever they’re putting the rest of the bodies.”

“Fair enough. I’ll get it out of the house and have Charlie help me move it. You don’t want to see this one, Kate. It’s someone’s baby.”

Kate’s face softened, and she held him for a minute. “They’re all someone’s baby,” she whispered.

Chapter 12

EVENT +10:47 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

Alex sat in the empty seat left for him at the head of the kitchen table. Ed sat directly across from him, in front of the missing slider door. He was slightly concerned with privacy, since all of the windows had been blown out, but none of their options were optimal. He needed a table to lay out a few maps, which limited them to the dining room or kitchen. The dining room faced the street, exposing their conversation to anyone passing in front of the house.

He took a sip of ice-cold beer and observed his team. This wasn’t going to be an easy journey. They were probably thinking the same thing about him. He knew he looked worse than all of them combined. The slash across his forehead was held together by a butterfly bandage and slathered with antibiotic ointment. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was surrounded by a mean-looking bruise and could easily become infected if ignored. Several smaller, less urgent looking bruises had developed on his arms, face and neck, giving the impression that he had been worked over by a bar mob.

The bruise on his right tricep muscle was by far the worst. Partially hidden by his gray T-shirt, the deep purplish-red contusion drew stares from everyone. His arm had felt markedly better since taking ibuprofen and applying ice, but he strongly suspected that tomorrow would be a rough day. He could shoot right handed or left handed, but there was no comparison between what he could do with the right versus the left. He’d have to deal with it the best he could. That’s all he could ask of himself and the ragtag group sitting around Ed’s kitchen table.

He glanced at Kate and winked. Her normally lustrous black hair, now matted and dull, was hidden under a light blue ball cap. Despite the added trials of the Fletchers’ day, she exuded a confidence that he didn’t see in Linda or Samantha. She’d changed since the pandemic. The Sig Sauer P228 seated in the drop holster on her right thigh was one of many testaments to her sharply honed commitment to the Fletcher way of life. She would lead the women and children to his parents’ farm. God help anything that got in their way.

The Thorntons and Walkers had readily accepted his offer to weather the storm in Limerick. Charlie and Linda owned a fully stocked camp on the Great Pond near Belgrade, Maine, but didn’t have any way to get there. With Charlie accompanying Alex and Ed to Boston, it made sense for Linda and their twin seventeen-year-old daughters to travel with Kate. Running water would fail shortly, and electrical power wouldn’t be restored for months, turning their homes into little more than three-thousand-square-foot tents.

Once power returned, a multitude of complicated challenges would surface. They would have to replace all of the electrical components in their furnace, if the furnace was even salvageable after sitting in salt water for several days. Not to mention the fact that they would be competing for parts and service with millions of other households. They all had wood-burning stoves, which could carry them through the winter if they could scrounge enough wood. Most of Alex’s wood stack had been washed away by the tsunami. The cord he kept in the garage wouldn’t last him through December.

Windows were another issue. How long would it take for them to get replacement windows? Two years ago, Alex had accidentally cracked one of their family room windows with the back of a shovel while digging in a flowerbed. The replacement window arrived two weeks later. With several million windows shattered in New England alone, it could take over a year. Most people would be forced to contend with plywood, plastic sheeting and duct tape, which would be no match for a Maine winter.

Households would compress their lives into one or two rooms and cannibalize unbroken windows from unused spaces. Depending upon the orientation of the house, this could work. For the three families gathered here, it would be a less than optimal experience. They all lost large sliding glass doors, which opened directly into large, combined kitchen and family areas. No amount of makeshift shuttering could keep the cold out, even with a wood-burning stove blazing at full strength.

Mold was another issue, but now he was just pig-piling the list of reasons why their friends should join them at the farm. Especially since everyone agreed with Alex’s assessment that the situation on the “outside” would explode within the next seventy-two hours, once again sending the hordes north from Connecticut and Massachusetts to pillage the less populated, resource-rich suburbs.

By the time Boston reached critical mass, they would be securely hidden on a picturesque farm, with most of the comforts and amenities of modern life to which they had grown accustomed. Most importantly, they would be together with their families. Space might become an issue, but they’d make it work for as long as anyone cared to stay, even if that meant permanently.

“First, we’ve all made it this far—and we’re going to make it the rest of the way. We’ve come together before to save each other’s asses. Here we are again,” he said, raising his beer.

They all clinked bottles and glasses.

“Second, this isn’t my operation. It may be my suggested plan, but we all have just as much at stake here, so the plan is open to input,” Alex continued. “Lastly, you’re all welcome to stay out at the farm indefinitely. That’s an unconditional offer, and I don’t expect anyone to ever feel like they owe us anything—now or down the line.”

“We appreciate that, Alex, Kate,” said Samantha. “I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

“Exactly. This is incredible. Thank you,” said Charlie, followed by Linda.

“And thank you for letting us use the Jeep,” Kate said to Ed and Samantha.

“And to Linda for allowing Charlie to join Ed and I in Boston, although I’d really feel better if he was escorting the group to Limerick,” said Alex.

“I ain’t going on a bike ride with the women,” said Charlie. “I’m more use on the high-speed team.”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” said Linda.

Ed snorted. “If Kate doesn’t kill him first.”

“Hey, hey. I didn’t mean any offense to the women. I just. I just—”

“You should quit while you’re ahead, Charlie,” said Alex.

Charlie nodded. “Good idea.”

“All right. That does it for the thank yous,” said Alex. “Now we get down to business.”

Alex took several sheets of paper and three maps from a small green backpack he’d carried into the house. “I have a few checklists that each family will need to follow,” he said. He handed a sheet of paper to each family, giving theirs to Kate. “The first sheet is for the bicycle group. This is a watered-down bug-out or BOLT kit. The focus is on mobility and balance while riding, so anything not directly related to hydration, nutrition, and short-term survival has been scratched from the list. Under ideal, casual cycling conditions, the trip should take no more than four to five hours. You’re looking at thirty-five miles taking the shortest route. Given the circumstances, I think you should plan for the possibility of an overnight. Thirty-six hours at the outside, accounting for detours, roadblocks, hiding out—whatever. I can’t imagine any scenario other than capture that would keep you from reaching your destination within that timeframe, and I highly doubt anyone will get close enough to you to do that. Everything on this list will fit into a medium-sized rucksack with room to spare.”

“No sleeping bags?” said Samantha. “We don’t have Gore-Tex shells.”

“If you have some highly compressible bags, that should be fine. I was just trying to keep the weight to a minimum. Water, MREs, first aid and tents are the highest priority,” said Alex.

“And weapons,” added Kate.

“Recommended weapons and ammunition are listed at the bottom. I’d arm the kids if practical,” said Alex.

“What about the Homeland Security mandate?” Linda asked. “I can’t exactly conceal an AR-15.”

“I think you and Kate should plan to break down the rifles and stash them in your packs until you’ve cleared Scarborough. Shouldn’t take more than ten seconds to put one of the ARs into action from the pack if required. Once you hit the back roads near Gorham, you can reassemble and sling them. Everyone should stash their pistols in one of the easy-to-access pouches on your pack, just in case you run into any immediate trouble before clearing town. Holsters too. No reason to give them an excuse to search you. Make sure you wear long pants with cargo pockets for the spare mags,” said Alex.

Kate asked, “What if we’re stopped and searched in Scarborough?”

“The police will have too much on their plate to bother with that. As long as the weapons aren’t obvious, I can’t imagine they’ll bother,” said Alex.

“What if they do?”

“Then you turn over your weapons without incident. Not much you can do in that situation. The last thing we want is trouble with the police. That doesn’t go away,” said Alex, and Kate nodded agreement.

Alex flattened one of the maps. “I’ve highlighted what I think is the best route out of town, with a few alternatives. For security reasons, I haven’t highlighted the entire route. This gets you to Route 5, in East Waterboro. From there it’s pretty much a straight shot to Limerick. Kate knows where to go from there.”

Charlie examined the map and shook his head. “I don’t know if this route will be passable.”

“The mud is going to be rough getting out of here,” Alex told him, “but here’s what I figured we’d do to make it easier for them, without making multiple trips back into the neighborhood.”

“Not here. I mean along Route 1. The Nonesuch River crosses Route 1 just south of where Harrison Road intersects—”

“It’s more of a creek,” interrupted Alex.

“True, but water follows the path of least resistance, and the creek lies lower than the rest of the land. I guarantee the tsunami channeled up through the creek and over Route 1, dumping a ton of mud along the way. Hell, the marsh extending past Pine Point Beach extends into half of southern Scarborough—all less than a mile from Route 1. The whole marsh is at sea level. I wouldn’t count on them passing through much of downtown Scarborough.”

“I think he’s right, Alex,” said Ed.

“That would be a first,” added Linda Thornton, winking at her husband.

“Always busting my chops,” said Charlie.

“Good call, Charlie,” Alex admitted. “I wanted to avoid routing them toward the Maine Mall, but we might not have a choice. At least the roads should be clear of mud and debris north of the Harrison intersection. Let’s rework the route while we’re here.”

Samantha turned to Alex. “I want to hear more about your plan to get us past this mud.”

“Here’s what I was thinking…we can’t make multiple trips back to the neighborhood with Ed’s Jeep. Once that engine roars to life, everyone in the neighborhood will be watching. If it returns multiple times, we’re going to have a crisis on our hands. It’ll be like the last helicopter out of Saigon.”

Charlie chuckled. “That’s a great image, Alex.”

“Which I don’t want to repeat here,” Alex went on. “So, the bicycle group will leave first and walk their bicycles to the fire station. Mountain bikes or hybrids only for this trip. Will that be a problem for any family? I have an extra mountain bike in my basement.”

Everyone indicated that they could provide enough bikes.

“We’ll have to inspect and lubricate each bike. I’ll leave it to the bike group to put together a repair kit,” said Alex.

Kate nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Once you’ve all arrived at the station,” he said, nodding to Kate, “call us via handheld radio or satphone. We’ll start the Jeep and meet you there to transport the bikes and riders to a dry point along Route 1. You’ll have to deal with this nasty shit for about a quarter of a mile, but that’s it.”

“I can live with that,” said Samantha.

“We should all wear throwaway shoes and socks for this part,” Linda chimed in. “Have your real boots or whatever stuffed away in the backpacks.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Alex. “We’ll bring a few towels in the Jeep so everyone can wipe off their feet before the trip. You don’t want to start out with wet feet. Once we get everyone in place along Route 1, we’ll split up and stay in touch. I think we should check in via satphone every two hours.”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Do your parents have a satphone, Alex? Can we call them along the way?” asked Samantha.

“They do, but I haven’t been able to contact them with mine. They might not even realize there’s a problem yet. The farm is at least another thirty miles inland.”

“Yeah, but they’ll notice that the power is out and the cars aren’t working. They’ll turn the phone on at some point,” said Charlie.

“I don’t know. The farm is isolated enough to keep neighbors from walking over to say hi. Nearest house is at least a half-mile down the road. They’re in their early seventies and don’t typically go anywhere during the week. They might not discover their car problem until they decide to grab lunch or dinner in Limerick.”

“But the power’s out. If they have solar, that should raise some questions,” said Charlie.

“They call me with all of those questions, and not by satphone. I guarantee they won’t figure out it was an EMP until they try to start the cars. Even then they might think the batteries died or something. Don’t be surprised if you deliver the bad news about the EMP when you arrive,” Alex said.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Linda asked.

“I think we’ll try to use the turnpike to reach Kittery, then maybe cross the bridge if it’s serviceable. If not, we’ll head west along the New Hampshire border and cross at the least crowded point. My goal is to reach 125 and take that until Kingston; then we’ll do a combination of 107 and 108 to Haverhill—”

“Haverhill? That’s a lot of people in one place,” Charlie remarked.

“I don’t think we can avoid Haverhill. We need to get over the Merrimack, and I’m not sure about crossing options east of Haverhill. This point,” he said, landing a pencil on Haverhill, “is about ten miles from the coast. Up here that wouldn’t be a problem, but based on the direction of the wave, wind and flash that I saw this morning the asteroid—if it was an asteroid—hit closer to the beach down here.”

“Going west would be way worse in terms of population,” muttered Ed. “You’ve got Lawrence and Lowell here.”

“What about trying to cross at West Newbury?” Kate suggested. “There has to be a way to get there without going through Haverhill. If the bridge is down, you can drive back to Haverhill.”

“Let me check on that,” Alex said.

He pulled a softbound map book of New England from his backpack and feverishly searched for the page with a detailed street map corresponding to the area Kate had pointed out on the larger map. He found the map and confirmed the validity of her idea.

“We have a couple of options to reach West Newbury from 108. If the bridge there is down, we could use East Broadway here,” he said, pointing to a road along the river, “to approach the Bates Bridge on the outskirts of Haverhill. Assuming the road isn’t washed out.”

“You’re welcome,” said Kate, smugly.

“You’re thanked,” replied Alex. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, Charlie, but I think we can work our way from Groveland to Reading without using Route 28.”

“Definitely, but once we hit Reading, we might as well take the 28. It won’t matter what road you’re on at that point. It starts to get crowded.”

“Should we ditch the car before Reading?” asked Alex.

“Ditch the car ?” said nearly everyone at the same time.

“What? We can’t drive Ed’s Jeep into Boston. We wouldn’t last fifteen minutes,” said Alex.

Ed asked him, “How far are we going to walk?”

“I guess it depends on where we stash the car. I was hoping for something between five and eight miles.”

“Reading’s a lot further than that. We’d be useless by the time we reached the Charles,” said Ed.

“We can’t risk taking your jeep into a high-density population area. Too many variables we can’t control without seriously heating up these barrels,” he said, reaching over to his rifle set against the wall, “which would make the situation worse.”

“How can it get worse?” Ed asked.

“Shooting solves your most immediate problem, but the problem usually comes back really quickly. We’ll be slower on foot, but we won’t have a giant bull’s-eye painted on us. More people probably live in Medford and Cambridge combined than the entire greater Portland area—and they all want out of the city. Ed’s Jeep will quickly become the talk of the town, which is likely to put us in an untenable situation.”

“Fuck it. I’m in,” Charlie announced, rising over the table to examine the map. “No need to stop before Reading. We’re talking mostly suburbs. Stoneham’s a little more packed, but it doesn’t get really busy until Medford. See this right here?” Everyone stood up and leaned over the table to see where Charlie was pointing. “Middlesex Fells Reservation. We could easily stash the Jeep somewhere in the forest about a quarter of a mile from the northern edge of Medford. If the trees are still standing.”

“True,” Alex agreed. “We really have no idea how bad it is down there. We’ll bring the Jeep to the edge of Medford and figure out how to hide it. If the forest is a no-go, we might have to sit back and wait until dark to hide the Jeep near the city.”

“Tomorrow night? Now we’re talking about tomorrow night?” Samantha said nervously. “That’s more than twenty-four hours. I think you guys should leave tonight. Take the Jeep straight through to the kids. You’ll be back by tomorrow morning at the latest. I’m worried that you’re overthinking this, Alex. Our kids are waiting. They’re probably wondering why we haven’t shown up yet. The longer we delay this, the worse it’ll get out there.”

“We can’t leave tonight. If the police confiscate our vehicle, we’re screwed. Not to mention all the other gear they’re not likely to let us keep,” said Alex.

“What if they’re still confiscating vehicles tomorrow—and the next day? How long are we going to wait?”

“If they’re simply replacing the disabled vehicles in their fleet, we should be safe by tomorrow. If they’re still yanking cars off the street tomorrow, then we’re dealing with something else.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Regardless of their reason, what’s your plan if they’re not done taking vehicles tomorrow morning?” she demanded.

“I’m headed to Boston tomorrow to get our children. Nothing is going to get in the way of that. Are we all good with that?” said Alex, shifting his stare between Charlie and Ed.

“I’m good,” said Charlie.

“Me too. God help us,” said Ed.

“We’ll get the kids back, Samantha. No matter what it takes. We just can’t leave tonight. I need time with your husband and Charlie to work out the details, rig the gear, game plan all of the scenarios. If we were having this conversation at ten in the morning, I’d consider giving it a try.”

“Sorry to jump on you like that, Alex. I’m just worried about the kids.”

“I’m right there with you, Sam,” said Kate. “No need to apologize.”

“Samantha, you should have heard Kate on the walk back from the yacht club,” said Alex, trying to break the tension. “She wanted me to take a right on Harrison Road and continue walking to Boston. I managed to find a few flaws in that plan.”

“You looked like you needed a break, so I relented,” Kate said, winking.

Everyone laughed at Kate’s comment, including Alex.

“We have a lot of prep work to do. Bicycles, backpacks, and weapons are first priority. The rescue group needs two packs. One BOLT bag and a smaller assault kit—”

“What’s an assault kit?” asked Ed. “I don’t have stuff like that.”

“It’s just a smaller backpack, like this,” said Alex, lifting up the dark green, nylon backpack from the side of his chair.

“We’ll use these when we leave the car to get the kids. Nothing but the basics. Ammo, water, limited food, first aid kit…it’s all here on the sheets.”

“Why pack two bags?” asked Linda.

“The BOLT bags are for situations requiring us to permanently abandon the Jeep. We’ll be able to continue on foot with enough supplies to get us to our destination,” Alex explained.

“What if that happens before you reach Boston?”

“The mission remains the same. Get the kids and get back to Limerick. The only parameter that changes is the length of time it takes to accomplish the mission. Could be twelve hours, could be twelve days.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Charlie?” Linda asked her husband.

“Of course I’m up for this! What the hell are you talking about?”

“If the car dies in Sanford, Maine, you’re looking at what,” she made a quick calculation using the map, “a hundred and fifty mile round trip on foot?”

“Then I’ll finally lose that last ten pounds!”

“What about your knee—and your back?”

“I’ll bring my knee wrap and back brace, along with plenty of pain meds. I hike through the woods for days on end up in the county looking for deer. I’ll be fine. It’s these two beach strollers I’m worried about—gotcha there, guys,” said Charlie.

“We’ll take good care of your husband, Linda,” said Ed.

“You better. It’s not like I can easily replace him at this point, especially with the Internet down,” she said, causing another round of laughter.

Alex took a long swig of beer and gently set the empty bottle on the table.

“One last thing. Actually two last things. First, the backpack list doesn’t leave a lot of room for personal items. My daughter has already started to collect stuff to bring along, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of it wasn’t coming. We’re all in the same boat with kids—and ourselves. If things start to normalize, we can always come back for stuff—”

“If the houses haven’t been ransacked,” said Kate.

“Right. Each family should put together a duffel bag with stuff they want to bring to the farm, beyond the few items you can fit in your packs. We can stuff those bags in the Jeep. Nothing huge. Gym bag or backpack sized,” he said, and everyone nodded. “The last thing is the most important. I noticed people outside, and it sounds like Charlie has been helping other neighbors to move bodies. We need to minimize contact with the neighbors, and keep our packing efforts a secret. We’ll have to move all the gear over to Ed’s at night. Our departure tomorrow needs to remain a secret. I can’t stress that enough. It sounds cold, but it’s our reality. We all have friends in the neighborhood, and for the most part, they should be fine once the basements drain. We did our part after the pandemic. Most of the neighbors have stockpiled food and supplies. I can’t run a neighborhood refugee camp out at my parents’ farm. It’s as simple as that.”

Alex didn’t sense any problem with his last statement. They all understood the gravity and reality of the situation. Even with a sizable food stockpile and the ability to filter water, life would be extremely difficult in the neighborhood. Most home foundations were more than likely cracked. Some would collapse. The epic scale of this disaster guaranteed that nothing would be restored or repaired for several months, eventually forcing most people to migrate or face a brutal winter with meager supplies and limited essential services. He could envision massive FEMA camps established to handle the overflow of humanity fleeing New England, followed by disease, starvation and depravity. Nobody at the Walkers’ kitchen table wanted to stick around for that end game.

“Then it’s a done deal,” said Ed decisively. “We pack up and wait for dark to bring it over.”

“We’ll throw dinner together once everyone arrives. Try to use up whatever’s left in the refrigerators and pantries,” said Samantha.

“Perfect. We should spend some time talking about Boston before heading back right now,” Alex said to Ed and Charlie.

“The other group needs to do the same, but it’ll have to wait until tonight. Too many people to gather in one place at one time without arousing suspicion. Durham Road may look quiet, but I guarantee people are watching every square inch of the neighborhood. We should also plan to use the upstairs. I wouldn’t feel secure gathering the family at night,” said Alex.

He distinctly remembered the fear he had developed of roaming the ground floor of his house six years ago, with murderous psychopaths prowling the neighborhood. The obvious presence of a large gathering might attract attention tonight, as households recuperated from the initial shock of having their normal lives ripped out from under them. From what he could tell so far, the neighbors had kept to themselves, nobody quite certain what to think or do under the circumstances beyond clean out their house and take stock of the situation. Some of them had banded together to remove the bodies deposited on the street by the tsunami, but that appeared to be the limit of cooperation to this point. Tomorrow would be very different, especially after the harsh reality of the EMP’s long-term impact had time to sink in.

Chapter 13

EVENT +15:47 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

Alex lifted Kate’s mountain bike up by the center crossbar and tucked his left elbow tightly against his side, balancing the aluminum monster in his left hand. He’d already ferried Emily’s bike across the thickening, bug-infested field of muck separating the two houses. The Thorntons had arrived at the back of their house just as he returned from the first trip twenty minutes later.

“Everyone set?” he asked, glancing at the shadows in front of the closed bulkhead door.

“Lead the way, sir,” said Charlie.

Alex stepped out of the garage and into the deeper mud behind his house. “Let’s go.”

The steps were slow, each threatening to suck the shoes off his feet. He’d stuffed his only pair of hiking boots in his backpack, opting for the running shoes he kept in the mudroom closet. The rest of the family’s boots were underwater in a fifty-gallon storage bin somewhere in the basement. The added weight of his assault pack buried his shoes deeper, causing him to cautiously lift his feet out of the greedy muck.

Halfway across the yard, he saw the slow progress and had second thoughts about their plan to have Kate’s group haul the bicycles to the fire station. Everyone had given up trying to keep the bikes out of the mud. They would have to rethink this part of the plan.

Ed’s hitch-mounted bike rack could take four bicycles. They could throw two on top and try to carry the other three with their arms outside of the windows. It would be a complete clusterfuck, but they only needed to drive two minutes with all of the bicycles. The Jeep had an automatic transmission, so Ed could theoretically hold one of the bikes with his left arm. Alex knew that wasn’t going to work.

They’d have to make two trips, which was exactly what he wanted to avoid, but he didn’t see any way around it. There was no way this group would make it to the fire station pushing bicycles through the muck without thoroughly exhausting themselves in advance of a thirty-five-mile bike ride.

Kate’s group would hike to the fire station with their packs and wait for Ed to deliver the first load of bicycles. Alex and Charlie would guard the rest of the bikes and gear until Ed returned for the final load. Once everything was in place at the station, they could resume the original plan. He’d suggest that Kate’s group set out for the station before sunrise, with the hopes of keeping onlookers to a bare minimum. He stopped to let Charlie catch up.

“I think we’ll have to drive the bikes over to the station,” said Alex.

“That’ll mean two trips,” said Charlie, straining to talk.

“I’m pretty sure my marriage won’t last halfway to the fire station,” said Alex.

“Halfway?” Linda jeered. “I’ll file for divorce right now if this idiot doesn’t start agreeing with you.”

“Let’s go with two trips, my friend,” said Charlie.

“Better,” Linda said. “Now if you can convince him to drive everyone to the station, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Tonight?” asked Charlie.

“Not tonight.”

“I’ve heard that before. I only take payment in advance these days,” said Charlie, laughing at his own joke.

“Mom? Dad?” said one of Charlie and Linda’s daughters from the darkness. “We’re, like, right here, in case you were wondering.”

“Your mom started it.”

“We might be able to move everyone in two trips,” said Alex. “Does Ed’s Jeep have running boards?”

“If it doesn’t, he’s a cheap bastard,” Charlie decided. “Why would you buy the four-door Jeep and not have running boards?”

“If he has running boards, we might be able to get six people out on each run. That would do it,” said Alex.

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. The only problem would be jamming all of the packs and weapons into the Jeep’s tight interior space. They’d make it work, even if they had to tie stuff down on the hood.

Ten minutes later, Alex returned to the house to retrieve his own gear. He’d stashed his BOLT pack, tactical chest rig, and rifle in the garage. Unlike the watered-down version carried by Kate’s group, his BOLT pack contained most of the items on the original checklist, which translated into twice the weight. His final trip across the mud would be interesting. He stepped out of the garage and collided with someone. He cleared his pistol from the holster, stepping backward simultaneously.

“It’s me, Jamie. Christ, will you put that away?” she hissed.

Alex lowered the weapon, but didn’t holster it. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Is it that bad out there? You don’t trust me enough to put away your gun, Alex?”

“I don’t trust anyone right now,” he said, glancing at the corner of the garage.

“Looks like you trust Ed and Charlie,” she remarked. “When are you heading out?”

Alex didn’t reply at first. He had really been hoping to slide out of the neighborhood without having to deal with this.

“We’re taking Ed’s Jeep down to Boston to get the kids. The rest of them are headed out on bicycles to my parents’ place. I don’t know what everyone will do after that. Hopefully this will all be resolved in a few weeks.”

“This won’t get better. We’re heading out tomorrow for Jeff’s family camp near Bridgton.”

Alex remained silent.

“I’m not asking for a ride. The minivan started. I just need to know when you’re heading out, so we can leave at the same time. We don’t want to drive out of here with the entire neighborhood on our heels,” she said.

“We were hoping to avoid the same thing. We’ll leave at first light,” said Alex.

“That’s what we were thinking,” said Jamie.

Something was off with this conversation. He couldn’t see more than the outline of her body against the side of the garage. He knew for a fact that she owned a compact 9mm Glock. He’d recommended the pistol to her when she’d come to him for self-defense advice after the pandemic. He closed the back door to the garage and walked slowly through the mud toward the Walkers’ house. Was he already this paranoid?

“Stay safe on the road, Jamie,” he advised. “Don’t stop for anything or anyone. Route 26 goes through some crowded areas.”

“We’ll be careful,” said Jamie.

Route 26 didn’t go anywhere near Bridgton. Jamie had either completely missed what he had said, or she was lying about the camp. He had to assume the latter and plan for the worst-case scenario. So much for a full night’s sleep.

Charlie immediately met him at the back door of the Walkers’ garage.

“Was that Jamie?”

“Yeah,” grumbled Alex.

“She’s out of her skull creeping around at night. What did she want?”

“Intel,” stated Alex.

Charlie looked at him pointedly. “Do we have a problem?”

“A big one. We all need to talk,” he said, stepping through the doorway.

Alex met Kate and Linda in the mudroom. They had just finished stacking the two families’ BOLT bags along one of the walls.

“Where are all of the kids?” asked Alex.

“We sent them upstairs,” Linda replied.

He dropped his own pack on the tile floor. “Let’s keep them up there.”

“We’ve got a place for the rifles in the family room,” said Linda.

“I think I’ll hold onto mine for now.”

“What’s wrong?” Kate asked.

Alex glanced at Linda. “Can you grab Ed and Samantha really quick?”

She stepped out and returned moments later with Ed and Samantha in the kitchen doorway.

“What’s up?” asked Ed.

“I just ran into Jamie,” said Alex.

“Great. Please tell me you didn’t invite them to your parents’ place,” Kate said snidely. “Her new husband is a little off.”

“You thought I was a little off before you got to know me,” said Charlie.

Linda didn’t hesitate. “I’ve known you for twenty-four years, and I think you’re way off.”

“She said something that didn’t make sense,” Alex said, trying to keep them focused. “Claims that their minivan started and that they’re headed out to Jeff’s family camp in Bridgton.”

“Why would they wait this long?” asked Linda.

“Maybe for the same reason as us,” said Samantha.

“They don’t know that the police are grabbing cars,” Ed said. “They haven’t left the neighborhood, and I think we would have heard them start the car. Charlie heard mine from down the street.”

“What if their garage doors were closed?” asked Samantha.

“Here’s the other thing,” Alex said. “I told her to be careful on Route 26. She said they will. Route 26 doesn’t go anywhere near Bridgton. I think she was fishing for information.”

“Maybe she was nervous?” Samantha suggested. “You look like some kind of mercenary. I’m nervous right now looking at those guns.”

“I know the two of you used to be close…” began Alex.

“She’s been through a lot, Alex,” Samantha interrupted. “Now that asshole husband’s knocking her around.”

Linda grimaced. “When did that start?”

“Apparently all along,” said Samantha. “He’s a piece of sh—crap.”

“Maybe he put her up to it,” said Alex.

“Up to what?” Samantha asked.

“Trying to find out our plan to get out of here. Why else would she ask when we were leaving?”

“What did you tell her?” asked Ed.

“Sunrise.”

“We’ll be long gone by then.”

“They’ll make a move on the Jeep long before that,” said Kate knowingly.

Samantha blanched. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

“The Michaud family camp in Bridgton was sold at auction in 2016. The Michaud’s were clients of my firm for decades. Jeff pissed away all of the money after his parents died in the pandemic. Apparently, a latent gambling gene surfaced,” said Kate.

“Followed by a wife-beating gene,” said Samantha.

Kate shook her head. “I’m sure that one has been around forever. How bad is the abuse?”

“I don’t know,” Samantha answered. “He’s got her under tight control.” She turned to Alex. “I know Jamie. She wouldn’t do this if she had a choice. She hasn’t forgotten what we did for her girls.”

“We still have to plan for the worst. I can set up outside and watch the back of the house. He’ll probably try to break in and steal the Jeep. That’s what I’d do.”

“Then what?” asked Linda.

“If he shows up, I’ll shoot him,” said Alex nonchalantly.

“You can’t just shoot him, Alex,” said Ed.

“I’ve been down that road, and it got a lot of people killed—”

“That wasn’t your fault!” said Kate.

“I don’t see it that way anymore. If either of them approaches the house with a firearm, I’m taking them out.”

“What about the police?” asked Ed.

“What police?”

“You have to plan for the possibility that someone will hear the shots and contact the police. You said it yourself that they’re probably monitoring handheld radio frequencies,” said Ed.

“I have that covered.”

“The police?” countered Ed.

“No. The sound,” said Alex, to skeptical looks.

“What if they’re unarmed?” Kate asked.

“Unlikely.”

“You have to plan for the possibility,” said Kate.

“What’s wrong with all of you?” Alex said in frustration. “She lied to me out there. They’re either coming tonight, or they’ll try to hijack the car tomorrow.”

“Then maybe you should storm their house right now and kill everyone!” said Samantha, shaking her head in disgust.

“I’m not suggesting a preemptive strike!” Alex said. “We just need to take a more proactive stance here.”

Charlie piped in, “Why don’t we just capture whoever comes over?”

“Is anyone here trained to take down a potentially armed hostile?” Alex asked. “Just saying…” he added.

“I don’t think it’s out of the question,” said Ed.

“It’s out of the question. Trust me. It’ll take all three of us if he resists. What if he has help?”

“You really want to shoot him, don’t you?” said Samantha.

“Don’t you?”

Samantha shot him a nasty look, and the mudroom fell silent.

“I’ll issue a warning,” Alex said. “If a firearm is visible, they have to drop it. No exceptions. I’m not sending them back with the tools to try again. That’s all the leeway I’m willing to give.”

Ed let out a deep breath, “I can live with that.”

Samantha nodded. “All right.”

“We’ll need a lookout with a radio on the second floor,” said Charlie, “and someone on the ground level in case they try to get into the main house.”

“I’ll watch from Daniel’s room. Charlie’s probably a better choice to have guarding the doors,” said Ed.

“We’ll switch off, so you can get sleep, or at least try,” said Samantha.

“It’s gonna be a long night, but we’ll get through this. By noon tomorrow, you’ll be safe at the compound. We’ll join you with Chloe and Ryan the day after that,” said Alex.

“Easy as that?” said Ed, finally smiling.

“Easy as that,” repeated Alex.

Chapter 14

EVENT +21:37 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

Alex swatted lethargically at the mosquitos. What was the point? The swarm above his head was unusually aggressive, relentlessly attacking his sweaty face. Their buzz competed with a distant generator. Annoying, but blameless, the mosquitos could be forgiven. Unlike humans, they lacked the capacity to govern their response to deeply ingrained survival instincts. Alex lay in the backyard as a hedge against their collective bet that Jamie and her husband had given in to their instincts.

Samantha had given him a thick comforter to lay over the mud, which he had placed over an old, supposedly waterproof poncho. The system had kept him dry for roughly seven minutes before the brackish water seeped over and around the poncho, quickly soaking the comforter. At least he wasn’t lying in a puddle of shit water. The hastily assembled ground cover had prevented him from sinking far enough into the mud for that.

He’d set up along the edge of the drainage easement behind the Walkers’ house, on the downward side of the slope, exposing little more than his rifle and his head to the house. His feet sat less than a foot from the water trapped in the ditch. The easement ran the entire length of the backyards, giving him an unobstructed view in both directions. The dual-tube night vision goggles had turned night into day, ensuring that nobody stood a chance of approaching undetected.

His earpiece crackled. “Alex,” Charlie reported, “I have a male with some type of rifle crossing the street between Jamie’s house and the house to the left. Looks like he’s headed to the Andersons’ next door. I need to go to the other side of the house. I’m about to lose him.”

“Stay where you are, and keep a close eye on Jamie’s house. Make sure we don’t have any more surprises. I have it from here. Charlie, did you copy?”

“Copy. Standing by,” said Charlie.

Alex pointed his HK416 semiautomatic rifle at the left corner of the house. He figured that Jeff would appear there first and slide along the house.

A darkened shape appeared beyond the corner for a moment. He focused his attention on the white trim, which appeared pale green in his goggles, and waited. Jeff Michaud’s head slowly emerged, followed by the shotgun. He pressed the transmit button on his shoulder-mounted handheld radio.

“He’s at the corner of Ed’s house. Pump action shotgun,” he whispered, mentally blocking out the nervous replies.

Several seconds later, Jamie’s husband stepped into the open and walked slowly along the back of the house, the mud sucking at his feet.

Alex moved his left hand along the hand guard to the vertical fore grip and double tapped the remote switch attached to the rail. A green light spanned the backyard, striking the house behind Michaud. Invisible to the naked eye, the infrared (IR) beam emitted by the Dual Beam Aiming Laser (DBAL) attached to the top rail of his rifle could only be seen using night vision technology. Alex shifted the laser onto Michaud’s head and waited for him to pause at the edge of the Walkers’ mangled deck.

“That’s far enough!” he warned.

Michaud raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed into the darkness beyond Alex, craning his head frantically. The green laser remained centered on his forehead. He took another step forward.

“Stop! Right! There!” yelled Alex. “Drop your weapon, and put your hands on top of your head!”

“Where are you?” said Michaud, shifting his aim in Alex’s general direction.

“Last chance, Jeff! Drop the shotgun, or I’ll shoot!”

Jeff Michaud paused, looked to both sides, and lowered the shotgun. Not good enough.

“Drop the shotgun!”

“I’ll leave! This is all I have to defend Jamie and the kids,” said Michaud.

“Either you drop the shotgun, or I’ll help you drop it.”

“I’m walking back to my house, Alex—and I’m taking this with me,” said Michaud.

“I’ll kill you if you take a single step with that thing. Last warning, Jeff!”

“You wouldn’t do that to Jamie and the kids! She’s already lost one husband,” he said, lifting his left foot out of the mud.

The rifle kicked, and Michaud dropped. The suppressor reduced the sound of the gunshot to that of a compressed-air-powered nail gun. With no background noise to compete, the sound would be heard clearly throughout the neighborhood and the street behind the Walkers’, but it wouldn’t register definitively as gunfire. Only someone with experience using suppressed firearms would be able to make the determination based on a single shot—not that anyone could call 911. He turned off the IR laser and stood up.

“You there, Alex?” said Charlie.

“I’m here. Jeff Michaud is dead.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Come out of the back door to the garage. Are we all clear, Ed?”

“All clear on the street, but something’s going on in Jamie’s mudroom. It’s hard to tell, but I saw some movement inside.”

“We’ll take care of it. Be careful by the window, Ed. Do like I showed you.”

“I’ll keep you posted. Are you sure Michaud is dead?”

“One hundred percent. Headshot,” said Alex.

“And we just leave him there?”

“Do you want to give him a proper burial?”

“Not really,” said Ed.

“Alex, was that a suppressor?” added Charlie.

“Let’s not transmit stuff like that in the open. Everyone cut the chatter. I’m headed across the backyard.”

The suppressor attached to his rifle was not registered with the ATF, and would most certainly land him in jail if discovered by authorities. He’d purchased it with a thick envelope of twenty-dollar bills after a gun show, hoping never to need it. He had a feeling it would be prove to be worth every penny in the upcoming days.

“Shit. Sorry, man. Probably just the echo or angle of the sound waves,” said Charlie.

“You done yet?” said Alex.

“Now I am. Out,” said Charlie.

They used a privacy-coded subchannel within a rarely used public channel that had been silent all evening. He highly doubted anyone was listening, but he preferred they maintain better radio discipline. When they reached Boston, all of the channels would be busy, and finding a clear subchannel might present a challenge. He also wouldn’t be surprised if law enforcement officers within bigger departments were monitoring all of the available channels and subchannels.

With the grid down, handheld radios would become one of the only reliable forms of longer-range communication within the cities. Controlling the handheld channels or monitoring them would become critical. It was something they needed to keep in mind when navigating the city.

He replaced the radio and fought the mud on the flat ground above the easement lip. Tactically, the better move would be to use some of the sloped earth for cover and traverse along the axis of the ditch, but the mud was difficult enough on level ground, and the steep gradient led right into chest-high water. He had no plans for a midnight swim. Alex kept his rifle trained in the direction of the garage corner as he approached. Charlie’s form appeared in the door, and Alex signaled for him to cover the back of the house.

They had worked out very basic military signals for use on their trip. With Charlie aiming in the direction of the deck, he focused all of his attention on “slicing” the corner, finding the side of the garage clear of intruders. He’d patrol the front of the house, sweeping around back and linking up with Charlie. It was the only way to be sure Michaud didn’t have an accomplice lurking in the shadows.

He detected movement across the street, from Jamie’s mudroom stoop, but nobody emerged. It was hard to tell, but the green image cast by his night vision goggles suggested that the mudroom door was open. She was probably waiting for the Jeep to pull out of the garage before she started carting luggage into the driveway. Almost on cue, the front screen door opened, revealing at least two figures carrying luggage onto the stoop. Alex slid along the back of the garage to join Charlie.

“Side is clear. It looks like Jamie is pre-staging luggage for a quick departure,” said Alex.

“Damn,” said Charlie, “what do we do?”

“Send her a message,” said Alex, “once I confirm that we don’t have any more surprises waiting for us.”

Several minutes later, Alex returned to the garage corner with Michaud’s shotgun. “Anything new?”

“Nothing. Jamie’s sitting deep in the mudroom, watching the garage door. The girls are somewhere close by inside,” said Charlie, keeping the night vision scope on his rifle pressed to his face.

“The far side of the house is clear. Let’s send the message,” said Alex.

Alex followed Charlie into the garage and knelt next to the rear left tire of the Walkers’ disabled Honda Pilot. He braced his rifle against the side of the SUV and disengaged the safety. His trip to check the other side of the house had given Charlie enough time to communicate with Kate, who would make sure that everyone stayed clear of the front windows. He had no idea how Jamie would react to this message, and his search of Jeff Michaud’s body didn’t turn up the Glock 19.

Charlie pulled the toggle line connected to the garage door and stepped to the left side of the door. “Ready?”

“Open sesame,” said Alex.

The door jerked upward and started to roll on its track. By the time the door had reached the apex of its journey, Jamie and her daughters had started hauling the luggage off the porch. Alex activated the IR laser and directed the beam at Jamie’s chest. She reached the end of the walkway before stopping to stare at the open garage bay. She waved her hand behind her and hissed something at the girls that caused them to leave the luggage and scurry inside.

Alex guided the bright green beam past her head, placing it on the light fixture attached to the garage behind her. The rifle barked, sending a .223 bullet past her head at 3,000 feet per second. If the crack of the bullet didn’t make an impression, the sudden obliteration of the glass light enclosure should deliver the message.

Jamie lowered her body. Alex fired another round over her head, striking the top of the garage door behind her with a hollow thump. He hoped the Walkers’ garage would channel the sound of his suppressed rifle forward, limiting the directional extent of its detectability. At this point, the repeated sound would draw attention. He waited for her to react.

“I didn’t have a choice! He threatened the girls! He’s a piece of shit!” she screamed.

“Throw the Glock into the street and walk back into the house, Jamie!” yelled Alex.

“Is he dead?” she said, her voice breaking.

“He’s dead. Time’s up, Jamie. Toss the pistol and get inside.”

Jamie reached behind her back, causing him to tense and press into the SUV’s rear tire. He knew she would have to do this to comply with his demand, but it still made him nervous. Alex just hoped that Charlie didn’t get any panicky ideas.

“You okay over there?” he said, eyeing Charlie’s hand.

“Yep. Finger’s off the trigger,” said Charlie.

“As soon as she turns around, you head out and get the pistol.”

“Got it.”

Jamie raised the pistol over her head and threw it as far as she could. She stood her ground on the driveway, facing the open garage bay.

“He never found it. Can you believe that? I should have put it up to his head while he was dead drunk and pulled the trigger. He had enough reasons to kill himself.”

“You should have warned me,” said Alex. “We would have helped you.”

“I did warn you. Route 26? He was listening to the whole conversation through one of the radios. That was all I could do.”

Alex stepped out of the shadows. “Shit. I’m sorry, Jamie. I just found out about what was going on with you tonight. We didn’t put it together.”

“I got pretty good at hiding it. We’ll be fine now. Completely fine. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get the shotgun back—after you’re gone.”

“We’ll leave it in the garage. Back door will be unlocked—not that you can’t just walk through the sliding door,” he said, causing her to briefly laugh.

“Good luck getting your kids back from Boston. I figured you were splitting up between the bikes and the Jeep,” said Jamie.

“Help yourself to anything you can salvage. There’s a ton of food in our basement if you don’t mind snorkeling. Firearms too. Need to get to those quick, before the bores start to rust. I have a cord of wet firewood in my garage,” he said.

“Thanks, Alex. I’ll take you up on that, and I’ll keep an eye on the houses. Can I take the pistol?”

“Yeah. Clean it really well. There’s a lot of sand mixed into this mess,” said Alex.

“See you around,” she said.

“Good luck, Jamie. Hopefully we’ll see you shortly.”

“Somehow I think this is more of a permanent situation. We’re ready.”

Alex called Ed down to the mudroom, and helped Charlie secure the garage. They locked the bay door in place and barricaded the back door. Ed met them in the garage.

“I’m thinking we should leave right now,” said Ed.

“We can’t ride bikes in the dark,” said Kate, following him.

“The sun will be up in three hours. 5:50. We should at least start rolling out of here at five, before the neighborhood wakes up. By the time we get everyone to Route 1, they should have enough light to travel safely,” said Ed.

Kate nodded and rubbed her eyes.

“All right. We’ll let everyone sleep for another hour and a half, then get out of here. I don’t think she’s a threat, but who knows what she’s capable of with kids to protect?” said Alex.

“Why don’t you and Charlie get some sleep? I’ll take the next shift down here,” said Ed.

Alex handed Ed the muddied shotgun and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all yours, Ed. I’m going to take a shower, if you don’t mind.”

“Use the bathroom at the top of the stairs, and uh—try not to make a mess,” he joked.

“Funny man for three in the morning,” said Alex.

“More like slap happy.”

“This is just the beginning of our fun. Wait until tomorrow night,” said Alex.

“Can’t wait. Charlie, I got this covered,” said Ed.

“You sure, amigo? I’m kind of amped up right now. I don’t mind holding down the fort,” said Charlie, stepping back into the kitchen.

“All the more reason for you to take a nap. Seriously, we’re all going to need as much rest as possible for tomorrow. Don’t make me wake up Linda to haul your ass upstairs,” said Alex.

***

Kate slipped into the upstairs bathroom after Alex and locked the door. She needed a moment with him alone, and this looked like it might be her last opportunity for a long time. Even when they reunited at the farm, they would be living on top of each other with nine additional people, bringing the total at the 2,200-square-foot contemporary farmhouse to seventeen. Alone time would become a premium, which was important for their relationship. Important on several levels, one of which was Alex’s mental health. The mental and physical rigors of their pandemic experience had worsened his post-traumatic distress symptoms, his nightmares, and had surfaced subtle changes to his behavior.

The changes were barely noticeable, but Alex seemed more prone to bouts of melancholy and a negative outlook. He’d always had the nightmares, pretending to wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, when Kate knew he was changing a sweat-soaked shirt and wiping his face. He hadn’t been the only one pretending. She would lay there breathing slowly, faking a deep sleep, grateful that he’d returned. Her deep, undisturbed sleep had become a joke in their family over the years, but it was a twisted façade. She slept so lightly at night, constantly waking up to Alex’s murmurs and sounds, that she could barely lift herself out of bed in the morning.

She’d kept this a secret from him for years, just like he’d tried to keep the nightmares from her. The onset of depression after the pandemic worried her the most, forcing her to suggest he seek PTSD-related counseling. The treatment had been marginally effective at combating his mood swings, and Kate relied on constant, close observation to guide him through tougher spells of darkness. Prior to the tsunami, Alex had been on one of the longest upward swings she could remember. She suspected that he’d started taking the medication he’d been prescribed, which he’d long been against. The current situation had the potential to send him in the opposite direction, and Kate needed to stay on top of it.

“I don’t think this is the right time,” he said, leaning his rifle against the wall next to the toilet.

“You wish. They ran out of hot water this afternoon. A cold shower with a stinky man isn’t at the top of my romantic encounters list. I just wanted to talk with you in private.”

“And I had been led to believe that I was irresistible under any circumstances,” he joked.

“I’m not sure a shower will do you any good.”

“Sadly, I don’t even notice anymore,” Alex said. “I know why you’re here, by the way.”

“That obvious?”

“I’m fine. Pretty clear-cut situation out there.”

He lit one of the candles on the marble bathroom counter and started to undress.

“It won’t always be that clear cut,” she said.

“Anything standing in the way of getting Ryan and Chloe back is a clear-cut threat. We know exactly what’s going to happen out there. What people are capable of. No second guessing on my end.”

“I know you’ll get them back. Tomorrow morning we’ll be together again. I’ll make a huge pancake breakfast for the entire crew. We’ll swim in the lake, kick back and enjoy the hard work we’ve put into the farm,” she said, barely believing her own words.

Alex didn’t fully believe it either. He never spoke a word of pessimism about their chances of rescuing Ryan and Chloe, but she could see it in his eyes. See him calculating the odds. They had no idea where the asteroid hit, if it had really been an asteroid. Alex didn’t seem convinced. None of them could reconcile the EMP effects with the government’s version of what had transpired this morning. The only data point that gave them all hope that it hadn’t been a hostile nuclear detonation came from Alex’s early-morning observation.

He determined that the fading light from the initial flash had been centered on a true bearing of one hundred and seventy degrees, which was east of Boston—possibly out to sea. The tsunami added credence to this theory.

Asteroid or nuclear weapon, it didn’t change the fact that the explosion had occurred much closer to Boston than Portland, and their son lived on the sixth floor of a fifty-year-old, fourteen-floor dormitory tower overlooking the Charles River. The implications hadn’t escaped either of them. The tsunami would be bigger, sweeping down the Charles River and flooding the campus. The blast and wind effects of the initial strike would be more devastating, causing serious external damage to buildings, and the seismic effect of the impact would be more pronounced, resulting in structural damage.

Alex would never say it, but his body language betrayed the elephant following them from room to room. Their rescue mission stood a good chance of turning into a recovery mission.

“I wish my parents would use the damn satphone. I’d feel better knowing that everything is all right out there. Is there any warm water at all?” he said and stripped down to his underwear.

“None, according to Sam,” said Kate. “I’m sure your parents are fine. We’ll be out there soon enough.”

“They’re not exactly spring chickens, and technology kicks their asses—unless it’s the Internet. They’re all over that.”

Kate laughed. “They have more of a social media presence than I do.”

“More than both of us,” he said and paused. “This may sound strange, but I hope that both of their cars are out of commission.”

“I had the same thought. Driving around isn’t a good idea right now.”

“Especially for those two. The worst would be if one of the cars started on the first try, and they just drove into town, still oblivious. They’d lose the car at their first stop, or worse.”

“Limerick is a tight community. I wouldn’t worry about them,” said Kate.

“What we saw tonight is the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Ed’s Jeep carries more real-world value than the combined bank accounts of everyone in Scarborough. Don’t be surprised if we end up walking back from Boston.”

“Just stay in touch with the phone. Use your portable solar unit to keep it charged.”

“Unless we’re talking all day and all night, the phones should last pretty long,” said Alex.

“Humor me. If you end up walking back, we might not see you for several days.”

“I may have to talk Ed and Charlie into hiking a little further than I suggested. We can’t afford to lose the Jeep.”

“Good luck hauling Charlie and Ed that far,” she said quietly.

Alex leaned in, bringing his smelly body closer to hers. She tried not to react to the strong aroma of stagnant, rotting mud.

“Between you and me, I’m not taking either of them across the Charles—unless the situation requires it,” he whispered. “If I can convince them to guard the Jeep, all the better. Getting in and out of the city with our kids will require mobility and concentration. They’ll slow me down.”

“These guys came through for you before. You’re not exactly a trained commando.”

“Compared to Ed and Charlie, I’m Delta Force. I’ll bring them as far as I can without jeopardizing the kids’ safety,” said Alex.

“Yeah, and good luck trying to talk Ed out of rescuing his daughter.”

PART III

“ROADS LESS TRAVELLED”

Chapter 15

EVENT +23:58 Hours

Scarborough, Maine

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

“Charlie, you showing anything on thermal?”

“Looks clear,” Charlie replied.

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

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

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

“Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. Come on, Ed.

“Ed’s on his way,” said Charlie.

No shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d rather make payments.”

“Start bringing everything out,” barked Kate.

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

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

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

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

“Humor me.”

Standing on the side of Ed’s Jeep, Alex caught the last glimpses of his home superimposed against a thicker, lighter blue ribbon of twilight.

Chapter 16

EVENT +24:47 Hours

South Portland, Maine

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

Lesson learned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copy. Moving out.”

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

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

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

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

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

We aren’t moving fast enough.

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

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

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

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

“Slow us down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Slow down for a second.”

“Are you crazy?” Ed bellowed.

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

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

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

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

Too late.

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

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

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

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

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

Time to gain some ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m on! Let’s go!”

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

“Slow down!” he yelled through the window.

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

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

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

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

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

Both of them had to go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“You’ll pass inspection,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d still try.”

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

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

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

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

“Are you comparing me to a Chevy truck?”

“Uh—I hadn’t intended to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’ll get him killed. I know it.”

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

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

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

“I’m just being realistic, Mom.”

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

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

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

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

At least she was trying.

Chapter 17

EVENT +27:20 Hours

York, Maine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind?” uttered Charlie.

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

“I’m pulling a U-turn,” said Ed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They could have fit twice as much gear into the Jeep, but for tactical reasons, they packed lightly. Alex wanted clear fields of vision in every direction and quick access to their equipment, which prevented them from filling every conceivable nook throughout the Jeep with repetitive gear. He also wanted to configure the Jeep’s load-out for the possibility of an immediate and irreversible abandonment of the vehicle while under fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When did you check last?” asked Ed.

“Saturday.”

“A lot can change in a few days.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Easy on the rifle,” said Ed.

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

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

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Ed.

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

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

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

“See that, Charlie?” asked Ed.

“See what?”

“Alex cuts right to the bone when he feels threatened,” said Ed, grinning widely.

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

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

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

“We’ll get the kids back, Ed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it,” whispered Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did they see it hit?” asked Ed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad the two of you had fun. I was shitting my pants back here,” said Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they start shooting?”

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

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

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

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

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

They both laughed at his reference.

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

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

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

“Exactly,” said Alex.

Chapter 18

EVENT +29:15 Hours

South Berwick, Maine

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

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

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

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

“Ignorance is bliss,” said Alex.

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

“Idiots,” mumbled Ed, concentrating on the road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” asked Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

“It worked,” said Ed.

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

“That was different,” said Alex.

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

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

“Helluva greeting,” said Charlie.

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

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

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

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

“You want it now?” Charlie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Milton Mills, New Hampshire,” he said.

“Never heard of it,” said Charlie.

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

“That far?” said Ed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 19

EVENT +29:52 Hours

Sanford, Maine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Limerick?” asked Campbell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Vehicles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone broke out into an argument at once.

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

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

“Unless what?” Campbell prompted.

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

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

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

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

Everyone voiced agreement, except for Littner.

“What is it, Dave?” said Campbell.

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

“Have some of your people already done this?”

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

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

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

“I presume they turned him down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 20

EVENT +30:35 Hours

Acton, Maine

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

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

“Did you see that?” asked Alex.

“What?” said Charlie.

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

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

“A lot of cars in—”Alex started.

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

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

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

Charlie followed them with his eyes. “Weird.”

“Weird is putting it mildly,” said Ed.

“What are they doing?” Alex asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not according to the GPS,” said Alex.

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

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

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

“How far?” asked Ed.

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

“Ready as ever.”

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

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

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

“Got it,” responded Ed.

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

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

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

“Stop us here,” said Alex.

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

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

“Militia?” asked Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Orders,” said Radioman, shrugging his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

“You’re making them walk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never heard of it,” said Alex.

“Now you have,” said Radioman.

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

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

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

“Maine Liberty Militia. Ever heard of them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s too many,” said Ed.

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

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

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

“Recon?” asked Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 21

EVENT +30:59 Hours

Acton, Maine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” whispered Charlie.

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

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

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

“Clear. What are we looking for?”

“The families they brought here. Ready?”

“Not really,” said Charlie.

“Good. Let’s go.”

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

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

Not on my watch.

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

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

“Start taking them down. I’ll meet you at the corner of the building,” said Alex, rising to a low crouch.

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

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

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

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

He was still a few seconds away from the corner when he caught a glimpse of movement and raised Charlie’s rifle, snapping two shots at the figure that appeared in the EOTech sight’s illuminated reticle. A storm of splinters and supersonic cracks forced him flat against the side of the building. Dropping to the blacktop, he reacquired both targets with deadly precision.

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

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

Satisfied with a thumbs-up and Charlie’s choice of position on the right side of the concrete stoop, he quick-peeked around the corner, verifying that the parking lot was still devoid of militia. He shuffled down the side of the building, crouching at each of the evenly spaced windows imbedded into the white vinyl siding.

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

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

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

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

The first figure appeared above the hood of the Pilot, and Alex pulled the trigger twice, adjusting his aim for the head. The hollow-point bullets penetrated the man’s skull, plastering the white siding beyond him with a mosaic of dark and bright red clumps. Alex pressed forward, firing repeatedly over the hood at the second man barreling through the opening. The 9mm bullets struck hard, knocking the second man against the gore-stained cedar siding with a grunt.

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

Alex was effectively wedged between two threat vectors, unable to simultaneously watch and engage targets coming from both directions. He quickly peeked above the hood, spotting the familiar boonie hat through the punctured windshield. Bullets snapped past Alex’s head, forcing him down. He detected movement behind him. One of the men he had shot groaned, desperately trying to reach the rifle lying next to him. Alex fired a single bullet through the man’s face.

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

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

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

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

Saved again by Ed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I got him!” yelled Charlie.

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

“You’re clear to move!” said Charlie.

Alex took a deep breath and moved to the corner, peeking into the hallway. Charlie had moved to the middle of the doorway, aiming Alex’s rifle down the long hallway. They had four rooms to clear. A long, mottled red streak covered the gray wall. A mangled head protruded several inches beyond the bottom of the doorframe, anchored by a thick pool of spreading blood. Alex slithered along the wall, keeping his rifle focused on the side doorways. He stopped and listened for movement within the rooms, hearing nothing.

The first room, a classroom had been stuffed with gear belonging to the owners of the vehicles parked outside. Slipping into the next room, he found the same thing. Another classroom stuffed with suitcases, oversized duffel bags, coolers, hiking backpacks, tents and sleeping bags.

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

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

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

“All clear!” repeated Charlie.

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

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

“Just like Khe Sanh?” Alex asked.

“Very funny,” Charlie said.

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

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

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

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

“You all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little excited.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I made it work.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter 22

EVENT +31:18 Hours

Milton Mills Crossing, Southern Bridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Somehow I doubt that.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m moving into position. Out.”

Out of your fucking mind is more like it.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

He’ll be the first to go.

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

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

Damn it, where are you?

“Ed, can you see Charlie?”

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

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

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

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

“Got it, Alex. Ready to do this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go! Go!”

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

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

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

Were they really attempting to take the bridge on foot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You all right?” Alex asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There was no deal,” said Alex.

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any news from Boston?”

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

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

“Ex-military, right?” said Jim.

“Marine Corps. Iraq War. Yourself?”

“Army. First Gulf War.”

“An oldtimer,” said Alex.

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

“What makes you think I was a captain?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a yes or a no?”

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

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

“Miraculously, the spare is intact.”

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

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

“Somehow,” he mumbled.

They finished changing the punctured tire while the last of a steady stream of vehicles crossed the bridge. The bikers, who had taken up armed positions at the far end of each bridge, revved their motorcycles and roared away behind the last car. Ed cranked on the last lug nut and raised himself off the gravel.

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

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

“Cooking hotdogs and drinking beer!” yelled Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 23

EVENT +31:46 Hours

Acton, Maine

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

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

“Expecting trouble?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who looked military?” asked Littner.

“The dead guys on the bridge.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looks like it already did.”

Chapter 24

EVENT +32:10 Hours

East Waterboro, Maine

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

We’re too far apart.

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

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

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

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

Must be nice.

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

***

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

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

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

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

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

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

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

Not through my town, they ain’t.

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

What the fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It won’t happen again, Nate.”

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

“We have a new ordinance?”

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

“How far is our jurisdiction?”

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

“I haven’t,” replied David.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“Linda?” said Kate.

“Got it covered,” replied Linda.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beady Eyes silenced him with a deadly glare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everyone’s all right?” asked Kate.

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

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

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

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

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

“We need to get moving,” said Linda.

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

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

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

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

“Should we hide the bikes?” asked Kate.

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

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

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

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

I didn’t see that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you help everyone get into the car?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 25

EVENT +32:50 Hours

Limerick, Maine

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We just passed that,” said Samantha.

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

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

I can’t believe I missed that.

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

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

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

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

“How far down is it?” asked Samantha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Linda cast her a doubtful look.

“And snowmobiles,” added Kate.

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

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

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

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

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

“Try it,” Kate said.

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

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

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

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

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

“About a thousand feet.”

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

“A lot.”

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

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

“Kate? You made it!”

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

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

Kate holstered her pistol and hurried to the gate.

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

“We tried the satphone and—”

“Alex isn’t with us, Dad,” said Kate.

Tim stopped for a moment and continued without looking up.

“He left to get Ryan out of Boston.”

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

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

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

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

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

“How many do you have with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s very generous of you.”

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

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

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

The back driver’s-side window lowered.

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

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

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

“Grandpa!” yelled Ethan from the cargo area.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know we were coming?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you get out here?” he said.

“Rode our bikes until Waterboro.”

“You’re kidding me,” said Tim.

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

“Well, it’s over,” Tim said.

“For now.”

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

Kate hopped off and opened the back of the SUV.

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

“No shit,” said Samantha’s son.

“Watch your mouth, Daniel,” scolded Samantha.

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

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

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

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

“Someone help me,” muttered Ethan.

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?”

Amy grabbed Ethan’s hands and gasped.

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

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

“I’m a little ripe,” Kate warned.

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

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

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

“He is,” Kate agreed.

“And he has help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Let’s stop looking suspicious and get everyone cleaned up. You guys smell like sewage,” said Amy.

“You have no idea.”

Chapter 26

EVENT +33:39 Hours

Haverhill, MA

Alex studied the GPS plotter for a few seconds, looking up to compare the digital map to the real world. Emerging from the shelter of the dashboard, a stiff wall of air buffeted his face from the damaged windshield, causing him to involuntarily raise his free hand to block his face. He felt a quick sting on the palm of his hand, followed immediately by another on the top of his left ear. At least he could duck down momentarily to escape the onslaught. Ed didn’t have that option.

Lowering his hand a few inches, he spotted a break in the road, which more than likely marked the last rural intersection before they turned onto East Main Street, in the hopes of finding the bridge over the Merrimack River intact.

Signs of heavier blast damage were apparent. Denuded trees, stripped branches, roofing tiles torn skyward, and downed trees slowed their progress near the Massachusetts border, forcing them off-road several times. Rural roads approaching the Rocks Bridge had been worse, nearly impassable at a few points. The further south they travelled, the more Alex questioned their plan to approach Boston using back roads.

“This doesn’t look promising,” said Ed.

“No, it doesn’t,” mumbled Alex.

A group of several adults picked their way through the mud-covered remains of a collapsed house at the intersection ahead, pushing the larger pieces aside.

“Give them a wide berth,” said Alex.

“Got it,” said Ed, turning the Jeep toward the right side of the road. “You feel that?” he added.

“Feel what?”

“I think we’re driving over wreckage buried under the mud. All the houses are missing beyond the intersection. One nail or piece of glass and we’re on foot,” said Ed.

“Hold on,” said Alex, checking the GPS screen.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to stop in the middle of the road like this?” said Charlie. “I’m starting to see a lot of people.”

Alex’s eyes darted between the GPS screen and the growing crowd of people approaching their Jeep.

“Put us in reverse and turn around. We’ll take East Broadway toward Haverhill. Do you see any weapons?”

“Negative. They look more curious than anything. Probably the Maine plates,” said Charlie.

“Switch to sectors, Charlie,” said Alex.

“Yep,” he heard from Charlie.

Ed backed the Jeep slowly through the thick mud.

“More trees,” said Ed, maneuvering the Jeep into a field to avoid a large Silver Maple that had upended.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to approach Boston on anything too rural,” Alex said. “We might need to rethink our plan.”

“Route 125 is a four-laner. About the best you’re gonna do without linking up with one of the interstates. The 93 would take us down to the northern edge of the Middlesex Reservation. There’s an exit in Stoneham,” said Charlie.

“What do you think?” asked Alex, looking at Ed.

Ed raised an eyebrow without looking in his direction.

“I think we should try to stay off the interstate system if possible. If the roads become impassible, we might have to reconsider that. The less police attention we attract, the better. A shot-up Jeep might raise some eyebrows heading south,” said Ed.

“An y car heading south should raise eyebrows—and questions of sanity,” said Charlie.

“That’s the truth,” said Ed.

“Is anyone opposed to me guiding us to the 125 from here, even if it means crossing the bridge at Haverhill?” asked Alex.

“I think you’re making a bigger deal out of Haverhill than you need to,” said Charlie.

“You’re the one that got me worried about it in the first place, Charlie. You said something about too many people.”

“Did I say that?” said Charlie.

“I remember it,” said Ed.

“Well, compared to what we’ve seen so far, it’s a lot of people,” said Charlie. “There’s really not that much by the Basiliere Bridge. A couple of apartment buildings and a small industrial area. It’s a wide bridge. No way that sucker is down.”

Chapter 27

EVENT +35:04 Hours

Stoneham, Massachusetts.

The outskirts of Stoneham reeked of campfire. Alex swept the southern horizon with binoculars, seeing nothing but scattered billows of gray and white against a sun-bleached sky. If Boston had been set ablaze, they should be able to see it from here.

Ed squeezed the Jeep between a downed tree and a stranded delivery truck. Like most of the trees they had seen south of the Merrimack River, the leaves had been stripped from the few remaining branches. No effort had been made to clear any of the obstacles. Damage to the buildings and houses remained subtle—shattered windows, peeled paint, and an increasing number of roofing tiles on the ground—but Alex could sense there was more. They were getting closer to the impact area.

A red Audi sedan approached from the south, swerving into their lane to avoid a distant tree.

“Slow down,” Alex cautioned. “This idiot’s all over the place.”

“I don’t like stopping with all of these peop—Shit!”

Alex slammed against his seatbelt, losing his grip on the binoculars. The Audi veered left across the centerline, missing them by less than a car length. Beyond tinted glass, he caught a glimpse of a young couple arguing over an unfolded map. A rear-facing baby carrier sat stuffed between tightly packed bags and gear. The sedan scraped the branches of the tree behind them, barely squeezing through the same opening Ed had just navigated.

“Fucking idiots,” hissed Ed.

A smaller group of people broke out of the thick stream of people several feet away. Alex stuck the barrel of his rifle through the window, making sure it couldn’t be missed. The sudden appearance of a military-grade rifle stopped the men at the curb.

“Ed, get us out of here, please.”

Beyond the Interstate 95 overpass, Route 28 widened into a four-lane road separated by a grassy median. Trees flattened by the east-to-west wind lay across the northbound lane—only the tallest reaching into the southbound road. They drove unopposed until the road narrowed, channeling them onto Main Street. Three-story, red-brick buildings lined the street, pushing the dense parade of refugees off the narrow sidewalks into their path. Ed drove slowly through the sea of people. The evacuees focused their energy on keeping their families and possessions together, jostling between parked cars and decorative light posts toward perceived safety.

“Police at the intersection,” he said.

Main Street opened into a wide intersection bordered by a small common area featuring two green benches under branchless trees. The Town of Stoneham police cruiser sat facing them in the middle of the intersection. Alex passed his rifle to Charlie, keeping it low.

“Bury the rifles fast! Go to the right of the car,” said Alex.

“Shouldn’t I stop at the intersection?” said Ed.

“The light’s been torn off the pole. Just keep going.”

The cruiser’s siren stabbed the air, thinning the crowd between the two vehicles. Another shrill burst emptied the intersection. Two police officers stood to the right of the vehicle, behind the open driver’s door. The closest officer stepped in front of the door and motioned for them to pull up while his partner pulled a shotgun out of the front seat and leaned it against the top of the door. Alex opened the glove box and grabbed his pistol, tucking it behind his back.

“If this goes bad, it’s on me. You just get as far away from the shooting as possible,” whispered Alex.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ed hissed.

“That’s good right there!” said the officer, resting his right hand on his holster. The officer walked forward, stopping even with the driver’s-side window. “Not a good time to be heading south, gentlemen.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Officer, but our kids are trapped in Boston. We want to bring them home before things get crazy,” said Ed.

The cop took a few more steps and looked into the back seat for several seconds. Alex hoped he didn’t walk around the Jeep. The back and passenger side sported several bullet holes that would attract far more attention than a full complement of busted windows.

“I’m just keeping these two out of trouble,” said Charlie, holding his hands up.

“Doesn’t look like that worked out so well,” he said, sticking his hand through the window behind Charlie.

“We ran a militia checkpoint at the Maine border,” blurted Ed.

“These people are headed for a frosty reception up north,” added Charlie.

“Everyone remembers the fires that broke out during the pandemic. The riots. They’re trying to get ahead of it this time,” said the officer, motioning to the crowds.

“I give it a few days,” said Alex.

“I don’t know. Take a look around. A quarter of these people are carrying concealed weapons. Some don’t even bother to conceal them. We’re just here for show at this point. Same with the marines down along the river,” said the officer.

“The first rock thrown at your car, the first tough guy that doesn’t back down after you’ve drawn your pistol, the first bullet fired in your direction—you get the fuck out of here. Two pistols and a shotgun will buy you a minute tops if this goes crazy.”

The officer stared at him and nodded. “All right. Good luck, guys. You need to be really careful with this thing down past Medford. Someone will blow your brains out for it. No warning. We’ve seen a lot of cars with blood-splattered windows.”

“Appreciate the heads up, Officer—Kennedy,” Alex said, studying his nametag. “Any relation to—”

“You think I’d be driving a patrol car?” interrupted the officer. “Be careful down there. Don’t flash any of that hardware until you have to. I assume everything you have buried under the blankets is legal in Massachusetts,” he said, patting Ed’s door and stepping back.

“Perfectly legal,” said Alex. “Thank you, Officer Kennedy.”

Ed drove them through the intersection, picking up speed on the wider streets beyond the downtown area. Alex twisted and looked directly behind his seat.

“What the fuck, Charlie? I can see one of the goddamn barrels sticking out of the blanket.”

“I had my hand over it!” said Charlie.

“You raised both hands—right when the cop looked in your window!”

“Hey, I didn’t have a lot of time to hide this shit. You threw your rifle at me. What the was I supposed to do?”

They rode in silence until the Jeep slowed in front of an empty gas station. Alex compared the GPS map to the street sign next to his window. A vast stretch of naked trees flanked the road ahead.

“This looks like the beginning of the Middlesex reservation. It’s less than a mile to the turnoff,” said Alex.

“This isn’t going to work,” said Ed.

“What isn’t?”

“We can’t hide the Jeep with this many people around. Especially with the trees stripped like this,” said Ed, slowing the Jeep.

“Yes, we can,” said Alex. “I’m seeing plenty of scrub and smaller trees with leaves. We’ll go a half mile in if we have to.”

Ed shook his head and repeated, “Not with this many people around.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“If we lose the Jeep, the plan is screwed, Alex,” Ed insisted.

“Ed, we’ll be fine. The entrance to the parking area is less than a mile away. GPS shows a road off the parking lot heading deeper into the reservation. We’ll find a path off that road and hide the jeep. Nobody’s out for a nature hike today.”

“All right. We ditch the Jeep in the reservation,” said Ed resignedly.

“The turnoff should be right—there,” said Alex, pointing at a granite slab etched with “Sheepfold Middlesex Reservation.”

Ed turned the Jeep and edged forward, clearing people out of the way. A few fists pounded the hood in protest, but nothing serious materialized as they forced their way through the refugees.

“Chandler Road should be on the left, just after the turnoff for the parking lot. Anyone following us?”

“Negative,” said Charlie.

Alex handed him the binoculars. “Make sure.”

“All it’ll take is one downed tree on this road to stop us,” said Ed. “There’s no room to go around.”

“Most of the trees we’ve seen down are smaller than this,” Alex said, failing to hide the doubtful look on his own face.

“Up there,” said Alex, pointing toward an unmarked dirt road. “Watch the road behind us, Charlie. If anyone appears while we’re turning, we have a decision to make.”

“We’re clear,” said Charlie, as the Jeep squeezed onto a tight path cut through the trees.

“This is a road?” asked Ed.

“That’s what it says. Shit. Can you get by that?”

“Looks like it,” said Ed, pulling the Jeep as far to the left as possible without clipping the side mirror on a tree.

Jagged branches scraped against the passenger side of the Jeep, snapping and cracking as Ed coaxed them past a massive, torn branch. A ruler-sized piece popped into Alex’s lap.

“Dead?” he said, snapping it with little effort.

“Root system looked fine. Shallow, but healthy,” said Charlie.

Alex examined one of the pieces more closely, rubbing it between his fingers. “I think this was singed,” he said, passing it back to Charlie.

“I don’t know. But it’s definitely dried out,” Charlie said, sniffing it. “Smells a little smoky.”

“Everything smells like that. Right or left at the reservoir?” asked Ed.

Alex looked up at the calm, glittering water ahead. “Left. This has to be damage from the blast,” he said, holding up the branch. “I don’t see any leaves on the ground—anywhere. I bet the leaves burst into flames from the initial flash, and the air blast extinguished the fires a few minutes later, like when you blow out a candle.”

“Look at the bushes. Totally fine,” Ed noted.

“The treetop fires would be caused by thermal radiation. Like a sunburn,” said Alex.

“A really bad sunburn,” said Charlie.

“SPF 1000 bad. The radiation only lasts for milliseconds, so the leaves probably blocked most of it from reaching the ground. I bet we’ll find some burnt spots where the trees thin out,” said Alex.

“I think this is the end of the road,” announced Ed.

The Jeep stopped in front of a one-and-a-half-foot-diameter tree trunk raised two feet above the ground—pitched perfectly across the ten-foot-wide dirt path. The top of the tree lay in the calm.

“No problem. We can get this thing out of the way in a couple of minutes unless it’s jammed in the trees on the other side,” said Alex, hopping down from the Jeep.

Charlie winced. “We should have brought my chainsaw.”

“I thought about it. Charlie, keep an eye on the road behind us. Ed, I’ll need your help.”

“Got it covered,” said Charlie, pulling his rifle out of the pile stuffed under the blanket.

Alex walked to the back of the Jeep with Ed and opened the rear gate. He moved the red gas containers and dug underneath the blankets. His hand emerged holding a thick coil of royal blue boating line.

“I just hope it can handle the strain. We’ll have to go really easy.”

They tied the thick rope around the tree at the closest point to the water’s edge.

“We tie the other end to the bumper and ease the Jeep back as far as we can go until the line starts to slip,” said Alex. “You’re driving.”

“I’m always driving,” said Ed.

Ed kept the Jeep’s motion smooth, pulling the tree slowly. The tree resisted initially, as it broke free from the reservoir’s muddy grip. Alex gauged the strain on the line, guiding Ed with hand signals. When they had finished the first round, the tree lay mostly in the road, branches aimed at the Jeep. Ed craned his head into the passenger seat to gauge their effort.

“I still can’t get through without flipping this thing into the reservoir,” he said.

“We’re not done yet. We’ll wrap the line around the thickest tree we can find on the left side of the road—”

“Pulling the tree from a different angle,” finished Ed.

“Elementary, dear Watson. Elementary—in theory,” said Alex.

Ed smiled for the second time Alex could recall today.

“We’re gonna make it,” stated Ed, nodding gently.

“Still have a long way to go—but yes. I don’t see anything stopping us.”

“I wish I had more of your optimism,” said Ed.

“I’m just better at ignoring reality,” said Alex, slapping his shoulder lightly.

Chapter 28

EVENT +35:47 Hours

Acton, Maine

Eli Russell’s feet hit the pavement before the pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Dave Connolly, a grizzly, two-hundred-twenty-pound barrel of a man, rushed toward him.

“Eli, you don’t want to see this. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise,” he said, holding up two hands.

“Touch me and I’ll kill you, Dave. Everyone! Out of the fucking way,” he said, parting a crowd of sweaty, MultiCam-clad militia.

“Who moved the fucking bodies?” he said, addressing Connolly.

“Nobody moved nothing, Eli. This is how we found ’em.”

“None of us touched shit,” added the man closest to the pile of bodies.

“Nobody fucking asked you!” barked Eli, pointing a finger at him. “Get control of your men, or I’ll find someone else to run your squad.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Buddy, move them to the other side of the street, and wait for instructions. No dicking around over there.”

“Do you want them in formation on the road?” asked Buddy.

“Just get the fuck out of your commander’s way!” yelled Connolly. “Sorry about that, sir.”

The gaggle of AR-15-cradling Maine Liberty Militiamen scattered out of Eli’s way, exposing the scene. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, barely visible under a shifting layer of flies. Two of the bodies lay side by side, pulled halfway out of the blood-caked mound of twisted limbs and contorted faces. The sharp smell of feces permeated the humid air. Eli approached his brother’s body. His fists clenched. A faint, gravel boot print appeared on his brother’s right cheek.

“Nobody touched my brother?” whispered Eli.

“Nobody. I was with the first group here. Sorry, Eli. I don’t know what to say,” said Connolly.

“You don’t say another word. That’s what you say,” he whispered, fixated on his baby brother’s gore-covered face.

Jimmy had been nothing but trouble from an early age, spending a solid chunk of his life locked up in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Eli had spent the same amount of time trying to keep him out. He’d always been a good kid with bad ideas. Really bad ideas—which was why he’d been the perfect choice to run the Milton Mills operation. The militia needed vehicles, lots of vehicles, but they couldn’t go around confiscating them from the constituency. Not yet.

Selling safe passage across the border to fleeing motorists had been Eli’s brainchild from the beginning, along with a few other flashes of genius. He’d dispatched Jimmy’s special-missions platoon on two missions within hours of the blast.

First priority was to barricade the crossing at Milton Mills with a skeleton crew. Traffic would be light for most of the morning, as people struggled with the decision to abandon their homes and flee north. The vehicle-snatching operation could afford a short delay while Jimmy personally handled the second task: a series of targeted assassinations focused on the York County sheriffs assigned to patrol western York County townships.

Three of the deputies had been caught at home, stranded without a vehicle. The fourth died in a gas station ambush, sprawled over a map he’d been examining with three good citizens of West Newfield. Jimmy stuffed the four bodies in the trunk of the cruiser, driving it to one of their secure locations. You never knew when a York County sheriff’s car might come in handy. Jimmy was always thinking, which was why Eli liked having him around. Sometimes that thinking got the better of him, which appeared to be the case today. Or was this something else? He couldn’t tell yet.

“How many of Jimmy’s platoon were killed?” he said, walking toward the nearest bridge guardrail.

“Five here. Three on the other side. Two in the middle. One along the riverbank down there,” said Connolly, pointing across the street. “Looks like he was knocked over the side. Eleven in all.”

“No sign of the twelfth guy? He had six on each bridge. I know that for a fact,” said Eli.

“We’ve looked everywhere. The twelfth guy could have washed downriver if he went over in the middle of the bridge. River’s pretty high from the rain.”

“Or he was taken prisoner,” said Eli.

“Prisoner?”

“Look around you, Dave. This wasn’t the work of a rival militia group or band of locals. Only a military Special Forces unit could pull this off. They bottled up Jimmy’s people on one bridge somehow and hit them from both ends. Fucking shooting gallery. We’ll probably find the survivor gutted by the side of the road somewhere up the road, tortured to death for every last bit of information about our militia. Jimmy probably gave them a good fight, gave them some wounds to lick. I’d want to know everything about the Maine Liberty Militia too. We’re up against something sinister here, Dave, and the government is behind it. No question.”

“Shit. Should we even be here?” he asked, glancing around.

“They’re long gone. In my experience, they shoot and scoot. No way they’d stick around after a gunfight like this. Get your squad to work loading up the bodies in one of the pickup trucks. Not mine. Bring them back to Shapleigh, and take the back roads. We’ll do a proper burial with full honors when I get back. I have a few things—”

A blaring horn disrupted his sentence, snapping his head toward the bridge. A white sedan crept forward along the bridge, twenty feet from Dave Connolly’s squad of disheveled, pathetic miscreants. Buddy unenthusiastically waved the car off, turning his attention back to a lively conversation among his squad mates. The driver laid on the horn again, this time fully ignored by Connolly’s men. Eli’s right eye twitched once, and he walked calmly over to the mess of men Connolly called a squad.

Buddy never saw the butt stock that collided against his right cheekbone, shattering half of his face. Mercifully, the trauma caused by the impact switched him off like a light bulb, and he never felt any of the repeated strikes that crushed his head to a pulp between the pavement and the rifle’s composite plastic.

Eli heard the car shift gears and tear into reverse, squealing its tires. He raised his AR-15 and centered the ACOG scope’s reticle on the driver’s head. Blond hair, woman. He fired methodically, exploding the windshield as he walked across the bridge. The back of the car veered left and hit the guardrail, blocking the road. The engine revved desperately as Eli changed magazines and flipped the selector switch to fully automatic.

Voices screamed from the car, followed by frantic movement in the back seat. He drew even with the side of the car and fired an extended burst through the rear passenger window, momentarily intensifying the shrieks of panic. He switched back to semiautomatic and fired three rounds at the lowest exposed point along the driver’s right leg, putting an end to the wild engine acceleration. He noticed that the back driver’s-side door was open and listened for several seconds. A low sobbing sound competed with the idling engine. A little hide and seek? Oh, this could be fun.

“One, two, three. Here I come. She’ll be comin’ around the mountain when she comes,” he said, walking around the hood of the car. “She’ll be comin’ around the—”

A woman in white shorts and a purple blouse exploded into view, hurling herself over the side of the bridge before he could shoot. By the time he reached the guardrail, her body had been whisked thirty feet downriver by the rushing water. He fired rapidly, using the white geysers of water caused by each projectile to guide his aim, until one of them erupted red. She was done. He turned his attention to the car. The few intact windows were splattered red. Perfect. Eli wrenched open the driver’s door and pulled the woman out by her sticky, crimson-matted hair. She spilled onto the street. That should be enough to keep traffic off the bridge.

Eli Russell stood up and approached Dave Connolly’s squad. “Form them up in two ranks for a promotion ceremony.”

While Connolly’s men fell into place, Eli changed magazines and shouldered his rifle. He nodded at Connolly and turned to face the squad, noting the look of sheer dread on their faces. He kept searching until he found what he needed.

“Mr. Connolly. Third man from the right, back row. Who is he?”

“That’s Jeffrey Brown, sir. One of my best.”

“He’s just been promoted,” said Eli, drawing his pistol.

“To what position?” said Connolly.

“Squad leader,” said Eli, firing a bullet point blank into Connolly’s head. “Eyes forward. Nobody looks at that piece of trash again. You understand?”

“Yes, sir!” they yelled in unison.

“No more happy horseshit in this squad, Mr. Brown. Am I clear?”

“Clear, sir,” said Brown, staring straight forward at a point in the distance.

“Front and center, Mr. Brown. This is your squad. Get these bodies loaded up and back to Shapleigh.”

“Yes, sir. Permission to speak, sir?”

“Better be good,” growled Eli.

“Can I assume they go in the river?” said Brown, nodding at his dead squad mates.

Eli chuckled and patted the young man on the shoulder. “And anyone else that ain’t militia material,” he said. “Get it done, Brown. And get it done fast. The fewer people that see us here, the better.”

“Yes, sir. No witnesses,” said Brown.

Eli smiled. “Looks like I picked the right man for the job.”

Eli cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. A car approached from Foxes Ridge Road.

“Ambush positions, both sides of the road!” barked Brown.

When the men didn’t move, he physically pushed half of the remaining ten men to the shoulder of the road next to the shot-up sedan. “Cover and concealment. Lock it down!”

Eli led the rest of the men to the downslope beyond the opposite shoulder, taking the position closest to the three-way intersection connected to French Street.

“Wait for my command!” he yelled to Brown, who had his hands full positioning his men.

A silver SUV careened into view a hundred yards away, squealing its tires.

“Stand down! Stand down! It’s one of ours,” said Eli, jumping up onto the shoulder.

Brown followed his lead, waving his arms and rushing into the middle of the road. The right man indeed. By putting himself between the oncoming vehicle and his men, he took the extra step to prevent a blue-on-blue engagement. Eli joined the new squad leader and waited for the SUV to arrive.

“You have prior military experience, Brown?”

“Yes, sir. Five years in the army. Went in right after the pandemic. Left as a sergeant,” said Brown. “Heads up, sir.”

The SUV stopped inches from Eli Russell, but he didn’t flinch or betray any sense of apprehension.

“Sounds like a perfect match. Connolly never said a word about you being a sergeant. Now I know why. Get your men to work,” he said, returning Brown’s salute.

Kevin McCulver opened the door and slammed it shut.

“Something wrong with your fucking radio, son! We almost lit your asses up!”

“The church is wiped out,” he sputtered with a panicked look.

“Not here,” spat Eli, grabbing his sleeve and guiding him behind the SUV. “You out of your mind talking about that in front of them?”

“Sorry, Eli. I’m a little fucking spooked by this. No survivors,” he said, spotting the pile of corpses. “What the fuck? Same thing here?”

“Get a hold of yourself,” said Eli.

“Jimmy?”

Eli shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Eli. We all—”

“No time for that. We have one guy unaccounted for. Bet he was taken for interrogation.”

“What?” Kevin said, shaking his head. “Interrogation?”

“Someone took out Jimmy’s entire platoon simultaneously at both locations. This is hard-core Special Forces work, and the only reason we’d have a Special Forces group operating in the area is if this whole EMP thing was a false flag operation.”

“The meteorite thing seems pretty real,” Kevin said cautiously. “There’s talk of that all over.”

“You talk with anyone that saw it?” asked Eli.

Kevin shook his head. “It’s on the ham radio, and we’ve been getting reports from refugees and the cops.”

“The U.S. Army has entire divisions dedicated to deception warfare. Psychological Operations—Psyops. Disinformation could be spread by agents on the ground. Ham broadcasts could be transmitted by aircraft. They’ve been softening us up for decades, just waiting for the opportunity to declare martial law. It’s happening, Kevin,” Eli said with conviction. “We need to go to ground and start phase two. Heavy recruitment, by any and all means necessary. I want double the number of people by the end of the week. I don’t care how you get them out to the training compound. We’ve talked about this.”

“Got it,” said Kevin. “I’ll start spreading the word.”

“See you back in Shapleigh. Make sure nobody follows you.”

“Understood.”

Eli got back in his truck and paused. His driver wore a pained look.

“What?” Eli shrugged.

“I don’t know how to say this, Eli,” said the driver, trembling slightly.

“Just say it, Dan. I’m not in the mood.”

“One of our patrols just found Jimmy’s son shot dead in front of the East Waterboro Hannigans. Him and a buddy,” said Dan, holding out a quivering radio.

“They know what happened?” said Eli, using every shred of self-restraint not to yank out his bowie knife and stab Dan through his protruding gut until every ounce of fat and blood spilled out onto the seat.

“Witnesses say that a group of bicyclists shot them dead and stole their car.”

“Bikers?”

“No,” Dan said, slowly shaking his head. “Bicycles . They’re saying it was a bunch of women. Shot Nathan and his friend in cold blood. Left the bikes behind. I’m sorry, Eli, I know that kid meant—”

“Not another word, Dan. Not unless I ask. Which way did they go with the car?”

“Route 5 toward Limerick.”

“Take me to Waterboro first. I want to talk to the witnesses. When I’m done there, we’ll gather some folks and take a little trip out Route 5 and see what we can scare up.”

PART IV

“JUST A WALK IN THE PARK”

Chapter 29

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, 1st Battalion, 3rd 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 3rd 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 hard-core 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 30

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 old-timer. 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 31

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 32

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 early 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.

“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. His wife equally burdened by an overstuffed integrated frame hiking pack. 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, 3rd 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. 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.

Chapter 33

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 34

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 1st Battalion, 25th 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. 1st Battalion, 25th 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.

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

“Yes. Sergeant Walker of the 3rd 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. 1st Battalion, 101st 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 1st Battalion, 182nd 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 182nd 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 101st 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 far-fetched 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 35

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 36

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 focused on the massive high-rise directly across the river and started to swim.

The current’s tug was relentless. 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 the attacker’s 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. Drifting with the three bodies toward the esplanade, Alex hoped 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 before yanking his first aid pouch from his bag.

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 scaled the formidable chain-link 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 37

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 key-card 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. Thick streaks of mud swerved out of the hallway into the empty elevator lobby, ending at a door marked “stairs.”

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 tried 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.”

****

CLICK HERE TO LEAVE A REVIEW for The Perseid Collapse . Even a short, one line review can make all of the difference. Thank you!

Go back to Contents

Turn the page to read Book 3 in the Alex Fletcher Series:

Event Horizon

Event

Horizon

Alex Fletcher Book Three

“Event Horizon”

In relativity theory, an event horizon is a boundary in space/time, beyond which events cannot affect an outside observer.

In layman's terms, it is defined as "the point of no return."

PART I

“FREEDOM TRAIL”

Chapter 1

EVENT +46:45 Hours

Boston University

Boston, Massachusetts

Alex Fletcher sat against one of the interior walls of the elevator lobby and dug through his front cargo pocket. He retrieved the magazine he had ejected after shooting up the truck and thumbed four rounds into the palm of his hand. He tucked the half-emptied magazine into a “dump” pouch attached to the left side of his tactical vest and ejected the magazine in his rifle, adding the four rounds. Marines consolidated ammunition whenever practical, and he had a few minutes to burn before stepping off for Brookline—without his new entourage. The magazine slammed home in the HK416, and he stood up to prepare for his impending departure.

“You can’t just leave us here,” said one of the students, standing in the semi-circle formed around Alex.

“You’re not exactly equipped to survive on the streets.”

“We don’t have much of a choice. You said it yourself,” said another student. “Nobody is coming for us. We’re running low on food and water.”

“It’s not like I’m meeting my son at Denny’s for a Grand Slam breakfast before heading north,” said Alex, adjusting the straps on his backpack and checking for loose gear.

“What’s a Denny’s?” said a petite brunette sitting in front of him.

“You really don’t know what Denny’s is?”

She shrugged.

“How much water do you have?” said Alex.

“Each of us has a few water bottles, and we still have, like, how many trash cans filled?”

“Four. Some guy went around telling everyone to fill up containers right after the shockwave hit. It’s the only reason we’ve been able to keep a low profile. We haven’t left the floor,” said Piper, the young woman in charge.

“Your son told me to do that. I saw him right before he left,” said a dark-haired girl, stepping forward into the red glow of the chemlight. “He seemed to know what he was doing. Like you. You have to get us out of here.”

“I can’t take any of you out of this building. It’s not safe. They’re actively looking for me. The best I can do is let the marines know about your situation.”

“Who’s looking for you?” said the leader.

“I was hoping one of you could answer that question. A heavily armed, organized group appears to be in control of the streets. Any intel on who might be calling the shots out there?”

“It looked like gangs last night,” said a pale kid to Alex’s left.

“What do you know about gangs?” said the student with the bat.

“I’m West Coast. We have gangs all over the place.”

“Not where you’re from.”

“I’m from LA, man. Ever heard of the Crips and the Bloods?”

“Dude, that’s from fucking twenty years ag—”

“Bullshit! It’s still the biggest gang in—”

“Shut the fuck up! All of you! You’re at Boston University. The tuition is nearly sixty thousand a year. Nobody here has any street cred, all right? Just tell me what you saw,” said Alex, cutting them all off.

“They were rough-looking dudes, mostly Caucasian. Armed with pistols and some hunting rifles,” said the kid from LA.

“That changed today. There’s been a ton of shooting. Men—and women— running around with rifles like yours, but without all of the fancy optics stuff. They looked more like regular people, you know? I saw a pickup truck go by with a couple of them in the bed. It looked like a citizen’s militia,” said a student holding a baseball bat.

“That might be a good thing. If it’s a legitimate militia, you should be safe out there,” said Alex.

“Why is it safe for us and not for you?” asked the leader.

“I’m pretty sure they think I’m one of the marines. I swam across the river from one of the marines’ outposts on the other side.”

“You swam across the Charles at night, with all of this gear?”

“I told you he was a mercenary,” said someone.

“Believe whatever you want. I don’t really give a shit. I’m leaving, and nobody is following. I’ll leave a water filter behind for you. It’s a hand-pumped type, good for five hundred gallons. You can catch rainwater in the trashcans or fetch water from the river. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone see it, or you’ll have a fight on your hands.”

“So that’s it?” said Piper.

He wished he could do more for them, but beyond the water filter, he had nothing to offer. The idea of leading them on some kind of predawn parade through the streets of war-torn Boston was absurd. The fact that none of the students seemed to understand this reality made it even more ludicrous. Most of them were still wearing shorts and T-shirts, in a building that could collapse or catch fire at any moment. They were clueless.

But they’re kids—and you’re a parent.

He felt responsible for their safety on some basic level, but rationally, he couldn’t justify the risk. Ryan and Chloe were his sole responsibility right now. He had to let these kids look out for themselves.

“That’s it. I’ll do a radio check at the top of the hour. Then I’m gone.”

Chapter 2

EVENT +46:52

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Ed dropped his backpack on the wet grass and collapsed against a tree trunk, staring at Hollis Hall’s shadowy facade. The steady hum of the battalion’s generator pulled at his eyelids. He’d have to sleep soon. There was no way to avoid it. He just needed to hang on for another eight minutes to catch Alex’s first broadcast on the stolen Motorola. He wished they could talk, but Alex explained why it had to be a one-way broadcast.

All transmissions sent from one of the battalion’s handheld radios triggered an encryption protocol, even if Ed used one of several “uncovered” channels, and could be monitored by the communications platoon. If they discovered an unauthorized conversation emanating from one of the battalion Motorolas, they would block the radio and trace the source.

Alex assured Ed that he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that search. Ed would only transmit if the situation deteriorated enough to affect Alex’s timeline. Alex agreed to keep his radio in “sleep mode,” which scanned for channel activity on their preset frequency, alerting him if Ed transmitted for longer than three seconds.

Just thinking about Alex’s transmission energized him. By now, Alex should have reached Ryan’s dorm room. Everything depended on what he found there. Ryan was supposed to travel to Chloe’s apartment in the event of an emergency, where they’d wait for their parents. He desperately needed to hear that Ryan wasn’t in his room. It meant that Chloe was safe. He knew the discovery would be tough on Alex, but it represented the best chance that both of them were safe.

Ed unzipped the top of his pack and dug into one of the internal compartments for the hidden Motorola. He turned it on and inserted one of the earbuds, hearing the typical back and forth military chatter he’d been treated to every time he scanned the channels. He had no idea what they were saying most of the time; the Marine lingo was as foreign to him as Chinese. SITREPS. POSREPS. SPOTREPS. None of it made sense. Line Alpha. Line Bravo. All nonsense. He wasn’t sure why they bothered to use encrypted radios. Nobody could figure this shit out.

All he knew at this point was that “Shadow” referred to the Harvard Yard security detachment, “Striker” meant any of the units in the city, and “Raider” was the group along the river. He learned most of this by eavesdropping in the battalion headquarters tent. Sergeant Walker hadn’t been totally useless. He leaned his head against the harsh tree bark and pressed the scan button, jumping to the next encrypted channel. The orange LED read “Shadow.”

“Shadow Actual, this is Shadow 3. SPOTREP. I have four possible hostiles moving south across the Cambridge Street overpass, headed in our direction. Request permission to engage, over.”

Cambridge Street? His head came off the tree.

“Shadow 3, can you confirm weapons?”

“Affirmative. Rifles. They’re halfway across. We’re gonna lose them behind Holworthy.”

Holworthy Hall?

“Stand by, Shadow 3.”

“This is Shadow 5! We have six—contact! I say again, contact! Taking automatic fire from the southern end of the old yard!”

Rapid, sustained gunfire erupted in the distance, followed by an overhead snap.

“What the…?” Ed muttered, rolling on his stomach.

A hiss passed to his right.

“Oh shit,” he said and pressed his body flat against the ground.

“All Shadow stations. You are cleared to engage.”

Flashes filled the darkness between Hollis and Stoughton Halls, followed by the staccato hammering of the M240G machine gun. Red tracers stitched outward, floating deep into the campus. The marines between Hollis and Harvard Halls fired their rifles at the same time, barely beating the 240 deployed between Stoughton and Phillips Brooks Hall. The thunderous gunfire masked the frantic reports streaming through Ed’s radio earpiece. The Marine perimeter was under attack from all sides! The shooting slackened several seconds later, and he could hear the different perimeter stations reporting.

“Shadow 5 reports three, possibly four enemy kills. Hostiles have stopped firing.”

“Shadow 5, this is Shadow Actual. Copy report. Continue to engage any hostiles in the open.”

“Shadow 3 reports two enemy kills on the Cambridge Street overpass. One enemy wounded was carried out of sight behind Holworthy.”

“Copy, Shadow 3. Scan the windows and watch the corners. All units cease fire and pass your SITREP. I say again. All units cease fire and pass your SITREP. Shadow Actual, out.”

The firing died out just as suddenly as it had started, yielding to the occasional distant gunshot. Ed pulled the radio out of his backpack and shifted to the “broadcast” preset channel programmed by Alex. He pressed the transmit button, fairly confident that an all-out attack on Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s command tent qualified as an event that bumped up the timeline. Alex had overestimated the time it might take for the city to implode. Ed couldn’t imagine they had more than twelve hours until the marines had no choice but to withdraw.

“Durham Three-Zero, this is Durham Three-Two. Come in, over.”

Chapter 3

EVENT +46:55

Boston University

Boston, Massachusetts

Alex felt one of his chest pouches vibrate. Checking his watch, he muttered a few curses. Ed couldn’t wait five minutes? He really hoped the marines were too busy to notice an unauthorized transmission go out over one of their encrypted Motorolas. It wouldn’t take Lieutenant Colonel Grady more than a few seconds to figure out who had swiped the radio. He opened the pouch and removed the radio, switching it out of “sleep mode” and inserting the earbud. Maybe it wasn’t Ed.

“Station sending on this channel, please identify,” said Alex.

“Durham Three-Two!”

“This is Durham Three-Zero. First transmission scheduled for zero-five hundred (0500). Stand by for five minutes, please.”

“I told you he was Special Forces,” said one of the students. “Parent, my ass.”

Alex dismissed the comment and turned up the volume. “No. Negative. SPOTREP. Whatever the fuck you people say!” said Ed.

Something was wrong.

“Take a deep breath, Durham Three-Two, and send your report.”

“The headquarters was just attacked from all sides. I had bullets snapping right over my head,” hissed Ed over the radio.

“Can you estimate the number of hostiles?” said Alex.

“Every gun on the perimeter started shooting at something. Multiple groups. One of the SPOTREPs mentioned a group of four with rifles. It’s all quiet now.”

“Understand. You’re still in the safest place possible. Stick close to the marines and cease transmitting. I did not find either of the kids at Boston University. It looks like Ryan bugged out right after the shockwave hit. I’m moving to the second rendezvous location. Will report again at 0600 or upon arrival, whichever comes first. Switch to our backup broadcast channel. Durham Three-Zero, out.”

He put the radio back into the pouch.

“Is something wrong?” said the student leader.

“Everything is wrong.”

A powerful flashlight illuminated the walls of the hallway to the right of the lobby.

“Who’s watching the stairwell door?” Alex asked quietly, shifting his stance to face the shaking light.

“Which one?” said Piper.

“The one I used,” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

“Shit. Move this way and don’t make a sound,” he hissed.

Alex snatched the red chemlight from the floor and pocketed it, corralling the group toward the hallway opposite the new light source.

“Get inside any room on this side, and lock the door. Let’s go. Where’s the other stairwell?” he whispered, aiming his rifle across the lobby.

“Down there. There’s a door on the left side, past the lounge,” said Piper, pointing down the long, murky passage.

“Does the lounge connect on both sides?”

“Yes. Same with the stairwell.”

Students scrambled through the darkness, pouring into the rooms and shutting the doors. Alex made a mental map of the dormitory floor. Two long hallways ran parallel to each other, connected by the elevator lobby, lounge and second stairwell vestibule. Three points of access to this hallway and only one viable escape route.

“So, what’s the plan?” she said, peeking around the corner with him.

“Get into a room, and don’t open the door,” he said, crouching. “I’m going for the second stairwell.”

“You’re ditching us?”

“If this is the same group that followed me from the river, you’ll be glad I left,” said Alex.

“What are we supposed to tell them?”

“Tell them I searched one of the rooms and took off, or tell them everything. It doesn’t matter. Gotta go,” he said and dashed across the hallway.

He reached the other side as a concentrated beam of light spanned the elevator lobby.

“Freeze! Step into the hallway with your hands above your head!”

Alex stopped long enough to see that the beams of light had settled on Piper, who covered her eyes with one hand and raised the other.

“Both hands!”

Alex flipped his night vision goggles down and sprinted away from the lobby, toward the opposite end of the hallway. He passed a door labeled “WOMEN,” followed by an unmarked door, which he pushed inward. Several comfortable-looking chairs and a long couch faced a flat-screen television mounted to the wall. Two round tables with chairs sat beyond the couch. Wrong door. He started to back into the hallway when a light appeared under the stairwell door. Alex ducked inside the lounge and shut the door quickly and quietly. Crouched in the pitch darkness, he drew his suppressed pistol and remained absolutely still.

“You got anything!” someone yelled outside the door.

He couldn’t hear the reply over the high-pitched screaming. His grip on the pistol tightened. The shrieking intensified, followed by crying.

“Open your doors and get into the hallway!” another voice boomed.

Alex crossed the room, careful not to bump any of the furniture, and listened at the far door. Hearing nothing, he cracked it open and stared directly ahead at the wall, interpreting the light. The green image of the cinderblock wall shimmered but didn’t flare, giving him the confidence to open the door and verify that the hallway was empty. The hallway near the elevator lobby pulsed bright green, almost washed out by the powerful flashlights. He heard the men pounding on the students’ doors and yelling threats.

He edged toward the lobby, knowing damn well he should leave. He couldn’t skip out now, not after dropping a dangerous enemy right at their doorstep. He couldn’t let the new world order play out on these kids tonight. They had a whole lifetime ahead of them to deal with the newest form of Darwinism that emerged from this disaster. Alex continued, walking heel to toe, constantly checking behind him. No plan materialized as he edged closer to the corner. The sharp sound of multiple slaps caused Alex to grit his teeth.

“I know he was here! I’m not blind!” said an angry male voice. “None of us saw him leave the building!”

“He was only here for a few minutes. He was looking for something in that room. I don’t know if he found it,” Piper whimpered.

“You better not be lying to me,” he grunted. “Get those kids out of their rooms! Shoot the door open if you have to!”

Alex instinctively backed up and crouched, expecting one of them to run across the lobby, but no one came. The pounding intensified in the other hallway, followed by heated shouting. This was his last chance before the hallways filled with students. He holstered the pistol and gripped his rifle, disengaging the safety. Finishing one more scan of the dim hallway behind him, he flipped his NVGs out of the way. A quick peek around the corner gave him hope. Two men dressed in woodland camouflage and tactical vests stood in the lobby with Piper, one of them holding her against the wall by her long blonde hair. The second man shined a flashlight in her face with one hand and gripped her neck with the other.

“He didn’t leave. My people came up both stairwells,” spat the man holding her hair.

“He left over fifteen minutes ago!” she yelled.

Alex emerged and triggered the rifle flashlight. The 150-lumen beam blinded them, and they instinctively turned their faces away from the searing light. Alex fired one bullet at each of their heads, dropping both men to the floor. He deactivated the light and grabbed Piper, pulling her into the hallway before the rest of the militia group could investigate.

“Gerry? Ted? What’s going—”

“They’re dead!” screamed another voice.

“What the fuck are you talking—shit!”

Alex leaned out and aimed at the rightmost corner, hoping to catch the last voice in the open. He centered the red tritium dot on a partially obscured torso and fired twice, yielding an agonized screech.

“Get to the student lounge, quick,” he whispered to Piper. “Don’t open the door.”

He followed her at half-speed, keeping his rifle trained at the corner they had just abandoned, until he bumped into her.

“We’re at the lounge,” she whispered.

Alex lowered his NVGs and gently pushed the door inward, checking the room for surprises.

“It’s clear. I need you to follow the wall to your immediate left and keep going until you hit the corner. You’ll stay there until I come back for you. Understood?”

“It’s really dark in here,” she said.

“You have a clear path to the corner if you hug the wall. How many of them did you see?” said Alex.

“Four.”

“Minus three. See you in a few,” he said.

With the door shut, he lifted the NVGs for a second. He couldn’t risk using them in the hallway once he left this room. The NVGs gave him a considerable advantage in the darkness, but a beam of light directed at the device’s sensitive lens would blind him. Switching to his pistol, he carefully opened the door. The hallway was pitch black. Of course. He lowered the NVGs and studied the green image. The hallway was empty. He closed the door and paused, thinking about his next move. If the guy had been smart enough to turn off the lights, Alex couldn’t count on him to make a rookie mistake. He’d have to go out and look for him.

“Piper?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“He’s not there.”

“What?” she said too loudly for comfort.

“Sssshhhh! Keep it down,” he grunted. “I have to search for him, but I’m going to need your help with something.”

“I’m not going out there.”

“You don’t have to. Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”

“My father’s a cop,” she stated.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes. I can shoot a pistol, but I’m not a good shot.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said and worked his way over to her.

“I just need you to cover my back. Sit in the doorframe, watching the second stairwell door and this door right here,” he said, pointing to the door they had both used to enter.

“Are you pointing in the dark?” she said.

“No,” he said, lowering his hand. “Can you do this for me?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see anything.”

“It’s dark out there, but not as dark as this room. There should be enough background light in the hallway to see either door open. I’m not asking you to get into a prolonged gun battle. Yell, pop off a few rounds and run for it. I’ll take care of the rest. This would make your dad proud.”

“You can spare me the proud parent speech.”

“Sorry. Can you do this, or are you useless like the rest of your generation? Is that better?”

“Sort of,” she said.

“The pistol has no safety. You pull the trigger, it goes boom. First trigger pull is a little tough—”

“Double action. Single action. I get it.”

“Let’s get you set up.”

Less than a minute later, Piper stood in the doorway, propping the door open with her foot and facing the back hallway. Alex removed his boots and placed them inside the lounge.

“Just shoot and run in the opposite direction,” whispered Alex.

“Uh-huh.”

Alex lowered his NVGs and activated the IR laser. He had no idea what he was up against. He didn’t know if the guy turned off the flashlights because they might give up a shadow, or if he had caught a glimpse of the NVGs on Alex’s head. For all he knew, the guy just picked them up because they were expensive. It didn’t matter. The rifle light would advertise his location, and it was too dark to effectively see without the NVGs. He could use the goggles to his advantage in this environment, unless his adversary was crafty. It was still too early to tell.

He took several silent steps on the cool tile, keeping the green laser centered on the empty passage ahead. The bulk of his attention was directed on the doors lining the hallway. As he passed each closed door, he checked the handle to verify it was locked. He felt comfortable enough to turn his back on a locked door. Not that he had a choice. Knocking on doors wasn’t an option right now.

Approaching the elevator lobby corner, Alex tensed. A blood slick trailed into the elevator lobby, beyond his line of sight. His adversary had moved the wounded man, hopefully down the stairwell and out of the building. If that was the case, Alex needed to get out of here before reinforcements arrived. He studied the hallway beyond his son’s door, convinced that the shooter couldn’t have doubled back after dragging his comrade away. A significant pool of blood extended across the hallway where he’d shot one of them in the chest. The tile beyond held no footprints.

He crouched at the corner and executed a quick peek into the elevator lobby. Gunfire exploded, lighting the lobby and exploding the cinderblock wall in front of him. Shit. Crafty. Alex scrambled backward, desperate to escape the shower of fragments, as shards of cinderblock stung his face. Bullets pummeled the concrete on the opposite side of the hallway, sparking and ricocheting into the dark void behind him. The shooting stopped, and he heard the telltale sounds of a magazine swap. Alex sprinted to the corner and dropped to the floor, leaning to the left and placing the laser on the man’s head.

The wounded man sat propped up against one of the elevator doors, desperately trying to change rifle magazines. He acknowledged Alex’s presence by spitting.

“You’ll never take this country from us.”

“Stop loading your weapon. I’m not with the government,” stated Alex.

Fighting to sit upright in a puddle of his own blood, the man’s shaky hand inserted a magazine and reached back for the charging handle. A sharp bark from Alex’s rifle ended the struggle.

Who the hell are these people?

He didn’t have time to analyze the question. He felt certain that the remaining shooter had relocated to the other long hallway. The wounded militiaman effectively served the same purpose as Pip—oh shit!

“Piper!”

Gunshots echoed from the other side of the building, lighting the end of the hallway behind Alex. He scrambled to his bare feet and sprinted for the lounge, arriving to find the door closed, perforated by several bullets.

I killed her.

He kicked the door in and rushed inside, ready to engage any target without long hair. He caught a glimpse of a figure with a rifle crouched near the far wall, but his night vision flared before he could react. Gunshots erupted, and he dropped to the floor, firing blindly at the other side of the room.

“I got him!” screamed a female voice.

Alex raised the NVGs and stared upward at the voice. Piper stood over him, aiming a pistol and flashlight at the other side of the room. A bright red, clumpy stain covered the brightly illuminated wall.

“That’s all of them. Turn off your light,” he said, standing up.

He took the flashlight out of his pocket and guided her out of the lounge.

“You all right?” he asked, handing her the light.

“I hid inside the lounge when the shooting started. I’m sorry. The door opened, and he got halfway across the room before I fired. I couldn’t move. We couldn’t see each other. We just kept shooting,” she said, crying.

“You did great, Piper. You’re meant to lead this group, and that’s not a bullshit, motivate the youngsters speech. Take a minute to get your shit together, and start working on a plan to secure the floor. You hear me?” he said, grasping both of her shoulders and forcing eye contact. “You have three points of access. Two on the stairwell back here and one by the elevators. You need to make it impossible for anyone to open one of those doors. Move the desks out of the rooms and pile them up. With four rifles and plenty of ammunition, you should be able to discourage any attempts to breach those barriers. Pick your shooters wisely. Anyone with prior shooting experience is preferred. Call of Duty does not count. Keep one rifle on each access point at all times. You carry the fourth to reinforce whichever door is under attack. Never leave a door unguarded. Ever. Good to go?”

“I think so.”

“Search the bodies for a radio and listen. If you can talk to these people, do it. Let them know exactly what happened, and that I’m no longer here. Tell them that you’ll defend the floor with your lives. Drag the bodies into the back stairwell vestibule and respectfully lay them side by side. They might leave you alone.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then you know what to do,” said Alex, picking up his boots and socks. “I guarantee your dad would be proud of you for this.”

“You really think I’ll see my parents again?” she asked.

“Not a doubt in my mind,” Alex lied.

Ten minutes later, he sprinted across the Massachusetts Turnpike, seeking refuge in the maze of tightly packed west Boston neighborhoods he needed to traverse to reach Ryan and Chloe.

Chapter 4

EVENT +47:14

Middlesex Fells Reservation

Stoneham, Massachusetts

Charlie Thornton put the key in the ignition and paused, his hands trembling. He’d somehow picked up a transmission from Ed on the primary broadcast frequency, after several hours of sheer radio silence. Ed’s sudden, desperate report of an all-out attack had jarred him into action. Little of the report made any sense. Ed had used Alex’s radio call sign, and they were clearly having a conversation, but Charlie could only hear Ed’s side of the exchange.

Ed’s report painted a horrible picture of the situation in Boston. From what Charlie could tell, Ed was in some kind of besieged perimeter with other survivors. How did that evolve? Why was he able to hear Ed? Did he turn back? Was he nearby? He’d lost contact with them in Medford, which was less than four miles away. Too many unanswered questions. He lacked the bigger picture, which was why he closed his eyes and took deep breaths until his hands stopped shaking. He pictured Linda and his girls, safe at the Fletcher compound, and the key came out of the ignition, his hand resting in his lap. He’d come perilously close to making a disastrous decision.

They’d barely navigated the tight roads and fallen trees in full daylight. Even if he somehow managed to miraculously get the jeep onto Route 28, then what? Drive south in the middle of the night until he made radio contact again? Alex reported that the exodus along the main roads leading north had intensified, with travelers looking to put as much distance between themselves and the city at night, while the temperatures were reasonable. How long would he have lasted driving through that desperate herd? He knew the answer.

Charlie opened the door and stepped onto the soft forest floor, taking his rifle and backpack with him. He took a few steps and lifted his rifle, using his night vision attachment to locate the IR chemlight that marked his makeshift camp. He’d taken Alex’s advice and set up about twenty-five yards into the forest. Far enough away to avoid drawing immediate attention to the Jeep, but close enough to respond to one of his trip wires set across the forest road. He’d tied the ends of the two trip wires to thick sticks, which he kept under his armpits when he felt sleepy. For the most part, the night had been uneventful. Alex had been wise to bring the Jeep here.

Stuck between the Middle and South Reservoirs, a crumbly, raised road connected the island to the eastern and western sides of the reservation. He hadn’t noticed any foot traffic on the road and guessed that most of the city’s evacuees had no use for an east-west running trail. Everyone was headed due north. Charlie set his pack in front of the tree marked by the chemlight and lowered himself carefully to the forest floor, gingerly leaning against the soft pack.

He’d torqued his back carrying their packs to the Jeep. He knew better than to heave all of them at once, but he’d been in a hurry to finally sit his ass down and give his heart a break. One last chore, he’d told himself, and wham! He’d felt the telltale twitch, and his lower back muscles started to spasm. He popped a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen and laid flat on the ground for an hour. Surprisingly, the combination of drugs and rest kept his muscles from locking up and pulling his back completely out of place—for now. He was borderline useless when his back “went out.” Linda could attest to that.

He chuckled at the thought of Linda chastising him for lifting three packs at once. She’d hover over him, pointing that finger, reading him the Linda Thornton Riot Act and setting a time limit on his recovery period. One day for a self-inflicted back pull. Two days if it wasn’t his fault. He’d never received two days.

God, I miss her.

The thought of his family gave him the idea to check the satphone.

He powered the device and studied the screen. Eight satellites registered within line of sight; two more than earlier that evening. The government must have “asked” the major satellite communications companies to move a few of their more redundant satellites into geostationary orbit over the United States. Satellite bandwidth represented the only viable long-distance communication network available in the United States—for government use only. He autodialed the Fletchers’ second satphone and pressed send. “Connection Unavailable” flashed on the muted orange display. He noticed a new message in the phone’s inbox and sat up. Adrenaline flushed through his body. It could be a message from the wives! He navigated to the inbox and opened the message. Not the wives, Uncle Sam.

“Department of Homeland Security Bulletin DTG 210500Z AUG19—Effective Immediately: Citizens required to observe curfew from evening civil twilight (sunset) to morning civil twilight (sunrise). Citizens to remain indoors within personal dwellings or Military/FEMA designated shelter zones. Check with law enforcement, military or local government representatives for a list of approved zones if personal dwelling not available. Citizens in violation of the MANDATORY curfew may be detained and returned to their personal dwelling or held in a nearby detention facility until curfew hours have expired. Situation Update: Power outages persist nationwide. Authorities continue work to restore power to critical infrastructure and key population centers. Check with law enforcement, military or local government representatives for instructions regarding the distribution of emergency supplies.”

“That’s it?” he muttered, followed by a wide yawn.

How on God’s green earth did the government expect to enforce a curfew when half of the population had taken to the road? Idiots. The latest government broadcast told him everything he needed to know about the state of affairs in Washington, D.C. There was a one hundred percent clusterfuck in progress. Only the most obtuse bureaucratic stooge would approve a nationwide sunset-to-sunrise curfew given what he’d seen on the approach to Boston. Didn’t the government have any way to receive reports from the field? Was it possible they didn’t know the cities had already started to empty? They had clearly hijacked all of the available satellite bandwidth—wait a minute! What if the government wasn’t in control of the satellites?

His heart rate started to increase, followed by heavier breathing. None of this made sense. Either the government had purposely ignored incoming reports, or they hadn’t received them. Either scenario carried chilling implications. Staring at the starry sky through the moonlit branches, Charlie couldn’t shake the image of a sky blanketed with Chinese paratroopers. It beat the other image; a convoy of heavily armored DHS vehicles rolling into town.

Chapter 5

EVENT +47:45

Brookline, Massachusetts

Alex low-crawled along the hedge, fixated on reaching the corner of the narrow yard. Traversing over one hundred fifty feet of dew-covered grass along the apartment building’s frontage had left him soaked. He arrived at the corner and lowered his head into the wet grass, thankful that the low hedge still held enough leaves to provide adequate concealment from the intersection. The cool, damp clothing felt refreshing against his skin. He’d spend a few minutes lying prone and taking in the ambient sounds at the intersection before poking his head over the bushes to confirm the road was clear.

The GPS receiver told him Stedman Road emptied into Harvard Road, but it couldn’t know that the intersection rated a stoplight. He’d taken pains to detect and avoid traffic signals, having spotted militia patrols hidden at two major intersections in the past mile and a half. He’d started crawling toward the intersection of Stedman and Harvard long before detecting the stoplight. In all truth, he’d slipped up. He could have used his NVGs to scan from a distance, but he’d started to conserve the unit’s batteries and had forgotten.

By the time he stopped to check, he’d already traversed half the distance and couldn’t raise his head fully to scan the intersection. He decided to press onward and gamble that it was clear. If it were guarded, he’d have to crawl back. Not a big deal, but with morning twilight approaching in forty minutes, he wanted to put as much distance between himself and Warren Towers as possible.

Militia activity had been steady but not overwhelming in the areas south of the Massachusetts Turnpike, confined to obvious intersection outposts or easily detectable vehicle patrols. With little background noise beyond distant, sporadic gunfire, the sound of an approaching vehicle was impossible to miss. He’d effortlessly avoided several vehicle patrols within the first mile of his journey, decreasing markedly after Pleasant Street. With 1.4 miles left to reach 42 Orkney Road, he anticipated smooth sailing, as long as he didn’t get sloppy.

He heard the repeated click of a disposable lighter and froze. A fit of hacking followed, drawing Alex’s attention to the park across the road to his left. A small orange glow appeared through the hedge’s foliage, quickly fading.

How did I miss that?

He couldn’t determine the precise location, but based on the position of the glowing cigarette, someone had decided to sit his or her ass in the small park bordering the intersection. He’d caught a serious break.

Now what?

Crawling the same one hundred fifty feet didn’t seem like a good idea anymore. The militia team had an unobstructed view of the hedge along most of its length. Rationally, he knew the result would be the same, but his mind had already closed off that route to further discussion. It didn’t leave him with a ton of options.

The hedge turned at the corner and ran about fifteen feet along the sidewalk on Harvard Street, ending at the apartment building. If he could quietly squeeze through the bushes and crawl past the corner, he’d be out of their line of sight. Alex crawled the length of the bushes, reaching the building’s rough sandstone foundation. The entire hedgerow appeared thick and well maintained. There was no way he could push his way through that without waking up the entire neighborhood. This left him with one guaranteed option. Eliminate the sentries.

While definitely the “tried and true” solution, killing militia this far from Warren Towers carried risks he’d prefer to avoid. Warren Towers to the corner of Harvard and Stedman in thirty minutes? A simple game of connect the dots on a city map would give militia leadership a fairly accurate prediction of Alex’s intended travel route. Worse yet, a straight line drawn between the two locations terminated less than a quarter of a mile from Chloe’s apartment at the Chestnut Hill Reservoir. They had no way to determine how far he travelled, but they could focus their search along this projected path, effectively trapping him in Chloe’s apartment until nightfall. Based on Ed’s report of the attack in Harvard Square, they couldn’t afford to wait until sunset to cross the Charles River. Boston sat on the verge of a complete civil breakdown.

He pointed his body at the sentries and lowered the NVGs, peering through the bushes. Leaves broke the image, but he managed to form an actionable assessment. Two armed men sat on top of a picnic table, facing the intersection. The smoker was partially obscured by a tree stump, his head and legs visible beyond the lead edge of the table. He stared down the length of the hedge, wondering if he shouldn’t try to crawl back. If they spotted movement and decided to investigate, he could take them down with little effort. If they skipped the investigation part, he’d be in trouble. The bushes would do little to protect him from a concentrated barrage of projectiles travelling at 3,200 feet per second.

He didn’t have the time to dick around with crawling back and approaching another intersection, and the sun had no intention of waiting for him to figure this out. Alex crawled along the hedge and stopped, reevaluating his line of fire to the targets. Both men sat in full view.

Let’s get this over with.

He started to rise, but stopped to reflect on his surprising indifference toward the prospect of preemptively killing them.

The sentries had been reduced to objects. Dehumanized for his emotional convenience. They fell into several convenient categories: Enemies. Targets. Obstacles. All true, but oversimplified—the way it had been done for millennia. Warfare relied on dehumanizing the enemy, no matter how “justified” the conflict. Raw human nature didn’t embrace wholesale slaughter. It had to be manipulated, which wasn’t an overly difficult task.

Alex had already convinced himself it was necessary and justified. He didn’t stop to consider why these men sat here watching the intersection. Were they doing their part to protect family and friends? Did they believe they were connected to something bigger and more important? Defending their city from the government? Alex didn’t care about the answers to any of these questions, because he was sure of one thing. If he stood up and tried to identify himself, his journey to reach Ryan and Chloe would come to an abrupt end—and that was the only piece of information that mattered.

With that in mind, he kneeled, keeping his profile below the top of the hedge. Rising slowly, he canted the rifle and braced it snugly into his shoulder. The IR laser broke the plane of the hedge and reached the man enjoying a cigarette. Alex moved the beam to the center of his head and slowed his breathing. One of the sentries’ radios broke the silence, emitting a garbled transmission, causing him to delay the shot. The second man slapped the smoker on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go,” prompting them to jump down from the table and run across Harvard Street. They hopped into a two-door sedan parked on the street and drove urgently toward Beacon Street. Alex waited for the taillights lights to disappear behind the buildings before running in a low crouch to the hedge along Harvard Street. The red lights continued to recede into the distance, vanishing from sight. A quick scan in the opposite direction convinced Alex that he could cross the street unobserved.

The team’s sudden recall from the area was a positive development. It signified a redeployment of assets away from his intended travel path, which might allow him to pick up the pace. Beyond Harvard Street, Alex faced a twisted path of obscure side streets leading to Chloe’s apartment. At a brisk, alert walking pace, he could be there in less than thirty minutes.

Chapter 6

EVENT +48:17

42 Orkney Rd

Brookline, Massachusetts

Alex squeezed between two tightly parked cars and sprinted across Ayr Road, burying himself in a stand of tall bushes next to a two-story duplex. Ed had advised him to turn on Ayr Road and look for the service street that ran between the apartments on the southern side of Orkney Road and Beacon Street. Access to Chloe’s apartment from Orkney Road was limited to a single, street-level door, which should be locked. With the doorbell inoperable, he’d have no way to effectively signal Ryan and Chloe on the third floor without drawing considerable attention. He preferred to arrive at the apartment unnoticed. One radio call to the militia from a concerned citizen could jeopardize everything.

Resting against the building’s brick façade, he measured his senses. The green image betrayed nothing behind the windows staring down at him. The buildings appeared uniformly green. No “hot spots” or movement. A few well-spaced crickets provided the neighborhood’s only discernible background noise. The near absence of sound worried him. Ed’s description of the ancient metal staircase attached to the three-story covered porch on the service street gave him pause. One way or the other, he was going to wake up some of the neighbors.

The service street connected to Ayr Road through a narrow paved drive surrounded on both sides by steep brick walls. Alex walked through the gap with his rifle raised, until it opened into a wide paved courtyard ringed with trash dumpsters and parked cars. He paused to scan the windows and was treated to a sea of uninteresting green. He counted porches, stopping at the fifth structure jutting out from an indistinguishable three-story wall of brick and windows. Ed had been adamant that 42 Orkney Road was the fifth porch—one of the few details he’d stood behind in his description of the apartment. The porches were supposedly marked with the street number, but in the sheer darkness of this alley, he wasn’t sure the night vision could pick up the numbers.

Arriving at the porch, he was relieved to find the number “42” on a sturdy placard next to the stairs. He was almost there. He wanted nothing more than to rush up the stairs and pound on the back door, but he swallowed his excitement and took a cautious step forward onto the metal staircase bolted to the concrete next to the building. He hadn’t made it this far to screw it up at the last possible moment. Halfway up the first flight of stairs, the metal groaned, causing Alex to stop and cringe. The sound echoed off the walls of the concrete enclave, repeatedly reaching his ears. His next step yielded the same result.

“Fuck this,” he muttered and mounted the stairs at a normal pace.

By the time he stepped onto Chloe’s covered back porch, Alex heard several windows slide open, followed by scattered mumbling. The night vision image flared bright green as at least one powerful flashlight swept the alley. Someone issued a halfhearted challenge, only to be immediately shushed. A whispered argument ensued, and a window slammed shut. They were afraid. Good. Maybe everyone decided this wasn’t their problem.

Alex walked gingerly across the loose wooden planks, careful not to knock over the bicycles leaned against the railing next to the stairs. Four plastic chairs sat stacked next to a small plastic table in the far corner of the dingy platform. He raised the NVGs and let his eyes adjust, listening for any commotion below. His heart pounded, but not from the threat of discovery. He started to have doubts about finding Ryan and Chloe here. No effort had been made to discourage an intruder from walking onto the porch. At the very least, Ryan would have fashioned a crude early warning system by jamming the bicycles and other porch junk on the stairwell. If the kids had fled, he faced a tough decision, one with the potential to haunt him for the rest of his life.

He felt shaky approaching the door, suddenly overwhelmed by the gravity of the next few minutes. He shuffled forward and felt something rub the front of his thighs. A muted cascade of crashing aluminum cans exploded inside of the apartment, followed by footsteps. Alex reached along his leg and gripped a piece of slackened fishing wire.

They were here!

A light exploded in his face, followed by a gleeful shriek. The door swung open, and Chloe Walker rushed onto the porch, trailed by his son.

“Mr. Fletcher!”

“Dad!”

“Shhhhhh. Keep it down. Turn that light off. Let’s get inside—quickly,” he hissed, corralling them back inside.

“Is my dad here? Mom? Abby and Danny?” Chloe asked in a rush.

“Mom? Emmy?” added Ryan.

“Everyone is fine. Everyone. Chloe, your dad is on the other side of the Charles, sitting tight with a battalion of marines. I made him stay behind. It’s so good to see the two of you,” he said, tears flowing freely down his sweaty cheeks.

Alex hugged his son, squeezing him tightly. He wanted to say something profound, but settled for a comfortable, reassuring silence. No matter what happened from this point forward, it happened to both of them. The three of them. That was a promise he intended to give his life trying to keep. He reached out and pulled Chloe into the hug, and they stood there for several moments.

“I need to contact your father and let him know that you’re all right,” he said, breaking up the group embrace.

“Did you bring the satphone?” said Ryan, locking the door to the porch.

“No, I left it with Charlie outside of the city. It didn’t work the last time we checked.”

“You dragged Mr. Thornton into this mess?” asked Ryan.

“He volunteered. We wouldn’t have made it without him. He’s guarding Chloe’s dad’s Jeep about nine miles from here in the Middlesex Fells Reservation. We hid everything up there and walked in. Everyone else is in Limerick—at the pond.”

“Let me grab some candles. You should sit down, Mr. Fletcher. Ryan, grab some water for your dad, or make a Gatorade,” said Chloe.

“No candles, Chloe. We shouldn’t draw any attention to the apartment. I ran into some trouble on the way over here.”

“Street gangs or militia?” asked Ryan.

“I’d say militia, but I’m not sure. How did you guess?”

“We went out onto Beacon Street a few times during the first day, trying to get some information, but we stayed inside when the shooting started,” said Ryan.

“Who was shooting who?”

“We didn’t stick around long enough to find out, but people said the police were being targeted. That’s all we needed to hear.”

“The shooting intensified by nightfall and lasted all night,” Chloe chimed in. “At about seven the next morning, we heard someone yelling through a bullhorn outside of the bedroom window. A pickup truck was cruising down Orkney Road announcing that the streets were safe,” said Chloe.

“They called themselves the Liberty Boys. Camouflage uniforms, but not really matched. A hodgepodge of tactical gear, plenty of ARs. They were also looking for volunteers,” added Ryan.

“Jesus,” muttered Alex.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe asked.

“The Liberty Boys. Holy shit,” he said, dropping his rucksack to the carpeted floor. “It’s linked to one of the oldest militia groups in American history. The Liberty Boys, aka ‘Mechanics,’ were an offshoot of the original Sons of Liberty run by Sam Adams. Paul Revere was one of the founding members. They gathered intelligence on British military activity in the Boston area and conducted limited sabotage missions during the lead-up to the Revolutionary War. The famous midnight ride by Revere on the eve of Lexington and Concord was one of their operations. I ran into one of them at your dorm. He said something about us ‘never taking the country away from them.’ It sounded like typical paranoid militia talk, but now I wonder. This group responded quickly, right? Within twelve hours?”

“I think, yes. They definitely took control of the streets within twenty-four hours,” said Ryan.

“With rifles like mine?”

“That’s what we saw.”

“Only a well-established underground militia group could have pulled that off. The Liberty Boys never went away. They just went deeper underground and waited.”

“What happened to the guy you saw?” asked Ryan.

Alex unclipped his rifle and walked toward the couch near the front of the apartment. He desperately needed to sit down.

“I killed him,” said Alex, setting his rifle against the back of the couch.

He dropped his aching, deliriously tired body onto the soft couch and sighed. Ryan followed with a bottle of water, pushing it against Alex’s hand. He sat in one of the chairs across from his father, his dark form barely outlined against the front window of the apartment. Chloe sat in the chair next to Ryan and posed the question that his son hesitated to ask.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Because he was trying to kill me. They all were.”

“They all were?”

“Four of them followed me to the sixth floor of your dorm,” said Alex.

“Four? What happened to the rest?”

“Same thing.”

“Holy crap,” muttered Ryan, “we’re screwed.”

“Why did they follow you?” said Chloe.

Alex lifted his legs onto the couch and leaned backward, wanting desperately to close his eyes.

“They were waiting for me when I got out of the river. I managed to shoot my way through their welcoming committee with the help of a talented Marine sniper. They probably assumed I’m some kind of Marine saboteur.”

“That doesn’t make…none of this makes sense. Right? What happened to the bridges?” asked Ryan, the shadow of his hand reaching over to Chloe. “Why do the Liberty Boys care if you’re a marine?”

“Because they think this is all some kind of false flag conspiracy set in motion by the government to declare martial law. They see the marines, or any military unit on the streets, as the enemy. The bridges are still there. It’s just that nobody’s allowed across, in either direction.”

“That’s insane,” said Chloe.

“I agree, but I don’t see either side budging. Your dad radioed me about an hour and half ago with news that the Marine headquarters had been attacked. The marines put an end to all northbound bridge traffic after they discovered a large weapons cache hidden among a group of refugees. They see the Liberty Boys as some kind of criminal insurgency. I need to call your dad,” said Alex, opening one of the pouches on his vest. “He can’t respond, but he’ll be listening.”

Alex detached the earpiece from the radio and increased the volume, filling the room with static.

“Durham Three-Two, this is Durham Three-Zero. Press the transmit button the preset number of times when you are ready to receive the broadcast.”

The static clicked three times, and Alex nodded.

“Durham Three-Zero has arrived at the second rendezvous location. Both VIPs located. Stand by for separate transmission,” he said, handing the radio to Chloe.

“Do I have to talk like that?”

“No. Just keep it short, and don’t give away any information. Someone might be listening,” said Alex.

“Daddy, it’s me. We’re both fine. I love you. We’ll be together soon,” she said and handed the radio back.

“VIPs are in good condition and capable of travel. Will advise when ready to move. Durham Three-Zero, out,” he said and sat the radio on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” Chloe said, breaking into a muted, controlled sob. “Thank you for coming to get us.”

Ryan got up to comfort her.

“I’m just one part of the dream team. If you saw all of us at one time, you might consider taking your chances alone with the young master Fletcher,” he said, feigning a British accent.

“Good lord,” said Ryan, shaking his head. “When do you think we’ll leave?”

“I don’t know. I figure the Liberty Boys will make their big move on Cambridge tonight. We need to be across the river and out of Boston before the festivities begin. If we leave an hour before dusk, we should be able to reach either the Arsenal Street Bridge or North Beacon Street Bridge by nightfall. I have signal flares that will keep the marines from shooting us when we cross. We can swim if the militia has the entrances to the bridges locked down. I’m tempted to make a run for it right now, but…” said Alex, shaking his head.

“It’ll be light soon,” said Chloe.

“Too soon. And they’re actively looking for me. We could consider leaving earlier, but it’ll mean leaving most of my gear behind. We’d have to look and play the role of beleaguered travelers heading north. Make up some story about getting stranded during a camping trip somewhere in Rhode Island. I don’t know. I’m too tired to think about it,” Alex said, barely aware that he had mumbled his last sentence with his eyes closed.

His last conscious thought of the morning revolved around Ed Walker. Chloe’s dad was probably handcuffed to a dormitory bed somewhere in Harvard Yard. The pre-established code had been six clicks, not three.

PART II

“HOMEFRONT”

Chapter 7

EVENT +49:20

Limerick, Maine

Kate refilled her coffee mug from the stainless-steel percolator on the stove and joined the adults at a rough-hewn farmer’s table on the screened porch. The moist, early morning breeze felt chilly compared to the house, which had managed to retain much of the previous day’s late afternoon heat long into the night. It still felt swampy, which wasn’t a good sign for the rest of the day. Temperatures inland tended to run ten degrees hotter than the coastline, creating saunalike conditions remedied by a swim in the lake or air-conditioning—neither of which was an option today. They had too much work ahead of them.

She’d woken two hours earlier and strolled the perimeter of the 2.5-acre clearing with a thermos of coffee and her rifle. Stopping every fifty feet to listen for anything out of place, she walked the inner grounds until she spotted a light on the second floor of the main house an hour into her patrol. Returning to refresh her coffee supply, she found Linda Thornton filling a second thermos, rifle slung over her back. Having Linda at the compound made a big difference. They spent the next hour forming a basic strategy to protect the compound from the inevitable shit storm headed their way.

If the kid hadn’t been lying about his association with local militia, they faced a serious threat. Alex’s research into militia groups had been frightening, and she didn’t share some of his more optimistic conclusions about their overall intentions. Heavily armed and highly organized, they were everywhere. If anyone in Limerick recognized her face or Emily’s when they drove through town, the militia would find them. Being “from away” drew attention in rural Maine, and their land purchase from the Gelders hadn’t exactly endeared them with the locals.

She placed her hands around the steaming cup and started the meeting.

“Linda and I came up with a rough plan to get the most important work done by the end of the day. We’ll divide into three groups— security, IT and general prep. Samantha and Tim will head up the IT group, with Abby, Emily and Ethan to help. Your first task will be to figure out how to hook up the outer perimeter surveillance gear. Motion detectors, remote cameras, thermal detection stuff. Alex has a bunch of diagrams in a logbook down there. Once you figure out how to hook it up, the security group will install it, along with the trip flares. It’s a massive perimeter, but Alex put a lot of thought into this.”

“You think?” Linda laughed, eliciting a chuckle from Samantha.

“I know, but here we are. Once the IT group finishes making sense of the surveillance gear, the next task will be to restore power to the gate,” said Kate.

“That’s just a flip of a switch. Puts the camera, intercom, gate motor and the keypad back into business—on battery power,” said Tim, raising an eyebrow.

“No worries,” Kate said. “Getting the backup solar array up and running will be your third job. If we run minimal equipment, the backup array should replenish the batteries at a fast enough rate to keep us in business.”

“I’ll need some young athletes to climb into the barn loft to connect the solar panel coupling. There’s a junction controller that looks like an electrical box and a plastic conduit tube running through the loft floor and down into the ground. I think you’re supposed to run wire down the tube and attach it to the house. Nothing is connected. That’s about the extent of my knowledge. Alex has a diagram.”

“We’ll put the kids to work figuring out the setup,” said Samantha Walker. “You said he had spare inverters and stuff like that? It sounds like we have to recreate the control element. Shouldn’t be too difficult if the system is like the one we have at home.”

“The basic concept is the same,” Kate said. “I hope.”

“Alex stored everything in giant plastic bins and labeled them,” said Tim.

“And everyone thinks Charlie is nuts?” Linda winked.

“Where the hell are they?” Samantha sighed.

“They’re fine,” said Amy Fletcher. “I can feel it.”

“They should have been back by now.”

“It’s still early,” Kate said confidently. “They didn’t plan to enter the city until dark. If Chloe and Ryan are holed up near Boston College, they’re looking at a fifteen-mile round trip on foot. That could take all night, especially if the city is hostile.”

Samantha shook her head and exhaled. Kate looked around the table. Despite a full night of sleep, they looked even more exhausted today.

“Waterboro was hostile,” muttered Samantha.

“Then it’s going to take a while. Alex is cautious,” Kate said. “Right now we need to get this place up and running. Once we get the solar panels feeding the batteries, we’ll activate the perimeter security system.”

“What about the other group?” asked Tim. “I suppose I’m in charge of that crew?”

“In title only,” said his wife.

“Funny how we all have that same arrangement with our husbands,” said Linda. “As long as they feel like they’re in charge, they stay out of trouble.”

Everyone but Tim laughed. The joke even managed to drag Kate momentarily out of her funk.

“Amy’s group,” said Kate, twisting her head toward Tim, “will do two things. First priority is camouflage. We have to make this place look like it’s only housing Mom and Pops Fletcher, plus their grandchildren. The downstairs needs to be cleared of any evidence suggesting otherwise. The garage windows need to be covered from the inside. Nailed shut with ply board. The door to the backyard from the garage should be locked and somehow reinforced so it can’t be kicked in. We can’t have anyone snooping around and making a casual discovery. Can the big doors be jimmied open?”

“I tried last night,” said Tim. “They feel solid, but I have no idea what might happen if someone really put some effort into lifting one of them.”

“It should hold. Charlie was worried about the same thing at home,” Linda said. “He nearly broke the damn door, but it held.”

“Okay. This is going to sound weird, but are your daughters familiar enough with firearms to load magazines and match them up with Alex’s weapons?”

“Alyssa and Sydney have been shooting and cleaning all of Charlie’s firearms for longer than I care to admit. They can figure it out.”

“Perfect. I know he has two more ARs in the basement. One is a .223, the other is a .308. There are a few pistols and shotguns. I think everyone should be armed. Alex has a Ruger 22, which might suit you or your son,” said Kate, nodding at Samantha.

“Danny can handle the .22. I’ll take one of the shotguns,” said Samantha.

“Linda, can you tell your daughters to load the shotguns with—”

“Number one buck?” said Linda. “Way ahead of you.”

Samantha shrugged.

“Number one is easier on your shoulders and still has the penetrating power that makes Alex happy. That’s all I know,” said Kate. “Once the firearm situation is sorted and the house is secure, the kids on the general prep team will join us on the perimeter, installing the surveillance gear. I’d like to have everything up and running by sunset.”

“Sandbags?” suggested Linda.

“I think it’s worth looking into, but only if we have spare bodies.”

“Sandbags?” said Samantha doubtfully.

“Is that really necessary?” asked Amy Fletcher, looking to her husband for support.

“I thought Alex was kidding,” admitted Tim.

Kate nodded. “I did too, but it doesn’t sound so crazy now. Not if we have a price on our heads.”

“How many sandbags are we talking?” asked Samantha.

“I’d have to look at the logbook tossed in with the empty bags, but I remember him saying something about a thousand, maybe more,” said Kate.

Samantha frowned. “What is he planning to do, line the outside of the house with sandbags?”

“No. Unfortunately, he planned to drag all of that crap inside the house,” said Amy. “I thought he was joking about the sandbags! We’ll have dirt floors!”

“Inside?” asked Samantha. “This is extreme, even for me.”

“Alex came up with a plan to create firing positions around the house, in front of enough windows to cover a full 360 degrees. Each ‘position,’” Kate stated, using air quotes, “is three feet wide and two feet thick, with another foot coming back from the wall to give you some wraparound protection. You place a three-by-three piece of sheet metal against the wall under the window, then build the barrier.”

“He has sheet metal in the basement?”

Kate nodded slowly. “He has sheet metal in the basement. Pre-cut.”

“I thought those rifles could shoot through cars,” said Samantha.

“According to Alex, a bullet from an AR will lose enough momentum passing through sheet metal to burrow harmlessly into the dirt. He planned to build two or three larger safe boxes within the house, with sandbag walls on four sides. If you can’t get to one of the firing positions or hostiles break into the house, you throw yourself over the three-foot wall into the safe box and figure out your next move. With hostile militia in the picture, I don’t think it’s a bad idea to start filling sandbags once we finish the higher priority chores.”

“I’m sold,” said Samantha. “I think we should work on the safe boxes first, then key positions around the house. Once we get the surveillance system sorted out and the power running, I’ll put the crew to work filling sandbags.”

“What do you think about taking the screens out of the windows?” Linda asked. “For shooting and looking through binoculars.”

“Maybe just the firing positions?” Samantha suggested.

“If we do one, we have to do them all,” Tim countered, “otherwise they’ll be able to map out our gun positions.”

“We’ll give that to Amy’s group,” stated Kate. “Prioritized ahead of the sandbags. Now the hard part…”

“The hard part?” said everyone in near unison.

“Waking seven exhausted teenagers at 6:30 in the morning and convincing them to work for the rest of the day.”

“No convincing necessary. They work or they don’t get fed. Right?” Linda said with a smirk.

“Sounds good to me,” said Alex’s mom. “I’ll fix up pancakes and bacon. Fill them up with a good meal before we break the bad news. Slackers eat cold oatmeal moving forward.”

“Hard core! I like it,” said Samantha. “Need any help in the kitchen?”

“I’ll take all the help I can get. The quicker we whip this up the better,” said Amy.

“I can crisp bacon perfectly—on the grill. Meat handling is my specialty,” said Linda.

Samantha spit her coffee onto the table, immediately swiping her napkin.

“That’s not something you want to advertise too loudly,” said Kate, stifling a laugh.

“Good heavens,” mumbled Amy, blushing.

“This is why I pretend to be deaf around women,” said Tim. “The bacon’s in the basement freezer.”

Chapter 8

EVENT +52:01

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell marched up the steps of the two-story red brick building and stopped at the entrance door held open by his deputy commander.

“The building is secure. We have one hundred and forty-three residents packed into the recreation hall. Standing room only,” said Kevin McCulver.

“Secure the door and post a guard. Nobody gets in or out without my say-so. We have to be on our toes,” said Eli, entering Limerick’s “Brick Town Hall.”

No longer housing Limerick’s municipal offices, the historical Brick Town Hall building had been recently renovated to house the town’s library and generate revenue by renting the large first-floor hall for private functions. The recreation hall served as the largest public meeting place within Limerick, aside from the elementary school a few miles to the east on the Newfield border. Eli had chosen the historical building for his debut public appearance because it was a familiar landmark located in the heart of town.

He strode into the room and grasped the podium, pushing aside the useless microphone.

“Citizens of Limerick. Please. I’ll keep this brief,” he bellowed.

The din of conversation diminished, but didn’t stop.

“Please. I don’t want to take up any more time than necessary! We all have enough going on at home,” he said, smiling widely at the crowd, which finally fell silent. “I want to thank Selectman Keithman for arranging this meeting and getting the word out on short notice. My name is Eli Russell. Some of you know me pretty well—I’m a Waterboro native. Several years ago, I started the Maine Liberty Militia. Our ranks are filled with hardworking, patriotic folks just like yourselves from all over York County. Gary Flannery is one of our original members,” he said, motioning for a thin man dressed in a MultiCam uniform to step forward from behind him.

“His family has lived in Limerick for nearly a century, and you’ve been eating his family’s pizza for three decades, for better or worse,” he said, slapping Gary playfully on the shoulder.

The tension in the room eased with the joke, setting the stage for Eli’s main event.

“Obviously, I didn’t come here to tell jokes. These are uncertain, frightening times for all of us, but one thing is certain: the hardest days lie ahead. Life as we’ve known it has come to an abrupt end and is unlikely to ever return to what most of you consider normal. This isn’t an isolated incident. The entire nation has been plunged into darkness. This has been confirmed by ham radio broadcasts.”

The crowd murmured in response to his statement.

“Trust me when I say that the situation out there will only get worse. The police and National Guard are overwhelmed at the border, which is leaking like a sieve right now, leaving us exposed to the same horrors that migrated into Maine during the 2013 pandemic. The sheriff’s department personnel assigned to these parts are nowhere to be found and—”

“They’ve been murdered. Haven’t you heard?” said an elderly white-haired man from the back of the room.

No kidding.

“We’ve been so busy helping the State Police at the borders, I haven’t—this is horrible. What happened?” said Eli.

“Three of them were killed at home. Assassinated along with their families. The other is missing, along with his car. He lived in West Newfield. Residents in town heard gunshots soon after that airwave hit us.”

The room launched into an uproar, which gave Eli the precious moments he needed to capitalize on the “news.” He couldn’t have planted a better link to what he needed to say next.

“This can’t be happening,” said Eli, feigning shock and indignation. “This has to be related to the massacre!”

“What massacre?” asked a woman near the front of the room.

“At the border,” said Eli, counting on others to eavesdrop.

“Where?” asked a young man a little further back.

“Milton Mills. The whole border checkpoint was ambushed. All of my men were killed. Completely wiped out! We also found a possible mass grave behind the Methodist church on Foxes Ridge Road, just a few miles from the New Hampshire border. We’d brought supplies over to the church, since it was so close to the border. Figured it might be a good place to feed and shelter the folks trying to get home to points north. Mainers have been showing up on foot from all over New England. By the time they get to the border, they’re spent and out of resources. We let at least fifty through in the first twenty-four hours, until I lost contact with the squad out in Milton Mills…” he said, trailing off for effect.

“What happened to them?” yelled a man from the back.

“What massacre?”

“Who was in the mass grave?”

One of the town selectman, standing along the wall near the door, shouted, “Everyone! Keep it down! This is important!”

“Once we realized that this was more than some freak power outage,” Eli continued, “I drove Route 11 to the border to see if I could offer any assistance and—”

“Where did you find a car that worked?”

“We have a big organization,” he lied, “and a few of our cars survived. We were lucky. Anyway, State Troopers at the border told me that they didn’t have enough personnel to watch some of the smaller crossings until the National Guard fully mobilized, which may never happen, but that’s a different story. They asked us to set up border checkpoints at some of the smaller crossings past Milton Pond, doing the same thing the police are doing—screening refugees for Maine residents. Nobody wants a repeat of 2013, right?”

The group nodded and muttered in agreement.

“I lost radio contact with the squad at Milton Mills the night before…” He faded off, shaking his head slowly.

The room fell silent, everyone holding their breath for Eli’s next words.

“I drove out there myself yesterday afternoon and found them dead. Twelve well-trained, heavily armed militiamen killed in an ambush—by extremely accurate gunfire.”

“Who killed them?” asked several citizens at once.

“The same unit that killed everyone at the Methodist church. We found fifty plus bodies in the forest. All shot in the head, execution style. I had a few guys helping out at the church. They put up one hell of a fight, but whoever did this…” another well-placed shake of the head, “I haven’t seen anything like this since El Salvador.”

At 58 years old, the closest Eli Russell had come to Central America in his lifetime was a one-time trip to an all-inclusive resort in Cancun, Mexico, with his ex-wife. He’d joined the army in 1981, completing the infantry basic training and airborne training in Fort Benning, Georgia. His airborne qualification earned him a duty assignment to the 101st Airborne at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where he served in 1st Battalion, 327th Infantry Regiment as an M-60 machine gunner until 1986.

After an uneventful stint in the army, Sergeant Russell returned to Maine, immersing the local bars with nebulous tales of “classified” black-ops paramilitary operations in undisclosed countries. The Iran-Contra hearings in 1987 dovetailed perfectly with his newly created persona, and he quickly became an underground celebrity in York County. Sergeant Eli Russell, suspected military advisor to the Salvadoran counter-insurgency effort, was born.

“Death squads,” stated Gary Flannery, intimately familiar with Russell’s history as a military advisor.

“Worse. Special Forces death squads. It’s the only logical explanation for how my men could have been taken out so quickly. I can’t go into the details of what I saw in El Salvador. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it at all, but it fits the pattern and confirms my suspicions about this whole EMP thing. I think we’re on the brink of a government takeover.”

“Not this again,” said a middle-aged man near the back wall.

“I’m sorry, did I say something to offend you?” Eli said. “I’m just passing along what I saw. I’m concerned for everyone’s safety.”

Eli knew he’d have to handle this carefully if he wanted to prevent a public relations backlash.

“Look, I’m just as displeased with Washington as anyone else, but I draw the line at this broad-reaching conspiracy nonsense,” the man replied. “They blame the same bogeyman every time. That one Internet nutcase has thousands of people convinced that the 2013 pandemic was allowed to enter the U.S. by the CDC, with the help of—you guessed it—the biggest bogeyman in human history: Homeland Security. I suppose this is the latest in a long line of ‘false flag’ operations that never materialize in the militarization of America? Like the Jakarta Pandemic? The conspiracy lunatics were sorely disappointed when the thousands of armored cars allegedly purchased by the Department of Homeland Security didn’t take to the streets with the billions of hollow-point bullets supposedly purchased right before the pandemic. This is more of the same.”

“We lost a lot of good men out there! Mr. Russell’s youngest brother, Jimmy, was among the dead,” barked Gary Flannery, stepping toward the crowd.

Eli extended his right hand to hold Gary back. “It’s all right, Gary.”

“I’m sorry. I had, uh—no idea,” said the man. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. It just all seemed…I’m really sorry to hear about your brother.”

“I didn’t take it as disrespect, sir. Thank you,” said Eli, pausing to let the crowd think he was struggling to get past the death of his brother. He continued when he saw a genuine look of compassion appear on the doubter’s face, signifying that his last hurdle in this room had been cleared.

“I’ll be the first to admit that all of this sounds outlandish, but only a Special Forces team is capable of doing that kind of damage so quickly. They even took one of my men for interrogation.”

Eli let the implication of kidnapping and torture settle into the captivated gathering of sheep. He hoped the rest of the townships would be this easy. He’d triple the size of his personal army within a few days.

“These are textbook guerilla tactics for rural paramilitary operations. Trust me, folks. I’ve seen this before, in another life. It’s a brutal, systematic process designed to strike fear into the local population and disintegrate your resolve. We can expect more of this until…”

“Until what?” said a woman clutching a young child.

“Until the new authority arrives to save and protect us from this terror. I’m telling you, this is by-the-book Spec Ops stuff. Psychological operations—PSYOPS. They want you afraid to leave your house. Afraid to close your eyes at night, lest you be snatched away,” he said, snapping his fist shut and pulling it toward him. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that our satellite phones don’t work? I have a full signal on mine—tracking nine birds, but all I can do is receive government transmissions. They don’t want us talking with anyone outside of our immediate communities. Keep us isolated until our saviors arrive.”

“A false flag ploy?” asked the town selectman.

“The bigger event is the false flag. Whatever they did to turn off the lights, that created the crisis.”

“The government announced that a space-borne object broke up over the U.S and hit the East Coast. It explains the shockwave,” said someone deep in the crowd.

“But not the EMP. I’ve studied this stuff. Meteorites don’t cause electromagnetic pulses. Only nukes and solar flares do that. Did you notice how they haven’t given an explanation for why your cars don’t work or why the lights are out? That’s because it doesn’t make sense. Instead, they say, ‘widespread power outages have been reported.’ No kidding, Sherlock. I couldn’t microwave my breakfast burrito this morning. Tell me something I don’t know.”

The group broke into open laughter.

Man, I love this, Eli thought.

“I’m not buying the asteroid story, and neither should you. They’re watching the skies 24/7, detecting and analyzing inbound space objects years away. Ain’t no way they missed one as big as they claim. Judging by the blast wave we all experienced, I’d say they detonated a nuke over the water in the Gulf of Maine. Far enough away to minimize civilian casualties, but close enough to let us know that something big happened. I bet they did this up and down the East Coast where most of the people live.

“I know this sounds extreme. I’ve gone over it in my head time and time again, trying to come up with a different scenario. Until the Milton Mills massacre, that is. I recognized the military’s handiwork immediately, I’m ashamed to say,” he said, letting those words sink in.

“I’ve held you up long enough. If anyone is interested in learning more about the Maine Liberty Militia, we’ve set up a table in one of the smaller rooms down the hall. We’re looking for volunteers. Prior military experience is preferred, but anyone with basic firearms experience or a willingness to learn is welcome. We’ll provide the training and the firearms to keep the people of this town safe.

“I know what you’re thinking; if the government hit team can take out fifteen of Eli’s best-trained men, what chance do you stand? I’m not going to BS any of you; we’re not training anyone to be a Navy SEAL. Militarily, we’ll never be a match for the teams roaming these parts, but if we organize quickly, they’ll back off. They’re in this for the long game. If they can’t keep us isolated and scared, they’ll switch to less drastic tactics or disappear completely.”

“Does that mean the government won’t bother with us?” asked the selectman.

Eli shook his head and grimaced. “The government’s still coming. They’re too vested at this point. The only thing we can do is change their early tactics. Save some lives. Keep your eyes open for strangers and any suspicious activity. Once word gets out that we’re not afraid, they’ll start employing some hearts and mind shi…stuff. Pardon my language, ma’am,” he said, directing his apology at the woman holding a toddler.

“He’s heard worse, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling nervously.

“One last thing everybody, before we all melt from the heat,” he said, fanning himself with his hand. “Two of my men were shot dead in Waterboro yesterday afternoon. The suspects, who may be women, were last seen driving toward Limerick along Route 5. Witnesses say the suspects shot them in cold blood and took their vehicle, a Black SUV. This happened around one in the afternoon, so if they made it to Limerick, they might have cruised through town maybe fifteen or twenty minutes later. Was anyone in town yesterday afternoon?”

A few hands rose toward the ceiling.

“Do any of you remember seeing a Black SUV? I imagine a functional car would stick out, right?” said Eli.

A man with a grizzly beard and unkempt hair answered. “I remember it. We were out in front of Flannery’s Variety,” he said, nodding at Gary.

“I was rationing out the last of the ketchup,” said Gary, stirring up a little laughter.

“The SUV went by pretty fast, so I didn’t really see much. I don’t think it’s the one you’re looking for. This one had out-of-state plates. The back passenger window was rolled down, and Ken got a good look. Said there was like six people shoved back there. Ken Haskell thought he recognized one of the kids in the back seat, but he wasn’t sure. I just figured they were some lucky out of towners. Be a weird coincidence.”

Eli had to proceed cautiously. Like his fictitious Special Forces hit-team, he was playing the long game. Nearly all of the vehicles acquired at the Milton Mills border crossing had out-of-state license plates, which would inevitably raise dubious questions about his fleet of functioning automobiles. He’d instructed his brother Jimmy to swap out the license plates at the church. Every vehicle they drove out of Milton Mills was supposed to have a Maine plate. Non-negotiable. Instead, Jimmy gave his son, Eli’s nephew, the shiniest late-model luxury SUV on the lot, and trusted his shit-for-brains son to change the plates himself.

He wondered how many bong hits it took for his nephew to erase that data, knowing it was likely gone by the time the kid turned the key in the ignition. He was truly sorry to lose Jimmy, but in this newly arrived “dog eat dog” world, they were all better off without Nathan. Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to shake hands and thank his nephew’s killers. He still planned to personally skull fuck each and every person who left a mountain bike on the side of the road in Waterboro, before cutting their heads off and jamming them on a tall stake.

I’ll blame it on the government, too!

“I’m not a big believer in coincidences,” said Eli. “I assume Ken isn’t here?”

“Out hunting. He’s got a few hundred acres up Sawyer Mountain Road,” said Grizzly.

“Mind pointing out his place for me? I should probably talk to him. It will save the sheriffs a trip, not that we’re likely to see the cops again. Still, better safe than sorry. Right?”

“I’ll show you the way, right after I sign your list. I’ve taken a few tactical carbine courses,” said Grizzly.

“I’ll take you up on both offers. How about we take a drive up together once this settles down?” Eli suggested, wondering where Grizzly might land in his organization.

Chapter 9

EVENT +53:12

Sanford, Maine

Harrison Campbell heard the increasingly uncommon sound of a car engine echo through the barn. Car tires crackled along the dirt driveway a few seconds later, drawing his attention to the open door. One of his armed sentries stepped into the brightly contrasted opening.

“It’s Glen. He’s got a woman in the car. I don’t recognize her.”

Campbell placed the ham radio headphones on the communications desk and stood up, his back crackling as he extended fully upright. The past two days hadn’t been kind to his aging frame. There was no doubt about that. He’d slept on a cot next to the radios, his Kenwood transceiver scanning preset AM frequencies used by militia groups regionally and nationwide.

Sleep didn’t come easy, as reports of civil disorder, fires, and a near complete breakdown of the nation’s essential services infrastructure travelled in high frequency radio waves to anyone who cared to listen. Information was spotty at best, but he’d gleaned invaluable information about the event from the airwaves. Cities beyond the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California and the Cascades in the Pacific Northwest seemed to have suffered less of an EMP disruption than the rest of the nation. None of the cities on the West Coast had power, which made sense given the interconnectivity of the nation’s electrical grid, but vehicle and home electronics remained mostly unaffected. California was a long way from New England, but it gave Campbell a glimmer of hope. Not all of the country was down for the count.

News from the international community gave him mixed feelings. Amateur radio stations in Europe and other parts of the world confirmed that the event appeared to be confined to the United States. This was bad news, since it validated the growing theory that the United States had been targeted. It was also good news, however, since it left the international community intact to render aid.

The Council of the European Union had held an emergency session yesterday, to be followed later today by a full meeting of the European Parliament. The general consensus among radio reports seemed to indicate that the European Union would authorize a comprehensive recovery package, to be implemented immediately. Transmissions from U.S.-based radio stations questioned the intentions of these efforts, spurred by reports that the United Nations had reassembled in Geneva to discuss “options.” To some, this was bad news. It didn’t matter at this point. The United States was falling apart fast, and Campbell seriously doubted they could pull out of the deep dive without foreign intervention.

He rubbed his eyes and walked between the timber benches to the door, catching sight of Glen Cuskelly and his supposed mystery guest as they approached. He recognized her immediately.

“Carol, is everything all right? Is Brian okay?”

The grave look on Glen’s face told him nothing was all right.

“Brian’s fine, Harry. He’s home watching the kids, but we have a big problem.”

“Come on in,” he said, gesturing for her to enter the barn, “unless you’d prefer to talk inside the house. Mary would be glad to fix you up a cup of tea. All I have here is some dreadful coffee.”

“No, I think we better talk in here. Probably make sense to look at some maps while I’m talking.”

“All righty then. Make yourself at home. Good to see you, Carol. Especially in light of what happened to Randy. You’re all still more than welcome to stay on the farm here if you don’t feel safe at your house.”

“Feeling safe is a relative term nowadays,” she said, “but we may take you up on your offer. They killed Randy’s entire family.”

“I’m really sorry. I know your families were close,” said Campbell.

Carol’s eyes watered, and he left the topic alone as they made their way to the “situation room” in the back right corner of the barn. He lit the two-burner propane camping stove under the tin pot.

“Hope you don’t mind reheated coffee,” he said, taking a seat across from her at the table, next to Glen.

“That’s fine.”

“So, what brings you to Sanford, Carol? It can’t be the coffee,” he said, eliciting a muffled laugh.

“My husband didn’t feel comfortable leaving the property, given what happened to Randy’s family, or he’d bring the report himself,” she said.

“Perfectly understandable.”

“We shut ourselves in after finding the Cushmans slaughtered—and they were truly slaughtered,” she said, glancing at Glen.

“Never seen anything like it. Whoever did that is an animal,” said Glen.

“His radio was stolen, along with the chapter’s supplies. Paperwork too, as far as we could tell. We figured we were next, since Brian was his deputy commander. Maybe whoever did this just wanted the chapter’s stockpile.”

“Seemed a bit more personal than that,” said Campbell’s deputy.

Carol nodded and fought back tears.

“If Glen knows the rest, you don’t have to tell it, Carol. I understand.”

“No. It’s our new reality. We have to get used to things like this, I guess,” she muttered.

“Not if we can get to the bottom of it quickly enough,” said Campbell.

“So, Bill Fournier stopped by on the way back from town. He had some interesting news. Eli Russell was at the Old Town Hall riling up the people about military assassination teams and an upcoming government invasion.”

“That’s Eli for you,” said Campbell.

“Bill said he’s recruiting. From what he could tell, Eli added about ten names to his roster after the meeting. I guess he really pitched his militia hard, saying it’s the only thing that will stand between freedom and martial law. I guess there was some kind of Special Operations massacre at the border, or so he claims. Jimmy, his brother, was killed. Brian says good riddance. I didn’t know the man, so I couldn’t say.”

“You’re better off never having known him. Trust me on that. I figured it was Jimmy that killed the Cushmans. He’s a hard-core ex-con. Spent most of his adult life in prison. I’d heard some rumors that he was putting together his own little spin-off crew. Sounds like they met with disaster out in Milton Mills. Good riddance indeed. With Jimmy gone, you guys shouldn’t have anything to worry about, but the offer still stands. We have plenty of room out here, and Mary would love to have the company. Glen and the gang ain’t cutting it for her,” he said, patting his deputy on the shoulder.

“Here’s the thing. Randy’s truck was missing, right? Gray Chevy Avalanche?”

“Yeah,” muttered Campbell.

“Bill remembers seeing a big gray four-door pickup truck behind the town hall. It grabbed his attention, because he thought Eli’s meeting would be the last place on earth he’d find Randy. He couldn’t get a close enough look to confirm it, thanks to the heavily armed goons keeping people’s noses out of the parking lot.”

“Carol, let’s bring your family over to Sanford. Actually, we should bring everyone in the Limerick chapter here until we sort this out. If Eli is behind all of this, it’s just a matter of time before he makes the rounds.”

“How big of a group does he have?” asked Carol.

“He has pretty much everyone we kicked out over the past five years, plus anyone we won’t take,” said Campbell. “Best guess, Glen?’

“Sixty or seventy, depending on how many he can gather. Judging by the number of vehicles he has running, I’d say he gathered most of them.”

“If he grabs ten volunteers every time he opens his mouth, York County is going to empty into his camp pretty quick. At that point, we’ll welcome the government with open arms,” stated Campbell.

Chapter 10

EVENT +54:37

Limerick, Maine

Kate stood in the basement next to her father-in-law, listening to Abby Walker explain Alex’s solar power diagram and the steps they took to hook up the bank of panels on the barn to the house’s battery system. Tim had called Kate off the perimeter to verify their work before they flipped the transfer switch.

“Sounds like you followed his directions step by step, Abby. Not sure why Grandpa Fletcher and your mom called me in to check on your work, but I assume it has something to do with sharing the blame if the system self-destructs?” she said, raising an eyebrow at the adults.

“This is going to be a long apocalypse,” grunted Tim.

“Wait until Alex gets back,” said Kate, winking at Tim.

“It’s working fine, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Abby, waving a yellow handheld instrument. “The new controller is blocking the flow of electricity because it can’t detect the battery bank charge. I tested the input beyond the controller with a voltmeter.”

“Looks like you’re having fun, Ms. Tesla. If everyone concurs this is set up right, throw the switch.”

“We have Emily and Ethan watching the connection in the barn. You never know…Alex’s log indicates that the bank of panels on the barn have never been tested with this gear. They have a fire extinguisher,” said Samantha.

“Mom, it’s fine. The electricity is already flowing from the panels through the barn. This won’t change anything,” said Abby, shaking her head. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” said Kate.

Abby flipped the transfer switch, and nothing happened at the circuit breaker box. She pointed behind them at two side-by-side LED monitors wired to the battery bank, which consisted of 16 deep-cell, 12-Volt AGM batteries mounted on a thick wooden table in the center of the room. Red and black wires ran back and forth across the batteries, in a pattern that made little sense to Kate. She believed they were connected in parallel, whatever that meant. The monitors showed green numbers, which she assumed was a good sign.

“It’s charging. The one on the left is set to measure the charging current and the one on the right is a multifunction monitor. It’s showing 12.6 volts, which means the battery bank is about ninety percent charged. Based on the calculations in Mr. Fletcher’s book, the system is rated to provide 2880 amp hours, which should be enough to run lights at night, the security equipment, the pump for the well, and other appliances if absolutely necessary. Long term, we’ll have to closely monitor the charge and discharge rates. It’s all in the book. We should probably take a close look,” said Abby.

Everyone clapped and congratulated Abby, who looked slightly embarrassed, but continued.

“We replaced the controller, inverter and both monitors, but we don’t have any more backups.”

“Is the system still vulnerable to an EMP?” said Kate.

“We disconnected the grid-tie inverter, but according to Mr. Fletcher’s book, the wires connecting the panels to the house will probably conduct enough of the EMP to fry everything. If we get hit again, we’re out of luck.”

“Well, I doubt that’ll happen. How many times in one lifetime do you get EMP’d?” said Tim.

“Once is more than enough,” Samantha remarked. “Great job, sweetie. Your dad would be really proud!”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I didn’t understand half of what you said, but it sounds like we have a new power Czar at the compound. Congratulations on your promotion, Abby,” said Kate.

“Sure, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you. So, where are we going to set up the surveillance monitors?”

“We wanted to ask you about that, Kate,” said Samantha. “Alex didn’t leave any instructions about where to set up the station. Everything is wireless, so it can pretty much go anywhere. We just need to plug in the monitors and the receivers for the cameras and sensors. Abby said she’ll have the wireless router set up in less than thirty minutes.”

“Perfect. Bummer about the cameras. I was expecting more than eight,” said Kate.

“The diagram shows eight mounting points, so I don’t think we missed anything in the boxes. Three on the barn and five on the house. I took a look outside, and each point has a weatherproofed outlet under the mount. Camera specs say you can see in total darkness for sixty feet.”

“That’s fine. We can’t be expected to watch fifty screens for activity. We’ll have our hands full with the motion sensors. We have deer all over the place, along with the occasional moose,” said Tim.

“I know. Linda and I have concentrated on the most likely avenues of approach through the property. Alex spent a ton of time walking the grounds and mapping that out.”

“You know, there was a time when I thought Alex was a little touched in the head.” Samantha chuckled. “But now? I’m pissed that he doesn’t have more cameras!”

“Oh, he’s still a little touched. Remember, this is all once in a lifetime odds stuff,” said Kate, motioning to the storage shelves behind them.

“Twice in a lifetime,” Tim corrected. “We should probably run an inventory or something later; see where we stand.”

“It looks like we might get some substantial rain. We can sit down and hash it all out in the afternoon,” Kate said. “I’m going to grab Ethan and Emily from the barn and drag them out to help. We might be able to get the sensors done by the time the rain hits. I should probably grab one of the cameras to put up at the gate, in case we have visitors. Linda said she could hardwire it to the gate’s power source somehow.”

“Sounds good,” said Tim. “Let me know when she’s going to do that, so I can shut the power off. I’m pretty good with wiring if she needs any help.”

“I’ll pass that along,” said Kate.

“That’s it, then,” Tim said, ruffling Abby’s hair. “Sam and I will install the house cameras and replace the motion-activated lights while the IT genius here sets up the surveillance headquarters in the dining room. We’ll need the table for the monitors and the receivers. It’s a good, central location. We can set up an air mattress or one of those cots for whoever pulls the midnight shift.”

“Perfect. Amy’s crew has secured the garage, and they’re starting on the sandbags,” Kate informed him. “They’re going to fill as many as possible before the rain. I told them to dig east of the garage. They can walk the bags through the bulkhead door on the other side of the basement and stack them in the root cellar. We’ll figure out how to build the safe boxes later. Hey, awesome job on this. Everything is coming together nicely.”

Samantha nodded. “And we’re ahead of schedule.”

“Even better. Give us a holler on the radio when lunch is ready. Amy thought we’d eat around one,” said Kate.

“Will do,” replied Tim.

Kate smiled at Abby and walked across the basement, headed out of the “bunker.” The basement was divided into two sides, like the basement in their home on Durham Road. The half beyond the reinforced door contained Tim and Amy Fletcher’s basement storage, with room for seasonal yard furniture, bicycles and whatever else they decided to migrate out of the cold weather. Like Alex, they were particular about organization, which was Kate’s way of politely rephrasing “anal retentive.” The Fletchers’ trademark 50-gallon plastic bins lined the walls, four high, apparently filled with everything that they had ever owned. She couldn’t complain. Much of what they had brought with them when they moved with Ethan and Kevin from Colorado after the 2013 pandemic was too painful to display and sat untouched in the bins.

The bunker resembled an expanded version of Kate and Alex’s Scarborough home. The far western wall, underneath the expanded great room, housed the furnace, hot water tank, oil tanks and electrical system. Sturdy metal shelves lined the rest of the cement foundation, containing enough food and essential supplies to support the Fletchers’ core family for at least five years—well beyond the expiration dates on some of the canned goods rotated through the stockpile.

Supplementing the vast selection of canned, pickled and dry goods, a deep tower of pre-packed plastic buckets, each containing one hundred twenty individually sealed freeze-dried meals, occupied the entire wall next to the door. She knew that the buckets alone contained enough meals to sustain eight adults for an entire year, only requiring water to reconstitute. With a shelf life of twenty-five years, the buckets represented their last option. She shuddered to think how they might feel after eating nothing but freeze-dried food for a year, but it easily beat the alternative.

Beyond food, the shelves housed routine and emergency supplies; extra prescription medications needed by Alex’s parents, along with antibiotics and antivirals purchased online through Canadian pharmacies; vitamins, supplements and protein powders; paper products and toilet paper; hundreds of candles and a wide array of portable lights; rechargeable battery stations and thousands of dollars’ worth of batteries, both rechargeable and disposable; communications equipment, including handheld scanners, walkie-talkies, headsets—much of this gear had already been moved upstairs by Tim.

The shelves’ contents represented anything and everything Alex had discovered on the hundreds of prepper forums and blogs that he frequented and wrote about for a living since the 2013 pandemic. Kate never said a word about the pile-up of gear or the near daily UPS and FEDEX deliveries. As their accountant, she knew exactly how much money he spent annually on prepping, and his website consulting business income far exceeded the expenditures.

Over the past three years, they had turned a substantial profit, in addition to receiving the equivalent of her senior accountant salary in “test” items to review on Alex’s site. Even without the additional income to cover the expenses, they had enough money invested to spend like drunken sailors for the rest of their lives and barely touch the capital.

Of course, the traditional concept of financial security in America and the rest of the world may have taken a long hiatus, unlikely to return in any recognizable form. Despite Washington’s rhetoric, the nation’s economy had barely reached the point of stumbling six years after the Jakarta Pandemic. Stocked shelves, off-the-grid house, vegetable garden and grain field, year-round water access—this was the new face of prosperity.

Chapter 11

EVENT +56:33

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell sat in the front seat of the York County Sherriff’s Department cruiser with “Deputy Brown,” looking for the entrance described by good folks on the other side of Gelder Pond. Standing in one of their backyards and surveying the eastern shoreline, he’d spotted a lone dock nearly halfway across. Three-quarters of the way down Gelder Pond Lane, he pounded the dashboard.

“Turn the car around, Jeff. We must have missed it. No mailbox. No nothing.”

Jeffrey Brown, recently promoted to squad leader after the public execution of the previous one, had proven to be more than amenable to Eli’s plan for him to impersonate a sheriff’s deputy, never asking a single question about the three bullet holes in the left side of the cruiser or the missing rear driver’s side window. He didn’t even have a problem wearing the officer’s blood-speckled duty belt over jeans and a tan short-sleeve, button-down shirt. In fact, he looked enthused and oddly proud when Eli wiped the blood off the slain deputy’s badge and pinned it to his left pocket.

“There it is,” said Brown, stopping the car.

Eli peered through Brown’s window at the unbroken foliage, finally noticing the faint gravel path beyond a young spruce. He stepped out of the cruiser into the downpour and approached the tree. A four-foot-wide, one-foot-deep band of dirt and forest floor debris had been strewn across the gravel road leaving Gelder Pond Lane, blending one side of the driveway with the other. A common spruce tree, roughly eight feet tall, stood in the middle of the dirt, secured upright by green paracord, extending to stronger trees on each side of the entrance. He kicked at the base, expecting it to give way, but it remained firmly in place. A quick inspection showed that a two by four had been driven at least a foot into the driveway and screwed to the back of the tree base.

Clever. Clever.

He cut the paracord with his knife and pushed the tree toward the side of the driveway, letting the weight and leverage of the spruce snap the two by four. Soaked and fuming with anger, he kicked at the shard of wood sticking up from the faux forest floor until he was satisfied that the splinters couldn’t possibly penetrate the cruiser’s tire.

“Up to the house,” he said, slamming the door shut and wiping his face.

Brown didn’t say a word, which was one of several reasons Eli felt the young man had a promising future in the Maine Liberty Militia. His usual driver would have made some inane comment about the rain or whatever trivial detail suited his need to run his piehole in overdrive. Eli had extended that hole all the way through the back of his head when he kept bringing up the “coincidence” of two of Eli’s men being killed in the same day. “Ain’t that an unbelievable coincidence?” “You’d swear this was Friday the 13 th , if you didn’t know it was Tuesday,” and on and on, until he’d told the idiot to pull over so he could take a piss. One bullet later, he had his peace and quiet back. The car halted, shoving Eli forward in his seat.

“What is this place, Fort fucking Knox?” he said, staring at a sturdy metal gate. “Any way around that?”

“Doesn’t look like it, sir. Are we sure this is the right place? This seems more like one of those setups on that Armageddon Preppers show,” said Brown.

Even Brown’s choice of words didn’t piss him off. He used ‘we,’ instead of ‘you’ to avoid sounding like he was raining an accusation of incompetence down on Eli. He’d caught the innuendo, but it didn’t bother him. And he had to admit, this didn’t seem to fit the mold. Whoever lived here had a nice setup for waiting out “the big one.”

“I agree, but our only witness swears that he recognized one of the kids in my nephew’s silver BMW SUV. Seen them in town at the diner and pizza joint over the past couple summers. Every other house on the pond is a long-standing resident of Limerick. This has to be it. Son of a bitch, I don’t want to walk it in. I can’t even see the damn place.”

Brown lowered his window and pressed a button on the keypad, illuminating the numbers.

“They even have power. Press the intercom button and smile. I’m willing to bet we’re on camera,” said Eli.

***

An electronic chime echoed from the house. Kate dropped the grilled cheese sandwich on her plate and stood up. She pushed her chair back and rushed through the sliding glass door connecting the house to the covered porch, beating Samantha, who sat on the other side of the table.

They made it!

“Is that Dad?” said Emily, as Kate flashed by the teenagers huddled around the kitchen table.

“I think so,” she whispered, creating a discordance of squealing chairs.

Everyone followed her to the digital intercom panel built into the kitchen wall, just outside of the hallway leading to the foyer and stairs. She reached her hand forward to press the green, blinking “Intercom” button. A surprisingly strong hand seized her wrist and yanked it back.

“What the f—”

“Alex knows the code,” hissed her father-in-law, releasing her hand.

She seethed with anger for a moment before the full ramifications of answering the intercom without checking the camera sank in.

“Let’s check the camera feed. Sorry to grab you,” said Tim.

“No. That was my fault,” Kate said, following him to the dining room.

Tim swiped his finger over the track pad on the laptop, conjuring a quad-screen digital feed. The top left image displayed the gate. The EMP had damaged the front gate security system, leaving them without a built-in camera feed or the ability to open the gate remotely. With the voice intercom still functional, they rigged one of the wireless cameras to the gate’s power source and hid it in one of the trees beyond the keypad.

“It’s the cops,” announced one of Linda’s daughters.

“Everyone upstairs. Right now!” said Linda. “Let’s go!”

“Why do you always have to yell, Mom? Jesus,” said Alyssa, her brown-haired, hazel-eyed daughter.

“Watch it, missy! Get moving.”

“We could ignore it and see what they do. If they walk in, we can always say that the system got fried in the house,” said Kate.

“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” said Samantha. “We need to answer and see what’s up. They might have news about our husbands.”

“I hope not,” said Amy Fletcher.

“Something’s off with these guys. No uniforms and—”

“They have badges,” Samantha cut in.

“Those could be from a gumball machine, for all I can tell,” said Tim.

“A gumball machine? How old are you exactly?” said Kate.

“You know what I mean. I think they’d have uniforms no matter what the situation. Take a look at the passenger. That guy doesn’t look like a sheriff’s deputy. His hair is too long and—look right there! Guy has a tattoo on his neck. You can barely see it above the collar. No way we should buzz them through.”

“It seems like we’re asking for more trouble by not talking to them,” said Samantha.

“Are those bullet holes?” said Kate.

Tim pointed at the image. “Looks like the back window was shot out. Why else would they have it down in the rain? The back seat is empty. I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

“Neither do I,” Kate agreed. “The two crazies that stopped us kept saying they were the law. Who the hell knows what’s going on out there? I say let them sweat it out. If they’re real, and they want to talk to us badly enough, they can walk in.”

“I agree,” said Linda. “We should watch the eastern tree line and keep everyone upstairs for now.”

Samantha nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. “Will the motion sensors pick them up in the rain?”

“They should. It’s a passive IR system. We created overlap zones by placing two sensors facing each other at about a hundred and twenty feet apart. Even if they pass through the middle, we should pick them up. Four of these zones cover the eastern approach from the road, placed in a line from one side of the property boundary to the other—maybe three hundred paces into the forest. That should give us enough of a buffer to react,” said Linda.

“And the rest of the property?” asked Samantha.

Linda winced. “We only found thirty-two sensors. The north and south boundaries are roughly two thousand feet each according to Alex’s diagram, four times the length of the eastern approach. The water frontage is…”

“Five hundred forty-two feet,” said Tim.

“We installed five overlap zones on each side, about three hundred paces into the forest, focusing on the areas Alex highlighted. Mainly game trails and natural openings. It’s pretty thick in there, with some ledge, so we’ll get some natural channeling effect. We have two zones covering the center of the pond approach. The perimeter isn’t airtight, but the odds are stacked in our favor. Anyone heading to the house should trigger one of the sensors. We didn’t mess with the trip flares. They looked like World War One relics. I can’t believe Alex stored those in the house.”

“Neither can I,” said Amy.

“I drew up a chart with all of the zones. The transceivers are labeled and arranged on the table in a rough representation of the perimeter for easy reference. Each transceiver simultaneously monitors four sensors. Two zones. You’ll get a visual warning on the digital display and an audible warning, telling you which of the four sensors were triggered. It’s pretty self-explanatory when you see the setup in the dining room.”

“What do we do if one of the alarms goes off?” asked Samantha.

“We sit tight and stay out of sight. If they decide to pay us a visit, the only people they should see are Ma and Pa Fletcher,” Linda explained. “Under no circumstances do we allow them into the house.”

“What if they insist, as in open the door or we’ll open it for you?” asked Tim.

“Then we’ll know they didn’t come here on official business and act accordingly,” said Kate, patting her drop holster.

“If they produce a warrant, you better not produce a gun,” said Samantha.

“If they produce a warrant, I’ll serve as your personal butler for the remainder of the year,” Kate quipped.

***

“What are these people thinking? Flash the lights and hit the siren for a few seconds,” said Eli.

He waited a long minute after the sound and light show.

“I guess they don’t give a shit about the law. All right. Back it up and park us about fifty feet down the road. That way,” he said, pointing north. “I want to take a little look before we call in the cavalry.”

Brown pulled the car along the right side of Gelder Pond Lane and stopped.

“Should I bring the .308?”

“Negative. We’ll map everything out and head back to base. This is strictly a reconnaissance mission.”

“Roger that,” said Brown, opening his car door.

***

“We have company!” yelled Linda. “Zone 2. Single sensor pick-up. If they head straight in, they’ll appear due east of the garden.”

“Shit!” Samantha yelled from the kitchen. “I told you it was the cops!”

“I don’t give a shit who it is. They’re trespassing,” said Kate, slinging her rifle. “I’ll head up to the master bedroom and keep an eye on the tree line.”

“I’ll join you,” said Linda. “Sam, I need you to stay here and watch the sensors. Call us on the handheld if any of them are triggered.”

“Got it. What are you going to do if they head toward the house?”

“That all depends on how they approach and what they’re carrying,” said Linda. “I’m sending the kids into the cellar with Amy until this is resolved. Tim, I want you to make sure all of the doors are locked, then keep Sam company.”

“I’ll check the front door on my way upstairs,” said Kate, patting her father-in-law’s shoulder.

He leaned his M-14 rifle against the wall and hurried after Kate, catching her before she turned down the foyer hallway.

“Don’t do anything we’ll all regret. If they’re alone, we’ll talk to them at the door. The last thing we need is the entire Sheriff’s Department pitched in against us. We’ll lose everything.”

“What happened to the ‘I smell a rat’ speech?”

“Let’s sniff them out a little closer. Trust me on this,” said Tim.

***

Eli Russell crept to the edge of the tree line, pushing the underbrush out of the way, until he had reached the point where he couldn’t go any further without breaking concealment. Brown eased into a position behind the thick tree to his left and nodded, staring straight ahead. Dense, unkempt bushes forced the use of a compass to stay on a due-west heading. The Fletcher compound remained obscured by heavy rain until they reached a point roughly fifty feet from the edge of the clearing, reinforcing his assessment that it would be nearly impossible for anyone in the house to detect their arrival. Unslinging a pair of powerful binoculars, he rose on both knees until he had a view of the house and the surrounding area.

Through the rain-splashed lens, he saw that they had arrived on the left side of the house, from the perspective of someone standing on the front porch and facing the front yard. They had agreed that all observations would be recorded relative to the viewpoint of this imaginary observer. Continuity of perspective was critical to recreating an accurate diagram of the compound.

Most of his view consisted of the eastern side of the house. A single window on the ground level facing them indicated that he was looking at the garage, which probably housed his deceased nephew’s SUV. Further examination led him to suspect that they had boarded up the window from the inside. He could see wood through the rain-splattered window. That was all the evidence he needed to bring back a squad or two of soldiers.

“Well, looky here. A surveillance camera,” said Eli.

“Got it,” said Brown. “Along with that motion-activated light up on the second story. The camera looks stationary. Do you think any of that shit works, with the EMP and all?”

“Unless they replaced it all, I highly doubt it.”

“Do you think they could see us if it worked?” Brown asked.

“I highly doubt it. Even if those are quality cameras, the image will be grainy. Throw in the rain, and we’ll be washed out. Those windows up there are a different story. Someone with a pair of binoculars might be able to pick us out. Keep an eye on them for movement.”

“Roger that, sir. Did you notice the screens have been removed from the windows?”

“Good eye, Mr. Brown. They’re ready for action.”

He panned right to a partial, long view of the back of the colonial-style house. A bulkhead door protruded from the foundation, next to a covered screen porch containing a table and some of that fancy outdoor furniture he saw in his ex-wife’s Pottery Barn catalogue. He couldn’t be certain, but the table looked like it had been abandoned in the middle of a meal—unless they were slobs. Five table settings and what looked to be like the remains of sandwiches. Definitely an open bag of chips. Five was one more than the neighbors reported to be living out here.

Set back from the house, a red, two-story barn with roof-mounted solar panels materialized between sheets of rain.

Damn. These people have it all!

“Looks like we just found our new headquarters. Did you see the solar panels?”

“Yeah. This looks like a completely self-sustaining operation. The vegetable garden behind the house nearly stretches to the trees. That’s enough square footage to feed several families, and if you squint between rainsqualls, you’ll see that they’re growing a sizeable plot of something way in front of the house. Some kind of grain.”

“Shit. I might have to keep a few of them alive to tend the crops and keep the boys happy,” he said, finishing his sentence with a barely audible mutter and a grin. “Be a fitting life sentence for these bitches.” He studied the layout for another minute. “What are you thinking in terms of tactics?”

“Definitely bring in the primary breaching team behind the barn,” Brown said. “They’ll probably have cameras back there and some motion-triggered lights, but at that point it won’t matter. Once we have control of the barn, we can suppress them from the northern tree line,” he said, pointing beyond the vegetable garden, “and move the team right up onto the screened porch and in. Probably keep another team right here. Be easy to suppress those two windows and move a group across once all of the shooting starts on the other side.”

“Damn. You read my mind, son. Were you Delta Force or something?”

“3rd Ranger Battalion, sir.”

“No shit? 101st Airborne. Screaming Eagles.”

“Airborne!” they said, pumping fists in the air.

***

“Are you seeing this shit?” said Kate, standing several feet away from the leftmost window, staring through binoculars.

“Cops, my ass,” muttered Linda.

“I can’t pick them out of the forest on either screen,” said Samantha, over the handheld, “what are they doing?”

“Reconnaissance. If they were real cops, they’d ring the doorbell and state their business,” responded Kate.

“Maybe they want to make sure it’s safe to approach.”

“They drove up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. I’m pretty sure they would have driven their cruiser right up the driveway. Not exactly the safest approach. Hold on—they’re leaving,” Kate announced. “No way this was legit.”

“I’d probably be cautious too if no one answered,” stated Samantha.

“But why leave once you checked the place out?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter if they’re leaving,” the radio squawked.

“If they’re leaving. Let’s verify their departure. They should hit the sensors on the way out.”

“Got it,” said Samantha.

Kate let the binoculars hang and grabbed the rifle leaned up against the wall next to the windowsill. She sat on the edge of her in-laws’ bed and wiped the sweat from her face. “So, what now?”

“How many sandbags did they get filled before lunch?” asked Linda.

“A little short of two hundred. Moving them into the house slowed down the process. We have enough to make five positions as described in Alex’s diagram, or two of the safe boxes.”

“I’d almost rather have the firing positions than the bunkers. We can give ourselves full coverage. Five positions, five adults. Keep the kids in the basement if all hell breaks loose,” said Linda, still watching the tree line.

“Until the rain stops, and we can fill the bags with something other than mud, I think this is our best plan. If they’re really leaving, we’ll have time. Looks like we’ll be working with the mosquitos tonight.”

PART III

“A BRIDGE TOO FAR”

Chapter 12

EVENT +57:14

42 Orkney Rd

Brookline, Massachusetts

The first sound of distant thunder drew Ryan to the open window facing the street. He leaned on the armrests and craned his head, examining the sky. The light gray cloud cover had thickened, replaced by darker clouds, but the real menace clung to the western horizon. A purple-tinged, charcoal gray band hugged the skyline, slowly creeping in their direction.

“How long is the rain supposed to last?” he asked.

Chloe stopped fanning herself long enough to answer. “Most of the afternoon, but that was the forecast Sunday night, from what I can remember.”

“Take a look at this,” he said, stepping back from the chair.

She didn’t look thrilled to get up, and he didn’t blame her. Without air-conditioning or any semblance of a breeze, the apartment sweltered from the unabated heat wave suffocating New England. Daytime temperatures had remained steady in the mid-nineties since his arrival at Boston University on Saturday. High humidity compounded the misery, especially once the power died.

The window air conditioners in Chloe’s apartment had barely kept up with the demand, but it beat the hell out of his dormitory. He had somehow missed the part about no air-conditioning in Warren Towers and spent most of Saturday night awake, sweating through his mattress. He’d nearly cried walking back to the Chestnut Hill Avenue station Sunday night after respectfully declining Chloe’s offer to let him sleep on the couch. At least the subway had air-conditioning. He’d contemplated taking the “B” train to Lechmere station and back.

She wiped her face with a damp towel and joined him at the window, giving the sky a quick look. “It’s gonna pour. If it lasts long enough, it might drop the temperature.”

“Do you think we should wake my dad?” he asked, nodding at the couch.

“Why?”

“I think we should take off during the storm,” said Ryan.

Chloe wiped her face and stared down at Alex.

“Good luck waking him. I’ll start filling our water bottles.”

Ryan examined the filthy, disheveled man sprawled on the oversized couch and shook his head. He’d seen less realistic-looking zombies in The Walking Dead . Covered head to toe in a crusty, foul-smelling layer of muck, Alex Fletcher hadn’t stirred since falling asleep in mid-sentence. While arranging him on the couch, they discovered numerous congealed cuts and scrapes on his face and hands. A tightly wrapped, rust-color-stained bandage peeked out of his left sleeve and completed the picture. He’d gone through hell to arrive at their doorstep. Ryan almost felt bad waking him.

“Dad. Dad!” he said, nudging his exposed shoulder.

Alex mumbled and turned away from the sound. Thunder boomed closer as Ryan tried to rouse his father from a near catatonic state.

“Try this,” said Chloe, appearing behind the couch with a half glass of water.

He reluctantly took the plastic cup and held it over his dad’s face. A loud clap of thunder reinforced the urgency of their situation, and he dumped the water. Alex came to life, flailing his arms and knocking Ryan to the floor. A thunderous boom shook the windows.

“What happened?” yelled Alex, sitting up and grabbing for the rifle Chloe had hung on one of the kitchen table chairs.

“Dad, everything’s fine. I just dumped some water on your face. We’re fine,” said Ryan.

The room darkened, filled by another round of approaching thunder. His dad glanced around, still confused.

“There’s a big storm coming, Dad. We could take advantage of the heavy rain to reach the bridge. At least get us into place for tonight,” said Ryan.

“What time—how long was I out?”

“It’s 2:15.”

“You should have woken me earlier. I needed to check in with—never mind,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

“Everything’s been fine. You needed the rest.”

“I know, but I can barely move right now,” Alex said, straining to lift his right arm.

“What happened to your arm?” Ryan asked. “And your wrist?”

“I’m fine. Nothing a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen can’t fix. Grab the medical kit out of my rucksack. It’s near the top. How big is the storm?”

A powerful round of thunder answered his question before Chloe could respond.

“The news Sunday night showed a massive system moving across the Midwest, but you know how these things can go.”

“Yeah. This could last fifteen minutes, leaving us high and dry—”

“Or it can last all afternoon,” said Ryan. “We should be able to move faster in a heavy rain, right? Two miles? We could be there in thirty minutes if we bust our asses.”

“It’s tempting. Have you seen any militia activity on the street?”

“Nothing. It’s been quiet.”

“That’s not always a good thing. How long until the two of you are ready to move?”

“We’re waiting on you,” said Ryan.

“Chloe, the smartass gene runs in our family, on the mother’s side. Let’s be ready to walk out of the front door as soon as the heavy rain hits,” he said, extending a hand.

Ryan took his father’s filthy hand and helped him off the couch. Alex grinned at him for a few moments.

“Look at you,” said Alex.

“Dad, we’ve been apart for like three days…”

“Long three days.”

A refreshing wind swept through the apartment, billowing the front curtains and sweeping a map off the kitchen table.

“Here comes the rain,” said Alex.

Chapter 13

EVENT +57:16

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Ed Walker sat on a folding chair in the battalion headquarters tent, dozing off. Heavy thunder jarred him awake, nearly toppling him from the chair. He glanced over at his unofficial “escort,” a perpetually irritated Marine corporal talking into a headset, before burying his head in his hands. The Marine never acknowledged him. Nine hours on this chair, broken up by two escorted trips to the “head” in Hollis Hall and a single MRE—unceremoniously thrown at his feet. Every time he felt like screaming and running out of the tent, he reminded himself what Alex said: “Stay with the marines.”

He’d been right. Despite the surprise attack on the headquarters and open hostility displayed by the marines, he felt safe here. Perimeter security had killed fourteen “hostiles” within the span of thirty seconds, repelling an attack that Lieutenant Colonel Grady assessed had taken “insurgents” over twenty-four hours to coordinate and launch. Grady felt confident they had sent a strong message back to insurgency leadership: Attacking marines was a bad idea.

He propped his head in his hands and stared vacantly through the mesh window at the red brick walls beyond the command tent. At least they hadn’t stuffed him in a guarded dorm room. He could deal with the concept of house arrest, as long as he stayed in the command tent. A single raindrop streaked across his view, followed by another. Moments later, the pounding din of heavy rain masked the marine’s chatter. Ed glanced from the mess of wires and power strips littering the sand-colored modular flooring to the battalion sergeant major sitting next to Lieutenant Colonel Grady, waiting for the command that would convert the headquarters tent into a sauna. The sergeant major stood, having no doubt made the same weather observation.

“Secure the tent flaps!”

Several enlisted marines left their stations, methodically lowering the windows.

“Colonel Grady! Durham Three-Zero just transmitted. I have the transcript,” said the corporal.

Grady removed his headset and walked to his corner of the tent.

“How we doing, Sergeant Walker?”

“Could be worse, Colonel.”

“Now you’re catching on,” said Grady, taking the corporal’s notepad. “Looks like they’re taking advantage of the weather. They just stepped off from your daughter’s apartment.”

“You don’t look too enthusiastic,” said Ed.

“METOC predicts periods of heavy rain and thunderstorms for the next three hours.”

Ed thought about the bridge at Milton Mills. A heavy downpour had camouflaged their approach until it was too late for the militia. Alex knew what he was doing.

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Periods of heavy rain. Meaning this could stop five minutes from now and continue an hour later. Alex is taking a big risk. He should have waited until nightfall.”

“He’s not convinced you’ll be here when he gets back, especially after last night.”

“If that’s the best the insurgency has to throw at us, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” said Grady.

“What if that wasn’t their best? What if it was a probe?”

“Damn costly probe, Sergeant Walker. They didn’t have to lose fourteen heavily armed insurgents to figure out we have this placed locked down tight. That’s amateur hour by my book.”

“You’re not worried that they managed to assemble and coordinate an attack by more than twenty…insurgents?”

“I’m concerned by the high number, but not worried about their capabilities. They could have assembled one hundred of those idiots, with the same result—except we’d have a higher insurgent casualty count.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“Stick around long enough, and it’ll start to rub off. Do you think I can trust you not to swipe any more of the battalion’s gear, especially the kind with embedded crypto? If one of my marines ‘accidently’ took one of these radios home, they’d face a protracted interrogation session sponsored by NCIS, followed by a general court-martial.”

“I promise not to take or touch anything that doesn’t belong to me.”

“I can live with that. Corporal, Mr. Walker is no longer your responsibility. I still want you to monitor Durham Three-Zero’s transmissions,” said Grady.

“Understand, sir. Thanks for behaving, Mr. Walker,” said the corporal, breaking into a grin.

Ed shook his head. “I didn’t think you cared enough to notice.”

“Corporal Maguire notices everything, and you have him to thank for your release. I take his word seriously,” he said, showing Ed the notebook.

A short note scribbled at the end of Alex’s transmission read “Recommend Sergeant Walker be released on his own recognizance.”

“He’s been a public defender in Lawrence for two years,” added Grady. “Follow me.”

“One surprise after another,” mumbled Ed. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay in the command tent. It’s about the only place I feel safe.”

“You’re not going anywhere. I just need to give Maguire a break from your ugly mug. Bring your chair over to my table.”

“Am I still under house arrest?”

“No. More like grounded.”

“I can live with that,” said Ed, folding his chair.

“Let’s see if we can steer Alex in the right direction before the storm grounds my Ravens.”

Chapter 14

EVENT +57:27

Chestnut Hill Reservoir

Brookline, Massachusetts

Alex picked up the pace, transitioning from a fast walk to a light jog. He’d worked through the cramps seizing his legs, using an age-old method perfected by the marines. Keep going. Defying all scientific theories regarding muscle cramps, ranging from electrolyte depletion to dysfunctional reflex control, “pushing through it” never failed. He checked on the kids, who easily kept pace. Both of them ran cross-country and long-distance track events in high school, so he didn’t anticipate any endurance problems. He wondered if they were thinking the same thing about him.

An unfamiliar buzzing sound penetrated the curtain of driving rain, causing him to stop. He scanned the deserted gravel path, expecting to see a motorbike tear down the trail. The gently curving stretch appeared empty, but he wasn’t convinced they were alone. The driving rain had reduced effective visibility to a few hundred feet. The high-pitched buzz intensified, and he signaled for the kids to take cover in the bushes and trees to the right of the path. They scrambled through the thin foliage, pressing into the dirt behind the first stand of trees. Alex caught a fast motion in his peripheral vision and turned his head.

No shit.

A gray aerial drone streaked over the reservoir, bucking from the wind and passing within a hundred feet of the northern shore. He recognized the RQS-11D immediately. Slightly larger than its predecessors, the Solar Raven represented a breakthrough in the realm of organic unit reconnaissance capability. Fitted with integrated, high-efficiency solar panels, and day/night camera systems, a single Solar Raven provided unit commanders up to nine hours of continuous aerial surveillance coverage. Colonel Grady hadn’t let him down. Alex stood and waved for the cameras. A sudden gust of wind dropped the remote control aircraft several feet below its flight path, and Alex knew it had a limited time on station (TOS).

“Wave to your dad. That’s one of the Marine UAVs.”

Chloe stepped in front of the trees and waved enthusiastically. Alex hoped Ed was watching. It was unlikely that Ed had received Chloe’s transmission last night, and this was the first time he could personally verify her safety. With Grady actively helping them, he felt far better about crossing during daylight hours. Even with the storm masking their approach, the chance of discovery en route was high. Crossing the river carried a near one hundred percent guarantee of being spotted. He’d transmitted news of their departure, pretending to speak with Ed, in the hopes of eliciting sympathy from an old friend. Now it was time to see how big he owed Grady. He extracted the handheld radio.

“Patriot Actual, this is Durham Three-Zero, over”

“Stand by, Durham Three-Zero.”

The Raven banked left toward the center of the reservoir and was swallowed by the rainsquall. Visibility must be shit from above. Colonel Grady answered the radio a few seconds later.

“This is Patriot Actual. You don’t look any worse for the wear Three-Zero. Sierra Whiskey sends his thanks.”

Sierra Whiskey stood for Sergeant Walker.

“Your dad says hi,” he said to Chloe, motioning for her to take cover. “Copy. Looking to reunite these two, sooner than later.”

“That’s what I suspected. Big picture is dim until weather clears. It’s either retrieve or recover the birds. I’d rather recover. You know the drill.”

“Roger. I’ll take any intelligence you can pass,” said Alex.

“Low-level passes indicate you are clear to cross Commonwealth due north of your position. Avoid closing within two hundred feet of any T-Station. High probability of contact. Low-level north-to-south flight in the direction of movement showed no signs of obvious or concentrated insurgent movement. All vehicle movement classified hostile. How copy?”

Insurgent movement? Both sides had this completely wrong.

“Copy all. Request that you notify all friendly units within vicinity of destination. Estimate travel speed to be twelve to fifteen kilometers per hour. Raider gave me flares for IFF. I will contact Patriot when ready to launch flares. Can you verify that Raider passed the right sequence to friendly pickets?”

“Roger. We’ll ensure they have the correct details. Recommend that you demilitarize your look. Charlie Romeo to start.”

“Understand. Old habits die hard,” said Alex.

“Good luck, Three-Zero. Patriot out.”

Alex pocketed the radio and dropped his backpack.

“Did you get all of that?”

“Most of it. Retrieve or recover?” said Ryan.

“He can’t keep the Raven up in this weather. Five pounds is no match for heavy rain and gusting winds. He’d rather recover it in Cambridge than retrieve it from the river or a hostile street. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still flying. I’m going to strip down my tactical rig and stuff it in my backpack so I look a little friendlier on the streets. The two of you should be fine.”

Ryan wore a gray T-shirt under a light blue, unbuttoned long-sleeve hiking shirt, a pair of khaki pants with cargo pockets and brown leather boots. With a medium-sized military-style rucksack and Alex’s desert MARPAT boonie hat, he might attract a second look, which was why Alex insisted that he stuff the HK P30, without suppressor, into his right cargo pocket. Tucking it into his front waistband was too obvious, and the rear waistband was obstructed by his pack. It was all about appearances and practicality, which brought him to Chloe.

Her backpack was a purple, off the shelf, day hiking rig, which didn’t raise an eyebrow. Combined with a light blue Boston Red Sox hat, gray short-sleeved hiking shirt and dark brown convertible cargo pants, she looked like a lost, yuppie hiker. Her outfit wasn’t the problem. Chloe’s gender would automatically attract attention, and additional scrutiny could end in disaster. Wrong. Any scrutiny could be instantly lethal.

He had no idea what had happened to the students in Warren Towers after he left. If the Liberty Boys broke through the barricades, they’d show little mercy for Piper and her ragtag band of freshmen warriors. Most of the students could provide an adequate description of Alex if forced. They knew he came to rescue Ryan and that Ryan had a girlfriend at Boston College. It didn’t take a Boston University level SAT score to put together the pieces. He’d even left photos behind for the Liberty Boys to pass around! Stupid. If the sixth floor of Warren Towers fell to militia guns, it wouldn’t matter if Chloe grew a beard. Still, they had to do something.

Alex proposed outfitting her in Ryan’s spare clothes and giving her a one-minute haircut, but Chloe pointed out the obvious problem that no last minute, gender-neutralizing efforts could camouflage. Even with her tightest jog bra cinched in place, she couldn’t pass for “one of the guys.” They’d have to do their best to stay out of sight.

“Rub some dirt on your face, Chloe.”

“Do you really think that will make a difference?”

“I don’t know; just do something. Help her out with that, all right?” he said, nodding at Ryan.

He unclipped the rifle and removed the sling, which had been layered over his tactical chest rig. A few minutes later, he jammed the waterlogged chest rig into the top of his assault pack and reattached the rifle. His external carry load represented the bare minimum he needed to cross the river. He’d spread the chest rig’s eight rifle magazines into easily accessible pockets. Three in each cargo pocket and two protruding from the right back pants pocket. The dump pouch from the chest rig was now attached to the right front section of his Molle compatible rigger’s belt. The water-resistant bag contained the radio, GPS unit and two 38mm aerial parachute flares. He’d fire those when they were ready to cross. Red followed by green.

The effort they had put into maintaining a neutral appearance seemed ridiculous with a military-grade rifle prominently displayed, but he couldn’t justify burying it in his pack. Despite all of the restrictions placed on AR and military style rifles after the Jakarta Pandemic, it was still one of the most recognizable and commonly owned weapons in the United States. The appearance of a heavily armed parent travelling with two unarmed young adults might pass initial muster. It could prevent an undetected ambush, giving Alex a chance to react, or it might allow them to move far enough through an openly observed area to make a run for it. Either way, the rifle would prove decisive, and he had no intention of sidelining it.

“Ready to move? One point six miles to the bridge. Twenty minutes tops if we jog. Good?”

“If that’s not too fast for you,” said Ryan snidely.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“We’ll let you set the pace.”

Chapter 15

EVENT+57:29

Middlesex Fells Reservation

The splashing and laughter continued longer than Charlie had hoped. He started timing them as soon as it became obvious that they weren’t passing through. Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.

Too damn long.

Two women and one man, in their twenties from what he could tell through the foliage, had appeared from the west, walking along the dirt road connecting Charlie’s small island to the forest preserves on either side of the reservoir. They stopped almost directly in front of the trail leading to the Jeep and dropped their packs. At first, he thought they had spotted the Jeep, but it soon became apparent that they were more interested in skinny-dipping than forest exploration.

Charlie felt a little weird watching them through binoculars. Peeping Tom weird. Still, he had to keep a sharp lookout in case one of them caught a lucky glimpse of the Jeep. On the grand scale of threats, the three travelers didn’t rank high in the dangerous spectrum, but looks could be deceiving, and a concealed, snub-nosed revolver in one of their back pockets could even the odds in a heartbeat.

He’d been lucky during his stay on the island. Only a handful of refugees had wandered across the island road, most of them at night when it was impossible to spot the Jeep. The majority of the traffic through his area had been confined to the eastern shore of the reservoir. He’d made a few trips to the edge of the island to observe the paths skirting the water. Families, lone wolf types, college-aged kids, mountain bikers with child carriages bouncing behind them. Now skinny-dippers. Few carried a pack larger than one of the rucksacks sitting in the Jeep. All of them were headed north. Most would run out of supplies before they reached their destination. All the more reason for him to be cautious of everyone that set foot on the island.

He’d game-planned his reaction several times, still not decided on how to respond if one of them saw the Jeep and approached it. He was pretty sure he’d charge out and pull the “military special operations” card. Tell them to move along right away or—or what? He had no idea. Maybe claiming to be military was a bad idea. Then they might insist that he helped them. He was better off telling them that he’d kill them if they didn’t leave immediately, and hope they didn’t push the issue, or try to pull a weapon. People were desperate, and trying to predict the behavior of a desperate person was like trying to predict the weather.

Distant thunder reminded him that he’d be stuck in the rain without his Gore-Tex if the skinny dippers didn’t pack up and leave soon. He couldn’t risk trying to slip into the Jeep with them this close. What the hell was going on with Alex and Ed? He hadn’t heard a word from them since Ed’s panicked transmission this morning, over eleven hours ago. It sounded like Alex’s end of the operation was moving along as planned, but he still didn’t know what to make of Ed’s predicament. The more he thought about the situation, the less he knew what to do. How long was he supposed to wait here? Hell, even if Alex called him and said they couldn’t get out of the city, “good luck, you’re on your own,” Charlie had no way of moving the logs blocking the road by himself. More thunder threatened, and the trio in the water swam to shore.

That’s more like it. Move along.

Rain started falling before they had dressed, causing them to seek shelter in the stripped trees. Charlie held his breath as they sat down to finish dressing. Lightning flashed, followed by an instant crack of deafening thunder, prompting them to stand up. He heard words, but couldn’t tell what they said over the strengthening rainfall. Within seconds, they started to jog toward the eastern shore, sharing the same thought with Charlie.

It isn’t safe out here.

When they disappeared from sight, he picked up his gear and piled everything, including himself, into the Jeep. His radio crackled a few seconds later.

“Patriot Actual, this is Durham Three-Zero, over.”

“Stand by, Durham Three-Zero.”

He pressed his palms together and smiled. Alex was still in the game—but who the hell was Patriot Actual?

Chapter 16

EVENT +57:48

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Ed stared across the tent at the radio sitting next to Corporal Maguire. They should have reached the river by now. Something wasn’t right. He scratched the sweaty stubble on his cheek and stole a glance at the battalion commander, who crouched next to a Marine seated in front of a flat-screen monitor. Grady jabbed at the previously recorded aerial drone, and the screen froze. The Marine enhanced the image, and Grady shook his head. He turned his head suddenly, catching Ed’s stare, and for the first time since he stepped foot in the tent over twelve hours ago, Lieutenant Colonel Grady looked worried.

“Sergeant Major!”

With practiced efficiency, the battalion sergeant major silenced the tent with minimal words.

“Time to reinforce the concentration zone. Redeploy Bandit platoons in accordance with Charles River Op-order number two. Deploy QRF one to the Longfellow Bridge and QRF two to the BU bridge. I want Bandit platoons in place and briefed within thirty mikes,” he said, turning to the sergeant major. “Make it happen, Marines!”

Grady rushed to his seat and pulled up the Raven imagery, sorting through the various feeds provided by the UAV team.

“What’s going on, Colonel?”

“I’m collapsing the battalion’s perimeter and reinforcing the bridge crossings,” said Grady, peering intensely at the screen in front of him.

“I figured out that much. What’s really going on?”

“The last Raven pass picked up some unusual activity near two of the bridges. Vehicles and personnel almost hidden out of sight. I don’t think they were expecting us to keep the Raven up that long in the storm. Previous passes didn’t show any signs of activity. I suspect they’re up to something. I just hope Alex gets his ass across the river before it happens,” said Grady.

“He should have contacted you by now. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” said Ed.

“I’m sure he’s fine. Twenty minutes was a generous estimate, under the best of circumstances. I won’t start worrying until we hit the forty-minute mark. Even then, he might have spotted an insurgent patrol and decided to hide out for twenty minutes. This isn’t an exact science, Sergeant Walker. How long did it take you to get down here from Medford?”

“Way too long.”

“Not long enough. If you had taken it slower, you might have detected and avoided Striker One’s headquarters.”

“I couldn’t imagine going any slower than four miles in three hours.”

“No wonder you got caught. Good thing Alex was in a hurry. If we hadn’t crossed paths, your trip across the BU Bridge would have ended in disaster.”

Ed considered his words and grimaced. Grady was right. Alex would have led him onto the darkened bridge, oblivious to the danger ahead. Dressed like Special Forces soldiers, they would have been gunned down as soon as practical by insurgents hidden in the buildings and trees along Storrow Drive, or run down by one of their cars. He’d started and stopped this pointless internal debate more than a dozen times since Alex left Harvard Square, fueled by a desperate sense of helplessness. His daughter’s rescue was in the hands of Alex, and he wasn’t convinced Alex made the best decisions.

Their entire journey had been marked by one close call after another, all precipitated by Alex’s insistence on the most dangerous course of action.

With his daughter so close to safety, he needed to let it go. There was nothing left to do but trust in Alex—but he couldn’t. Chloe’s life was in the hands of a man with a lucky streak a mile long. What was that stupid quote? Luck is when preparation meets opportunity or something like that? He needed to stop dwelling on something he couldn’t change. The outcome depended solely on Alex. He had no choice but to trust his friend to protect the kids at all costs.

Grady patted his shoulder. “My daughter is at UCLA. I could only dream of having someone like Alex Fletcher on a rescue mission like this. Your daughter is in capable hands. I still see a lot of the old Captain Fletcher in him.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” said Ed.

“A very good thing.”

Chapter 17

EVENT +57:51

Riverview Road

Boston, Massachusetts

Alex crouched in the thick bushes between two dilapidated houses and examined the rusty chain-link fence across the street. According to the GPS plotter, the Massachusetts Turnpike lay beyond the fence. Blackened treetops swayed with the wind beyond the stained crisscross barrier, indicating a drop beyond to the highway. This was where things would get interesting. The turnpike represented one hundred fifty feet of flat, “nowhere to hide” open space. Beyond that, they faced three to four hundred feet of unknown before reaching the riverbank. They’d have to make a quick assessment once they ran out of concealment. Swim the Charles or run for the bridge.

Fortunately, most of the ground cover in the area had been spared the blast’s thermal radiation effects. With any luck they might be able to cut the distance to the river in half, which helped them address another challenge. The mud. Alex hadn’t forgotten the thick layer of silt he’d trudged through on both sides of the river. Sprinting near the riverbank wasn’t a viable option.

Despite these challenges, Alex was optimistic about the approach. Conditions favored a covert arrival. He didn’t detect any high-rise structures in the vicinity of the North Beacon Street Bridge, which restricted militia observation to ground-level efforts. The Liberty Boys should have a presence at the bridge, but given the weather conditions, he suspected it would be confined to vehicles. Street visibility was limited to two hundred feet at best, even less through water-blurred car windows. By the time Alex’s group appeared, it would be too late to stop them, and if the Liberty Boys tried, they’d be cut to pieces with brutal precision by the marines. It was time to get moving.

Alex scuttled through the narrow space between houses and sprinted across the muddy backyard to a gray wooden shack nestled against a paint-chipped white picket fence lining the back of the property. The kids had sheltered on the leeward side of the utility shed, between an overgrown forsythia bush and the fence. He pushed his way through the branches, startling both of them.

“Jesus, Dad!” Ryan said, lowering the pistol.

Ryan and Chloe sat shoulder to shoulder on the ground, with their backs against the shed. A steady flow of water poured off the roof onto their legs.

“Time to go,” said Alex, extending his hand to pull Ryan off the ground. “The street looks empty. There’s a chain-link fence on the other side, then the turnpike. We’ll cross at a dead sprint. Do not stop for any reason. If you spot another human being, call out the relative direction using the clock method. Add a rough distance and description. Keep moving. We can’t get pinned down on the turnpike. There’s no cover. Understand the clock method? Assume twelve o’clock is directly facing the river or across the highway. Check?”

“Check,” said Ryan.

“Check?” said Chloe.

“I got her,” said Ryan, pulling Chloe to her feet.

The screen door at the top of the back porch flew open, slamming against the warped siding. A man rushed down the uneven concrete steps connected to the house, pointing a double-barreled shotgun at them. Alex skidded to a halt, immediately reaching back with an open hand to signal the rest of them to stop. He locked eyes with Ryan and quickly shook his head, returning his gaze to the man holding the shotgun. He prayed that Ryan got the message. There was no way they could outdraw this guy. Someone died if either of them tried. He doubted the shotgun was loaded with anything less than #1 buckshot, which would obliterate anything in the gun’s direct path. At a distance of twenty feet, the man could very easily kill two of them with one blast. He raised his hands and faced the gunman, relieved to see Ryan and Chloe do the same.

“On your knees!” the man yelled.

“We’re just passing through. Headed north to Maine,” said Alex, trying to stall.

Dropping to his knees represented a severe reduction in mobility and options. The man would order them to lay prone next, eliminating any chance of escape or reasonable discourse. They’d cease to be human beings on the ground.

“This is my son and his girlfriend. I came down here to bring them home. They were in college when this mess started,” said Alex.

He studied the man’s reaction. His deep scowl relaxed while he examined the kids and took a few hesitant steps forward.

“How do you explain the hardware?” he said, pointing the shotgun at Alex’s gun.

“I had no idea what I’d be up against in the city. Better to be prepared, right? Do you have family?”

The man nodded imperceptibly, studying the kids again. The shotgun started to lower, but stopped. “I’m sorry. I can’t take the risk. On your knees! Mary! Run down to the overpass and grab one of the guys with a rifle!”

A woman dressed in khaki shorts and a yellow tank top appeared in the open doorway. “Holy shit!”

“Don’t gawk; just get down to the overpass! Tell them to get up here right away!” said the man, turning his head to address the woman.

The shotgun’s point of aim naturally followed the man’s head and drifted to Alex’s left. He didn’t want to kill this man, but time and circumstance presented no other option. Alex dropped to one knee, cradling the rifle in a single movement, but the gunman recovered swiftly, realizing his mistake. A sharp report beat the thunderous blast of the shotgun, which grazed Alex’s left shoulder, knocking him to the mud. Screams erupted from the house.

He spun on the ground, bringing the rifle to bear on the man, but the fight was over. The guy lay curled up on his side, clutching his left elbow and groaning. Ryan stood next to Chloe, frozen in a modified Weaver stance, oblivious to the downpour. The pistol trembled in his hands.

“He’s down. Grab the shotgun!” yelled Alex, testing his left arm for stability.

His upper shoulder stung intensely, but he couldn’t afford to look at the wound. They didn’t have time to stop and treat it, so there was no point. Finding that the arm easily supported his weight, he stood and grabbed Chloe, who hadn’t stopped staring at Ryan.

“He didn’t have a choice, Chloe. Let’s go,” he said, pulling her toward the street.

Pushing through the dense bushes, he heard a door slam shut.

“Find Ryan and get over the fence.”

“Where are you going?” she said, shaking her head and grabbing his left sleeve.

“I’ll be right behind you. Go!” he said, pulling his arm away.

Alex scanned the street as soon as he emerged, cursing when he finally spotted the yellow tank top in the middle of the street.

She must be an Olympic sprinter.

The woman had a six car-length head start in the direction of the Brooks Street underpass, which may as well have been six miles. Even without the backpack, he had little chance of catching her. Brooks Street was six hundred feet away according to his GPS plotter, and she showed no signs of slowing.

Alex stepped into the road and considered his options. All of them sucked. He raised his rifle and stared at her magnified image through the ACOG sight. At one hundred feet, her entire body came into focus. Her arms pumped furiously as she tried to open the distance. He placed the tip of the illuminated red arrow on her upper back and applied pressure to the trigger.

What am I doing?

He lowered the rifle a few inches and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration.

Protecting family.

If she reached the underpass, they faced the possibility of a coordinated, concerted militia effort to kill them at the bridge. He hadn’t asked for any of this shit. He should have been able to drive his car to pick up the kids without anyone stopping him or trying to kill him, but that hadn’t been the case, and that wasn’t his problem. Why should he be the one to pay the price for something that had nothing to do with him? They thought he was with the marines and decided to gun him down? Fuck them. The Liberty Boys decided to shake down the citizens and turn them into informants.

Not my problem.

He reacquired the target and started to squeeze the trigger.

“Damn it!” he screamed, unable to shoot.

The woman jumped out of the street, continuing her run on the sidewalk, mostly obscured from sight. Alex turned to find Ryan and Chloe standing in the middle of the street, staring blankly at the fleeing woman.

“Dump the backpacks! We go straight for the bridge!”

Chapter 18

EVENT +57:55

Westbound Lanes, Massachusetts Turnpike

Boston, Massachusetts

The first Liberty Boys appeared exactly where he predicted. A raised concrete section interrupted the turnpike’s featureless metal guardrail, marking the underpass. At an approximate distance of three hundred feet, he’d barely spotted the break using his 4X ACOG sight. The men materialized at the eastern edge of the anomalous concrete segment. He hoped the men that spilled onto the rain-swept highway carried the same type of unmagnified EOTech or Aimpoint sights he’d seen fitted on the militia ARs at Warren Towers.

“Run side by side and don’t stop. Find a place to hide. Looks like plenty of concealment. Go!” said Alex, slapping Ryan on the back.

He sighted in on the group, trying to settle on the target with the best chance of detecting the kids. The strategy was pointless, since they all faced his direction, apparently aware that Alex’s group planned to cross further down the turnpike. He could have delayed this if he had shot the woman. At that range, he could have put a bullet through one of her lower legs.

I will never hesitate again, he thought as he scanned for any signs that the Liberty Boys had seen them.

The kids crossed unnoticed, but by the time they traversed the highway, the militia group had covered enough ground that Alex could see their outlines without magnified optics. He should have followed his own orders and continued without stopping, but the figures appeared in his ACOG just as they reached the turnpike divider. He panicked and ordered the kids to take cover along the concrete barrier, overestimating the militia group’s detection range. He knew he’d screwed up as soon as they stopped. Now he faced a higher probability of discovery. It was time to switch from passive to active avoidance measures.

He braced the rifle’s vertical fore grip against the top of the cement barrier and centered the red arrow on the furthest target. The suppressed rifle kicked, dropping the figure to both knees as Alex snapped two hasty shots at the next man in line. While the men scrambled for the safety of the guardrail embankment, Alex hopped the divider and sprinted across the slick pavement. He reached the guardrail as his first target face-planted into the pavement.

Gunfire erupted to his left, but he didn’t hear the telltale snap and hiss of incoming bullets. A discordant volley of gunshots immediately responded from the other side of the turnpike, followed by an intense, unremitting fusillade of semiautomatic and automatic gunfire. He expected the foliage and tree trunks around him to explode with deadly projectiles, but the wall of steel never materialized.

They’re shooting each other! he realized.

Alex spotted the kids crouched behind a thick stand of trees at the edge of a chain-link fence. Ryan had his pistol drawn, peering around the trees at the dense brush to the east. A one-story red brick building peeked through the healthy shrubs along the fence. He slid down the ridge, scraping his backside on rocks or glass. Like his shoulder, he didn’t care to check. They didn’t have time for first aid. If it didn’t involve running or shooting, it could wait until they were on the other side of the Charles River. A pungent, brackish stench hit his nose, reminding him of the muck ahead.

“What happened up there, Dad?”

“They’re shooting at each other, but we need to keep moving. Must have been a shitload of them hiding out in the underpass. Follow the fence line right. Call out any targets. I’ll cover the rear until we break out of this,” huffed Alex.

He knew going right would bring them closer to the bridge, but it also put them on the wrong side of this building when the Liberty Boys figured out they had already crossed the turnpike. The volume of gunfire coming from each side suggested a squad-on-squad level engagement. They needed to avoid direct contact with elements of either group for as long as possible.

The shooting stopped by the time they reached the corner of the fence, which meant they were running out of time. He had to reach the bridge before the militia. Once on the bridge, the marines could provide heavy suppressive fire, enabling them to cross. The trick was getting his crew to the foot of the bridge. He’d estimated the distances using maps and GPS. They had to cover two to three hundred feet of open ground, slogging through thick mud, with a rifle and a pistol for defense. The only thing they had going for them at this point was the rain.

“Keep moving! When we get past the building, you make a straight line for the bridge. I’ll peel left and give you a buffer,” said Alex.

He took the lead and broke out of the tree line, running along the fence toward the parking lot next to the building. His boots sank well above the ankle, but emerged without the telltale sucking sounds that signaled painfully slow progress ahead. The rain hadn’t penetrated far enough to make this a complete disaster. A quick look inside the fence told him that it had once been a municipal pool. Mangled lawn chairs and plastic tables lay in a heap along the far fence. The pool must have been covered with a tarp, because he couldn’t tell where the pool started or stopped under the blanket of dark brown silt.

A red brick outbuilding stood between the embankment and parking lot, shielding them from view as they approached the street. Beyond the empty parking lot, Alex saw the outline of a wide traffic island containing several denuded, blackened trees. He led them through a gate into the parking lot and hugged the side of the building, approaching the street quickly but cautiously. There was no point making a run for the bridge if the Liberty Boys had set up a firing squad for them. He risked a peek around the corner and caught a glimpse of the street signals flanking the mouth of the bridge. A concrete Jersey barrier blocked the inbound bridge lane, but the barrier on the outbound lane was not in sight. He wondered if militia units had pushed the outbound barriers out of the way on all of the bridges last night. Something big was going down.

Tearing his eyes off their escape route, Alex scanned west along North Beacon Street for any signs of immediate trouble. He didn’t see any vehicles, which made sense given the potential difficulty of the mud. The militia’s quick reaction force for the North Beacon Street Bridge had most likely been positioned inside the underpass. He noted a concrete handicap ramp extending from the front of the municipal pool building to the sidewalk. A small staircase with thick metal railings sat in front of the ramp. The brick structure directly faced the bridge, making it a logical place for one of the militia observation posts. He’d have to deal with that first.

“Straight to the bridge. Don’t wait for me,” he said, stepping onto the sidewalk.

Alex ran through the heavy mud toward the front entrance, glancing back to make sure Ryan and Chloe had started their run. He saw Ryan yank Chloe into the open by her arm, holding her in place as she clawed the air for the perceived safety of the brick corner. Returning his attention to the concrete steps, he squeezed against the wall and aimed down the canted iron sights as he approached. A quick look behind showed Chloe and Ryan making progress toward the bridge. They had reached the traffic island, gaining more ground than he expected and prematurely exposing themselves to possible observers in the pool building.

He heaved his aching body over the railings and landed on the top steps, firing his rifle before he had steadied. The first rounds out of the barrel struck the front of the thick wooden desk, startling the gunman seated behind it. The shooter recoiled and knocked a scope-equipped, bipod-fitted assault rifle off the desk into the tight space between the right edge of the desk and the wall. Alex adjusted his aim and fired two bullets center mass, knocking the man out of sight behind the desk. He let his HK416 dangle from the one-point sling and grabbed the scoped rifle from the muddy floor.

The weapon’s heft indicated he had picked up a .308 caliber AR. When it emerged, the large, box-style magazine confirmed it. Shit. He’d probably picked up the one AR-style rifle within a mile that wasn’t compatible with the ammunition he carried. He couldn’t complain. Twenty rounds in the hands of a second shooter could make a big difference.

He leaped down the stairs, leveling the .308 rifle at the closed door at the top of the handicapped ramp. Nothing. He turned his back on the building, hoping the man had been alone, and slogged through the mud until his peripheral vision detected movement—in both directions. A pickup truck raced out of the Brooks Street underpass, followed by an SUV. The vague shape of vehicles emerged from the east, still mostly obscured by the rain. He’d forgotten about the other underpass. A bullet snapped past him, fired from an unknown location. He sprinted forward, not bothering to search for the hidden shooter. His first priority was to close the distance to the bridge. Another projectile cracked overhead, joined by the sound of revving engines, putting a hold on those plans.

Alex turned to face the pickup truck and kneeled in the mud, switching to his HK416. With the .308 propped upright against his chest, he steadied his firing platform and found the right side of the pickup’s windshield through his rifle’s scope. He fired three bullets, confirming that the windshield spider-webbed, before firing on the trailing SUV. A tight pattern of four rounds shattered the second vehicle’s windshield in place.

Hurtling toward the intersection at forty miles per hour, the SUV slammed into the near stationary pickup, launching the SUV’s front seat passengers through the opaque windshield into the bed of the truck. Bodies tumbled into the intersection, catapulted by the collision. Alex grasped the rifle and ran for the first Jersey barrier, bullets smacking into the mud behind him. A throng of Liberty Boys had emerged from the bushes beyond the wrecked vehicles, firing on the run. He needed to reach the reinforced concrete barrier before the shooting frenzy tapered and they transitioned to more deliberate and inherently accurate tactics.

***

A thunderous metallic crunch forced Ryan to steal a glance at the intersection. A dark blue late-model SUV careened sideways, its hood bent upward from rear-ending an oversized four-door pickup truck. The SUV’s front windshield was missing, along with the driver and front passenger, who he assumed had joined the tangle of bodies next to the pickup. Three tightly spaced holes and a bright red stain in the driver’s side of the pickup’s windshield explained why the pickup stopped in the middle of the intersection. Thirty feet away, his father lowered his suppressed rifle and ran toward the bridge, looking over his shoulder at several men running toward the intersection from the turnpike.

Ryan tugged Chloe’s hand to force her along. Progress across the exposed intersection had been stop and go since the shooting started. She had dropped to the mud several times during their trek across the exposed intersection, the crack and hiss of near misses short-circuiting her legs. He just needed to get her behind the Jersey barrier and out of immediate danger. Ryan slid his right arm under her left arm and shoved her forward, pushing against her back. Bullets ricocheted off the barrier in front of them as they edged toward the temporary reprieve of the one-foot-thick, steel-reinforced concrete barricade.

She sank to the pavement behind the wall, placing her back against the concrete and burying her face in her knees. Her body twitched uncontrollably, and Ryan couldn’t tell if she was hyperventilating or crying. He pressed his forehead against her pink ball cap and held her tightly, wishing he could soothe her. The maelstrom of incoming fire intensified, showering them with concrete fragments. Chloe flinched at every sound. There was nothing he could do for her right now, other than get her to the other side of the bridge.

He yanked the pistol from his waist and started to lift himself, but froze. This wasn’t a day at the range with his father. The supersonic snaps filling the void above him represented lethal projectiles travelling over three thousand feet per second. Rising above the top of the barricade exposed him to a fickle domain ruled by chance and ever-slimming odds. Ryan had learned all about this world after he announced his intentions to follow in his father’s footsteps and pursue a commission as a Marine officer. A weekend camping trip materialized, during which his father unveiled the realities of combat and dispelled the myths. One of those realities pressed down hard, locking him in place. He grimaced, fighting against it.

“Combat is all about odds,” Alex had told him. “Ninety-nine point nine percent of ordnance fired on the battlefield never reaches its intended target. Long odds until you consider the sheer volume of projectiles fired in a battle.”

He tried to stand, but his legs refused. He had to break out of this paralysis. His dad would be devastated to find him cowering behind cover. The thought of his dad in the sights of every gun south of the bridge spurred him into action.

Ryan popped up and scanned right, finding a target aiming a rifle at the bridge from the riverbank. Three rapid trigger presses placed ordnance close enough to break the shooter’s concentration, forcing him to seek concealment in the thick underbrush. His dad hit the pavement next to him, slamming his back against the concrete. Ryan dropped down, not seeing any point in pushing the “long odds.” The intersection swarmed with heavily armed militia. Remembering another Captain Fletcherism, he slid past Chloe to take a new position along the barrier.

“Appearing in the same place twice during a gun fight is bad for your health.”

***

Shards of concrete stung Alex’s hands as he vaulted the barrier and landed next to Ryan, who had just fired Alex’s pistol at the riverbank. Ryan scooted past Chloe and rose to fire three aimed shots directly into the intersection. A sharp scream from the intersection penetrated the earsplitting chaos.

“They’re all over us!” yelled Ryan.

Alex unclipped the HK416 from his sling and handed it past Chloe to Ryan. Chloe quivered against the obstacle, face buried in her knees and hands covering her ears.

“Spare mags in my cargo pockets! Lay down some fire while I launch our flares!”

Alex scrambled to open the dump bag containing the flares while Ryan rapidly fired two-round salvos at the militia. He felt Ryan’s hands clawing at the rifle magazines in his left cargo pocket before he had unscrewed the top and bottom end caps of the first flare. His son burned through the rest of the magazine in seconds. Incoming gunfire struck the top of the barrier and the side of the bridge, spraying them with painful fragments. They needed to move to the next barrier, but he didn’t dare risk running toward the marines without sending up the flares. He prepared the second flare and turned to face the opposite side of the bridge.

Ryan stopped firing and ducked behind the barrier to reload. “They’re getting too close! I can barely stick my head out!”

“Just buy me a few more seconds!” said Alex, aiming the flare at a seventy-degree angle in the direction of the marines.

He withdrew the safety pin and depressed the trigger, launching the aerial rocket. The flare sailed skyward and disappeared in the rain. He heard a faint pop a few seconds later.

Fuck.

Alex had forgotten that the parachute flare travelled nearly a thousand feet before igniting and drifting back to the ground. He wasn’t sure if it would drift down far enough to be seen through the gray curtain of clouds and precipitation before extinguishing. Firing another flare seemed pointless, but he aimed the next one skyward and fired it with the same grim result. Swallowed by the impenetrable squall.

“What happened to the flares!” yelled Ryan, changing magazines.

“Into the clouds! Stand by to leapfrog to the next barrier. I’ll cover you and Chloe with the .308 from here. You lay down fire for me. Focus on the closest shooters. Three-round salvos. Go!”

Bullets snapped overhead as Alex and Ryan swapped positions at the end of the crumbling Jersey barrier. Ryan pulled on Chloe, but she didn’t budge.

Wrong time for this!

Alex leaned around the corner and found a target crouched behind a thick tree in the traffic island. He centered the crosshairs on an exposed shoulder and pressed the trigger. The rifle bit into his shoulder. He scanned over the barrel for more targets, locating a shooter at the corner of the pool building. The 6X scope brought the man into focus; a .308 bullet dropped him into the mud. The volume of fire against Alex’s edge of the barrier intensified, forcing him back.

“You have to get her moving!” he said, sliding in the mud to the other side of the barrier.

“It’s only twenty-five feet, Chloe,” Ryan said to her. “You can do it. My dad and I will protect you. We have to go, Chloe! You have to run!” pleaded Ryan, tugging furiously at both her arms.

Alex fired two shots from his new position, connecting with one of them before the Liberty Boys adjusted their aim and started to pulverize the corner. He pressed his back into the concrete and examined the rifle scope. Small miracle. The scope was attached to a quick-release mount. He flipped the levers and discarded the scope, raising the front and rear flip-up sights. That was better. He rose to his knees and braced the rifle’s hand guard against the concrete, firing the rest of the magazine in two-round salvos at the militia squad that had taken cover behind the destroyed vehicles. The level of incoming fire dropped significantly for a few seconds.

Alex dropped below the barrier and processed the situation. He could suppress the militia and hand Ryan the rifle, giving his son a few seconds’ head start. It might be enough to get him to a safer position. The Liberty Boys would focus their initial fire at the barricade, giving Ryan a few additional seconds to reach cover. No other scenario worked.

“Get to the next barrier and cover me! I’ll carry her,” said Alex.

“You can barely run! I’m not leaving her!”

“Get to the next barrier! That’s an order! I’ll unload the HK and give you the time you need to get in position to cover our withdrawal. It’s the only way,” said Alex, tossing the .308 into the mud.

Alex reloaded the HK416 with one of the magazines from his back pocket. He passed the three from his right cargo pocket to Ryan, who stuffed them in his pockets, shaking his head.

“Dad, I’ll carry her. You shoot,” said Ryan.

With Chloe on his back, Ryan would move at less than half of his potential speed. Alex was willing to fight and die behind the first barricade, but the high volume of fire required to momentarily quiet the militia guns would burn through the HK’s thirty-round magazine in seconds. Ryan and Chloe would be caught in the open during the first magazine change. Only one scenario produced a guaranteed survivor if Chloe refused to run. Glancing at her shell-shocked, inert form, he didn’t see a ten-meter dash anywhere in her near future.

“That won’t work! You go first and get ready to cover us!” said Alex.

“You’ll leave her here!”

“I won’t leave her,” muttered Alex, stunned by his son’s accusation. “I don’t get to walk off this bridge without both of you.”

“Then let me carry her.”

“Ryan—”

A red glimmer in the sky east of the bridge caught his eye. He craned his neck against the harsh concrete and watched a red parachute flare break through the murky ceiling, swinging wildly for a few seconds before extinguishing. The parachute landed on the northern riverbank, nearly three hundred feet away. A green flare appeared further downriver, visible for a brief moment. Red tracers streaked past on both sides of the bridge before he could turn to Ryan, followed by the thunderous pounding of heavy-caliber machine guns. Alex pulled Chloe and Ryan flat against the pavement as the air filled with the sharp, staccato crackle of automatic machine-gun fire. The deafening roar continued for a few seconds before Alex lifted his head far enough off the ground to see that the tracers raced north to south.

Hello 1 st Battalion!

“Those are Marine guns! Lift her up and haul ass. I’ll be right behind you!” said Alex.

Alex crested the top of the concrete block and stared at the carnage for a moment. The municipal building’s red brick façade crumbled into chunks of brick and mortar under a hail of tracers, each red streak representing four steel-jacketed bullets. Large and small projectiles punctured the thin metal on both sides of the pickup truck and SUV, hammering the men seeking cover from the onslaught. A geyser of blood erupted above the pickup truck’s hood, followed by a headless body toppling into the mud. A group of panicked men scrambled away from the vehicles east of the traffic island as tracers ricocheted off the metal. The Marine gunfire intensified, tearing into the men as they crossed open ground. He felt a solid tug on his shoulder.

“Ready to move,” said Ryan, holding Chloe in a fireman’s carry.

“Right behind you,” said Alex, firing at the few targets of opportunity left by the marines.

He found it difficult to keep up with his son, who effortlessly carried Chloe to the next barrier. Ryan paused near the next barrier, waiting for instructions.

“All the way! All the way!” said Alex, pushing Ryan forward.

Two bullets struck the face of the barrier, stopping him from immediately following. He scanned the intersection through the ACOG scope, searching for a shooter the marines couldn’t see from their firing positions or vehicles. The bridge rose a few feet higher than the north bank, possibly obstructing their view of low-profile targets directly in front of the first barrier. He focused on positions close to the ground, spotting movement under the front end of the pickup truck. With all of its tires flattened by machine-gun fire, the front fender sat several inches above the mud, providing a perfect firing position for anyone willing to burrow their way through the filth.

Alex centered the tip of the red arrow on the darkness beneath the bumper and fired twice, unsure if his bullets struck a target. Smoke erupted from the same spot, spitting several bullets back. Alex pressed the trigger once before the projectiles reached the barrier, shattering concrete and grazing his right cheek. He dropped to one knee, clutching his face with his left hand and firing indiscriminately with the other. More rounds hit the barrier, forcing him to crouch. Ryan cried out less than a second later. This wasn’t working.

Chloe lay on the pavement next to Ryan, who struggled on one knee to pull her toward the next barricade. Bullets snapped overhead, but Alex ignored them. He had to get the kids out of the open. He waved at the nearest Marine M-ATV for help, but the gunner kept firing the roof-mounted M240B in long bursts. A few seconds later, three marines in full battle gear appeared at the end of the bridge, running in their direction. Alex rushed across the exposed hardtop and helped Ryan drag Chloe behind the wall. His son had been hit in the leg, but he couldn’t tell how badly. A primeval tunnel vision channeled all of his focus and physical energy into pulling Chloe out of harm’s way. He instinctually knew it was the only way to get his son out of the kill zone. The marines slammed into the concrete before he could check Ryan, firing fully automatic bursts across the bridge.

“Ryan!” he yelled, scrambling around one of the marines to reach his son.

“40 mike mike! Send it!” yelled a short, stocky staff sergeant.

The marines grabbed the pistol grips beneath their rifle-mounted M320 Grenade Launcher Modules and filled the air with hollow thumping sounds. A pair of hands grabbed his collar and stopped him.

“We got this, sir!” said the staff sergeant. “Colonel will kick our asses if he finds out about this.”

The Marine lifted Ryan’s right arm and draped it over his shoulder, pulling him upright. Blood dripped from the tip of his son’s boot.

“Grady didn’t send you?”

“Negative. My orders are to provide suppressing fire to aid in your withdrawal. I just happened to bump into you while repositioning.”

Three successive explosions sprayed mud and invisible fragments across the distant intersection.

“Amazing how shit like that happens. I owe you one, Staff Sergeant—Williams,” said Alex, studying the name patch sewed onto his Dragon Skin vest.

“Compliments of the house. We need to get your son to the BAS. He has a through and through to the outer right leg. You could use a little patching up yourself.”

Alex touched his cheek and held his hand in the rain, watching the rain wash away the blood. A quick glance at his bloodstained left sleeve brought his shoulder injury into focus. He traced the arm and saw two deep red slashes across the deltoid area. A few inches to the right and he could have claimed a repeat. Six years earlier, a shotgun-wielding psychopath had shot him squarely in the same shoulder. He started to jog toward the marines lifting the kids when the sound of a fast-moving car on the other side of the bridge stopped him.

“Behind the barrier!” yelled Williams.

Alex took Ryan’s other arm and helped the Marine lower him to the asphalt.

Williams keyed his combat radio headset. “Raider One-Zero, hold fire on approaching vehicle. I say again. Hold fire on approaching vehicle.”

The marines tracked the mini-SUV skidding through the intersection.

“Staff Sergeant?” said a corporal, fingering his grenade launcher’s pistol grip.

“It could be some stupid-ass civilians trying to get across. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Could be a suicide bomber,” replied the corporal.

“Hold on. Raider Base, this is Raider One-Zero. I have an SUV approaching the south end of the bridge, moving fast. VIPs have been recovered. Request ROE instructions.”

“Raider One-Zero, this is Raider Base. Apply ROE in effect. Signal vehicle using any and all means available. Do not let the vehicle across.”

“Fire a grenade at the first barrier. Now!” said Williams.

The corporal’s launcher thumped, sending a small, dark object in an arc toward the southern end of the bridge. The 40mm high-explosive grenade hit the Jersey barrier, blasting it in half and showering the oncoming car with cement fragments. The vehicle accelerated.

“Staff Sergeant!” yelled the other marine.

“Light it up!”

Alex canted his rifle to use the iron sights and fired alongside the marines, emptying the rest of his magazine at the speeding car. Heavier guns from Marine positions along the riverbank joined the skirmish, sending lines of tracers at both sides of the SUV. The car disintegrated under the barrage of mixed-caliber steel, careening left and wedging itself between the second barricade and the bridge. Alex tried to stand, but William’s hand held him firmly in place. The engine whined for a moment before the car exploded.

The force of the blast rippled across the bridge, shifting the four-thousand-pound Jersey barrier several inches. William’s instinct had saved Alex’s life, keeping his body shielded from the potentially lethal overpressure and fragmentation effects. Instead of flattened organs and punctured flesh, Alex was knocked onto his back. A cloud of cement dust and smoke settled over the bridge, obscuring his vision. Urgent, muted voices penetrated the haze.

“Sound off!”

“Leverone. Still in one piece!”

“Graham. Shoulder is trashed!”

“My VIPs?” said Williams.

“VIPs good to go!” answered Corporal Graham.

“Move them off the bridge! You all right, sir?” said Staff Sergeant Williams, extending a hand toward Alex.

“Did I spring any new leaks?”

“Just the old ones. Let’s get your son into one of the Matvees, get you all back to HQ.”

Alex helped Williams lift his son off the ground.

“You all right?” he said to Ryan.

“I can’t hear you!” screamed his son, grabbing Alex with both arms and hugging him.

“It’s going to be fine, buddy. We made it,” he said into Ryan’s ear.

“Where’s Chloe?” Ryan said, craning his head over his shoulder.

“She’s fine. You’ll see her in a minute.”

“What happened?”

“Car bomb,” said Alex.

“Motherfucking game changer,” added Williams.

Chapter 19

EVENT +58:24

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Ed Walker bolted through the thick tent flap and skidded on the slippery, matted grass beyond the entrance. His legs swung out, dropping him straight on his ass in front of the command post sentry. The corporal shook his head slowly. Ed sat on the wet ground for a moment, glad to be out of the steamy battalion command tent. The lukewarm downpour washed the sweat from his face and soaked through his swampy clothing, revitalizing him. The distant sound of a humming diesel engine echoed off the buildings, drawing him to his feet. He dashed toward the opening between Harvard and Hollis Halls, slowing as he approached the two marines stationed behind HESCO barriers.

After last night’s attack, Lieutenant Colonel Grady put all noncritical personnel to work filling the battalion’s modular HESCO cages with dirt from campus. The work lasted most of the night, producing dozens of four-foot-wide by four-foot-high barriers for the defensive positions ringing Harvard Yard. Two HESCO cages formed most positions, placed in a “V” shape facing the expected threat direction.

The HESCO system put twelve inches of compacted dirt between the marines and incoming high-velocity rifle bullets. Ed had been a little disturbed to discover that they didn’t have enough barriers to surround the command tent. Grady told him that if the command tent came under sustained fire, they were well past the point where a line of HESCO barriers would make a difference. He couldn’t tell if Grady was serious or kidding.

“Sir?” said one of the marines, looking away from his riflescope.

“My daughter’s coming in on one of the Matvees.”

The marines glanced at each other with doubtful looks.

“Let him through, Marines!”

Both marines stiffened, standing at attention. Grady gave him a single nod and disappeared into the tent. Ed squeezed past the HESCO barrier’s metal mesh exterior and searched for the vehicle transporting Chloe.

Holy Jesus!

Harvard University resembled a cross between a refugee camp and a third-world military outpost. The battalion’s “hard” security perimeter now encompassed most of the Old Yard commons. Two ugly, obtrusive machine-gun positions cut the yard in half, facing south toward Gray’s Hall. Three HESCO cages, arranged in a “U,” protected each M240 machine-gun team. Muddy patches of ripped turf surrounded each nest, identifying the immediate source of filler for the cages.

The battalion’s motor transport section sat directly behind the machine guns, taking up half of the remaining open space between Thayer Hall and the cluster of buildings sheltering the battalion command post. Eight behemoth MK25 MTVRs (Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement) transport vehicles made up the bulk of the section, staggered far enough apart to maneuver independently out of the yard. Four M-ATVs (“Matvees”) were parked haphazardly in front of the seven-ton MTVRs, facing Johnston Gate. All of the battalion’s tactical vehicles mounted M240 machine guns, part of Homeland’s Category Five load out. He’d learned a lot pretending not to listen to the marines in the command tent.

Ed spotted an empty Matvee near the front entrance to Stoughton Hall and jogged toward the vehicle. Part of the battalion’s inner perimeter, Stoughton had been converted into the Battalion Aid Station. The aid station had started as a self-contained shelter unit, half the size of the command tent, in the northern part of the Old Yard. Citizens flocked to Harvard Yard as word spread through Cambridge, quickly overwhelming the medical section’s capacity to house severely injured patients.

The worst cases were moved to the first floor of Stoughton Hall, where the battalion surgeon and four navy corpsmen scrambled to stabilize patients long enough to be transported to one of the overwhelmed hospitals near Cambridge. Options remained limited, since most of Boston’s major hospitals were south of the Charles River. Few patients had been moved.

Patients with minor injuries packed the rest of the yard, hiding from the rain in a variety of commercial tents and makeshift shelters. Grady refused to allow them inside the outer perimeter building, citing security concerns for both the civilians and marines. Few people in the Harvard Yard shantytown complained about the restriction. They were inside the defensive perimeter, which to many felt like the only safe place in the world. They had no idea how quickly “Fort Harvard” could cease to exist if the situation north of the Charles deteriorated much further. He’d overheard Grady issue an order to activate “thirty minute” protocols. He assumed this meant “gone in thirty minutes.”

His knees buckled as the rear cargo compartment came into focus. Bloodstains streaked across the composite benches on both sides of the vehicle. He slammed the rear hatch shut and charged the entrance to Stoughton Hall.

A Marine stepped through the open doorway and put a hand on his chest, forcing him back.

“Sir, you need to be escorted into the building by one of the aid station’s personnel. If you head over to the triage—”

“My daughter’s in there!” he said, pushing back.

“Sir! You will step back and follow procedure!”

“He’s good to go, Corporal! His daughter is part of our group,” said a Marine Ed didn’t recognize.

“Daddy!” he heard from the dark hallway beyond the sentry.

“Sorry, sir! Orders.”

Ed ignored the Marine and pushed into the dormitory, searching for his daughter.

“Chloe!”

He heard footsteps rushing down the hallway and turned in time to grab his daughter. The fact that she could run toward him meant that she hadn’t been hurt. He hugged her tightly.

“We got you. We got you,” he struggled to say.

She buried her head in his shoulder and cried quietly, her bear hug constricting his ribs.

“You okay, sweetie?”

She nodded her head, and he held her, momentarily oblivious to the hard journey ahead of them. He remembered the blood in the back of the Matvee.

“What about Mr. Fletcher and Ryan?”

A familiar voice echoed in the dim vestibule.

“We’re okay too.”

“Alex?” he said, searching the hallway.

“We’re in the student lounge!”

His daughter reluctantly released her grip and stepped back a few paces. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Are you all right, Chloe?” he said, grasping her hand.

She sobbed and shook her head.

“She was caught in the middle of a nasty gunfight. Real nasty. You should have one of the corpsmen take a look at her,” said one of the marines that had brought her in.

Ed crouched, scrutinizing her for signs of injury. She didn’t appear to be bleeding. She was soaked like everyone else, but intact. In the hazy light cast through the entrance, he couldn’t find a single tear in her clothing.

“Not that kind of injury, sir,” said the marine.

He nodded toward the Marine and hugged his daughter again. “You’re safe now, sweetie. We’re going home.”

“Right now?”

“As soon as we can, Chloe.”

“We need to go now,” she said blankly.

“Why?”

She paused for several moments. “Because they’re everywhere.”

“Who’s everywhere, sweetie?”

“The Liberty Boys.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Let’s find Alex and figure out how to get out of here,” said Ed. “Where’s the student lounge?”

“That hallway. Second door on the left,” said the marine, pointing him in the right direction.

“What happened out there?”

“They had a serious hard-on for your friend. Sorry, ma’am. Whatever he did last night, it really pissed them off. They blew up half the bridge trying to snuff him out. They’re lucky we saw the flares. We thought it was an all-out attack on the bridge.”

“Thanks for bringing back my daughter,” said Ed, starting for the student lounge and holding his daughter.

“We were just batting cleanup. Your buddy and the kid did most of the work. Navy Cross material on the bridge. Sorry, ma’am. You don’t see that very often with today’s youth.”

Ed stopped and stared at the corporal, who didn’t look much older than his daughter. He didn’t know how to respond, so he nodded and kept walking. All of this was beyond surreal. What the hell had happened on the other side of the river? Was this related to the Liberty Boys his daughter mentioned? Were they safe here? The sooner they left, the better. He planned to activate his own version of the “thirty minute” evacuation plan, rain or shine. When he walked into the doorway marked student lounge, his hopes of leaving drained faster than the blood in his face. Neither of the Fletchers looked ambulatory.

“Well, there he is. Sergeant Walker!” said Alex, lying on a cot next to his son.

The room’s furniture had been stripped, replaced by cots and folding chairs. A table stacked with medical supplies sat against the wall next to the door. A smaller cart near Ryan and Alex displayed stainless-steel surgical tools. Ed’s stomach pitched. Two of the medical station’s personnel hovered around Ryan’s bloody leg while another tended to Alex’s shoulder.

“Same shoulder?”

“It’s not bad. Barely grazed,” said Alex.

“How’s Ryan?”

Alex’s son had his head turned to the wall.

“He got hit in the leg, but he should be fine. He’ll be out of it for a while. Morphine.”

Chloe pulled at his arm, keeping him from entering the room.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Ed, turning to Alex and shrugging his shoulder.

“You should spend some time with your daughter. We had it rough getting back. She did good,” said Alex.

“No, I didn’t,” she muttered. “I almost got all of us killed.”

Alex shook his head and mouthed, “No.”

Ed hovered in the doorway, feeling conflicted and guilty about leaving them alone in the makeshift surgery room. He owed Alex everything for this. He had so much to say, but his daughter clearly needed him more.

“I don’t know what to—”

“We’ve been in this together from the start. This is just what we do. Go,” said Alex, suppressing a grin.

“Still, I—”

“Ed, don’t make me chase you out of here.”

“All right,” Ed mumbled, “but I owe you one.”

“Negative. You keep forgetting the church.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Bringing Chloe back—I can’t even.” He shook his head, fighting back tears.

“I know the feeling,” said Alex, reaching out to touch Ryan’s arm.

Chapter 20

EVENT +59:33

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Alex entered the command tent and immediately sensed that something was off. The staff sat tensed at their stations, silent. The battalion TOC (Tactical Operations Center) was never quiet. Ever. He took a few steps in and spotted Lieutenant Colonel Grady talking to the UAV section.

Not good.

UAV operations had been grounded for more than two hours, and the storm showed no signs of abating. He removed his boonie cap and twisted the water onto the floor. Grady saw him and patted the UAV pilot on the back before moving to greet him.

“This isn’t a good time, Alex. Sorry,” he said, pointing toward the hatch.

“You’re putting a Raven up? In this?”

“It’s just a precaution. I can’t afford any more surprises like the car bomb. Sorry, but I can’t have nonessential personnel in the TOC right now.”

“This is the first chance I’ve had to get away from the aid station. My son’s fine, by the way,” said Alex.

“I’m glad they got him stitched up, Alex. He sounds like a fine young man. Staff Sergeant Williams told me about the bridge. Sorry I haven’t been able to swing by, but things are a little tense right now. Insurgency chatter stopped three minutes ago. All channels,” said Grady, with a severe look.

“I need to talk to you about the so-called insurgency. It might have some bearing.”

“All right.”

“You’re not dealing with a rogue gang of criminals. This is something much bigger. My son says they refer to themselves as the Liberty Boys.”

“He heard them say this?” said Grady, betraying a hint of recognition.

“From his apartment window.” Alex nodded. “A group of heavily armed men and women drove a pickup truck down their street, assuring everyone that the streets are safe. From what Ryan described, criminal elements ran wild for about twelve hours. There was a ton of shooting the first night, and this Liberty Boys group appeared the next day. They were asking for volunteers to help them secure Boston.”

“That could have been the same criminal group trying to draw out troublemakers,” said Grady.

“You don’t sound very convinced. What I saw was far too centralized for spur of the moment, post-disaster opportunists. They had an effective, grassroots communications network. We were ratted out by a family just south of the turnpike. I didn’t give you a heads-up on the radio because we were running for our lives.”

“You got lucky. Staff Sergeant Williams almost lit you guys up. Flares reach a height of three hundred thirty meters. Over a thousand feet, in case you were curious,” said Grady.

“I remembered the forty second part. The name Liberty Boys has an interesting historical context.”

Grady held a hand up to stop him from continuing. “Why don’t we step outside for a second,” he said. “Let me know as soon as the Raven is airborne!”

“Yes, sir,” replied the UAV operator.

They walked far enough away from the sentry to avoid being overheard. The rain collapsed the brim of Alex’s cap against his forehead before they stopped. Grady, however, appeared unfazed by the deluge against his ballistic helmet.

“I have a few hundred digital pages of information compiled by the Department of Homeland Security on the Liberty Boys—or the Mechanics. Top secret, limited distribution. Myself and the battalion intel officer. There’s a reason for that.”

“A reserve military unit drawing unit members from the greater Boston area? I can’t imagine what the problem might be,” said Alex.

“We left three marines at Fort Devens, including my XO. My first task was to privately open a sealed file stored in my secure Cat Five capsule. The file contained explicit orders for the immediate incarceration of three marines that had been in the unit for more than a decade. Homeland identified them as ‘immediate, high-mission risks. Known affiliation to subversive anti-government militia groups.’”

“And you don’t think Homeland found all of them,” said Alex.

“That’s why we’re talking out here.”

“Don’t you find this a little disturbing? Homeland investigating your marines? Category Five Event Response with no information flowing from higher headquarters? Boston is falling apart because the two groups with half a chance to keep it together are working against each other. Maybe that’s by design. By the way, I saw a few XM-9s out there,” said Alex. “What exactly happened to the National Guard unit out of Brockton?”

“We don’t know. They just stopped communicating with us,” said Grady.

“I think they had a problem. An internal problem—and I think you know more about the situation than you’re willing to admit.”

“How many XM-9s did you see?” asked Grady.

“Does it matter?” Alex countered, studying Grady’s poker face.

The XM-9 was a new combat carbine used exclusively by the United States Army and National Guard units. Civilian variants of the Heckler and Koch line of XM rifles had been specifically banned from importation into the U.S. by the 2016 Combat Weapons Reduction Bill.

“You need to reach out to militia leadership across the river before this situation spirals further out of control. I’ve studied groups like this in Maine and New Hampshire. Talked to their leadership. They’re highly suspicious of the government, but they’re reasonable. Most of them share the same mission as your battalion: to help the people in a crisis. I assume that’s still the crux of your mission?”

“The Liberty Boys are making that mission extremely difficult,” stated Grady.

“That’s because you’re working against each other. If the current organization has roots to the original Mechanics, you’re talking about a league of New Englanders that has spent the better part of the past two hundred fifty years planning to fight a guerilla war against a possible government takeover. I’m surprised that I didn’t come across this group in my research.”

“They don’t officially exist. You won’t find a single modern reference to them on any website. They don’t produce literature or host bean suppers like nearly every other militia group out there. They don’t muster in the streets to fill sandbags when the rivers overflow or serve hot meals after a nor’easter. Instead, they donate sizable sums of money through untraceable proxies to support relief efforts. They have considerable resources at their disposal. We’re talking generational wealth.”

“You need to take steps to convince their leadership that your battalion isn’t part of a master plan to subjugate the United States. That’s the only way this won’t end in a complete disaster.”

Grady grinned and gripped Alex’s good shoulder. “I need you to head this up.”

“Excuse you—Colonel,” said Alex.

“You have experience talking to militia leaders. You’ve studied their structures and drawn conclusions based on research. My education into this subject started two days ago with the arrest of my executive officer and two staff NCOs. I can give you a laptop and a private room in one of these buildings to sort through the digital file. Help me make sense of the Liberty Boys and form a strategy. I barely had time to read the executive summary.”

“Sean, I was really hoping to head out as soon as possible. I need to get these kids home to their mothers. We’ve been gone for thirty-six hours with no contact,” said Alex.

A Marine appeared between Stoughton and Hollis Halls, walking the well-worn, muddy path toward the battalion TOC. They waited for him to salute Grady and pass before continuing their conversation. The Marine sergeant glanced back at Grady as he approached the sentry stationed outside of the TOC.

“Your son really isn’t in any condition to travel right now. Neither are you, for that matter.”

“I was hoping you might spare one of those Matvees for thirty minutes. I have a Jeep stashed up in the Middlesex Fells Reservation.”

“Not until I figure out why militia radio traffic went quiet. I should have UAV coverage in a few minutes. Could you give me a few hours of analysis?” said Grady.

Alex’s attention strayed to the Marine that had passed them a few seconds ago. The sentry was speaking into a Motorola. The sergeant leaned against the HESCO barrier and started to unclip his assault pack from his Modular Dragon Skin Vest (MDV).

“Who is that?” asked Alex.

“Sergeant Bruckman. Chief mechanic,” answered Grady, craning his head to look at the marine.

“Why is he detaching his assault pack?” asked Alex, thumbing the snap on his drop holster.

The Marine looked back at them, his eyes dropping to Alex’s holster.

Shit!

Alex drew his pistol as Sergeant Bruckman dropped the assault pack and fired a quick rifle burst into the sentry’s chest. He tried to turn the HK416 on the battalion commander, but Alex lined up the sergeant’s silhouette with his front sight and fired first, joined a fraction of a second later by Grady’s P30L service pistol. More than a dozen 9mm bullets struck Bruckman in rapid succession, driving him against the HESCO barrier and knocking the rifle out of his hands.

The marine’s MDV stopped the bullets from entering his torso, preventing his instantaneous death. Colonel Grady closed the distance to the marine, firing his pistol at the mechanic’s unprotected face with devastating effect. Bruckman’s faceless corpse slid down the tan HESCO cage and toppled into the shiny grass. Grady had already disappeared over the barrier to check on the sentry, reappearing a second a later.

“Alex, get the battalion surgeon ready for a Class Two!”

Alex holstered his pistol and took off for Stoughton Hall, placing his hands on his head as marines scrambled out of the TOC. Tensions were high, and he didn’t want to give any of the headquarters’ staff an early excuse to fire their weapons. Given what just transpired, Alex felt confident that every Marine in Grady’s battalion would put their service rifle to work, sooner than later.

“Fletcher is friendly!” Grady shouted. “Sergeant Major, get Bruckman’s assault pack out of here. Possible IED. Put it in one of the HESCO pits away from the TOC. Bruckman shot Kappleman at point-blank range. Help me get this Marine to the BAS!”

Alex needed to get his crew out of Cambridge within the next ten minutes. Bruckman’s aborted attack on the TOC was only the beginning. A cascade of destabilizing violence would ripple through the battalion positions in short order. He’d seen this before, and so had Grady. Alex reached the side entrance to Stoughton Hall and stopped. Beyond the fact that one of Grady’s marines had just attempted to detonate a bomb in the battalion TOC, something nagged him about the rogue sergeant’s actions.

Bruckman had removed the pack, which indicated that he either planned to throw it inside or leave it behind. Either method required remote detonation. Throwing it through the entrance hatch didn’t make sense. With a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead, Bruckman would have been forced to trigger the bomb well within the casualty radius. He probably planned to drop it next to the piles of personal gear stashed around the tent, setting off the IED from a distance. But how did he acquire the bomb? Did he bring it with him from Fort Devens? Each question led to answers he couldn’t ignore. Not if his son was stuck in the battalion aid station.

“Notify the battalion surgeon that he has a Class Two casualty inbound,” he said to the marines assigned to the sentry post between Stoughton Hall and Hollis Hall.

“Do it,” said a corporal, dispatching a private to deliver the message.

The corporal looked shaken, on the verge of tears.

“That wasn’t your fault, son. Get that out of your head right now,” said Alex.

“Why did Bruckman do that? I don’t—”

“There’s nothing to understand about it. Don’t let anyone through, Corporal, without clearing it with the TOC first. Copy?”

“Yes, sir,” said the marine, shifting his rifle toward the Old Yard.

“Colonel Grady!” yelled Alex, running back toward the TOC.

Alex passed two marines carrying the critically wounded sentry to Stoughton hall. He didn’t see an obvious entry or exit wound, but the upper half of his body armor was stained dark red. Bright red blood streamed from his mouth and nose. He’d be dead within thirty minutes—if that. Grady leaned against the tree next to the TOC sentry station, his hands and uniform sleeves soaked in blood. He shook his head and grimaced.

“Fucking savages,” he muttered.

“Sorry, Sean. Your marine…” said Alex.

“One of the rounds hit a centimeter above his Dragon Skin,” said Grady, shaking his head. “You ready to give me a hand figuring out this insurgency?”

“Can you confirm that the IED is remote triggered?” said Alex, kneeling next to Bruckman’s body.

“Hold on,” he said, searching around. “Top? Can you take a look at Bruckman’s pack and confirm the detonation mechanism?”

“Roger, sir,” said a hulking Latino Marine standing next to the battalion sergeant major. “Make a hole!”

The master sergeant ran toward the unlucky Marine tasked to carry the backpack to one of the shallow pits dug into the Old Yard.

“Get the marines focused, Sergeant Major. We still have a shit storm brewing out there,” added Grady.

“On it, sir! Back in the TOC! Let’s go!”

Alex emptied the dead marine’s pockets and vest pouches, trying to avoid staring at his lifeless, destroyed face and the brain matter seeping out of his combat helmet. He found a Motorola resembling one of the battalion’s encrypted models and handed it to Grady.

“Can you confirm this is one of yours?” said Alex, continuing the search.

“What’s your theory?”

“If it’s remote triggered, either Bruckman or another Marine has the detonator. I was hoping to find it on Bruckman.”

“Doesn’t make any sense. How did he know to bring a backpack IED to Devens? We were on a regularly scheduled AT,” said Grady.

Alex finished his search, coming up empty. He stood up and shook his head.

“Maybe they bring bombs with them to every reserve drill—or maybe someone delivered it.”

“Everyone camped out on the yard has been thoroughly searched…son of a bitch! Bruckman CASEVAC’d some of the civilians to Cambridge Hospital,” said Grady, stepping toward the tent flap.

“Not by himself, I assume,” said Alex.

“Correct. Another motor transport Marine. Sergeant Major!”

The ground shook, followed by the sharp crack of a high-order detonation. Windows shattered above the HESCO barrier stationed between Harvard and Stoughton Halls, followed by a horizontal debris shower that instantly engulfed the marines shielded from the blast. Gunfire erupted outside of the perimeter as marines from the battalion supply point poured out of the back of Harvard Hall and rushed to the source of the explosion. Alex started to walk backward, toward the battalion aid station.

“Who am I looking for?” yelled Alex.

“Private First Class O’Neil. Caucasian. Short. Pale with freckles,” said Grady.

The battalion sergeant major’s acne-scarred face burst through the tent hatch. “Sir, we have movement south of the river. UAV picked up at least fifty personnel and multiple vehicles at the bridges.”

“Which bridge?” asked Grady sharply.

“All of them, sir.”

“Shit.”

“I’ll take care of your internal problem,” said Alex, turning toward the Old Yard.

“Alex!” yelled Grady, bending over Bruckman’s body. “You might need one of these.”

Grady tossed Bruckman’s HK416, which Alex snatched out of the air by the hand guard. The sergeant’s Motorola followed. He started to open the dead sergeant’s ammo pouches, but Alex stopped him.

“I still have a few of my own.”

Chapter 21

EVENT +59:37

North Beacon Street Bridge

Boston, Massachusetts

Staff Sergeant Terrence Williams stood in the M-ATV’s armored gun turret and squinted into his binoculars. The rain hampered his view of the intersection, but he didn’t need a crystal-clear view to know that the situation at his bridge was about to reach critical mass. Raven imagery passed to his vehicle-mounted tablet showed at least fifty infrared signatures gathered in front of the Brooks Street underpass. That was two minutes ago. The Raven had started with the North Beacon Street Bridge and headed east, confirming similar IR signatures at every bridge over the Charles River. Combined with the report of a massive explosion at the battalion TOC, he wasn’t looking forward to the next several minutes. Something big was going down.

He had a rapidly developing problem. The crowd approaching the bridge didn’t appear to carry weapons. Not like the group that had thrown itself at the civilians over an hour ago. ROE was clear in that case, and the militia made it easy for all of them by displaying and firing weapons. Everyone south of Mr. Fletcher’s group had been declared hostile and was targeted with extreme prejudice. He didn’t like what he saw through his binoculars. They were going to have a serious problem when the growing mass of men, women and children reached the bridge.

“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. I have eyes on sixty-plus foot mobiles approaching south entrance to bridge. I see children. No vehicles present.”

“Copy. Can you confirm weapons from that distance?”

“Nothing in plain sight. Request ROE update,” he said.

“Stand by.”

His orders were explicit. Nothing gets across. And with the newly minted suicide bomber tactic in play, he faced a shitty decision point. If he couldn’t confirm weapons, he would launch tear-gas grenades first, hoping to convince the mob to turn back. Failing that, Raider One Zero’s only remaining option was to physically block the group and try to force them back, which put his marines at risk from hidden weapons or explosive vests. If they spotted weapons, his options didn’t improve. He could use sharpshooters against the armed targets, followed by tear gas against the rest, or—he didn’t want to think about his last option. There was no way he would give that order. Not with children in the group. He’d already lost the bridge. He just hoped the crowd marching through the intersection didn’t realize it.

“One Zero, this is Raider Actual. Hold the bridge. ROE version three still in effect.”

Son of a bitch. Battalion wasn’t going to cut him any slack.

“Graham, put our Matvee in a blocking position at the foot of the bridge.”

“Ooh-rah, Staff Sergeant,” said Corporal Graham.

He keyed the vehicle radio as the fifteen-ton armored vehicle lurched out of its hide site in bushes north of Greenbough Boulevard.

“Raider One Zero, unclassified foot mobiles, numbered thirty plus, are about to walk onto our bridge. All One Zero units will hold fire. I repeat. All One Zero units will hold fire. Observe and report. I need to know if you see weapons. I want Rottolico’s Matvee forming a block with me on the north end. Load all grenade launchers with CS. Start ranging the second Jersey barricade from the far end.”

The Matvee raced into position on the bridge and joined the second vehicle. Williams hopped out of the Matvee and directed Corporal Graham into a twenty-degree angled position blocking the southbound lane. He ensured that the front of the vehicle had adequate clearance from the side of the bridge, to allow a quick evacuation. The second tactical vehicle backed up toward Graham’s, leaving a five-foot gap between the rear bumpers. Satisfied that both vehicles could simultaneously escape, he ordered the marines to take positions behind the Matvees. He walked the line, verifying that they had loaded tear-gas grenades, borrowing one from Private First Class Leverone for his own launcher.

After replacing the high-explosive grenade in his own M320 grenade launcher, Williams climbed into his Matvee’s turret and raised his head far enough to rest his binoculars on top of the armored protection kit. He scanned the crowd channeling past the first barricade. The group funneled into the left lane, which had been cleared of concrete obstructions by a large bulldozer last night. At two hundred feet, with rainsqualls whipping across the bridge, the image was still fuzzy.

“Does anyone see any weapons?” he said into his radio headset.

Negative reports filled Raider One Zero’s designated intersquad channel.

Williams stood up in the turret and leaned over the side.

“Fire one CS grenade each, at right side of the bridge, near the exploded car!”

With the crowd massed in the left lane, he hoped to avoid skimming a solid metal object the size of a Red Bull can into the crowd at two hundred fifty feet per second. Hollow thumps filled the air, and Williams watched several dark objects arc toward the south end of the bridge. Williams knew the tear gas had limitations in this weather, which was why he ordered a large barrage to be fired in front of the mob. He hoped to discourage the civilians by giving them a diluted taste of what lay ahead if they continued. Most civilians had no experience with the painful, debilitating effects of tear gas and retreated immediately when exposed to a light dusting.

Three of the seven 40mm projectiles overshot the smoking car. One hit a piece of debris and ricocheted wildly into the crowd, dropping an adult to the pavement and exploding. A cloud of white gas erupted and covered half of the group before quickly dispersing in the high winds and rain. The CS gas blinded everyone it enveloped, forcing his or her eyes shut with an excruciatingly painful chemical reaction. It then went to work on their lungs and mucus membranes, causing each breath to feel like inhaling fire.

The sudden, violent denial of sight and oxygen caused a tragedy he couldn’t have predicted. With the sole intent of escaping the tear gas, the mob dispersed in every direction. Staff Sergeant Williams watched in horror as a woman holding a child disappeared through a destroyed section of the bridge’s concrete side barrier, followed by several others.

Williams climbed out of the turret and scrambled down the side of the vehicle, hitting the pavement in a dead sprint for the side barrier. He leaned over and counted six people flailing in the water. The current dragged them slowly away from the bridge, into the middle of the Charles River.

Fuck. I killed those people.

He wanted to help them, but a rescue was out of the question. His team didn’t carry any equipment that could possibly help.

“Staff Sergeant! They’re still coming!” yelled the Marine in the gun turret of the second Matvee.

Williams lifted the binoculars and saw at least forty civilians continuing the march toward the north end of the bridge. Still no weapons. The woman hit by the errant 40mm projectile lay motionless on the pavement behind the mob. Small clusters of people materialized in the traffic circle beyond the intersection, headed toward the bridge. If he could break up this advance, they might be able to hold the bridge. He kneeled and aimed his M320 grenade launcher at a point directly in front of the group. The grenade exploded exactly where he intended, obscuring the front rank in a toxic chemical cloud. He watched as the pack worked together to keep the momentum moving forward. He’d fired as close to the crowd as possible without striking it—to little effect.

“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. CS ineffective unless fired directly into crowd, causing hard casualties. No weapons visible. Estimate forty-plus civilians on bridge, with more approaching.”

“Stand by,” said the radio operator.

“Reload tear gas!” he said, running back to his vehicle.

He had just settled into the turret when Raider Base responded over the battalion tactical net.

“One Zero. Use 40 mike mike grenades to repel crowd.”

“What the fuck?” Williams muttered, keying the microphone. “Raider Base, this is One Zero. Say again. I heard use 40 mike mike grenades. Do you mean tear-gas grenades?”

An explosion thundered in the distance. Several seconds passed with no response.

“Raider Base, this is One Zero. Did you copy my last?”

“Stand by, One Zero.”

“Copy. One Zero standing by.”

The explosion was bad news. With the same situation simultaneously unfolding at ten bridges, he knew Raider Base was too busy to hold everyone’s hands. He’d give the tear gas one more chance, then order One Zero’s withdrawal. He wasn’t going to kill or maim more civilians.

“One Zero, standby to fire CS grenades. Leverone, Graham, Rottolico, Howard will fire directly in front of the group. The rest of you will fire to the right. Know your limitations and adjust. I do not want to put another round directly into the group. Five second stand by. Four. Three.

“All Raider units, this is Patriot Actual. Withdraw from your positions immediately and proceed to assigned secondary staging areas for further orders. I say again, withdraw from your positions immediately and report to secondary staging area. Acknowledge, over.”

The battalion commander had just given up the Charles River.

Williams activated the intersquad communications net. “One Zero, mount up. We’re headed to Medford.”

He dropped into the vehicle and squirmed into the front passenger seat as Graham and Leverone jumped in. He waited for his turn to acknowledge the order over the battalion tactical net, the process apparently stalled with Raider One Seven. One Seven covered the Anderson Memorial Bridge two miles downriver. He hoped the explosion had nothing to do with the delay in One Seven’s report. The thought of a bomb detonating on the Anderson Memorial Bridge triggered an instinct. He glanced across the cabin, through Graham’s thick driver-side window. A man sprinted ahead of the crowd.

“Contact, left!” he screamed, kicking his door open.

Williams sprinted to the rear corner of the M-ATV and sighted in on a runner carrying an oversized olive green backpack in his right hand. A short burst of automatic fire stopped the man just as he passed the bridge’s final Jersey barrier. Gunfire erupted from the second vehicle, directed at the advancing crowd.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” he yelled into his headset, pounding on the second Matvee’s rear hatch.

A deep, rhythmic thundering replaced the M240’s rapid chatter.

No. No. No!

Tracers from the third vehicle’s .50-caliber machine gun streamed out of its concealed position along Greenbough Boulevard and connected with the top of the bridge’s side barrier. Chunks of gray concrete exploded, followed by body parts. Williams ran toward the third vehicle, frantically waving his arms and screaming the cease-fire order. The firing stopped.

“Raider One Zero, this is Raider Base. You’re transmitting over battalion tactical. Did you copy Patriot’s last transmission?”

Williams checked the transmit switch attached to his Dragon Skin vest. He had broadcast the cease-fire order over the wrong net. His marines never heard him. He switched back to the intersquad channel.

“Graham, pick me up by Howie’s Matvee,” he said.

The armored vehicles lurched off the bridge and roared onto Greenbough Boulevard, speeding in his direction. Movement in the river drew his attention to three figures struggling against the current to reach the far side. A hundred feet downriver, Williams spotted the rest of them. Four bodies drifted in a loose pack toward Arsenal Street Bridge. One of them was half the size of the others.

Anger and resentment overwhelmed him, directed at everyone. The idea of blocking these bridges had been an obvious zero-sum game, matched and raised in its absurdity by the lunatics running the show south of the Charles River. Now what? Rinse and repeat at the next set of bridges north of Boston?

“Raider One, this is Raider Base. Radio check.”

“Raider One acknowledges the withdrawal order. Proceeding to secondary staging area,” he said, opening the Matvee door. “I think we’re done with this mission,” said Williams.

Leverone and Graham nodded their approval. He’d assigned them to his Matvee for a reason. Like him, they all had young families in the Springfield area.

Chapter 22

EVENT +59:38

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Ed piled out of the side door to Stoughton Hall, stopping in the middle of the red brick walkway connecting the dormitories. A bullet snapped against the building façade several feet beyond him, causing him to flinch.

“Ed!” Alex said, waving him back into the building.

Alex reached the corner of Hollis Hall and edged along the concrete foundation until he stood behind the corporal. Ed held the heavy glass door open, beckoning him to follow.

“I have to take care of something. Get everyone into one room, close the door, and don’t let anyone in until I get back!” Alex yelled.

Ed grimaced. “What the hell is going on?”

“Cambridge is falling. We can expect to leave here shortly,” said Alex.

“Ryan’s leg won’t support any weight!” said Ed.

“We’ll have to make do, unless I can secure a ride with the marines.”

Two bullets ricocheted off the red brick wall a few feet above and in front of the corporal. Alex grabbed the Marine and moved him off the wall. Bullets striking a hard surface at an angle had a tendency to ricochet and continue travelling several inches along the surface.

“Get off the wall, Corporal. One-foot minimum.”

“Ooh-rah, sir! Private, stay off the walls!”

“I should be back in five minutes, Ed. Hold down the fort!”

“Where are you going?” yelled Ed.

“Out there with the good corporal.”

The Marine turned his head as a few more rounds struck the side of Hollis Hall.

“Don’t get shot again,” said Ed.

“Funny.”

“Where are we going, sir?”

“To stop Private First Class O’Neil. Colonel Grady’s orders. Someone detonated Bruckman’s bomb remotely after Top and another Marine brought it out of the perimeter—”

“Top’s dead?”

“Most likely. Whoever triggered the bomb had to be close enough to see them carrying the pack. Bruckman made the medevac runs with O’Neil. They could have picked up the bomb from someone along their return route.”

“Sir, I need to confirm this with the battalion commander,” said Corporal Blake.

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m headed over to the vehicles before he sabotages my only ride out of here,” said Alex, taking off across the wet brick.

Alex entered the Old Yard and made a rapid assessment of the situation. Red tracers streamed across the empty half of the common, bouncing off the rain-obscured dormitory buildings and sailing hundreds of feet in every direction. Extended staccato bursts from the northern side of the yard engaged unseen targets beyond Cambridge Street. The HESCO position directly ahead of him, partially obscured by the battalion’s MTVRs, stood silent, patiently waiting for targets to appear beyond University and Thayer Halls.

Screams rippled through the northern yard as bullets tore through the civilian tents and ruffled tarps tied between the trees. Militia gunfire directed at the marines raked the refugee camp, igniting a panicked stampede for the safety of the battalion’s inner perimeter. The corporal intending to follow him was swallowed in the pandemonium, pushed back into the gap between Stoughton and Hollis Halls. Alex was on his own.

He dashed from the cover of a thick tree trunk to the front of the closest MTVR, briefly detecting figures beyond the quiet machine-gun nest. Bullets snapped past and pummeled the side of the truck during the quick trip, clearly focused on stopping him. Alex dropped to the muddy grass and leaned his head a few inches beyond the truck’s oversized tire.

A partial silhouette appeared from the far corner of Thayer Hall, directly adjacent to the HESCO barrier. Craning his head another inch yielded the complete picture. The two-man machine-gun crew lay crumpled on the ground behind the barricade; the M240G leaned against the inside of the cage, pointing skyward. Bullets smacked into the ground near Alex’s head, forcing him to take cover. The battle for Harvard Yard depended on holding this machine-gun position.

Alex rolled to his right and aimed the HK416 down the first row between vehicle columns. Clear. He stepped onto the MTVR’s running boards and opened the door, climbing into the driver’s seat.

He locked the cabin doors before climbing into the top-mounted, armored gun turret. He located the joystick for the Battery Powered Motorized Traversing Unit and slewed the independently powered turret to the right until the M240B machine gun pointed at the gap between Thayer and University Halls. He pulled back on the charging handle and slid it forward, chambering a round. With the synthetic stock dug firmly into his shoulder, he sighted in on the gap between buildings, hoping it wasn’t too late.

Four men dressed in civilian clothes, carrying rifles, swarmed the HESCO barricade, firing point blank into the unresponsive marines. Alex depressed the trigger before the Liberty Boys added a M240G machine gun to their arsenal. The gun rattled the turret mount, ejecting shells downward into the cabin, but stayed lined up on the tightly packed group of insurgents. The first extended burst punched more than thirty 7.62mm bullets through the group, at a devastating range of fifty yards, detonating a dense cloud of red mist over the HESCO barrier. The second burst shredded the remaining upright bodies, splattering the pavement with bloody entrails, chunks of flesh and skull matter.

Bullets pinged off the front armor plates surrounding Alex’s M240B, drawing his attention to a woman aiming a rifle from a covered position behind the corner of Thayer Hall. With her rifle jammed against the corner, she fired round after round at the weapon that had just cut her militia team to pieces. Alex fired the machine gun, not bothering to aim directly at her silhouette. The wall did most of his work. The first steel projectiles struck the brick wall at 2800 feet per second and ricocheted toward the woman before the rest obliterated the brick. When Alex’s gun fell silent, the woman stumbled forward in a cloud of masonry dust and dropped to her knees. Most of her face was gone.

Automatic fire erupted from Alex’s immediate right, cracking overhead and pounding the turret’s side armor. He dropped into the cabin, catching a glimpse of a helmet through the thick, bullet-resistant driver’s-side window. He drew his pistol and turned the door handle, kicking the hatch open. The reinforced door slammed into the traitor’s rifle, knocking it from his grip and smashing his nose. The Marine stumbled backward into another MTVR, and Alex fired the remaining 9mm rounds from his P30 at the marine’s legs, dropping him to the grass in an agonized heap.

“Get back on the 240! That fucker took out one of the MG’s covering the south perimeter. You have a clear field of fire! I’ll get the east gun back into action!” yelled a familiar voice from the front of the truck.

Alex climbed into the turret and spotted a lone Marine racing toward the gore-streaked HESCO cage next to Thayer Hall. The young corporal lifted the machine gun and placed its bipod legs on the barricade. Once he started firing across the eastern yard, Alex rotated the turret right until he had a commanding view of the south commons. The machine-gun position located on the western side of the Old Yard stood quiet, another victim of O’Neil’s rifle.

Two figures snaked along Matthews Hall, using the uneven façade to mask their approach from the remaining gun. In the confusion, they had managed to advance within fifty feet of the southern perimeter line. Alex lined up the front sight with the partially obscured figures and centered the notch in the rear sight ring, depressing the trigger. Bricks exploded, and one of the targets tumbled to the ground a few feet into the grass. Alex fired a long burst between the body and the wall, guessing what might happen next. The bullets caught the second insurgent trying to grab his partner, splattering the concrete foundation behind them.

Two marines sprinted from the corner of Harvard Hall to the downed machine-gun position beyond his gun sights. Alex scanned for threats beyond Matthews Hall, keeping the sector secure until they arrived and put the M240G back into action. One of the marines left the protection of the HESCO barrier and ran toward the battalion aid station with one of the wounded machine gunners in a fireman’s carry. Alex dropped into the cabin and opened the door, grabbing his rifle from the passenger seat. He jumped down on O’Neil’s legs, causing him to scream, and tossed the traitor’s rifle well out of crawling distance.

“I’ll get this devil dog to the aid station,” he said, intercepting the Marine in front of the MTVR. “You go back and get the other. I’ll meet you on my way back.”

The staff sergeant shook his head and pointed at the Marine on the ground between the two rows of trucks. “Ramirez is dead. You grab that one.”

Alex stared at O’Neil, who clutched both legs, crying out in pain.

“He killed the marines. I need you to dump that piece of shit in the battalion TOC and tell the colonel it’s a special delivery from Alex Fletcher.”

The staff sergeant’s right hand drifted toward his rifle.

“You have to deliver him alive. He might have information critical to surviving this nightmare.”

The staff sergeant transferred the unresponsive Marine into Alex’s care and jogged toward O’Neil.

“Alive, Staff Sergeant!” said Alex, not encouraged by the marine’s glare.

Alex carried the Marine across the abandoned sea of trampled tents, backpacks and moaning bodies, noticing that the incoming militia fire had slackened. With the bomb plot thwarted, and all of the battalion’s machine guns back in action, the attack had been reduced to a lethal, medium-range engagement. Lethal for the militia. By the time Alex reached the steps of Stoughton Hall, the yard was quiet except for the panicked yelling inside the building. He fought his way through the packed hallway, jamming the side of his HK416 against those unwilling to move.

“Make a hole! Let’s go! Out of the way!”

“Take it easy! My wife’s ankle was sprained in that mess out there,” barked a man in front of Alex, holding a woman up by the arm.

“This Marine was shot standing guard over you,” said Alex, shoving past the man.

Alex pushed his way through the door to the triage center and helped one of the corpsmen lower the unresponsive Marine onto the floor. All of the cots were occupied by marines or civilians with grisly wounds. The events of the past five minutes had quickly filled the station to capacity. The corpsman worked on the wounded Marine for several seconds, conducting a trauma assessment.

“Class IV!” he announced, turning to Alex. “Sorry.”

Class IV was a death sentence. The corporal’s wounds required treatment beyond the aid station’s capabilities, and they couldn’t move him to one of the local hospitals. Grady didn’t have the personnel to spare. Simple life-sustaining measures like emergency airway breathing and plasma replacement only delayed the inevitable, consuming resources that could be used to stabilize other casualties. If the Marine revived on his own, they’d sedate him with narcotics. Combat triage was a bitch. Without the prospect of immediate medical evacuation to a Level Three medical treatment facility, triage was an angry, merciless bitch.

Alex dug through the marine’s ammunition pouches, filling his cargo pockets with spare rifle magazines. He had a feeling they faced a protracted siege at Harvard Yard that required an “all hands” effort. He eyeballed the corporal’s Dragon Skin tactical vest, wishing he could get his hands on a few of them. The level IV body armor could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet, along with high-explosive fragmentation. Unfortunately, it didn’t protect you from traitors that understood the vest’s coverage limitations.

Angry shouting erupted from the hallway, causing Alex to level his rifle at the open doorway. The battalion surgeon glanced from the door to Alex and went back to work on a squirming woman held down by a blood-splattered corpsman. A mud-encrusted Marine stepped inside the room a few moments later.

“Colonel Grady just issued the thirty-minute withdrawal order, sir. No civilians.”

“We’re gonna need some help getting these marines to the vehicles,” said one of the corpsmen.

“We have our hands full with the perimeter. You’ll have to make do,” said the staff sergeant.

“Transition to palliative care for the civilians,” said the battalion surgeon, addressing the corpsman.

The navy petty officer beside him paused for a second before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant commander tossed a bloodstained surgical instrument onto the wooden table and turned to face the Marine. Placidly composed, his face projected a stolid “don’t fuck with me” expression. He spoke deliberately.

“Tell Grady we require an escort. When the crowd finds out that we’re abandoning civilian casualties, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to reach the vehicles without creating more casualties—and I have no intention of doing that.”

“Sir, the battalion has its hands fu—”

“Take a look around you, Staff Sergeant. I have thirteen critical casualties. Four marine, nine civilian. I just issued an order that killed the civilians and violated my Hippocratic Oath. Their families are waiting outside that door. Guess who gets to face that music?” He paused. “Tell Grady to get his head out of Homeland’s ass and figure it out, or he can find a new battalion surgeon.”

“Goddamn it, Commander. I don’t have the personnel to—fuck it; we’ll clear the building. Be ready to move in ten minutes,” said the marine.

“We’ll be ready in five. What’s our destination?” said the naval officer.

“Melrose Armory.”

“What’s the status on a Level Three MTF?”

“Not at Melrose. They’re still working on the delivery of equipment and personnel to Concord or New Londonderry. I’ll be back in ten, sir,” said the marine.

“Lock the door on your way out,” said the battalion surgeon, glaring at Alex. “Reclassify that Marine as Class II and stabilize him for transport.”

“Class II, sir,” answered the corpsman.

“If you don’t get moving, gentlemen, I’ll put you to work,” said the surgeon.

Alex left with the marine, pulling the door shut behind him and checking that it was locked. The civilians jammed against them, asking questions that Alex ignored. He broke through the crowd and jogged down the long, dim hallway to the stairs, passing open dormitory rooms filled with injured civilians. He wondered if these people might be better off without the marines at this point.

His legs protested halfway up the first flight of stairs, forcing him to stop on the landing and lean against the wall. A wave of exhaustion and ache washed over him, no longer confined to his left shoulder. The dirty bandages covering the shotgun wound showed signs of blood seepage. He fought the urge to take a seat in the stairwell, knowing he probably wouldn’t get up. His mission was to get Ryan and the Walkers into one of the MTVRs for the battalion’s withdrawal. Melrose was located a few miles due east of the Middlesex Fells Reservation, and he had every intention of hitching a ride as far north as possible.

He shuffled up the remaining stairs and entered the deserted second-floor hallway. Ed Walker poked his head out of the fourth door on the right.

“Ed! Battalion is pulling out in thirty minutes! We need to be moving!”

“Shit,” said Ed, stepping into the hallway with Alex’s original rifle. “Is it safe out there?”

“Safer than staying here. They’re headed up to a National Guard Armory in Melrose, which isn’t far from your jeep. Two miles tops. Charlie can drive the Jeep to meet us if Grady won’t take us directly,” he said, patting Ed on the shoulder. “We’re almost out of here, man.”

“I’ll feel better when we’re loaded up on one of their trucks,” said Ed.

“Me too. How’s Chloe?” whispered Alex.

“Better. She’s able to talk to Ryan, but she still won’t look at him.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong, Ed. I’ve seen marines freeze up way worse than that. Things got really nasty right before the bridge, and it got worse from there. She’s going to need some time and distance, neither of which are in ready supply right now. She’ll be the same young woman soon enough. Trust me.”

“I don’t think any of us will be the same.”

“My guess is she’ll be fine. Let’s get our shit together and secure some seats on the last ride out of Boston.”

The stairwell door behind him burst open, causing him to whirl and level his rifle. A Marine first lieutenant stepped into the hallway and froze at the sight of the rifle.

“Captain Fletcher?”

“Mr. Fletcher works just fine,” said Alex, lowering the rifle.

“Colonel Grady instructed us to call you captain. He needs you in the TOC.”

“I’m a little busy right now.”

“Give him five minutes, sir.”

“I need to secure transport out of here before the civilians figure out that the battalion is abandoning Harvard Yard.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sir. I’ve been ordered to facilitate your group’s evacuation. As soon as they’re ready to move, I’ll escort them to Harvard Hall.”

Alex looked at Ed, who shrugged with a ‘why not?’ look on his face. If Grady was offering them a ride out, who was he to turn it down? Especially if that ride came in the form of a small-arms-impregnable vehicle and only cost him a few hours of scouring through the Liberty Boys’ file data. The Captain Fletcher thing was a little annoying, but he could understand Grady’s need to give him some perceived authority in light of the chaotic circumstances.

“Fair enough. Tell Grady I’ll be right down,” he said, turning to Ed. “Stay close to this marine.”

“What’s that saying you like to use?” Ed said. “Glued to his ass?”

“That’ll work. Lieutenant? I want them in Harvard Hall ASAP.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll escort them down as soon as we get their shit together.” He extended his rifle toward Ed. “Trade you.”

“They’re the same,” protested Ed.

“But that one’s mine.”

“I give up trying to figure out how marines think,” said Ed, swapping rifles.

Chapter 23

EVENT +59:53

Harvard Yard

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Alex weaved through the chaotic mess of refugees that had enveloped the battalion TOC. The wounded sentry had been replaced with four marines that barely held the crowd back. As he approached the inner ring of civilians, one of the marines pushed through the angry mob and pulled him through.

“You’re good to go, sir,” said the sergeant, pointing toward the entrance flap.

He stepped inside to find most of the battalion’s gear packed into reinforced, gray travel cases marked “Cat Five.” Lieutenant Colonel Grady stood near the operations station, taking reports from the battalion staff huddled in front of communications gear. Grady saw him and rushed over.

“Attention in the TOC!” said Grady, halting all activity. “Based on the authority vested in my command by the Joint Department of Defense and Homeland Security Directive Five Bravo, I hereby commission Alex P. Fletcher as a provisional officer in the United States Marine Corps reserve, at an O-3 pay grade, effective immediately. Congratulations, Captain Fletcher. As you were, Marines!”

A few celebratory “ooh-rahs” echoed through the shelter, and the marines quickly went back to work, scrambling to pack up for their impending evacuation. Alex remained at attention in front of Grady, coming to his senses a few seconds later.

“What just happened?” he said loud enough to draw a few hurried stares from nearby marines.

“I need your expertise, Alex, and your judgment. Corporal Meyers told me what you did out there. You prevented a serious perimeter breach.”

“You don’t have to make me a captain, Sean. I’ll gladly help you sort through the militia file in exchange for a ride up to Medford.”

“The Liberty Boys aren’t my problem anymore. We’re heading well north of the city. I need your help with something else.”

“My top priority is getting everyone back to Maine,” stated Alex.

“That’s exactly where I’m sending you. One of my infantry companies is based out of Brunswick, Maine. Alpha Company. I’ve had no contact with them since the EMP.”

“Now it’s an EMP?” said Alex.

Grady raised an eyebrow. “What else could it be? Homeland hasn’t confirmed it, but I don’t expect them to. We have enough problems without rumors of a foreign attack or invasion.”

“Yeah. Reports of a U.S. government sponsored invasion seem to be keeping everyone occupied at the moment,” quipped Alex.

“I’d like you to lead a convoy of two Matvees back to Maine and establish contact with Alpha Company. First stop in Maine is at your discretion,” said Grady.

“You don’t need me to babysit your marines, Sean. What’s the catch?”

“If this shakes out like I suspect, southern Maine is about to become a significant focal point in the federal government’s recovery plan. I assume you’re familiar with Sanford?”

Alex nodded, wondering exactly how much Grady knew about his compound in Limerick. Was he included in Homeland’s file?

“Sanford has a 5,000-foot runway and sits strategically in the center of southern Maine. Rivers naturally define most of the state’s southern border, which makes it easy to seal off from the bulk of expected refugee traffic. One of the joint FEMA/Homeland Recovery plans establishes Maine as a Primary Recovery Zone. When that happens—”

“If it happens,” said Alex.

“Oh, it’s going to happen. The tsunami, coupled with the EMP, likely caused critical damage to Seabrook and Pilgrim nuclear plants. Think full reactor meltdown.”

Alex shook his head slowly.

“The refugee situation along the coast is already a mess. Wait until everyone within a thirty-mile radius of each plant hits the road. Southern Maine is about to become one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in New England. Guess what’s in this file?” said Grady, lifting a green envelope.

“Recipes for radioactive clam chowder?”

“Funny. Profiles of militia groups in Maine. When Maine is declared a PRZ, every reserve and National Guard military unit in northern New England will be sent to southern Maine to assist in recovery efforts. Homeland assessed that local militia, and Mainers in general, will not respond favorably to the sudden influx.”

“How does this relate to me being conscripted into the Marine Corps?”

“1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment will provide security within the Southern District,” he said, pausing. “And I don’t want a repeat of Boston. The Liberty Boys may or may not have responded to battalion outreach efforts. We’ll never know, and that’s my bad. I want you to study these files and come up with a game plan to approach the groups in Maine. You know them better than anyone. Ideally, we’d want to incorporate them into the overall recovery structure. Get them vested in—”

“The success of the military’s plan to speed the recovery and return control of civil functions to the local government?” said Alex.

“You know the drill. Think of this as a favor,” said Grady.

“Who’s doing who the favor? I kind of lost track.”

Grady started laughing. “We’re knee deep in favors. I’m giving you an armed escort back to Maine and a provisional commission in the Marine Corps Reserve, which gives you one of these.”

He reached into the green file folder and withdrew a light blue card with a magnetic strip on one side.

“Military ID card?”

“Better. Provisional Security ID. If you accept my offer, I’ll activate the card and upload your information to Homeland’s database. I doubt any of the law enforcement agencies or Guard units have the capacity to swipe this card, but they can confirm your identity and classification via satellite phone. Instructions are on the back of the card. You’ll be classified as security/intelligence, which will give you unrestricted travel and facilities access.”

“Travel will be restricted?”

“Only if we run into trouble, which is why I’m putting you to work on this before we arrive. I’ll provide you with a secure satellite communications kit and a ruggedized laptop. You’ll communicate directly with me, or in some cases my S-2. Can I count on your help, Captain Fletcher?” said Grady, extending a hand.

Alex weighed the situation. Taking the “deal” solved most of their immediate problems. It provided a heavily armed, government-sponsored escort to Maine, which, given the acutely hostile environment, seemed well worth the price. Long term, the military rank and security ID gave them an additional layer of protection and privilege, regardless of whether Grady’s predictions came true. Priority medical treatment for his son’s leg or, at the very least, access to medical supplies. Transportation. He envisioned safely returning to Durham Road to collect his family’s personal effects. Pictures, scrapbooks—everything they’d left behind.

Grasping Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s hand, he knew the job involved far more than relaxing at the Fletcher compound, reviewing files and typing up reports. A deep instinct told him to walk away, but he brushed it aside and shook Grady’s hand, standing at attention immediately after.

“As you were, Captain Fletcher. Welcome back to the Marine Corps,” he said, handing Alex the thick file folder. “The papers contain executive summaries of the data found on the flash drive. You’ll set your own password when you plug the drive into the laptop. I’ll activate your ID card and meet you in Harvard Hall to release the electronics gear. S-4 will set you up with some battle rattle, and off you go.”

Grady considered him for a moment and nodded slowly. “Alex, I really appreciate you doing this—on top of everything you’ve already done for the battalion. Our reunion here was providence. I’m sure of it.”

“If not, it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“Too big for that. I’ll see you in a few,” said Grady, walking toward the operations table.

“Colonel Grady?”

The battalion commander looked back.

“Does Homeland have a file on me?”

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s just say that activating your ID will be a one-click evolution,” said Grady.

“I didn’t give you my information yet.”

“Like I said,” he smiled and knelt next to a monitor displaying a map overlay of Boston.

“Captain Fletcher,” said a young Marine from the left side of the tent. “You can sneak out the back door. Head right to supply in Harvard Hall. Your family will be there shortly.”

Nausea hit him in a sudden, quickly passing wave. Homeland Security’s omnipresent hand felt suddenly oppressive. The government’s level of knowledge about everything and everyone was disturbing. Alex wondered what might have happened if he had refused Grady’s offer. Would Homeland have changed his status and paid him a visit in Limerick? Did their banter about favors have more meaning than Alex realized? Maybe the choice had never truly been his to make.

Providence, my ass.

Chapter 24

EVENT +59:42

Middlesex Fells Reservation

Medford, Massachusetts

Even the windshield wipers worked surprisingly well in the Matvee. He’d imagined the same shitted-up, blurry ride he’d experienced with the venerable Humvee, but everything about the Oshkosh Defense’s M-ATV sang the words “major improvement.” Visibility through the tiny bullet-resistant side windows sucked, but that shortcoming was more than compensated for by the small arms and IED impregnable armor design. He felt secure inside the tactical vehicle and wished he could convince himself to leave the Jeep behind. He pointed at the granite sign marking the entrance to the reservation’s lower parking lot.

“Take a left at that sign.”

The corporal driving hit the tactical vehicle’s siren, which sounded like a police car, while the Marine in the turret yelled at the thick stream of refugees blocking the entrance. They had stopped using the horn twenty minutes ago. The trip had been stop and go most of the way from Harvard Square, rarely exceeding fifteen miles per hour. News of the battalion’s evacuation spread quickly, prompting a large percentage of the civilian holdouts in the areas surrounding Cambridge to take flight. Perceptions ruled the day. The past twenty-four hours had been marked by frightening exchanges of distant and nearby gunfire. With the marines gone and the bridges unguarded, Cambridge was now vulnerable to the threat south of the Charles River.

The convoy cleared the crowd and slowed in front of the concrete underpass.

“We gonna clear that, Barry?” yelled the driver.

“Good to go!” said the turret gunner, sticking a thumbs-up through the hatch into the cabin.

The corporal eased the Matvee under the train trestle and roared forward toward the main parking lot. A few seconds later, Alex stopped him.

“I think this is it. Chandler Road.”

“Not much of a road, sir,” he said, pulling the left side of the vehicle as close to the trail marker as possible. “Confirmed. Chandler Road. Is there room to maneuver in there?”

“It’s not worth getting one of your vehicles stuck. The Jeep is a half mile away. I can walk it,” said Alex.

“Your guy can’t drive it out, sir?”

“We moved a few downed trees across the path. It’ll take two of us to move them,” he said, glancing back at Ed in the rear driver’s-side seat.

Rain poured through the open turret hatch, soaking both the rear passenger seats. Ed raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Ryan and Chloe sat jammed in the rear troop compartment.

“Kids, I’m headed out to grab Uncle Charlie and our Jeep. I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes.”

Ryan nodded, still wiped out by the painkillers.

Chloe smiled wearily, looking a little more like the joyful, carefree young woman he remembered. The further they drove from Boston, the more she emerged from the mental barrier she’d constructed at the North Beacon Street Bridge. Alex knew from experience that she would never fully step out from behind the wall, but given enough time and compassionate support, few would notice. He returned the smile before activating his handheld radio.

“Durham One-Seven, this is Durham Three-Zero, over.”

“This is One-Seven. Solid copy.”

“I’m coming in on foot. Tactical vehicles won’t fit down the trail. Meet me at the first obstacle with the Jeep. How copy?”

“Oh, man. What are we talking about here? M-ATV? Fully armored troop carrier variant? It’s an M-ATV, right?” squawked the radio.

Alex winked at Ed. “I brought two of them, my friend,” he said to Charlie.

Prolonged static filled the cabin.

“One Seven, you still there?”

“You’re gonna make me drive the Jeep back, aren’t you?”

“How could I deprive you of this? You’ve earned it. The marines will stick you in one of the turrets, if you don’t mind the rain—and promise to keep your hands behind your back.”

“Holy shit! Are you serious? In the turret? What kind of firepower are we talking? Is there somewhere to sit, or do I have to stand the whole time?”

“One Zero, we’ll work out the details when we get back. I’m starting my trek into the reservation. See you in a few minutes. Out,” said Alex, turning off the radio. “You think the staff sergeant will let him in one of the turrets?” he asked the corporal.

Corporal Gibson shrugged his shoulders. “It’s up to you, Captain. He sounds a bit excitable.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Alex. He’ll drive the staff sergeant crazy,” said Ed.

“I wasn’t going to put him in the rear vehicle,” said Alex.

“What? No wonder you’re so excited to drive the Jeep. Forget it. It’s my Jeep. I get to drive it to—”

“With all due respect, sir, one of the marines in the rear vehicle will drive the Jeep,” said Corporal Gibson. “Based on the current conversation, I’d feel more comfortable if both of you were present when Durham One-Zero steps into the turret.”

“Apparently, Corporal Gibson is far more savvy than he appears,” said Alex. “Let the staff sergeant know we’ll need one of his marines to drive the Jeep back to Maine.”

“My pleasure, sir. Truly my pleasure.”

PART IV

“REMEMBER THE ALAMO”

Chapter 25

EVENT +60:04

Limerick, Maine

An unfamiliar digital tone resonated from the kitchen. Kate walked out of the steamy dining room and looked around, unable to identify the source of the sound. Her stomach knotted. More visitors? Maybe today’s law enforcement visit had been legitimate. She hesitated, not wanting to leave Emily alone in the surveillance hub. The two “deputies” had triggered one of the sensors on their way back to the road, but they had agreed to monitor the room 24/7. Tim Fletcher bolted through the sitting room doorway next to the intercom station and saw where Kate was headed.

“That’s the satellite phone,” he blurted. “It’s charging next to the coffee maker.”

“Is that the satphone?” yelled Samantha from the great room to Kate’s left.

“Yes!”

She snatched the phone off the granite and read the display: “GOVT.”

“Shit. It says government. Are they calling us with messages now?”

“Who cares?” Samantha said impatiently. “Pick it up. Either way it’s important.”

Everyone crowded around her as she pressed the green button. “Hello?”

“Honey? It’s Alex.”

Kate found herself unable to answer for a moment. “Yes,” she uttered finally. “It’s me. Is everyone all right?”

“The kids are fine. Ed and Charlie are fine. I’m a little beat up, but I’m fine too. We did it, honey. The kids are with me right now, and we’re headed home.”

She started nodding, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Everyone’s fine. They’re on the way home,” she said to the group gathered around her.

Everyone cheered, and Amy ran over to the dining room. “They got the kids. Everyone made it!”

“Honey, I’ll talk to you in a couple of minutes. Pass the phone to Chloe so her mom can talk to her. She’s worried sick,” said Kate, holding the phone out to Samantha.

“Like you weren’t worried,” said Sam, eagerly taking the phone and walking onto the deck.

Kate hugged Emily and was quickly joined by Amy. They held each other while the phone was passed around. Tim peeked out of the dining room, smiling and nodding.

“How far out are they?” he asked.

Linda handed the phone to one of her daughters. “Charlie said they were still in Medford. They’re moving slowly because the streets are jammed with people. They’re thinking it might take four to five hours to get back. After dark for sure.”

“I hate to have them drive into Gelder Pond with those nutballs out there. They could be waiting near the entrance for all we know, with more fake cops,” said Tim.

“Charlie said they’re with a convoy of marines,” said Linda.

“What?” said Kate, making her way toward the screen porch.

“I love you too, Dad,” said Alyssa Walker, handing the phone out to Kate.

She took it. “Charlie?”

“Kate? Great to hear your voice. You won’t believe what we went through. Apocalypse -fucking-Now kind of shit. Your boy will heal up nicely and probably get a Silver Star! Alex too.”

“What do you mean? Charlie, can I talk to my son?”

“Oh sure, sorry. Here’s the hero right now!”

In the background on the phone, she heard Charlie say, “I think I screwed up, Alex.”

“Mom, I’m fine,” Ryan slurred on the other end of the phone. “Mr. Thornton was being a little overdramatic.”

“You don’t sound fine. What happened?”

“They had to give me morphine. I got hit in the leg.”

Kate found herself unable to breathe. “Hit by what?’ she said, sitting down on one of the chairs.

“A bullet. We had some serious trouble getting out of Boston, but I’m totally fine. Mom? You there, Mom?”

“I’m just a little…it’s so good to hear your voice. We didn’t know how bad it would get down there. I can’t tell you how happy I am,” she said, sobbing in between sentences.

“Me too, Mom. I thought about the sailing trip and—”

“I know. I know, sweetie. We barely made it back,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“How is Chloe doing?”

“She’s doing great, Mom. I went to her apartment right after the shockwave hit. The city got pretty weird.”

“You can tell me all about it in a few hours. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Let me talk to your father. I love you very, very much, Ryan.”

“I love you too, Mom. I can’t wait to get back.”

“Me either.”

“Here’s Dad.”

Kate waited for her husband’s voice to fill the digital void.

“Kate, Ryan is fine. I didn’t want to worry you. We ran into some trouble.”

“You’re bringing him back in one piece. That’s all that matters. I love you,” she said, her voice cracking.

“I love you more, honey. I would have done anything to get him back.”

“I know you. That’s why I was so scared. I wasn’t sure I’d get to see both of you again,” she said.

“You almost didn’t see either of us. The situation down here is beyond comprehension. If we had waited another day…we might not be having this conversation. We can talk about it over an ice-cold dirty vodka martini down by the pond. How was your trip out? Sounds like everyone made it fine.”

“I think happy hour will have to wait. We ran into a bit of a problem,” she said.

“Everyone’s okay, right?”

“Everyone is fine, but we were stopped by two drunken idiots in Waterboro claiming to be part of a militia group. It didn’t end well for them. They wanted us to give up our weapons or pay a toll to use the road.”

“How much did they want?”

“They didn’t want money,” Kate stated.

“What did they want?”

“I think they had something a little more personal in mind.”

“Shit. Sorry, hon. One of us should have gone with you.”

“I don’t think it would have made a difference. Actually, it might have confused the situation. We did fine. Linda shoots an AR better than you do,” she said.

“That’s good to know,” he said, pausing. “So what’s preventing happy hour?”

“We ditched the bikes and took their SUV. I didn’t want any of their buddies running us down on Route 5. I think someone in Limerick recognized us. The York County Sheriff’s Department paid us a visit this afternoon.”

“At the compound?”

“They buzzed the intercom from the gate, but we ignored it.”

“Good. Trust me, Kate; the Sheriff’s Department isn’t making house calls, and they’re certainly not launching murder investigations. They’re tied up at the borders.”

“That’s what we thought. The guys had badges, but no uniforms.”

“Definitely not legitimate. York County sheriff’s deputies shower in their uniforms,” he said, “How were you able to see them?”

“With the cameras at the gate,” said Kate. How else?

“Wait. How were the cameras working?”

“We installed the replacement cameras at the gate,” said Kate.

“Those are wireless.”

“Abby Walker’s a little IT wizard. She replaced the router and sorted out all of the surveillance equipment. Amazingly, she can read your hieroglyphics. Good thing she was here. Your dad was scratching his head.”

“Motion sensors?”

“That’s how we knew the bullshit deputies took a stroll through the woods to check out the house. Everything is up and running according to your nearly indecipherable logbooks, including the backup solar array.”

“How-how close did they come to the house?” he uttered.

“They stayed in the eastern tree line, opposite the garage.”

“Why the hell would anyone announce themselves at the gate, then trespass for a look at the house?”

“They were probably looking for the car,” said Kate.

“Please tell me the car isn’t in the garage.”

“The car isn’t in the garage,” she said.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“We covered it with a tarp and boarded up the windows. Dead-bolted the garage door. We couldn’t leave it sitting on Old Middle Road—not that it took them very long to find us.”

“Did the guys in Waterboro mention which militia group they were with?”

“No, and they weren’t dressed in any type of uniform. They might have been full of shit. They were certainly full of beer.”

“Maybe, but we ran across something Deliverance -like near the New Hampshire border. We’re talking sick and twisted stuff, involving a militia group. The crew we ran into was disturbingly organized.”

“This doesn’t sound like the same thing,” said Kate.

“Did they have out-of-state plates?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

The line stayed silent for a few seconds.

“Alex, you still there?”

“Did you set up the sensors like I indicated?” said Alex.

“Yes, but we still have a lot of gaps in the perimeter.”

“What about the sandbags?”

“We filled about two hundred sandbags before the rain started, and we’ll start up again once it stops.”

“You should have enough to build two safe boxes. I’d get started on that immediately. You’ll have to run the table saw.”

“Linda and I decided to focus on the firing positions. We can’t repel an attack from the safe boxes,” she said, expecting some pushback.

“Good point. You’re right. Sorry to pepper you with questions. It sounds like you have things under control.”

“If you want to call it that. We had enough sandbags to build five positions. One in the master bedroom covering the eastern approach; two in the great room, giving us full coverage of the barn and lake approaches; one in the sitting room facing south; and the last one upstairs in the small bedroom. You can see most of the backyard and some of the barn from that one. If something goes down, we’ll herd the non-shooters into the basement with your mother.”

“Make sure you stack some spare mags at each position. I’m sure Dad is still walking around with one mag for his Vietnam-era relic,” said Alex.

Kate detected an ease that she didn’t expect.

“Linda duct-taped a spare to the stock, with a quick release tab. She’s like MacGyver.”

“Night vision?”

“Both of the spotting scopes are sitting on the kitchen island.”

“Sounds like you have the situation under control,” he said.

“We’ll all feel a hell of a lot better with you guys inside the perimeter.”

“I’m not sure how much of a difference we’ll make. Ryan needs crutches to get around, Charlie’s a refrigerator trip away from taking nitroglycerin pills, and I could probably use a wheelchair at this point. Ed and Chloe are the only fish you won’t throw back in the water.”

“I’m sure I can find a few uses for you, if you know what I mean,” she teased.

“I could use a visit or two from the naughty nurse,” he whispered.

“We left that costume back at the house,” she said.

“That’s what you think. Did you check the bottom of your rucksack?”

Kate burst into laughter, drawing a few stares from the kitchen. Alex’s mom hovered near the kitchen table, stealing glances at the phone.

“I’m getting dirty looks from everyone, so stop. Charlie said you were with the marines. What’s up with that?”

“Crazy story. One of my old platoon commanders is in charge of the reserve Marine battalion based out of Fort Devens. He kind of saved my ass down here. I’m doing some intel analysis on militia groups for him. Stuff I can do on the couch. Got us an official escort back, which is a good thing. The borders are pretty much closed.”

“Well, I’m glad everyone is safe. Let me put your mother on before she blows a gasket. I love you. Call again when you’re in Limerick.”

“Will do. Love you too, honey.”

“Here’s your mother,” Kate said, nodding for Amy, who abandoned all pretense of staring at the floor and ran for the phone.

Chapter 26

EVENT +61:33

Parsonsfield, Maine

Tyler Hatfield’s eyes shifted left and right through swollen eyelids when he lifted his bloodied chin to look Eli in the face. His breathing, made difficult by several broken ribs, appeared erratic and forced. The young man slowly cleared his throat and spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirt floor.

“You spit on me again, I’ll cut out your tongue and force feed it to your fiancée, along with a few other select cuts of meat.”

“Eli, I swear I was gonna come find you as soon as I could. I was on my way over right after—”

“After what? By my watch you’re about thirty-five hours late, unless the EMP fried your watch and—”

Hatfield started to respond, but Eli cut him off.

“And opened a black hole that suspended time!” said Eli, rushing up and pressing the flat side of a serrated knife against Hatfield’s cheek.

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Hatfield! You deserted my brother’s unit in the middle of battle. Got them all killed!”

“No. No,” he whimpered. “It wasn’t like that. Everyone was dead already. I had to get to the church to bring back reinforcements.”

“They found a radio in your car, deserter,” said Eli, twisting the blade and pushing it a few centimeters into his left cheek.

Hatfield screamed and twisted in his bindings against the thick wooden post holding up the dilapidated barn’s loft, succeeding only in digging the knife deeper into his face.

Eli put his face next to the man’s head and hissed, “You better come clean, boy, or I’m gonna gut your bride right in front of you. Tell me everything, and don’t leave out a single detail.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Eli. Please don’t hurt Mary.”

“That all depends on you,” said Eli, slipping the knife out of his cheek. “Gentlemen, I got this from here,” he said to the two uniformed militiamen standing next to the closed barn door. “Why don’t you head up to the house and grab a few cold ones. It’s hotter than hell in here. Good work bringing this piece of shit in. Hatfield and I are about to have a heart-to-heart talk. Send Mr. McCulver down in about ten minutes.”

Eli wasn’t sure why he was congratulating these two idiots. It took them a day and a half to track down Hatfield’s fiancée’s home address and follow the trail to her sister’s house in Buxton, where Tyler and his disgustingly plain bitch were hiding. God help them if he couldn’t find better recruits. When the hatch next to the barn door slammed shut, exposing tendrils of dusty sunlight, he wiped his knife on Hatfield’s pants.

“Start talking.”

Several minutes later, Eli stood up from a scratched, unfinished wooden stool.

“You’re a hundred and ten percent sure they weren’t some kind of Special Forces unit? Just regular guys you say?”

“More than that. A hundred and twenty percent.”

“You can’t have more than a hundred and ten percent, Tyler. Everybody knows that.”

Hatfield continued pleading for his life, oblivious to Eli’s facetious comment.

“I don’t know how they got the jump on Jimmy, but by the time we got there, the whole west side of the bridge was throwing lead at us. Bikers, women, everyone had a gun. You stuck your head up; you got shot.”

“Is that so?” said Eli.

“I swear it.”

“I believe you, Tyler. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Eli checked Hatfield’s bindings, ensuring that his wrists, ankles and neck were secured to the post. Confident that his captive couldn’t execute an embarrassing escape, he scurried to the left rear corner of the barn and pulled on a thick metal ring attached to the floor. A trapdoor inched open, revealing a rectangle in the hard-packed floor. Holding onto the ring, he leaned back, and the door swung on its hinges, stopping perpendicular to the ground.

He pulled a flashlight out of a pouch on his belt and descended the stairs. At the bottom, he activated the light and shined it in Hatfield’s fiancée’s face. Her head twisted away from the powerful beam. A muffled scream barely penetrated the thick layers of silver duct tape.

“Damn, it’s nice and cool down here,” he said, grabbing her thick brown hair and yanking her upright.

“You’ve been a good girl so far; don’t fuck it up now,” he said, breathing against her face.

He meant what he said. The underground chamber had been designed as a hide site and couldn’t be locked from the outside, which presented a risk. Then again, the trapdoor weighed at least fifty pounds, which made it nearly impossible to open with hands zip-tied behind your back. Eli had kind of hoped to hear some faint knocking at some point in the afternoon. The thought of her ramming that ugly face pointlessly against the impenetrable slab made him smile. Some people have the good sense to know when they’re beat. Maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she looked.

“Up the stairs. You try to run and I’ll kill your sister, her family, your brother, parents—everyone. You got me?”

She nodded repeatedly, and he pushed her up into the musty barn.

“Now, I’m gonna take this tape off your mouth, but you don’t say a word, or your husband-to-be is going to lose something important for your wedding night.”

She nodded again, and he went to work on the tape, which proved to be difficult to remove without taking a little skin along with it. She cried and whimpered, but kept quiet.

“Very good girl.”

“Mary, is that you?” said Hatfield, straining his head to see around the square beam.

“Shhhh,” said Eli, walking her right behind him, keeping her out of view.

He slipped a combat knife out of a leather sheath attached to his belt and spun her around, jamming the seven-inch Marine KA-BAR blade to the hilt inside her stomach. His stabbing hand mechanically forced the razor-sharp knife in and out of her abdomen several more times while his left hand pulled her tightly against him. She dropped to the ground without making a sound. He nudged her onto her side with his foot, surprised to see her eyes wide open, staring lifelessly at his legs.

“You were supposed to scream like a stuck pig!”

“Mary? Mary! ”

“Mary’s gone,” he said, stepping in front of the post.

Hatfield’s bloated, black and blue eyes fixated on Eli’s gore-covered knife and hand.

“You promised not to kill her!” he managed to choke out.

“No, I promised not to gut her in front of you,” Eli said, reversing the grip on the sticky knife handle. “I politely did it out of sight.”

“Why?”

“Because you told her the wrong version of what happened at the bridge,” he said.

“No. No. I told her the same thing I told you!”

Eli buried the knife in the right side of Hatfield’s throat, stepping left to avoid the bulk of his pulsing arterial spray. “Exactly.”

The side door sprang open, revealing a wiry, red-haired man holding a short-barreled AR. Eli’s second in command stepped through the opening.

“Clean up in aisle one,” said Eli.

“Shit. Both of them?” he said, closing the door and latching it behind him.

“Unfortunately, it came to that,” said Eli, wiping his blade clean on Hatfield’s pants. “We’ve got a problem.”

“We can get these two buried where nobody’ll find ’em,” said McCulver.

“I’m not worried about that. Hatfield confirmed what I more or less already knew. He said a black Jeep Wrangler with Maine plates approached the eastern bridge at Milton Mills right before all hell broke loose. Possibly fired point blank into the three men. It’s the only way they could have killed them that quickly. Jimmy reported the Jeep over the handheld and heightened their security posture, but the fight on the eastern bridge was over before it started. The guys on the western bridge loaded up and raced over, but were caught in the ambush. This turd never got out of his vehicle. Turned tail and left his buddies behind.”

“Is it possible that he was captured and released? Maybe to lead the hit team here? Finding them seemed a little too easy,” said McCulver.

“No. Those two have the combined brainpower of a trash bag, plus I worked them over hard enough to get the truth out. That’s why she had to go,” he said, pointing his knife at the bloody heap behind Hatfield. “I had to be sure.”

“Should I get some guys to clean this up?”

“I want to leave Hatfield up for everyone to see. This is what happens to traitors.”

“The girl?” said McCulver.

“String her up behind Hatfield. I want the message to be clear. You die with your brothers, or you die with your loved ones. The men we have now will form the essential core of the Maine Liberty Militia. They have to serve as an example for the new recruits. We need committed, disciplined patriots for the fight ahead.”

“There’s a balance, Eli. I trust your judgment with my life, but remember that there’s a line. If you go too far over, you run the risk of losing people.”

Spoken by anyone but McCulver, the words would have resulted in an immediate, excruciating death.

“That’s why I keep you close by. To reel me in when my temper gets the best of me,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “You and I go way back.”

“I think we might want to bury the woman and limit Hatfield’s viewing to current members.”

Eli fought the urge to pummel McCulver with the base of his knife. “All right. Let’s get her out of here. When we’re done, we need to start looking for that Jeep. Maine plates? Either the Special Forces team is using local government sympathizers, or they’ve been here all along.”

“Like a sleeper cell?” said McCulver.

“I caught something about it on the internet. Part of that Wikileaks thing. Domestic Indigenous Response Team. It was stripped off the web almost as soon as it went up, which tells you something,” lied Eli.

“DIRT?”

“Yeah. They ain’t very creative with their acronyms.”

Chapter 27

EVENT +64:59

Limerick, Maine

Alex scanned the road ahead through the AN/PVS-15 Generation IV night vision goggles (NVG) generously provided by 1st Battalion’s supply chief. He held them like binoculars, instead of attaching them to the ballistic helmet at his feet. Battalion supply offered him a full set of “battle rattle,” which he had graciously accepted, despite the unlikelihood of ever using any of the gear. You could never predict when a second set of Dragon Skin armor might be useful.

“The turn is coming up on the right,” said Alex, lowering the NVGs.

“Striker escort turning right in five-zero meters,” said the driver into his headset.

“Almost home,” Alex said to the pitch-black cabin behind him, eliciting a few exhausted comments.

The marines drove without lights for most of the trip beyond the New Hampshire/Maine border. Human traffic disappeared after the state police checkpoint, making it safe to open up the convoy’s speed. All standard operating procedure designed to minimize the risk of ambush. What seemed a little overcautious thirty minutes ago, felt reasonable now that they were close to Gelder Pond. The less attention they drew to the compound, the better.

Alex dialed the ruggedized MSAT as the tactical vehicle eased right onto an inky stretch of packed-gravel road.

“Where are you?” said Kate.

“Turning into Gelder Pond. We should be at the gate in a minute or two. What’s for dinner?”

“Dinner? Didn’t they give you a few MREs for the trip?”

“Road snacks didn’t make the list.”

“Your mother just volunteered soup and sandwiches,” said Kate. “We’re trying to unload the fridge.”

“Good thing my mom’s on the scene.”

“We’ll see how long that attitude lasts. Meet you in front of the garage,” she said.

“Make that the barn. I want to keep the Jeep out of sight. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The Matvee veered left onto the eastern side of the Gelder Pond loop, eventually straightening on a rutted dirt road. A sudden jolt reminded Alex that not everything had improved since the Humvee.

“Looks like someone forgot to pave this side, sir,” said the driver.

“You should see it in the winter. Not too much further on the right.”

The convoy crept down the road while Alex peered through his binoculars at the forest fifty feet ahead of the vehicle, looking for a break in the underbrush.

“You can hit the lights now,” said Alex.

“Roger, that,” replied the driver, raising his NVGs. “Lead vehicle, lights on.”

Alex squinted as the road and surrounding trees appeared. Insects flashed in front of the tactical vehicle, streaking like meteorites until they cleared the beams. The Matvee slowed in front of the gravel driveway.

“Looks like a tight fit, sir,” said the marine.

“It’s designed to accommodate a small tow truck, but I think we can call it good right here, Corporal. We’ll toss all of the gear into the Jeep and take it from here.”

“Embarrassed of your new friends, sir?”

“Never, but I have a little explaining to do, and the fewer armored vehicles they see, the better.”

“Embarrassed,” said the turret gunner.

“Hey, I’m trying to let you guys down easy.”

“We’ll get your gear transferred and hit the road.”

A few minutes later, the Jeep sank on its axles, burdened by five adults and twice the volume of gear they had originally packed in Scarborough. Alex opened the lead Matvee’s front passenger door and extended a hand across the seat.

“Thanks for letting Captain Chaos take a turn in the turret. Sorry about the noise.”

“Don’t apologize to me, sir. That was the longest thirty minutes of PFC Jackson’s life,” he said, shaking Alex’s hand.

“Sorry, Jackson.”

“No sweat, Captain. He looked happier than my daughter at Disney World!” yelled the Marine through the roof hatch.

An uncomfortable, palpable silence enveloped the cabin as Jackson’s statement synched. Alex suddenly felt like a complete asshole. They’d spent nearly five hours in the Matvee, and he’d been too self-focused and tired to ask about the marines’ families. They’d become an instrument, their sole purpose to deliver him safely home to his family amidst jokes and stories about their experiences in the marines.

“Sorry,” said Alex.

“Nobody wants to talk about it, sir. Trust me. We all signed up for this,” said the corporal.

“Still,” he said, pausing. “Has anyone been in contact with their families?”

“Negative, but Jackson lives thirty minutes away in Fitchburg. His wife knows to head over to Devens.”

“What about you?”

“Worcester. CO said they’ve started to evacuate military families to Fort Devens. I’m hoping they send a truck down. Four guys from the battalion live in the area. Good chance, right?”

“I think so,” Alex said. “Either way they’ll be fine. Corporal Lianez, see you on the other side.”

“Not if I see you first, sir.”

Alex left the door open for the convoy’s senior marine, Staff Sergeant Evans, who stood behind the vehicle.

“Staff Sergeant, good luck with the rest of your mission.”

“Same to you, sir. Give us a holler if you run into trouble. Colonel said they shifted our tactical SATCOM network one hundred miles north of Boston. Use the ROTAC to reach us. We’re programmed into the system as Striker Five-One.”

“Which one is the ROTAC?”

“Small, green handheld. Ever use ROTAC before?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit of a dinosaur. Sincgars was new tech in my day,” said Alex.

“Shit. I’ll have to break this down Barney style for you.”

“Thanks,” said Alex, sarcastically.

“Menu button brings you ‘channel select.’ Scroll to Striker Five-One and press ‘Lock.’ Push to talk after that. It works over EMSS, typically in a regional DTCS configuration,” said the staff sergeant.

Alex shrugged his shoulders.

“Satellite stuff. Two hundred fifty mile range. PFM. You just press the button like a walkie-talkie, sir.”

“Pure fucking magic is right. What’s my station identifier?”

“I have no idea, Captain, but we don’t screen our calls.”

“I’ll let you roll. You’re welcome to swing by on your way south, grab a warm meal. Just saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Welcome aboard, sir,” Evans said, coming to attention and snapping a salute.

“Carry on, Staff Sergeant.”

Alex jogged onto the gravel road, using the light from Ed’s Jeep to guide his way to the gate. He turned to watch the last Matvee rumble past the driveway entrance, headed south on Gelder Pond Lane. The dark shape disappeared, swallowed by the trees and thick brush. He turned his attention to the gate’s touchpad and pressed “Intercom.”

“No solicitors,” said a male voice through the speaker.

“Looks like I’ll have to take your grandson elsewhere.”

“We’ll have none of that. Coffee’s brewing! Welcome home, son!”

Alex inserted his key into the metal box and turned it clockwise to manually override the fried circuits in the touchpad. The gate sprang into action, squeaking on its track. He heard his mother above several voices yelling in the background.

Chapter 28

EVENT +65:18

Parsonsfield, Maine

Eli leaned forward to examine a piece of stained poster board that featured a crudely drawn map of the Fletcher compound. The ancient velvet sofa creaked with his movement, causing one of the men standing in the background to break the silence.

“Damn, Eli. This is close quarters, and I’m not ready for a chemical attack.”

A few of the men stifled laughs, but quickly straightened up when he fired a murderous stare at the disheveled, overweight bald fuck that made a joke at his expense. The room was pushing ninety degrees from the late day sun, compounded by insufferable humidity. The ten men jammed onto folding chairs in the cramped living room of Eli’s mobile home had turned the place into a cesspool of body odor and shit breath. He’d have held the meeting outside if the mosquitos and no-see-ums hadn’t pushed him to his limit earlier. He was looking for an excuse to reinstall some discipline in his organization, and Dennis whoever-the-fuck looked like a good candidate to serve as an example.

“Dennis, I need to have a word with you outside.”

“I’m sorry, Eli. It was just a joke. I wasn’t thinking, and it just flew out of my mouth. Won’t happen again. I promise. Seriously.”

“You done?”

Dennis nodded with a pained look of regret and fear.

“Outside.”

“Eli, I really—”

The handheld standing on the kitchen counter next to the sofa squawked. “Liberty Actual, this is Recon One, over.”

Now he had Jeffrey Brown dicking up his job, too? There was no feasible way for Brown’s radio to transmit eight and a half miles. They had been lucky to get a mile and a half out of these pieces of shit. Either Brown had abandoned his assigned reconnaissance position early, or every hill and tree between here and Limerick had been obliterated. His bet was on the former. Eli reached out and grabbed the radio, never taking his burning eyes off Dennis.

“Why are you out of position, Recon One?”

“I saw something that needed to be reported, sir.”

“Unless you saw my nephew’s SUV, you better get your ass back into position.”

“You need to hear this, Eli. I just witnessed a small convoy of military vehicles pull into Gelder Pond.”

“Say that again?” said Eli, noticing most of the men in the overcrowded room shift uncomfortably.

“Three vehicles approached from the west on Old Middle Road and turned into Gelder Pond. Two Matvees and one Jeep Wrangler running with no lights. I say again. They were running dark, with no headlights. The two military vehicles reappeared seven minutes later and turned east on Old Middle, heading toward Limerick.”

Kevin McCulver, his second in command, stood from his chair next to the couch and mouthed, “Jeep?”

“Are you positive that you saw a Jeep Wrangler?” said Eli.

“Affirmative. I watched them through night vision. Four-door model. Driver only,” echoed Brown.

“Could you determine the color?”

“Negative. Too dark without the night vision scope. Definitely Maine plates, though. Do you want me to head back to the OP?”

A sudden combination of exhilaration and uncertainty forced Eli to pause. He needed a moment to process the implications and spin them in his favor. On one hand, he was thrilled by the sudden appearance of a Jeep matching the description of the one used to ambush his brother, especially in the vicinity of the Gelder Pond compound. Connecting the Jeep to the assassination of his nephew should remove any shadow of a doubt that the attack on the compound was legitimate, not that he had heard or detected any opposition to the proposed operation. His men seemed eager to put their training to use, however he suggested.

On the other hand, he couldn’t readily explain the presence of a military convoy, unless the story he had concocted had been some kind of subconscious manifestation of his true suspicions. He’d blurred the lines between fact and fiction so many times in the past three days, he could barely keep it straight himself. Shit, maybe he’d been right all along. He hoped that wasn’t the case. A government-sponsored, false-flag operation of this magnitude meant they were headed for trouble. Federal trouble. Once he mopped up the Fletchers, or whoever they claimed to be, he needed to accelerate the recruitment and training of his army, on the off chance he had to lead a real fight against a government occupation.

“How many men do you have at the OP?”

“Three, including myself. I left two behind to keep an eye on the road,” said Brown.

“Roger. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Head back and tell your two men to stay in position and observe the entrance to Gelder Pond for the rest of the night. Then drive straight to HQ. We have some decisions to make. How copy?”

“Solid copy. Turning around now, sir.”

“Good work out there. Make sure those two don’t fall asleep. We need to know if those military vehicles return. Did you see any mounted weapons?” said Eli.

“Affirmative. M240s.”

“Roger. See you shortly. Out.” Eli placed the radio on the counter and resumed his position on the couch. “Dennis?”

“Yes, sir!” he said, standing at attention.

“You pull shit like that again and I’ll hang you from a tree. Copy?”

“Copy, sir.”

Dennis’s ghost-white face betrayed no emotion. He stared at the middle distance like a good soldier. One more slip-up and he’d join Hatfield in the barn.

“Mr. Brown’s sighting can’t be a coincidence. Hatfield confirmed that a black, four-door Jeep Wrangler participated in the attack at Milton Mills yesterday. My brother reported it over his radio, right before the ambush.

“Here are the facts. Gunmen in Waterboro kill two of our own and steal their car. Witnesses have them approaching the two sentries on bicycle and shooting them in cold blood. Very accurate shooting, I might add. We tracked this group to an isolated property on the eastern side of Gelder Pond, complete with security gates, cameras and solar panels. This place is not your ordinary lake house.

“Now the same Jeep involved in the bridge ambush arrives at the Gelder Pond location—under heavy military escort? This confirms it. We have a government-sponsored Special Forces unit operating in southwestern Maine, and I think we just found one of their safe houses, if not their primary safe house. We need to hit this location with everything we’ve got. Break these sons of bitches and send the government a message. They are not welcome in southern Maine.”

The men stared at him, paralyzed by his suggestion for a moment.

“Tonight?” said one of the squad leaders.

“Against Special Forces?” said another.

“Early morning at the latest,” said Eli, standing up to establish some dominance over these quivering bitches.

“Mr. Russell? I heard that the shooters were women.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I didn’t ask to hear you chatter away like a bitch. If you’re gonna interrupt me, you better have a fucking point. What’s your point?”

“I guess it’s that a bunch of women with guns doesn’t sound like a Spec Ops team,” the man blurted.

The room catapulted into silence, everyone avoiding eye contact with Eli.

“Why is everyone so quiet all of a sudden? Bertelson had the first sensible question of the evening. Thank you, Mr. Bertelson. Look, I don’t believe we’ll find a Special Forces team here. I’ve read about this kind of thing on Wikileaks. We’re looking at a government sleeper cell put into place after the 2013 pandemic. They go about their lives until the government initiates the next false-flag crisis. You should have seen the place by Gelder’s Pond. Definitely a self-sustaining compound—with electricity.

“They probably got caught off guard by the EMP like the rest of us. No way the government would risk any kind of advanced warning, even for the sleeper cell. The bridge attack occurred around the same time. I bet the men took the Jeep and sent the women on bikes so they didn’t miss the ambush deadline. Brown and his crew probably witnessed one of the sleeper agents returning from a face-to-face meeting with Homeland and military commanders in New Hampshire. Whoever they delivered must be pretty damn important to rate a heavily armed escort. I say we take them out before they have time to execute the next phase of their plan.”

“How many men?” asked McCulver.

“Three squads. Twelve each. Two to breach the house, one to provide suppressing fire. We’ll put the thirty-cal into action for this one,” said Eli.

“No shit! That’s what I’m talking about,” shouted another squad leader.

“Count my squad in,” said Paul Hillebrand. “I have two men trained to use the thirty-cal.”

“The job’s yours,” said Eli. “Any more volunteers?”

Everyone stood at once, vying for Eli’s attention.

That’s more like it.

He settled on Bertelson’s squad, against his better judgment, but looking around the room, the crew-cut wearing, beady-eyed ex-army specialist was the only squad leader beyond Hillebrand that didn’t look like a crumpled bag of dog shit. He stepped outside to cleanse his nostrils of their stench. Nobody followed except for Kevin McCulver, who joined him for a cigarette on the muddy gravel driveway. They walked until they were far out of earshot of the mobile home.

“I’m a little concerned about the military escort,” said McCulver, lighting Eli’s cigarette.

“A little? I nearly shit my pants when Brown passed that over the radio. I thought he was fucking with us.”

“What does it mean?”

“For what?” said Eli. He took a deep drag and blew the smoke at the mosquitos above his head.

“For the operation. What if you’re right about this group being linked to the military?”

“What if I’m right?” he said, taking a step back from McCulver.

“Eli, it’s me you’re talking to. I knew this whole government angle was a ruse when you first suggested Special Forces kidnapped one of our guys. I played along, because I don’t care. I’m in this for the long haul.”

Eli stared at him, wondering if he should cut his throat and bury him or continue listening. McCulver had skills essential to the cause and had been a loyal friend for years. It bought him another minute of oxygen.

“You have a chance to make something big of this, and I’ll do whatever it takes to help. I just think we need to evaluate the possibility that this operation may not be a walk in the park. They might have left some men behind, especially if the guy in the Jeep is a high-value local.”

“Kevin, I feel like I’ve learned more about you in the last three days than the past twenty years. I made the right call bringing you on board after Campbell gave you the boot.”

“Harry doesn’t like explosives,” said McCulver.

“But I do, and I think we’ll need one of your special projects for tomorrow. Just in case we run into more than we bargained for,” Eli said. “I’m thinking the fifty pounder ought to do the job.”

“That’ll definitely do the job.”

Chapter 29

EVENT +66:19

Limerick, Maine

Alex collapsed onto the couch next to Kate, fighting to keep his eyes open. A warm shower and change of clothes had sapped him of any remaining energy. The soft glow of candles combined with the warm evening air threatened to knock him unconscious. All he wanted to do was close his eyes for a few hours, but the day wasn’t finished. His mother held up a coffee mug from the kitchen.

“Alex? Anyone?”

“No, thanks, Mom,” he said, reaching a sore arm out to grab a glass of water. He stopped halfway, not wanting to put the effort into leaning forward.

“Still that bad?” asked Ed, holding Samantha on the love seat across from them.

“I think I pulled my back out at some point, and my body just figured it out,” said Alex.

“You want to borrow my back brace?” Charlie offered.

“Thanks, but I popped a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen. I should be set through tomorrow,” said Alex. “I might need a kidney transplant, but that’s the least of my problems. Why don’t we get this rolling so we can get a few hours of sleep.”

“You guys can sleep in as late as you want. We can handle the security watch,” said Linda.

“I’ll pitch in for that,” said Charlie. “All I did was sleep next to the Jeep while they were getting shot up in Boston.”

“Don’t listen to SEAL Team Six over there. We wouldn’t have made it out of Maine without him,” Ed remarked.

“Exactly, which is why I wanted to have a talk before we shut down for the night,” Alex said. “We might have a more serious problem on our hands than any of us can imagine. I was only aware of one organized militia group based out of southern Maine, the York County Readiness Brigade. There’s a group out of Augusta that has members throughout the state, but they’re mostly focused in central Maine. We ran into something highly organized and heavily armed at Milton Mills. Called themselves the Maine Liberty Militia. I’ve never heard of it, and my contact at the York County group never mentioned it either.”

“What were they doing at the bridge?” Alex’s dad asked from his recliner.

“Blocking traffic, both ways, unless you were willing to pay a toll. Sound familiar?”

The women shook their heads slowly, looks of disgust flashing around the room.

“Not the same kind of toll, though I wouldn’t be surprised if that was involved too. The group guarding the bridge let you across if you gave up your car. We found a church a few miles back from the border. The parking lot contained at least a dozen out-of-state vehicles, mostly SUVs and minivans, which is why I suspect they are connected to the two that stopped you in Waterboro. A luxury SUV with Massachusetts plates?”

“Who in their right mind would give up a working car?” said Samantha.

“It’s nearly impossible to get into Maine unless you can prove that you’re a resident. They promised these people a ride to Sanford, where they could hopefully continue their journey unhampered by law enforcement. Apparently, the prospect of getting into Maine appeals to a lot of people. Based on what we saw spreading north from Boston, I can’t say I blame them.”

“It doesn’t sound like a fair trade, but it’s their choice,” Amy, Alex’s mom said. “How is this a problem for us?”

His parents were the only two that hadn’t received some kind of a debriefing from one of them. Most of their time after arriving had been spent hosting, gleaning a few details here and there from mostly private conversations.

“They didn’t drive anyone to Sanford. They executed the people in the forest behind the church,” said Charlie.

“That’s what we think,” Ed said.

Not this again.

“We found piles of gear in the church. Footwear, camping gear, jackets, electronics. They stripped the people clean and walked them into the forest. We found several child-sized backpacks in one of the piles.”

“I’m just saying,” Ed cut in, “until someone verifies the bodies, we don’t have proof. They might have shaken the people down for the rest of their stuff and sent them walking. Still a shitty deal…”

“You know that’s not what was going on.”

“I agree with Alex,” said Charlie.

Ed sighed. “All I’m trying to say is that we’ve all jumped to conclusions, some more than others, and it has the potential to put us all in danger.”

“Why are you saying this now?” said Alex, finding himself wide awake.

“Because I can finally think! I’m out of the pressure cooker. At least I thought I was. Now I have angry militia stalking the forests around me. What if they weren’t executing women and children in the forest? What if we killed the guys at the bridge for no reason, and now we’re at the top of their shit list?”

“I didn’t kill the guys at the bridge because they were executing civilians. I killed them because they chose to stand in the way of rescuing my son and your daughter,” he said, glaring at Ed.

Ed looked away for several moments while the words hung in the room.

“It was the right thing to do,” admitted Ed, running his hands through his hair. “I’m just exhausted. I didn’t think I’d come back to living in the Alamo. Sorry to get riled up like that. What do we need to do?”

“We’ll all feel a little less punchy after some sleep. Unfortunately, it’s not going to be as much as we all probably expected. I think we need to have at least half of the house up by 4:30 AM. Firing positions manned to cover 360 degrees, minimal lighting, all guns ready. We’ll need to stay like that until at least eight. If they attack, it’ll most likely come between those hours. If they make a move against us, they’ll probably use the early morning darkness to move into position, then spring the attack when the sun comes up.”

“What about the rest of the day?” Ed asked.

Alex knew his words might not go over very well with Ed, but he didn’t want to sugarcoat the truth. If Ed was going to have a problem living at the compound, he needed to know sooner than later, so they could adjust the plan. He hated to think like this, but the threat they faced was organized, lethal and depraved. A bad combination in Alex’s experience. They couldn’t afford to make any assumptions about the commitment level of anyone in the group. He’d never ask his friend to leave, but if Ed’s heart wasn’t in the fight, Alex would craft the plan around him. Nothing personal. Purely pragmatic.

“We’ll have to be extremely cautious. If we want to work outside, we’ll have to carry weapons and post pickets in the tree line, just in case they avoid the sensors. I say we stay close to the house, so we can get inside if the sensors pick up a threat or one of the pickets spots something. We have to work the garden. That’s non-negotiable. We’re in peak harvest time.”

“Sounds like prison. How long will we have to live like this?”

“Until the threat no longer exists. We might be able to get the marines to help us with that, given my new role. If this group represents a threat to the region’s stability, I could make a strong case for destroying it.”

“What exactly is your new role, Alex?” said his father, eyeing him skeptically.

Alex decided to give them the short version, skipping the part about Homeland’s extensive data files. The information was classified anyway, “eyes only” for three members of Grady’s battalion at this point, so he didn’t feel guilty about concealing it.

“The commanding officer of the reserve Marine battalion down in Boston is an old friend. He served as one of my platoon commanders in Iraq. We were both injured by the same RPG outside of An-Nasiriyah. The situation in Boston required the battalion to withdraw and reform north. He thinks they’ll eventually pull back to Maine. Apparently, Maine has been designated as a priority recovery zone, which explains why we saw an immediate deployment of National Guard units at the major border crossing chokepoints. I guess they’re worried about militia groups starting trouble inside the recovery zone. He asked me to apply my knowledge of the Maine-based groups and provide a threat assessment.”

Kate looked at him sharply. “Does he want you to go out and visit these groups?”

“No. I can sit right here and do the work. They gave me a laptop, satellite communications gear, everything I need. It’s an easy gig.”

“Until it isn’t,” she said, “and the Marine Corps sends you wherever they think you’re needed.”

“It’s a provisional appointment. I’m more like a consultant. Colonel Grady did this as a favor,” said Alex.

“Sounds like you’re the one doing him the favor,” said Samantha.

“He gave us an armed escort back to Maine, and this position comes with benefits. I’m designated as a security/intelligence officer, which is one of the highest tiers,” he said, digging the provisional security card out of his pocket. “It gives me one of these, which I—we— can use to access significant resources. Unrestricted travel, hospital privileges, no more worrying about walking around with firearms. I can authorize any of our families to enter the recovery zone. Probably get them picked up and delivered. From what Grady said, Maine is about to become one of the most sought-after pieces of real estate in New England. This is kind of our golden ticket.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Charlie, followed by a swig of coffee.

“I don’t know,” said Kate. “Sorry to be a downer about this, but the sooner you get that work done and cut yourself off from the marines, the better off we’ll all be, especially if Maine becomes a recovery zone, or whatever it’s called.”

“Grady did this as a favor. It got us a ride back and a little insurance policy if things get wild. I’ll finish up the threat assessment, designate the Maine Liberty Militia as a critical threat to recovery zone stability, and we’ll all be able to sit back and relax while the marines hunt them down. Threat neutralized.”

“I hope you’re right, Alex,” said Kate.

“I’m only right when you say I’m right,” he said, eliciting a few stifled laughs. “Who’s on watch at 4 AM?”

“I’m on from two until six with Alyssa,” said Linda.

“All right. Why don’t you wake Kate, me, Ed and Charlie at 4:15. Have some coffee going and some snacks available.”

“I’ll get up and make sure everything is ready,” said Amy.

“You don’t have to do that,” countered Linda.

“I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Well, if she’s up, I’m up,” said Tim Fletcher.

“Sounds like that’s all we’ll need. I like the idea of having all of our rifles available during those hours. It might make sense to modify the nighttime watch rotation to keep our rifles off the ten to two in the morning shift. Set it up so that one is in the two to six, and the rest get a reasonable night’s sleep in preparation for the dawn watch.”

Everyone signaled agreement by mumbling or nodding. The group was exhausted and needed to power down. Waking up tomorrow morning was assured to be miserable for the recently returned Boston group.

“Well, if Charlie’s too tired to talk, we should probably break this up and catch some sleep,” he said.

Everyone rose in unison, eager to put the day behind them.

“Prep your tactical gear and weapons before you lay down. Trust me. You don’t want to be fumbling around with that stuff at zero dark thirty. You should sleep in your clothes too. That includes sturdy footwear. I know that sounds crazy, but you’ll be thankful if something happens. Plus I’m pretty sure most of us could fall asleep on a bed of nails tonight. See you in the morning.”

A few minutes later, Kate caught Alex washing his face in the downstairs bathroom and closed the door.

“You again?”

“At least you’re cleaned up this time,” said Kate. “How is your shoulder?” She reached out and gently touched his right arm.

“Which one?”

“The bad one. You’re lucky you didn’t get more than a grazing,” she said, standing behind him and pressing her body into his.

“Ryan bailed me out of that one. He did an amazing job out there. Everyone did.”

“What happened with Chloe? She doesn’t seem herself. She barely looked at Ryan all night.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Alex said, leaning backward into her. “She froze on the bridge. Complete lock down. Ryan was hit carrying her to the other side on his back. She’s a little embarrassed. That’s all.”

“She always seemed really sturdy. Nothing else happened?”

“Not that I’m aware of. She needs a little time and distance. We’ll need to make sure Ryan respects that.”

“And doesn’t feel like he did anything wrong,” she added. “Ed sounded like he might go for round two of the blame game. If he’s doing that right to your face, who knows what he’s saying to his kids behind closed doors?”

“Ed has a bad habit of second-guessing everyone’s decisions and input. It’s his quirk, and I’ve learned to work around it while keeping an ear open. He comes up with some good ideas. Ed functions best when he’s taking orders or making his own decisions. He saved my bacon again.”

“How many times did you need saving?”

“More than I’d care to admit. We’d be dead if it wasn’t for the marines. For Colonel Grady.”

“I didn’t mean to come down hard on you for that. I’m just nervous about the whole arrangement.”

“I’m a little nervous about it too. Ed’s hit the nail on the head,” said Alex.

“About what?”

“Being out of the pressure cooker long enough to think straight. Accepting Grady’s offer sounded pretty damn good with the city falling apart around us and a Boston militia unit chasing me down.”

“You pissed off more than one militia group?”

“Look who’s talking,” he said, drying his face with a towel.

“I guess we need to steer clear of any militia groups from now on,” said Kate, kissing his neck.

Alex turned around and put his hands on Kate’s lower back, pulling her into him while kissing her passionately. They grasped each other tightly, lowering their hands until Kate pulled back.

“There’s a line outside of the door,” she whispered into his ear.

“What?” he hissed. “Are you serious? And here I was thinking this might be the one place we could get some privacy.”

“We kissed privacy goodbye when we invited two families to join us.”

“Maybe they could all stay in the barn. They’d have a wood-burning stove.”

She squeezed his bottom. “Or we’ll just have to make better use of our 22 acres.”

“Not until those crazies are gone,” he said and kissed her. “See you up in our communal bedroom.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“I know.”

Chapter 30

EVENT +71:11

Limerick, Maine

Alex opened his eyes to pitch darkness. He lay on his back next to Kate, which was the extent of his situational awareness. A cool, pine-scented breeze poured over his face, providing the first clue. He gently worked his left hand from under Kate’s head, careful not to wake her up, and checked his watch. 4:11. His alarm had been set for 4:15. It took him a few seconds to figure out why. Shit. He could use about eight more hours of sleep—and some real painkillers. The ibuprofen had clearly worn off overnight.

He pushed his torso up with his left hand, finding himself sore along the left side of his body, extending through his abdomen. He felt like he had done a few hundred atomic sit-ups right before retiring for the night. For a moment, he seriously doubted his ability to get out of bed without help. He lay there, considering his next move, when the back of his right thigh cramped, locking him in position on the bed. He extended his leg and fought the muscle spasm for a few minutes, until he was sure it had passed.

Not a good start to the day.

Kate hadn’t moved throughout the ordeal, presenting Alex’s next challenge. How in the hell was he supposed to wake his wife up at 4:00 in the morning? She was a notoriously deep sleeper, barely functional until two cups of dark roast coursed through her system. He’d wait as long as possible before attempting to stir her.

Alex grabbed his flashlight from the nightstand and illuminated the room. Nobody shifted—of course. They had all inherited their mother’s morning gene. He walked around the bed, careful not to step on Emily, who lay in a sleeping bag between the full-size bed and the elevated air mattress supporting Ryan. The room had been reconfigured to accommodate a sandbag position facing the backyard. The bed, normally under the backyard window, had been pushed across the room against the opposite interior walls. They had done the same in all of the rooms, hastily rearranging couches, beds, end tables and chairs to free up space for sheet metal and sandbags. Ed was right. The house had been transformed into the Alamo.

The door cracked; Charlie Thornton poked his face through the opening.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he said. “Brought some coffee for your wife. Linda said she’d need it.”

Alex stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, taking the hot mug in his hands. After a long sip, he patted Charlie on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“It was Linda’s idea,” he said, reaching for the Walkers’ door.

“No,” he said, stopping Charlie. “Thank you for everything. I mean it.”

“That’s what friends do for each other, man.”

“Friends collect your mail while you’re away on vacation. You’ve redefined my concept of the word. It’s not a word I’ll use lightly again. Thank you.”

“Dude, you’re evoking man tears, which means—”

“No. We are not going to—”

“It’s time for that hug,” he said, embracing Alex.

Alex held the coffee mug away and let it happen. Charlie had been angling for this “man hug” since he arrived at the reservation with the battalion’s armed escort, and Alex had deprived him long enough, artfully dodging his outstretched arms.

“When the two of you are done hugging, I’d appreciate it if you started waking people up,” said Linda from the bottom of the stairs.

“He started it,” said Charlie.

“Thanks for the coffee. See you in a few,” said Alex.

Twenty minutes later, everyone was in position, scattered throughout the dark house with coffee. Alex found himself back in his bedroom, facing the forest behind their house. He’d moved Ryan onto the bed and given Emily the air mattress, sliding it against the bed to make room in front of the sandbags for a folding chair. Through the open window, he scanned the length of the tree line with his night vision goggles, catching the occasional flicker of a lightning bug. Linda had a similar view on one of the computer monitors in the dining room, but the surveillance cameras couldn’t penetrate the forest like his generation IV gear. He could detect a smoldering cigarette or the glow of a night vision scope eyepiece deep in the trees.

Kate watched the open expanse of land in front of the house through one of Alex’s old night vision spotting scopes, a Russian knock-off with 2X magnification and an infrared illuminator. With nearly one hundred fifty feet of clearing separating the southern tree line from the house, a diligent watch through the scope could pick up any unusual activity. Their concern with the southern approach extended to the buckwheat and oat fields, which could be used by intruders to close the distance undetected.

The eastern woods extending from the road to the house fell under Charlie’s watch. The Generation III night vision scope attached to his rifle gave him better magnification than Alex’s goggles, along with the best chance of catching headlights if their attackers were foolish enough to use them on Gelder Pond Lane. Tim Fletcher covered the pond and left side of the barn with the second spotting scope while Ed kept Alex’s mother company in the kitchen, waiting to relieve anyone that needed a break. With Linda in the dining room, they had all of the “fighting” adults on station to respond.

Their defense had a few flaws, the most glaring being their inability to effectively shoot at targets in the dark. Only Alex and Charlie had integrated night vision systems, leaving the rest to scan with their devices and shoot in the general direction of movement. Hardly ideal. The motion-activated lights mounted to each side of the house and barn had been fried by the EMP. He’d kept two spare lights in the basement surveillance kit, which Tim chose to install on the unobserved sides of the barn to give them some advance warning if anyone got past the motion sensors.

Later today, Alex would rig trip flares in the yard, fifteen feet from the house, and run the trip wires back to the house. A solid tug on the wire by one of Alex’s lookouts would detonate a 35,000 candle power M49A1 trip flare, illuminating the open ground for a minute and providing silhouetted targets for shooters in the house. With any luck, they could engage attackers in the open at relatively close range. Failing that, the flares served as a powerful deterrent against repeated attempts to reach the house.

Beyond the limitations imposed by a nighttime battle on his motley crew, Alex’s second-biggest concern was the barn. Located less than fifty feet from the house, it blocked their view of a significant portion of the clearing’s northeast corner and represented the closest point of approach to the house. The militia team that scouted the property yesterday afternoon would have seen the barn and recognized the opportunities it presented. If the militia managed to break through one of the unobserved outer walls, they could open the barn door and rush the house. Ideally, they should place a team in the barn to stop this, but nobody besides himself had the training required to pull it off, and he’d be needed inside the house to keep this motley crew from falling apart under fire—if that was even possible.

Like any static defense, their best strategy was to inflict as many casualties as possible within the first few minutes of the attack, forcing a withdrawal. He also planned to put as many guns as possible into the first few salvos to give his attackers the impression that they had a large number of defenders. Marine Corps and army infantry schools teach combat leaders that they need a minimum three to one attacker to defender ratio when assaulting a fortified position. If he could throw enough bullets out of several windows at once, regardless of the caliber used, he might be able to pound some battlefield sense into the rush and stop its momentum.

If not, and they persisted, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep his civilian army in the fight under sustained gunfire. He hoped they were all wrong, and the men scoping out the house decided they had stumbled onto the wrong location. However, he knew that was wishful thinking.

A light flashed deep in the woods. Possibly a lightning bug, possibly not. Alex stared at the spot for a few minutes, not seeing a repeated flash. He considered “lasing” the area for Charlie’s magnified scope, but dismissed the idea. If the militia guys had some form of night vision gear, his IR laser would draw too much attention. He settled in for a long morning.

Chapter 31

EVENT +74:30

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell waved the three oncoming SUVs onto the path leaving Old Middle Road and followed them past a thick stand of trees after checking the road for observers. He was going to skin these idiots alive. They were an hour late arriving at the rally point and had failed to respond to his radio calls. He’d considered abandoning the attack altogether, fearful that they had been intercepted by the returning convoy. Larry Bertelson jumped out of the SUV and sprinted to Russell, saluting as he arrived.

“Eli, I’m sorry about the delay. One of my guys wanted to grab a different scope from his brother. It was supposed to be on the way, but it turned out to be further than I had thought. Ended up in Limington; then we kind of got lost. Something’s wrong with my radio, too,” he said, keeping his salute raised and his eyes lowered.

Bertelson had definitely been the wrong choice of squad leaders for the attack. Unfortunately, Eli’s pickings were slim beyond Hillebrand’s and Brown’s squads, and he didn’t have time to call in reinforcements. Like one of the head honchos said during the Iraq War, “You go to war with the army you have, not the army you want.” Of course, he’d have to switch things around a bit. There was no way he could trust this turd to co-lead the primary breach team.

“Sergeant Hillebrand! Front and center!”

A lanky man with unruly red hair broke free from a group of nearby men and snapped to attention in front of Eli.

“Hillebrand reporting, sir!”

Eli saw the barely concealed look of contempt on Bertelson’s face and decided if the man survived the attack, he’d turn him into his personal piñata.

“I’m switching your squad with Bertelson’s. You’ll be my right-hand man for the breach. Bertelson’s squad will provide suppressing fire from the northern tree line. Bertelson, you have a crew that can work the thirty-cal?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bertelson, pausing. “I can bring the attack in with you.”

“Negative. Showing up late for beers is one thing; putting me an hour behind schedule on an operation is another. We’ll talk about this later. Brief your troops and transfer the thirty-cal. We step off in five minutes. End of discussion. Oh, Bertelson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Make sure you get a working radio from one of the guys staying at the rally point, if yours is still broken,” Eli said, frowning.

The two men dashed off to take care of the last minute adjustment, making room for Eli’s executive officer, Kevin McCulver.

“Surprised you didn’t beat him over the head with his rifle.”

“I wanted to, Kevin. I really wanted to, but we need everyone we’ve got for this. Keep a close eye on the road. If the convoy returns, I need an immediate heads-up. You know what to do after that.”

“Roger,” McCulver said, nodding hesitantly. “I wish we had a chance to test it. This is my first ammonium nitrate bomb.”

“And it won’t be your last. Not with Homeland digging its heels into the area. Just make sure the guys jump out far enough away. A fifty pounder will screw you up a long ways out. They need to roll that thing into the military convoy.”

“Copy. We’ll follow them in and set off the explosive as they dismount.”

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” said Eli.

McCulver nodded. “I’ll send the rest of the vehicles in when you give me the signal.”

“Primary extract will be at the gate. I’ll march the men up the driveway when we’re finished. Secondary extract is where the two roads split, right where we enter the woods.”

“Roger. Once the pickup vehicles depart, I’ll park the car bomb on the turnoff from Old Middle in case we have late arriving guests.”

“Sorry to sideline you like this, but I need someone I can trust running rear security. If this goes south for any reason, you’re the only one with the tactical awareness to unfuck the situation for me,” said Eli, gripping McCulver’s shoulder.

“I got your back, Eli. I suspect this won’t be our last operation.”

“Not if the federal government plans on imposing martial law on us. Not by a long shot. If you’d do the honor of mustering the troops, I’d like to kick this off before I melt. Gonna be a scorcher today.”

Eli stepped into the shade and repeated the plan in his head. He’d accompany Hillebrand’s squad, followed closely by Bertelson’s, into the forest past Gelder Pond Lane. They’d head slightly southwest until they reached the lake, where they’d turn left and follow the water’s edge until his rangefinder put the dock at about a hundred yards. At this point, he’d lead them away from the shoreline at a forty-five-degree angle until they could see the clearing.

He’d send a few scouts from there to scan for sentries before moving Hillebrand’s group to a position hidden from the house by the barn. Bertelson’s crew would take positions in the tree line behind the house, and they’d all wait for Brown’s squad to settle in along the eastern woods in the same location they had used to survey the compound yesterday.

Once everyone was in place, Bertelson’s squad was to pour rounds into the back of the house while Eli breached the door attached to the screen porch with Hillebrand’s squad. Brown’s team would establish fire superiority on the eastern flank and rush to the garage, looking for a second breach point along the front of the house. With two squads converging on the target, radio coordination played a critical role in avoiding fratricide, a point he needed to reinforce.

With the three squads formed up in the woods, he stepped forward to address the troops.

“I’ll keep this simple. Today we strike the first blow against tyranny. I don’t expect this will stop the government’s plan to take over York County, but it’ll sure as hell make them think twice about putting boots on the ground,” he said, amazed that he could conjure this stuff up on a whim.

The men muttered in agreement. He might have heard a “hell yeah.”

“We show no mercy here—like they showed no mercy at the bridge. Kill everyone in the house, no matter what you find. They’re harboring the enemy, and we need the word to spread. Harboring the enemy is the same as taking up arms against the people.”

More cheers.

Man, this is fun.

“Squad leaders, keep your radio earpieces in at all times—and listen up. I don’t like repeating orders, and we have two squads breaching the house from opposite ends. There’s potential for a blue on blue engagement if we’re not careful. Got it?”

The squad leaders verbally confirmed his warning.

“Rifles on safe until I give the order to open fire. You do not want to accidently discharge your weapon and compromise the operation. If you do, just put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. Save me the effort. Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. Are we ready to take the fight to the enemy?”

A mixed garble of chants erupted, most of which seemed to indicate they were ready.

“XO, make a note. Task Force Liberty crossed the line of departure at zero seven forty-two hours. Let’s move out!”

Chapter 32

EVENT +75:03

Limerick, Maine

Kate checked her watch and rubbed her face. This wasn’t how she wanted to start the day, let alone every day until the Maine Liberty Militia was—how did Alex put it? Neutralized? She wondered what it might take to make that happen. Did Alex really have the power to list them as a critical threat and summon a giant boot to crush them? She’d thought his statement sounded heavy handed and Gestapo-like, especially on the heels of waving his magic badge around, but now she’d gladly help him craft the words required to prevent a continuous string of 4 AM wake ups.

After breakfast, she’d suggest that he draft his first report, emphasizing the immediate need to hunt down and stamp out this group, if they even existed. Maybe the kids had been full of shit, running their mouths after four too many tallboys. Maybe Alex had crossed paths with a one-off gang of opportunistic weekend warriors. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter, just the off chance of an organized attack meant she’d continue to experience the pleasure of studying a grainy, light green image while mosquitos found their way through the open window with the sole purpose of distracting her free hand from her coffee mug.

She sighed, knowing full well that she’d never complain about any of this in front of the others. Leaders didn’t whine, and they certainly didn’t put up with whiners.

“A few mosquito bites are a small price to pay for vigilance,” she mumbled, imitating Alex.

“What was that?” said Alex, appearing in the doorway to the sitting room.

“Nothing. Just muttering to myself. I ran out of coffee, and I can’t think straight,” she said.

“I think we’re out of the attack window for now. We’ll resume these positions about a half hour before sunset and keep them manned until 10 PM. Militarily, these are the most likely periods of time for an attack. I’ll put up a bunch of trip flares around the house later today, which should give us an advantage if they hit us in the dark.”

“Good, because, uh, I couldn’t see shit out there. I might have spotted them moving toward the house, but that’s about all I could do about it,” she said, standing up from the folding chair.

“I know. Tonight and tomorrow morning, you’ll have two wires running through the window, each attached to a flare. If you see something through the scope, pull the wire and fire.”

“You’re a poet. What’s for breakfast?”

“Chef’s surprise. The fridge isn’t working right, so my mom is clearing out the perishables, which somehow includes frozen bacon.”

“She likes bacon. How much coffee do we have left?”

“There’s a fresh pot brewing.”

“No, I mean like, in the grand scheme of things. Stockpiled.”

“The good stuff?”

“I don’t really care at this point.”

“You might once you taste the instant stuff.”

“How close are we to tapping into it?” she said, suddenly looking concerned.

“Six pounds.”

“That’s not good. Time to switch to instant. Most of them won’t know the difference. I saw Charlie watering his coffee down with tap water. What’s wrong with that man?”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“I heard that!” said Charlie from the kitchen. “Not my fault you’re serving this fancy mud stuff.”

Kate picked up her backpack, which was filled with spare rifle magazines, and slung her rifle.

“You can leave that stuff here. No sense clunking it around the kitchen,” he said, stepping out of the sitting room.

Kate didn’t argue. She hated carrying the rifle around, constantly adjusting the sling and checking the safety—worried that it might discharge accidently. Logically, she knew it was impossible, even with a chambered round, but the very act of carrying a deadly weapon felt awkward. Alex handled his rifle like a natural extension of his body. Barely an afterthought. He shifted it out of the way with no apparent effort while navigating tight spaces or working. To her husband, the rifle was a simple tool. To her, it was a killing instrument to be feared and distrusted. She wondered if she’d ever adjust.

Most of the kids were at the kitchen table, including Ryan. She didn’t see Chloe on the screened porch or in the great room. Hopefully, she was still sleeping and not avoiding Ryan. He was crazy about her.

“How’s my big man doing?” she said, approaching the table.

“Feeling better, Mom. My leg is still throbbing, but the battalion surgeon said I could expect that for a week or so.”

She hugged and kissed him in front of everyone, noticing a rifle slung over the back of his chair.

“No more battalion surgeons for you. I can take this,” she said, grabbing the rifle barrel.

“That’s all right, Mom. I feel better having it close,” he said.

Alex walked in from the screened porch. “I’m gonna check the barn. Make sure it’s empty of guests.”

Linda spoke up from the great room. “It’s clear, Alex. The camera was on the door all night. I didn’t see anything on the time-elapsed feed.”

“Call me paranoid. Mom, why aren’t you wearing the vest?”

“I’m not wearing that thing around the house. I can barely move in it. If the shooting starts, you’re going to stuff me in the basement anyway. Give it to someone on the front lines.”

“Dad?”

“I can’t make her do it,” said Tim.

“Then you can wear it,” replied Alex.

“Put it on one of the kids that isn’t going into the cellar.”

“I’m not going down there, by the way,” stated Ethan Fletcher.

“Yes, you are,” snapped Alex. “You’re in charge of guarding the bulkhead door.”

“That’s kind of bogus,” returned their nephew.

“The house has five points of access, not counting the windows. The bulkhead is the only point we can’t adequately cover from any of the windows. It’s a bigger responsibility than you realize.”

“I guess,” said Ethan, not looking convinced.

“If I can’t get the old folks to wear these,” he said, patting the vest hanging over the five-foot-by-five-foot sandbag emplacement next to the kitchen island, “we’ll keep one vest in each of the safe boxes. If you leave the safe box, you put the vest on. Fair enough?”

“Alex, I think you should wear the vest. You’ll be moving around the house,” said Ed from the table on the porch.

“I’d feel better if one of the kids wore it,” said Alex.

Logically, Ed was right, and Kate hoped he took him up on the offer. They had talked about the vests last night and agreed that they could become a point of contention if not handled properly. Each parent wanted his or her children in one of those vests. According to Alex, the Dragon Skin’s silicon carbide ceramic plates could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet. Alex’s solution was to give them to his parents, but even that could be interpreted as favoritism. With Ed making the suggestion, it gave Alex the opportunity to wear the vest without raising eyebrows.

“Take the vest, Alex,” said Linda. “You’re prone to getting shot.”

“Thanks,” he shot back at Linda.

She locked eyes with Alex for a moment and nodded imperceptibly, giving him permission to take the suggestion.

“Fair enough,” said Alex, unclipping his tactical chest rig.

Kate helped him adjust the straps to accommodate the bulk of the body armor, which was configured with MOLLE points to carry the same ammunition pouches attached to Alex’s rig.

“Would it be easier to transfer magazine pouches?” she said.

“We can do that later. I’ll be right back,” he said. “Mom, don’t mix the bacon with the tofu.”

Alex was in rare form, which was good to see. He’d looked utterly sapped of energy and enthusiasm last night.

“You want some company?” said Kate.

“It’s probably better to keep everyone inside until later in the day,” he said.

Rare form and all business.

Chapter 33

EVENT +75:05

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell crawled beneath the fallen tree, cursing under his breath. The half-mile walk through the woods had turned into a slog through decades-old untamed forest, slowing their progress to the point of madness. Soaked with sweat and covered in mud and dried pine needles, he stopped twenty feet beyond the rotten trunk to catch his breath and scan ahead. They’d kept the pond at least forty feet to their right, avoiding the shoreline bog that had swallowed a few boots and painted most of them dark brown at the beginning of their journey.

He raised a pair of compact binoculars and peered through the dense woodland, following the reflective waterline. The gray dock peeked through the trees at the far edge of his view. Maybe another fifty feet and they could turn southeast for the barn. The men had started to gather around him, breathing heavily and wiping their red faces. He’d have to impose more rigorous physical standards for his men. He had no delusions about turning this crowd of thirty- to forty-something weekend warriors into a Ranger battalion, but anything had to be better than the sorry sacks that slithered under the rotten log and spilled into the forest. One of the men pulled a pack of cigarettes from his left breast pocket and fished around in his pants for a lighter.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eli whispered.

“I thought we were taking a break,” the man replied.

Paul Hillebrand stepped out of the foliage next to the man and slapped him on the back of the head.

“Stow that shit and form a hasty 180-degree security perimeter facing south. You know the drill!” he hissed. “Sorry about that, Eli.”

The men scattered and took up positions in front of the log while Bertelson’s squad struggled through. His crew looked worse than Hillebrand’s. Watching them drag the thirty-cal through the dirt and dead leaves under the log made him want to cut off Bertelson’s head and shit down his neck. Of course, Bertelson was nowhere to be found, because he led from behind. As the gun crew emerged, Eli sprang forward and ripped the vintage thirty-two-pound M1919A6 Browning medium machine gun from their grip.

“Do you cocksuckers realize you just dragged a vintage weapon through the dirt?” he said, shaking soil and leaves off the weapon. “You better pray to God this thing works, because we don’t have time to field strip and clean it. Lucky for you, this son of a bitch is tougher than the two of you combined. Bertelson?”

“Yes, sir,” he heard from the other side of the downed trunk.

“Get over here and square your men away.”

Bertelson shimmied under the tree and stood up, staring at the machine gun in Eli’s hands.

“I want you out in front of your men. We don’t lead from behind in my army. You might have seen them trying to fill the barrel with dirt,” he said, throwing the weapon at the squad leader.

Surprisingly, Bertelson caught it without stumbling backward into the tree, which had been Eli’s intention. He’d hoped to crack his face open on the barrel.

“I like to keep an eye on the squad. I can’t do that with my back to the men,” he said meekly.

“It’s easier to pull a string than it is to push it. Get out in front, or I’ll find someone who better understands the concept.”

“Roger that, sir,” Bertelson said, walking over to his shamed gun crew.

Eli pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Liberty Three, this is Liberty Actual. We’ve reached the turn. Commence your approach and hold at the tree line, over.”

“This is Liberty Three, commencing approach,” squawked his earpiece.

He strode to the front of the group and held up his right hand without looking behind him. Forming a knife hand, he chopped the air in front of him, waiting a few seconds before stepping forward. A quick glance behind showed that nobody had moved.

“On your feet. We’re moving out,” he barked as low as possible.

Tactically, the regular arm of the Maine Liberty Militia was a mess, better suited for basic military maneuvers, checkpoint duty and static defense. If he had known how bad they’d look after trudging for thirty minutes, he might have considered a different set of tactics. Too late now.

Without the distractions of modern-day life, things would change at the training compound. He’d put the few remaining members of Jimmy’s old unit to work squaring them away. One way or the other, he’d whip this crew into a reasonable fighting force, if they didn’t kill each other this morning. He gave the hand signal to move out again, guiding the column forward on an old game trail.

Chapter 34

EVENT +75:15

Limerick, Maine

Alex flipped the light switch, darkening the barn before stepping into the glaring sun. The impeccable blue sky held no clouds to shield the blistering orb peering above the eastern tree line. The house usually gave up the fight around noon, reaching intolerable levels of heat and humidity by two. The late afternoon was a complete loss, as the house absorbed everything the sun had to offer and radiated the misery inward. The pond served as their only possible refuge at that point. With the militia threat looming on the horizon, he didn’t foresee frolicking in the water. He almost wished for rain.

“Alex, we have movement along the northern perimeter, near the pond,” said Linda’s voice from the radio.

Alex locked the door from the inside and closed it. “Right along the pond?” he said, testing the door.

“Close enough. Something triggered the sensor facing inland from the waterline.”

“I’ll take a look. Get everyone in their positions. Someone needs to keep an eye on the sensors, in case we have another group out there,” said Alex, heading toward the front of the barn.

“Let’s just hope it was a deer,” she said.

Alex jogged along the red siding and reached the far front corner, taking a knee. He dug into one of his tactical vest pockets and removed the handheld radio’s earpiece, plugging it into the radio. Hollow static echoed through the earpiece as he leaned a few inches beyond the corner and peered through the ACOG scope. Bright green from direct sunlight, the trees and bushes along the edge of the clearing formed a dense screen. He’d have to get into the woods.

“Linda, I’m heading into the forest to take a closer look. I can’t see anything from here. I’ll be right back,” said Alex.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Tim over the line.

Alex had forgotten that everyone was on the primary tactical frequency.

“Just a quick peek to give us something to work with. I’ll be back in less than two minutes. Out.”

End of discussion.

Alex crouched and sprinted toward the northwest corner of the clearing, cursing the entire two hundred feet. He’d taken a questionable risk running across flat, exposed ground, gambling on the enemy force’s concentration in one location. If others had slipped the sensor net and taken positions closer to the clearing, his darting figure would have attracted immediate, lethal attention. Maybe they were waiting until he stopped. He hit the ground next to a thick raspberry bush and crawled through a low opening in the thorny mess. Lush raspberry bushes ringed the edges of the clearing, where they thrived in the sun. They also formed a low-budget barbed-wire fence along the closest points of approach to the house. Anyone sprinting out of the forest was in for a nasty surprise.

Squirming onto the soft pine-covered forest floor, he pressed forward several feet and rested behind a thick spruce. Alex listened for a few moments, hearing a snap in the distance, followed immediately by another. Unless the clumsiest, bumble-footed buck in all of southern Maine had just wandered onto his property, they had uninvited guests. Alex eased his head around the tree, taking in the scene. At first glance, the forest looked like it always did—a shadowy, multihued canvas of greens and browns, dominated by tall vertical lines and random thickets. Organically alive, but typically motionless on a macro scale. A few more seconds of observation explained the sensor hit. Darkened figures moved in a line, spaced at least ten feet apart, due east.

He brought the rifle to his shoulder and examined the lead man in the column. MultiCam-patterned uniform, tactical vest—no body armor, same boonie cap worn by the militia at the bridge, AR rifle with unmagnified optics.

Definitely not Bambi.

Their trajectory through the forest puzzled him. They couldn’t be more than two hundred feet from the clearing, which meant they’d have seen the barn through the trees. The best approach to the house was from behind the barn, pretty much taking the same path he had travelled to arrive in the forest. The barn put them less than fifty feet from the house. A charge from the tree line directly behind the house forced them to cross triple that distance, while navigating a fenced vegetable garden.

What am I missing?

A quick scan through the line of militia soldiers showed them all moving in the same direction. Parallel to the tree line. The last man in the line didn’t appear to be moving. Alex peered through the 4X scope, centering the red arrow on the man’s chest.

“Shit,” he muttered, slowly retracting his head and rifle behind the knotted trunk.

It hadn’t been the last guy. He’d found himself staring at the point man for a second squad moving in his direction. The militia deployment made more sense now. One squad could take advantage of the blind spot created by the barn, while the other provided suppressing fire from the trees beyond the backyard. He started to low-crawl back to the edge of the forest, but stopped. Did it make sense to punch a few holes in the squad headed toward him and make a run for the barn? The thought was tempting, but he preferred not to attract the combined effort of two dozen rifles to his return trip across the clearing. The suppressor might keep his position concealed long enough to make it through the raspberry bushes, but he’d be fair game after that.

He wiggled under the thorns and turned left, lying along the edge of the grass and surveying the land behind the house and barn. It was clear.

“Alex,” said Kate through his earpiece, “we have a second group approaching from the east. Sensors picked them up about a hundred feet from the driveway, which puts them about even with the house.”

“Roger. I have two separate squads inbound from the north. One looks like it will line up along the trees behind the house. The other will probably use the barn to get as close to the house as possible. I want everyone with optics scanning the northern tree line for their positions. We’ll give them a full magazine welcome to make them think twice. Everyone who can shoot needs to be in on this. Once the initial salvo is finished, everyone goes back to their assigned positions. If they can safely aim and shoot a weapon, they need to be doing that. We’ll only get one shot at making a strong impression. I’m heading back, so don’t shoot me. Have someone open the front door.”

“Got it,” she said.

He gripped the rifle’s hand guard and took off in a crouch, half-expecting to hear the supersonic snap of incoming bullets. Careening past the corner of the barn, he didn’t ease up on his legs until he reached the front of the house, where he slowed to a jog and struggled for breath. No matter how many miles he put into running, sprinting three hundred feet remained a thoroughly unpleasant experience. Fighting waves of nausea, he took the stairs on the porch in a single leap, pulling himself up by the railing. The front door swung inward, and Kate, who looked all business, took his hand and pulled him inside.

“Are you sure you want the kids involved?” said Kate.

“Yes,” he insisted.

“Then you need to provide some hands-on guidance.”

“Is Ryan upstairs?” he said, running through the foyer hallway.

“Charlie and Linda took him up,” said Kate.

Alex surveyed the kitchen and great room area, not pleased by what he saw.

“Samantha, just for now, get everyone behind the safe box, not in it. When I give the signal, Daniel and Chloe will move next to their father by the sliding door and you’ll stand behind the sink. At some point, very soon after that, I’ll order everyone to start firing. I want you to empty the shotgun at the far right corner of the garage. Try to hit it as many times as possible.”

“You want me to shoot the barn?”

“Yes. Tear the corner to pieces. I want the kids to shoot six rounds each into the forest, wherever their father is shooting, followed by the rest of their magazines at the barn. Got it guys?” he said, staring down Chloe and Daniel until they nodded.

“Sam, when you and the kids have emptied your weapons, get inside the safe box and reload. You should be safe behind the sandbags before they fire back. The rest of you will rapidly shoot half of your rifle magazine at visible targets in the trees, the other half at the corner. Targets of opportunity after that,” he said, running to his father in the great room.

“Dad, I want you to focus on both sides of the barn and anything to the left. Use both of the firing positions in the great room. I expect them to send a guy to the left corner to fire into the house. Concentrate on putting that target out of action, even if you have to slow down your rate of fire and take well-aimed shots. Yell out if you need backup.”

His next stop was Ed, who kneeled behind a wide sandbag wall built five feet back from the open side of the deck slider.

“You good with the AR?” said Alex.

“I prefer the Ruger, but I think we’ll need the extra punch for this one.”

“If it jams, switch to the Ruger and yell for me. I’ll put the AR back into action. Here’s what I need you to do. After the first full magazine salvo, reload and cover the right corner of the barn, along with anything you can identify in the tree line behind the house. Take three quick shots at each target, reacquire or find a new target and repeat. If men push forward from the barn, yell out a warning and focus your fire on them until they are no longer moving toward the house. Their most likely breach point is this sliding door. If it gets too crazy behind your sandbag position, fall back to the safe box,” he said, slapping Ed on the shoulder. “Easy enough?”

“Easy enough.”

“Kate, you’ll start out in the bathroom. After the first mag, you focus on the tree line. If the eastern group makes a dash for the garage, you relocate to the sitting room. You’ll have a clean line of sight down the front of the garage, which is their fastest way into the house. Cover that approach until Linda and Charlie get downstairs. Check?”

“Check,” she said and jogged toward the mudroom.

“I’ll be back down in a few moments. Pass anything you see over the radio.” He opened the door to the basement and came face to face with his mother holding a 20-gauge shotgun.

“Mom, I need—”

“The kids stay down here. You have too many moving parts up there as it is. A few shaky pistols isn’t going to make or break the day,” she said.

“I love you, Mom. Keep the door locked and watch the bulkhead. Tell Emily I love her,” he said, heading upstairs.

At the top of the staircase, he turned left and walked into their bedroom. Ryan sat on a folding chair, pressing his rifle’s vertical fore grip against the top row of sandbags, scanning the tree line through the 4X ACOG scope. The Enhanced Combat Helmet issued to Alex by the marines protected his head. Over his clothes, he wore a loose-fitting tactical vest jammed with rifle magazines. Several magazines lay flat on top of the sandbag wall, ready for immediate use. More sat stacked on the floor beside the chair. With twenty magazines at his disposal, Ryan would fire the Marine Corps issued HK416A5, providing their only source of automatic gunfire. The weapon was essentially the same as the M27 Infantry Assault Rifle used by the Marine Corp as a squad support weapon, without the bipod and higher capacity magazines.

“You all right?”

“Ready for action,” Ryan said, knocking on the helmet.

Alex kneeled next to the chair, putting a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

“You’re the closest thing we have to an infantry support rifleman. I want you to burn through mags as quickly and accurately as you can. Short, controlled bursts. Spread the love around. You’ll draw a lot of attention doing this, so keep your head as low as possible. If you see men coming from the barn, you engage that group until they stop. We can’t let them get into the house. I love you, buddy,” he said, letting go of his son.

“Love you too, Dad.”

“Call out anything you see on the radio,” he said.

“Got it.”

“If the volume of incoming fire makes it impossible to engage targets without getting hit, you’re done. You call it in and stay out of sight.”

“How will I know when it gets to that point?”

“You’ll know, and so will your mother. No heroics,” he said, patting Ryan on the shoulder.

Alex hovered at the door, afraid to leave. When the shooting started, his son would attract hundreds of bullets. They’d reinforced the position with leftover sandbags, extending the sides to protect against shallow-angled fire and adding an additional layer facing the front. An extra piece of sheet metal had been brought up early this morning and wedged against the right side of the fortification to slow down projectiles heading into the side extension. This had been the only modification to Kate and Linda’s work that Alex had directed.

Alex had initially considered taking this position, since it offered the best view of the exterior situation, but the rest of the adults quickly talked him out of it. They needed him to remain mobile, constantly assessing their defenses. Much to Kate’s dismay, Ryan was the next best candidate for the key position. He didn’t like placing his son here either, but Ryan could fire accurately at a sustained rate, which was exactly what they needed overlooking both the barn and backyard. When explaining this to Kate, he left out the part about their son becoming the primary target on the battlefield. He took one more look at his son and sped down the hallway toward the master bedroom.

The second safe box sat about five feet beyond the door to the vast room, in the middle of a windowless sitting area extending from the entrance to the master bathroom to a bay window facing south. Both of the Thorntons’ daughters poked their heads above the sandbags. Linda turned her head from a pair of binoculars to acknowledge his entry before returning to the critical business of spotting the group approaching from the road. He noticed that she wore the Dragon Skin body armor. A good decision, given her job of holding the eastern line. She’d draw a considerable amount of gunfire trying to keep an entire squad at bay.

“That you, Alex?” said Charlie from the window facing the backyard in the northeast corner of the room.

Charlie must have changed as soon as the alarm was sounded. Loaded down with tactical gear, he sported Vietnam-era tiger-striped camouflage and his famous raccoon cap. Everyone had their combat rituals, ranging from specialized uniforms to a simple mantra spoken before firing the first round.

“Looks like the Thorntons have this side of the house locked down,” Alex commented.

“Damn straight,” uttered Linda.

“Charlie, move to the other side of the bed. Any rounds fired from the north at your current position run the risk of catching Linda in a crossfire. Better to draw fire away from the corner. She doesn’t have much protection on her left side.”

He passed Charlie in front of the bed, stopping him for a moment.

“Stay low. No crazy shit. Fire three to five rounds at each target. Shift immediately to the next. Work your way down the line. If someone makes a break for the house from the trees, stopping them becomes your only focus. I suspect they’ll use the northern tree line for suppressing fire in support of the breaching team, so your job will mostly consist of staying alive and reducing their numbers. Be ready to help Linda if the squad in the eastern woods makes a run for the house. I suspect they will.”

“Got it, brother,” said Charlie with a fearful look.

“It’s gonna be hell, but we’ll hold them off,” said Alex, believing the first part more than the second. “Linda, your job is pretty straightforward. Keep them in the woods as long as possible. If they have any tactical sense, they’ll feel you out for a minute before giving it a go. They’ll send a few into the open under heavy suppressing fire. You bury your head in that rifle and keep it flush against the sandbags. Don’t remove your shooting glasses for any reason, or you’ll be put out of action by flying debris. It will not be a pleasant experience. Keep firing and call Charlie. Charlie?”

“Yo!”

“When Linda calls you over, take the window next to hers and concentrate on the men in the open. With a bit of luck and good shooting, you’ll take three to four attackers out of the equation. Keep your heads low. If it gets too intense to fire accurately, rapidly empty a few magazines using the Jihadi method and assess the situation.”

“Jihadi method?” asked Linda.

“Yeah. You just fire over the sand bags without looking,” he said, demonstrating with his own rifle. “If you can’t stop them from reaching the house, call it out over the radio. Charlie returns to his original position, and you head downstairs to watch the eastern breach points. Good to go?” he said, slapping Linda on the back.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” said Linda, keeping focused on the trees.

He heard a branch snap in the distance.

“Good luck,” he whispered.

On his way out of the bedroom, he racked his brain for anything he missed. ROTAC. The battle would be finished by the time the Marine detachment sent to Brunswick could arrive, but it was worth a try.

Chapter 35

EVENT +75:20

Limerick, Maine

Eli stared at the barn through the trees, catching part of the gray colonial beyond the far left corner of the red siding. He needed to lead the squad to the right, on a due south heading, so they could enter the clearing safe from observation and direct gunfire. Of course, this theory assumed that the people in the house didn’t have a man situated in the barn. A half-opened window high up on the roofline stared down at him, casting serious doubt on an uninterrupted, near football field length jog across the grass. Like every window on the house, the screen was missing. He’d have to position at least two men to cover the window, bringing them across if the journey proved uneventful. His radio squawked.

“Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three, we have a problem.”

“What is it, Liberty Three?”

“Last man in my column found a motion detector thirty feet from our ingress route. I can see another one, maybe one hundred feet away in the opposite direction. Looks like a wireless model. I think they know we’re coming.”

Shit.

He’d counted on cameras and motion-activated lights, but a perimeter of motion sensors was overkill for a bunch of summer folk. This might be a game changer.

“Can you tell if they’re live? The EMP should have killed all of this gear.”

“Most of our unplugged electronics gear survived. We have to assume this stuff works. They probably caught us watching the place yesterday. Might explain the late night military convoy. What if they offloaded a surprise? This whole thing could be a trap,” said Brown.

Double shit.

It was definitely possible. Eli glanced nervously around the forest, wondering if he’d already passed a hidden gun emplacement. Was his second squad lining up on the tree line to be hit from both sides? No. This was crazy thinking. A couple of stupid bitches got the drop on his drunken nephew and stole his SUV. Hatfield’s description of the bridge battle didn’t include a Green Beret A-Team. Jimmy’s group was hit by three guys in a Jeep during a blinding rainstorm, helped by a bunch of Hell’s Angels. Only one guy was in the Jeep spotted by Brown. None of it added up to a clever ambush by Special Forces. But how the hell did he explain a military convoy driving around at night without lights? Maybe the driver was some rich out-of-stater with connections. Who the fuck knew—or cared? They’d give it a try.

“Liberty Three, continue your approach. Hang back about thirty feet from the clearing to avoid visual detection and wait for second squad to engage the house. Give it about thirty seconds, then execute your mission.”

After a lengthy pause, Brown responded. “Roger. Liberty Three will advise when in position.”

“See you inside the house, Liberty Three. Actual, out.”

“I say we send a few guys across to test the waters. Just in case,” said Hillebrand, from a crouched position buried inside a familiar-looking plant.

“Don’t touch your eyes, Paul,” said Eli. “You’re sitting in poison ivy.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Hillebrand, stepping out of the bush and kneeling next to Eli.

“You got a few volunteers to send across?” said Eli.

“We don’t have volunteers in my squad. Ain’t a democracy. We’ll get set up on the edge and send two out. If we get hit by automatic fire from the barn, I’d say we might have a problem.”

“I agree. If we can get the whole squad to the barn, it won’t matter who they dropped off last night. Not with the thirty-cal firing seven hundred rounds per minute into the house.”

“Liberty Two, this is Liberty Actual.”

“Send it, Actual.”

He hated Bertelson’s radio protocol. The kid just didn’t get it. You didn’t tell your commanding officer to “send it.” You answer with your call sign and wait for orders. Why the fuck couldn’t he get this right? Now wasn’t the time to let this kind of shit bother him, so Eli took a deep breath and pressed his lips together before transmitting.

“Keep your squad thirty feet back from the clearing until I give you the order to move up. I don’t want them spotting you too early. The only exception will be the machine-gun team. I want them up near the edge of the tree line in a concealed position, prepping the thirty-cal for action. Bipod extended, round in the chamber. When I give the order, they will push that barrel through the foliage and sweep each floor of the house with sustained fire. After that, I want them focused on the right-side windows and the sliding door. Fire until the gun is out of ammo. How copy?”

“Solid copy, Actual. I’ll be on the gun myself, so we don’t have any screw ups.”

How the hell was he supposed to direct his squad sitting behind a thirty-caliber machine gun? Bertelson was getting under his skin.

“Negative, Liberty Three. I need you in a command and control position, not behind a machine gun.”

“Uhhh, I made the decision when we split off. I sent Raymond to lead the column across. He’s on the far left flank.”

Eli peered through the forest at the skirmish line formed by Bertelson’s squad, barely able to see past the fifth man in line. He didn’t need this kind of shit right before the attack. His gut instinct told him to relieve Bertelson before he made a decision that botched the entire plan. He could send Hillebrand to take over Liberty Two while Eli spearheaded the house breach. Tactically, it made more sense for him to leave Hillebrand in place and take over Bertelson’s squad, but then he’d miss all of the fun. There was no way Eli was going to pass up an opportunity to put his pistol grip shotgun into action. He’d just as soon miss his own son’s wedding, if he had one.

“Never mind. Just make sure nobody starts firing until I give the order.”

“Roger. I’ll let you know when we’re in position.”

Several minutes later, Brown had arranged his squad underneath the impenetrable raspberry bushes, with orders to cover the second-story barn window. Satisfied that they were ready, he gave Eli the signal to send the two men who lay in the deep grass on the other side of the thorny barrier. Twenty seconds later, Eli exhaled gently as the two men safely reached the closest corner of the barn. So far, so good.

He sent two more across, just in case they were dealing with a well-disciplined gunner. If Eli was positioned in that window, he’d let the obvious Guinea pigs cross, waiting for a juicier target, but he’d never let more than two attackers across. Four men represented a full fire team—almost half of a standard squad, which was more than enough to do some serious damage in close proximity. When the second pair lined up against the barn siding, he knew the barn was empty. There was nothing he could do about the camera mounted next to the window, though he suspected it was disabled. Plugged into the grid, it would have been fried by the EMP.

“Liberty Two, this is Liberty Actual. Bring the thirty-cal up to a well-concealed position and get it ready. Advise when the gun is ready to fire.”

“Copy all. Out.”

Chapter 36

EVENT +75:22

Limerick, Maine

Alex watched the rest of the militia squad disappear underneath the camera view. Thirteen heavily armed men had streamed across the grass, utilizing procedures that indicated a high degree of tactical awareness. The good news was that Striker Five-One had just turned north on Route 5 in Waterboro, on their way back to cash in on Alex’s offer of a hot lunch. He just hoped his group could hold out long enough to benefit from Five-One’s arrival.

“Striker Five-One, I have twenty-five plus confirmed bad guys converging on the house. Suspect one additional squad east of the house, in the trees. I have to go.”

“Copy. We’re 16.9 kilometers from your position. ETA nine minutes, seventeen seconds.”

“Roger. Patriot Two Alpha, out.” He triggered the handheld on his way out of the dining room. “We have thirteen men behind the barn. Call out any locations in the trees. The marines are on their way. Ten minutes out,” he said and turned toward the great room. “Dad, scope in on the left side of the barn. I saw one of them break off and head in that direction. If he’s partially obscured by the corner, shoot the corner. Your .308 will punch right through.”

Alex kept moving.

“Ed, got anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Does anyone have anything?” he said into his headset, surprised they hadn’t picked up any movement.

“Affirmative. Two in the trees,” said Ryan.

“Alex, I have a small cluster of guys, maybe two, directly back from the house,” said Charlie.

“This is Linda. I’m all clear.”

“I have movement!” yelled Kate from the mudroom.

“Let’s get all shooters in position for the first volley,” he said into the headset, running past Samantha, who immediately stood up and moved around the sandbags.

Kate stood in front of the toilet in the bathroom, a few feet back from the open window. The sandbag position in front of her had been built taller to accommodate the bathroom’s shoulder-level privacy window, a consideration he hadn’t built into his theoretical calculations. To compensate for the additional rise, they stripped sandbags from the side of the barrier and jammed them against an additional piece of sheet metal higher up against the wall.

“When the shooting starts, stick the barrel out of the window and lean into the bags. What do you have?”

“I see the two Charlie is talking about dead ahead, and I have a few more moving to the right and left, a little further back in the trees,” she said, staring through the EOTech STS magnifier.

“Sounds like this is it,” he muttered, aiming his rifle into the bushes directly across from the window.

“How bad is this going to get?” Kate asked.

Alex had no intention of telling her the truth. Twenty-five rifles pounding away at the north face of the house would be cataclysmic, likely wounding or killing a third of them within the first minute. If they didn’t significantly reduce the number of militia rifles, they stood little chance of surviving. He needed her focused on killing, not dying.

“The marines are eight minutes out. We’ll get through this. I love you, honey.”

“I love you more,” she said, leaning her shoulder into him.

Her gentle bump shifted his scope’s field of vision, exposing a thick gun barrel supported by a bipod near the ground. He centered the scope’s red reticle on the barrel and sharply inhaled. The tapered, perforated barrel was unmistakable. Alex reached for his handheld radio, raising the reticle a few inches above the Browning thirty-caliber machine-gun barrel.

“Fire on all targets! Fire on all targets!” he said and pressed the trigger.

***

Larry Bertelson pushed at the thicket with gloved hands, trying to give his gunner a better field of view. He didn’t think Cole could see the second floor through the tangled mess. Not that it mattered. There was little chance of elevating the barrel high enough to reach it. The bipod wasn’t tall enough.

“Fucking thorns!” he hissed. “Can you see the whole house?”

“Good enough for government work,” said Randy Cole, spitting out tobacco on his shoulder and pushing the machine gun further into the opening.

“Not too far or I won’t be able to reload,” said Bertelson.

His radio squelched.

“Say again. I did not copy your last. This thing is a piece of shit,” he said, adjusting the earpiece.

“Liberty Two, this is Liberty Actual. Commence firing on the house.”

“Roger. This is Liberty Two. Firing on the house at my command,” he said, patting Cole on the upper arm. “Just got the order to fire, bitch. Holy shit, this is going to rock.”

“You want me to start firing?” said Cole.

“Fuck yeah!” he said.

“Does this thing have a safety?”

“I didn’t see one,” said Bertelson, examining the metal along the right side of the machine gun. “Didn’t you train on this gun?”

Bertelson knew how to load the ammunition belt through the tray, remembering the trick with the extractor. You had to manually lock the extractor forward before closing the feed tray cover. Beyond that, he’d never fired it, which was why he swapped out with Randy. Rank had its privileges.

“I fired it once at a demo, but it was already loaded.”

“Pull the bolt back and light these fuckers up already.”

Randy Cole yanked the charging handle back and slammed it forward, sighting in for a few seconds. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. “Are you sure this thing doesn’t have a safety?”

“What’s the hold up, Liberty Two?” he heard through his earpiece.

Cole examined the left side of the gun and the area under the trigger.

“Pull the charging handle back again,” Bertelson said. “Maybe it didn’t chamber right.”

“Liberty Two, this is Actual. What the fuck is the hold up?”

Bertelson leaned on his side to access the radio attached to the front of his chest rig. A wet crack stopped him from pressing the transmit button.

What the hell?

The raspberry bush above the gun barrel snapped and fell on the metal cylinder, immediately followed by a sickening wet splash. He twisted on his back to face Cole.

“Pull the Goddamn—”

The gunner’s head rested against the machine gun’s stock, still facing down the weapon’s sights. Eyes wide open, he looked fine except for the two small holes punched through his forehead. A bright crimson mist settled over Cole’s gore-covered legs. Bertelson felt a deep, driving pain in his upper back, paralyzing him in place as gunfire erupted. He never felt the rounds that ended his life.

Chapter 37

EVENT +75:23

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell leaned against the barn and waited for Liberty Two to respond. By now, he’d expected to hear the comforting chatter of a thirty-caliber machine gun pouring seven hundred .30-06 rounds per minute into the house. Right now, he’d settle for a few rounds from the dozen AR-15s spread among the trees.

Anything but dead silence!

“Liberty Two, this is Actual. What the fuck is the hold up?” he said, squeezing the handheld radio to the point he felt the plastic start to give.

Two sharp sounds, spaced less than a second apart, reached his ears. Hillebrand backed away from the corner, nearly knocking him over. Before Eli could regain his footing, the morning stillness erupted in a vicious barrage of gunfire. The corner of the barn exploded, spraying Hillebrand and Eli with splinters. Bullets ripped past the barn, forming a virtual wall of steel that caused all of the men to drop to the ground. Screams from the trees rose above the sustained roar of what had to be dozens of guns raking Bertelson’s men.

Short bursts of unexpected automatic fire added to the chaos, driving the men, including Eli, to hug the ground even tighter. Bullets penetrated the siding several feet back from the edge of the barn at waist height, showering them with sharp pieces of broken cedar. The gravity of their situation weighed heavy as Eli fought through the paralyzing fear that glued him to the ground. They couldn’t advance against that much firepower. Not with the thirty-caliber out of action—and he had to assume it was out of action. The first two shots came from a suppressed weapon, likely a sniper targeting the machine-gun crew. He didn’t see much of a choice at this point. They’d have to retreat unless one of Bertelson’s men put the machine gun into action. Judging by the cries of agony rising above the gunfire, he wasn’t hopeful. He reached for his handheld to order a retreat when he noticed that the gunfire had slackened to a few scattered shots emanating from the forest.

“They’re reloading! Fire! Fire!” he screamed, flipping his rifle’s selector switch to automatic and lunging past Hillebrand.

Eli slammed into the ground at the corner, firing into the house without aiming.

***

Alex sprinted into the kitchen, stopping in front of the safe box. He waited for Samantha to clear his line of sight and fired the rest of his magazine well over Ed’s head at the barn, hoping to penetrate the walls and drop a few of the militia on the other side.

“Nice job, Walkers!” he yelled, nodding at Samantha as she climbed over the sandbags.

His hands automatically reloaded the rifle while he assessed the situation. He didn’t detect any return fire, which confirmed his panicked suspicion that the thirty-caliber machine gun had been the centerpiece of the militia’s attack. Panicked for a reason. If the thirty-caliber had come into play, most of them would be lying in their own blood on the floor. Designed to stop standard .223 projectiles, the sandbag barriers would prove little match for the .30-06 bullet fired by the Browning machine gun. He’d spent more than half of a thirty-round magazine putting the gun out of action, killing its crew and disabling the ammunition box. The gun was still serviceable, but he doubted anyone would heave the bodies out of the way and try to work the gun.

A bullet snapped through the pine cabinet to the right of the kitchen window, knocking the door open and spilling blue ceramic fragments onto the granite counter. Another bullet hit the top of Ed’s protective barricade, spraying dirt over his clumsy attempt to reload the AR. It was taking everyone too long to reload. Ryan’s HK416A5 answered the sporadic crackle of distant small arms with a sustained burst of automatic fire. Alex caught movement beyond Ed, near the corner of the barn.

“Get down!” he screamed, kneeling behind the safe box.

Bullets sliced through the kitchen, shattering the sliding glass door and splintering the kitchen table. He felt the safe box shudder as projectiles hammered through the sheet metal, their energy absorbed by the tightly packed dirt. He dashed across the open area in front of the basement door in an attempt to reach his father, who was firing rapidly at the left side of the barn. He slid into the great room on the hardwood floor, bullets puncturing the wood behind before he reached Tim Fletcher in the corner. A quick glance through one of the western windows showed a figure stumbling into the open, a victim of the .308 bullets that his dad had fired through the barn. A single aimed shot from Tim’s Vietnam-era relic collapsed the man on his stomach.

“Focus on this side!” he yelled and sighted in on the men exposed beyond the right corner of the barn.

The sandbags and windowsill in front of Alex exploded, driving him beneath the top of the barrier. He spit dirt and pieces of wood onto his vest as the fusillade continued. An extended burst of automatic fire from Ryan’s position slowed the rate of incoming fire long enough for him to put his rifle into action. Jamming the vertical fore grip against the sandbags, he canted the rifle and fired rapidly using the forty-five-degree angled iron sights. Under heavy fire, the men disappeared behind the barn; one pulled lifelessly out of sight by his legs.

Tim squeezed beside him, seeking some of the cover provided by the barricade. Bullets snapped and ricocheted through the great room, clanging off the wood-burning stove behind them. Alex glanced around the half wall separating the great room from the kitchen and watched their once beautiful kitchen methodically disintegrate as the rate of fire increased.

Most of the cabinets sat wide open, knocked off their hinges to expose broken plates and glasses. The stainless-steel refrigerator’s door panel was dented in three places around small holes. Water spewed out of the shattered chrome faucet. A bullet burst through the half wall a few inches left of his head, splitting the distance between Alex and his father. Unfazed by the fresh coating of drywall dust, Tim Fletcher kept shooting his M14 at the trees.

The men hidden in the woods were finding their rhythm after the intense fusillade that sent over two hundred rounds of various calibers into the trees without warning. Even if Alex’s crew managed to kill or disable half of the men, six ARs in semi-proficient hands were capable of returning the same number of bullets twice every minute. Alex wiped his yellow-tinted shooting glasses with his sleeve and leaned into his father’s ear.

“Ryan, what’s your status?’

A few nervous seconds passed.

“Busy. They’re finding good cover behind the trees.”

“Copy. Keep your fire rate high. Out.”

Another round of bullets sliced through the drywall, stinging his face.

“Watch the left side, in case they send another guy. I’ll be right back,” he said to his dad and slid along the floor to Ed’s position. “What are you seeing?” he asked Ed, firing three rounds at a head peeking around the barn.

“Not much of anything! I can’t see shit anymore!”

Alex scanned the tree line through his riflescope and saw the problem. The bright light reflecting off the leaves and bushes contrasted with the dark forest behind them, making it nearly impossible to find a well-concealed, man-sized target in the short period of time allowed by the incoming bullets. The effect was similar to looking inside a dark house on a sunny day. The militia had the opposite situation. Even though they couldn’t easily identify individual targets within the house, the windows and doors made obvious targets for their rifles. Dirt sprayed Alex’s face, followed by several thumps against the sandbag barrier.

“It’s holding together nicely,” he said, patting the sandbags.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s getting harder to put my head over the top to fire,” said Ed.

Alex checked his watch. “The marines arrive in seven minutes.”

“That’s too long,” said Ed, rising to fire.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a second battle rose to a crescendo, competing with the gunfire from the northern tree line.

“What the hell is that?” said Ed, ducking as dirt sprayed and the sandbags thumped.

The Thorntons.

***

Linda leaned into the sandbags and sighted in on the first man to emerge from the trees. Bullets tore chunks out of the drywall around her and fractured the windowsill, stinging her face as she fired three steady shots into the man, dropping him in the tall grass. Alex wasn’t bullshitting about needing these glasses.

“I need some help here!” she said, catching Charlie’s arrival in the adjacent window through her peripheral vision.

A bullet or splinter grazed her hat, followed immediately by a metallic crack that almost knocked the rifle out of her grip. She jammed the rifle into her shoulder and stared through the EOTech, quickly determining that the sight had been destroyed. Linda flipped the sight’s quick-release lever and yanked it off the tactical rail, tossing it aside. She triggered the rear flip-up sight and leaned into the gun, finding a staggered column of four men sprinting toward the house. One of them fell to his knees, a geyser of bright red arterial spray erupting above his left clavicle as he pitched forward. She aligned her rifle’s sights with the next uniformed target and pressed the trigger rapidly, tumbling the man into the patchy field.

She shifted her aim and started to press the trigger when a bullet exploded through one of the sandbags in front of her, striking her in the chest below the rifle and spinning her forty-five degrees to the right. Unable to breathe from the hammer strike to her ribs, she attempted to turn and face the window. Still kneeling, a second bullet caught her in the left ankle.

***

Charlie fired at the magnified target in the middle of the green holographic circle and shifted the rifle to find another. He aimed at the next man’s stomach, knowing that the bullet would arrive a fraction of a second later, when the man’s upper torso crossed the bullet’s path. Leading a target moving toward or away from the shooter at this short distance required minimal adjustment. He eased the trigger as the man tumbled out of view, leaving a splash of red in his field of vision.

Linda’s stealing my targets!

He glanced at her in time to see the second round explode her ankle, knocking her to the floor before she disappeared in a shower of dirt and drywall.

“Linda!” he yelled, diving between the spilled sandbags and his wife.

He slung his rifle and grabbed the drag handle at the top of the Dragon Skin body armor. A second fusillade of heavy-caliber bullets ripped through the second barrier, obliterating the barrier he had just left.

Sweet Jesus!

He had to get Linda behind the safe box before another burst of that tore into the house. Bullets punctured the sheet metal in front of them, hissing past Charlie as he dragged his moaning wife to the safe box. He saw blonde hair poke above the sandbags.

“Stay down! Stay down!” he screamed.

He lifted Linda over the top of the sandbag wall and dumped her in, eliciting a scream of pain and anger. Foul words chased him out of the room.

“Shit, sorry, honey!” he said.

“Dad!” his daughters screamed. “What do we do?”

“Use the first aid kit to stop the bleeding. I have to go!”

Charlie sprinted out of the bedroom, fumbling for his radio.

“All units. All units. The eastern flank has collapsed. I say again, the eastern flank has collapsed. They’re using a heavy-caliber rifle. Went right through the sandbags!”

“Copy,” said someone.

Bullets splintered the doorframe leading to Ryan’s position as Charlie approached the stairs, answered by a long burst of automatic fire from the kid’s rifle. He hit the stairs hard, smashing his right hip into the handrail before descending. A few steps below him, a bullet fragmented the stair riser, followed by a second projectile three steps higher, a few inches to the right of his left leg. The splinters of wood stung his leg, but he felt lucky enough to smirk. A third round passed through the stairs, entering his left calf and erasing his smile. Blood splatted the white balusters, one of the last details he’d remember after tumbling down the rest of the staircase.

***

Kate ducked below the sandbag barrier, thankful for the momentary reprieve, despite the sinister implications of Charlie’s report. Incoming fire from the backyard had reached the point where she barely aimed the rifle before firing a few rounds and dropping back down. Bullets snapped by her head each time or exploded dirt in her face. Struggling to activate her radio, she observed the bathroom behind her for the first time. The sink was shattered, most of it lying in large pieces on the tile floor. A few jagged chunks remained in place, attached to the drain and the faucet. The top half of the mirror clung stubbornly to the white frame, the bottom sprinkled in shards among the white porcelain on the floor. The toilet next to her remained intact, perforated in at least four places. Water flowed out of the tank, spreading across the tile. The bowl cracked in half and dropped to the floor, causing her to scream. She pressed the radio transmit button.

“Copy,” she said, leaning her head down to speak into the radio attached to the top of her vest.

“Fuck it,” she muttered, using the rifle to push off the sandbags.

She stayed low, running out of the bathroom and colliding with Alex, who gave her a once-over and hugged her.

“You okay?” he said, letting go quickly and pulling her toward the sitting room.

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking loose of his grip. “I got it.”

“It’s just us on the eastern side,” said Alex.

“What about Charlie and Linda?”

Alex pointed through the French doors leading to the foyer and slid behind sandbags. “We’re on our own! Flip down your magnifier. This is close-up work,” he said, pulling her in tightly behind him.

Kate stared through the oddly intact matrix of glass panes at a body slumped on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Charlie’s fur hat was visible through the lower left pane. Her gaze drifted up the stairs. The few intact balusters were sprayed bright red.

“What about Linda?” she said, releasing the lock holding the magnifier in place and flipping it out of the way of the EOTech sight.

“She’s not answering her radio,” he said, raising his head high enough to see out of the window. “Here they come!”

Alex lifted his rifle over the sandbags and fired rapidly, spurring Kate to react. She braced her weapon against the right side of the barricade and fired into the men advancing along the garage bay doors, not bothering to aim through the holographic sight. Crimson stains bathed the white garage bay doors as the men dropped in a maelstrom of .223 caliber projectiles. Kate kept firing long after they had plunged to the gravel driveway in twisted heaps, stupefied by the sudden, devastating violence they had unleashed.

“Get back,” he said, grabbing her vest.

Dirt exploded through the center of the barricade, knocking Alex backward. Kate felt a hard tug and fell with him.

Chapter 38

EVENT +75:27

Limerick, Maine

Eli peeked around the corner at ground level, only able to hold his head there for a few seconds before splinters burrowed into his face and neck. He’d seen enough. Three shooters, positioned to pour rounds into the barn—only one of them making a persistent effort. The guy with the automatic. He could take care of that for the breach team. Staying low and squirming back along the concrete foundation toward Paul Hillebrand, bullets tore through the siding above him.

“I got a plan!” he shouted. “We’ll use our two automatics to suppress the gun position above the porch and the one inside the door. You’ll lead your squad into the house, firing as you go. Send one more guy around the other side to draw fire from any other shooters. Make sure he has a radio.”

“Are you sure, Eli?”

Eli’s earpiece activated.

“Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three, commencing assault.”

“Copy, Liberty Three. Let me know when you’ve reached the house.”

“Roger.”

Staccato gunfire erupted in the distance, rising in tempo as Eli smiled.

“Brown’s squad is tearing up their eastern flank. They’ll have to pull people away to stop him. It’s now or never, Paul!” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I want you moving on the house in thirty seconds. Get everyone briefed and ready.”

“All right. Let’s do this,” said Hillebrand, rising to a crouch.

While Hillebrand briefed his men and picked one to fire from the opposite corner of the barn, Eli jogged over to the guy with the automatic rifle.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Bob Harper,” said the stocky, goateed soldier, resisting Eli’s attempts to physically lift him off the ground.

“Get up, Harper. If I’m standing, you’re standing.”

Harper got up slowly, kneeling and looking nervously past Eli at the splintered siding.

“You and I have a critical job. Your squad leader is taking the rest of the squad forward while we suppress the house. Reload your weapon and listen up.”

Twenty seconds later, Eli and Harper lay behind the foundation at the corner of the barn, side by side with Eli closest to the barn. Two spare rifles sat propped against the side of the barn within reach of the edge. Paul Hillebrand crouched directly behind Harper’s feet, holding a radio and his rifle.

“Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three. We’re approaching breach positions ,” his earpiece announced.

“Get moving!” Eli yelled over his shoulder, waiting for Hillebrand’s voice over the radio.

“Liberty One. Breach. Breach. Breach!”

Eli scrambled to his feet and kneeled next to the corner, feeling Harper pressed against his left arm. He leaned left and braced his rifle against the fragmented corner, quickly finding the bullet-riddled gray siding through his red dot sight. He caught the top of a Kevlar helmet as the gunner swung the smoking barrel in his direction. Eli’s rifle bucked against the chewed wood, unleashing a steady burst of automatic fire. He released the trigger, adjusted his aim and fired again, repeating this until the firing bolt locked back. At some point during the fusillade, the rifle above the porch disappeared.

He let the rifle drop in its sling and grabbed one of the spares, putting it into action against the gun position inside the sliding door. Hillebrand’s squad stumbled across the patio, knocking plastic furniture out of the way to reach the porch. After several trigger pulls, he noticed his hands and the rifle were coated red. Eli looked over his shoulder to see Harper twitching on the ground, a thick stream of blood pumping out of his neck onto the barn. A bullet snapped through the wood next to his head, forcing him back. He’d have to watch this one from a distance. The sight of a Kevlar helmet in the house didn’t bode well for Hillebrand’s men.

***

The intensity of fire directed at his sandbag position had taken on a surreal, almost nonthreatening quality for Ryan. Pressing his automatic rifle down into a small gap between sandbags and burying his face into the ACOG scope, he presented little target area for the attackers to hit. Combined with his Enhanced Combat Helmet, eighteen inches of packed dirt and reinforced sheet metal continued to protect him from the barrage of projectiles.

He fired a long burst at a target he’d been dueling with since the start of the attack; his only goal at this point was to prevent the man from taking aimed shots into the house. Several tightly spaced .223 bullets had done the trick so far. He loaded a new magazine and searched for fresh targets. Movement in his left-side peripheral field drew his attention, along with his point of aim, to the barn. He didn’t have time to analyze the scene. Dirt exploded in his face, and he pressed the trigger, focused on the two men leaning around the corner. Ryan started to shift his aim to the group of men that appeared behind the shooters, but never lined up a shot. Bullets hissed and popped around his head, one striking his helmet and knocking him off the chair.

Unable to stand, he grabbed the flimsy chair and tried to pull himself upright, but didn’t gain any momentum. Hell-bent on putting the gun back into action, Ryan crawled against the sandbags and used the rifle to prop himself high enough to reach his hand over the top of the sandbags. He dug his hand into the splintered wood and pulled his body up. A bullet grazed his hand, burning like fire, but he held tight and heaved himself upright. The men headed toward the house were here for one purpose, and it was his job to stop them. Cresting the top of the windowsill, another bullet hit his helmet, snapping his head sideways. He braced the rifle against the top of the sandbags and pushed up on his good leg, giving him a view directly below.

Three men lay sprawled across the patio, one of them sliding face down off one of the white Adirondack chairs, leaving a thick, dark red streak. He caught the last man in the group rushing up the wraparound stairs leading into the covered porch. Without thinking, he fired the entire magazine into the shingles directly below him.

Chapter 39

EVENT +75:29

Limerick, Maine

Alex rolled on the hardwood floor, clutching his stomach. Unable to breathe from the 2,800-foot-per-second punch to his gut, he lay there mustering the will to move. He had to move. He tried to call out for Kate, but couldn’t expel enough air to form words. The sandbags had been shredded; most of the dark brown dirt poured onto the floor below the window or scattered across the room. Judging by the fact that he was still alive, he guessed a .308 or similar caliber had done the damage. Anything less would have been stopped by the barrier, anything more would have penetrated the Dragon Skin armor.

“Alex!” a panicked voice cried.

A pair of hands pulled him onto his back, and he stared up at Kate. A wild look crossed her dirt-covered face. Blood streamed down her right earlobe onto her cheek.

“You’re fine,” she said, peeling his hands off his stomach. “Thank God.”

“They’re coming!” yelled Ed.

Bullets punctured the wall connected to the kitchen, spraying them with chunks of drywall and passing overhead with the telltale snaps signifying a near miss. He managed to flip into the prone position, lying next to Kate, who had flattened herself in response to the automatic gunfire. Alex glanced at the window behind them. They had to get out of this room. Kate read his look and started to crawl toward the demolished sandbags. He grabbed her arm and mouthed “no,” surprised to hear faint words. Alex pulled her close and strained to speak.

“You have to stop them from getting in the mudroom,” he croaked. “Not from here. Go fast.”

She dragged him through the doorway into the kitchen, leaving him behind the safe box before disappearing into the mudroom amidst exploding drywall. His first instinct was to check on his dad. He didn’t see the familiar eight point woodland camouflage Marine Corps cap poking up behind the half wall separating the two rooms. He turned his attention to the backyard, just in time to see Ed push the kitchen table out of the way and throw himself behind the kitchen counter, the sandbags behind him finally collapsing from the concentrated stream of gunfire fired from the patio. Beyond Ed’s darting figure, he saw the screen porch door crash inward.

Forcing himself to react, Alex raised his rifle and fired at the first figure to enter the porch, knocking him back. A concentrated burst of fire struck the corner of the safe box, one round hitting the rifle’s side-mounted Surefire light and shattering it. Knocked off target, Alex pressed the rifle into the sandbags and pressed the trigger, firing two hasty rounds into the patio before expending his magazine.

A mass of camouflaged men barreled through the patio door firing, giving him a fraction of a second to make a decision that might decide their fate: Draw his pistol or reload the rifle. Habit brought his hand to one of his rifle magazine pouches, but survival instinct kept it moving to his drop holster. He didn’t have time to reload before they filled the room. Sticking the pistol past the obliterated sandbag corner, he tracked the first man entering the house and fired repeatedly, acknowledging the fact that he couldn’t win this gunfight. Two men breached the shattered sliding door before clouds of drywall dust and bullets rained down on the men still bottlenecked on the porch.

Ryan is still in the fight!

A distant, crunching explosion rattled the house, triggering a long-forgotten, frightening memory. A few more shots locked the pistol slide back, once again presenting Alex with a miserably lopsided decision. Not much of a decision, really. One way or the other, he was as good as dead.

***

Eli peeked around the corner and watched the remains of Hillebrand’s squad charge up the porch stairs, firing at the sandbag wall just inside the house. A figure darted across the kitchen, barely visible through the shower of dirt and debris, seeking refuge from the onslaught. Scanning the far right ground-floor windows over his rifle, he didn’t see the shooter using the M14. He was glad to see that gun out of commission. One pop from a .308—end of story. He turned in time to see men pile through the screen door, screaming and shooting like marauders. That should do it. Movement above the porch caught his attention, and the men inside the screened porch vanished in an explosive storm of gray drywall powder.

Frozen by the sudden, unexplained annihilation of Hillebrand’s squad, the sound of automatic gunfire pounded Eli’s ears and jarred him into action. He lifted his rifle barrel and sighted in on the man leaning out of the window. A booming explosion shook the ground and knocked the red dot off target as he pressed the trigger, sending a short burst of automatic fire high and to the right of the window. He didn’t bother readjusting his aim for another burst, instead opting to dive behind the barn and take cover behind the foundation. Bullets ripped through the barn, some passing inches over his back. When the incoming fire stopped, he crawled back to the corner of the barn and grabbed his radio. The not-so-distant explosion meant one thing—time to “get the fuck out of Dodge.”

***

Ed crawled around the kitchen island, ignoring the shards of glass and ceramics that dug into his hands. He prayed that the sandbags protecting his family hadn’t disintegrated under the intense gunfire. The floor shook from a boom, which he could barely differentiate from the rifle fire inside the house. Rounding the island on his hands and knees, he emerged in time to see Alex charge into the open and throw his pistol. Ed poked his head above the granite and witnessed one of the most bizarre moments of his life. The pistol bounced off the furthest man’s head, knocking him off balance as he climbed over the toppled sandbags and dropping him to the floor.

Alex collided with the second intruder, knocking him against the kitchen table. The two men grappled and slammed each other against the column at the edge of the hall wall, stumbling toward the safe box. Movement on the floor caught Ed’s eye; the man on the other side of the table kicked one of the chairs out of the way and grabbed the table. Having left his rifle behind, and carrying no other weapons, Ed felt helpless—until he saw the barrel of Samantha’s shotgun sticking up behind the sandbags. He sprinted forward and reached inside, trying not to expose his body to the gunfire still penetrating the walls.

“Sam, I need the shotgun!”

“It’s ready to fire!” screamed Samantha.

The warm barrel pressed into the palm of his hand, and he pulled it over the side. Without hesitating, he shouldered the 12-gauge shotgun and fired around the sandbags, knocking the man down. Ed racked the slide and fired under the table, shredding the table legs and splattering the half wall with bright red gore. Three additional 12-guage blasts stopped all movement and groaning on the porch.

One more.

He shifted the smoking barrel toward the desperate hand-to-hand battle on the floor fifteen feet away, but saw no way to shoot the insane-looking redhead without hitting Alex. Screw it. He’d put the gun right up against the dude’s head. Ed stood up and was immediately struck in the right hip by a bullet passing through the kitchen cabinets.

***

Alex grabbed both of the redheaded attacker’s wrists, trying to keep him from grabbing the pistol on his thigh or the loaded rifle hanging across his chest. One fact became obvious as soon as they tumbled to the floor in the kitchen. He couldn’t beat this guy in a straight grapple. Red was either too strong, or Alex was too tired. Either way, the result would be the same. Afraid to release either wrist, he held tight and tried to roll on top of his growling assailant. No good. Bullets continued to splinter the wooden trim and shatter plates in the kitchen as they lay on their sides kicking at each other.

His grip on the man’s right hand slipped, changing the melee’s dynamic in an instant. Red struck his face with the bottom of a closed fist and rolled on top of him, pinning him to the floor. Unable to effectively block the torrent of punches directed at his face, Alex pushed upward with his right hand and twisted his hips. The desperate attempt to turn the tables failed miserably, and Alex lost his grip on the man’s left hand. It was time to even the odds.

Alex jammed his right hand under the rifles pressed between their chests and dug between Red’s legs. Squeezing and twisting what he could grab through the camouflage trousers, Alex shot his head forward and caught Red’s nose with his forehead. Red screamed and pushed away, breaking Alex’s death grip on his crotch. Blood pouring from his nose, Red rose to one knee and fumbled for his pistol. Alex kicked his raised knee from the ground, knocking him backward against the basement door and scrambling after him.

Alex slammed him into the door, pinning both hands against the bullet-riddled wood. He was back where he started, holding both wrists in a struggle he couldn’t win. Except this time Red held a semiautomatic pistol in his right hand. A quick knee to Red’s already obliterated groin yielded nothing but a snarl and a return knee, which Alex deflected by turning his hip. Red’s strength surged, pulling him toward the foyer hallway. He couldn’t go to the floor again, not with a pistol in Red’s hand. A bullet penetrated the door a few inches from their heads, causing their eyes to dart to the hole.

That might work.

“Mom! Shoot the door! Shoot the door!” he screamed past Red’s left ear.

They shifted a few more inches toward the foyer opening.

“Shoot the fucking door, Mom!” he yelled and buried his head under Red’s chin.

Two rapid blasts scattered slivers of wood over their shoulders. A sharp sting bit into his right shin as Red’s body shuddered and weakened. Alex let go of Red’s left wrist and wrenched the pistol free with both hands, throwing himself behind the safe box as bullets continued to plow through the house. Red stumbled a few feet away from the ragged, bloodstained door and dropped to his knees, staring blankly at the mass of dead men in front of him. His right hand drifted slowly to his rifle while his gaze shifted to Alex’s outstretched, pistol-bearing hand.

Click.

The pistol dry-fired. Red’s fingers seized the rifle’s grip as Alex frantically racked the slide and checked the safety. A single hole appeared in Red’s chest, followed by the distinctive boom of a .308 caliber rifle. Tim Fletcher’s M14 rifle barrel protruded from the bullet-peppered half wall. Red stumbled into the foyer and crashed face first into the wall, leaving a thick red trail as he slid to the floor beyond Ed Walker. His neighbor lay flat on his back, bloody hands pressed into his right hip. Ed looked at Alex and winked. Seeing Ed reminded him of Charlie, whom he’d last glimpsed at the bottom of the stairs.

“You okay, Dad?”

“I’ve been better!” responded Tim, peeking out far enough for Alex to see the brim of his camouflage hat.

“Ryan! Send your status.”

“I can’t talk now,” Ryan responded, followed by a long burst of automatic fire.

“I want you out of sight. The backyard threat has been neutralized,” said Alex.

“Copy.”

“Kate, anything?’

The mudroom exploded in gunfire before she responded.

***

“We’re almost in,” Eli heard through the earpiece and scowled at the radio, like it was defective.

“Liberty Three, I don’t think you appreciate what I just said. McCulver reported two armored tactical vehicles headed your way. That’s too much firepower. Pull your men out and head to the secondary extract point.”

“They can’t get the vehicles into the compound, Eli, and it’ll take them at least five minutes to work their way through the trees. I have seven guys ready to breach. If the initial breach fails, I’ll pull them out. If it succeeds, we’ll sweep through the house and be on our way to the secondary extract before they reach the eastern tree line. We won’t get another chance like this,” said Brown.

Eli hesitated. Any chance to properly avenge his brother and nephew was worth losing a few more men. Regardless of the final outcome, he’d spin this in his favor, explaining the drastic loss of life as irrefutable evidence that the government had planted secret agents and platoon-sized kill teams among their own citizens. Of course, his militia had emerged victorious, and anyone that wanted proof could take a trip over to Gelder Pond to see for themselves, and be graciously shuttled over by one of his own members. Word about this attack would travel far and wide. The further, the better. He just needed to make sure he survived to spread the good word.

“Liberty Three, this is Liberty Actual. Proceed with the attack. Watch the second floor. You have one shooter armed with an automatic rifle in the northwest corner, out.”

Chapter 40

EVENT +75:31

Limerick, Maine

Kate fidgeted, trying to find a comfortable position lying on the wet tile floor. Razor-sharp pieces of porcelain and glass dug into her knees and thighs, rendering the effort pointless. At least the fragments hadn’t spilled the entire length of the mudroom. Her elbows rested in a thick puddle spreading from the entryway into the mudroom. She braced her rifle against the doorframe, using the wooden trim to shield her left shoulder and part of her face from the mudroom door. This was the best she could do to protect herself, and judging by the holes in the trim above her head, it wasn’t much. Oh yes—sandbags protected her feet.

Wonderful.

All compounded by the fact that she had no idea what had happened in the kitchen. She heard a ton of shooting, then nothing. Her radio was somewhere in the sitting room, detached from the earpiece that still dangled from her ear.

It didn’t matter at this point. She had a job to do. A shadow slightly darkened the mudroom. Bullets penetrated the door, concentrated on the door handle and deadbolt, and slammed into the wooden shoe storage rack attached to the wall. A few bullets ricocheted in random directions, but most of them plowed into the same one-foot-by-one-foot section of the shoe rack, giving her a solid idea where the shooter was standing. She aimed at the wall to the left of the mudroom door and fired several projectiles through the drywall and siding, hearing a muffled scream from the porch outside.

A fusillade of bullets tore through the mudroom, forcing her to press into the doorframe as glass, drywall and wood showered the tile floor. A figure rushed in front of the obliterated door, rapidly firing his rifle at shoulder height into the mudroom. She placed the holographic sight’s reticle center mass and fired as he kicked the door loose of the locking mechanisms. A second man wasted no time following the door in, proficiently advancing and firing through the mudroom door and kitchen entryway. Kate’s rifle killed him before he realized his mistake.

A cylindrical gray object glanced off the door and bounced on the tile, rolling in her direction. She had no idea what it was and had no intention of finding out. All she knew was that when people threw things during a gunfight, they usually exploded. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted through the kitchen doorway, colliding with Alex.

***

Four bullet holes dimpled the right side of the refrigerator in a tight pattern facing the mudroom. Alex depressed the bolt release button, chambering a round from a fresh magazine, and switched hands in anticipation of firing onto the porch from a position on the right side of the kitchen doorway. Kate burst through the opening as he arrived, knocking him into the broken pantry door, which crashed to the floor.

“Grenade!” she yelled, yanking him toward the sandbags.

Alex stumbled for a few steps, gaining his balance in time to push Kate over the side of the safe box onto the Walkers. As soon as she disappeared, he dove behind the sandbags and waited for the explosion. A few seconds later, when the house didn’t shake, Alex clambered to the corner of the safe box and aimed at the mudroom. Thick, red smoke poured into the house, followed by several .223 bullets fired from men positioned around the doorframe. He fired back, but his hastily delivered bullets failed to find targets. Focused semiautomatic fire forced Alex to stick his rifle around the sandbag corner and fire Jihadi style for the first time in his life. He emptied the magazine and scurried around the other side of the box, reloading as he approached the far end of the kitchen island.

The mudroom fusillade continued as Alex checked the kitchen island corner and confirmed that he was screened from the mudroom doorway by the refrigerator. He edged along the stainless-steel appliance, plotting his next move. He could stick his rifle past the refrigerator and blast away, hoping that the shock of the unexpected, close-up blasts sparked a panicked retreat, but then what? Charge into the mudroom? He had no idea how many men waited for him. As the scarlet smoke intensified, he decided to wait for the marines—if the enormous detonation he’d heard a few minutes ago hadn’t taken them out of the picture. He just hoped Kate and the Walkers stayed in the safe box. A dark cylindrical object arced past the refrigerator, on a trajectory that flushed his decision down the proverbial toilet.

If the grenade landed in the safe box, Kate and Ed’s family would panic, jumping right into the sights of several militia guns. Alex lurched past the refrigerator, pressing the trigger twice before slamming into the pantry shelves. Dropping to the floor, he aimed up at the right side of the doorway and fired at a dark red mass behind a protruding barrel. A foot stepped into the kitchen, and Alex shifted his rifle left, firing again into the opaque cloud. Confused voices and jumbled commands quickly turned into return fire. Alex felt a bullet connect with his upper right chest, knocking him flat on his back. Another grazed his left thigh. He brought the mangled HK416 over his chest and fired the rest of his magazine into the smoke.

Chapter 41

EVENT +75:33

Limerick, Maine

Jeffrey Brown crouched at the tree line, ready to sprint to the house, when his radio crackled.

“Brown, we can’t break through the mudroom. Request permission to withdraw,” said a coughing voice over heavy gunfire.

Thick plumes of red smoke billowed out of the mudroom door, hitting the porch ceiling and dispersing over the roof into the stark blue sky. The idiots weren’t supposed to pull the pin on the smoke grenade.

“I’m on my way. How many men do you have left that can fight?”

“Two, including myself.”

“Copy. Pull back. Head north for the secondary extraction point,” he said and pressed the alternate frequency button. “Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three, the breach failed. Heading to secondary extract.”

“Liberty Actual copies. Get as many out as you can. Pick up the thirty-cal on your way out. It’s in the trees directly across from the leftmost, ground-floor window.”

“Copy. I’m moving.”

Two men stumbled down the porch stairs, coughing as they stopped to pick up their wounded squad mate. Brown stepped into the tall grass beyond the trees, but the sound of diesel engines stopped him. He dropped into the brush and crawled back to the trees as a dark blur crashed through the metallic gate fifty feet to his right. Two angular gray tactical vehicles burst into the clearing and raced toward the house. Brown crawled faster as the turret-mounted machine guns chattered in tandem, trading off deadly bursts that killed the last of his men.

Punching through the foliage, he risked a glance back at the house. Marines dismounted from both vehicles, firing single shots into the corpses lying on the gravel. One of the vehicles backed up and drove across the front of the house, heading toward the barn. He swung his scoped AR-10 toward the clearing, wanting desperately to take a shot, but there was no point. Killing one of them was a death sentence, even if he targeted the turret gunners.

The former ranger slowly eased his way deeper into the forest. He should be dead with his men, but his choice of rifles bizarrely kept him alive. With Daniel Boone and that crazy-looking bitch raining accurate fire down on his men, the .308 caliber AR-10 quickly became their golden ticket to cross open ground. He’d survived for a reason—which started to crystalize as he reached a safe distance from the clearing.

Chapter 42

EVENT +75:34

Limerick, Maine

A low-pitched roar competed with the high, ringing tone in his ears, breaking the relative silence that had descended on the mudroom for several seconds. Alex flinched when long, tightly spaced bursts of automatic fire erupted in front of the house. He pulled a fresh magazine from one of the pouches on his vest and released the empty, which clattered on the hardwood floor. Hands trembling, he inserted the curved polymer magazine and released the bolt, ready for any militia that survived the Matvees M240s—however doubtful that might be. He lay on his back, pointing his rifle into the smoke, until he started to hear single rifle shots. It was over.

“Stay where you are! Let the marines clear the house. Ryan. Linda, acknowledge,” he rasped, crawling toward them.

Just one asshole with a trigger pull left in him could steal a life. The marines were making sure they didn’t, one bullet at a time.

“Copy. Marines clearing the house,” said Ryan.

“I need to check on Ryan!” Kate called, and he saw her head emerge from the sandbags.

“He’s fine! Stay where you are!”

Samantha Walker’s face appeared next, quickly finding Ed.

“Ed!” she screamed, climbing over the side and scrambling into the foyer.

“Everyone needs to stay—”

Kate jumped out next, running toward the stairs.

“Damn it, Kate!”

“I’m checking on Ryan!”

“I’m fine, Mom!” Ryan yelled from upstairs.

Two heads emerged from the safe box at the sound of Ryan’s voice.

“Heads down!” he barked at Chloe and Daniel Walker. “Where’s the grenade?”

“I threw it on the porch when it landed in the box,” said Samantha.

Alex leaned his head over the side of the sandbags. The Walker kids were shaking.

“Sorry about that, guys. I need you to stay in here until the house is cleared. Your dad’s hurt, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”

“I need the first aid kit!” yelled Kate.

“Throw us the first aid kit, Chloe!” screamed Samantha.

“Keep it down,” Alex hissed from the sandbag wall.

“Dad?” he whispered.

“Still ticking,” said Tim Fletcher from a hidden position in the great room.

He slid over to the basement door and put his head near one of the large holes.

“Nice shooting, Mom. Everyone all right down there?”

“We’re fine. How is my grandson?” Amy responded.

“He sounds fine. Stay put for now.”

A brown tactical-style backpack hit the floor next to him, billowing drywall powder in his face.

“Thanks.” He coughed, grabbing the pack and crawling next to Ed and Samantha.

“What are we looking at here?” he said, unzipping the bag and removing two flat, sealed packets.

“It doesn’t look good,” Samantha said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m fine, honey,” insisted Ed, squeezing her hand. “It just hurts like a motherf—”

“He sounds fine and looks fine.” Alex noticed a small pool of blood on the floor under Ed’s buttocks.

“And he’s not bleeding badly. That’s a good thing. How does your ass feel, buddy?”

“Like I sat on a nail.”

“We can definitely fix this,” Alex said.

He heaved the pack behind Samantha’s back toward Kate, who had turned Charlie onto his stomach and propped his left leg against the front door. She sat under the leg, pressing on his calf. The amount of blood on the floor in the foyer was unsettling, but not indicative of life-threatening arterial damage. Through sidelights next to the door, he saw one of the Matvees cruise past the house, headed west. The gray vehicle reappeared in the great room windows and stopped in the backyard between the barn and the house.

“Kate, use one of the QuikClot dressings and tape it up tight. The marines will take care of the rest. Ryan’s good?”

“I haven’t seen him, but he sounds good,” said Kate, digging through the medical bag. “Emily is fine with your mother?”

Alex smiled at Kate and nodded. “Mom has them locked down tight.”

“Let me see the wound here,” he said, gently moving Ed’s hand. “Definitely the entry, which means…”

He pushed Ed’s right thigh up a few inches and stuck his head against the floor.

“Through and through. Lucky guy,” said Alex, tearing open one of the packets and handing it to Samantha.

“I don’t feel very lucky,” grimaced Ed.

“Lucky it wasn’t your head. Sam, could you slide that trauma pad under his head, I mean ass? I get the two confused,” he said, winking at Ed.

“Was he like this in Boston?” asked Samantha.

“Worse,” replied Ed, wincing as Alex lowered his buttock against the hemostatic pad.

Samantha held out the second pad for Alex.

“Press this firmly into his thigh,” he said, moving out of the way. “It’ll stop the bleeding. I need to check on Linda.”

“What happened to her?”

“No idea. She stopped answering her radio,” he said, walking toward the stairs.

“Stop! Hands on your head!” bellowed a voice through the sitting room.

Alex complied, glancing through the shattered French doors. A rifle pointed at him from the lower right corner of the sitting room windowsill, locked tightly into a woodland MARPAT battle helmet.

“Captain Fletcher?”

“Affirmative.”

“Have all of your people stand fast while we clear the house. Hands visible and clear of any weapons until we positively identify all friendlies. Ooh rah?”

“Ooh rah,” said Alex.

“Dad?” called Ryan from their bedroom.

“Place your rifle on the bed and wait for the marines,” Alex said, leaning his head into the railing behind him. “Linda!”

“What?” she screamed.

Everyone made it.

Alex kept his hands in the air as the first Marine appeared, aiming his rifle past the safe box toward the great room. He recognized Corporal Lianez immediately.

“Lianez, my dad’s by the wood-burning stove.”

Staff Sergeant Evans appeared on the other side of the kitchen island and aimed at the sandbags. “Hands up. Stand where I can see you.”

Chloe and Daniel Walker rose slowly, with their hands on their heads. The Marine activated his rifle light and swept it through the safe box.

“These two are clear. Lianez, check the room across from the kitchen table.”

“On it,” said Lianez, winking at them as he moved forward to check the dining room.

“Captain Fletcher, what is your dad wearing?” said Evans, aiming his rifle past Lianez.

“Should be old-school woodland camouflage Marine cover.”

“Check. Any tangos in that room with you, sir?”

“Negative,” said Tim Fletcher. “I didn’t let any by.”

Evans turned his point of aim to the covered porch. “That’s a no-shitter. Jesus.”

A third Marine glided through the sitting room, examining the damage to the sandbags and nodding at Alex.

“Clear in the front room, Staff Sergeant!”

“Same here,” echoed Lianez.

“Clear on the first floor,” said Evans, activating his tactical radio. “Lianez, get these two stabilized for transport.”

“Copy that, Staff Sergeant,” Lianez said, dropping his MARPAT assault pack on the floor next to Ed.

Staff Sergeant Evans glanced up the stairs.

“Sir, is there any chance one of them slipped by you and made it upstairs?”

Alex shook his head. “We stopped them here.”

PART V

“FAR FROM OVER”

Chapter 43

EVENT +75:51

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell stumbled out of the forest with four of Bertelson’s men, nearly collapsing on the dirt road.

Where the fuck is McCulver?

Flames leapt from the charred frame of a two-door sedan, superheating each breath of air he greedily sucked into his suffering lungs. He was at his breaking point and needed something to go right. Searching through the dense black smoke, he spotted the extraction vehicles crossing Old Middle Road. Finally. He took a knee and triggered his radio.

“Liberty Three, this is Actual. We are at the secondary extraction point. What is your location, over?”

A calm, composed voice responded, “Switch to the emergency frequency. Over.”

Eli fumbled with the buttons, his fingers slipping from the sweat that poured from his hands. “Brown, I need you at the extraction point immediately. If the tactical vehicles catch up with us, we’re done.”

“You’re good for now, Eli. No marines in pursuit. One of the Matvees is behind the house. The other is in front. Looks like they’re loading up the casualties.”

“Brown, why are you still there? You were supposed to head north and pick up the thirty-cal.”

“Northern egress wasn’t an option. I’m sticking. I want to know why I lost an entire squad to some guy wearing a Daniel Boone cap.”

“What? Never mind. What’s your E and E plan?”

“I’ll head north in a few hours, tracing Route 5. Radio checks at the top of the hour on channel 18, code 93. How copy, over.”

“Solid copy. Don’t get caught. Actual, out.”

Kevin McCulver’s black, matte-finished Bronco sped past the burning wreckage and skidded to a halt in front of them. A mud-spackled red SUV followed, pulling up several feet to the left. He turned to the survivors and signaled for them to get in the SUV. McCulver leaned across the seat and pushed the door open for Eli, who heaved himself into the seat and slammed the door.

“What the fuck took you so long?”

“What about Brown?” said McCulver, eyeing the road to the compound.

“He’ll be fine,” said Eli.

“Did you see him on the way back?”

“What is it with the twenty goddamn questions? Back up and get us out of here!”

“All right,” said McCulver.

“How about a yes, sir, once in a blue moon?” he said, pounding his right fist into the dashboard.

Without saying a word, his second in command navigated the truck onto Old Middle Road and sped west, with the rest of the convoy falling in behind.

“Are all of the drivers on your radio net?” asked Eli, lifting the handheld radio from the drink holder.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“Don’t be a smart ass, Kevin.”

“Liberty Mobile, this is Liberty Actual. It is imperative that the last vehicle in this convoy watches the road behind them. Report any and all vehicles spotted. I want the last car to respond, over.”

“Liberty Actual, this is Jim Huxitt in the last car. I’m scanning the road with binoculars, over.”

“Roger. Out,” said Eli, leaning into his seat and closing his eyes.

McCulver looked over at Eli briefly. “Is this really all that made it out? Where’s the thirty-cal?”

Eli breathed deeply and exhaled, feeling his heart pound at his chest. “Don’t remind me. Brown’s staying behind to gather intelligence. We’ll pick him up tomorrow, when this settles.”

“Is it going to settle that quickly?”

“What do you mean?” Eli barked.

“We just attacked a high-value military target. No doubt about that now. If any one of our guys were captured, the feds will be at the Parsonsfield site pretty quickly.”

Eli buried his face in his filthy black hands. With a thirty-caliber machine gun and nearly forty heavily armed militiamen assaulting the house, he hadn’t considered the possibility of failure, let alone that some of his men might be captured and tortured for information. Kevin was right.

“When we reach headquarters, have the men pack up everything and hit the road. I want the place evacuated in less than an hour. If those two tactical vehicles show up before we’re gone, they’ll put an end to this show before it starts. I’ll head up 160 with Bertelson’s men and find a suitable location in the Brownfield or Denmark area. Made some deliveries up that way in the past. There are some real isolated places near the New Hampshire border. I’ll pick a spot north of Porter for a temporary rally point. School, campground, whatever. I’ll come get everyone once the new site is secure.”

“I should make a second trip to my house,” said McCulver. “I have some bomb-making gear—old cell phones, wiring, detonators—some pipe bombs in the shed. It’ll save us from scrounging around while we need to keep our heads low.”

“As soon as I return to guide our boys to the new HQ, I’ll cut you loose on that mission. You’ll need to approach your house carefully, and you’ll have to wait at the rally point for someone to contact you via radio, in case the feds follow you back.”

“I don’t think anyone back there knows where I live.”

“Probably not, but they know your name, and I God-guaran-damn-tee Homeland Security has a functioning database that could spit out your last five known addresses in a heartbeat,” said Eli.

“Maybe I should forget about it.”

“No. They’ll hit the Parsonsfield HQ first, then my house in Waterboro, working their way down the list. The biggest risk is running into them on the road. You can’t take the Bronco.”

“What about splitting off from you guys when we hit Cramm Road?”

“Negative. I need you organizing the pack up and withdrawal from Parsonsfield,” said Eli.

“We have enough competent people to pull that off, Eli.”

“I thought we had enough competent people to shoot a thirty-caliber machine gun, but apparently that wasn’t the case! No. I need you personally in charge of this. I can’t be there, and one of us has to be with the troops at all times until we get things back on track. They need leadership right now. Without leadership, they’ll drift away to the four winds.

“I’ll put the guys left over from Bertelson’s squad directly under your charge, along with the guys that were part of Jimmy’s crew. Spread them out and use them to keep the troops in line. I don’t want one of the SUVs to slip out of the convoy with rations and ammunition. Reporting to the rally point isn’t optional.”

“Got it. I still think it’s risky sending me south later in the day.”

“The payoff is worth the risk. This’ll be your last trip to the house for a long time. Make sure your wife knows that,” said Eli.

“She knows. I’m more worried about the kids.”

“You tell them this is like a regular military deployment and that their dad is gonna be a hero, with his name all over the county.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Now I do. After what I saw at that house, there’s no doubt in my mind that York County is about to be invaded.”

Chapter 44

EVENT +75:52

Limerick, Maine

Alex helped the marines load the portable stretcher carrying Ed into the back of the Matvee. Samantha held his hand until she had to let go.

“I should go. I can leave the kids with—”

“I’ll be fine, Sam,” Ed groaned, partially smiling.

“You don’t sound or look like you’ll be fine. Why are you smiling?”

“Morphine,” said one of the marines from the front seat.

“Why didn’t I get any morphine?” Charlie griped from the passenger seat.

“Because one of us needs to stay coherent,” grumbled Linda from the seat next to him.

Corporal Lianez raised his eyebrows and whispered, “You put two Thorntons in the same vehicle with me, sir?”

Samantha started laughing.

“The kids need you here,” said Ed. “I need you to be with the kids. The corporal said I’d be fine.”

“No offense to the corporal, but it’s not like he put you through an MRI,” Samantha snapped.

“None taken, ma’am,” said Corporal Lianez. “Best I can tell, the bullet entered his hip high on the outside, skipped off his pelvic bone and exited through his buttocks. Bleeding is normal, so I don’t think it took a deeper route through. I’ve seen enough bullet and frag wounds to tell. We’ll keep the bleeding to a minimum until we get to the hospital.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Ma’am, there’s no need to apologize. I wouldn’t trust me either.” The corporal winked. “You’re welcome to come, but I’d want my wife to stay with the kids too. Captain, if you’ll close the hatch when they’re ready?”

“Thank you,” Samantha said, hesitating to say any more.

“This is what we do—but you’re welcome,” said Lianez, climbing into the troop compartment.

“Tell the kids I love them and I’ll be back soon,” said Ed.

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

“You ready?” asked Alex.

When Samantha nodded, Alex pulled Samantha to the side of the tactical vehicle. They hadn’t swept the forest for hostiles, and he didn’t want to expose her to the eastern tree line when the door swung shut.

“Be good, my friend. The marines will stay with you at the hospital and push for priority treatment. I can’t imagine they have too many gunshot wounds, so it won’t be a problem. If it is, I’ll have the battalion commander press down on the hospital. Probably see you tomorrow.”

“Watch over the kids for me,” said Ed.

“Like a hawk,” said Alex.

“Like your own.”

Alex nodded. “I think you pulled off number three in there today.”

“Number three?”

“Three times you’ve saved my ass.”

“That didn’t count,” said Ed.

“No?”

“Everyone racked up at least ten ass-savings in there. We’ll keep the tally at two.”

“Fair enough. I still owe you. Keep those two from killing each other,” he said and shut the rear hatch.

Alex opened the left passenger door, figuring he had to say something to the Thorntons. He knew he’d probably regret it.

“Why do I have to go to the hospital? I’m fine,” Charlie insisted. “You need help here, and I can still get around.”

Alex looked at Linda, who shook her head and mumbled, “Idiot.”

“You have a bullet hole in your leg, Charlie,” said Alex.

“So what?”

“Morphine kicked in, Linda?”

“Something kicked in. Feels like a bad ankle sprain,” she said, wincing when she accidentally moved her foot.

“Better than before?”

“You have no idea.”

“Lianez, you should probably figure out a way to suspend her leg.”

“I can do that, sir.”

“Don’t bother. We’re not that far away,” Linda said.

“It’s her call, Lianez,” said Alex.

“It’s always her call,” grumbled Charlie.

Alex met the corporal’s stare through the rear passenger seats. He didn’t look happy.

“We’ll watch over your flock. You did good in there,” said Alex, closing the door before they could respond.

Alex pounded on the hood and gave the driver a thumbs-up before running into the house, keeping himself between the woods and Samantha. Once inside, they found the adults in the kitchen with two of the marines. His mother stood at the basement door with her shotgun.

“Where’s Ryan?” he asked.

“He won’t leave his post until the forest is cleared. Alyssa and Sydney are watching the east.”

“The rest of the kids?”

“In the basement, under lock and key until the farm is safe,” said Amy.

Alex nodded at his mom, who looked all business. “I guess we should take care of that sooner than later. Staff Sergeant?”

“You sure you don’t want to sit this one out, sir? You look like you’re about to fall over,” said Evans.

Alex knew he should take a seat and close his eyes, probably for the next twelve hours, but he couldn’t rest until he felt reasonably confident that their property was secure. Even then, they faced a full day of work just to put the house back into rough working order.

“I’ve looked and felt like that for the better part of seventy-two hours. I’ll survive a few more,” he said.

Tim Fletcher opened one of the pouches attached to his web belt, exposing two fully loaded magazines. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

“Tim, you’ve had enough. Let the marines handle this,” said Amy.

Tim pulled the brim of his hat down, exposing the faded Eagle, Globe and Anchor symbol on its starched face.

“Never mind,” Amy said.

“Keep a watch in every direction,” said Alex.

“Be careful. Don’t take any chances. Not after this,” she said, glancing around at the mess.

“I’ll be good,” he said and kissed her dusty lips.

“We’ll radio back with our locations. I want to test the motion detectors. Some of the transceivers were knocked onto the floor, but I didn’t see any bullet holes. Wish I could say the same for the monitors.”

“We’ll check the transceivers and put them back in order,” said Kate.

Alex nodded. “One last question. Did any of the toilets survive?”

“The one in the master bedroom,” said Tim.

Alex looked toward the stairs. “I guess I’ll take my chances out there.”

Chapter 45

EVENT+78:26

Porter, Maine

Eli adjusted the Bronco’s passenger-side vents to direct the cool air in his face. Nearly two hours later, he was still running hot from the half-mile dash through the forest in Limerick. He looked up from his GPS receiver and watched for the turnoff to Camp Hiawatha.

“Turn up here at the camp,” said Eli, pointing to a rustic sign on the right side of the road.

His driver eased the SUV off Route 160 and drove them through a worn flagstone entrance. The dirt road gently wove through the dense forest, until they arrived at a two-story post-and-beam structure, which he guessed to be the main activities lodge. The road looped in front of the lodge, designed as a drop-off area for campers. A pickup truck and a small bumper-sticker-covered sedan sat in the back of a shaded dirt parking lot situated across the road from the lodge. Beyond the presence of these two vehicles, the camp appeared deserted, which suited him fine.

“No kids, huh?” he asked.

The driver started to open his mouth, but thought better of it. An even more uncomfortable silence hung in the truck’s cabin. He’d made it clear to Bertelson’s men that if they didn’t have anything useful to say, they shouldn’t say anything at all. They were on probation simply by association with their fuck-up of a dead squad leader. The slightest infraction of discipline or demonstration of incompetence would put them in front of a firing squad. Throughout the trip north, the four men had remained silent, dutifully watching their surroundings. It was amazing what a little leadership and a healthy dose of fear could do for the troops.

“Let me clarify something. If I ask a question, I expect an answer. As long as it’s an answer and not some excuse to run your suck. Now, does anyone know why this place is empty?”

The driver, a serious-looking soldier type wearing thick-rimmed, corrective glasses, glanced at him and nodded. “I think most of these camps break up after the second week of August. The cars might belong to the camp director or something,” he said, slowing the vehicle as they entered the loop.

“I want to see the whole place. That path looks wide enough,” Eli said, pointing to a gravel path flanked by brush and a “no vehicles past this point” sign.

Several seconds on the camp’s central pedestrian thoroughfare yielded tennis courts and a cluster of six cabins nestled into the woods. Shimmering water peeked between the trees behind the bungalows. A few minutes later, they returned to the loop in front of the lodge. He liked what he saw. More than enough structures to house the militia—with room to grow with each batch of recruits. Fresh water on both sides of the camp. The place was located between two sizeable “ponds,” forming a land bridge between them. The idea of a ready-made barracks appealed to him the most, along with the lodge, which gave them a central meeting place. His biggest problem with Camp Hiawatha was its location.

First, it wasn’t set far enough back from Route 160. The area wasn’t exactly a high-population zone, but at the end of the road, near the lake, he could see several houses on the water. Located less than two miles from Porter, Maine, the high volume of vehicle traffic and activity generated by his militia would undoubtedly attract attention. The camp was an obvious choice for investigation if the government caught wind of them. He needed something more remote. Eli really wanted this place to work, but there was no point in forcing a round peg into a square hole, or whatever the stupid saying was.

“Take us back onto 160. North. I have a better idea,” he said.

Less than a minute later, he ordered the driver to turn left on Porterfield Road. GPS indicated that the road forked about a mile and a half away, Porterfield Road continuing north and Norton Hill Road heading east. He liked the idea of heading east toward the New Hampshire border. Eli also knew from experience that the areas east of 160 were mostly empty. He’d be shocked to find more than four or five homesteads on this road. Easy pickings out here, unless they stumbled onto another government safe house. Just the fleeting thought of his failed attack enraged him. The driver’s eyes darted nervously to his balled-up fists.

Eli counted the turnoffs along the hard-packed dirt road, jotting notes into a sweat-stained pocket notebook with a stubby, dull pencil. Five so far, mostly mobile homes or dilapidated saltboxes set close to the road. One dirt driveway extended out of sight, but it was too close to Route 160. They passed a patchy field on the left, which gave Eli hope, but he didn’t see a driveway or a structure. It looked like someone had cleared the land and given up. A few minutes later, they approached a possible intersection.

“Stop at that intersection. Windows down,” he said.

The word “intersection” was a generous description for the accidental convergence of two rural dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. The path heading south looked more like a well-worn ATV trail, which could prove useful for winter movement. No way anyone was getting around southern Maine once the snow started falling. He had a feeling that plowing the roads to facilitate insurgent movement wouldn’t be high on Homeland’s priority list. The road north held promise. Penetrating a thick stand of trees along the road, he caught glimpses of open fields in the distance. Best of all, it wasn’t shown on GPS.

“Let’s recon this road,” he said, pointing north.

A rectangular field flanked the road once they broke through the trees. Measuring roughly two football fields long and one field wide, the grasses had been recently cut. Another tree break separated the field from a vast, open farm, easily stretching three times the length of the first field. Lush fields of late August produce bloomed on each side of the road, planted in organized rows that suggested the use of industrialized farm equipment. A house and barn stood amidst a clump of trees at the top of the road. Rows of corn baked under the sun in fields barely visible beyond the house.

“Jackpot,” he said and removed the York County Sheriff’s badge from a pouch on his tactical vest.

“Go slow when we get to the end of the road. No sense in scaring anyone.”

The road emptied into the farm compound, which gave Eli goose bumps. This was more than a jackpot. It was the grand prize. Easily measuring fifty feet on all sides, a thriving vegetable garden greeted them on the left. The barn dwarfed the generous farmhouse, serving as a backdrop for three neatly parked green tractors. A few other well-maintained structures stood in the shadow of the barn. Chicken coop? The smell of livestock and hay washed through the Bronco’s windows, reminding him of the York County Fair. This was the place.

“Why don’t you stop up here,” said Eli, pinning the badge to the left side of his vest while the car slowed to a stop.

“Keep your weapons out of sight, and do not get out of this vehicle unless I tell you to—or if I’m shot dead. Understand?”

A cacophony of “yes, sirs” reassured him that they got the message. He opened the door and stepped onto the dusty driveway, his sweat glands immediately responding to the direct sunlight. He pulled a black ball cap from the cargo pocket of his mud-crusted pants and pulled it tightly over his head, exposing the words “York County Sheriff.” Unsnapping his hip holster behind the car door, he glanced at the driver.

“If you see something that ain’t right, honk the horn,” he said, shutting the door and walking toward the house.

He got halfway to the covered porch when a man wearing jeans and a dirty white T-shirt appeared on the right side of the house. He cradled a pump action shotgun across his chest, the wood fore-end nestled into the crook of his left elbow, finger in the trigger well. The brim of a faded green John Deere hat shaded his eyes, which never left Eli. Tufts of gray hair poked out of the hat.

“Can I help you, Deputy?”

“Sorry to startle you like this. Deputy Russell. York County Sheriff’s tactical response team,” he said, pointing at his hat.

“A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” said the man, glancing from Eli to the SUV.

“We had two families murdered in Cornish yesterday and a report of three men staying at Hiawatha. Oxford County couldn’t spare the manpower. We didn’t find anything at the camp. We’re doing a quick sweep before we call it quits. Getting crazy out there,” said Eli, keeping his hands open at chest height.

“We haven’t seen or heard anything unusual since the morning of the 19th .”

“Well, sorry to trouble you. Stay safe,” he said.

“Same to you, Deputy,” he said, relaxing his grip and taking his finger out of the trigger well.

Eli’s pistol cleared the holster before the farmer could grip the shotgun in both hands. Not taking any chances, Eli started walking left, firing his .45 Colt Commander with both hands as the farmer tried to bring the shotgun around. The first bullet grazed the man’s left shoulder, slowing his efforts to turn the shotgun on him. The next three bullets missed entirely, forcing Eli to stop and kneel as the barrel swung precariously in his direction. Any further and the buckshot spread might have a chance of hitting him. Quickly forming the sight picture between his match-grade sights, he pressed the trigger, snapping the farmer’s head back. Another trigger press blew out the back of the man’s neck. Eli reloaded as he sprinted to the side of the house.

The temperature dropped several degrees in the shade next to the house, clearing his head a little. He grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at the door located toward the back of the house. A screen door swung open, and Eli discharged the shotgun, punching several holes through the loose screen and knocking a gray-haired woman into the backyard. Eli signaled for the rest of the men to join him, hearing doors open and slam shut as he slowly approached the side door. A revolver lay in the grass a few feet past the door, directly underneath a shiny patch of blood-splattered siding. The air wafting out of the door reminded him of a bakery.

Home sweet home.

Chapter 46

EVENT+78:45

Limerick, Maine

Alex stormed out of the side door to the barn holding a bloodstained map in one hand and his rifle in the other. Staff Sergeant Evans and his two marines sat on the porch steps, drinking out of their CamelBak hoses and eating MREs. They had just finished hauling the last of the militia bodies into the trees behind the barn.

“Staff Sergeant! Have your team mount up. We have a mission.”

“A mission, sir?” said Evans, stepping down from the porch.

The marines behind him started packing up their food.

“Two of the terrorists confirmed the location of the Maine Liberty Militia’s headquarters in Parsonsfield—less than nine miles from here. We’ll roll up with the Matvee and tear the place apart. I want M320s attached to all rifles. Full grenade load-out.”

“The men in the barn, sir?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s going on?” demanded Kate from just inside the screen porch.

“They aren’t going anywhere,” whispered Alex, eyes on Kate as she strode across the porch.

“Sir?” he said, locking eyes with Alex.

“One of them expired from natural causes. The others are a little worse for the wear, but they’ll be fine. I want to be on the road in under a minute.”

“Shit,” muttered Evans, “this isn’t good.”

“I plan to file a full report detailing the entire interrogation—after we get back.”

“Where are you going?” said Kate, standing with her hands on her hips in front of the Matvee.

“I know where their headquarters is located,” he said, waving the folded map. “We have to hit them now and put an end to this.”

“You and three marines? You’re out of your fucking mind,” she said. “No offense, Staff Sergeant.”

“None taken,” Evans said, slowly backing away.

“We’re bringing the Matvee. With the 240 and grenade launchers, we’ll blow the place to pieces. You’re not changing my mind, Kate,” he said, knowing that he was unlikely to get off that easy.

“I’m not doubting that you could level the place, if they let you get close enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that this militia group detonated a car bomb at the entrance to our neighborhood. What makes you think they won’t have something bigger ready for you at their secret hideout?”

“Headquarters,” said Alex.

“Whatever. One, they won’t be there, unless we’re dealing with the stupidest militia group ever. Two, they probably left a nice little surprise behind for you. You’re not thinking this through right now, and the staff sergeant knows it,” she said, shooting Evans a nasty look. “You’re running on empty, Alex. No. Actually, you’re running on those stupid STIM things. Look at your hands.”

Alex didn’t have any intention of producing his hands for general examination. He’d fought to keep the trembling hidden since he arrived last night.

“How many P-STIMs have you taken, Captain?”

“See?” Kate said. “He knows.”

“Four in the past thirty-six hours.”

“Jesus,” muttered the staff sergeant.

“It’s the only way I’ve been able to function like this.”

“Is that a lot?” asked Kate.

“They’re recommended for one-time dosage, at night, during extended combat operations. Yes, he has a shit-ton of amphetamine in his system. Frankly, I’d feel more comfortable if the captain had a seat inside and let this filter out of his system.”

“I’ll take a break once this Eli Russell character is dead,” said Alex.

“Who’s Eli Russell?” asked Kate.

“Our prisoners identified him as the leader of this group. I haven’t walked them around to look at the bodies, but I think he escaped. This was only half of their group.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Your family needs you in one piece. You have the vast resources of the Marine Corps and Homeland Security at your disposal; why don’t you let them handle this?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Not really. Call Grady. Maybe he can send a helicopter or a drone to blow the place up. Designate the location as a critical threat.”

“Sounds like a better plan, sir, for now,” said Evans.

“I’ll contact Grady.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, hugging him tightly.

“I’ll go check on the prisoners,” said Evans, slipping away.

“Staff Sergeant?” said Kate, standing next to Alex.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Thank you for moving the bodies. It would have been too much for us right now. We’ll get your men some real food tonight.”

“Not a problem, ma’am, and we’re fine with MREs if it’s too much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll throw some beers in the freezer a little later—if Captain Fletcher doesn’t have a problem with that.”

“As long as I get one, there’s no problem,” said Alex.

“Thanks, ma’am,” Evans said and jogged to the barn.

“Sorry, hon. I just thought I could put an end to this right now. What if they come after us again?”

“I can’t imagine they’ll return with the marines here. Let Grady worry about this. Designate this guy, Eli Russell, as the top threat in southern Maine. It’s not like you’ll be out of the loop on what happens.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Let me call Grady and see if he can scare something up while Russell’s trail is hot.”

Kate nodded. “I want you inside taking a break when you’re done. Mopping and sweeping doesn’t take a lot of energy. We have most of the bigger pieces cleaned up downstairs.”

“What happened to resting?”

“Yeah, that’s not happening. We’ll be at this most of the day just to get the house in basic shape. All hands on deck.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said and kissed her on the forehead.

Alex walked toward the garden, looking for a little shade behind the house. He still felt exposed outside of the house, despite walking nearly every square foot of the forest to the north and east of the clearing. The prisoners told him far more than he had conveyed to Kate, and he had no reason to doubt their words. Not after what he did to the scumbag who kept insisting Eli would return to “rape every bitch in that house.” Dying of natural causes involved a long, painful process in front of his scared-shitless comrades. They nearly talked over each other to give Alex information.

The ROTAC indicated a full signal from his resting spot on the slanted metal bulkhead door. He scrolled through the preprogrammed directory and selected “Patriot.” It was the only call sign listed without a follow-on number or letter. Had to be Grady. He pressed “Lock,” which initiated an encrypted protocol connecting his radio to Grady’s. “Connected” flashed on the digital display a few seconds later. He remembered it was “push to talk” technology just as Grady’s voice broke the silence.

“Alex, Evans called as soon as Lianez hit the road. Sounds like you gave it to them good. I’ve arranged for priority treatment of your wounded at Goodall Hospital in Sanford. Is everyone else okay?”

“We have some minor injuries that can be treated here. Thank you. I have a situation that requires immediate attention. Can you spare a full squad right now?”

“Right now?”

“Affirmative. I need additional marines to conduct a raid against the militia headquarters. I interrogated a few of the surviving militia and confirmed the location. It’s less than nine miles from here.”

“Alex, I can’t spare any marines right now. A quarter of the marines I had in Boston are missing or en route. We’re getting ready to evacuate north to the Londonderry Reserve Center.”

“What happened to the rest of the battalion? Where are you now?”

“National Guard Armory in Melrose. As for the missing units, I think we’ve had some desertions. Striker units found an abandoned Matvee in Watertown. At least they zeroed out the crypto in the vehicle radios. Homeland’s Cat Five plan estimated a forty-three percent no-show rate for my battalion in the event of an EMP-related scenario, so we’re actually in good shape, according to the plan.”

“I’ll take one vehicle with half of a squad. The group that hit my house is the same group I ran into on the way out of Maine,” said Alex.

“The group executing civilians at Milton Mills?”

“Affirmative. Somehow they figured out where I live, and it doesn’t sound like they’re going away. This was only half of their group. Trust me when I say they will be big trouble for the Recovery Zone. They planned for the possibility of your marines returning and set off a sizable IED next to one of the Matvees.”

“Evans briefed me about it. High-order detonation car bomb. No damage to the Matvees.”

“They have a bomb maker in the group. He won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“I can’t send anything your way, Alex,” said Grady.

“Can you pull some strings and detach some National Guard folks in Maine? They’re standing around in droves at the border crossings.”

“I’ll give it a shot, but I’m not optimistic. FEMA hasn’t officially designated the Regional Recovery Zone yet, so technically, I don’t have any jurisdiction in Maine. I do, however, have a mission, which is why Staff Sergeant Evans was on his way to see you.”

“Hold on, Colonel, let me put my wife on. This sounds like something you might need to clear with her,” said Alex.

“Funny,” uttered Grady. “I do have your signature accepting an emergency commission in the Marine Corps for an indefinite period of time.”

“Sounded like a good idea at the time. What are we talking about?”

“Babysitting duty. The remnants of Bravo Company are headed to the Sanford Regional Airport. ETA two to five days, depending on what I can scare up for transportation. Bravo Company is in bad shape. Thirty-two marines have reported for duty as of this morning, and the company gunny isn’t holding his breath for any more. They’re scattered all over the state. A good number are likely dead from the tsunami.”

“Sounds like they’re in good hands,” said Alex.

“Gunny Deschane is squared away, but without an officer, he’ll have problems cutting through the red tape that’s bound to clog up that airport. With your provisional identification and rank, he should have smooth sailing.”

“None of the officers showed up?”

“Two are confirmed casualties, and the rest live too far north. They may show up eventually, but until then, you’re Alpha Company commander.”

Kate was going to love this. Alex went from sitting on his ass typing reports about militia units—about a day’s worth of work—to leading a Marine rifle company, which in his previous experience took up about twenty-five of the twenty-four hours in a standard day, plus time on the weekends. At least it was only thirty-three marines. A typical rifle company could field nearly one hundred forty.

“Sounds easy enough for now, Colonel. Any other good news?”

“Alpha Company has no equipment. The reserve center at the former air station was wiped out by the tsunami. Nothing was salvageable, including weapons and ammunition. I have arranged the delivery of replacement gear for two platoons. Vehicles, comms gear, weapons, everything.”

“Delivery date?”

“TBD, but I anticipate it will leave Hanscomb Air Force Base within three days. I need you to secure hangar space at Sanford Airport. Preferably, enough space for the entire battalion. I need this done ASAP. An Air Force Combat Controller Team is onsite, preparing the field for sustained 24-hour flight operations. Combat engineers from Maine’s 133rd Engineer Battalion will arrive tomorrow to reinforce the location. It’s about to get busy in your neck of the woods.”

“I can’t leave my family here unprotected. Not until the Maine Liberty Militia has been destroyed. I’ll run back and forth to Sanford. All other business will be conducted over the ROTAC.”

“Why don’t you relocate everyone to the airport? In a few days’ time, it’ll be the safest location in Maine.”

“I’m not moving my family into a hangar to eat MREs, drink funky-tasting water and sleep on cots indefinitely. I plan to call on one of the top militia guys in the county tomorrow morning. I’ll secure hangar space immediately after that.”

“Anything stopping you from doing it this afternoon?”

“Yes. Her name is Kate Fletcher. I believe the two of you have met?”

“Fair enough. Contact me when you’ve secured space at the airport. And Alex? I’m glad to hear everyone pulled through the attack. I’d hate to think what might have happened if you hadn’t returned before this morning.”

“Me too. I owe you for the ride back to Maine.”

“It all worked out for a reason. Talk to you tomorrow, Captain Fletcher.”

Alex turned off the phone and lay there for a moment, staring at the deep blue sky. Even with the amphetamines coursing through his body, he could fall asleep in a second if he closed his eyes. Glancing at the gauze holding a 4x4 dressing against his left thigh, he realized he should probably spend some time tending to his injuries. His efforts up until now had mainly consisted of applying some kind of hemostatic dressing or powder to stop the bleeding. He really needed to properly clean and possibly stitch the thigh.

Staff Sergeant Evans emerged from the barn and walked toward Alex. He sat up and planted his brown hiking boots into the grass, preparing for the painful ordeal of standing.

“Natural causes, sir?”

“Metal poisoning.” Alex nodded.

“Lot of that going around,” said Evans.

Chapter 47

EVENT +83:21

Limerick, Maine.

Kate sat down for the first time since the motion sensors had been triggered. Soaked through every layer of her clothing, streams of sweat poured down her cheeks, dropping from her chin onto the table. Alex stepped through the empty slider and set two red plastic cups in front of her. He took the cushioned seat next to her on the porch and squeezed her hand. He looked utterly exhausted, his red face covered by rivulets of perspiration. She closed her eyes.

“I’m willing this into an ice cold beer,” she said.

“Well water. Compliments of the house.”

She drank the cold water in a single gulp and stared through the bullet-riddled porch screen next to her.

“Round one of the cleanup is done. There’s only a one in twenty chance of getting a splinter stuck in your ass—or a piece of glass,” he said, digging into the cushion under him.

He placed a sliver of glass on the table in front of her.

“We’ll get there. Stroke of genius pulling all of the window screens yesterday. Linda’s idea,” she said.

Neither of them spoke for several moments. She felt terrible for her friend. The same .308 that had almost killed Alex and her in the sitting room had effectively destroyed Linda’s ankle. Alex wasn’t too optimistic about her prognosis. Unless she got extremely lucky and the bullet passed cleanly through, the damage likely caused by the steel-jacketed round would require serious orthopedic surgery. Repeated surgeries if she wanted to walk normally on her left leg again.

“They took a beating up there from that .308. We never did find it.”

“Find what?” Kate asked.

“The .308. It wasn’t on any of the guys in front of the garage or in the mudroom. Someone slipped away.”

Kate looked over her shoulder at the eastern tree line. “You don’t think—”

“We scoured the eastern woods,” he said, shaking his head. “No sign of the shooter.”

“They’re gone, honey. They lost twenty-nine men. You don’t come back after that.”

Instead of agreeing with her, he reached out and plucked the porch screen.

“We won’t be able to sit out here at night. Mosquitos will eat us alive.”

She sensed he was holding back. Alex usually played the role of cheerleader.

“We have rolls of screen in the basement. We can pop this stuff out and replace it. Same with the slider. We’ll have to board up one side, but it’ll work,” she said.

“Then there’s the rain. Almost every window in the house is broken, and of course, these are custom windows.”

“We’ll be fine. We can cut enough plywood to cover the windows. We prepared for this possibility. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to work for now.”

“One rainstorm and all of the insulation will get soaked. We’ll be living in a mold experiment by the end of September. This house was so perfect,” he hissed, crumpling his cup.

Kate had never seen Alex like this and wondered if it had something to do with the amphetamine tablets. His hands looked steadier, but they still shook while he held onto the cup of water. This was something bigger. Something he didn’t want to tell her.

“It’s still perfect,” she said. “The kids are fine. Your parents are fine. We have everything we need to thrive here. It’ll take time, but we’ll eventually patch up every single hole in this house.”

Alex sipped his water and stared at the lake beyond the trees.

“What’s going on?” she said, grasping his hand on the table.

“I don’t think we can stay here,” he said, slowly shifting his gaze to her.

His eyes looked distant, almost vacant, which terrified her.

“Honey, you’re starting to scare me.”

“I just scraped chunks of internal organs off the walls inside our house. The bloodstains will never come out, as far as I can tell. I’ve tried scrubbing with bleach. We’ll have to sand the spots and repaint them,” he said softly.

“Then we’ll sand them tomorrow,” she said, searching for something in his eyes.

They softened for a moment, watering.

“Ryan’s helmet had two rips in the fabric covering, one right above his left eye. Without the helmet…I couldn’t clean that up.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” she said.

His eyes sharpened. “There’s a reason I wanted to take the marines to Parsonsfield this morning,” Alex said carefully. “I don’t think this Eli Russell character will ever leave us alone.”

“We already agreed on a strategy to handle him.”

“I didn’t want to tell you this earlier, because I didn’t want to start a panic, and I didn’t want to leave you alone here with the kids. The attack this morning is connected to Milton Mills. I killed Eli Russell’s brother on that bridge.”

“This Russell guy is in charge of the Maine Liberty Militia?”

He nodded. “I killed his brother, and apparently, you killed his nephew in Waterboro. He’s never going to stop, and worse yet, he’s somehow convinced his whole gang of shitheads that we’re some kind of Homeland Security-sponsored, covert operations team. Part of the government’s false-flag operation. He’s using this story to recruit people for his militia.”

Alex’s revelation changed everything. No wonder he had been reluctant to let the kids out of the basement. It had nothing to do with the blood on the walls or the stifling heat. He didn’t think they were safe here.

“So, what do we do? Pack up as much as we can and go back to Durham Road until the military deals with Russell?”

“If we leave the area, I don’t think this place will be here when we get back. We have one option as I see it. We could move everyone to Sanford Airport—temporarily. I’m supposed to secure hangar space for the rest of the battalion tomorrow, and Grady said we could grab extra space.”

Kate stared at him in complete disbelief. Now he was driving around the state for Grady?

“What are you doing in Sanford?”

“Maine is about to be designated as a Regional Recovery Zone and—”

“Yeah, I get all of that. I thought you were putting together reports for Grady. Now you’re making trips to Sanford? When were you planning on telling me?”

“This is the first chance we’ve had to sit down and talk since this morning. I think we can make this work,” he said.

“I can’t see how. The idea of living in a hangar doesn’t sound appealing. Better than dead, but there has to be another solution.”

“Just until Russell is put out of business. The airport will have tight security, and we’ll have a battalion of marines around us. I can billet a squad here to keep an eye on the place, so it’s here when we come back. Part of a forward operating base or something like that.”

“Why don’t you just make this a forward operating base now, and we stay?”

Alex smiled. “I might be able to sell that to Grady. Russell won’t move his militia’s base of operations south. It’s too risky. He’ll head north, but not too far away. Keeping a full squad or platoon of marines here as a quick-reaction force makes sense. If Grady doesn’t agree, we’re back to square one.”

“Then we reinforce the defenses we already have with Staff Sergeant Evans and his men,” said Kate.

“Our fallback plan can’t include the marines. Grady could yank them out of here tomorrow depending on his needs.”

“I don’t think he’d do that to you.”

“He’s running a Marine infantry battalion, not a babysitting service. Judging by the scope of operations planned for southern Maine, Grady’s going to need every Marine in the inventory to do his job. We can’t count on any organic support at the house. If he doesn’t buy the forward base idea and pulls the marines out of here, the best we can hope for is a thirty-minute response time for reinforcement—if available.”

“That’s too long,” she said.

“I agree. We need to make a decision on this within the next day or so. Space to house civilians at the airport will vanish quickly once the recovery zone is officially designated.”

“Can we defend this place without the marines?” Kate asked.

She didn’t think so, not with three out of their seven riflemen limited to static positions by their injuries and one out of commission. Charlie, Linda and Ryan could take up their same positions on the second floor, but they’d require assistance to switch windows. Ed’s injuries put him in a different category. They could lay him in the basement to watch over the kids, but that might be the extent of his usefulness in a battle. Putting a rifle in Samantha’s hands didn’t help their overall defensive posture. Asking her for more than a few shotgun blasts in the general direction of the enemy was pushing it.

“With a working thirty-caliber machine gun and seven hundred fifty rounds? It depends on what they throw at us. Same as this morning, I’d say no problem, even with half of our crew injured. If they add a few more .308 rifles to the mix and stick to the trees?” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not so optimistic.”

“The machine gun works?”

“As far as I can tell. Evans plans to test fire it a little later. We also need to fix the gates, or at least harden them to SUV-sized vehicles. If they drive up on us too fast, in large enough numbers, who knows?”

“We’d have some warning, at least,” she said.

“Not until we unscrew the sensor situation. The two damaged transceivers correspond to the eastern approach, which means we have a huge gap in our coverage along Gelder Pond Lane and the gate. We should probably do that before dark.”

“If we have the marines here tonight, we can worry about that tomorrow,” Kate said.

Alex looked relieved by her suggestion, but still hesitant to agree. He nodded slowly and forced a smile, which beat the distant and defeated look he had brought to the table several minutes ago.

“At some point, we’ll have to lay this out for the whole group. Let them weigh into the decision. If I were Charlie and Samantha, I’d be thinking real hard about relocating to their house up near Waterville. If they left, the Walkers wouldn’t be too far behind them,” said Alex.

“Then we better have that meeting sooner than later. If the rest of the group decides to leave, we can’t stay, and I don’t want to miss out on Grady’s airport offer. Not with that psychopath running around.”

“I’ll talk to Grady tomorrow and see what he thinks about establishing a forward base in Limerick. If he goes for it, we don’t have to impose a rushed decision on anyone.”

Kate leaned back in her seat, glancing inside the house. “I’d still like to know where everyone stands.”

Chapter 48

EVENT +86:18

Porter, Maine

Eli Russell sat in a wobbly rocking chair on the wide front porch, admiring the vast vegetable garden past the dirt driveway. He didn’t know the first thing about growing vegetables, but he could worry about that next year. Right now, all he had to do was figure out how to harvest everything and store it for the winter. Too bad the farmer hadn’t been friendlier. Maybe they could have worked something out, where he let them live in exchange for running the farm. No big deal. He’d find another farmer or two to take the deal, no matter how far and wide he had to travel. There was no way he could let this bounty go to waste. They’d need every scrap of it to survive the winter, unless they could put a stop to the Homeland invasion within the next few months.

He still wasn’t sure what to make of the Gelder Pond situation. The tactical vehicles arrived after he ordered a general retreat, so technically, the hostile team inside the house stopped the attack without help. He saw at least two sandbag emplacements on the first floor and had to assume they had created reinforced firing positions at the windows. The gray siding around each window had been riddled with .223-caliber bullet holes. Anyone shooting from one of those windows should have been killed immediately. Instead, he lost twenty-nine men, not including the men lost two days earlier in Milton Mills.

No. There was a whole lot more to these Fletchers than met the eye—and he planned to kill every single one of them. Nobody fucked with Eli Russell like this and got away with it. He’d find a way. One of them liked to drive around in a Jeep and cavort with government forces? Sounded like a perfect target for his initial string of attacks.

“Liberty Actual, this is the Liberty Gate. I have two vehicles requesting permission to enter the compound. One containing McCulver and Brown. The other with the escort team. The road looks clear in both directions.”

He grabbed the handheld radio perched on the wide railing in front of him.

“Did you say Brown? Jeff Brown?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did the escort team search the passengers and vehicles thoroughly at the school?”

“Affirmative. No obvious tracking devices. McCulver’s back seat is packed with electronics, which might be worth a second look.”

“It doesn’t matter at this point. Send them on up.”

“Copy. Sending two vehicles your way.”

Eli thought about it for a second. How the hell could Brown have turned up this quickly? Brown would have put some distance between himself and Gelder Pond, staying hidden until things settled. He couldn’t imagine Brown having moved more than a mile or two from the site of the attack, in either direction—and McCulver had no reason to swing that close to Limerick. After leaving the Ossipee Valley Fairgrounds in Porter, McCulver headed east to Route 25, where he’d logically take Route 117 south and work his way around Limerick to reach his home in Hollis. If their stories didn’t make sense, he was pulling the plug on both of them, along with the farm. He hoped it didn’t come to that. He needed both of them.

A gray Suburban, followed closely by a red, four-door sedan, emerged from the distant tree break and raced toward the house, casting long shadows over the green field. A low dust cloud followed the convoy, illuminated by the deep amber rays of sunlight peeking over the western trees.

“Viper One. I want you visible when these cars stop. Don’t crowd us, but make your presence known.”

“Roger. We’ll keep our distance.”

Eli stepped onto the hard ground with his rifle and signaled for the vehicles to continue on the jeep trail that disappeared behind the house. A minute later, he met them in the grassy, makeshift parking lot next to the jeep trail. Viper One, the four men from Bertelson’s squad, appeared between the house and the barn, staying in the shadow cast by the barn. McCulver stepped onto the jeep trail with Brown, who looked unperturbed by the day’s events. The escort team, consisting of two heavily armed men, walked discreetly toward the barn.

He eyed Brown for signs of distress. The man remained impassive, as always. McCulver looked edgy, but that wasn’t unusual either. Upon first impression, nothing looked out of place. Brown’s AR-10 was slung over his shoulder, and McCulver appeared unarmed. Maybe he was being paranoid.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” he said, extending a hand to Brown. “Glad to see your face, though I’m a little surprised to see it so soon.”

Brown shook his hand firmly. “Lucky day, I suppose.”

“Can’t wait to hear your report,” he said, turning to McCulver. “Did Jeff show up at your doorstep? You sure as shit better not have driven back to Limerick.”

“I finished up at my house around 3:45. Figured I might swing close enough to try the handheld. Brown answered on the first call. Picked him up near the Chesterton Farm just outside of town.”

“So you drove through Limerick.”

“The roads were empty,” said McCulver.

“Damn lucky nobody stopped you.”

He was glad McCulver hadn’t run into any trouble. His explosives expertise was irreplaceable. If they couldn’t hit the government head on, as the Gelder Pond encounter had painfully demonstrated, they’d have to rely on the same kind of tactics proven effective against U.S. forces in Iraq and Afghanistan. Improvised Explosive Devices (IED) and isolated ambushes. Still, he was pissed off that he had taken the risk. Driving that close to Limerick didn’t show good judgment, not to mention the fact that they’d been out joyriding.

“So, where the hell have you two been for three hours?” asked Eli.

“Since I had Brown, I thought we’d visit Southern Maine Drilling and Blasting in Windham.”

“You did not drive into Windham.”

“Eli, there’s nobody on the roads, and SMDB is south of town—for a good reason. Most of that reason is sitting in the back of the Suburban. You’re gonna be really happy about my little side trip,” said McCulver, motioning toward the SUV.

Standing behind the Suburban, Eli had one more moment of doubt as McCulver grabbed the handle to open the hatch. What if they had somehow smuggled commandos onto the ground in the back of the truck? Maybe the men guarding the entrance along Norton Hill Road had made their transmission under gunpoint? His eyes darted to the security team near the house.

“Jesus, Eli. Really?” said McCulver, opening the truck’s gate.

Wood crates filled the spacious cargo compartment, stenciled with chemical names that looked sinister, but meant nothing to Eli.

“I couldn’t believe they left this stuff unguarded. Slurry explosives, perfect for setting off bigger bombs or making concealable explosives. I found other stuff too, like dynamite, blasting caps, det cord, detonators, even a little C4. All just sitting there for the taking.”

Eli grinned, no longer mad at McCulver. He’d been wrong. His second in command had shown excellent initiative.

“This is exactly the kind of stuff we’ll need for the upcoming fight. This may sound like sacrilege, but now I know how the insurgents must have felt in Iraq. They couldn’t beat our troops in a face-to-face battle, so they resorted to IEDs, isolated ambushes and targeted sniper operations. The Taliban did the same thing. We have to come up with a list of materials essential to fighting a guerrilla war and start assembling a stockpile—before Uncle Sam gets smart and shuts down our access. I’d say we have a week, probably less. Same goes for our recruitment efforts. Let’s hit Fryeburg, Bridgton and Naples tomorrow. We only look north of here.”

“We’re more or less strangers in those parts,” said McCulver.

“We’ll just have to get acquainted with the good folks of Oxford and Cumberland counties. If we run into trouble rounding up volunteers, we’ll start grabbing folks. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t mind dipping south for that. We can start spreading rumors that the government is kidnapping people.”

“I’m not sure kidnapping is a good idea. I’d be concerned about loyalty,” said McCulver.

“They’ll come around once they see what we’re trying to accomplish. If not, they can work on the farm. We’ll need a ton of help getting this harvested.”

“Was it abandoned?”

“I served a few eviction notices,” said Eli, patting his holster.

“I’ll need some help getting this stuff offloaded,” McCulver said. “Best place to store it will be in a basement. Everything but the dynamite is highly stable.”

“There’s a gigantic root cellar attached to the barn. North side. Cool as a cucumber in there,” he said, waving his security detail over.

“Perfect. Hate to blow up the house,” McCulver said with his back turned.

Kevin’s statement bothered him. Blowing Eli to pieces in his sleep solved most of the government’s problems. Without his leadership, the men would throw down their weapons at the first sight of a tactical vehicle. He stared at the back of Kevin’s head as his deputy commander started to offload some of the smaller containers. The man had been alone today for the better part of six hours. He’d have to keep an eye on his old friend.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Brown, glancing at McCulver’s back.

“Probably not,” said Eli. “Gutsy move staying back. I thought you had lost your fucking mind, frankly. How many did we kill?”

“Zero.”

“Bullshit. We tore that place apart. You said they were loading up one of the Matvees?”

“Two men and a woman were evacuated. I recognized two of them from the windows above the garage. I hit them hard with my .308 at one point.”

“We need more .308s in our arsenal. That goes on the list. You sure we didn’t kill any of them?”

“Unless they buried some folks on the other side of the house, where I couldn’t see. I watched them drag our KIAs into the woods through my scope. All MultiCam uniforms. Nothing else. It took them over an hour.”

Eli’s eye twitched. Twenty-nine killed for three wounded? He couldn’t accept that. A dangerous thought flashed across his synapses and hid in the dark recesses of his mind, waiting to be retrieved. He knew he should turn away from it. Nothing good could come from dragging it into light.

Twenty-nine dead in Limerick, twenty-five dead in Milton Mills. Jimmy. Nathan. These assholes had to pay.

“How many do you think are in the house? How many marines?”

“I counted five different civilians and three marines. One tactical vehicle stationed in the backyard. The other vehicle hadn’t returned by the time I left. Probably stayed with the wounded.”

“How did the marines get past the gates?”

“Busted right through. Those things are built like tanks,” said Brown.

“Tell me about it,” said McCulver, facing the crates in the truck. “We’ll have to build shaped charges to do any damage.”

“So the gates are broken?” said Eli.

Brown nodded, and McCulver turned around with a wary look.

“Eight total?”

“There could have been a few more in the house,” added Brown.

“How are the marines set up?”

“One guy on the 240. The other two helping out around the house.”

“Only one Marine in the vehicle?”

“That’s what I saw when I left.”

Eli ran the scenario in his head and started to tremble. He might not have to wait as long as he thought to get his revenge.

****

CLICK HERE TO LEAVE A REVIEW for Event Horizon . Even a short, one line review can make all of the difference. Thank you!

Go back to Contents

Turn the page to read Book 4 in the Alex Fletcher Series:

Point of Crisis

Point

of

Crisis

Alex Fletcher Book Four

“Point of Crisis”

A fixed point in the “Malthusian Catastrophe,” where population levels exceed the food production and distribution capacity of a system—resulting in a crisis that can only be regulated by famine, war or disease. – From Thomas Malthus’s Essay on the Principle of Population (1798).

Prologue

EVENT +2 Days

Space Fence “Site Alpha”

Kwajalein Island, Republic of the Marshall Islands

Technical Sergeant Marla Quinn typed the last lines of code into the Joint Space Operations Center (JSpOC) interface and pressed return. Her strained face relaxed, revealing the early stages of a grin.

“Frank, we’re connected to Vandenberg,” she said, turning to find the Raytheon contractor responsible for engineering the bypass.

An air force sergeant seated near the door shrugged his shoulders. “He left with the rest of the civilians a minute ago.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Quinn muttered, turning back to the computer station.

She had been so busy typing code that she hadn’t noticed the exodus. The contractors had worked tirelessly with the station’s U.S. Air Force personnel to figure out a way to package the post-“event” Space Fence data and deliver it to the Joint Space Operations Center at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Under normal conditions, the information streamed continuously to the California base, but two days ago, at 20:58 local time, the Joint Space Operations Center stopped accepting data. Less than thirty minutes later, the U.S Air Force garrison on Kwajalein Island went into lockdown.

Her fingers returned to the keyboard, typing the last string of commands that would route 593.7 terabytes of orbital tracking data through dozens of satellites, on a circuitous path to reach Vandenberg’s central processing mainframe. She was surprised that Frank left the room. He was well aware that she was minutes away from rebooting the system and testing his program.

“Did he say where they were going?” she asked.

“Negative. Manuel poked his head in and said everybody needed to see something. You know these guys. They interpret the term ‘appointed place of duty’ pretty loosely,” he said.

“They’ve busted their asses for thirty-six hours straight on this, so I don’t care if they’re hitting golf balls into the atoll. Can you run out and look for Frank? I’d hate for him to miss this.”

“Just send it. It’s not like the computer’s gonna pour him a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue to celebrate.”

“I’ll type,” Quinn said. “You find out what’s so important.”

She wouldn’t be surprised if they had been called to another “closed” security briefing. Several of the contractors held security clearances higher than their commanding officer, and they’d spent considerable time behind closed doors since the “event.” The new Space Fence system had applications far beyond tracking the flight paths of more than twenty thousand orbital objects. The powerful S-band frequency radar used by Site Alpha could detect smaller objects than the previous VHF version, providing the United States with the capability to track China’s latest fleet of previously undetectable microsatellites. That was all she knew—and all they were going to tell her. She typed the rest of the code and held her pinkie finger above the return key.

“Marla, get out here now!” said the duty sergeant, suddenly appearing in the operations center door.

“Hold on,” she said, tapping the key. “What the fuck is the big deal?”

“Something happened to the navy ship. Something bad,” he said, disappearing.

Quinn stood up, mostly annoyed, but partly frightened. The USS Paul Hamilton , one of the U.S. Navy’s Ballistic Missile Defense (BMD) capable Arleigh Burke class destroyers, arrived at the recently constructed naval facility two months ago. The ship’s mission was unknown to the station, but it didn’t take a War College degree to figure out that it had something to do with Site Alpha’s unadvertised tracking capabilities. Yelling erupted in the hallway, and she dashed through the door, colliding with Frank DeMillo.

“Did you send the data?” he asked, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

“I started the sequence a couple seconds ago. Sorry, I didn’t think you—”

“We need to get out of here,” he said, grabbing her arm.

The door leading outside crashed open, spilling bright light and another civilian into the hallway.

“It’s fucking gone, Frank! They sank the Hamilton !”

“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away from the door.

She wrestled her arm away from DeMillo and sprinted past the panicked contractor. They were out of their minds. A swell of warm, muggy air enveloped her like a shroud when she stepped out of the climate-controlled building, instantly creating droplets of perspiration on her face and neck. Two men dressed in khaki pants and polo shirts stood around a telescope, one frantically adjusting the knobs; the other staring at the horizon with binoculars.

“Dan! What the hell happened?” she asked.

The overweight, balding man behind the scope turned to face her. “The Hamilton took off at full speed, zigzagging east. Anti-torpedo maneuver. Less than a minute later, we saw a massive geyser engulf the ship. When the spray cleared, the ship was in two pieces. Went down within seconds. Un-fucking believable. We need to get clear of this building ASAP,” he said, picking up the telescope.

The second man lowered his binoculars.

“Dan?”

“What?”

“Do the Chinese have nuke-tipped SLCMs?”

“Of course they do,” said Frank, walking briskly toward her.

“I don’t think running will make any difference,” he said, pointing toward the Pacific Ocean.

In the distance, a faintly visible smoke trail arced skyward, lazily tipping at the apex of its trajectory and disappearing. Quinn back-stepped toward the door, shielding her eyes from the sun while searching for the object. She found it. A small, gray dot at a forty-five-degree altitude above the horizon. One of the civilians pulled her across the grass, toward the western fence line. They had reached the corner of the two-story operations building when the fifteen-kiloton warhead attached to the DongHai 10 (DH-10) cruise missile detonated directly above Kwajalein Island.

EVENT +3 Days

Naval Base Kitsap-Bangor

Bangor, Washington

David Grant turned his passenger-burdened SUV left onto Sturgeon Street, still not sure what to make of the cars headed in the opposite direction. Whenever one of the “boomers” graced Delta Pier with a visit, every contractor at the naval base’s Intermediate Maintenance Facility (IMF) flocked north to take advantage of the submarine’s short stay. He recognized enough of the passing faces to guess that his group would soon join the exodus back to Building 7000.

“This isn’t looking good,” stated Bob Pearson from the passenger seat.

“No, it’s not,” muttered Grant.

He eased the vehicle onto Sea Lion Road, mindful of the men crammed into the back seat, and headed north along the eastern shore of Hood Canal. Through the dense underbrush and trees lining the road, he caught distant glimpses of the lush, emerald Toandos Peninsula. They passed two cars on the brief coastline stretch before the road turned sharply inland, leading to the Enclave.

Established several years ago as an independent security zone within the naval base, the Enclave featured an illuminated, double-layered, electrified fence that extended from the tip of Bangor Lake to the Explosive Handling Wharf north of Delta Pier. Protected by an elite battalion of Security Force Marines, access to the Enclave was firmly restricted to the submarine crew and authorized naval base support personnel—on a case-by-case basis. His carload of electrical engineers had been granted eight days to inspect and test critical circuits aboard USS Maine (SSBN 741), to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the boat’s $110-million-dollar EMP-hardening upgrade had been worth the money.

Three days into their assessment, Grant’s team hadn’t found any reason to suggest that the Ohio Class ballistic missile submarine was anything less than one hundred percent mission capable. Of course, he was still five long days away from putting his stamp of approval on the final report. The boat had been hooked to shore power while berthed at Delta Pier, and despite the somewhat limited effects of the EMP throughout the Pacific Northwest, he’d insisted on a full inspection. Equipment malfunctions several hundred feet below the ocean’s surface tended to be catastrophic.

“She’s gone! Slow down, Dave,” said one of the men from the back seat.

Grant gently applied the brakes, pulling even with a break in the trees. Son of a bitch. Delta Pier’s southwestern-facing berth was empty. He couldn’t believe SUBPAC would put her to sea without finishing the inspections. His team was one of several dozen IMF crews scouring the submarine for evidence of EMP damage. Without a completed systems assessment, the admiral was taking a serious risk with a key strategic asset. The implications of SUBPAC’s decision didn’t escape him.

A car travelling in the opposite direction pulled even with his SUV, partially blocking their view. He recognized the driver—one of IMF’s master electricians.

“Marines have the Enclave locked down. We’re headed back to the shop.”

“Did they say why?” asked Dave, instantly realizing the silliness of his question.

“They’re not very talkative today—or any day.”

“The boat’s gone,” said Dave, pointing past the car.

The car’s occupants craned their heads toward the sliver of water between the trees. The electrician shook his head slowly and met Dave’s eyes.

“They must have been in a hurry to get her out of the Sound.”

“A big hurry,” replied Dave.

EVENT +3 Days

USS GRAVELY (DDG 107)

Atlantic Ocean

Chief Fire Controlman Warren Jeffries visually confirmed the aft Vertical Launch System (VLS) status on the Combat Information Center’s (CIC) Fire Control Systems screen, before sliding behind Petty Officer Clark’s seat at the dedicated C2BMC (Command, Control, Battle Management and Communications) console. He rested both of his hands on the back of Clark’s chair and leaned forward, watching the digital display for any changes to Graveley ’s launch orders.

“Same as it’s been for the past two hours, Chief,” said Clark, “not that it matters on our end.”

Chief Jeffries patted Clark’s shoulder. “I know, but we can’t fuck this up. This may be our only chance at payback.”

Clark was referring to the fact that no buttons would be pushed in CIC to carry out the mission. They would continue to function as a Launch-On-Remote platform, controlled by the Missile Defense Agency. The only key difference between today and every other day Gravely spent assigned to the Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense (HBMD) mission was that the ship was plying through the Atlantic Ocean at twenty knots. Typically, they were tied securely to the dedicated BMD pier at Naval Station Norfolk—like the day of the “event.”

He’d never forget the terror of reaching the flight deck and seeing the naval station in flames. Across the water, the city of Hampton burned fiercely, reflecting bright yellow off the churned-up water of Hampton Roads. Confusion reigned for the next several minutes as the engineering duty section tried to restore power to the drifting ship.

The thermal effects of the blast had burned the mooring lines, weakening them significantly for the inbound 117-mile-per-hour air blast recorded by the ship’s anemometer. Without the lines to keep her in place, the prevailing winds and the tide pushed the 9,200-ton warship lazily into Hampton Roads, sending her toward the mouth of the James River. Tugboats from the naval station responded with fifteen minutes, barely in time to keep Gravely from hitting the southern Hampton Roads Beltway Tunnel entrance.

Most of the ship’s EMP fail-safes rebooted by the time they nestled against Pier 14, restoring the critical mission systems that had been automatically disabled to save them. Once pierside, the crew spent the next ninety-three minutes frantically conducting underway checks. Gravely had orders to get underway at 0730, with whatever crew she could muster.

At 0729, with frantic family members lining the pier, Gravely sounded one prolonged blast, followed by three short blasts on the ship’s horn as the gray ship backed into Hampton Roads with 182 of her 380 crewmembers. Most of the officers and senior enlisted personnel never arrived, including the captain.

After six days of steaming evasive patterns in an assigned patrol station east of Cape May, New Jersey, Gravely received a warning order preparing them for the remote launch of the ship’s twenty modified antisatellite-capable SM-3 missiles. Jeffries’ only mission in life for the past eight hours had been to ensure the successful launch of those missiles.

The orders contained no information regarding the missiles’ targets, but enough information had surfaced since the event to suggest they would be used against satellites owned and operated by the People’s Republic of China. Long-range, unencrypted transmissions between Russian Federation Space Agency stations and the International Space Station (ISS) indicated damage to the station consistent with the detonation of a thermonuclear weapon in Low Earth Orbit over the United States. Coincidentally, the Chinese Space Station (CSS) had changed orbital location three days prior to the event and was several hundred miles further away from the ISS than normal.

The crew was eager to connect the dots, and more than willing to launch the missiles. They had woken to a nightmare on Monday morning—left with the hellish image of their world on fire and no way to contact their families. The ship had set the strictest emissions-control conditions after cruising over the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel, eliminating all transmissions. Gravely was in receive-only mode, hidden from electronic observation until she fired her full complement of twenty Light Exo-Atmospheric Projectiles (LEAPs) into orbit over the continental United States.

“Captain’s in CIC!” yelled a sailor seated at a console near the entrance.

Lieutenant Commander Gayle Thompson rushed across CIC to the C2BMC console, bumping into the back of the first chair. Her eyes were several minutes away from making the adjustment between the bright sunlight of the ship’s bridge and the catacomb-like darkness of the ship’s nerve center. Thompson, previously the Combat Systems Officer, had been the senior officer present onboard Gravely when they got underway, designating her the ship’s acting commanding officer.

“How are we looking, Chief?” she said, sounding out of breath.

“Green lights across the board, ma’am. As long as the ship doesn’t sink in the next few seconds, we’ll get some payback,” said Jeffries.

“Don’t say that,” she said.

“About the payback?”

“The other part. The C2 link is working?”

“It’s transmitting the countdown time and all of the launch data. I’ve been watching it like a hawk. We’ve got this one, ma’am. Go watch over the new ensigns on the bridge.”

“I feel like they’re keeping an eye on me. I’ve spent my last three years down here.”

“Lieutenant Mosely’s keeping us out of trouble,” said Jeffries.

“Barely,” grumbled Mosely. “Skylight One-One is still downloading surface tracks. All clear. No maritime bands on the ‘Slick 32’ or contacts of interest detected by TACTAS (Tactical Towed-Array Sonar).”

“Nothing coming into the Delaware Channel?” Thompson asked.

“Nothing, ma’am. We would have picked up any commercial radar transmissions.”

“Hard to believe nothing’s heading in to Philly,” Jeffries remarked.

“Eerie. TAO, I’m headed back to the bridge. I’d like a countdown over the 1MC. The crew needs to know that their nation is back in the fight,” said Thompson.

“Excellent, ma’am,” said Mosely, nodding in their direction.

“Captain’s out of CIC!” Jeffries heard, followed by the thunk of the hatch closing.

“Chief, you want to do the honors?” asked Lieutenant Mosely.

“Negative, sir. I need to keep an eye on this. It’s all you.”

“Roger that, Chief. T-minus seventy seconds. Look alive,” he said to the half-manned CIC.

The ship-wide countdown proceeded smoothly according to the time provided by Missile Defense Agency data. At zero, Jeffries detected a slight tremor, which was quickly swallowed by the normal vibrations felt on a warship plying through the water. He turned to watch the Aegis System Display screen at the front of CIC, which showed a live closed-circuit camera image of the rear VLS cells. One hatch after another sprang open, belching fire thirty feet into the air and boosting one of the SM-3 missiles skyward. Cheers filled CIC as the last missile left its canister.

EVENT +3 Days

ISS Mission Control, Russian Federal Space Agency

Korolev, Russian Federation

Alexei Belenkin barked at the mission control specialists before returning the phone to his ear.

“Damn it, we need more warning than this!” he said.

“This is all the warning you get!” insisted the Aerospace Defense Force general.

“We can’t execute a Debris Avoidance Maneuver with the push of a button. This has to be planned carefully! We’re not playing a fucking video game here!”

“I know how rocket boosters work, Doctor Belenkin! I spent most of my career in the Strategic Rocket Forces. You press a button, and they launch!”

“It’s not that simple,” stated Belenkin.

“Well, simplify the procedure, or risk losing the station. You need to move the ISS as far out of its current orbit as practical.”

“I’m not getting any warnings about orbital debris from our sensors, General. This is too radical of an order—even from you.”

“In about sixty-four seconds, Low Earth Orbit may very well become uninhabitable. I have no official authority over you, Doctor. This is a courtesy call before I contact Moscow. By the time they call to issue the order, it may be too late. Do what you need to do.”

“Can you at least tell me what we’re dealing with?”

“You scientists always need a damn explanation.”

“We don’t follow orders blindly, General.”

“Satellite early warning systems detected one hundred twenty sea-based missile launches fitting anti-satellite trajectory profiles. Ground-based space-tracking radars indicate sudden, drastic changes to U.S. military satellite orbits. Our best guess is they’re going for every Chinese satellite in Low Earth Orbit while trying to save their own. Good luck,” said the general, leaving Belenkin holding a disconnected line.

“Mother of Russia,” muttered Belenkin, placing the phone in its cradle.

If the Americans hit the Chinese satellites, they would instantly create hundreds of thousands of pieces of debris, effectively rendering portions of Low Earth Orbit (LEO) completely uninhabitable to satellites and manned space missions. The debris from the Chinese satellites, located at different altitudes and orbital planes, would eventually strike other satellites, triggering the Kessler Syndrome, which would pulverize everything in that orbital range. Navigating in Low Earth Orbit could become hazardous to the point of impossible, with millions of pieces travelling in unpredictable directions at relative speeds in excess of 20,000 kilometers per hour. He wasn’t sure there was any point to moving the station. They would have no way to reach it again.

“Alexei! What are your orders?”

He thought about the situation for a few seconds. They had to try to save the abandoned station.

“Boost the station as high as possible for now. We need to get her out of the busiest orbital altitudes—immediately.”

Ian Kharitonov, senior mission orbital specialist, turned to his section of personnel and nodded.

“Do it!” he said, scattering the men and women to their control stations.

Belenkin watched the screens for the next several seconds, waiting to see the mission parameters change. Kharitonov turned his head from his monitor.

“Secondary thrusters on Zvezda Service Module activated. Maneuvering the station into position for primary thruster activation.”

“Thank you, Ian,” Belenkin said, staring with disbelief at the overhead screens.

“Alexei, what the hell happened?”

“I think the Americans just started World War III.”

PART I

“REASSESS”

Chapter 1

EVENT +5 Days

Limerick, Maine

Jeffrey Brown steadied his hands on a thick branch and surveyed Old Middle Road with powerful binoculars. Sitting in a climber’s harness fifty feet above the ground, he could simultaneously watch the entrance to Gelder Pond and observe several hundred yards of road in either direction. His view through the leaves and branches was far from perfect—but clear lines of sight worked both ways. Since it was practically impossible to identify passengers inside the tactical vehicles, he saw no reason to risk detection by selecting a more exposed site. His job was simple. Estimate enemy troop strength at the compound and identify exploitable patterns. He didn’t need an unobstructed view to accomplish that mission.

A low rumbling drew his attention west, his magnified view of the road competing with wavering green foliage. He spotted the rising dust trail before the vehicles—two fast-moving tactical vehicles, tan camouflage pattern, full turret configuration.

Son of a bitch.

Brown watched as they approached, hoping they would continue toward Limerick. A random military patrol didn’t represent a showstopper. He wasn’t surprised when they veered onto Gelder Pond Lane, tires screeching.

Scratch Eli’s plan.

He pressed the remote transmit button attached to his tactical vest. “Relay One, this is Overwatch. SPOTREP. Two Matvees approached from the west and turned into compound. Estimated enemy strength at compound follows. Three, possibly four Matvees with turret-mounted weapons. Possible addition of squad-sized unit. Maximum of twelve. Minimum of six based on previous observations. Number of personnel at compound estimated at eighteen. Overwatch remains unobserved. How copy? Over.”

A short delay preceded the next station’s recitation of his report. They must be writing his words down verbatim. Finally. Their first few attempts at repeating his top-of-the-hour reports had been abysmal. He shuddered to think what might reach Eli’s ears after passing through four or five relay stations.

“Solid copy, Relay One. Send the message. Out.”

Brown lifted himself by the anchor lines and shifted in his harness, finding a slightly less uncomfortable position. He unconsciously glanced at his watch and shook his head. 0722. Fourteen hours until he climbed down and occupied OP Bravo for the night. A long fourteen hours. Leaning into the tree, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths—listening. A few minutes later, the familiar throttling of a diesel engine echoed through the trees. One of the tactical vehicles sped into sight and skidded onto Old Middle Road, heading for Limerick.

Interesting.

Chapter 2

EVENT +5 Days

Sanford, Maine

“Jackson, I need you down from the turret,” said Alex.

He’d visited Harrison Campbell’s farm twice while writing an informational piece about the York County Readiness Brigade. Once to formally interview selected militia leadership, the second time to attend one of the organization’s public potluck dinners. He remembered that the main house and barn sat close to a quarter mile back from the road, hidden by a deep stretch of pine trees.

“Stop in front of the mailbox, but stay off the property. I’ll walk it in from the fence.”

“Walk it where?”

“Past those trees,” said Alex.

The Matvee stopped in front of a deeply rutted dirt lane. Gently winding around a cattail-infested pond, the road disappeared into a dark stand of pines. He had no doubt they were watching his vehicle from a concealed position in the distant forest scrub.

“I don’t know, sir. You’re awfully exposed on the approach. Once you get in the trees, we can’t do shit for you.”

“I’ll be fine. These are the good guys.”

“You willing to bet your life on that, sir?”

He considered the marine’s question, before grabbing the door handle. Deeper examination of Homeland’s Recovery Zone protocols reinforced the critical importance of partnering with Campbell’s organization. Failure to secure the brigade’s cooperation could lead to severe consequences for the people of southern Maine—his family included.

“I don’t have a choice. Grady needs these people on his side before Homeland starts calling the shots.”

“I’ll park this rig across the street, pointing that way,” said Corporal Lianez, nodding toward the forest. “Say the word, and we roll up guns blazing.”

“I’ll send regular updates. Every ten minutes or so. If you don’t hear from me and I don’t respond to your call—guns blazing,” Alex said, stepping out of the vehicle.

“Sounds like a plan. Sir, you forgot your rifle!” yelled Lianez.

“I won’t need it,” he said, shutting the door on the marine’s continued protest.

His earpiece crackled.

“Sir, you cannot—”

“Lianez, Jackson, radio check. Over.”

“This is Jackson. Lima Charlie. Lianez. Lima Charlie. Captain, I need you to take—”

“Keep the channel clear for further instructions. Out,” Alex said, walking briskly down the dirt road.

He could feel Lianez pounding the steering wheel behind him but didn’t turn to confirm it. Leaving a rifle behind ranked just below gut-punching your own mother on a Marine’s exhaustive list of rules and conventions. Purposefully walking into an unknown situation without your rifle wasn’t even on that list—it hovered in the gray area between negligent and insane.

In this case, Captain Fletcher made a one-time exception to the rule. Ditching the rifle was a calculated act. Combined with the Matvee visibly idling across the street, he sent a not-so-subtle message to Harrison Campbell: I come in peace, but retain the ability to wreck your shit at a moment’s notice. Diplomacy—with the threat of violence.

Roughly fifty paces into the forest, he started to question Campbell’s security measures. He hadn’t expected a guard post at the fence along the main road, but allowing him to get this close to their headquarters seemed a little careless.

“Hands above your head!” yelled a female voice from his right.

A woman dressed in woodland camouflage appeared from a concealed position behind a fallen tree, pointing an AR-15-style rifle at his head. He detected movement on the left side of the road. Purposeful, no doubt. Just to let him know that she wasn’t alone.

“You and your friend know this is private property?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We have no intention of violating your rights.”

“But here you are—with a firearm.”

“Goes with the territory. I need to speak with Harrison Campbell. I didn’t see any other way to get in touch.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

“Captain Alex Fletcher. United States Marine Corps. I’ve met with Harrison before, in a different capacity.”

“I didn’t realize the Marines were authorized to wear jeans and a T-shirt under their body armor,” she said.

“I’m not part of the regular Marine Corps. Something very different. Something Mr. Campbell needs to hear about immediately.”

“You said Alex Fletcher? Captain?” she said, shifting her nonfiring hand to a radio mounted on her vest.

“Provisional Captain. Regional Recovery Zone One.”

“Regional what?”

“Regional Recovery Zone One, formerly known as the state of Maine. Pass that along.”

After a hushed conversation, punctuated by distrusting looks, the woman lowered her rifle.

“You’re cleared to approach the gate. Gary will escort you to the barn,” she stated.

He waited several seconds for another sentry to materialize from the landscape. The severe-looking woman stared at him impassively.

“Where’s Gary?”

“At the gate. Follow the yellow brick road,” she said, pointing deeper in the forest.

“Right,” he said, frowning. “You’re not going to take my pistol?”

“Harrison says you’re legit. That’s all I need to hear—Captain. I’d keep it in your holster, though.”

“Thanks for the sage advice—Miss?”

“Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

“Nunya business.”

“Ex-military?”

“Ex-husbands.”

“Fair enough. Make sure your team doesn’t glass my Marines. They’re a little edgy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

Alex reported his progress to Lianez and hiked around a shallow turn, running into the headquarters’ primary security barrier. Chest-high timber bunkers flanked the dirt road, supporting a metal gate constructed of three-inch-thick welded galvanized pipes. A strip of road spikes lay across the road thirty feet ahead of the gate. A tall, bearded man in camouflage stepped around the rightmost bunker. He slung his rifle and extended a hand.

“Gary Powers. Brigade training officer.”

He gladly accepted the friendly gesture. “Alex Fletcher. My job is a little hard to explain.”

“Sounds like it. I’ll be right back, Danny,” he said to someone out of sight.

“I’ll be here,” replied a voice from the second bunker.

“How is the brigade holding up so far?” Alex asked.

“Better than expected given the scope of the disaster. The coastal chapters were hit hard. Not much we can do east of the 95. It’s still too early to figure out exactly where we can fit into the bigger scheme of things. Right now, we’re running basic supplies to an empty storefront in downtown Sanford, waiting for the mayor’s office to kick off a countywide relief effort,” Powers said, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t sound convinced,” said Alex.

“It’s too big in scope, and it’s eating up our reserves. We’ve spent the past four years promising people localized support, by chapter.”

“But you’re the York County Readiness Brigade,” said Alex.

“Which is why we can’t turn down the mayor’s request for help.”

“I’m sure he’s well aware of that.”

“More than you know. Our history in the county has seen its share of ups and downs. Greg Hoode has been good to us, so it’s time to return the favor. Unfortunately, the brigade’s stockpile is suited for a short-term crisis—even shorter with half of it going to the mayor.”

“Harrison didn’t anticipate an EMP attack coupled with a tsunami?”

Powers laughed. “Probably my fault as training officer, right?” His brief moment of levity settled into a distant stare. “Harrison painted some pretty rosy pictures during our public suppers. Picturesque fields filled with families living in quaint tents. Everyone chasing butterflies and cooking over campfires. Temporarily. When the families start showing up—and they will show up—I’m not sure what we can do for them in the long run. Two months from now, every wood-burning stove in New England will be running full time to beat the cold. I’m not optimistic about our future here once the snow starts falling.”

“I might be able to help out with that, but it’s going to take a leap of faith. Even then, I don’t know,” said Alex.

“Regional Recovery Zone?” said Powers.

“See if you can get someone to fill in for you at the gate. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

“We’re a little shorthanded at headquarters. Everyone’s pulling guard duty. Even Harrison,” he said.

“Trust me, this affects you just as much as Harrison.”

Powers nodded as they broke out of the woods, radioing the request ahead of their arrival. The red, two-story barn dwarfed the gray Cape Cod-style home hidden under a canopy of mature elms. An armed sentry sat in a chair on the porch, searching the tree line behind them with binoculars. They followed the dirt road around the house and past a second guard, who eyed them warily before jogging toward the forest. Three cars sat against the far edge of a dirt parking lot, next to the barn.

“Harrison’s expecting us inside. You’ve been here before?”

“Twice. I wrote an article for New England Magazine a few years ago, which featured aspects of the brigade. I also did a couple of blog articles focused on militia groups. I interviewed Harrison, Glen Cuskelly and Kevin McCulver.”

“I took over McCulver’s position a year and a half ago,” said Powers.

“Is he still with the brigade?” Alex asked.

“No. He, uh—”

“He liked to play with explosives, and we don’t put up with that kind of nonsense,” interrupted Harrison Campbell from the doorway. “Gary steered the training cadre back on the right path. Made a ton of improvements on top of that. Good to see you again, Alex, or should I address you as captain?” he said, shaking Alex’s hand.

“Still Alex.”

“You might want to pick one uniform and stick with it. It’s less confusing that way,” said Campbell, looking him up and down.

“I’m hoping to straddle the fence as long as possible,” said Alex.

“Stay on that fence too long, and someone will pull you down on the wrong side.”

Powers closed the door behind them, drawing Glen Cuskelly’s attention away from one of the maps on the wall. Campbell led them to the makeshift operations center in the far right corner of the barn, beyond the rough-cut wooden benches.

“We just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. You look like you could use a cup—or two,” said Campbell.

“I’m past the point where coffee will make a difference, but I’ll take you up on the offer.”

“You remember Glen.”

“Of course,” said Alex, nodding at the solemn-faced former artillery officer.

“So, what can we do for Captain Fletcher?” said Campbell, grabbing the coffee pot and an extra mug.

“I’ll get to that in a minute. First, I need to warn you about something. Long story short, there’s a rogue militia unit running around southern Maine. Eventually, you’re gonna run into them.”

“Eli Russell’s group?” asked Campbell.

“You know about him?”

“He killed our Limerick deputy. Massacred the whole family.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“How did you find out about him?” asked Cuskelly.

“He tried to kill my family. Attacked my house in Limerick with a platoon-sized force.”

“Limerick?” asked Campbell.

“My parents live on Gelder Pond. That was our bug-out plan. Now it’s filled with several hundred bullet holes.”

“How’s your family?”

“They’re fine, but barely.”

“Thank God for that. And Eli?”

“He escaped with maybe a dozen men. Paid a heavy price for the attack. Twenty-nine KIA.”

“Twenty-nine? What the hell did you have at the house, a platoon of Marines?” said Powers.

“We were ready for them. The Marines showed up after most of Eli’s crew was dead or wounded. Those fuckers brought a Browning M1919A6. In good working order, too. I put that out of action first.”

“He used to show that thing off when he was part of the brigade. I’m not sure when he acquired it, but I guarantee it wasn’t a legal transaction,” said Campbell.

“Well, it’s mine now. I have it covering a 180-degree arc in front of my house.”

Powers looked puzzled. “Why the hell would he attack you?”

“We’ll get into that. Why didn’t anyone mention his group during our interviews?”

Cuskelly winced. “That was my call. I didn’t want to draw any more negative attention to the word ‘militia’ in southern Maine. We had just spent the better part of a year culling the ranks. All part of rebuilding our image.”

“And putting the brigade back on the right path,” Campbell added. “It wasn’t a PR stunt.”

“Either way, Eli was one of the first to go, and he wasted no time putting together his own crew. We basically fed him recruits for a year.”

Campbell poured Alex a cup of coffee.

“We still do. Anyone we turn down, he welcomes with open arms, including felons. The Maine Liberty Militia ranks swelled with jailbirds after Eli’s youngest brother was released from the state.”

“Fuck me. Another Russell to worry about?” said Alex, waving off a sugar packet.

“Nope. Jimmy got served an epic portion of karma a few days ago. One of my scouting teams found him dead at the Milton Mills Bridge, along with most of his platoon. Ambushed, from what I could tell.”

Alex froze, the hot coffee burning his tongue. After a long swallow, he cleared his throat. “I led the group that killed those men.”

Cuskelly tensed, signaling a mood shift at the table. Alex detected it immediately, belatedly recognizing the implications of his statement.

“Why would you be hunting down militia less than a day after the event?” asked Campbell.

“It’s not like that. My son is a freshman—was a freshman—at Boston University. My neighbor’s daughter was at Boston College, and his jeep survived the EMP. We teamed up with a third neighbor to drive down and get the kids back. The turnpike was blocked by the military, so we traced the border until we arrived at Milton Mills. They refused to let us pass, so we shot our way through.”

Campbell didn’t look convinced. “Then how did you end up as Captain Fletcher? Last time we spoke, you were out of the Marine Corps.”

“I was, but circumstances in Boston led to my appointment as a provisional captain,” he said, pulling the badge out of his vest and handing it to Campbell.

“Date of issue 21AUG2019. Captain (PROV). 1st BTN, 25TH ,” Campbell read. “The reserve battalion out of Devens?”

“The same. Half of the battalion was at Devens for summer training when the EMP hit. They received orders to draw gear and head to Boston. The commanding officer was one of my platoon commanders in Iraq. Wounded by the same RPG that put me in a level-five treatment facility for three months. He offered me a provisional appointment because the battalion is short on militia group analysts. Ever hear of a group called the Liberty Boys?”

“If I recall, they appeared at the outset of the Revolutionary War. Sort of a colonial intelligence network.”

“Apparently, they never went away. Homeland had extensive files on the Liberty Boys, right down to existing members within the reserve battalion. They were detained immediately after the EMP. How long has Eli’s group operated?”

“A few years. Maybe less,” said Campbell.

“Homeland doesn’t have anything on his group. Eli is listed as former York County Militia.”

“Eli flies below the radar. Everything’s word of mouth,” said Powers.

“Do they have files on us?” Campbell asked.

Alex nodded slowly.

“Homeland’s been spying on us all along. Those lying sacks of shit,” uttered Campbell.

“Probably have someone on the inside,” said Powers.

“I don’t think so,” Alex said. “They’d have a file on Eli Russell’s crew if they had an inside man.”

“Says Mr. Homeland,” stated Campbell. “It’s time to ask the million-dollar question. Why are you really here?”

“I need your help. Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady, commanding officer of 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment, is coming to Maine, ahead of thousands of soldiers, airmen, relief workers, FEMA crews and Homeland bureaucrats. Here’s the deal, Grady’s problem with the Liberty Boys in Boston escalated out of control. Trust in the government is at an all-time low, compounded by the fact that nobody really knows what happened Monday morning.”

“Or nobody is telling us,” said Randy.

“Fair enough. Colonel Grady’s battalion is tasked to provide security for recovery operations in York County.”

“Security for who?”

“Primary focus will be on Recovery Zone assets, which include assigned personnel, infrastructure, essential equipment.”

“Military units operating on U.S. soil? I don’t like it,” said Powers.

“Nobody does, which is why I’m asking for your help. People trust the brigade, if you—”

“I can’t in good conscience support a blatant violation of the Insurrection Act,” said Campbell.

“Congress legally modified it with the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill,” said Alex.

“I don’t care what those fucking idiots did. They jammed that down our throats when nobody was looking. Supporting a military security apparatus in York County won’t sit well with the people. Everybody knows where we stand on this,” said Campbell.

“Which is why they will listen when you cautiously accept the invitation to integrate some of your members with my provisional security team.”

“I think you need to catch up on some sleep, Mr. Fletcher. I can’t ask my people to accompany Homeland security patrols. Helping out local law enforcement and Maine guard units is slippery enough,” stated Campbell.

“I completely understand what you’re saying, but you’re not seeing the big picture. I’ve been to Boston and back. Grade A clusterfuck across the board. Everybody is headed north—right now. Here’s our problem. The primary Recovery Zone plan holds most of these refugees south of the New Hampshire border.”

“Sounds like a benefit,” said Powers.

“Only if the primary RZ remains viable, from a security standpoint. The alternate plan eliminates the southern Security Area and establishes the Saco River as the new Security Area border, extending west to New Hampshire.”

“What happens to southern Maine in the second scenario?” asked Cuskelly.

“It becomes one big refugee camp.”

“And Colonel Grady’s mission?” Campbell queried.

“Moved north of the Saco River.”

“The people?”

Alex shook his head. “They get to contend with a million-plus refugees looking for food and shelter at the outset of a long New England winter. If the primary RZ is dismantled, I’m packing up and heading north with my golden ticket,” Alex said, holding up his badge. “Without one of these, you’ll be reclassified as a refugee. We have to make a partnership work.”

He let the personal ramifications sink in before continuing.

“Homeland is coming. Nothing can change that. As insane as this may sound, we need to do everything in our power to keep them here. If they pack up and head north, the only thing separating you and your families from millions of desperate New Englanders will be the rifle in your hands.”

Campbell stared at him for an uncomfortable length of time. If he refused, the follow-up conversation promised to be twice as painful. Alex would have to secure Campbell’s promise that the brigade would remain neutral throughout the Recovery Zone, in both action and word. Then he’d have to sell the value of that promise to Lieutenant Colonel Grady, who ultimately decided the brigade’s fate. Based on Grady’s experience in Boston, Alex wasn’t optimistic about a friendly handshake solution.

“What do you need from us?” Campbell asked.

“Not much—for now. The first order of business is Milton Mills. My guess is the bridge is still open for business.”

“It is, but the dead bodies have kept traffic to a minimum.”

“Let’s reinstate the checkpoint at Milton Mills. Six on each bridge at all times. I’ll provide a tactical vehicle, four Marines, food, shelter and communications. You provide the rest. I’ll set the ROE, which will be strict. The security detail will withdraw if fired upon. Agreed?”

“We’re stretched pretty thin. Dave Littner has most of the Berwick chapter stationed at the major law enforcement checkpoints south of Route 202.”

“Have Littner redeploy all of his assets to Milton Mills.”

“That’s a lot more than you requested,” said Cuskelly.

“There’s a reason. I need a reputable third party to investigate a possible mass murder at the church on Foxes Ridge Road. Eli’s brother was running some kind of scam, where he let people across the border and stole their cars. I found a dozen or more cars with out-of-state plates in the church parking lot. The classrooms behind the chapel were stuffed with luggage and personal effects. I don’t think any of the travelers made it past the church. Have Littner’s people search the woods and document everything they find.”

“What happened to Jimmy’s crew at the church?”

“I put an end to their operation.”

“Just you and a few neighbors?” said Campbell, cocking his head slightly.

“They weren’t expecting trouble from this side of the border, and we got lucky.”

“You’re gonna have to deal with Eli at some point. He’s been travelling from town to town, spreading rumors about government assassination teams and the impending Homeland takeover. The people are starting to listen.”

“Then we need to shut him down immediately,” said Alex.

Cuskelly nodded. “We know where to find him.”

“He’s not in Parsonsfield,” Alex said. “The trailer and barn burned to the ground yesterday. Probably right after the attack on my house. He’s not at his house in Waterboro either. We checked.”

“I doubt he’ll show up for any more town hall meetings either. I’ll put the word out to my network, in case he slips up and makes a public appearance,” Campbell promised. “My guess is he’ll lay low for a while. If we’re lucky, he’ll try to kill you again.”

“What does unlucky look like?”

“He starts blowing shit up. Fomenting an insurgency—”

“And still tries to kill you,” added Cuskelly.

“Option number one sounds marginally better,” said Alex.

“Either way,” Campbell said, “he won’t stop until you’re dead.”

“Then we’ll have to work together to make sure that doesn’t happen. The assassination of a key provisional Recovery Zone security officer won’t sit well with Lieutenant Colonel Grady.”

“I assume you’ll need more than a border checkpoint and some scattered intelligence on Eli Russell?”

“A few more things,” answered Alex, taking a long sip of coffee.

Chapter 3

EVENT +5 Days

Bridgton, Maine

Welcome to Bridgton, The Maine Place for All Seasons. Incorporated 1794.

Eli Russell twisted his body in the front passenger seat and eased the .45 Colt Commander out of his hip holster.

Welcome indeed.

“Gentlemen, let’s pass all of the rifles back, keeping them low. Safeties engaged. Magazines removed. We want the rifles in plain sight within the rear storage compartment. Gotta be a checkpoint up here somewhere.”

“You want us to clear the rifles?”

“Negative. Keep the first rounds chambered, in case we need to put them into action pronto-like.”

“What about the pistols?” asked one of the men in the back seat.

“Keep them in their holsters. They won’t fuck with us for carrying pistols.”

“It’s illegal to transport a loaded firearm without a concealed carry permit,” said the man.

“Thanks for the gun law update, mister helper. You want to shut up and let me run the show?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. If you haven’t noticed, there’s a bit of a different situation going on nowadays, something to do with a fucking EMP attack! Keep your hands where they can see them, and don’t say a word unless asked a question. They’ll be glad to see responsible folks like us helping out,” said Eli, passing his rifle between the seats.

The turn straightened onto a long stretch of tree-flanked road, revealing the roadblock. A few hundred feet ahead, an oversized pickup truck and a white police car blocked both lanes of Route 93, squeezed between two guardrails. The cruiser’s blue strobe lights started flashing.

“Slow us down a little more,” Eli said, tracking their approach to the roadblock.

“I don’t know about this,” said his driver nervously.

“We’ll be fine, Griz. I may ask you to vouch for me.”

“I can do that.”

John Barry, aka “Grizzly,” had eagerly joined his organization after the town hall meeting in Limerick. He’d led Eli to Ken Haskell, who’d been more than happy to play a role in keeping Limerick safe from government assassination teams. Haskell had identified one of the young women riding in Nathan Russell’s silver BMW SUV. “One of the Fletcher kids or something like that. They live out on Gelder Pond.” Less than an hour later, “Deputy” Eli Russell and Jeffrey Brown had paid the Fletchers a little visit, scoping out their compound.

Grizzly followed the police officer’s hand signals, easing the car to a stop about twenty feet in front of the blockade. Two men dressed in civilian clothes and tactical gear shuffled between the vehicles, approaching Eli’s SUV with rifles aimed into the cabin. The police officer trailed them by several feet, keeping his pistol pointed at Eli through the windshield. A fourth shooter stood behind the pickup truck’s hood, aiming a bipod-supported, optics-equipped assault rifle at them. Eli hated feeling this helpless, but it was the only way to gain enough trust to talk his way into town. The riflemen split up, drawing even with the front doors and covering the men in the SUV.

“No sudden movements,” whispered Eli.

The police officer approached Eli from an oblique angle, partially obscured from his sight by the doorframe.

“Shut the car down! Hands out of the vehicle!”

“Boys. Hands out the windows. Slowly,” said Eli.

He nodded at Grizzly before turning his body far enough to rest his hands, palms up, on the top of the doorframe.

“This is a no-fucking-around situation, gentlemen. If you move your hands, you’re dead. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Eli.

Once the men in the SUV settled, the riflemen closed the distance, peering deeper into the vehicle.

“I have four military-style rifles in the cargo compartment. I see at least one shoulder holster!” yelled the rifleman on the driver’s side of the vehicle.

“You have about five seconds to explain why you were driving into town with this shit,” said the police officer.

“My name is Eli Russell, and I’m the founder of the Maine Liberty Militia.”

“Never heard of it,” replied the officer.

“We’re based out of York County.”

“You’re coming from the wrong direction.”

“We were just up in Lovell, warning them about the government takeover down south.”

“Why do you need military-style hardware to spread the word?” asked the rifleman, waving his AR at the back of the SUV.

“In case we’re attacked. The government has been killing local law enforcement and militia members down south, softening the area for whatever they have planned. We’ve lost over forty men since the supposed EMP. I put the rifles in back because I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“We haven’t heard about any attacks down south,” said the officer.

“It doesn’t surprise me. York County sheriff’s deputies started to disappear right after the EMP. Mostly the ones under contract with the small townships. The state police and regular departments seem fine, but something fishy is definitely happening in the rural areas. Checkpoints like this along the border have been wiped out. I was personally asked by the state police to send my people to one of the more obscure border crossings. None of them returned.”

“What happened?” asked the rifleman.

“They were killed in Milton Mills, right on the New Hampshire border. I lost twelve men, including my brother. I recognized the tactics from my time as a military advisor in Central America in the ’80s. We tracked down the government black ops team to a small lakeside property in Limerick. I lost twenty-nine men trying to take that house. They had it fortified with light machine guns and sandbag bunkers inside.”

“If I raise the York County Sheriff’s Department on the radio, can they verify any of this?”

“I would hope so. Just be careful about identifying yourself. You never know who’s listening, Officer…Hoyt,” Eli said, reading the policeman’s name badge.

“I want all of you out of the car while I make the call. Leave your pistols on your seats,” he said, turning to the rifleman next to him. “Verify they’re unarmed and sit them in front of the SUV. Hands on their heads.”

Fifty minutes later, Eli’s arms shook with fatigue as he held on to the last vestige of a forced neutral expression. He’d imagined killing both of them so many times over the past hour that he’d exhausted his mental inventory of gruesomely painful deaths. Not an easy feat given the vast amount of time he dedicated to visualizing novel ways to torture and kill people. It had become sort of a game for him. He’d see a woman buying cigarettes at the gas station and picture burning her to a crisp with a can of hairspray and a lighter. Teenager gives him a dirty look at the Foodmart and winds up a discarded pile of body parts on the cellar floor next to Eli’s table saw. It was harmless entertainment. For now.

Officer Hoyt stepped out of his cruiser and walked up to Eli. “You can lower your hands. The guys up in Lovell said you made a good impression, and I ran your scenario through the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Department. A state police bulletin was passed two days ago warning departments about targeted violence against rural deputies. Source of that information was the York County Sheriff’s Department. This is the kind of information we need at the local level,” grumbled the officer.

“That’s why I’m making the rounds. Nobody has heard about this, and it’s only a matter of time before the violence spreads north,” said Eli, noticing a slight relaxation in the guards’ postures.

“State police were a little tight-lipped about your border massacre claim, but county dispatch picked up a request for a mobile crime scene unit. Destination, Milton Mills. Sorry about your brother,” he said.

The guard slung his rifle and stepped forward, extending a hand.

“Ron Bevins. Chief selectman for the Town of Bridgton. Sorry about the crappy treatment, but we’ve had some problems with people travelling through town.”

Eli took his hand and used it to rise up on his unsteady legs. “I understand. Trust but verify. Didn’t Reagan say that?”

“He did,” said Bevins, helping the rest of Eli’s crew to their feet. “So, what can we do for you? I’m afraid the town is a little overwhelmed right now. We’re about triple our normal population due to the summer crowd.”

“I might be able to help you with that. I assume most of those folks have no way to get home?”

“The ones with working vehicles took off right after it happened. Some hiked it out. The grocery stores and restaurants have been picked clean. We’re on borrowed time before things start breaking down.”

“It’s already starting,” said Officer Hoyt. “We won’t have patrol officers at these roadblocks next week.”

Eli fought to suppress the grin pulling at his facial muscles. He was looking at a textbook coup d’état opportunity. An entire town under his control if he played it right.

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I can give you some well-trained, trustworthy men to help man the roadblocks. Free up a few of your police officers. We’d keep my people on the periphery of town so they don’t spook anyone. Militia is still kind of a dirty word for a lot of folks.”

“It would be a big help,” said Officer Hoyt, looking at Bevins.

“I can see something like this passing muster with the rest of the selectmen, as long as your men stay out of town. You’re right about people being a little worried about militia.”

“Lots of folks still see us as mutant biker zombies. Mad Max types. We’ll work under the direct supervision of your roadblock crews, staying on the outskirts of town. If you need us to do more, we can talk about that later. There’s only one favor I would ask of you.”

“Sure,” said Bevins.

“Would you be willing to schedule one town hall meeting for me to address the people? I’m not going to bullshit you. I’m looking for recruits. It’s a good gig for anyone with previous law enforcement or military experience. All I need is fifteen minutes to address whoever shows up. I’ll come unarmed, dressed however you’d like.”

“I don’t want you panicking the town,” said Bevins.

“I’ll keep the York County stories to myself. Scaring people into joining the militia isn’t the best way to go about business. I’ll tell them what we do, leaving out the part about staffing the checkpoints.”

“It’s probably not a bad idea to have some trained folks at the checkpoints, especially if the patrol officers are needed elsewhere. How long can your people stay?”

“As long as they’re needed. If I get enough volunteers from town, I can run a two-week training course and give some of them back. Might give you the boost you need to cover any inbound routes you’re missing.”

“We have a few smaller roads on the other side of Highland Lake that don’t get much traffic,” said Bevins.

“I’d like to put someone on Sam Ingalls Road, west of here. People crossing the border from New Hampshire are bound to find that road eventually. Same with King Hills down south. We have seven checkpoints, all staffed twenty-four hours a day by at least one member of the department. This would be a big help, Ron,” said Officer Hoyt. “If Mr. Russell can get his people here later today or tomorrow, they could work with our officers at each checkpoint for a few days. Sort of a trial period.”

“You give me the thumbs-up, and I’ll have ten men here in a few hours.”

“We’ll have to run it by the chief. He’ll have some reservations.”

“I understand his position. Tell him my men can start out unarmed until he’s comfortable with them. Let’s say three men. If it works out, we can expand the program. Baby steps, gentlemen. I get it.”

“I’ll take this back to the chief and the rest of the selectmen,” said Bevins. “Do you want to come back around five? Give us some time to work this out?”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll wait. That way, if your chief has any questions, we’re not far away. We’d planned to be out all day. Got some MREs and plenty of water.”

“Sounds good,” said Bevins. “I’ll be back.”

“No hurry,” said Eli, turning to Officer Hoyt. “I’ll pull the car back to the town line so we don’t interfere with your duties. If you need us, just flash the high beams.”

“Will do,” said Hoyt, turning to walk to his patrol car.

The man with the bipod-equipped rifle lifted the weapon off the pickup truck’s hood and made room for Ron Bevins and Officer Hoyt. He kept the sight fixed on Eli as the pickup truck’s engine roared.

Trust but verify.

Chapter 4

EVENT +5 Days

Sanford, Maine

Alex searched the trees on the left side of the deserted two-lane road for signs of the airport’s boundary fence. He used to drive into Sanford using this route when he worked in pharmaceutical sales, and remembered that the tree line opened to a massive, flat expanse of land containing Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport. The airport had never impressed him, just another stop for Cessna-type aircraft or maybe something a little bigger. He’d been surprised to learn that the airport had a reinforced 6,300-foot runway, suitable for use by a United States Air Force C-17B (Globemaster III) military transport aircraft. The runway had been hardened in 2016, using federal grants.

Uncle Sam has been busy since the Jakarta Pandemic.

The forest thinned, yielding a vast, sun-browned field of low-cut scrub grasses separated from the road by a barb-wire-topped, chain-link fence. Not much standing between the public and the airfield. Alex imagined that Maine’s 133rd Engineering Battalion had a few upgrades planned for the perimeter—especially given Regional Recovery Zone security protocols. He had spent most of the night on the battalion’s SIPRNet (Secret Internet Protocol Routing Network) connection, digging through the hundreds of classified documents in an attempt to understand the scope and impact of the RRZ’s deployment to southern Maine.

The picture was complicated, but one thing became crystal clear. Once the president of the United States activated the National Recovery Plan, you wanted to be inside one of the RRZ security zones—for reasons he tried to impress on Harrison Campbell. You especially didn’t want to end up in one of the FEMA camps outside the RRZ. The documents painted a rosy picture of the United States’ “upgraded” capacity to implement and administer a sprawling system of refugee camps, but time and time again, history proved otherwise. Alex intended to do everything in his power to keep his family and friends inside the security zone.

They drove past an enormous vacant parking lot connecting a Super Walmart with a Home Depot. He planned to visit The Home Depot on the way back, to secure some plywood for their windows and two toilets. They had stacked enough boards in the barn to barricade the first-floor windows against intruders, but the Maine Liberty Militia’s sustained fusillade had shattered close to every window in the house. Since the event blast wave had been negligible in Sanford, he didn’t feel bad commandeering the wood, along with a few other repair supplies needed to patch up the holes.

Three olive-drab flatbed trucks converged on Route 109 from a road beyond the parking lot. Without stopping, the loaded vehicles turned right and accelerated, pouring black exhaust above the convoy. From a distance, the trucks resembled the Mk23 MTVRs (Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement) used by Grady’s battalion.

Where the hell did they come from?

His tactical overview of organic RRZ units indicated that the 1136th Transportation Company based out of Sanford had M1078 MTVs—but their headquarters was four miles west of here. As Alex’s vehicle passed the fire station, he matched the street sign to the vehicle’s tactical display. The digital map confirmed that Eagle Road was a dead end.

Interesting.

“Looks like they know where they’re going,” said Alex.

“Let’s hope, sir,” said Lianez. “I’ll tuck in right behind them.”

“Make sure to stop at the gate so we can figure out where we need to go. I’m not exactly sure where we’re supposed to check in, but I assume there’s a base commander or something like that,” said Alex, fumbling with the door. “How do you open the windows?”

“You don’t, sir. This is an integrated projectile and blast resistant design.”

“Really? How the hell did I miss that?”

“Most officers don’t figure it out until they want to shoot something from that seat. I had one platoon commander who insisted we were messing with him. Every time he got in the damn vehicle, he fucked around with that door.”

“It was kind of silly-like,” said Jackson over the PRC-153 Intra-Squad Radio (ISR).

“I’m sure he had every reason to trust the two of you to steer him in the right direction,” said Alex, smirking. “So, how the hell does the crew defend the vehicle?”

“You leave that up to me, sir,” said Jackson.

“Not even a gun port?”

“Fucks with the blast-resistant dynamics,” said Lianez.

“What are you, a vehicle engineer?”

“Mechanical engineering degree at Northeastern.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Negative, sir.”

“I stumbled into the Einstein Battalion,” Alex muttered.

“Lianez is the exception to the rule. Most of us are good ol’-fashioned New England hicks. No G.I. Bill for me. I do this shit for free,” said Jackson.

“Good, because I have a feeling your next paycheck is going to be late,” said Alex. “Really late.”

They followed the convoy to a security checkpoint at the entrance to a large parking lot. A white commercial sign with “Seacoast Aviation” in red letters protruded from the ground next to an improvised waist-level sandbag emplacement. A group of soldiers dressed in full combat gear cleared out of the way, giving the MTVs a wide berth. They stayed on the sides of the gravel road, waving Alex’s vehicle through.

“Do you want me to stop, sir?”

Alex examined the door again. They weren’t kidding; there was no way to talk to the soldiers without opening the door.

“Just keep going and park us next to those Humvees. At least with those, you could roll down the windows,” said Alex.

“Sounds like old-timer talk, sir,” said Lianez.

“No wonder Grady gave you guys up without hesitation,” he said. “Stay with the vehicle. Don’t go making friends.”

“We’re not in the business of making friends, sir.”

“Good. Until I’m one hundred percent sure this operation is legit, I got one foot out the door,” he said, shutting the hatch and walking toward Seacoast Aviation’s passenger terminal.

The last of the military trucks passed through a wide gate next to the terminal, disappearing behind the corrugated metal structure. Alex stopped next to one of the parked Humvees and stared through the fence at the other side of the closest tarmac. An olive-drab tractor with a post-hole digger attachment worked next to a group of soldiers wearing ACU pants, T-shirts and combat helmets. A cluster of flatbed trucks carrying sheets of rolled fencing sat in front of an empty hangar at the end of the tarmac. From what he could tell by the posts that had been installed along the far edge of the asphalt, engineers were fencing off a section of the airport.

A tall soldier in ACUs and a patrol cap emerged from the open terminal door, holding an M4 carbine at low ready. Alex turned to face him, slowly removing the identification card from the front pouch of his tactical vest. He kept his hands off his rifle.

“Sir, I need to see some ID,” said the sergeant.

Alex noticed a second soldier pointing her rifle at him through the doorway.

“I’m a provisional captain with 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment,” said Alex, handing his badge to the sergeant.

He gave it a quizzical examination. “Never seen one of these before. Captain, we have a provo marine! Showed up in a Matvee!”

“Good timing,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “Get him in here.”

With the female soldier’s rifle still trained on him, Alex stepped inside the dark, sweltering terminal. Two rows of dark orange connected plastic seats sat pushed against the left wall. A rectangular folding table occupied the center of the room, covered with ruggedized military laptops and dozens of cables. Four haggard-looking soldiers crowded around the table in folding chairs, typing and talking into headsets.

“The captain’s in the last office,” said the soldier, handing Alex the ID card.

“You can stop pointing that at me now,” said Alex.

The pasty-faced, sweat-covered specialist didn’t blink.

“You want to call her off? This is the second time I’ve had a rifle pointed at my head today.”

“You can stand down, Crosby,” said the sergeant.

The woman flipped the selector switch on her rifle to safe and let the rifle dangle across her body armor by its sling. She was the only soldier in the terminal wearing the MTV (Modular Tactical Vest), which added at least thirty pounds to a soldier or marine’s standard load out.

“Why are you the only one wearing the MTV?” asked Alex.

“Because she thinks the Chinese are gonna drop from the sky and take the airport,” stated one of the soldiers working on a laptop.

“Crosby plans to take them all out,” announced another soldier.

She shook her head and muttered a few expletives.

“You might be on to something, Crosby,” said Alex, silencing her colleagues.

Alex walked down the shadowy hallway, passing two pitch-black, empty offices. Light from the outside filled the third office, rendering the space useable. A desk chair scraped the floor inside the office, followed by muttering.

“Where the fuck is this guy?”

A dark-haired soldier charged out of the doorway, stopping himself before barreling into Alex.

“Shit. Sorry about that. Did they run your ID?”

“The sergeant gave it a once-over,” said Alex.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, extending a hand. “Captain Rick Adler. Commanding officer, 262nd Engineering Company out of Westbrook.”

“Captain Alex Fletcher. United States Marine Corps. Provisional.”

“Provo, huh? I just cracked the code on all of this shit. Mind if I grab your ID?”

“Sure,” said Alex, handing it over again.

“Follow me,” he said, storming down the hallway.

“Listen up! We talked about provisional ID cards! You have to scan them at this computer and send the e-file to my desk. Easy enough?”

The table of lethargic soldiers nodded and responded with wary, “Yes, sirs.”

“That way, I know if I’m dealing with a civilian construction engineer sent by battalion, or…” He swiped Alex’s card and read the screen. “Huh. Let’s talk in my office.”

Alex wasn’t sure how to interpret Adler’s sudden need for privacy. Once inside the spacious, ghastly hot office, Adler shut the door and offered him a drink from a water cooler behind his modular desk.

“Room temperature. All of our juice is going to the comms gear, though it’s awfully tempting to run a line to the cooler.”

Alex took a sip.

“You could make hot cocoa with this,” he said, finishing the thin paper cup.

“Without the central air-conditioning, the building is basically one big convection oven. Tin roof. Fucking miserable. It’s worse in the hangars.”

“Really?” said Alex, immediately eliminating the possibility of bringing his family to the hangar.

Adler slid Alex’s ID card across the desk. “This card identifies you as the airport’s MIF.”

“MIF?”

“Most Important Fucker. Congratulations. Until an EMIF arrives—your wish is my command.” At Alex’s questioning look, Adler explained, “Even More Important Fucker. I’m still cracking the code on this Regional Recovery Zone shit, but the hierarchy is well defined. Security and Intelligence is at the top of the food chain.”

“You didn’t know about the Category Five response protocols?”

“Negative. I can only assume that knowledge was kept at the battalion commander and above level. I had a sealed pod kept under lock and key at the unit armory—to be opened under certain circumstances. Suspected EMP was one of those circumstances. I found this laptop computer and a ROTAC satphone, along with instructions for tapping into the battalion’s SIPRNet through DTCS. We never used DTCS before Monday, now it’s the only way to communicate over any appreciable distance.”

“We used real radios in my day, and if you didn’t have comms—you didn’t have comms. Portable sat-gear was borderline Star Wars shit, even at the battalion level,” said Alex.

“Even today it’s not widely issued to regular units below the battalion level.”

“Then why does it seem like every soldier and Marine has one?”

“Good question. DTCS came to life in 2011. Too late to make a big difference in the War on Terror, but the Pentagon pushed it.”

“I don’t blame them. I lost several Marines in Iraq because of shitty comms.”

“That was the big selling point. One hundred percent worldwide coverage at all times. I studied the system a year ago in one of my Staff and Command courses. One case study after another where DTCS-enabled sat-gear could have saved lives. Made sense to me, except it was never rolled out below company level. Then the DTCS budget was drastically expanded in 2016.”

“And they were issued along with helmets in boot camp.”

“No. That was a big point of discussion during last year’s summer training. None of the guard or reserve units saw them. Neither did their active-duty counterparts.”

“Then where did the radios come from?”

“Category Five response load outs. We had a secure conex box set inside one of the buildings. I assume it was EMP hardened, like a Faraday cage. The keys and combinations needed to access the conex box were located in my secure pod.”

“What was in the container?”

“Dozens of ROTAC handhelds, heavier duty communications gear, computers, router equipment, night-vision devices, motion sensors, cameras—everything I needed for my role at Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport. Quite a coincidence, right? Especially given the fact that the conex box was delivered over two years ago.”

“I’m discovering a lot of these post-Jakarta Pandemic coincidences,” said Alex.

“Like the runway out there?” asked Adler.

“Makes you wonder.”

“I wouldn’t wonder too loudly. My initial Category Five orders also involved sending two soldiers home—booted from the company. Stripped of all rank and privileges, like they were criminals.”

“Militia?”

“Likely militia involvement.”

“The orders said that?”

“Negative. I called Colonel Hanson over ROTAC to confirm the orders, looking for an explanation. His orders came with a few more details. He lost a total of eight from the battalion. All with suspected or confirmed ties to Maine militia groups.”

“That’s interesting given my role here,” said Alex.

Adler stared at him for a moment, his expression flashing from doubt to panic. “Look, I’m in this for the long haul. Part of the team. I just can’t help making the connections to—”

“Rick, what are you talking about?”

Adler cocked his head. “Let’s just say I get worried when I see the label ‘security and intelligence’ accompanied by ‘provide unrestricted access.’ Call me paranoid.”

“What else did my ID badge tell you?”

“That’s the extent of it, but what else do you need? It’s more or less a carte blanche declaration, which is why it struck me as odd. The RRZ protocols are thick, delineating relationships, authority, this and that. Typical government bullshit. I have to go through ten layers of nonsense to move one of the airport’s porta-shitters ten feet to the left.”

“It didn’t say what type of security? I was under the impression that the Marine battalion was an area security unit for southern Maine. Almost like MPs.”

“You have one of the least defined security clearances I’ve ever seen. It set off my internal alarm. Let’s leave it at that.”

“I think you might want to heed your spider sense. You never know who you’re talking to, or who’s listening.”

“I hear you. Keep it zipped and do your job,” said Adler.

“Especially when the Recovery Zone personnel start to arrive. Any idea when that might start?”

“My first priority is to build a security barrier around the cluster of hangars and commercial buildings across the tarmac. I assume the RRZ folks will start rolling in once it’s finished.”

“That’ll be one long line of EMIFs,” said Alex.

“I won’t have to worry about that. A company of Rangers from the 2nd Ranger Battalion is scheduled to arrive tomorrow, along with a headquarters element from the 75th Ranger Regiment. They’ll take over physical security and general airport operations while I harden the perimeter. After that, it’s a nonstop parade of aircraft and vehicles. 4th Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division has been assigned to RRZ border control and FEMA camp security. They’re bringing part of the division’s Aviation Brigade. Blackhawks and Chinooks. You won’t recognize this place by next week.”

“The entire Brigade Combat Team?”

“That’s the plan. Advanced elements left Fort Drum this morning.”

“I need to secure hangar space for my battalion—before it’s standing room only. Something out of the way, with quick access to a gate,” said Alex.

Captain Adler stood up and walked to the window, pointing across the main runway.

“See those long hangars? Two in front, along the taxiway, and one partially hidden behind them?”

“Got it,” said Alex, feeling the heat pour through the thin glass as he neared.

“We cleared the aircraft out yesterday. The hangars have their own gate and access road. Easy in, easy out. A straight shot down Airport Road to Route 109. How much room do you need?”

“I’ll take all three hangars,” said Alex, staring past the waves of superheated air rising from the asphalt runway.

“Why not? First come, first serve. Perfect timing, too. Your conex boxes arrived on that convoy. I’ll send them over to the hangars,” he said, nodding at the three trucks Alex had followed into the airport.

“Were the conex boxes delivered to another airport?”

“This is where it gets really interesting. They’re dragging container after container out of an old business park behind Walmart. Started two days ago.”

“Want to take bets on when that business park was abandoned?” Alex asked wryly.

“About the same time the runway was reinforced. I had a talk with the mayor,” said Adler. “The company that owned the business park let the leases expire on several local businesses between 2015 and 2016. They may have bought out a few of the longer term leases.”

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,” said Alex.

“Starting?”

Alex considered the implications raised by his conversation with Adler. One thing was certain. The federal government had been planning for a catastrophic, national-scale disaster since 2015, possibly earlier. The complexity of the Category Five Response Plan was mind-boggling. Hundreds, possibly thousands of active duty and reserve military commanders received orders governing and coordinating the deployment of their units. Countless thousands of equipment containers had been pre-staged across the United States for the express purpose of supporting Category Five requirements—or the Federal Recovery Plan.

The relationship between the two looked hazy. Declaration of a Category Five Event triggered specific military missions, like Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s immediate deployment to Boston, but it also appeared to set the Federal Recovery Plan wheels in motion. Adler received orders to secure the airport and start building an inner perimeter, all tasks designed to support the Regional Recovery Zone. Maybe the declaration of a Category Five Event was synonymous with the activation of the Federal Recovery Plan. He didn’t know, and he was too exhausted to give it any more thought. He’d oversee the delivery of his battalion’s conex boxes to the distant hangars and head back to Limerick after he had a look at the contents.

Chapter 5

EVENT +5 Days

Limerick, Maine

Kate checked her watch and shook her head.

Where the hell is he?

Alex had been gone for nearly five hours, two hours longer than he had estimated. His absence was conspicuous given the circumstances. At first she had been angry, but now she was worried that he had run into trouble with the supposedly friendly militia group. Or worse, he had decided to ignore her repeated warnings about staying away from Eli Russell’s base camp and had been ambushed. She sensed a presence in the bathroom doorway.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Kate,” said Tim Fletcher, Alex’s dad and Kate’s father-in-law.

“He should have been back already,” she said, mopping at the hardened mixture of drywall dust on the tile floor.

“We’d know if something was wrong. The Marines would get a distress call and respond.”

“Unless they were taken out by an IED or a coordinated ambush. Six hours without a phone call?”

“I’ll have Staff Sergeant Evans check in on them. Looking good in here,” Tim said, glancing at the entire mudroom.

“Aside from the missing toilet, cracked sink and bullet holes,” she said.

“It’s coming along. The first floor is clear of debris and drywall dust. We’ll put the kids to work on the upstairs after lunch. Tomorrow, we’ll start on the outside. If Alex can find plywood and heavy-duty hinges, we’ll fashion some crude hurricane shutters that can be pulled shut from the inside. It won’t look pretty, but we’ll be back in business in a few weeks.”

“I don’t know.” Kate sighed. “Alex doesn’t seem optimistic about this whole Recovery Zone thing.”

“I suppose we could make a go of it back at the Scarborough house. Put a little distance between ourselves and the border.”

“We need to move away from the population centers, especially Portland. Plus, the house will be one giant mold spore in a few weeks. The water went up to the ceiling. I’d only recommend our house in an absolute emergency.”

“Well, if the situation deteriorates, we’ll have to consider it.”

“Worse than this?” she said, and they both laughed.

Kate lowered her voice to a whisper. “Emily overheard Ed talking to Charlie and Linda about their place up in Belgrade. Maybe we should consider relocating—at least until the Marines destroy this militia group.”

“Who’s to say the situation is any better up north?” Tim whispered back.

“It has to be better than living in fear of a murderous lunatic,” she said.

“We’re in pretty good hands here. I’d rather take my chances with what I know, and I didn’t get the impression that Charlie had a big place up there. Sounded like a cozy, four-season lake cottage. We have seventeen mouths to feed here. This is our best bet, if we can make it work.”

“This Colonel Grady character can yank the Marines away at a moment’s notice.”

“We need to discuss this—with everyone. Figure out the options. For now, we have to press on with the repairs. Winter won’t wait for us to make a decision.”

“I know,” Kate said. “I really want this to work.”

“Why don’t you take a break? Grab a sandwich and a beer,” Tim said, taking the mop. “There’s a cooler at the bottom of the stairs. I got the rest of this.”

“We probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol in front of the Marines. At the very least we should keep it on the down low. Most of them haven’t spoken with their own families since this started. I’d be pretty pissed if I was ordered to protect someone else’s family while they tipped back beers.”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” said Tim.

“We’ve barely had time to process the basics, especially after what happened yesterday. I’m not saying we have to walk around like this is the end of the world, but…”

Kate stopped, realizing that their situation was about as close to the “apocalypse” as anyone could reasonably expect in their lifetime. “What kind of sandwiches?”

“Grilled cheese…from the bullet-riddled grill in the backyard.”

“Last of the cheese?”

“Last of anything we couldn’t throw in the freezer. The refrigerator took one too many broadsides; may she rest in peace,” Tim said, stepping into the mudroom bathroom.

Kate let go of the mop and grabbed her rifle from one of the coat hooks in the mudroom. She slung it over her shoulder and let it hang in the “shoulder-ready” position behind her back, where it was out of the way but readily accessible. The rifle no longer felt like a cold, alien object. It still caught on furniture and clunked against the walls, but she’d come to terms with the fact that the rifle wasn’t dangerous unless she released the safety and pulled the trigger.

The kitchen looked spotless, if you could overlook a few structural problems. Split cabinets, cracked backsplash tile, missing chunks of drywall, painted-over bloodstains, and bullet-peppered furniture to name a few. Still, it was a radical improvement over this morning. She could live with the cosmetic damage, especially if it meant they could stay. The realities of evacuating the house weighed heavily on her mind.

They had designed the compound with resilience and redundancy in mind. “The rule of threes.” Three sources or layers for each of their basic needs. Water provided by a well, pumped out of the pond, or collected in fifty-gallon, food-grade drums from the gutters during a rainstorm. Food supplied by their garden and fields, supplemented when necessary by the vast stores in the basement, with the year-round option of fishing, trapping or hunting. Security had multiple layers. Communications. Heating. Power. Whenever practical, they sought long-term solutions with multiple backups. If they left Gelder Pond, their survival plan would have to fit into a car—shared by another family.

“Hungry?” asked Samantha Walker, appearing from the deck with a platter of sandwiches.

“Starving.”

“I’m taking these down to the critical care ward,” she said. “Why don’t you grab one?”

“I’ll get one off the grill after everyone has eaten. How’s Ed doing?”

“He’ll be fine. I’m worried about the Thorntons. Linda’s foot is destroyed, and Charlie’s calf muscle is torn. Neither of them can walk unaided. It leaves them a little vulnerable as a family,” she said.

“They’ll have to stay put for now. We can move them into the great room now that it’s clean. Air them out a little.”

“I’m not sure they’ll want to leave the basement.”

“Safer?”

“That, and it’s about thirty degrees cooler.”

“Doesn’t sound bad. Where are the kids?” asked Kate, staring into the empty screen porch.

“Cooling off in the cellar,” offered Samantha.

“They don’t want to be upstairs, either,” said Kate. “I don’t blame them.”

“It’ll be a while before anyone feels safe up here—or anywhere.”

“I’m not opposed to moving mattresses into the basement—or cellar. Whatever you New Englanders call it,” Kate said, winking.

“I thought you were from the Midwest. Don’t they call it a storm cellar there?” asked Samantha.

“New Jersey. Princeton area. We called it a basement. I think storm cellars were separate from the house. Alex might know.”

“Have you heard from your parents?”

Kate shook her head slowly. “I’ve tried on Alex’s military satphone, but they’re not picking up. Alex gave my dad a satphone for Christmas three years ago. I think it went back in the box after Alex showed him how to set it up.”

“Family Christmas gatherings with Alex must be…interesting.”

“It gets interesting, and a little tense, depending on what he tries to sneak by the censors. He gave our eight-year-old nephew a folding Gerber knife, magnetic compass and SureFire light for his birthday. The knife part went over well, as you can imagine.”

Samantha stifled a laugh. “I imagine it gets worse.”

“Much worse,” said Kate, her smile fading.

“I’m sure your parents are fine, Kate.”

“I hope so. You better get those down to the troops. I’ll grab the next batch,” she said, purposely steering the conversation away from family.

“See you in a few,” said Samantha, disappearing into the basement.

Kate took a deep breath and eyed the Iridium phone on the kitchen counter. She’d been unable to reach her brother, Robbie, which made her nervous. She could see her parents having no clue and keeping the satphone uncharged in the original box, but Robbie had gladly accepted Alex’s gift of the phone and a basic calling plan. They’d even tested it out once a year, at Alex’s insistence. He lived in a suburb of Concord, New Hampshire, less than eighty miles away from Limerick.

They’d discussed coming to the compound if something happened, but he seemed hell-bent on taking his family to their camp in the White Mountains. After the Jakarta Pandemic, he made some basic modifications to the rustic structure, including a small solar-power setup, enough to run the well pump and a few lights. Alex had convinced him to store a few months of food in the house and keep enough firewood for an entire winter season. The cabin represented a possible refuge if they couldn’t stay in Limerick. Then again, she wasn’t sure if leaving the state was an option anymore. Alex no longer seemed to think so.

He’d woken in a dark mood today, after a long night on the military laptop, forcing his way through morning pleasantries before departing with the Marines. He looked uncommitted gearing up for the trip. She suspected he had uncovered something he wasn’t ready to share. Now he was overdue from his outing. She’d ask Staff Sergeant Evans to give him a call over ROTAC.

Kate washed her hands in the sink and instinctively opened one of the cabinet doors to retrieve a glass for a drink of water. She stopped herself halfway, remembering that none of the glassware or plates had survived the gun battle. She looked anyway. The inside was bare; the shattered pieces thoroughly removed by the teenage cleanup crew that had scoured the rest of the first floor. She guessed that Amy had another set hiding inside one of the plastic storage bins in the basement. Kate spotted a stack of red plastic cups on the kitchen table, next to a pile of paper plates and plastic utensils.

One of the Marines stepped out of the dining room, holding a motion sensor transceiver like it was a dead rat.

“This one is wrecked, too, ma’am. I made a few more adjustments to the sensor perimeter.”

“You guys don’t have to mess with that stuff. Why don’t you grab a plate and get some lunch. I’ll let Staff Sergeant Evans know, so all of you can eat some real food.”

“I’ll take you up on that in a minute, ma’am.”

“You can call me Kate.”

“Yes, ma’am. So, we moved some of the sensors to direct most of the coverage east and north along the most likely attack vectors—same routes they used before. We’ll put an LP/OP lakeside, so we won’t need sensors to the west.”

“LP/OP?”

“Listening post, observation post. Basically, two Marines trying to stay awake all night. With night vision, it’ll be nearly impossible for anything to get across the lake undetected. Plus, we’ll have one of the Matvees next to the house, in a position to cover the western tree line.”

“What about the south?”

“The south is their least likely approach vector. It’s three hundred fifty feet to the trees, across open ground,” he said, pointing out of the dining room window. “They could mix it up in the barley field, but they’d have no real cover. We’ll have two Matvees in a position to watch that sector, plus your husband’s .30-caliber machine gun. Even if someone managed to crawl to the edge of the barley, they’d have another two hundred plus feet to go before they reached the house. That’s what we call machine-gun-assisted suicide.”

“Clever. We’ll have our own rotation in the house, watching the sensors. Sounds like we should be fine.”

“You’re in good hands. We won’t let anything through,” said the marine.

“Thank you. I’m terrible with names,” said Kate. “Corporal?”

“Corporal Derren, ma’am.”

“Sorry about that. Thank you, Corporal Derren,” she said. “Do you have family near Fort Devens?”

“I have a two-year-old daughter named Liz. She’s with my wife in Greenfield. I hope.”

“Alex—Captain Fletcher—said they were sending trucks out to pick up the military families, bringing them to Devens.”

“That’s what Staff Sergeant Evans said. Even if the truck showed up, she might not be there. She has a huge family in Amherst, which isn’t far away. They would have come for her by now.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It doesn’t seem fair that you were sent to Boston without contacting your families.”

“This is just part of the deal for us. Plus, there was no way to contact them anyway,” he said, matter-of-factly. “They don’t have a satphone.”

“We’ll say a prayer for them, Corporal Derren.”

“It’s about all we can do right now,” he said, placing the transceiver on the table.

“I’ll let the chef know we have some more mouths to feed.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I just have a few more things to check and I’ll be out to grab some chow.”

“Thank you for doing this. I’m not going to pretend to know how hard it is for you, being away from your family, but I just wanted you to know that we’ll never forget this.”

Derren nodded, maintaining a stoic façade. This wasn’t fair to the Marines at all, and as far as she was concerned, it was an unsustainable situation. She wouldn’t blame any of them for taking one of the tactical vehicles and driving out of here before the battalion arrived. Kate knew they wouldn’t. She married a Marine twenty years ago, and nothing got in the way of duty, which was why she felt so uneasy about her husband’s provisional position in Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s battalion. The Fletcher family couldn’t afford a shift in Alex’s priorities. Not now.

Chapter 6

EVENT +5 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex wiped the sweat off his face with his forearm and sighed. The heat index inside the hangar had to be over a hundred degrees, with one hundred percent humidity. Home sweet home for 1st Battalion. He waited for Grady to answer his ROTAC call.

“I’m in the middle of a briefing, Alex. Did you secure my hangar space?”

“Affirmative, sir. More than enough room for the Marines, vehicles and equipment. I have three conex boxes sitting in one of the hangars.”

“Conex boxes?”

“Maybe conex isn’t the right description. I’m guessing each one is twenty feet by eight by eight, equipped with a biometric scanner.”

“Sounds like a regular-sized shipping container. Stand by.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders at Corporal Lianez, who stood in front of the closest eight-foot-tall gray container pushed against the back wall of the corrugated metal hangar. A few minutes later, Grady responded.

“Alex, I’m sending you two sets of combinations for each container in a text message to your ROTAC. Have one of the Marines show you how to retrieve it. The first set will disable the biometric sensor. The second will open them. I need you to inventory the equipment and post a full-time guard at the hangar. The boxes can’t be locked once opened. Security feature.”

“I don’t have enough Marines to post a 24/7 watch at the airport. I’ll open the boxes when Gunny Deschane arrives from Brunswick.”

“Negative. Gunny is still a few days out. I need to know what’s in the boxes.”

“You didn’t know about the boxes?”

“Alex, I have to go. Inventory the contents and send a detailed report. Do not leave the gear unattended. Out.”

“Did you know they pre-staged the entire RRZ’s load out in secret warehouses near the airport?” asked Alex.

The ROTAC display read “No Lock.”

“Motherfucker,” he muttered.

“Sir?” said Lianez.

“Nothing. Grady’s sending the combinations via text message. I assume you know how to retrieve messages?”

“It’s just like a cell phone, sir,” he said, walking over to show Alex.

“We’ll need to call Staff Sergeant Evans and set up a full-time watch rotation. The boxes can’t be locked once they’re opened.”

“What’s inside, sir?”

“Either the colonel doesn’t know or he won’t tell me,” Alex said, handing the radio to Lianez.

A few minutes later, they had opened the first box, finding the airtight vessel filled with grayish-blue scale MARPAT uniforms, helmet covers, rucksacks, body armor carriers, tactical load-bearing gear—enough to refit the entire battalion. The container emitted a strong disinfectant smell, which he figured was some sort of chemical preservative or pest repellent. Possibly both. Presumably, the uniforms had been packed with no foreseeable use date, so it made sense to protect them for long-term storage.

“Ever seen this camo pattern before?” Alex asked Lianez.

“Negative. Looks like a dedicated urban pattern. Pretty useless in the native environment out there,” said Lianez, pointing to the trees beyond the main runway.

Alex rubbed the material between his fingers, staring deeper into the container.

Unless Homeland wants us to stand out.

He pulled a packet labeled “manifest” from a metal folder attached to the inside of the door and ripped the sealed plastic covering. The first line item on the packing inventory disturbed him: Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform, MARPAT: Federal Security pattern. 800 Units. Size adjustable.

Federal Security? He couldn’t wait to see what was in the rest of the containers. No wonder Grady had hung up on him.

“Does it say what the pattern is?” asked Lianez.

“Negative,” Alex muttered. “Can I trust the two of you to check out the other hangars, without shooting someone? I’ll dig through the rest of this shit,” said Alex, hoping to somehow secure the containers before they returned.

“That’s hurtful, sir. I do have feelings.”

“Nice try. The Marine Corps doesn’t issue feelings, so I know you don’t have any. Just do a quick walkthrough. Make sure we don’t have any squatters. Looks like there’s a small office in each hangar. Close them up when you’re done.”

He held out a ring of keys, which Lianez swiped from his hand.

“Roger that, sir.”

By the time Alex entered the final combination for the second container, the Matvee had sped to the adjacent hangar. The keypad LED turned green, and the hinged front door hissed, releasing its airtight seal. Instead of a disinfectant smell, the second container reeked of gun lubricant.

This should be interesting.

Alex pulled on the heavy gray metal doors, swinging each half hard enough to hit the sides of the container.

“Whoa.”

The box resembled an armory, filled front to back with four sliding weapons racks. A two-foot-wide passage ran down the center of the rows, leading to the rear of the container. Alex took a small flashlight from one of the pouches on his vest and illuminated the darker recesses beyond the racks. Dark green ammunition crates filled the far end, stacked from bottom to top and strapped to the container. He pulled on one of the weapons racks, which eased out of the container on heavily greased tracks attached to the floor and ceiling.

Welcome, Kmart shoppers.

The fifteen-foot-long, reinforced metal gun rack bowed slightly when fully extended, prompting Alex to push it most of the way back into the container. He didn’t want to break the sliding mechanism and not be able to get this rack out of sight. The contents would raise questions. He counted the rifles as it slid inside. One hundred mint condition MR556SDs, counting both sides of the rack. Recognizable by their hexagon-shaped, partially integrated suppressors, each rifle was fitted with an ACOG sight, forty-five-degree-mounted reflex sights for Close Quarters Battle (CQB), vertical front grip and the AN/PEQ-15 Advanced Target Pointer Illuminator Aiming Device.

He directed the light down the next rack, seeing the same rifles.

Why the hell would they need rifles designed to accept specially adapted suppressors? And why would they need two hundred of them?

The third rack contained an even more bizarre choice of weapon. Compact and futuristic-looking MP-7 Personal Defense Weapons (PDW) fitted with reflex sights. The MP-7 fired a unique 4.6X30mm cartridge, capable of punching a hole through a Kevlar helmet at one hundred yards and defeating most Level IIIA body armor at similar ranges. The armor-penetrating projectile gave a concealable, submachine-gun-sized weapon the comparable power of a combat rifle. A thick, cylindrical suppressor sat in the rack next to each MP-7. Definitely not something seen at the Marine infantry level. More like Delta Force or Devgru.

The final rack held a variety of mountable optics, including night vision and infrared scopes. Forty M-27 Infantry Automatic Rifles (IAR) with 3.5X Squad Day Optics crowded the far end of the rolling frame. The M-27 had replaced the Marine infantry fire team’s belt-fed M249 Squad Automatic Weapon several years ago. The IAR was basically a heavier-barreled version of the standard issue HK416, equipped with a bipod. Nothing out of the ordinary here, though the night optics seemed a bit over the top for a unit already carrying night-vision goggles.

Something about the equipment didn’t make sense. It resembled the type of load out he’d expect for a high-impact, special-purpose unit, not infantry Marines repurposed for area security. He was almost afraid to open the third container, leery that he might find something that would force the immediate evacuation of the Limerick compound. He could still pull it off while the bulk of the battalion was stuck in New Hampshire. Head north, away from the epicenter of RRZ control, and slip into Canada. Maybe hop over to New Hampshire and try to link up with Kate’s brother. All options still on the table—for now.

Alex walked to the front of the last container. He felt flushed, almost nervous. Part of him wanted to find something incriminating in the third conex box. Something to give him the excuse he needed to get as far away from this as possible. He knew on a gut level that nothing good could come of the RRZ. If the government didn’t restore limited power and essential services by late November, a scant three months away, nothing short of a one-hundred-mile-long, twenty-foot-tall, electrified fence could keep hundreds of thousands of refugees from swarming north ahead of the winter.

Even with FEMA’s prophetically suspicious pre-staging of supplies, there was no way the government could support massive refugee camps throughout the winter. Not without permanent heated structures, which would take far too long to construct given the scope of the EMP damage. Then again, maybe FEMA had socked away several thousand wood-burning stoves. He doubted it. Once winter hit, the situation would fall apart. RRZ leadership would be faced with some tough choices, pack up and head north—or look for other options. He didn’t plan on being around to implement the protocols the RRZ “Authority” would undoubtedly follow. One glimpse inside these containers told him everything he needed to know about where this was headed.

He punched in the codes for the third container and waited for the seal to release. After a prolonged hiss, he swung the doors wide, not sure what to expect. Rows of locked equipment boxes lined the walls, leaving enough space in the middle to walk to the end. Military nomenclature on the first few boxes identified sophisticated night-vision goggles. GPNVG-18. Panoramic night-vision goggles, doubling a soldier’s field of vision from standard NVGs. Special Operations gear. He thought about it for a moment; if the battalion had forty or fifty sets, they could conduct swift, vehicle-based night operations. The additional field of vision provided by the panoramic NVGs would give drivers the situational awareness needed to maneuver in tighter spaces, like forests.

The pieces were coming together. Suppressed weapons. Strange uniforms. A heavy emphasis on night operations. Fuck if it didn’t sound like 1st Battalion, 25th Marines was being reequipped as some kind of internal security group, capable of snatch-and-grab operations. No wonder Adler had freaked out.

He detected a faint high-pitched squeal behind him and spun with his rifle ready for action. An unfamiliar soldier wearing ACUs and a heavily modified tactical load out skidded to a stop on an obviously spray-painted, green and tan camouflage-patterned mountain bike.

“Nice ride,” said Alex, lowering his rifle.

“Spray painted it myself.”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Tech Sergeant David Gedmin. 22nd Special Tactics Squadron.”

“Combat Controller? You’re a long way from home,” said Alex.

“Tell me about it. I just wanted to check in before it got crazy around here,” he said, dismounting the bike and peeking into the hangar.

“Captain Alex Fletcher. United States Marines. I’m acting as a forward liaison for 1st Battalion, 25th Infantry Regiment. How long do we have until it gets hectic?”

“Forty-eight hours, tops. We have two C-130s rolling in within the hour to deliver a more robust air traffic control package. Radar, generators, fuel, and more personnel. Once that’s up and running, the RRZ gets the green light for full deployment. We’ll have air traffic 24/7.”

“I thought air control was your job?” joked Alex.

“Combat air control. Higher stress, lower volume. This is more like combining a runway at Logan with the flight deck of a carrier.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Sounds like a clusterfuck. Are you taking all three of these hangars?”

“Yeah. I have a Marine battalion with a motor transport element, and we need quick access to a gate. We’ll be coming and going at all hours.”

“Well, you picked the right spot for that, plus you’ll be out of the way. I’d base your ready vehicles in the rear hangar so they don’t get boxed in. The taxiway in front of your hangars will get busy,” he said, his eyes shifting past Alex’s left shoulder, no doubt having just caught a glimpse of the equipment.

“Thanks for the heads-up. I expect the full battalion to arrive within three days with the bulk of our vehicles. I have a platoon-size element heading down from Brunswick. Should be here by tomorrow.”

“Reservists?”

“Reserve infantry battalion out of Fort Devens. The Marines are spread out all over New England.”

“Nifty rifles for a reserve unit,” Gedmin said, nodding at the middle container.

The doors had partially opened, exposing several of the suppressed combat rifles.

“Tell me about it. The containers came out of one of the secret stashes pre-staged around the airport.”

“Lots of secrets,” he said, glancing from the rifles to Alex with a grimace.

“How did you end up at Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport? I assume you didn’t ride that bike from Seattle,” said Alex.

“A Humvee pulled up to my house at three in the morning on Monday. I got fifteen minutes to pack up and say good-bye to my family. Less than an hour after that, I was sitting on a government Learjet taking off from McChord Field, headed here. The whole squadron was deployed.”

“Any word on what happened?”

Gedmin shook his head. “Mum’s the word from higher echelon stations. Any news on your end?”

“Nothing official, but it’s pretty obvious that we’re dealing with an EMP.”

“What do you think about the Homeland broadcasts claiming a near-Earth object landed off the coast?”

“I’ve just returned from Boston. Witnesses reported seeing a messy contrail headed out over the water, like the one in Siberia several years ago. I’m inclined to believe what they’re saying, but the rest?”

“We thought it might be a limited nuclear attack. Something the government is to keep under wraps while they figure out how to retaliate. Maybe North Korea?”

“Funny you say that. My father picked up several HAM broadcasts claiming that our entire ballistic missile sub fleet has been deployed. Bangor Naval Base, up in your neck of the woods, supposedly emptied out yesterday.”

“I wish they’d tell us something. Anything.”

“They won’t. Not if there’s a nuclear option on the table. How were things back west? My dad heard reports that the EMP effects weren’t as bad in the Pacific Northwest.”

“We still had power at the house when the Humvees arrived. I have no idea if any of our cars worked. I barely got a chance to kiss my girls. The ride over looked about the same, but that’s not saying much for three in the morning. I can’t even remember if the stoplights were flashing. What about Boston?”

“Devastated by whatever hit offshore. No power. Near total anarchy,” said Alex.

“Jesus,” Gedmin said. “None of this really makes sense. A nuclear blast at ground level doesn’t cause widespread EMP effects. Very localized, as in you won’t be around to try to start your car anyway. This is something else,” he said, looking at the sky.

“I’d keep that to yourself,” said Alex, walking over to the first container and opening the doors. “Care to take a guess what pattern?”

“Digital urban? Looks like you got one of the containers earmarked for Manhattan.”

“Federal Security pattern.”

“Interesting,” said Gedmin.

“That’s an understatement,” Alex said, thinking about something Adler had said when he first arrived. “Do you have Adler on ROTAC?”

“Yeah,” said Gedmin, unsnapping the radio from his combat rig. “Preset four. Just hold down the numeric key and it’ll lock onto Adler’s radio.”

Alex pressed “4” and listened.

“Captain Adler.”

“Rick, this is Captain Fletcher, using Tech Sergeant Gedmin’s radio.”

“Sorry about the intrusion. I sent him out to meet you. Figured you’d need to coordinate tarmac activity.”

“Quick question about the arrival of my conex boxes.”

“Send it,” said Adler.

“It was awfully fortunate that I arrived when I did. This isn’t the kind of gear you’d want lying around unattended. Can you shed any light on this coincidence?”

“The incidence of coincidence around here defies explanation.”

“Sounds like a tongue twister. Would it help if I paid a visit to the guard unit hauling these boxes?”

“I’ve already looked under that rock. They receive orders from the North Pole and deliver the requested containers.”

“Santa Claus, huh?”

“May as well be,” said Adler. “This has been a ‘monkey see, monkey do’ operation from minute one. Not much thought required.”

“Likely by design. I’ll stop by on the way out.”

“I’ll keep the water room temperature for you,” said Adler.

Alex handed the radio back.

“Did your gear arrive as soon as you touched down?”

“The truck was idling next to the field,” said Gedmin.

“Did you have your ROTAC with you on the flight, or was it part of the waiting load out?”

“It was issued at McChord.”

Alex pulled his tactical radio out of its pouch. “Do you think they could track these phones?”

“I don’t see why not. It’s all satellite based.”

“I’d be careful what you said on these regarding any theories you might have.”

“Roger that, sir. Good advice.”

“And you didn’t see anything unusual in these containers,” said Alex.

“Of course not, sir. Advanced combat rifles with integral suppressor systems is precisely what I would expect for a reservist infantry battalion.”

Technical Sergeant Gedmin pedaled across the taxiway as the Matvee returned. Lianez parked the vehicle in front of the hangar bay holding the containers.

“All clear. We shut the hangars and locked the doors,” he said, holding out the keys.

His eyes went straight for the second container. “Are those for us?”

“I really hope not.”

Chapter 7

EVENT +5 Days

Limerick, Maine

Ryan Fletcher balanced his bandaged left hand against the shredded drywall and moved his folding chair with his good hand to the window facing the pond. Careful not to topple over, he slid the chair under the windowsill and lowered his weight cautiously, balancing on his right leg until he was fairly certain he wouldn’t end up on the floor. His leg throbbed from the trip up two flights of stairs, but he didn’t have a choice. One of the tactical vehicles had sped away a few minutes ago, taking three of the Marines out of the perimeter, and nobody else volunteered to leave the basement.

He felt guilty as soon as the thought passed through his mind. He couldn’t fault any of them for seeking refuge below ground. The house had become a shooting gallery. What his dad called a “bullet-rich environment.” He’d thought the phrase was funny—until yesterday. Ryan didn’t blame them at all.

The stairs creaked, and he lifted a pair of binoculars to scan the tree line. He stared vacantly at the trees, catching the occasional glimmering streak of reflected sunlight from the pond. The hardwood floor announced a presence in the bedroom doorway.

“I brought you an extra sandwich,” said his mom.

“I thought you came up here to chase me into the basement,” he said, lowering the binoculars and twisting in the chair.

His mom looked worn out and dazed, in a grizzled, survivor kind of way. Dressed in filthy khaki pants and one of his dad’s old woodland MARPAT blouses, she sat on the edge of the bare mattress behind him, forcing a smile across her lightly bruised and cut face.

“Nothing would make me happier than knowing you’re tucked away in the convalescent ward with the Walkers and Thorntons,” she said, handing him the tinfoil-wrapped grilled cheese.

He ripped open the package and started to stuff one of Nana’s grilled cheese marvels into his mouth.

“She does make a mean grilled cheese,” said Kate.

“Yours are good too, Mom,” Ryan said, purposely slowing his consumption rate.

“Uh-huh. How’s your hand?” she said, unslinging her AR-15 and laying it on the bed.

“It should be fine,” he said, holding it out to show her. “A scratch.”

She took the bandaged hand and examined it suspiciously. “Staff Sergeant Evans said he could see your knuckle. Like, the actual bone.”

“Barely. The bullet tore some skin away. Hurts like hell, but not a big deal. Nothing a little ibuprofen can’t take care of.”

“And your leg?”

“I can manage,” Ryan said, looking away.

“You look like you’re in a lot of pain. One of the Marines can give you some stronger painkillers.”

“I can’t take any of those. I felt sluggish during the attack yesterday, still drugged up from Boston. I can manage the pain.”

“When your dad gets back, I want you in the basement resting up.”

“I’m not going down into the morgue, Mom.”

“Ryan, you’ve been through enough. You need to take it easy.”

“This is the perfect job for me. I’m resting and helping. Seriously.”

“You’re probably cutting off the blood flow to your injured leg on that chair, and it’s hot up here,” she said.

“I have a full CamelBak, and there’s a little breeze flowing through the windows. I win.”

“You can’t win against a worried mom. I’ll have the cleaning crew bring you one of the dining room chairs.”

“Is everyone going to be up here?”

“Even Chloe,” she whispered, “so be nice.”

“What do you mean? She’s the one that’s been ignoring me since we got back,” he whispered back.

“She’s embarrassed about what happened in Boston. Just be nice. I know a thing or two about how women think, and I can tell she still wants to be your friend, ” she said, miming air quotes.

“What does that mean?”

“Call it a mother’s intuition…and a few loose lips among the adults.”

He felt like breaking into a sweat. He didn’t think any of them suspected he had been dating Chloe for most of the summer. They’d spent a lot of time together in high school, mostly as friends, but had drifted apart during her last year in high school. Most of the senior girls dated other seniors or guys in college, so he didn’t dwell on it. She left for Boston College with a hug and a warm smile, excited to start a new life. Ryan spent his senior year badly missing her. They’d always had a few minutes here and there in school. Their occasional jog on the weekends. Walking over to her driveway to catch her getting out of her car. He didn’t realize how much she meant to him until she was gone.

When it came time to apply to colleges, he tried to play it cool. No way he could fill out an application to Boston College. That would look desperate. He had the grades to get into at least two or three competitive schools in Boston that wouldn’t raise any suspicion about his intentions. Northeastern and Boston University put him on Chloe’s side of the Charles River and an easy “T” ride away.

Ryan put applications in the mail for Dartmouth, NYU and Fordham University, with the secret hope that he didn’t get accepted. NYU panned out, but it didn’t take much effort on his part to convince his parents that he should stay closer to home, “especially after the pandemic.” Acceptance to Boston University sealed the deal, and he eagerly awaited the start of his freshman year in Boston. Then this happened. It was time to change the subject.

“How’s Dad? Any word on why the Marines left?”

“He’s fine. They have to keep a twenty-four-hour guard at one of the hangars. Three Marines and one of the vehicles.”

“Now we’re down to nine?”

“We’re lucky to have them here at all.”

“If they keep pulling Marines away, we won’t be able to defend ourselves from another attack.”

“Your dad has Marines arriving from the reserve company in Brunswick. He expects them to arrive by tomorrow. We’ll be fine here,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Or wherever we end up.”

“Do you think it’ll ever go back to normal?”

“I think we’ll be looking at a different normal,” Kate said.

“I’m not going back to college.”

“Why not?”

“If this is the new normal, what’s the point?” he said, touching the rifle leaned against the wall next to the window.

“It won’t be like this for long. Things got back to normal after the pandemic,” she reminded him.

“Dad doesn’t seem to think it’ll get better.”

“He told you that?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“No, but he’s too quiet,” Ryan replied. “He only gets like that when he’s worried.”

“We all have plenty to worry about, especially your mother,” she said, staring at the damaged sandbags under the other window.

He squeezed her hand, remembering every detail of yesterday’s battle.

“The bullets started coming through the barrier at the end. Not fast enough to break through my BDU’s, but I could feel it. Like being snapped by a thick rubber band.”

“Are you trying to give me a panic attack?”

“I’m trying to get you out of here, unless you have another grilled cheese sandwich,” Ryan said, winking.

“I’ll send Nana up with one. She looks like she could use a nap,” Kate said, pressing the mattress.

“Mom, no,” Ryan whined.

“Then I’ll send it up with Chloe instead.”

He shook his head and resumed his survey of the western approach.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a yes. You guys are relentless.”

“Part of my job description, young man. I’ll see what I can arrange,” she said, and he heard her get up.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

He paused, momentarily unsure why he had said her name. A few seconds passed before he figured it out.

“I love you, Mom. And thanks for the sandwich.”

Kate leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head. “I love you too, Ryan. We’re all really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, holding back tears.

He’d overheard his dad talking with Staff Sergeant Evans about the worsening situation inside and outside the United States. The “new normal” was a nightmare landscape dominated by violence and power. He’d seen nothing to refute this belief, which was why he couldn’t sit in the basement. Someone fully vested in their safety had to watch over them. His dad trusted the Marines, but they had families too, and every one of them wanted to get back home to see them. Ryan couldn’t risk their safety on a possible conflict of interest. He pulled the HK416 closer to the windowsill and adjusted his leg. He’d stay up here all day and night if necessary.

Chapter 8

EVENT +5 Days

Route 160

Porter, Maine

Eli tightened his grip on the SUV’s grab handle as Grizzly veered onto the unmarked dirt road, skidding the tires.

“Take it easy.”

“Sorry, Eli. I figured if anyone was following us, that’d throw them off our trail,” said Grizzly.

“You about threw us off the trail,” Eli said, laughing at his own joke.

Nobody else made a sound.

“No fucking sense of humor in any of you. Like a funeral parlor all day,” he muttered.

The vehicle slowed to twenty miles per hour, which was barely safe on what amounted to a well-worn jeep trail through the woods. They could have continued along Route 160 to their usual turnoff, but he wanted to see if this path connected with Porterfield Road. He’d noticed this turnoff on their way out to Brownfield, but couldn’t match it to anything on their maps or GPS displays. With vehicles regularly entering and exiting Porterfield Road at the Route 160 junction, they were bound to attract the wrong kind of attention, especially when they kicked off the juicy part of his plan. He needed a less conspicuous route for everyday use, one they could easily block if necessary.

“We’ve got about a mile to go if it breaks through,” he said.

“Got it, Eli.”

“Why don’t we stick with sir ? That goes for all of you,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” they all mumbled.

Better—barely. He watched their track on the handheld GPS screen, encouraged that they continued west toward Porterfield Road. If this was a private driveway, it was one long-ass private driveway—and whoever lived at the end of it would die horribly. He’d been itching to hurt someone or something since they started out in the morning, but he’d promised himself that he’d wait. The situation at the roadblock outside of Bridgton might not have gone so smoothly if his clothes had been covered in blood—and boy, did they go smoothly.

He could barely believe his luck. The chief of police had been less receptive to the idea, but Eli had won them over with tales of how his men were handpicked, only vetted and screened ex-military or law enforcement at first. The rest were recommended and vouched for by fully vested members of the militia group. All total bullshit, but he’d make sure his people looked the part when they reported for duty at the checkpoints.

The chief had positively swooned over his offer to keep the men unarmed. He’d been on the fence until Eli had suggested it. No firearms unless they were issued by the Bridgton police or by authorized checkpoint personnel. Good ol’ Ron Bevins, the town’s chief selectman, had insisted on that point. He wanted permission to arm Eli’s volunteers if necessary. Too good to be true. Bevins was in for one hell of a surprise in a few days.

On top of it all, the town council gave him an hour to speak at the high school. The turnout hadn’t exactly broken any records, but he left with nine names, their souls to be collected tomorrow and never returned to Bridgton. He had it all worked out.

Grizzly eased the SUV into a shallow turn as the trees thinned and a field of corn appeared on their right. The GPS unit indicated they were driving at a forty-five-degree angle to Porterfield Road, which lay directly ahead. The SUV slowed at the junction and stopped as soon as it hit the pavement.

“What are you doing?” said Eli.

“I thought you might want to mark the location on your GPS or fashion some kind of sign.”

“Can I just for once be the one to give the orders to my own fucking militia?”

“Sorry, sir. I just wasn’t sure we’d find this spot again, since the other groups didn’t report finding a road that broke through.”

“I know you’re new, Griz, but you’re thinking too much, and you’re making assumptions. We all know what happens when you make assumptions, right?”

“You make an ass out of you and me. Really sorry about that.”

“No, you have it wrong. I don’t make an ass out of anyone, especially me. I’m never the ass.”

“That’s right, Eli. I mean, sir. That’s just the saying. ‘You’ means me—the one saying the quote. I didn’t mean you were the one making an ass out of you and—”

“You all right, Griz? You’re starting to sound like a mental patient. I already marked the coordinates. Let’s go.”

The engine revved, but the SUV stayed in place.

“You need to put the car in drive. Jesus Christ, did you have a stroke or something?”

“Just nervous, sir.”

Eli shook his head. “Nervous about what?”

He could tell Grizzly wanted to say something but held his tongue. Griz was learning pretty quickly, which was more than Eli could say for the majority of his undisciplined crew. He took one of the handheld radios out of the cup holder and raised it to his ear.

“Liberty North, this is Liberty Actual, approaching your position. Stand by to authenticate.”

“This is Liberty North. Read you loud and clear. Authenticate Lucky Town.”

“I authenticate Local Hero. Over.”

“Welcome back, sir.”

“Good job on the RT procedure. Picture perfect. Any traffic since we left?”

“Negative. The special-purpose group kept everyone corralled north while they went house to house. How did you get onto Porterfield from the north?”

“Small jeep trail I saw on 160. I marked the coordinates. We’ll probably make a few adjustments to Liberty North’s location so we can keep an eye on it,” he said, glaring at Grizzly.

“Copy that. You should be able to see us right about now,” said the sentry post.

A pair of headlights shined through a cluster of thick bushes next to a dilapidated gray barn. Four flashes.

“Flash them back. Three times.”

“Track number three,” said Grizzly.

“That’s right. You a fan of The Boss?”

“Hell, I grew up on The Boss—sir. Used to drive down to Hartford once a year to see him. Fourteen shows.”

“No shit? Hit the lights, Griz, before they light us up.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, flashing the high beams three times.

“Secondary authentication complete,” said Liberty North.

They passed a small clearing on the left with a mobile home and an aboveground pool in the front yard before reaching the checkpoint. An F-150-sized pickup truck sat hidden in the brush, parked at a narrow angle to the two-lane road. If they had failed the first authentication sequence, the F-150 would have raced onto the bumpy pavement, blocking their path. Eli waved at one of the sentries standing near the road with a pump-action shotgun, who saluted him.

Now that’s what I’m talking about. Someone with a little discipline.

“Good job, boys. Liberty Actual, out.”

Eli turned back to Grizzly. “I’m putting you in charge of the daily security code. Different album every day. Pick the track. One member from each group leaving the compound gets the information, along with the sentries. Changes every twenty-four hours, with the morning swap out. The light trick is a little insurance policy, in case the group is compromised. If we were under duress, you could have flashed twice or six times. Bam! They would have opened fire without warning.”

“Pretty clever, sir.”

“Eli. Any man that’s seen The Boss fourteen times can call me by my first name. I’ve only seen him twice.”

Ten minutes later, after passing two more hidden checkpoints, they pulled up to the farmhouse. McCulver stood up from one of the rocking chairs and met him at the foot of the covered porch’s stairs.

“How’d we do?” Eli asked over the hood of the SUV.

“Long day, but we cleared out the properties all the way to Kennard Hill Road, then circled back toward Route 160 and vacated those premises. The York County sheriff’s cruiser came in handy.”

“Any trouble?”

“No,” said McCulver, “but Jimmy’s guys are, uh—a little out of control.”

“How so?” Eli asked, guiding McCulver onto the porch so the men getting out of the SUV wouldn’t hear.

“They’re a little quick to pull the trigger. We didn’t bring anyone back to help out with the farm work.”

“Well, we don’t have enough people to watch over prisoners anyway. Not yet,” said Eli, sensing there was more.

“And they don’t take orders very well. Not from me, at least. We had some delays while they toyed around with some of the survivors. If we weren’t short on personnel, I would have killed them on the spot. Looks like some prison habits rubbed off on them.”

“You better watch that,” snarled Eli, tensing his fists.

“I’m only bringing it up because it’s a liability. We had eight homesteads to clear on Porterfield, and these sick fucks spent an hour in the first house.”

“I’ll have a talk with them,” said Eli.

“Good, because they’re multiplying. They took two of the minivans out this afternoon and collected more ‘Vikings,’ as they like to say. They came back with seven recruits, all armed to the teeth and about as scary looking as Jimmy’s crew.”

“That’s good news,” said Eli.

“If you can control them. I meant absolutely no disrespect toward your brother, but this is a dangerous group. We have to watch them closely, or we could have a ‘situation’ on our hands. I’ll feel more comfortable when we’ve doubled our numbers,” said McCulver.

“You think they might mutiny?”

“How much time did you spend with them before all of this happened?”

“Not much. Jimmy kept a close leash on—”

“And Jimmy’s dead. If you’d seen what they did to that family, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“If they’d disobeyed my orders, I would have killed them,” stated Eli.

McCulver squinted, clearly considering his next words. Eli knew what he wanted to say. The question was whether McCulver had the good sense to keep it to himself. Eli didn’t care what kind of collateral damage Jimmy’s ‘Vikings’ did during their assigned operations, as long as they obeyed orders and accomplished the mission. He hoped Kevin was wrong about the possibility of a mutiny. He’d need their help.

“I have an idea that will keep them occupied while we build up the core militia group. I’ll show you inside,” McCulver said, opening the front door to the farmhouse. “How was your foray along the 302?”

He chose those words wisely, Eli thought to himself. McCulver continued to impress him, even if he sensed a touch of insubordination.

“Unbelievably productive. We signed up an entire town.”

McCulver paused, searching his face for a sign that he was joking.

“They just don’t know it yet,” continued Eli.

“Sounds interesting,” he said, directing Eli to the dining room.

A large-scale map of southern Maine covered half of the rectangular table, along with scattered notebooks and pencils.

“Which town?”

“Bridgton. Met with the town council and the chief of police about helping them train up some of their folks to help man their checkpoints. Told them we can train them in basic firearms procedures, military-style cover and concealment. Enough to handle their own needs.”

“That must have been one of your best performances. Sorry I missed it.”

“Well, most of it was spent on my knees with a gun to my head, but it worked out better than I anticipated,” Eli said, circling Bridgton on the map with one of the pencils. “Shit, it was like winning the lottery.”

“I presume we get something out of the deal?”

“While we train their people at our compound,” he said, winking, “we’ll provide them with men, on a trial basis, to work at each checkpoint. If it all works out, this will get their police officers back into a patrol role within the town. They’re having a bit of a problem handling the summer crowd. I was more than happy to help out.”

“They bought off on having armed militia in town?”

“Only at the checkpoints, and our folks will be unarmed.”

“Unarmed?”

“To build trust,” he said, grinning wickedly.

“You got me, Eli. What am I missing? I figure this isn’t your charitable side flaring up.”

“Am I that easy to read?”

“Not for the good people of Bridgton, apparently.”

Eli pounded the table, laughing. “And I thought everyone’s sense of humor faded away with the electricity. You should have seen the car ride today. Holy Jesus, I was riding around with a bunch of stiffs.”

“So what exactly am I missing?”

“You’re missing the part where we simultaneously execute half of Bridgton’s police force and take over the town.”

McCulver studied the map, tracing roads from Bridgton toward the coast.

“How do you see Bridgton fitting into all of this in the long run? It can’t be our new base of operations. Too exposed.”

“I figured we’d get as many new recruits as possible, even if we have to conscript folks. Grab enough people to work the fields. Probably take as much equipment as possible. Tractors. Buses. Any of the public works stuff that’ll still run,” said Eli.

“So, you don’t want to hold on to the town permanently?” said McCulver.

“Like you said, it’ll just make us targets. We’ll keep it long enough to get what we need.”

McCulver placed his finger on a point halfway between Sebago Lake and Portland.

“Did you know there’s a state correctional facility in Windham?”

“Jimmy spent some time there.”

“So did most of the guys in his crew. They think we might be able to solve our recruiting problem with a trip to the facility. Might be a solution to our manpower issues.”

“I assume the prison guards won’t let me set up a booth in the cafeteria to take volunteers,” said Eli.

“Probably not.” McCulver laughed. “But I wouldn’t be completely surprised if the guards haven’t taken off already. They spent over a hundred million dollars rebuilding the entire men’s facility three years ago, and everything’s automated, completely dependent on electricity. Once the juice stops flowing to the system, every secure door in that facility goes into countdown mode. Thirty minutes until every secure door opens permanently. I guarantee the corrections officers are keeping a close eye on the backup generator’s fuel supply. We just need to get there before the doors open, or we’ll miss the recruiting opportunity.”

“Then what the fuck are we waiting for? Let’s get some eyes on that prison.”

Chapter 9

EVENT +5 Days

Limerick, Maine

Alex kissed Emily on the forehead and stroked her hair for a few seconds. “Good night, sweetie. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad. When is Ryan coming down?”

“Really soon.”

“Can you send him down now?”

“He should be down in a few minutes.”

“Is everyone going to sleep down here?”

“Most of us will be upstairs, keeping an eye on the house, but Nana and Grandpa will be down here. The old people need their sleep,” he said, and his daughter laughed.

“I heard that,” said his mother, who was propped up on an air mattress next to the door leading out of the “bunker.” The 20-gauge shotgun leaned against the wall next to the mattress.

“What about the Thorntons and Mr. Walker?”

“They’ve been down here all night. We’re airing them out for a while. You’re in good hands down here, sweetie. Nobody can get in here without going through all of us first.”

“I wish you and Mom could sleep down here.”

“Me too, but you’re safer with us upstairs. You have Ethan and Kevin sound asleep right next to you.”

“I’m not asleep,” said Ethan.

“You should be asleep,” said Alex.

“I’m not either,” Kevin chimed in.

“Great. Well, your cousins can attest to Nana’s skill with a shotgun, and so can I.”

Emily sighed. “I wish there were more Marines.”

“Nana’s like three Marines combined,” he said, and they laughed.

“Watch where you’re going with that,” said his mom, Amy Fletcher.

“We’ll have more Marines here in a few days,” he said and kissed Emily again. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, Daddy.”

“Love you, guys.”

“Love you, Uncle Alex,” Kevin and Ethan mumbled.

“Things will get back to normal. I promise,” Alex said and stepped away.

Samantha Walker and her three children appeared in the doorway.

“See? The basement’s filling up fast,” he said and walked over to the door to greet her. “We have a bunch of camping mattresses for the kids. Blankets, sleeping bags, non-shot-up pillows—a couple of overprotective grandparents. I think the kids will be fine down here.”

“Perfect. Thank you,” said Samantha, stepping through the door with her family.

“I only charge ten dollars an hour,” said Alex’s mom.

“I brought a nineteen-year-old. Do I get a discount?”

“Can she use a shotgun?”

“Not yet,” said Chloe.

“Seven dollars.”

“Deal,” said Samantha.

“They can take whatever makes them comfortable,” Alex offered. “I don’t think we’ll be spending much time down here tonight.”

“Probably not,” Samantha said, leading her kids into the candlelit room.

“Abby, thanks for hooking up my laptop to the video receivers. From what I understand, you’re running the tech show around here.”

“Pretty much,” said Samantha’s daughter.

“She was the only one that could read your writing,” said Amy.

“Funny, Mom. I’ll see you upstairs in a few.”

Alex walked over to the bulkhead and flashed his light at the metal doors, confirming that they were latched to the ringbolts imbedded in the basement floor. No matter how hard anyone tried, the doors would not swing open unless he detached the thick metal retaining rods from the bolts. Satisfied that the basement was secure, he walked upstairs into the kitchen, which was lit by a combination of candles and green chemlights donated by the Marines. Staff Sergeant Evans sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through the ruggedized tablet he had removed from the Matvee. His face glowed from the soft red screen.

“Are the Marines settled in for the night?”

“Yes, sir. I have the vehicles positioned to give 360-degree coverage, two Marines in each vehicle. We set up an LP/OP at the entrance to Gelder Pond Lane. I had them move into position after dark. They have clear lines of sight down the eastern side of the road in front of your property and the road leading to the western side. Ideally, we’d have another along the pond, but I’m the only one left. I’ll be on the thirty-cal up in the master bedroom. I can cover nearly 270 degrees around the house from that room.”

“Perfect. I’ll come by around zero-two-hundred to give you a break.”

“I should be fine, sir.”

“When’s the last time you caught any meaningful sleep?”

“It’s been a while,” Evans admitted.

“I’ll at least bring you and your Marines some coffee.”

“Sounds like a fair deal.”

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant. This means a lot to me, my family—all of us,” said Alex.

“I’m just glad we can help out while we’re here. I’d want someone doing that for me,” said Evans.

“Anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. I know you guys are temporarily assigned under my command, but I consider this to be a personal favor that you’re doing—”

Evans started to protest.

“Nope. I don’t want to hear any arguments to the contrary. My house is your house. Seriously.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“Staff Sergeant?” Alex said, shaking his head. “You need something, you ask, or send someone who doesn’t mind asking.”

“Thank you, sir. I was going to say, that between your mother and your wife, we haven’t had to ask. They’ve been really generous. Very much appreciated.”

“Good, then I’ll expect you to catch up on some sleep tonight,” said Alex, patting him on the back.

“I wouldn’t go that far, sir.”

“We’ll see.”

“I’ll get out of your way,” said Evans, grabbing his tablet and rifle.

“Good night, Staff Sergeant.”

“Night, sir.”

Alex walked into the great room, searching for a seat. Unsurprisingly, half of the group appeared to be asleep. Breathing deeply, Ed Walker lay on an air mattress pushed under the windows to the right. He was turned on one side; his bandaged hip off the mattress. Linda and Charlie sat side by side on the leather couch, with their bandaged legs resting on small pillows on the coffee table. The soft, flickering glow of candlelight from one of the end tables exposed Charlie’s gaping mouth, though his buzz-saw-like snoring left little doubt about his status. Linda hit her husband’s shoulder.

“What? What happened?” he said, jolted out of a shallow sleep.

“I just figured out why we got kicked out of the basement,” said Linda.

“What do you mean?” asked Charlie.

“You sound like a foghorn.”

“It’s not that bad,” he countered.

“It’s pretty bad, my friend,” Alex said. “I’m starting to wonder how we still have the Jeep.”

“He probably scared everyone away,” added Ed.

“I used those nose strips,” said Charlie.

“I hope you stocked up, for Linda’s sake,” said Kate.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the bullet-peppered wall to the left. She was partially concealed in the shadow cast by the La-Z-Boy occupied by his father. In the dim light, the room almost looked normal, except for the numerous dark splotches in the drywall and the various rifles leaned against the furniture or walls. Alex unslung his rifle and hung it on the wood-burning stove, taking a seat in one of the folding chairs set up around the coffee table.

“Sam should be right up,” said Alex. “She was getting the kids settled.”

“What about Ryan? He’s been up in his perch long enough,” said Kate.

“I’ll have a talk with him. I don’t think Emily will fall asleep without him in the basement.”

“I’d sleep better knowing he was upstairs,” said Ed. “He saved our skins yesterday.”

“I wonder where he gets that from?” said Linda.

“Runs in the family,” said Kate. “Alex’s dad served two tours in Vietnam as a Marine lieutenant.”

“I didn’t know your dad was in ’Nam. You should have said something, Alex,” said Charlie.

“He’s pretty much read every book and watched every documentary on the Vietnam War—twice,” said Linda.

“More than that,” added Charlie.

“Dad clams up pretty quick when the subject is brought up, except around his Marine Corps buddies,” said Alex.

“That seems to run in the family too,” commented Kate.

“Charlie, we can talk history anytime. Did Alex tell you about this rifle?” said Tim Fletcher, lifting his rifle off the floor and setting it in front of the lounger.

“Now he’s mister talkative,” said Alex.

“That’s not from Vietnam, is it?” asked Charlie.

“Damn right it is. I used this as a military advisor. Tracked it down by serial number when they switched over to those plastic guns.”

“He got a congressman involved,” said Alex.

“He was a TBS classmate,” said Tim.

Charlie twisted on the couch, trying to get a better look at the rifle. He grimaced in pain when his foot shifted on the pillow and slid to the surface of the table.

“I got it,” said Alex, lifting the bandaged leg high enough to replace the pillow. “How are you feeling?”

“A deep, throbbing pain has replaced the holy shit agony I was feeling most of yesterday. The pain pills help.”

Alex examined Linda’s foot. The hospital had provided a large, easily removable splint, which enclosed the bandages covering her ankle.

“What about you, Mrs. Rambo?” asked Alex.

“I’m still at the holy fuck level most of the time,” she said.

“Me too,” said Ed.

“You guys taking your pain meds?”

“No,” said Linda. “They give me a headache.”

“I’ll take them off your hands,” said Ed.

“Probably not a great idea right now,” said Alex. “Let’s talk it over with Corporal Allen when he makes his rounds. He has some stronger stuff, if necessary. If you can’t sleep, let me know, and we’ll get you something.”

“I won’t have any trouble sleeping,” said Ed, “as long as I’m not in the same room as Foghorn Leghorn.”

“Can I get a separate room?” said Linda.

“Everybody’s ganging up on me again,” Charlie whined.

The basement door slid open, revealing Samantha Walker and Amy Fletcher. Alex’s mom carried the shotgun in the crook of her elbow.

“We good for a few minutes?” asked Alex.

“I think so. I told them we’d be at the top of the stairs,” said Samantha, sitting on the single step leading into the great room.

Alex’s mother joined her, leaning the shotgun against the half wall separating the kitchen from the sunken great room. “First things first. We made it,” said Alex, pausing to let the words sink in. “We’re all here, more or less in one piece. The kids are fine. Given the curveball we were thrown, I’d say we’ve done pretty damn well as a team.”

“I’ll second that,” said Charlie, followed by hushed agreement from everyone.

“With that said, we still have a long way to go.”

“I can’t imagine it getting any worse,” said Ed.

“Jesus. What the hell else could they throw at us? They left twenty-nine bodies behind,” said Samantha.

“I’m more concerned with the bigger picture. I have a few things I want to share with you. Information I’ve gathered over the past forty-eight hours. When you add it to the HAM radio broadcasts, we—”

“The bigger picture doesn’t have everyone hiding in the basement,” Kate cut in. “What’s going on with the group that attacked us?”

“The leader has disappeared for now. I spoke with members of the York County Readiness Brigade and—”

“Another militia group? Screw that. I don’t want to see any of those people around here,” said Samantha.

“I’m not bringing them here. I thought they might be able to shed some light on this Russell character. Apparently, they forgot to mention him during both of my interviews a few years ago.”

“How convenient,” Samantha said. “I wouldn’t trust them.”

“I’m not trusting anybody outside of our group.”

“What about Colonel Grady?” whispered Tim Fletcher.

“I trust his Marines. I’ll let them take care of Mr. Russell and whatever’s left of his crew when we find them. Right now, I feel pretty good about our security situation.”

“Until Grady pulls them away,” said Ed.

“He’s bought off on using our property as a rapid-response, forward operating base. We’ll have double the number of Marines here within a week. They’ll either set up a tent for their headquarters or use the barn. Either way, they’ll have to leave Marines behind to guard the headquarters—and us.”

“That’s good news,” said his dad.

“It is…” Alex said, hesitating.

He wasn’t sure how much of the big-picture doom-and-gloom scenario he should share with the group. Several situations ran through his head, many of which resulted in abandoning the compound before the weather turned. All would require serious planning and consideration.

“What’s the bad news?” Charlie prompted.

“The bad news is that we have to plan for the possibility of leaving this house,” said Alex.

“Because of the militia?” asked his mom.

“That’s one scenario, but not the most likely. I’m more concerned with the refugee situation. I just can’t see how it will work, even with several thousand soldiers in place to guard the borders and patrol the camps. If the broadcasts we’ve been hearing over the HAM radio are true, word will spread, and the rest of the Boston area will empty. Nobody will want to be near a big city with a possible nuclear escalation on the table. There’s no way in hell FEMA can take care of a million-plus people. Winter will make it worse.”

“We’re off the beaten path out here. I would think most of the people would make their way to the 95 corridor. There’s nothing out here.”

“I would tend to agree with that, but if the situation deteriorates, the Recovery Zone border will shift north, taking everything with it.”

“Including you,” stated Kate bitterly.

“It’s a Catch-22. We definitely need the Marines here until the Maine Liberty Militia has been neutralized.”

“Which hopefully won’t be very long,” said Linda.

“Currently, they’re the biggest internal threat to stability within the Recovery Zone. I don’t see an issue convincing Grady to allocate considerable resources to solving the problem.”

“Then we won’t need the Marines forever, though they’re welcome to stay, even if you’re not part of the battalion,” said Kate.

“Yes…and no. If the Recovery Zone border is moved north, everyone south of the border suddenly joins the refugee population,” said Alex.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Ed asked cautiously.

“It means that without this golden ticket,” he said, holding up his ID card, “we might not be allowed to cross the Saco River. That’s the fallback boundary.”

“That’s bullshit!” Ed sputtered.

“That’s the reality of the situation and why we need to put a lot of thought into this. If I give up my status and we stay, we might not be able to flee north if the situation gets out of control here.”

“Then we need to get out of here as soon as possible,” Ed said. “Charlie?”

“We can always head up to Belgrade. It’ll be tight, but everyone’s welcome. That includes all of us,” said Charlie.

“We’d make it work,” affirmed Linda.

“You can’t go anywhere right now, Ed. How are you going to sit in a car for four hours?” said Samantha.

“We have time,” said Alex, “but we need to figure out how to do this logistically and start making preparations. We have two cars and seventeen people, four of whom can’t walk. I don’t anticipate any of you getting around on your own without crutches for at least a month. Linda will probably be longer.”

“If I can even use the foot again,” she said, sounding dismal for the first time Alex could remember.

“I’ll see what I can do about getting you to an orthopedic surgeon. Maybe one at Bridgton Hospital. They won’t be jammed with casualties like Sanford or the coastal hospitals. I remember them having an orthopedic group.”

“You should get on that as soon as possible,” said Kate.

“I will,” he said.

“I guess there isn’t a huge downside to working with the Marines, at least through the winter. If the situation stabilizes, you could part ways in the spring,” said Kate.

“If they’ll let me. Just saying. We need to plan for any contingency, including the sudden revocation of my ID card. I’m not one hundred percent sure what I’m dealing with.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charlie.

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” Alex whispered.

“I thought you trusted them,” said Samantha.

“I do, but they follow orders, and I’ve seen a few things that make me wonder about Homeland’s plans for the battalion. I opened a large shipping container at the airport, which held enough uniforms to outfit the entire unit.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad. I’m sure the Marines could use a change of clothes,” said Samantha.

“It doesn’t sound bad until you find out that the container had been secretly stored for years in a fenced-off warehouse complex near the airport and that the uniforms are a strange pattern, labeled ‘Federal Security.’ I saw that on the manifest.”

“Jesus,” said Tim. “That’s not a good sign.”

“Right. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The second container held racks of weapons not found at the infantry battalion level. Rifles with integral suppressors. MP-7 submachine guns. Advanced night-vision optics.”

Ed asked, “What does that mean, in layman’s terms?”

“I don’t know, but these are the types of weapons you’d expect to find in a very slick, low-profile special operations unit. It means the battalion may be tasked to do more than Colonel Grady advertised, or knows about. If it turns into a secret police operation, we’re out of here.”

The room fell silent for several moments as the gravity of Alex’s statement settled.

“Either way, we have to prepare this place for winter,” said Tim.

“Right. We’ll have to work on both plans at the same time. If possible, I’d like to take a trip to your place up north, Charlie. Make sure it’s still a viable option. A lake house with solar panels might not remain unoccupied for long after an EMP attack.”

“Anyone thinking they’re getting a bargain with the solar panels will be in for a rude awakening. The whole system is probably fried.”

“That’s something we’ll have to consider. We can disassemble the system in the basement and bring any of the parts we’ll need, but I’m not sure about the solar panels. Were yours disconnected?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Then the panels are probably dead,” said Alex.

“What about borrowing one of the tactical vehicles for a run?” Ed suggested.

“It’s possible, but we’d probably have to do it now, before the battalion arrives. I can’t see commandeering one of their vehicles for a full-day side trip once they’re fully operational.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Kate. “Offloading gear from a military vehicle will draw way too much attention. Guaranteed to be pillaged at that point.”

“This is all stuff we need to start game-planning,” said Alex.

“Timeline?” asked Tim.

“I think we should be ready to roll, if necessary, by the end of September. Plan on multiple trips. I’ll do what I can to get some support, either civilian or military. For now, it’s all hands on deck getting the outside of the house patched up. I picked up plenty of caulk and materials to plug the holes.”

“What about the toilets?” Charlie asked. “The pain pills cause constipation, but that ain’t gonna last forever.”

“Good God,” muttered Linda, shaking her head.

“Hey! Just giving everyone fair warning. That camping toilet ain’t gonna cut it when the time comes.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Alex. “Top priority tomorrow morning. I brought full replacements from Home Depot.”

“Toilets, shutters, caulking,” said Kate.

“And sleep. In that order,” said Alex.

PART II

“REARM”

Chapter 10

EVENT +7 Days

Maine State Correctional Facility

Windham, Maine

Eli Russell leaned forward in the front seat of the SUV and examined the Maine State Correctional Facility’s main parking lot as they approached the intersection at Mallison Falls Road. The lot looked deserted, sprinkled with cars abandoned after the event. He barely recognized the place. He’d visited his brother here on a few occasions in late 2009, long before the one-hundred-million-dollar upgrade. From what he could tell, few of the old buildings had survived the overhaul. He waved Grizzly on, pushing his convoy of six vehicles across the empty rural road.

“Liberty Two, this is Actual. Start your approach,” he said, releasing a second, smaller convoy along a jeep trail due east of the prison.

“Copy. Patriot Two inbound to target.”

“Liberty Three, proceed to secondary target and execute your mission. You should be able to disable the tower without engaging the personnel inside. The front parking lot is empty and completely obscured from the building by a tall row of bushes,” said Eli.

McCulver’s voice answered. “Copy. We’re making the turn off Elm Street. ETA thirty seconds.”

Everything was falling into place. The special-purpose group, aka Jimmy’s Vikings, had scouted the area surrounding the prison before settling in for a long day of surveillance. One of the first things they noticed driving River Road was a communications tower rising several stories above the trees. Thinking it was an odd location for a cell phone tower, they followed a few back roads to the tower, discovering the Cumberland County Regional Communications Center. A quick drive through the parking lot confirmed the presence of a running generator, which meant the center was fully operational. Since the communications center provided long-range emergency dispatch services to dozens of towns in the county, Eli thought it wise to disable the center prior to the attack on the prison.

McCulver suggested knocking the tower out with small explosive charges rather than trying to storm the building. The last thing they needed was a plea for help broadcast to every law enforcement officer in the county. With the tower destroyed, the dispatchers inside posed little threat to the operation. The only problem with McCulver’s plan was that it required him to blow up the tower and race to the prison in order to handle the explosives. Eli couldn’t rely on any of the men in the convoy to properly set and safely detonate the charges required to breach the back gate and the utility bays leading to the generator.

The whole plan hinged on McCulver’s unique skill-set, which left Eli feeling a little uneasy. Moving forward, McCulver would train an apprentice. The Maine Liberty Militia was one stray bullet away from losing its biggest force multiplier—an unacceptable risk given their overall plan.

Eli’s convoy cruised through the parking lot, passing the facility’s single authorized pedestrian entrance, which had been sealed from the lot by a rolling razor-wire-topped gate. Recent correctional “guests” within Jimmy’s group speculated that the few correctional officers on duty would congregate in the futuristic steel and glass administrative building. The correctional custody units beyond the building no longer contained their own control rooms, cutting down on the number of officers required to staff the prison.

All inmate movement was monitored and directed from a single control center located in that building, giving the officers little reason to be elsewhere, especially with the inmate population locked in their cells. Night shifts were reduced even further due to automation, explaining the paucity of vehicles in the parking lot. Jimmy’s men estimated they’d be up against a few dozen officers, most of whom had little to no practical firearms training.

Once inside, they should have little difficulty mopping up the staff if they decided to stay and defend the prison. Eli planned to leave the front entrance unopposed, to encourage the guards’ swift departure. If he could take the prison without losing any men—all the better.

Grizzly turned the SUV left toward the end of the parking lot, where the asphalt transitioned to a hard-packed gravel road that followed the prison’s eastern fence line to the loading bays and a utility garage. Yesterday, one of the bay doors had been left open for several hours, presumably to release excess diesel fumes from the generator they had pinpointed to one of the buildings next to the garage. If they could catch one of the doors open this morning, they wouldn’t have to wait for McCulver. As they raced down the fence, the second convoy appeared, trailing a column of dust as it barreled toward the garage.

“This is Liberty Two. I just saw one of the loading bay doors slam shut. Looks like they know we’re here. Over.”

Damn closed-circuit cameras!

“This is Actual. Proceed with caution, and wait for Liberty Three. Do not try to open any of the doors without explosives. Never know what’s waiting on the other side.”

They’d have to do this the hard way.

The westbound convoy crossed ahead of Eli’s SUV, screeching to a stop on the pavement outside of the corrugated metal garage building. His convoy sped past the loading area, following a tight dirt road around the security fence until it connected with a paved road that cut right down the middle of the facility. They accelerated toward the gate at the end of the road, stopping several feet in front of the gate. A closed-circuit television camera mounted to the underside of the adjacent building panned in their direction, no doubt filling every screen in the control room. Eli stuck his compact AR-15 out of the passenger window and fired three bullets into the boxy, plastic contraption, shattering it.

He opened his car door and walked up to the gate, shaking it. Sturdy, but far from indestructible. He was tempted to have one of the vehicles ram the gate, but the thought of disabling a car right in front of the primary breach point chased the idea away. Unobstructed vehicle access along this road was critical to his plan. He had no reason to hurry inside the gate, since they couldn’t access any of the secure prison areas until thirty minutes after the generator was destroyed.

If McCulver is right about the automated lock system.

He was rarely wrong. They were probably better off waiting at a standoff distance, anyway. The guards had access to military-grade weapons, and there was no reason to tempt any of them to play Rambo.

“Liberty One. Form a defensive perimeter around the vehicles, focused on the building to our right. We don’t want any surprises while we’re waiting,” he said into his radio.

The primary assault team took cover behind the SUVs, aiming at the windows and doors along the building, while one man from each vehicle watched the opposite direction. A few days of vehicle drills had paid off. The men actually looked like they knew what they were doing.

Three nearly simultaneous cracks hit Eli’s ears, followed by a slight tremor.

“Liberty Actual, this is Liberty Three. The tower is down. I say again, the tower is down. En route to first breach point,” said McCulver.

“Hot damn, Liberty Three!” he said into the radio, unable to contain his excitement.

This was going down like a real military operation.

“Copy, en route to first breach point.”

Eli reached through the passenger window and grabbed a pair of binoculars sitting on the dashboard. He focused the wide field of view on the administrative building at the end of the road three hundred yards away. Beyond the fence, the utility road was flanked on both sides by gray, one-story correctional units, which fed into the recreation fields lining the prison’s perimeter fence. The units were connected by a long security hallway, which meant they would have to be careful on their approach. Enterprising guards could catch them in a lethal crossfire on the way to the administrative building. If Liberty Two didn’t breach the utility garage soon, the guards could work their way to the adjacent building, forcing Liberty One to retreat. Worse than that, they could keep Liberty Two from disabling the generator, severely complicating the operation.

At that point, they would be forced to use bolt cutters on the fence, which would put them on foot looking for an entrance leading to the generator room that could be forced open. Everything depended on McCulver, who should be arriving any minute to blow a hole in one of the garage bay doors.

***

Dave Camp magnified the camera feed and counted the men visible near the vehicles.

Jesus. They have a fucking army out there.

This was entirely too much. He needed to get the hell out of here before it was too late. Most of his shift took off as soon as it became apparent that they were dealing with more than a downed power line. The first wave crammed into the few vehicles that worked, heading out before shift change at 6:30. A few vanished on foot over the next hour or two, slipping out of the utility garage and walking east to River Road. He watched them peek nervously over their shoulders until they were out of sight, but never said a word.

He notified Casey Norton, the nightshift captain, when motion sensors triggered cameras in the main garage next to the administrative building. Three guards tried to hotwire one of the facility’s fifteen-passenger prisoner transport vans, but were stopped by Norton, with the seemingly reluctant help of the remaining officers. Norton surprised them all by offering to drive the rest of the shift home in the van, if that’s what they wanted. Five guards, including the three caught stealing the van, took him up on the offer. When Norton returned with the vehicle around ten in the morning, they were down to fourteen correctional officers and Stanley Collier, the deputy warden, who rode his bike to the prison.

He should have taken Norton up on the offer to leave but didn’t have any compelling reason to go. His shared apartment in Westbrook was most likely stripped of any food, and his family lived north of Waterville, well outside of Norton’s advertised delivery range. The prison offered a secure bed, food, and access to the dispatch center across the street, which seemed to be the only way anyone was communicating after the event. At the time, it seemed like the best deal available. The idea of an armed attack against the prison never crossed his mind. Nobody wasted time thinking about how to break into a prison, which was why the group of men on his monitor scared him.

“I have about fifteen heavily armed men at the back gate. They’re wearing camouflage and carrying assault rifles. I’m not sure what they’re waiting for.”

“Did you say fifteen?” asked Collier.

“More than that. I can’t see the whole group from this angle and distance. They shot up the camera at the gate,” said Camp, pointing toward one of the center images on the sixty-inch flat-screen monitor above his station.

He shifted his hand left, highlighting a different screen.

“I have at least twelve more outside of Vendor Services. They’re playing with one of the delivery bays,” added Camp.

“Can you see what they’re doing?”

“Trying to get in,” said one of the guards watching on a different screen.

“Jesus, these guys are heavily armed. I don’t think we can hold them off if they get inside,” said Collier.

“Not armed with batons and pepper spray. We need to access the armory, Stan, before it’s too late,” said a thick, gray-haired guard standing in the control room’s doorway. “My people are getting nervous.”

“Casey, they can’t get into any of the buildings directly connected with the correctional areas,” said Collier.

“They’re in!” yelled Camp, drawing everyone to the surveillance station.

A cloud of smoke rose above the building as men poured into the delivery bay. One of the vehicles backed out of the delivery lot and sped along the fence toward the back of the facility. He’d missed whatever they’d done to the door.

Shit!

“You were saying?” said Norton.

“Did they use explosives?” Collier asked.

“I didn’t see,” said Camp. “But the smoke wasn’t there a second ago.”

“Stan! If they take out the generator, we’ll have a big problem on our hands in about thirty minutes.”

“They don’t know how the system works,” stated Collier.

“You willing to bet your life on that?” asked the shift captain. “They seem pretty organized to me. I bet that car racing toward the back is carrying enough explosives to blow the gate and a few of the external doors.”

An out-of-breath guard ran into the control room. “The dispatch tower across the street is down! That’s what we heard! The whole thing fell over. What the fuck is going on?”

“That’s it, Stan. We have fifteen officers on duty, including you. It’s not enough if they get inside. I’m opening the armory,” said the shift captain.

“Even if they manage to trigger the thirty-minute lockdown fail-safe, they can’t get into the administrative building. We’re safe here.”

“With nine hundred pissed-off prisoners on the loose?”

“They’ll run for the gate,” said Collier.

“They’ve been drinking out of their toilets for the last several days. We haven’t exactly been taking good care of them.”

“What else could we do? The facility isn’t equipped to handle this kind of an emergency. Orders from the governor were clear. Hold the prisoners until—”

“Until what?”

“I don’t know. They’re working on something,” said Collier.

“They’re working on something, all right. The state can manage to deliver diesel for the generator, but they can’t be bothered to feed the inmates?”

Collier shrugged his shoulders. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to give me the keys to the armory. Whether we stay or go, we need weapons,” said the captain.

“We can’t take the weapons out of here. They’re state property,” stated Collier.

“What if they got another team out there waiting for us to leave?”

“I don’t know!”

“You better start thinking really hard about the situation. You think none of these fuckers knows where you live? I guarantee your home address is public knowledge in the high-security unit.”

“What, I just issue weapons and drop everyone off at home?” said Collier. “How am I going to explain that one to the governor’s office?”

A muted thud echoed in the room, followed by a brief second of darkness before the emergency lighting activated.

“Set your watches,” grumbled the shift captain. “Thirty minutes until we no longer have the option of leaving.”

Camp thought about Norton’s input for a few seconds. What the fuck was he waiting for? He’d give the deputy warden one more chance before walking out on his own—with or without a firearm. If he headed west, he could hide along the banks of the Presumpscot River until these inmates cleared the area, maybe warn a few of the folks living in South Windham. With nine hundred prisoners on the loose, the nearby houses were sure to be attacked, along with the residents inside.

“We need to get out of here, sir,” said Camp, standing up from his computer station. “Cameras show the front is clear. Our van is in the parking lot. They obviously don’t know the van works. We could make a quick getaway.”

“Damn it, all right. Get all of your men back to admin,” said Collier.

“They’re already here. I just need to get into the armory.”

Collier balked, grimacing at the suggestion before nodding.

“The keys are in my office safe.”

***

Sammy Vaughn heard a car door slam, freezing him in place. He twisted slowly onto his stomach and faced uphill, scanning the row of vehicles facing the road behind him. The parking lot sat twenty feet higher than Vaughn’s position, on an incline that restricted his view of the parking lot. Pressed into the grass at the base of a tree, he could only see the tops of the tallest vehicles. A powerful engine started as he scanned for signs of movement. It sounded like a diesel. He focused on the top of the big-ass, gray passenger van he had seen when he was running across the parking lot to the trees.

Has to be the van.

“Liberty Actual, this is Overwatch. I have a vehicle starting in the parking lot. I think it’s the prison van.”

“This is Actual. Can you confirm how many are in the van?”

“Negative. Not without giving my position away. Hold on. It’s backing up. I should have a solid visual when it drives out of the lot. I could hit them with the IED. No point in letting them raise the alarm.”

“Negative. Without the dispatch tower, they’d be talking to themselves. Do not trigger the IED. We can’t afford to waste any explosives,” said Eli.

“Roger that,” Vaughan said, slipping the radio into one of his cargo pockets.

When the top of the van disappeared, he grabbed his binoculars and sprinted to a second stand of trees closer to the exit, making sure to stay as low to the ground as possible. He’d been extremely lucky with the van. If he hadn’t been lying prone on the ground, scanning the road, the guards might have spotted him. Vaughn raised the binoculars and waited for the van to appear beyond the parked cars at the end of the lot. When the van cleared the cars, speeding toward Mallison Falls Road, the first thing he noticed was Casey Norton’s shit-eating grin—plainly visible through the open front passenger window.

That fucker still works here?

Vaughn ceased thinking about his duties to the Maine Liberty Militia. He barely registered the fact that every seat in the van was filled with guards. He stood up and pulled the handheld detonator from one of his tactical vest pouches, flicking the on/off switch. McCulver had showed him exactly how to detonate the ten-pound pipe bomb sitting in the gravel next to the entrance. He locked eyes with Norton and nodded.

Adios, bitch.

The thought conflicted with Norton’s face, which grinned at him behind the iron sights of an assault rifle. Vaughn never heard the shot that evacuated his skull. The van screeched onto the road as Vaughn’s body dropped, triggering the pipe bomb.

***

Eli pulled McCulver away from the fence, pushing him behind the open SUV door.

“Take it easy! I’m working with shit that goes bang, all right? That was the pipe bomb. Sounds like Vaughn doesn’t like to follow orders.”

“Watch what you say about Vaughn, motherfucker,” said one of Jimmy’s psychopaths, who was crouched between the first and second vehicles.

“Just saying,” said McCulver.

“Overwatch, this is Liberty Actual. Report your status. Over.”

Nothing. Eli tried again, with no response.

“Shit. Stay here. I can’t afford to have you shot or blown up,” he said, muttering curses as he walked briskly toward the back of the convoy.

He couldn’t wait to get rid of Jimmy’s idiots. His brother had trained capable soldiers, but they were mouthy and insubordinate, two traits he could ill afford to cultivate. He’d pawn them off on the town of Bridgton, along with the rest of their miscreant friends in the prison. Ironically, he needed the Vikings on this raid, to immediately identify the problem recruits. Anyone singled out by his brother’s men as a “must have” would become a “must go.” Eli would keep the serious recruiting prospects for the regular ranks.

“Joe, I want you to head around front with your team and see what the fuck is going on with Vaughn. Watch yourself. I need to know if the gray Maine State Corrections van is still in the parking lot.”

“Got it,” said the team leader, directing his men to load up the rear SUV.

Less than a minute later, Eli’s radio crackled.

“Liberty Actual, this is Liberty One-Six. Vaughn is dead. One bullet through the forehead. No van in sight.”

McCulver shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, “The bomb?”

“What about the bomb?” radioed Eli.

“Blew a nice little crater in the asphalt, but that’s about it. No sign of any vehicle damage. Over.”

“Copy all. Park your car in a discreet location and keep an eye on the approaches. Engage any vehicles entering the parking lot. Out.”

Eli shook his head. “Sounds like the guards hightailed it out of here. Blow the fucking gate,” he said, turning to the man crouched between the cars. “Sorry about Vaughn. Fuckers got a lucky shot off. Dead before he hit the ground.”

“Any guards left inside?” asked the man with a look of pure hatred and murder on his face.

Eli checked his watch. “I guess we’ll find out for sure in about thirteen minutes.”

Chapter 11

EVENT +7 Days

Maine State Correctional Facility

Windham, Maine

Two gray prison buses idled outside of the gate, just beyond the reach of the disorganized gaggle of prisoners Eli had selected for the final test. Surveying the group, he was mostly satisfied with the result of their prison raid. Within fifty-two minutes of arriving at the facility, he stood in front of seventy-three men and eight women with the potential to join his militia. The process had been simple.

Instead of wasting time trying to break into the administrative building, most of the inmates sought the next logical point of egress from the facility. The back gate. The prison’s jogging track and basketball court were situated in the massive open area at the rear of the facility, adjacent to the gate, which meant most prisoners watched trucks going in and out of the gate all day. Eli started honking the SUV’s horn when the first gray uniforms appeared on the utility road deep within the facility. Within moments, the word spread, sending a steady stream of desperate, starving prisoners in their direction.

He’d planned the next stage carefully, having no intention of putting his men in direct contact with several hundred criminals. Using bolt cutters, he created a rectangular opening in the western fence, visible to the prisoners from the gate. As the prisoners approached, Eli addressed them with his megaphone, congratulating them on their liberation and asking them to wait between two of the nearby buildings if they were interested in joining the Maine Liberty Militia. If not, they were directed toward the western fence line and told to immediately vacate the area.

“We provide food, shelter and a chance to bear arms against the tyrannical forces that left you here to die.” This tagline snagged one hundred and seventeen prisoners, including five that were immediately squeezed through the gate to join the Vikings. He had to keep those crazy fuckers happy one way or the other until he was done with them.

Once the prisoner exodus thinned, he lined the candidates up, single file, thirty feet from the gate and called them forward one at a time for a quick visual inspection and interview. He spent no more than ten seconds on each prisoner, quickly determining three things. Did they look physically fit enough for the militia? He couldn’t have any more winded warriors creeping through the forest. What crimes did they commit? He didn’t want any child molesters or skinheads. Did they have any prior firearms or military experience? The less ammo he wasted developing basic marksmanship skills, the better.

If they passed muster, they were sent to the left and told to sit in the shade. The rest were pointed toward the hole in the western fence. Throughout the process, Kevin McCulver stood on the hood of Eli’s SUV, warning them to stay back from the fence until called forward. The presence of two dozen heavily armed men visible through the chain links kept the process orderly.

Eli walked up to the gate with the bullhorn, ready for the final phase of his selection process. He needed to establish an iron grip for their integration to work, but he had to do it right or risk losing the entire group. How do you take eighty-one criminals from different cell blocks and bring them together in a way that doesn’t cause an implosion? He had a theory.

“Candidates. The buses are ready, but we have a problem. I can only take seventy-two of you,” said Eli.

Grumbling picked up in the group, followed quickly by the question he had hoped they would ask.

“How does that work?” said an overly muscular, towering inmate at the front of the group.

“I’ll let all of you figure it out. I only have a few rules. Nobody gets on the bus until you’re down to seventy-two, and nobody leaves without getting on the bus.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” muscle man said, gripping the fence.

“He means you’re not coming along for the ride,” said a female voice behind the man.

Before muscle man could turn around, a woman jumped on his back, straddling him with both legs and locking his chin back with her left forearm. Her right hand rapidly pounded the back of his neck, causing his legs and arms to go slack. She jumped off as he toppled to the ground, landing on her feet. Holding a bloodied, makeshift knife over her head, she yelled at the prisoners, “One down, eight to go. Who’s next?”

Nobody in the front of the group took her up on the offer, but a scuffle broke out toward the rear. Two men and a woman bolted for the western fence line, followed by a few more. Eli raised the bullhorn.

“Rule number three. If anyone escapes, everyone dies,” he said, watching the group spring into action and swarm after the small group trying to get away.

“Liberty One-Five. Block the exit,” he said into his radio.

The SUV on the dirt road next to the opening in the fence pulled forward, blocking their only way out of the facility.

“I don’t think it would have mattered,” said McCulver as the horde enveloped the runners.

“Probably not. Look at that crazy bitch,” said Eli, pointing to the woman that had stabbed muscle man.

She stalked a group of three women that had purposely fallen behind the pack.

“We don’t need any more psychopaths in the group,” whispered McCulver, glancing around furtively.

“We don’t need another insubordinate psychopath in the group,” Eli countered. “A highly loyal one might come in handy. Let’s see how this plays out.”

He watched in awe as she tackled the closest woman and jammed the knife into her back using a powerful icepick-style grip. Several strikes later, the woman pinned under her stopped thrashing. The two survivors of the ambush sprinted into the throng of prisoners in a desperate attempt to disappear. Eli flipped the selector switch on his rifle and fired several bullets over the group. The frenzy stopped just as quickly as it started, and the group made room for Eli to see their handiwork. He counted five lifeless bodies on the ground, at their feet. Six including the woman killed on the fringes of the gang. Seven in total.

“I count seven. Close enough for government work. Form up at the gate,” he said over the bullhorn.

They gathered in a more orderly formation this time, attempting to create rows behind the men and women brave enough to stand in front. His little trick worked like a charm. Create a little adversity amongst the recruits. Have them solve a problem together and abracadabra! Instant discipline! Just like boot camp—except for the killing each other part. All part of the new world order. Necessary for the greater good, or something like that. He didn’t plan to get too highbrow with his philosophy. As long as they followed orders, he didn’t care what they believed in.

“Welcome to the Maine Liberty Militia. You’re all provisional recruits, still subject to dismissal ,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re part of my militia, and we have a lot of work to do. I don’t have time to deal with problems. I simply cut them out like cancer or pick them off like a scab. Simple rules. Follow orders and take your training seriously. You do that, and we’ll get along fine. If you try to escape or harm one of my soldiers, you’ll be killed on the spot. No questions. If this group of recruits gets out of hand, meaning I detect an air of insubordination, defiance, noncooperation or disobedience, I’ll be looking for a twenty-percent reduction the next time around. How many is that, Miss Killer?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen,” he said, waiting for the number to sink in. “That won’t be a pretty sight. Does everyone understand the rules?”

The group responded with different levels of enthusiasm and volume.

“As a group, using the words ‘yes, sir,’ does everyone understand my rules?”

A more coherent response filled Eli’s ears. Good enough.

“Load ’em up, Kevin,” he said, pulling the gate open.

Chapter 12

EVENT +8 Days

Limerick, Maine

Kate aligned the rechargeable screwdriver with the barrel hinge and drove the three-inch stainless steel screws flush with the hardware. She repeated the process for the remaining three screws, handing the screwdriver to Alex, who was situated across the plywood on a second ladder. Kate kept the board pushed against the window frame while he adjusted the right hinge, trying to place it level with the other hinge. Over the past two days, the two of them had managed to construct makeshift hurricane shutters for all of the second-story windows, depleting most of the plywood supply.

Alex planned to acquire more materials tomorrow, after resuming his duties at the airport, or wherever Grady’s orders took him. It had been nice having Alex around during the past two days. Despite the fact that they were guarded 24/7 by a squad of Marines, the two days together had returned a comforting sense of normalcy to their lives. She hoped his duties would be manageable on a part-time schedule. The kids needed him here. She needed him here.

“Looks good,” said Alex, clipping the screwdriver to his belt with a D-ring.

“Let’s see.”

They grabbed the board near the bottom corners and lifted, swinging the heavy board upward and outward. The hinges didn’t move as they lowered the board back in place. Crude but effective. The board covered the window but was far from airtight, with half-inch to quarter-inch spaces lining the sides. Once the weather turned, they’d have to attach some type of commercial weather stripping—anything to block the cold drafts that would pour through these cracks. For now, they needed the ability to keep the rain from pouring directly into the house. They could refine the process later.

“Not bad at all,” she said, glancing past Alex at a row of open hurricane shutters along the back of the house.

Inside, Alex’s dad would attach a two-foot garden stake to the bottom of the board with a small hinge, providing a way to push open the board and prop it open against the windowsill. The only disadvantage was that the shutter could not be opened far enough to provide fire at distant targets. Even if they used bigger stakes and pushed the shutters open further, a single bullet to the propping mechanism could close the shutter. If they were attacked, Alex said they could rip some of the shutters out of the wood and reinstall them later. It wasn’t an optimal solution, but they had to balance the need for security with the necessity of keeping the rain, wind and snow out of the house.

“We could start a business,” joked Alex, starting down the ladder. “There’s certainly no shortage of work.”

When they reached the bottom, Alex’s dad was waiting with a worried look. Kate saw her husband didn’t seem to notice.

“That’s it. Second floor is finished with two hours to spare. It’s time for an adult beverage,” said Alex, turning his attention from the ladder to his dad. “What’s wrong?”

“Charlie picked up some bad news on the HAM radio. Ed sounds like he’s ready to leave tonight.”

“Shit. They’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. What did they hear?” said Alex.

Kate stepped off the ladder and joined them, hoping they hadn’t wasted two days.

“A northern Maine militia group has started a full-time broadcast, warning Maine citizens that Homeland just dissolved the state government. They claim that the governor had a falling out with the Regional Recovery Zone Authority and—”

“They used those words? Regional Recovery Zone Authority?” said Alex.

“That’s what Charlie said.”

“Why is that a big deal?” asked Kate. Alex used the term regularly.

“Unless we’re missing federal broadcasts over AM or FM radio, the words Regional Recovery Zone shouldn’t be in the average citizen’s vernacular,” said Alex.

“They’ve been scanning those channels too. Nothing so far,” said his dad.

“Then whoever is broadcasting over the HAM radio must have a contact in the governor’s office or one of the reserve military units up north. I heard about the RRZ plan for the first time standing in Colonel Grady’s operations center. This was a closely held secret.”

“Not anymore,” said Kate.

“Especially if what we’re hearing is true,” said Alex. “From what I could tell, the RRZ administration planned to work closely with state and local officials to minimize impact on the designated area. Abolishing local government isn’t one of the steps,” said Alex.

“But the RRZ Authority is ultimately in charge?”

“Technically, yes. Once the Federal Recovery Plan is authorized and activated, RRZ infrastructure supersedes local government.”

“What about in an area like Boston?” asked Tim. “Who’s in charge there?”

“I would assume it’s the same situation. Each RRZ is responsible for recovery projects within a designated geography, with some overlap. We’re in RRZ#1, New England North, responsible for recovery projects in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. RRZ#2, New England West, is located halfway between Catskill and Poughkeepsie, New York, west of the Hudson. Its primary purpose is to shelter refugees fleeing west out of Connecticut, Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Unfortunately, they’re going to get crushed by runoff. RRZ#3, Tri-State Region, was originally based on Long Island.”

“They got slammed by a tsunami from the south,” said Kate.

“Right. They lost a majority of the gear earmarked for RRZ#3. They’re still trying to determine if Long Island is a viable location for the RRZ, given the physical damage.”

“How does that make sense?” asked Kate.

Alex shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is they have a fleet of supply ships, similar to the DoD’s maritime prepositioning ships. Roll-on, roll-off capable, high-capacity vessels, probably based out of Norfolk or Philadelphia. The MPS squadrons used by the military carried a shit ton of equipment. Each squadron carried enough gear to support a Marine Air Ground Task Force for thirty days—fuel, ammo, food, water. Everything. I’d be shocked if they didn’t have something similar.”

“By the time they deploy something like that, it’ll be too late,” Kate said. “The people will be on the move.”

Tim nodded. “Then it’s all a question of whether the runoff will head north or south. Navigating through the Allegheny and the Appalachian Mountains won’t be an option for most.”

“The nearest RRZ south of Long Island is the Delaware Peninsula, but you’d be travelling through some seriously congested areas to get there, and you’d be competing with millions of people from Baltimore and D.C.,” said Alex.

“But people won’t know about the RRZ starting out. Right?” asked Kate. “It’s eight days after the event, and FEMA’s still not advertising. They’ll look at a map and start walking. I’d want to avoid major population areas, but I’d be concerned about winter.”

“Either way, this could spiral out of control if just a quarter of the people went north,” said Tim.

“I mean, we all know FEMA can’t do a goddamn thing right in the first place. I hate to say it, Alex, but I think it might be a wise idea to finish up the patchwork and start arranging a contingency plan.”

“First we need to talk Charlie and Ed down off the ledge. We’re not in any danger, yet. Not with a brigade from the 10th Mountain Division arriving tomorrow,” said Alex.

“It might be time to take Ed’s Jeep on a trip to Belgrade,” said Tim.

“And a few other places,” said Alex.

Kate didn’t like the sound of Tim’s idea, not with Russell’s militia on the loose. They had no idea if he had people in Limerick looking for Ed’s Jeep or the silver BMW SUV. All it would take was one random sighting to initiate an attack, far from the safety of their guarded compound or an armored vehicle.

“Promise you won’t take a trip like that without talking to me first,” said Kate.

“I promise,” Alex said, but she didn’t believe him.

Chapter 13

EVENT +9 Days

Sanford, Maine

Alex’s tactical vehicle slowed as they passed Goodall Hospital. Tents swarmed the wide, grassy areas surrounding the main driveway, blocking their view of the parking lots. He leaned close to Lianez’s face and peered through the thick, bullet-resistant glass of the driver’s side window, straining to catch a glimpse beyond the tents.

“Jackson, what do you have in the hospital parking lot?” he yelled into the turret.

“Packed with vehicles. People milling around, camping in and around their cars. Looks like a tailgate, except nobody looks to be in the partying mood.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Staff Sergeant Evans remarked from one of the back seats.

He’d decided to bring Evans on the trip to meet with Harrison Campbell in Sanford before heading to the airport. Alex figured the militia leader needed to meet some of the Marines tasked with the “internal security” mission. To give them a human face. The sooner he pictured the battalion’s Marines as men and women with the same needs and fears as his own, the better. Same thing the other way around. Eventually, members of the York County Readiness Brigade would ride in vehicles and man checkpoints alongside 1st Battalion Marines. Integration of the two groups was critical to establishing and maintaining trust. Until then, Campbell was taking an enormous leap of faith.

He followed the Mousam River for a few blocks, passing under the long shadows of several windowless four-story brick buildings, fading relics of a prosperous era in Sanford’s distant past. Alex was pleased to see people on the streets as they approached Main Street. Logically, he understood that none of them were out for coffee and a morning stroll, but on a deeper, emotional level, the sight of people encouraged him. This distant feeling of contentment faded quickly with the realization that the people avoided eye contact with the vehicle, hurrying their steps to increase the distance. He understood their concerns perfectly.

“Take a left at the intersection and pull up behind that row of cars,” he directed. “We’re in the empty place next to the coffee shop. Jackson, down from the turret. No point in sending the wrong message to the good folks of Sanford.”

“Looks like they already got the message,” said Evans, nodding at a group of people walking briskly away from the park across the street from the coffee shop.

“Yeah. We have our work cut out for us. There’s Campbell,” he said, pointing toward the park.

A small group of men in woodland camouflage appeared as the group gathered in the park dispersed. They wore black baseball caps with “YCRB” stenciled in white across the crown and carried military-style rifles.

“Lianez and Jackson will keep an eye on our ride home. Report any vehicles that approach the intersection, and take notes. I want license plate, make and model. I saw a stack of Maine license plates in the church by Milton Mills. Probably lifted from cars throughout southern Maine.”

“I don’t think the state police have internet access,” said Evans.

“Probably not, but I’m willing to bet Homeland has an active license plate database. Never know, we might get lucky and stumble on one of Russell’s guys. If I were him, I’d be out looking around, very incognito-like.”

“Driving a car these days ain’t exactly incognito, sir,” said Lianez.

“True, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Copy, sir. Staff Sergeant, you want us out of the Matvee?”

“Affirmative. Kind of hard to keep an eye on Uncle Sam’s property sitting inside one of these buckets. Post yourselves on the sidewalk. Weapons slung.”

“Roger, Staff Sergeant,” said Lianez.

“Sidearms only—for us,” said Alex.

“You’re killing me, sir.”

“We have a 30,000-pound armored vehicle backing us up. We’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

They met Harrison and his entourage in the middle of Main Street.

“Harrison, this is Staff Sergeant Evans. He drew the short straw and got stuck with me. His family’s in Worcester,” said Alex.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Campbell,” said Evans, shaking his hand.

“Likewise. Welcome to Maine. I wish it were under different circumstances,” said Harrison. “Any news from your family?”

“They’re trying to evacuate military families to Devens or Hanscom Air Force Base. I haven’t heard anything definitive. It’s wait and see, sir,” said Evans.

“I’m afraid we’re in one big wait-and-see holding pattern for now. We’ll say a prayer for their safe arrival, Staff Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Harrison. Please call me Harrison. Only these yahoos call me sir, and I wish they wouldn’t,” he said, nodding at his own group.

“This is Margaret and Sheldon Klein. Neighbors, good friends and longstanding members of the militia. You’re getting two for the price of one out at the airport. Both highly capable and deadly serious. Probably not what you expected, but this way I don’t have to tear someone away from family.”

“Works for me. Welcome aboard,” said Alex, shaking their hands.

They looked uneasy, which he expected.

“I brought some communications gear so you can talk freely with Harrison. I assume you have gear to transfer?”

“Our gear is loaded in one of the cars,” said Margaret, glancing at Harrison, “but we’d like to bring the car onto the base.”

“I don’t see a problem with that. We can sneak it through the back gate,” said Alex.

“Perfect. I have to concede an ulterior motive for assigning the Kleins to the airport. Their son just started his junior year at U.C. Davis. Plant Sciences major. The Kleins own a hundred and thirty-three acres down the road, which he planned to turn into some kind of organic, sustainable farm. They were hoping there might be a way to communicate with their son. I figured the airport would be the best place for that.”

“Sounds like your son would be a critical asset to New England’s recovery. I can’t make any promises, but stranger things have happened. Fortunately for your son, the EMP effects seem less pronounced on the West Coast,” said Alex.

“We heard the same thing over the radio,” said Harrison, turning to the Kleins. “See?”

“I’ve confirmed it through my sources,” said Alex.

“We’ve heard some other disturbing things via HAM. Reports of naval assets scrambling out of port. Stuff passed from Europe about hundreds of satellites burning up in orbit, or more meteorites. Nobody knows.”

“My dad heard the same things,” said Alex. “You want to step inside? I’d hate to tarnish your reputation any further.”

“I’m not too worried. People have pretty much made up their minds about Harrison Campbell. We need to work on your reputation, which starts right here with a pat on the back and a cup of coffee next door, unless Marines don’t drink straight coffee anymore. I’m afraid the espresso-chino machine is out of order.”

“If they’re open, we’d be more than happy to give up our latte habit for the morning,” said Alex.

“Good, because it happens that the mayor walked in a few minutes ago, and I think we should run the idea of a joint recruiting station by him,” said Harrison.

“Sounds like you know this hearts and minds game better than I do.”

“You’re not doing so bad, Captain Fletcher. Approaching the brigade was a smart move. Buys you some legitimacy right away,” said Harrison.

Alex smiled. “And I thought I was being slick about this.”

“You’re about as slick as sandpaper, which is why we’re standing here. Speaking of slick, let’s head inside before the mayor starts sliding through the town. No pun intended,” he said, motioning toward the coffee shop.

“He can’t be that bad,” said Alex.

“He really isn’t, but he’s a career politician, and politics is a game of give and take, with an emphasis on the take. Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”

“I really don’t have that much to offer,” said Alex.

“That badge you’re carrying says different. It wouldn’t hurt if you’d start wearing a full Marine uniform. This civilian-slash-military hybrid style will only confuse people,” said Harrison.

“Hallelujah,” said Staff Sergeant Evans.

Harrison led them through the front door of the mostly empty coffee shop. A heavy blond woman in jeans and a red coffee-shop-logo T-shirt stood in front of the mahogany service bar, talking to the mayor. At least Alex assumed he was the mayor.

Who else would dress in gray slacks and matching blazer over a light blue button-down oxford?

The two of them stopped talking as they filed into the shop. For a moment, the mayor looked terrified, as if he suspected they had come to arrest him. Alex guessed that was how most of the people in town felt with the military busy at the airport.

It would only get worse later today, when elements of the 10th Mountain Division started pouring into Sanford. Hundreds of vehicles, from Stryker AFVs (Armored Fighting Vehicles) to L-ATVs (Light Combat Tactical-All Terrain Vehicles), would stream into town from points west. At the same time, the skies above would roar from the continuous flow of heavy transport aircraft transporting the rest of the 4th Brigade Combat Team from Wheeler-Sack Army Airbase near Fort Drum to their new home, Regional Recovery Zone #1, New England North. The mayor was about to find himself at the epicenter of attention.

“Are you all right with these weapons in here, Terry?” asked the mayor, watching them closely while addressing the owner.

“They wouldn’t be breaking the law even before all this craziness happened. Open carry is perfectly legal and acceptable in my place of business. Keeps out the riff-raff,” said the woman.

“That’s my Terry,” said Harrison, walking forward to give her a quick hug.

“Just saying that you have the right to keep firearms out of here, if you want to,” said the Mayor.

“Seeing as we’re not exactly flush with customers, I’ll keep the current policy intact,” she said.

“Free coffee and you’re empty?” said Harrison, looking at the sign on the door.

“Nobody’s in the sipping coffee mood, I guess, and a few of the patrons might have slipped out the side door when your armored car arrived,” she said, winking at Alex.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” said Alex. “That’s about as low profile as it gets for us right now.”

“The mayor might have scared a few away himself,” she said, winking at the man in the sport coat.

“Good to see you down here, Harrison.”

“Same to you, Mayor. I don’t want to hold you up, but I thought you might want to meet a few new friends of mine. This is provisional Captain Alex Fletcher, United States Marine Corps, and Staff Sergeant Evans. They’re attached to 1st Battalion, 25th Marines, reserve unit out of Fort Devens, Massachusetts. Captain Fletcher is from Maine.”

“Greg Hoode, mayor of Sanford and the most uninformed man in the county. Provisional captain? Sorry, let’s take a seat. Terry, the coffee’s on me,” he said, eliciting a few laughs.

“It’s good to see you giving the people a place to pretend things are normal,” added Alex.

“For a few minutes, anyway. People are worried, especially about the lack of information. It’s been nine days, and nobody has a clue what happened,” said Terry.

“Information is scarce at this point, at all levels. Why don’t you grab a seat since we scared away most of your customers. I can’t think of a better place to start spreading what little knowledge I have.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that,” she said, walking around the counter. “Coffee’s self-serve.”

After grabbing coffee, they settled around one of the larger tables and finished the introductions. Curious faces stared through the windows, refilling the park across the street. Eager nods and smiles had replaced the distrust and fear broadcast through the town square upon their arrival. Sitting down with the mayor in one of the town’s central gathering places had been a stroke of genius. Campbell knew what he was doing.

“So, provisional captain? I’ve never heard of this,” said the mayor.

“Neither had I until a few days ago. I was basically recruited by the commanding officer of the battalion in Boston.”

“You were down in Boston?” he asked, looking incredulous. “I heard the city turned into a war zone.”

“Boston suffered an incredible amount of blast and tsunami damage from the asteroid or meteorite that hit off the coast. The situation spiraled out of control, as you can imagine,” Alex said, hoping to end that part of the discussion.

He preferred to dodge the uncomfortable task of explaining how the same battalion headed to Sanford and a long-standing militia group ended up in a protracted, low-intensity conflict throughout the city over a basic misunderstanding. He was doing his best to prevent a repeat of the same disaster in southern Maine.

“So…what can you tell me about the situation in Maine?” asked the mayor, leaning back and sipping his coffee. “The National Guard unit based right here in Sanford set up roadblocks on the approaches. I can’t get in anymore. They’ve been busy hauling tons of supplies out of secret stockpiles. People are getting nervous.”

“Has anyone from FEMA or Homeland talked to you about the airport?”

“No. I’m completely in the dark about this Recovery Zone thing.”

“Where did you hear that term?” asked Alex. “I’m more curious than anything. I haven’t talked to a single person within the military command structure that knew about the stockpiles around the airport prior to the disaster.”

“I put it together when Diane Ellis came out to one of the roadblocks to talk to me. She’s in charge of the 1136th Transportation Detachment based right here in Sanford. Diane said the whole Recovery Zone headquarters area was off-limits to civilian personnel. Acted really funny about it, like when a friend tells you they can’t help out when you know they can. I asked her how big of an area that was, and she wouldn’t say. Diane and I went to high school together. Twenty years, and I’ve never seen her look that spooked. Something fishy is going on out there.”

“Everyone’s pretty spooked at this point,” said Alex. “As for the airport, all I can really tell you is that the 1136th , along with an engineering company from Westbrook, are turning Sanford Seacoast Airport into a Recovery Zone headquarters. Within the next few days, it’s going to get extremely busy and crowded around the airport.”

“And your people are all right with this?” asked the mayor, shifting his focus to Harrison.

“I don’t see us having much choice in the matter. They’re coming whether we like it or not. Captain Fletcher has asked me to integrate a limited number of my people into a provisional security platoon. Checkpoint duties, patrolling—I’ll have the Kleins at the airport, serving as a direct liaison,” he said, nodding at Margaret and Sheldon. “I’d rather be directly involved than shut out of the equation.”

“I just wonder if it might be a better idea to hold off until we know what we’re dealing with,” said the mayor. “No offense, Captain Fletcher.”

Alex shrugged his shoulders. “None taken. It’s Harrison’s call.”

“Do you mind if I share some of the less rosy picture you painted a few days ago out at my house?” Harrison asked.

The mayor looked surprised. “You showed him your headquarters?”

“Alex interviewed members of the brigade a few years ago. He knew where to find us,” said Harrison.

“I’m still not understanding how you got wrapped into this role,” said the mayor, raising an eyebrow and shifting his glance to Alex.

“Neither do I. Providence, I guess. It’s a long story that goes back to 2003, in Iraq.”

“I don’t have that long. What were you saying, Harrison?”

“Captain Fletcher travelled to Brookline and back from Scarborough, all within the first four days after the event. He lends a particularly credible, firsthand perspective to the equation. The bottom line is that we have a mass exodus heading to Maine.”

“State police closed the borders within twelve hours of the event,” the mayor said. “Cars are backed up for miles on the 95. Same with Route 4 and Route 9 headed into the Berwicks. One of their deputy commanders gave me the grand tour a few days ago.”

“You saw the tip of the iceberg—the people with functioning cars,” Alex informed them. “The rest left the greater Boston area on foot. We had to take side roads to get back to Maine because every major route was jammed with people. Trust me, the RRZ may be the only thing that prevents southern Maine from being swallowed whole. Picture a million-plus people marching down the roads, looking for food and water.”

“Fuck,” muttered the mayor.

“Greg, I didn’t take you for a cussing man,” said Harrison.

“I’m not a drinking man either, but I could use a little pick-me-up right about now. Can this mystical RRZ hold the line at the border?”

“I don’t know, and frankly, that’s pretty much out of our hands. My direct concern is the state of affairs inside the RRZ,” said Alex, leaning back and taking a long sip of his dark roast.

“Oh boy, here comes the pitch,” said the mayor. “And I thought I was going to work you guys over.”

“We’re not here to work you over. Quite the opposite. Harrison suggested we run something by you, as a professional courtesy, which may or may not be how the RRZ runs business around here in the future.”

“You make it sound like they’re taking over,” said the mayor.

“According to the Federal Recovery Plan, the RRZ is under federal jurisdiction. All part of the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill,” said Alex.

“Just the airport.”

Alex shook his head, glancing at Harrison.

“Southern Maine?”

“Everything. Everywhere,” said Alex.

“The people won’t stand for it,” said the mayor.

“The people have to stand for it, at least until the government figures out the refugee situation.”

“Harrison, I can’t believe you’re still seated. This goes against everything you’ve preached for as long as I remember.”

“I tried to warn people,” said Campbell.

“To be fair, nobody could have predicted that the East Coast would get hit by an asteroid,” said the mayor.

“Somebody figured it out,” said Alex. “EMPs are a man-made phenomenon.”

The table became uncomfortably silent, each mind likely racing with a different conspiracy theory. Alex knew he was walking on thin ice at this point, especially with Staff Sergeant Evans. Even a vague hint that the United States might have played a part in the catastrophe might be too much for him. Alex broke the quiet with his final pitch.

“Here’s the deal, Mayor Hoode. If the internal security situation goes sideways in southern Maine, the government will move the MOB out of the southern zone to—”

“MOB?” said the mayor.

“Main Operating Base. Sanford Airport. Right now, everyone in Maine is classified RRZ Internal. Everyone outside is classified RRZ External. External gets you a cot in a FEMA tent—if you’re lucky. Not a great prospect with winter a few months away. If the RRZ relocates the MOB to a northern location, everyone south of the new boundary will be redesignated external . Southern Maine will be thrown to the wolves, as millions stream north to the new border somewhere north of here. Can I count on you to remain neutral, at a minimum, while you’re making rounds through the community? I’m not asking you to promote the RRZ; I just don’t see a point to encouraging peoples’ fear of the unknown. Especially right now.”

The mayor furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. After a theatrical exhale, he forced a smile.

“All right. I’m on board. I have to do what’s best for the people, and I don’t see a better option. The town has been lucky so far. We’ve had some petty theft and a few fights related to the crisis, but beyond that, it’s been quiet,” he said, standing and shaking their hands.

“The quieter the better, for all of us,” Alex said.

They all thanked the shopkeeper, insisting on leaving money, which she refused. Once outside, the mayor turned to Harrison.

“What we’re you going to ask me when we first sat down?”

“I almost forgot. Captain Fletcher and I plan to run a joint recruiting station out of the storefront next door. Anyone interested can join the Marines as a provisional recruit or join my brigade. No pressure, just options,” said Harrison.

“Volunteers will train together at the airport, forming a joint platoon, maybe a full company, if we can drum up enough business,” Alex explained. “They’d be trained for basic military police duties and based at the airport or Forward Operating Bases within the southern zone. Ideally, units like these would constitute the bulk of forces visible within the RRZ.”

“The rest would be invisible?” the mayor asked.

“That’s the idea.”

“Can I join the provisional Marines? Sounds like the best deal in town,” he said, and they all laughed.

“You’d have to resign as mayor,” said Alex.

“Well, I guess that’s off the table.”

“If you happened to mention the recruiting station during your rounds today, we’d be eternally grateful,” said Harrison.

“How grateful?”

Another round of laughter ensued.

“I could improve the supply situation at the storefront, but I think you should focus your goodwill efforts on Sanford. A countywide effort is too broad,” said Alex.

“Damn, gentlemen. I feel like I’m out of my league here. Now Harrison’s working me through you. I’m sure as hell glad this isn’t an election year. I’d be afraid for my job,” he said, chuckling for a moment before settling his gaze on Alex.

“Sounds like a deal. We’ll focus on the town.”

Staff Sergeant Evans whispered into his tactical microphone, activating Lianez and Jackson, who were standing on the sidewalk near the corner of the building. The two Marines walked toward the Matvee, adjusting their rifles.

“Everything okay?” the mayor asked.

“Car inbound from the north,” Evans reported.

“Everything’s fine. We just haven’t seen many cars on the road,” said Alex. “Starting to become a rare sight.”

A gray hatchback slowed at the intersection across from the park, easing onto Washington Street. The vehicle carried two male passengers, who stared at Alex’s group for a moment before nodding uncomfortably. Once past the coffee shop, the car picked up speed, heading in the direction of the airport. Lianez walked onto the road and raised a pair of binoculars, passing the license plate information to Jackson. On any other day before the event, the car and its occupants wouldn’t have drawn any attention, but given that they’d seen a grand total of three other functioning automobiles this morning, its presence was notable.

“Recognize either of those men?” Alex asked.

“Can’t say I do, but we have more than twenty thousand citizens. Bound to be a few I don’t know,” the mayor said.

After another round of handshakes, the mayor crossed the road to mingle with the group that lingered at the edge of the park near the street. The mayor pointed back at them and patted a young man on the shoulder.

Hard at work already .

Alex wasn’t sure what to make of the mayor’s promise, but he couldn’t afford to have the man running around town repeating stories about secret warehouses and black helicopters, even if the stories proved to be true.

“What do you think?” Harrison asked him.

“I think we’re better off than before we walked into the coffee shop.”

“Let’s hope so. What’s the next step to getting this place up and running as a recruiting station?”

“We should take a trip to the airport. I need to issue your group several radios. Enough for you, the station and the Kleins. We’ll need to talk regularly once we start gathering recruits.”

“My men at the Milton Mills checkpoint could use one too so we can coordinate a rotation. They’ve been on their own for four days. I’ve been checking on them once a day, but they’re starting to wear thin,” said Harrison. “They could use that backup you promised.”

“I’ll dispatch a vehicle with some of the Marines that have trickled in from the Brunswick detachment. We’ll stock them up with MREs and anything else they might need. How many do you have assigned to the storefront?”

“Three at all times, mostly to safeguard the supplies. My plan is to set up a tent and a few tables outside the hospital, where we can assess need from a distance. Otherwise, this will turn into a free-for-all.”

“Plan on that happening within a week. I’ll give you two Marines here, and we’ll adjust accordingly as the situation unfolds. If it starts getting hectic, we’ll send people out the back door, where they’ll get a quick pitch from our designated recruiters.”

“Sounds easy enough,” said Harrison.

“Don’t count on it.”

Chapter 14

EVENT +9 Days

Acton, Maine

“Slow down here, Gene. I want to see if the state police are still at the church,” said Harrison Campbell.

“How far up the road?” Gene McCall, the driver, asked.

“Should be coming up pretty fast. It’s a little white church buried in the trees,” Harrison said, picking up the olive green handheld ROTAC unit given to him by Alex Fletcher.

One of the Marines at the airport hangar had enabled two dedicated “call sign” channels on all of the radios assigned to Campbell’s group. The primary channel, designated “Patriot Five Bravo,” was structured for internal York County Readiness Brigade communications. He’d been instructed to use this for command and control with his militia units. Alex was upfront about the fact that Marines at the airport would monitor all internal transmissions.

The second channel, “Patriot Five Charlie,” was a blind-response link to the battalion’s broadcast ROTAC net, giving Harrison’s people the capability to carry on conversations over the battalion’s primary tactical ROTAC channel, but not listen to exchanges initiated outside of Patriot Five Charlie. They would use this radio net to report intelligence or request assistance when required. The ROTAC in the armored vehicle following them was directly monitoring both channels. He selected Patriot Five Bravo and pressed “lock,” waiting a few seconds before speaking, like he was instructed.

“Guardian One-Zero, I need to make a quick stop at a church up on our right to talk with state police investigators.”

“Roger. Do you want us to proceed to the checkpoint?”

“Negative. We should probably show our faces together until I get you settled in with my folks.”

“Copy. We’ll stay right behind you.”

The trees opened, exposing a weather-beaten, single-steeple church. A stark white van marked “MOBILE CRIME LAB” sat next to a dilapidated gazebo behind the neglected structure. Parked cars with cracked and shattered windows appeared beyond the church. Something had happened here.

“This is it.”

Gene took the turn carefully, easing the sedan over a partially exposed corrugated steel drainage pipe and onto a long gravel driveway. He had no idea when the police arrived at the site, since he had purposely avoided Foxes Ridge Road until Alex procured an official military escort. If Alex wasn’t exaggerating about what had transpired here, he didn’t think the state investigators would be too keen on having armed militia show up unannounced, especially with dead militia strewn about the scene.

“What do you think they found?” asked Gene.

“I don’t know for sure. Captain Fletcher reported finding Eli Russell’s people out here the day after the event. Claims they were stealing cars and executing the occupants in the woods. Jimmy’s crew was supposedly running the show. I had Dave Littner get one of the troopers to take a look. Looks like they found something.”

Gene grimaced and shook his head slowly. Harrison knew what he was thinking. Gene had been in the brigade long enough to know that Eli’s brother had formed a group within the Maine Liberty Militia. The stories circulated over whispers and shifty glances at the shit-ball taverns and out-of-the-way cocktail lounges in York County. Dark stories about initiation ceremonies, disappearances, murders…worse. Stuff you wanted to immediately “unhear,” because you never knew who was playing pool or sipping from a pitcher a few stools over. He hoped the news was true. The world was a better place without Jimmy, or any of the Russells.

“How does Captain Fletcher know Jimmy was involved?”

“Eli staged an attack on Captain Fletcher’s house in Limerick, nearly killing his family. Retribution for what happened here. He didn’t say, but I get the impression that they captured some of Eli’s men.”

McCall gave him a doubtful look.

“Have you verified that he was attacked?”

“I didn’t ask to see his house, if that’s what you mean. He had details about Eli Russell that aren’t public knowledge.”

“From what you’ve told me, Homeland appears to have cornered the market on information that isn’t public knowledge. Just saying. He seems to be on the up and up, but you never know, especially now.”

“I know. It’s something to keep a sharp eye on. Looks like we’ve attracted some attention,” said Harrison, nodding toward the crime scene van.

A trooper holding a shotgun at port arms approached their car, motioning for them to stop. He didn’t look happy to see them. Neither did the crime scene team standing outside of the doorway to the church’s one-story annex. Dressed in navy blue coveralls, gray booties, and elbow-length gloves, the group comprised of two men and a woman glared at them as they edged up to the yellow crime scene tape barrier. Harrison grabbed the radio again.

“Guardian One-Zero, I might need an assist on this one.”

“I was wondering. On my way over,” Staff Sergeant Taylor said, and the front passenger door of the Matvee swung open.

“Keep your hands where that trooper can see them,” said Harrison, studying the parking lot scene.

Something definitely happened here.

He counted nine cars parked against the white building, all with out-of-state license plates. All of them appeared undamaged, with the notable exception of the vehicle closest to the building’s entrance. The shiny black SUV showed clear evidence of a sustained shootout. All of the windows were shattered, littering the worn asphalt with hundreds of light blue safety glass particles. Small holes circled by chipped paint peppered the driver’s side doors and rear cargo area panels, leading to the rear left tire, which sagged into the pavement. A faint red stain traced down the siding panels located directly in front of the vehicle, extending below the hood. He didn’t see any bodies, shell casings or markings in the parking lot.

“I need you to back your car up immediately. This is still an active crime scene,” said the trooper.

“We’re the ones that called this in. York County Readiness Brigade,” said Harrison, keeping his hands plainly visible on the dashboard.

“Doesn’t matter. I need you out of here.”

“We’re operating with 1st Battalion, 25th Marines based out of Sanford Airport.”

Staff Sergeant Taylor jumped down from the vehicle and called out to the trooper over the hood of the Matvee. “Officer, they’re with me. They just have a few questions for your investigators,” he said, squeezing between the two vehicles. “Staff Sergeant Taylor. I’m part of the Recovery Zone security battalion.”

“The what?” asked the trooper, still keeping most of his attention directed toward the sedan.

“Internal security for southern Maine. Any way we could get a word with your crime scene team?”

“Hold on,” he said and waved the team over.

“Do you mind if Mr. Campbell and Mr. McCall get out of their vehicle?” said Taylor.

The trooper hesitated for a moment before answering. “Sure. I don’t suppose that’s a problem. Keep any weapons in the car.”

Harrison didn’t feel like getting into a Maine firearms law discussion with the young trooper, so he nodded, placing his pistol on the dashboard. He had Gene do the same, under the watchful eye of the nervous trooper. The three officers ducked under the yellow tape and joined them in front of Campbell’s car.

“Harrison Campbell. York County Readiness Brigade,” he said, nodding a greeting. “I received the initial report about this place and had one of my people call it in. Looks like something big went down here.”

“Detective Jane Berry. Maine State Evidence Response Team,” the woman said. “We can’t share any information with the public at this time. You shouldn’t even be here.” She turned to the trooper. “We need to barricade the driveway closer to the road.”

Before anyone responded, Staff Sergeant Taylor stepped forward. “Detective, Mr. Campbell and members of his unit are working on behalf of the Regional Recovery Zone security team. We’re hoping to uncover any patterns or tactics that might assist with our security mission.”

“Doesn’t matter, Staff Sergeant. I was told to report directly to my boss in Augusta on this one. Plus, I don’t know a thing about this…Recovery Zone?” said Berry.

“What about the bridge at Milton Mills?” Harrison asked.

“We retrieved the bodies yesterday afternoon. Your people had already contaminated the crime scene beyond the point of investigation.”

“My people didn’t touch the bodies,” said Harrison.

“The bodies didn’t stack themselves,” Berry muttered. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. We’re in cleanup mode here. We’ll be gone in a few hours, but the area will remain off limits, and I expect you to observe that. Someone from the state police will be in touch to take statements.”

“Thank you for your time, Detective. Based on what I heard, this couldn’t have been an easy scene to process, on any level,” said Harrison.

She stared at him with a neutral expression. “Who exactly reported this to you?”

“One of the RRZ internal security officers,” said Harrison, keeping the title as vague as possible.

“Where can I find this unnamed security officer?”

“Ma’am, if you have a card, I’ll pass it along to him,” said Staff Sergeant Taylor.

“You’re really not going to give me that information?”

“That’s correct, ma’am. He’ll either contact you, or you can report to the RRZ’s Main Operating Base at Sanford Seacoast Airport and place a request in person with a representative from 1st Battalion, 25th Marines. They’ll pass the request along. We should head to the bridge, gentlemen.”

Detective Berry bristled at his rebuff, placing her hands on her hips and tightening her jaw. “Maybe I should contact Augusta and request that the entire bridge area be designated a crime scene.”

“We both have better things to do than step on each other’s toes,” said Taylor.

“I don’t think you have the authority to step on my toes, Staff Sergeant.”

Harrison was interested in Taylor’s reaction to her challenge. It would tell him a lot about the future of their collaboration with the Marines. If he threatened her with his authority, he’d be concerned.

“Honestly, ma’am, the command and control situation is a little nebulous right now, so I have no idea whether I have the authority to step on your toes. I’m not a big fan of toe stomping anyway.”

Taylor passed Campbell’s litmus test, which hadn’t altogether surprised him. Like Staff Sergeant Evans, Taylor came across as a thoughtfully sharp, independent decision maker. Somewhat surprisingly, all of the Marines he’d encountered during the course of the day had defied the rowdy, impulsive jarhead stereotype. They carried themselves as restrained, competent professionals, giving him a little more confidence in his decision to assist the Marines with their security function. Taylor’s response to the detective had been perfect.

“Neither am I. Like you said. Better things to do,” she said, removing a business card from her pocket. “I’d appreciate a chance to talk to your security officer. I’ve never seen anything like this before. And I never want to see it again.”

“I’m guessing none of us do,” said Taylor.

Harrison was about to reinforce Taylor’s sentiment when a deep, rhythmic thumping filled the air, intensifying rapidly. They all started to search the sky for the source of the sound.

“Blackhawks. Really close,” said Taylor. “Probably the lead elements of the 10th Mountain Division.”

“How many can we expect?” yelled Detective Berry.

“Helicopters?”

“No. Soldiers!”

“Several thousand, but you didn’t hear that from me!” said Taylor. “Not that it’s going to be a secret for very long.”

A UH-60 Blackhawk raced over the treetops behind the church, blowing a wall of dead leaves, grass and dust through the parking lot. The roar crescendoed as a second Black Hawk appeared at the eastern end of the church clearing, passing directly overhead and bathing them in debris. A few moments later, another thundered over the church. Within seconds the thumping started to abate, drifting east toward Sanford.

“I hope you were done,” said Harrison.

“I get the feeling it doesn’t matter,” said Detective Berry, staring east. “Are they all going to Sanford Airport?”

“Be glad you’re stationed up north. It’s about to get really crowded down here,” said Taylor.

Chapter 15

EVENT +9 Days

Milton Mills Crossing

Acton, Maine

The road straightened in front of Harrison’s sedan, giving way to a long stretch of white picket fence next to the road. A yellow house sat at the back of a sparse green lawn, overrun with patches of dead crabgrass. Two figures stood in the shadows on the farmer’s porch. The Boyds. A few days ago, he’d knocked on their door to let them know that the militia unit at the bridge was friendly. Without a doubt, the Boyds had heard the gunfire that left Jimmy Russell rotting in the sun. Curtis Boyd had smiled nervously through his partially opened front door, obviously eager to close it again.

He didn’t blame Mr. Boyd. Strange men with guns almost always spelled trouble, regardless of their intentions. Harrison was well aware of this perception, which was why he’d shifted the brigade’s focus away from its previously unhealthy fixation on guns. Guns and the citizens’ 2nd Amendment right to bear arms would always occupy a fundamental role in the brigade’s mission; they just wouldn’t be the “face” of his militia. The York County Readiness Brigade’s primary mission was to support the citizens. If that mission required firearms, so be it.

The couple vanished through the front door, likely responding to the second vehicle in their small convoy. Nobody was happy to see military vehicles.

“We have a problem,” stated Gene, slowing the car.

Harrison turned his attention back to the road. The stop sign at the intersection of Foxes Ridge Road and French Street caught his eye first, followed immediately by four soldiers in full combat body armor and protective helmets standing next to it. The soldiers kept their weapons trained on the sedan as Gene stopped more than fifty feet from the intersection. One of the men clad in Universal Camouflage Pattern ACUs beckoned them forward with one hand, letting his rifle hang from its sling. Harrison quit holding his breath when the entire fire team lowered their weapons. He twitched when Staff Sergeant Taylor’s voice broadcast over the ROTAC.

“I’m going to pull alongside you, Mr. Campbell. Looks like 3rd Brigade Combat Team dropped us a gift.”

“Feel free to pull in front of me.”

Two of the soldiers jogged toward the sedan as Taylor’s Matvee pulled forward. Harrison remained in his seat, waiting for the staff sergeant to fully defuse the situation. Under a tree next to the bridge, a tight cluster of militia members lay face down with their hands laced over the backs of their heads. Two soldiers stood watch over them, pointing their rifles at the group.

Son of a bitch!

He reached for the door handle.

“Harrison,” hissed Gene. “Not a good idea right now. This’ll all get sorted out in a minute.”

He withdrew his hand from the door, infuriated to see his own people being treated like criminals. Alex should have sent one of the Marine vehicles to Milton Mills three days ago, like he had promised. Now he’d have to deal with Dave Littner, who was already the most vocal government conspiracy theorist in the brigade.

Shit—the soldiers have them eating dirt right where Jimmy’s crew spent six days decomposing.

Littner would be out-of-control mad. Harrison would be lucky to keep the Berwick chapter intact, let alone willing to collaborate with Fletcher’s Marines.

“Staff Sergeant Taylor?” he yelled through the driver’s side window.

“I see it, Mr. Campbell. That’s my first priority,” said the marine, kneeling next to the window. “I’ll have them on their feet in thirty seconds.”

“They’re lying right where Russell’s people were piled up. I need you to support them, no matter how nasty they get toward the soldiers. We’re in this together.”

“Understood,” he said, giving them a thumbs-up. “I was planning on kicking ass and taking names anyway. Follow me, gentlemen.”

Taylor met the two soldiers in front of the vehicles, speaking energetically while pointing toward the captive militia. Harrison grabbed his rifle from the back seat and stepped out of the car, instructing Gene to stay behind for now. As soon as he shut the car door, the soldiers at the stop sign raised their rifles and ran forward, screaming at him. The two men in front of Staff Sergeant Taylor backed up and crouched, pointing their M4 carbines at his head. Harrison froze, adrenaline coursing through his body. An angry chorus of, “Drop your rifle!” and, “On the ground now!” bombarded his senses, barely penetrating the wave of anger and betrayal radiating from his core. Taylor jarred him out of an extremely dangerous state of mind.

“Are you fucking stupid, Specialist?” barked Taylor, stepping between Harrison and the rifle barrels. “You clearly saw that he’s with me, right? How the fuck could you interpret this any other way.”

“Ease off my soldiers, asshole! They’re doing their job. Civilians are not authorized to carry weapons in the RRZ!” said a sergeant arriving from the stop sign.

“Is this the stupid squad?” Taylor snapped. “Do you think I just met this man a few seconds ago? Mr. Campbell commands the York County Readiness Brigade.”

“Militia is no exception. We’re under strict orders to confiscate weapons from non-RRZ-authorized personnel.”

“The men and women you’re holding at gunpoint are working at the request of my commanding officer. They’re authorized.”

“Prove it, or they’re not going anywhere. Including Mr. Campbell.”

“Harrison, why don’t you get inside my vehicle until I get this squared away. We’ve got a shit-for-brains epidemic, and I’d hate for you to get infected.”

“He doesn’t go anywhere,” said the sergeant, raising his rifle.

“Munoz, Kennedy—you copying this?” Taylor said into his helmet mic.

A few seconds passed. “If one of these soldiers shoots Mr. Campbell or any of his people and I am unable to issue orders, your last mission is to assist members of the York County Readiness Brigade in a tactical withdrawal to FOB Lakeside. Assume all ground personnel in the area to be hostile.”

Harrison wished Littner and his crew could hear this. It would go a long way toward keeping them on board with Captain Fletcher’s plan.

“Sounds like the Marines live in shit-talk city,” grunted one of the privates.

“The private needs to keep his cock holster shut,” said Taylor.

The soldier took a step forward, but stopped when a staff sergeant raced into the group.

“Jesus. How many NCOs does it take to lead a fire team?” muttered Taylor.

“What the hell is the problem here?” asked the staff sergeant, catching sight of Harrison. “Why is that man still holding a rifle?”

“That’s the problem, Staff Sergeant. Chesty Puller comes running out of his tactical vehicle like he owns the fucking place, saying this guy is exempt. Now he just threatened to waste the entire squad.”

“Are you out of your mind? Who do you report to?”

“Your sergeant is slightly twisting my words,” said Taylor.

“Slightly? Who’s your commanding officer?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Grady, 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment.”

“A reserve unit?” said the sergeant. “Fuck this guy.”

“Simmer it, Morales. We’re not the only kids playing in the sandbox,” he said, turning to Taylor. “Can I see your identification card for verification?”

“I don’t look real to you?”

“I have no doubt you’re a Marine with the unit you identified. I just need to see if you have the authority to co-opt civilians.”

Taylor handed it over.

“Lieutenant, I need an ID check at the intersection. I have a Marine staff sergeant claiming that the civilians guarding the bridge are part of his unit,” he said, activating his squad radio. “Let’s cool it down, all right? We’re all on the same side.”

Harrison wondered how blurry those lines might get over the next few months—or years.

“So are the men and women you have lying on the ground,” said Taylor.

A group of three soldiers appeared from a concealed position in the dense brush next to the mouth of the bridge, sprinting toward the vehicles. They arrived a few seconds later, raising the total visible soldier count to thirteen, including the four at the far side of the bridge. He assumed they had at least eight more at the other bridge—four to cover the Milton Mills Road intersection and four to cover the bridge. Staff Sergeant Taylor was pissing off a lot of soldiers. Harrison eased next to the Marine, causing the soldiers to tense.

“If you guys freak out like this every time you see a gun, you’re gonna have a real problem. This isn’t the people’s republic of New York. They don’t have gun laws up here,” said Taylor.

“They do now,” said the army staff sergeant.

When the next gaggle of soldiers reached them, a second lieutenant stepped in front of the group, accompanied by a senior noncommissioned officer—probably the platoon sergeant.

“Afternoon, sir,” said Taylor.

“Any time you want to salute is fine by the lieutenant,” said the sergeant first class.

“Probably not a good idea for the lieutenant’s long-term health. Christ, how many noncommissioned officers does it take to run a platoon?”

“Are all Marines this mouthy?” asked the army staff sergeant, handing the ID card to the officer.

“You guys are killing me. All of you,” said the officer, staring at Taylor. “Second Lieutenant Matt Poole. Checkpoint commander, 3rd Brigade Combat Team.”

“Staff Sergeant Taylor. 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment out of Fort Devens. This is Harrison Campbell, York County Readiness Brigade commander. Those are his people on the ground.”

The lieutenant nodded, scanning his ID card with a handheld device that resembled a GPS receiver. A few moments later, he looked up with a barely contained look of surprise. He handed the card back.

“Staff Sergeant Taylor has situational authority here.”

“Over you?” asked the platoon sergeant.

“Over all of us,” said Poole.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me, sir? Can they co-opt civilians?” said the army staff sergeant.

“1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment is designated RRZ’s internal security. Staff noncommissioned officers and above within the battalion have full authority to co-opt civilians in an armed capacity, though I strongly suggest the staff sergeant works with his battalion to issue provisional ID cards to co-opted personnel. We had no way to verify what Mr. Littner told us, and our orders for border security operations are strict. Disarm and detain armed subjects within designated areas. No exceptions.”

“There’s always an exception, sir,” said Taylor.

“Not when it comes to the safety of my soldiers. Mr. Campbell, I’m really sorry about this,” he said, extending a hand. “We didn’t expect to find armed militia on the bridge, and I couldn’t take any chances.”

Harrison reluctantly accepted the handshake, remaining silent. He wasn’t satisfied with the lieutenant’s explanation of the soldiers’ behavior, but there was no point starting an argument. The young officer was following a bizarre set of orders, no doubt crafted by Homeland Security bureaucrats and forced down the throats of the military’s senior commanders. There was no point getting mad at a twenty-two-year-old.

“Platoon Sergeant, I want Mr. Campbell’s people back on their feet ASAP. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some apologizing to do,” said Poole.

“Lieutenant?” said Harrison, knowing that was a bad idea. “Why don’t you let me handle my people? They’re bound to be a little hot over this, and I’d rather move them away from your soldiers as quickly as possible. If you could place their weapons in one of the cars, I’d appreciate it. I’ll pass on your words.”

“Sounds like a plan. Platoon Sergeant, make it happen. And move the soldiers away from Mr. Campbell’s people,” said Poole.

“Copy that, sir. Back to the intersection, all of you,” said the platoon sergeant.

“Mind walking back with me, Lieutenant?” Harrison asked.

“Not at all, Mr. Campbell,” said Poole. “I’ll be at the CP in a few minutes, Platoon Sergeant.”

The soldiers jogged past the intersection as Harrison and the lieutenant walked down the crumbling road.

“I appreciate your patience with the platoon. There was no way for us to know your group’s status,” said Poole.

“That’s what I’m worried about, not just for my people, but for the entire RRZ, or whatever you call it. Are all of the units talking to each other?”

“I have no idea. Maybe at the top echelon? I’m at the bottom of the food chain, reacting to orders pushed down from the battalion commander. We’ve been working nonstop to prepare the brigade for RRZ deployment.”

“Do they explain this RRZ thing in officer’s training? Based on my interaction with the Marines, I get the distinct impression that this is relatively new to everyone.”

“None of us knew it existed. We drew equipment from specialized bunkers, discarding most of our gear, especially the electronics. They didn’t want to take any chances that the circuits had been degraded by the EMP.”

“They confirmed an EMP attack?”

“Negative,” said Poole. “We made the assumption based on what was discarded and replaced.” He glanced back at the Marines. “I guarantee your Marines did the same. They’re driving around in a vehicle that hasn’t been in service with the Marine Corps for several years. Probably retrofitted and mothballed in a bunker, like most of our stuff.”

“Is it possible that nobody knew about the military’s role in the RRZ?”

“Someone had to know, but between you and me, it definitely wasn’t known at the battalion commander level. The colonel made that crystal clear to the officers and staff NCOs at our first crisis briefing. Nobody expected to leave Fort Drum. We figured one or two of the brigades would be put on ready alert standby, you know, for a foreign mission or something like that. By the end of the week, the entire division will be deployed to major zones within the northeast. Who would have guessed that?”

Harrison watched Dave Littner rise slowly from the grass, glaring at the soldiers backing away. They heard a splash beyond the militia, somewhere along the riverbank. Two soldiers sprinted across the bridge, one of them pointing toward the water hidden by thick undergrowth.

“I don’t envy your job, Lieutenant. You’re looking at one million plus refugees from the greater Boston area. The border situation is guaranteed to get ugly quick. Most of these waterways are little more than streams at some points.”

“Aerial recon is already scoping those out.”

“Too bad they didn’t take a look at Milton Mills. You might have avoided this little mess,” said Harrison.

“We’re lucky that didn’t happen, or they might have softened the landing zone ahead of us. Good luck, Mr. Campbell,” said the lieutenant, chasing after the soldiers that descended the riverbank.

Dave Littner shook his head as the officer passed the group, but didn’t say a word. Harrison approached slowly, unsure what to expect. Littner appeared genuinely calm, which surprised him.

“Is everyone all right?” said Harrison.

“Everyone’s fine, for now.”

“Let’s get you back to Sanford. Get everyone cleaned up and fed some warm chow.”

Littner shook his head and grimaced. “I’m done. Consider this my formal resignation from the brigade. Same for everyone else here.”

Harrison looked past Littner, catching furtive glances and shaking heads.

“I can’t see anything good coming out of your arrangement with the government. I thought there might be a chance, but not after this. We’re about to have several thousand soldiers and Marines running around like they own the place, which, according to the army heroes that stormed the bridge—they do. We’re just commodities. Cogs in this RRZ machine. Fuck that.”

“Once everything settles, it’ll be a different story,” said Harrison, not sure he believed his own words.

Littner’s expression softened. “Harrison, you better think really hard about what you’re getting the brigade into. Fletcher seems like a straight shooter, but I don’t think he has the full picture.”

“He knows more about the RRZ than that young lieutenant.”

“For now, but what happens when the RRZ is in full swing? You heard what they said about civilians and firearms. Right now they’re just taking them away on the street. What happens when they start going house to house, and Captain Fletcher needs the brigade to help? You know, because we have the public’s trust. You’re smarter than all of us put together, so I know the thought crossed your mind.”

Harrison exhaled, searching his thoughts unsuccessfully for a counterargument. It had more than crossed his mind over the past fifteen minutes. In that short span of time, he had encountered two government-sponsored groups conducting operations without the bigger picture, making decisions in a vacuum. He couldn’t blame Littner for wanting to sit this one out. The more he learned about the RRZ, the harder he wondered if it was too late to back out of his arrangement with Captain Fletcher.

“I can’t convince you to ride this out a little longer?”

“You don’t sound convinced yourself,” Littner said, finally cracking a thin smile.

“I don’t know. I feel like I have to give this a shot.”

“If members of the Berwick chapter want to stick it out with the brigade, I won’t stand in the way. They can appoint a new leader and carry on. I’ll turn everything over.”

“This doesn’t mean you’re out of the brigade, Dave. Let’s call it a temporary hiatus,” said Harrison.

“No. I think this is it for me. I don’t see a good end to any of this. Good luck, Harrison. It’s been an honor serving with you. We’ve done some good.”

“Sorry to hear it, Dave. If you need anything at all, no matter what it is, you know where to find me,” said Harrison, shaking his hand.

When Harrison turned to walk back to the vehicles, Staff Sergeant Taylor kept a respectful distance. Taylor wore a pained expression.

“Parting ways?” asked the marine.

“Yeah. Dave’s been with us since we started. Real shame.”

“If we’d been here ten minutes earlier, this could have been avoided,” said Taylor.

“Or three days ago, like Captain Fletcher said.”

“Or that.”

“It probably wouldn’t have mattered in the long run,” he muttered.

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t matter. You said I can make a station-to-station call with the ROTAC, not just a radio-channel call?” said Harrison.

“Yes, sir. If you know the call sign, you can either scroll down your saved list or input the first few letters using the touchpad.”

“Captain Fletcher is Patriot 2 Alpha, correct?”

“Affirmative, but you won’t be able to reach him.”

“We just saw him less than an hour ago,” said Harrison, starting to walk toward the vehicles.

“I just tried to reach him, to see what he can do about getting your folks some ID cards. My Marines say he left the compound twenty minutes ago in a civilian jeep, and he forgot to bring his ROTAC.”

“Where is he headed?”

“Nobody will say,” said Taylor.

“The Marines won’t say?”

“Family and friends won’t say,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s none of my business.”

“Have you been out to this compound?”

“That was my first stop before reporting to the airport.”

“What did you see out there?” said Harrison.

Taylor stared at him quizzically. “The whole thing exists, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I just wanted to know if Captain Fletcher was for real.”

“That’s not really what you were asking.”

“I suppose not.”

“Unfortunately, this is all very real. A nightmare—but real,” Taylor said. “We should probably hold up until your folks get out of here safely.”

Harrison thought hard about what Taylor had just said. He couldn’t forget that every one of the men and women deployed to the RRZ had left behind family, some without the chance to say farewell. None of them wanted to be here, even the ones convinced of their mission. They were just too wrapped up in their roles to realize it. They were soldiers, trained to fight wars, not implement a civil disaster recovery plan.

Then again, the government couldn’t have possibly planned for a catastrophe of this magnitude. It didn’t matter at this point. The RRZ was their new reality, and based on Captain Fletcher’s description of the worsening refugee situation across New England, the RRZ was the lesser of two evils. He wondered why Fletcher had left his radio behind. There was no way he forgot it. Taking a civilian vehicle was an odd choice as well, unless…son of a bitch. Unless all of the military gear was imbedded with tracking devices.

What are you up to, Captain Fletcher? Or are you just Alex Fletcher right now?

Harrison’s money was on the latter.

Chapter 16

EVENT +9 Days

Yarmouth, Maine

Alex emptied the two-and-a-half-gallon plastic gas can into the Jeep’s tank, keeping an eye on his surroundings. The shadows grew long across Route 88, enshrouding the tree-covered street in a premature dusk, finally providing some relief from the relentless sun. Their afternoon diversion had taken far longer than he expected, putting them back on the road to Belgrade close to dark. Barring any unforeseen circumstances along the turnpike, they’d arrive at Charlie’s camp by nine, well after the last vestiges of light on the horizon had vanished.

Approaching the lake house at night worked out better, in his opinion. He’d drive the final mile without the Jeep’s lights, relying on night-vision goggles and his GPS unit to reach the house. They should be able to arrive at the house without attracting much attention. Anyone that heard their arrival would have to go exploring to determine their destination, which was unlikely given the circumstances.

Alex and his dad would thoroughly scout the property before approaching the house, mindful of the possibility that it might have new occupants. He hoped it was empty. Removing squatters presented an unacceptable risk, especially at night. Unless he could scare them into leaving without a fight, he and his group would have to leave. Options would be severely limited at that point, unless he exercised his positional authority to rain down some RRZ pressure on the occupants. He wanted to avoid that, since it would attract attention to the location. Keeping this spot a secret was in everyone’s best interest, especially if things went bad and his family needed a backup plan. The trip today had been all about creating options. Time well spent, even if it meant returning at the crack of dawn.

The last of the gasoline drained into the tank. They had started the trip with a full tank, topped off from the house’s supply of gasoline. Averaging roughly eighteen miles per gallon, according to the trip computer, Alex calculated they used slightly more than the two and a half gallons to drive fifty-two miles. The rest of their journey would drain an additional ten gallons, leaving them with less than half of a tank. He could justify using thirteen gallons of gasoline, especially in light of the circumstances. They had fourteen gallons split between several containers back at the house, in addition to the three-quarters full tank in the BMW SUV, and they’d need most of it to pull off an evacuation.

With seventeen people, four of whom were injured, they’d have to make at least two runs between locations, burning up most of the gas just to transport personnel and a limited amount of gear. Ideally, they would return a third time to pack the cars with as much food and supplies as feasible. A third trip would require them to start siphoning gas from disabled cars—a dangerous proposition depending on the location of the car. Since the EMP hit at five in the morning, most vehicles were parked on private property or streets within sight of the owners. Few people would react well to the prospect of having their cars drained in front of them. He could always take several empty cans to the airport to fill and make something up about the farm’s tractor, hoping nobody knew offhand that his John Deere used diesel.

Alex tipped the container as high as possible, trying to drain the last drops out of the can. His father caught the motion in his peripheral vision.

“Ready?” asked Tim.

“Yeah.” He nodded, pulling the clear plastic nozzle out of the gas tank.

His father took a few steps away from the driver’s side door and scanned the quiet neighborhood of shingle-style Cape Cod homes. He wasn’t visibly armed, but his M-14 rifle lay across the front seat of the Jeep, where he could easily grab it through the open window. Aside from the pistol strapped to Alex’s thigh, they had kept their weapons out of sight, finding the journey uneventful. The prevalence of roadblocks seemed confined to southern Maine, which made sense given that most of the mayhem during the Jakarta Pandemic had taken place near the border or along the Maine Turnpike.

They encountered two police checkpoints, one on the outskirts of Gorham and another in South Portland. Alex’s provisional security identification and Maine driver’s license got them through both with little scrutiny. It helped that Alex had chosen to wear his issued MARPAT uniform, especially at the Coast Guard station, where sentries had barred the gates to keep hundreds of gathering civilians off the base. Upon sighting the mob of people outside of the front gate, they parked the Jeep at a safe distance. Alex had approached a less crowded point along the fence, attracting the attention of a guard. Within thirty minutes he had negotiated the necessary help required to secure another option in the event that the border situation proved untenable.

He screwed the gas cap back onto the tank and looked at the deserted street with his father. The neighborhood looked mostly unchanged, with the exception of missing windows and a few downed tree branches. Yarmouth had been spared the brunt of the tsunami’s landfall. Most of the wave’s energy had been sapped by the shelter islands of inner Casco Bay. The Royal River had experienced a significant tidal surge, as evidenced by debris and high watermarks far into one of the parking lots, but the docks didn’t suffer any direct damage. Physically, the sheltered marina and anchorage remained intact, like he’d hoped.

“Ever get the feeling you have a hundred sets of eyes peeking at you?” his dad asked.

“Not until you just said that,” said Alex, throwing the gas can into the back of the Jeep.

“I’m worried she won’t be there if we need her,” said Tim, nodding down Route 88 in the direction they had just come.

“We can always find another. Plenty to choose from, here or along the coast,” said Alex. “It’s not like there’s anyone around to haul them out.”

Alex opened the passenger-side door and waited for his father to move the M-14 to the back before dropping his exhausted body into the seat. He was still running on empty, having slept less than four hours a night since returning from Boston. Even with the Marines on the perimeter, he found it nearly impossible to sink into a restful sleep. He shuddered to think what might have happened if they had arrived in Limerick twelve hours later. Ironically, the Boston-based militia had forced Alex north with Grady’s Marines—just in time to save his family from another militia group. It was insanity.

Tim pulled the Jeep off the gravel shoulder. “I like the idea of a land-based escape better. Especially with the weather changing.”

“Wait until you see Charlie’s place. The term ‘cottage’ is generous.”

“Can’t be worse than eight people crammed into a thirty-eight-foot sailboat.”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” said Alex, digging through a small rucksack at his feet for a green thermos. “Coffee?”

Alex’s dad started to speak, but stopped. He shook his head. “I almost said we should stop at Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“I catch myself doing that all day. It’s a hard habit to break,” Alex lamented. “Same thing happened during the pandemic. Getting whatever we want, whenever we want is a deeply ingrained behavior.”

Tim stared at the road unfolding in front of them, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. “I wonder if we’ll ever see those days again…”

“It depends on how long the government takes to get the electricity flowing. From what I can tell, they planned for an EMP. Let’s hope that preparations included stockpiling the big-ticket items like transformers and substation parts. Without those, we’ll be watering down the instant stuff within a month or two.”

“I don’t mind the instant stuff. They use those flavor crystals.”

“It’s just coffee-flavored water at that point. Not really coffee,” Alex said, opening the top of the thermos and wafting steam into the Jeep.

His dad started laughing. “That’s all coffee is! Coffee-flavored water!”

“With that attitude, I can’t justify sharing any of this with you.”

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” said Tim.

“Dark roast,” said Alex, inhaling the lightly toasted scent.

His dad kept grinning.

“This isn’t instant coffee. Kate wouldn’t do that to me.”

“She didn’t want to waste the good stuff on me,” said Tim. “Made me promise not to tell…until you couldn’t turn back.”

“She knows me all too well.”

Alex poured a small amount into the thermos cup and tested it. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll work in a pinch,” he said, downing the rest.

“Maybe we should save it for the drive home,” Tim said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“Let’s hope not.”

Chapter 17

EVENT +10 Days

Limerick, Maine

Brown’s earpiece crackled and went silent. That was the second possible transmission attempt in the past few minutes.

“Liberty Extract, this is Overwatch. Your transmission was garbled. Say again. Over,” he stated quietly.

Another burst of static filled his left ear, followed by nothing. It had to be his pickup. The chance of another radio user selecting the same subchannel was extremely low, reduced even further by the late hour. 2:20 AM. He had been told late in the afternoon, via radio relay, that a vehicle would retrieve him a few hours after midnight. He permanently disassembled his hide site a few hours after sunset, stowing the climbing harness in his backpack and descending the tree to wait in the thick bushes near the side of the road. As midnight approached, he started to get worried about the proposed timing of his pickup.

The black Jeep Wrangler had left Gelder Pond Lane in the early afternoon and hadn’t returned, creating the possibility of an unplanned meeting between the two vehicles in the vicinity of Limerick. Not a big chance, but even the smallest window of opportunity seized by the enemy represented a possible disaster. He’d learned this lesson the hard way in Afghanistan during 2015 when the Taliban came out of hiding, untouched and unfazed by the pandemic.

Kidnappings had replaced IEDs as the most feared insurgent tactic. With the help of sympathetic or threatened locals, Taliban “skassas,” or specters, coordinated the sudden and often inexplicable disappearances of coalition personnel from patrols. The abductions defied explanation, but all had the same thing in common—a short, often unexpected window of vulnerability, like tonight.

Brown tried to contact “Relay One” to delay his pickup until tomorrow evening, but Eli had withdrawn the radio relay vehicle a few days ago, switching to a seemingly random pattern of radio communication to collect Brown’s situation reports. He suspected the times coincided with whenever Eli could spare a vehicle to drive close enough to make radio contact. He couldn’t blame Eli for making the change. Traffic patterns in and out of the compound yielded little in the way of an exploitable pattern.

One of the tactical vehicles left in the morning, typically before eight, and returned by noon the same day, rarely later. Another vehicle remained permanently absent, presumably based at another government-sponsored compound. This left two heavily armored vehicles and an undetermined number of soldiers at the compound for most of the day.

The situation had grown slightly more interesting today; marking the first time any of the compound personnel had departed in a civilian vehicle, without an escort. Due to Brown’s lack of real-time communications with Eli, they had missed an easy chance to eliminate a key player in the government conspiracy without confronting heavily armed ground forces. They couldn’t afford to miss future opportunities like this, especially this early in the game. Eli had said it himself. They needed to strike as many critical blows to the regime’s fledgling structure as possible to collapse it, but it had to be done right.

At this point, he sincerely hoped Eli wasn’t planning to attack the compound. Even trying to drive an explosives-laden vehicle onto the grounds would certainly meet with failure given the amount of firepower provided by the tactical vehicles. Six days after the first attack, he couldn’t imagine any scenario in which the government agents hadn’t prepared for the possibility of a car bomb, especially after McCulver tipped their hand by harmlessly detonating a firecracker next to a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) classified vehicle.

When he returned to the farm, he hoped to hear that Eli had moved on from this dangerous obsession. If not, he’d consider slipping away and heading north, away from whatever was about to explode in York County. The Maine Liberty Militia had been a good place to land, but he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure about Eli.

“Overwatch, this is Liberty One-Zero,” he heard over faint static.

“This is Overwatch. What is your ETA for pickup?” Brown requested.

“We just turned onto 160. ETA four minutes.”

“Copy, four minutes. I’m headed east on Old Middle Road. Pickup approximately fifty yards past the entrance to Gelder Pond Lane. Right side of the road.”

“Roger. We’ll be running without lights on the stretch in front of the entrance.”

“Copy. Out,” he said and lifted himself off the ground.

He walked briskly through the underbrush, keeping parallel with Old Middle Road. A minute later, he turned left and fought his way through to the edge of the road for a quick look toward Gelder Pond Lane. The sheer darkness yielded little beyond a thick, monochromatic curtain. He dug a handheld night-vision spotting scope from one of his cargo pockets and scanned the entrance to Gelder Pond, checking for movement. Satisfied that it was safe to step out of the bushes, he took a few steps onto the dirt road and aimed the unmagnified scope down Old Middle Road. It was empty.

Brown cradled his rifle and shuffled west. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the Gelder Pond entrance as possible before the extraction vehicle arrived. More than fifty yards if possible—enough to determine if they had attracted any attention. Driving this close to the compound represented a moment of vulnerability, and he wasn’t taking any chances. He picked up the pace, jogging until he heard the faint hum of a car motor. Through his scope, a dark shape appeared in the middle of the road, well beyond the turnoff.

He watched Gelder Pond Lane carefully as the vehicle skidded to a stop in the middle of the road, directly in front of him. The SUV’s engine roared, advertising their presence on the hushed, country road. He watched the entrance to the pond for a few moments until he felt sure that nothing was in pursuit.

“What the fuck? Get in!” yelled the front seat passenger.

The acrid, metallic smell of fresh blood hit Brown’s nose when he yanked the door open.

Smells like a slaughterhouse .

He shoved his rucksack through the headrests, dropping it into the rear cargo compartment, barely squeezing into the crowded back seat before the SUV lurched forward at an unadvisable speed.

“You might want to slow down. There’s a sharp left turn coming up,” he said, pulling the door shut against his leg.

“We’ll slow down when we’re the fuck out of here,” uttered a gruff voice from the front passenger seat.

“At least hit the lights. Trust me.”

“Lights? Why don’t we honk the horn to scare away the deer? Ever hear of going tactical?”

With the door shut, the coppery stench intensified, forcing him to turn his head and fumble for the button to lower the window. Moments later, the SUV skidded to an abrupt halt, jamming Brown’s face into the headrest directly in front of him.

“Take it the fuck easy!” said the guy in the passenger seat.

“You got me driving around in the middle of nowhere with the lights out! What the fuck do you expect!” the driver snapped.

“I think it’s safe to use the lights at this point,” said Brown, reaching over his shoulder for the seatbelt.

“That’s not your decision to make, Ranger Rick. This is my mission,” said the man in front of him.

“Does getting back alive fit your mission parameters?”

“This is a courtesy pickup. You can walk back, for all I care.”

“I think Eli might feel differently,” he said as the car eased forward.

“I don’t really give a shit what Eli thinks.”

“All right. It’s your show,” said Brown.

“Hit the lights, slick. I’d like to get back alive to enjoy our new toys.”

The SUV’s interior brightened momentarily as light reflected off the bushes flanking the dangerously narrow road. Glancing to his left, Brown caught a glimpse of the man pressed against the far door. Half of his face was smeared scarlet red. The guy jammed between them had blood all over his neck.

Hunting?

That didn’t make any sense. They could hunt in the woods around Eli’s farm. Something didn’t add up here. He felt a hard thump against the back of his seat, causing him to sit up.

“Did you feel that?” he asked, eliciting no response from either man in the back seat.

The next hit jarred him forward. “What the fuck?”

“We might need to crack one of them over the head again,” grunted the man next to Brown.

“If we have to stop this car, I’ll do more than knock her over the head,” hissed the leader.

“I’ll make sure the little one chokes on my dick,” grumbled the other back seat passenger. “That should settle her down.”

The pounding against the back of the seat intensified.

“Who do you have back there?” asked Brown, quietly unsnapping the holster pressed against the door.

“Some new toys.”

“Part of the mission?”

“Eli told us to string up everyone we find at the house, but it seemed like a waste of good pussy. Not like he’s gonna complain. We did a real number on the mayor.”

“The mayor?” Brown echoed, slipping the Beretta 92FS out of the nylon holster.

“The mayor of Sanford.”

Brown paused for a moment, considering his options. It didn’t take long for him to reach a decision.

“There’s another sharp turn coming up on your right,” he blurted, easing the Beretta across his chest as the car rapidly decelerated.

He jabbed the barrel into the middle guy’s neck as the SUV’s high beams exposed a long, tree-covered stretch of road.

“Looks straight to—”

The pistol’s sharp report cut off the driver’s protest, catapulting the tight space into pandemonium. He shifted the pistol an inch to the right and fired two 9mm bullets into the next man’s face, spider-webbing the blood-splattered window just behind his head.

“Son of a mother—”

The leader turned his body, struggling to push his compact rifle between the front seats. Brown jammed the rifle’s hand guard against the roof and aimed the pistol into the back of the man’s seat, rapidly pressing the trigger until the man stopped thrashing.

Given an extra fraction of a second to analyze the situation, the driver smartly abandoned the SUV. Brown lurched between the front seats and steadied himself on his side, emptying the rest of his magazine at the fleeing figure. The vehicle started to roll forward, and he let the SUV drift several feet before sliding the transmission into neutral and slipping out of the rear passenger door with his rifle. Brown walked behind the vehicle until it drifted to a stop in the middle of the road.

Bullets peppered the SUV, shattering two of the cargo compartment windows. Pistol caliber, he guessed, judging by the sound of the gunfire and the fact that nothing had passed through the thin metal sides. Brown opened the front passenger door and pulled the leader’s limp body onto the dirt road. He reached across the seats and fumbled for the headlight controls. A bullet struck the dashboard above the steering wheel, missing his arm by inches and cracking the LED speedometer display. A second bullet hit the rearview mirror above his head. He caught movement beyond the driver’s side door and pulled back into the passenger side.

Fuck this shit.

Brown scurried to the front of the vehicle and quickly fired his rifle point-blank into the headlights, returning the road to darkness. He retreated behind the engine block as bullets snapped over the hood, crackling through the forest beyond the SUV.

Time for a little flanking maneuver.

After backing into the trees, Brown crouched and walked back the way they had come, stopping when he had a clear view around the SUV. He scanned the trees to the left of the vehicle with his night-vision scope, hoping to catch some movement.

Nothing.

The SUV’s red taillights washed out the green image.

He’d have to do this the hard way—and quickly. He had no idea how the soldiers at the compound might react to nearby gunfire. Instinct and experience told him they would stay safely tucked away behind their fortifications, but he’d hate to be wrong. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jeff Brown felt like he’d done the right thing. That he’d chosen the right path on his own. It’d be a real shame to get greased on the side of the road by some twenty-year-old PFC blasting away with a night-vision-equipped “240 Golf.”

Staying low, he crossed the road and crouched behind a thick stand of bushes, staying perfectly still. The deep hum of the SUV’s idling engine contended with the chirping crickets, eliminating any chance of hearing the soft rustle of fabric against bushes or the faint scraping of boots across dried pine needles.

“The hard way,” he mumbled.

Keeping his rifle trained parallel to the road, Brown moved forward, stepping heel-to-toe. He’d covered half of the distance to the SUV when a bullet punched through the side of his abdomen, knocking him to one knee. The gunman had retreated deeper into the forest than he had anticipated. Bullets cracked and hissed around Brown as he scrambled behind a thick tree. He waited a few seconds before leaning around the tree to search for a target.

Muzzle flashes and splintering bark forced him back, but instead of waiting for the fusillade to end, he shifted to the left side of the tree and centered his rifle’s canted sights on the flashes. A bullet creased the top of his shoulder as he squeezed the match-grade trigger. The AR-10 repeatedly pounded his shoulder until one of the incoming muzzle flashes pointed erratically skyward, suggesting a sudden, involuntary shift in the gunman’s aim.

The forest fell silent against the ringing in his ears, leaving him satisfied that at least one of his .308 bullets had found its mark. Using the rifle as a support, he struggled through searing stomach pain to reach his feet, and stumbled to the back of the SUV. Brown didn’t have much time left. He was starting to feel sluggish. Activating the tailgate latch, he swung the door upward, collapsing to his knees in pain. Two figures writhed in the cargo compartment, hog-tied and gagged. He had to free them before all of his strength drained. There was no way to be sure that the man in the forest was dead. He tried to raise himself by the bumper but didn’t make it onto his feet. This wasn’t going to work.

“Can you hear me?” he yelled.

Muffled screams and more writhing.

“I need one of you to wiggle toward the back of the car! I can cut you free.”

The larger of the two figures edged her way to the back of the compartment, contorting far enough for Brown to reach the zip ties interlocking her ankles and wrists.

“Hold still, please,” he exhaled, aware that he was fading.

He unsheathed the fixed-blade serrated knife attached to his belt and carefully placed the stainless steel blade against the plastic tie linking the others together. Pressing down firmly, the plastic snapped apart.

“That’s just the first part. Your wrists and ankles are still bound. Scoot toward me a little more,” he said.

He gripped her ankles and pulled them apart, exposing a quarter-inch of the white zip tie. The razor-sharp blade cut through the heavy-duty zip ties with minimal effort, freeing her legs.

“Hands next.”

She worked her way to the edge of the cargo area, extending her hands as far away from her back as possible.

“Pull your wrists as far apart as possible,” he said, knowing it might only gain him an extra millimeter of distance to work with.

Brown carefully slid the knife between her palms, easing the knifepoint past her wrists. When the entire five-inch blade had passed safely between her wrists, he lifted the serrated blade upward until it rested against the zip tie. With all of her skin clear of the blade, he snapped the knife upward, parting the plastic. As soon as her hands were free, she crawled back into the compartment like a frightened animal and tore at the duct tape across her mouth.

“I’ll leave the knife with you,” he said, tossing the blade into compartment before collapsing to the road.

He pressed his hand against his side and felt warm, thick fluid pump through his fingers.

It’s probably better this way. Easier.

The woman jumped down from the tailgate, pulling the smaller figure down after her. They paused for a moment.

“The car’s still running. You need to get out of here,” he said, easing his head against the dirt.

She slammed the tailgate shut, bathing him in a muted red glow from the taillights. Brown raised his head far enough to see that she was standing next to the vehicle, staring at him. He shook his head.

“Get that little girl to safety. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” the woman said in a shaky voice.

“There’s nothing you can do about that. Pull the bodies out of the backseat and get going. The right rear passenger seat is the best for your daughter. It’s the least messy.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded and lowered his head again. The red light faded from the branches and leaves above him, yielding to blackness and a few patches of star-filled sky. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it would all turn black.

Chapter 18

EVENT +10 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex rested his hand on the M1919A6 machine gun’s metal buttstock and listened for anything out of the ordinary in the forest. Branches swayed gently with the arrival of a warm breeze that washed over the yard. Beyond that, nothing but crickets. He concentrated for a few more seconds before leaning back in the folding chair with a thermal scope and scanning the forest for heat signatures.

A broad sweep of his field of vision from the back porch yielded nothing but a dark grayscale image of the trees and bushes. He’d found several dozen thermal riflescopes in the battalion’s weapons container at the airport. Most of the systems were clip-on types, which mounted in front of the weapon’s current day-scope. Unlike dedicated targeting scopes with crosshairs, the clip-on sight could be removed and reattached while maintaining the accuracy of the weapon. He’d issued one to each of the M240 gunners, to sweep their sectors around the house. Diligent use of the thermal scope would make it nearly impossible for anyone to sneak up on them.

The deck creaked, drawing his attention to the sliding screen doors. Kate stood in the middle of the deck, feeling her way around while her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“Everything okay?” she asked him.

“I think so. Weird, you know? Sounded like a gunfight on Old Middle Road. OP Alpha swears they heard a vehicle on the road right before the gunfire.”

“At 2:30 in the morning?” she said, guided by his voice.

“A little before 2:30.”

“But nothing for the past two hours?”

“No,” he said, reaching out and grasping her hand.

“Any room in there for me?” she asked, pulling a chair away from the porch table.

“There’s always room for the love of my life, even if she shows up empty-handed,” Alex said, scooting his seat until he was leaning against the sandbag wall.

“Coffee won’t make a difference at this point. We need sleep,” she said, squeezing in next to him.

“Sleep? I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word.”

“Snug in here,” she said, wrapping her arm around him.

They had constructed a three-sided, sheet-metal-reinforced sandbag position in the far corner of the screen porch, facing the northern tree line directly behind the house. The addition of hurricane shutters had severely limited their ability to survey the various sectors around the compound, and Alex didn’t want to place the full burden of watching over them on the Marines. They had constructed a second sandbag position on the farmer’s porch, to the right of the porch steps. One of the uninjured adults manned each position throughout the night, contributing to the defense of the compound.

“This is about as romantic as it gets for us,” he said. “A starlit night behind a sandbag bunker.”

“It could be worse…” Kate rubbed his chest with her fingers.

He missed the warmth of her hands. Her lips. Her skin. Everything they shared together as husband and wife. She leaned in and kissed the small of his neck, leaning her head on his shoulder. He pressed his head against hers and exhaled, pretending to relax. How much longer could he pretend? Better yet, how much longer should he pretend?

“That’s what I’m afraid of. September 1st is three days away. A month after that, our options plummet if this doesn’t work out.”

“What other choices do we have?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Head north?”

“Right now?”

“Once the battalion gets here, it’ll be hard to disappear,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Where would we go? Charlie’s?”

“I don’t think that would work out,” he whispered.

“I can’t believe someone ransacked all of his stuff.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference. He had a year’s worth of dehydrated food for four people. We have seventeen mouths to feed. That’s three months of minimal rations. Not that it matters.”

“We can bring enough food to get us through to the summer.”

“Then what? We’d have to start from scratch growing food. It’s taken us three years to get to this point, and it’s not enough to keep us from digging into the reserve supplies by January. Earlier with this many people. We’re barely sustainable for the long run if everyone stays.”

“We’re not kicking anyone out.”

“I didn’t say we were, but Charlie’s house isn’t a long-term option. We’d be lucky to make it through the winter. Not to mention we’d probably kill each other before January. It’s too small for this group.”

“It’s not that bad,” she said.

“Picture trying to sleep seventeen people in his place. We’d use every square foot of the house just to lie down at night. About the only thing the camp has going for it at this point is abundant fresh water and a wood-burning stove. The neighbors will probably take the stove next.”

“That’s a real bummer,” she said, pausing. “The whole situation sucks.”

“If the border holds and we can find that militia nut before he stirs up trouble, we might not have to go anywhere.”

“And if we have to leave?”

“I have an idea, but we have a limited window of opportunity before it becomes too risky,” said Alex.

“How limited?”

“Early November at the latest.”

“Does it have something to do with the nautical charts that appeared yesterday?”

His ROTAC handheld unit chirped, indicating a connection. He read the display. “Patriot Five Alpha.” Direct communication from Harrison Campbell. This couldn’t be good.

“Hold on, honey,” he said, putting the phone to his ear. “Captain Fletcher.”

“It’s Harrison. We have a problem.”

Harrison sounded out of breath, and Alex thought he heard a car door shut in the background.

“What’s going on? You sound like you’re in a car.”

“I am in a car. Greg Hoode has been murdered and—”

“The mayor?”

“Yes. One of my guys down at the storefront went for a smoke. Found the mayor strung up on the statue of Thomas Goodall. Mutilated. They spray painted ‘FEDERAL SPY’ on the statue’s base. I’m headed right over.”

“Right across the street from the recruiting station? Fuck. This has to be Eli’s handiwork,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. “Has anyone contacted the police?”

“I was going to swing by the hospital on the way downtown.”

“Negative. The police will treat this like a crime scene. We need to get the body down before anyone sees it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Alex. We should let the police take care of it,” said Harrison.

“We can’t afford that kind of publicity. Eli did this for a reason.”

“We don’t know it was Eli. Greg had plenty of enemies in town.”

“I can’t take that chance, and neither can you, for obvious reasons. Remember the gray hatchback that passed in front of the coffee shop when we were talking with the mayor?”

“Two men. Nothing unusual.”

“Nothing unusual except the license plate is registered to a F-150 pickup truck in Alfred. We found a pile of Maine license plates at the church outside of Milton Mills. My guess is they’re stealing plates from disabled cars and slapping them on the fleet of vehicles they acquired from their little Milton Mills scam.”

“Sounds a little thin,” said Harrison.

“Why would anyone hang him in the middle of Sanford with the words ‘federal spy’ spray painted? Eli is sending the town a clear message to stay away from us. We can’t afford to have problems filling the provisional security team.”

“I’m not touching the body, Alex. Not without one of your staff NCOs on the scene,” said Harrison.

“I’m sending a vehicle from the airport. ETA ten minutes. I’ll be there in thirty. We have about an hour and a half to clean this up. Thank God nobody’s camping out in the park.”

“We can’t keep this a secret forever.”

Kate tapped his shoulder.

“What?” he whispered.

“Did the mayor have a family?” she asked.

“Jesus. Harrison, can you muster a team to visit the mayor’s house?”

“Alex, I’m not tampering with evid—ah, shit . We’re on our way.”

“Be careful, Harrison. I’ll call you from the road,” Alex said, lowering the radio.

“I have to go.”

Kate kissed him. “Does he have family?”

“Sounded like it. Harrison is headed straight there,” he said, grabbing the thermal scope and his rifle.

“You should put on your uniform in case the police show up,” she said.

“Right,” he mumbled, his thoughts drifting.

Chapter 19

EVENT +10 Days

Sanford, Maine

They drove to Sanford using night vision, standard operating procedure for an unsecured transit lane. Alex couldn’t discount the possibility that this was some kind of elaborate trick to lure them into town, and there was no reason to advertise their arrival with headlights. The Matvee’s armor was impervious to small-arms fire and interior damage from basic explosive devices, but the vehicle could be disabled or flipped under the wrong circumstances. Travelling in a convoy, this presented little more than a nuisance. The other vehicles could extract or protect the shaken crew until a “wrecker” was summoned to remove the vehicle. Driving alone, a disabled vehicle spelled disaster. A few well-placed Molotov cocktails could force them out of the armored shell long before help arrived.

Entering the intersection next to the park from the west, Lianez pulled the Matvee across the road and stopped in the opposite lane. Two men dressed in camouflage walked across the road twenty feet in front of them, headed to the York County Readiness Brigade station on the other side of the street.

“I assume those are friendlies?” said Jackson over the vehicle’s internal communications net.

“Roger. Looks like brigade militia.”

“Where do you want us, sir?” asked Corporal Lianez.

“Right next to Guardian One-Zero.”

The dark shape of Staff Sergeant Taylor’s Matvee loomed south of the statue. Bright green, shaky lights at the base of the statue obscured the three figures scrubbing away at the blood and spray paint. Taylor set them to work as soon as the mayor’s corpse had been placed in the back of the tactical vehicle. With any luck, the statue would look the same at sunrise, and no one would be the wiser about the mayor’s brutal fate. Unless Eli had left a few more displays around town. The mayor’s wife and twelve-year-old daughter were missing. Once the park was tidied up, they’d search the rest of Sanford’s more commonly used public areas for their bodies.

Lianez drove over the curb and maneuvered them between two trees to arrive next to the other tactical vehicle. Alex flipped up the night-vision goggles attached to his helmet and stepped into the humid morning air, letting his eyes adjust for a moment before meeting Taylor next to the statue.

“What’s up with the York County guys?” said Alex, nodding toward the men disappearing into the storefront across Main Street.

“We just got word on the police scanner that two cruisers are heading over from the hospital. ETA any time now. Figured the militia presence might complicate things.”

“Good thinking. I should wave off the rest of them. Any idea why they’re headed this way—beside the obvious?”

“They were dispatched on a ten-fifty-four. We’re pretty sure that means dead body.”

“They won’t be happy to find us here. Especially with their mayor in a body bag,” he said. “How long until we’re done here?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

“I guess there’s no way to avoid them. Should be fun,” said Alex, noticing a set of headlights approaching from the east. “Close up the rear hatch so they don’t see the body bag.”

“Got it, sir.”

Alex activated his handheld radio. “Harrison, is that you approaching from the east along Main?”

“Roger. We’re passing the auto parts store. What’s the situation down there? My guys said the Marines sent them back inside.”

“Looks like we’re about to have some company from the Sanford Police Department. Somehow, they know about the body.”

“You still want me down there?”

“I’m thinking you should turn it around and head back home. Relations with local law enforcement are likely to sour over this. There’s no point in dragging you along for that ride. I’ll update you when we’re finished.”

“Good luck. Buzz Gifford is the line sergeant on duty tonight. He’s a ball-breaker,” said Harrison, disconnecting the call.

“Great,” Alex grunted, catching the flash of a blue strobe light between the old mill buildings to the north.

“Staff Sergeant, put your gunner back in the turret. Keep the other two working on the statue,” he said.

“Ooh-rah, sir,” said Taylor, dashing over to the statue.

“Lianez, pull your vehicle around the other side of the statue. Jackson, make yourself visible up top, but keep the two-forty pointed away from the officers.”

The police cars sped down Washington Street, their blue strobes illuminating the façades of the tall buildings and marking their progress toward the park. Alex had no idea if any level of coordination had been initiated between the Regional Recovery Zone governing body and the local police department. Judging by the limited interaction reported by the late mayor and the frosty reception by state troopers at the Milton Mills site, he highly doubted it. From what he could tell, the sprawling RRZ bureaucracy hadn’t arrived, which was surprising given the large number of soldiers that had recently descended on southern Maine.

The airport was nearly unrecognizable at this point, with dozens of UH-60 Black Hawk and CH-47 Chinook helicopters ferrying soldiers to points along the border. Transport vehicles poured through the area at the same time, depositing combat support and headquarter elements of 10th Mountain Division’s 4th Brigade Combat Team at the airport. The rest of the 4th BCT was scheduled to arrive over the course of the next three days, along with the Marines.

Two police cruisers screeched through the turn off Washington Street, skidding to a halt on the north side of the park. The officers hit the pavement yelling, as Corporal Lianez backed the Matvee into place on the other side of the statue, temporarily blocking the verbal onslaught.

“They don’t sound happy to see us, sir,” said Taylor.

“You think?” Alex said, patting the staff sergeant’s shoulder. “Stay right behind your Marines. Keep them working on the statue, no matter how heated this gets.”

“Copy that, sir.”

“Lianez, I want you out of the vehicle, next to me. Hands off your rifle,” he said into his radio mic, placing himself between the onrush and the statue.

“On my way, sir.”

Four police officers swarmed past the back of the vehicle, broadcasting a confused slew of commands and threats while shining their lights on the scene. One of the officers slid by Alex and was blocked by Lianez.

“Get away from the statue! Right now!” he bellowed, trying to sidestep the Marine. “Out of my way, son!”

Lianez stood his ground, relenting when the officer pushed him aside. Staff Sergeant Taylor was next in line, presenting a formidable obstacle at six-foot-two, 240 pounds. Alex pointed at the next police officer that rushed forward.

“Stop right there!” he said, his words having the desired effect.

The police sergeant squared off in front of Taylor, took a few steps back, and turned to Alex.

“You do not order my officers around. This is my crime scene, and you will withdraw. Where’s the mayor?” he said.

“I think we need to throttle this back a bit, Sergeant.”

“I’m not throttling shit back until your soldiers stop tampering with my crime scene,” he said, directing his light at the Marines scrubbing the statue.

“They’re Marines, and I need you to step back before we continue,” said Alex.

“I don’t give a shit what they are. What did you do with the mayor’s body?”

“What makes you think he’s dead?” said Alex.

“Don’t fuck with me on this. Greg Hoode was a good friend of mine. His wife and daughter are at the hospital in hysterics. I don’t give a shit who you are or what your orders tell you, but I’m not backing down from this. Where—is—the mayor?”

“I’m sorry about Mr. Hoode,” said Alex. “We took him down from the statue.”

“Jesus! Why the hell did you do that? Your men need to stop cleaning the statue!” he hissed.

“Greg Hoode’s throat was cut from ear to ear, both of which are missing. Eyes gouged out. Fingers missing. Castrated. Disemboweled. Not the kind of scene you want in the center of Sanford when the sun rises.”

“That wasn’t your call to make,” said the police sergeant.

“Yes, it was. This is a Homeland Security matter. I’ll turn over the body, but we’re scrubbing the scene clean,” said Alex.

“Homeland Security? That’s a bunch of bullshit,” he uttered. “Trust me, you don’t want the trouble I can rain down on your ass. Get your men out of here immediately, before this gets ugly.”

“How long until we’re done, Staff Sergeant?” said Alex.

“About five minutes, sir.”

“We’ll be out of here in five minutes. I’ll deliver the body wherever you want.”

“I’m done with this. Help me get them off the statue!” said the police sergeant, trying unsuccessfully to push past Staff Sergeant Taylor.

The rest of his officers started to rush toward Alex and Lianez.

“Touch one of my Marines again, and I’ll arrest all of you,” said Alex, stopping the officers.

“You don’t have the authority,” said the police sergeant, jamming a finger in Alex’s chest.

Alex needed to deescalate the situation. Alienating the Sanford Police Department would prove to be counterproductive once the battalion’s security mission kicked into full gear. With more than forty officers on their roster, the Sanford PD could play a significant peacekeeping and intelligence-gathering role within the immediate vicinity of the RRZ Forward Operating Base. On the flip side, a lack of cooperation by the police might foster passive resistance and heighten unrest. In his experience, nothing was gained by pissing off local law enforcement—in any situation.

“I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. Normally, we wouldn’t interfere in your work, but the mayor’s murder is more complicated than you might suspect. If you cut me a little slack here, I’ll fill you in on the details.”

“What else do you know?” said the sergeant, nodding at his officer to stand down.

“I’m pretty sure this wasn’t a locally motivated killing. I think a man named Eli Russell may have ordered it. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Unfortunately. You think this is militia related? Is that why Homeland is staking a claim?”

“My information strongly suggests the possibility,” said Alex. “Very strongly.”

“Sergeant Gifford,” he said, extending a hand. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“Harrison Campbell warned me about you,” said Alex, accepting his handshake.

“Harrison’s a good guy,” said Sergeant Gifford. “He could probably help you with Eli.”

“We’re working together on a few things. Finding Russell is one of them.”

“We could throw together the Special Response Team and pay him a visit at his house in Waterboro. Straighten this out immediately,” said Gifford.

“I highly doubt you’ll find him there. This is the first possible sniff we’ve had of him in six days. He’s gone into hiding with his militia.”

“You’re not exactly helping efforts to find him.”

“Aside from blood and entrails, which won’t tell us more than we already know,” said Alex, “the only thing they’re washing away is a spray-paint tag.”

“Possible gang murder? That’s not out of the realm in Sanford. Lots of crystal meth gets cooked up around here.”

“I don’t think so. The tag read ‘FEDERAL SPY.’ Displaying the mayor’s mutilated body in public is Eli’s way of scaring the people away from any association with the government or Harrison’s militia. I’m not going to bullshit you, Sergeant. We’re recruiting local citizens to form a provisional company in support of 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment’s security mission. I can’t afford any negative PR at this point.”

“Was the mayor working with you guys? Our chief got the impression that he had been cut out of the loop.”

“Greg Hoode sat down with us at the coffee shop for about ten minutes. We agreed to informally keep each other appraised of any big happenings. It was enough to get him killed.”

“Greg was a career politician type, but he took care of the town. One of the good guys, for sure.”

“That’s the impression I got. At least his family is safe. Small consolation, but at least it’s something. How did they manage to escape? Eli doesn’t strike me as the merciful type.”

“It’s weird. Marcia Hoode said they were set free by one of Eli’s people—after a shootout of sorts. She was bound and gagged with her daughter in the back of the SUV when it all started. They picked someone up out in Limerick, and all hell broke loose.”

“Limerick? Did she say where or what time?” said Alex, looking at Lianez.

“She’s pretty dazed. They drove around for a few hours, hiding out in several places before approaching the hospital.”

“But she’s sure it was Limerick?”

“Pretty sure. They drove on a bunch of unfamiliar back roads right after the shooting. Ended up heading south on 160—took them right through Limerick.”

“Shit. I live out on Gelder Pond—a few miles off 160. We heard some gunfire around 2:30 in the morning. Did you call this in to the state police?”

“Not yet.”

“Care to take a ride with me out to Limerick?” said Alex.

“That’s out of my jurisdiction, but if it relates to the murder here, I—”

“Consider it a peace offering. I’ll trade you one crime scene for another. I had to get the mayor’s body down,” said Alex.

“Let me bring our chief up to speed and try to arrange another shift supervisor. We’re stretched pretty thin right now—running extra details to guard the regional communications center.”

“Is that normal?”

“Not really. The whole state got put on alert the other day. Someone knocked out the communications tower at the Cumberland County center.”

“That’s right next to the correctional facility. Was there a prison break?”

“We don’t have a ton of details, but something went down at the prison—and it didn’t start on the inside. Armed men broke through the fence,” said Gifford, pausing. “Eli?”

“Wouldn’t be a bad place to gather recruits.”

“No. It wouldn’t,” said Sergeant Gifford, shaking his head. “I’ll meet you at the hospital to take custody of the mayor’s body. They still have a functioning morgue.”

“Make sure his wife doesn’t catch wind of this,” said Alex.

“We’ll keep it quiet. Work your way around to the back of the hospital. I’ll have a squad car and hospital staff by the brick smokestack.”

“Sounds like a plan. Staff Sergeant?”

“I think we’re done here, sir. The paint’s gone, and the blood looks about as washed away as it’s going to get. We’ll douse it with a few of the five-gallon water cans and call it good. It should pass casual inspection,” said Taylor.

“Word’s gonna get out. Probably some folks watching us right now,” said Gifford.

“Nothing we can do about that, but a few watered-down bloodstains beats seeing the mangled, naked body of the mayor.”

“Hard to argue with that logic,” said the police sergeant.

Chapter 20

EVENT +10 Days

Limerick, Maine

Alex stood with Police Sergeant Gifford and Corporal Lianez on the shoulder of Old Middle Road, examining the scene illuminated by the Matvee’s headlights. A thick ribbon of orange peeked through the forest to their left, melting into the deep blue sky visible beyond the thick canopy of overhanging branches.

“You think this guy was the one that helped her?”

“She said a guy opened the back of the SUV and cut her free before falling on his back. He’s the furthest one back—and there’s the knife,” said Gifford, aiming his LED flashlight at the ground.

Alex walked closer to the body. Unlike the three other bodies lying nearby, this one looked peacefully arranged, eyes staring blankly skyward.

“Check this out, Lianez,” he said, pointing his light at the rifle next to the body. “DPMS Panther. .308. Mrs. Hoode thinks the shooting started inside the SUV?”

“She’s positive of it. Said the driver braked really hard twice. The second time’s when all hell broke loose. There was shooting outside the vehicle, but that came later. Said a few bullets sizzled through the back compartment,” said Gifford.

Alex shook his head. “I don’t get it. Four members of Eli’s militia just get into an argument within a half-mile of my house and end up killing each other?”

“When did they shoot up your place?” said Gifford.

“About six days ago,” said Alex.

“They stopped to pick someone up, and the ride ends a few minutes later. Maybe this guy caught a glimpse of the women and decided this outfit wasn’t for him. Six days on a surveillance gig takes discipline. Bet he turns up prior military,” said Lianez.

“Mind if I take a closer look?” said Alex.

“Now it’s my crime scene?” said Gifford.

“I’m not in as big of a hurry here—plus I told you this would be yours.”

“You’re an interesting fellow, Mr. Fletcher. I’m not even going to ask how you ended up in Limerick with your own detachment of Marines.”

“You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Alex, kneeling next to the body.

“Probably not.”

Alex ran his light up and down the corpse. MultiCam uniform and boonie hat consistent with Eli’s militia. Filthy from what he could tell. Modular tactical vest with double .308 magazine pouches. Matching drop holster—missing pistol. Two additional .308 magazine pouches attached to bottom right side of the chest rig.

“Did your officers find a pistol in the SUV?” said Alex.

“Not sure.”

“Might want to have them check,” he said, pointing his light at the holster. “You don’t want someone stumbling on that in the parking lot. I’m not seeing any brass.”

“Ahead of the front most body, sir,” said Lianez, walking along the side of the road. “Definitely not .223 caliber. Bigger.”

“Probably .308,” said Alex, removing the polymer magazine from the rifle next to the body.

He thumbed five rounds onto the road before the magazine was empty.

“How many casings do you have?”

“Two right here,” said Lianez, swinging his light around to locate more.

“Then we have thirteen more out there somewhere. I bet we’ll find another body in the woods. Did Mrs. Hoode say how many men were involved?”

“You’re starting to sound like one of our detectives,” said Gifford, leaning over the body with his light. “Best she could guess was three. Looks like dog tags.”

“Jackpot,” said Alex.

Alex fished the chain out of the man’s tactical vest, exposing two plastic-covered dog tags. Giving the tags a quick pull, he separated the chain and held them to the light.

“Brown, Jeffrey A. Social Security number. O positive. No Religious Preference. I know these aren’t Marine tags. They stamp USMC right under the social.”

“Army?” said Gifford.

“I should be able to tell you in a few minutes,” said Alex, rubbing the tags together between his fingers. “I’m curious about the other guys. Mutilation and murder isn’t something I’d expect from regular militia—even Eli’s group. And the mayor’s family? I guarantee they weren’t taking them to a bed and breakfast.”

“Always a few rotten apples in the bushel,” said Gifford.

“True, but four in one bushel? I bet if we pulled prints and ran them through NGI (Next Generation Identification), we’d find a few of these gentlemen on furlough from the prison—compliments of Eli Russell. How long before we can get a crime scene unit out here?”

“No idea. Depends on who’s available—and willing to make the trip. NGI won’t be much help unless you have a magic connection to the internet.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I also have a biometric scanner back in Sanford. If someone from your department can lift the prints, I can scan them into my system, or we could cut off a few fingers to—”

“Jesus! Remind me to keep at least three towns between you and any of the state’s crime scene folks. I assume you’re just kidding?”

“I am—sort of. The more my battalion commander knows about Eli Russell’s capabilities, the better for all of us,” said Alex, contemplating the long-term implications of Eli’s latest moves.

“I’m sure we can manage to get you some fingerprints without using scissors. If one of you has a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper, we’re in business.”

“I think we can arrange that. Let me run these tags through the system and see what I get. We’ve got about another thirty to forty minutes until we won’t need our lights. You want to walk around with Corporal Lianez and try to find the missing man?”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a stroll around my crime scene—before you start snipping fingers and gouging out eyeballs,” said Gifford.

“I didn’t realize they retinal scan prisoners,” said Alex, laughing. “Try not to stray too far from the tactical vehicle. Eli might be dumb enough to send someone out looking for this crew.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Gifford, picking up the .308 and removing a few magazines from Brown’s vest.

Chapter 21

EVENT +10 Days

Porter, Maine

Eli paced the ground in front of the farmhouse, debating whether he should order the immediate abandonment of the farm. Lowell Sherman and his crew should have returned with Jeffrey Brown more than four hours ago. Even if they got lost picking up Brown and blew a tire on the way back, they should have been here by now. Their absence was conspicuous.

He’d coordinated the night’s festivities so Sherman’s crew would have ample time to make it back by sunrise. If any of his men had been captured, Eli faced a possible full-scale government assault on the farm. To make matters worse, he couldn’t rely on his early warning system to escape. Dozens of helicopters had been spotted over southern Maine, rendering his network of radio-equipped spotters useless. Travelling over one hundred fifty miles per hour at treetop level, the Black Hawk helicopters would close the distance between his most distant spotters and the farm within minutes.

With the sun burning off the morning haze lingering in the shallow valley, they were completely exposed. Escape and evasion tactics would prove useless against government air assets. Hell, for all he knew, they were watching him through the fog with thermal imaging. It wouldn’t be the first time the government used drones against the people. The screen door on the farmer’s porch creaked, drawing Eli’s attention away from the road leading out of the farm. Kevin McCulver stepped onto the dilapidated porch.

“I think it’s time to pack up and head to Bridgton. Fuck it. We’re too exposed here anyway,” said Eli.

“Eli, we’re fine. I just talked to Tim Barrett. We’re good to go. He just turned off Route 25. Should be here in ten minutes.”

“How the fuck did you talk to him! I’ve been sitting on this radio like it’s gonna hatch,” he said, raising the handheld to his face.

The LED display blinked “no charge.”

“Motherfucker!” he screamed, hurling the radio past McCulver and through one of the front windows.

The sound of shattering glass drew attention from the men gathered under the trees along Norton Hill Road. McCulver rushed down the stairs.

“Eli, why don’t we step inside?”

“What the fuck does Barrett know? He’s supposed to be hanging out at the hospital.”

“He saw a woman drive Sherman’s SUV up to Goodall Hospital’s emergency room entrance at about 2:50 AM, so he—”

Eli’s hand drifted to the Colt Commander on his hip, his face burning. “This isn’t making me feel better.”

“Bear with me. Barrett hung out long enough to see two police cars head into town about ten minutes later. Police scanner transmissions indicated a possible body in the park off Main Street.”

“Sherman took care of the mayor,” said Eli, “but somehow fucked up the rest of their mission?”

“He won’t be a problem, and neither will Brown. Barrett caught a dispatch requesting a crime scene investigation unit in Limerick. Five bodies. Male. All with fatal gunshot wounds.”

“Someone took care of Sherman.”

“Apparently,” said McCulver. “The question is how?”

“Maybe they spotted Brown at some point over the past couple days and waited for him to make a move,” said Eli.

“They would have taken him alive if that was the case.”

“Knowing Brown, I don’t think that would have been an option.”

“What about Jimmy’s people?”

“What do you mean?” asked Eli.

“What I mean is we got lucky this time. All five of them are dead. Brown may have taken this secret to his grave, but I’m not so sure about the others. I’ve been thinking a lot about our plans for Bridgton. Giving the town to Jimmy’s Vikings might not be in our best interest.”

“Go on,” said Eli, checking his watch.

“At first it seemed like a good idea. Putting them in Bridgton gets them out of the way. They’re nothing but trouble. Useful trouble, but not at all suitable for our next phase of operations.”

“Bridgton will keep them busy while we go about our work in York County.”

“But how long will it take for the whole thing to unravel? All it takes is one concerned citizen with a radio transmitter or a working vehicle to bring the whole thing crashing down on their heads—and ours. They’d sell us out in a second to save their own skins.”

“And your little genius expedition to the prison just added more of them to the group,” said Eli, wondering where McCulver was going with this.

“We needed more people. The prison raid put nearly seventy recruits in the training program.”

“Most of them are useless,” said Eli.

“We knew that going in. I’ve identified at least fifteen worth keeping. That’s all we needed.”

“And the rest?”

“None of them can locate the farm on a map. We made sure of that. We’ll drive them an hour north in one of the buses with their hoods on and leave them in a parking lot. They’ll scatter to the winds. Problem solved.”

“I’m more concerned with the Vikings. What a stupid name. I must have been out of my mind letting Jimmy create that group.”

“The Vikings served a purpose—but I think it’s time for them to go away.”

“Easier said than done. They keep to themselves.”

“They took a big hit last night. Two from the original crew and two from the prison. That leaves three in Bridgton—all Jimmy’s—and five sitting around here waiting for Sherman.”

“And Sherman ain’t coming back,” said Eli.

“They don’t know that, and they probably don’t care. More for them to plunder in Bridgton.”

“But we’re not turning them loose in Bridgton.”

McCulver shook his head. “Of course not. Wouldn’t be long before that attracted serious attention. We’d have an Apocalypse Now- style helicopter raid on our hands before the end of the week. I say we get in and out of Bridgton as fast as possible. Take the vehicles at the checkpoints.”

“We need heavier stuff, including some basic construction equipment. A backhoe loader would be ideal. Something we can use to build trenches and dirt berms—fortify this place a little. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a fuel truck. I’m pretty sure Bridgton has a public works gas pump, but it doesn’t do us much good without electricity. Some of the smaller fuel trucks have their own pumping systems. Don’t know if they have one of those. Probably not. We need to keep our eyes open for a big shiny gas carrier. Has to be one stranded somewhere.”

“We might have to go actively looking for one soon. Siphoning efforts are barely keeping up with our current consumption.”

“We’ll figure it out,” grumbled Eli, attuned to McCulver’s flat, dissatisfied tone.

Maybe he was right. The logistical realities of running a small army proved next to impossible without gas stations, grocery stores, Internet shopping and cell phones. Unless they were willing to attract significant attention. Attention they couldn’t afford now, especially with thousands of soldiers running around. He hadn’t anticipated such a large, conventional force arriving this soon.

Yesterday evening, Tim Barrett passed a disturbing report. Over a hundred Light All-Terrain Vehicles (L-ATVs), Stryker Infantry Combat Vehicles (ICVs) and armored supply vehicles rolled east through downtown Sanford, preceded by dozens of helicopters. A late afternoon bike ride along Main Street revealed the Sanford Seacoast Airport as their final destination. From the closest allowable point, nearly a half-mile away, he watched helicopters land and take off nonstop for more than an hour. Eli was familiar enough with brigade- and division-sized operations to guess that Barrett had witnessed the arrival of a light infantry battalion, along with elements of a combat aviation battalion.

Over the next several days, they could expect a brigade-sized unit—more than 4,000 soldiers—to deploy within southern Maine. They’d start seeing armored vehicle patrols in some of the planned operating areas within York County. Some new roadblocks. The helicopters were bad enough, but boots on the ground was always the worst. It signified the beginning of the end.

He’d have to rethink their strategy. The Maine Liberty Militia wasn’t strong enough or adequately savvy to fight a protracted guerilla war against a brigade-sized, conventional military force. To start, he didn’t have the proper surveillance network in place to keep a close enough eye on government forces. Tim Barrett was his only contact in Sanford, and Eli could only talk to him by sending a car south to contact him via handheld radio, which took his message and relayed it to the farm. The system was barely adequate, as evidenced by this morning’s fiasco. He’d almost abandoned the farm when it became apparent that Sherman wasn’t coming back.

His original plan to connect surveillance posts in York County with his headquarters in Porter proved impractical. Just the fifteen-mile relay to Brown’s post in Limerick required four relay stations, consisting of a vehicle, radio and two men—he couldn’t trust one to do it right. Sanford was another thirty miles south. No way that was feasible. Driving a car down would have to suffice—until it became too risky because of government patrols. Then what? He didn’t have a good answer to that question.

McCulver gave him one of those “all knowing” looks.

“What?”

“You know I’m on your side, right?”

“Aw, shit. Here we go,” said Eli. “Can it wait until we hear the rest of Barrett’s report?”

“Does his report really matter? A thousand soldiers in Strykers and Black Hawks showed up at Sanford airport, and we lost five men in Limerick. Not exactly a positive turn of events. Game changer, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Eli glared at him, making it as uncomfortable as possible for him to continue.

“I think it’s time to decide what you really want to accomplish with the militia, and if that’s possible.”

“You don’t think the resources in Bridgton represent an opportunity?” said Eli.

“It all depends.”

“You’re like the fucking Riddler. Spit it out, Kevin.”

“I think we snag a few cars at the roadblocks and head back. We use the raid to get rid of a few loose ends—like we discussed earlier.”

“And after that?”

“You can’t defeat an entire brigade combat team. Not with this army.”

“You think I don’t know that? It takes time to build up an effective insurgent force.”

“We don’t have time. Once winter hits, you’ll have a hard time convincing folks to stick around. The barn is heated with propane, which won’t last. There’s plenty of wood to heat the house, but I can’t imagine you plan to open the doors to the entire group. Even if we dump most of the prison inmates, we’re still looking at forty-plus mouths to feed. Everyone’s been eating MREs up to this point. There’s no shortage of food in the house, but once again, I don’t see you inviting forty folks to join you at the table.”

“The new recruits have been eating out of the fields,” offered Eli.

“Even if we put an all-hands, concentrated effort into harvesting, we’d still be in deep shit by the end of November.”

“A lot can change in a few months.”

“For the worse, potentially. If the troops get word that a brigade of soldiers arrived in southern Maine, convincing them to carry out sustained insurgency operations will be a tough sell.”

“I can be pretty persuasive,” he said, patting his holster.

“That worked once.”

“It’ll keep working,” said Eli.

“Trust me, blowing a man’s brains out in front of three dozen armed men has a short half-life as a leadership tactic. Let me know when you plan to kick off that campaign, so I can be on the other side of the state.”

“What do you suggest?” he hissed. “I just give up on this whole thing. Find a nice house on the lake and curl up by the fire all winter?”

Just as McCulver stepped uncomfortably close to Eli, a small sedan raced past the vehicles lined up along the dirt road leading out of the farm.

“I’m not suggesting you quit altogether. As your deputy commander, I’m suggesting a smaller, more symbolic target. Something completely in line with the insurgency role you’ve established. Test the waters with that, and see where it leads.”

“Revisit our friends in Limerick,” muttered Eli.

“Sort of. I didn’t tell you everything Barrett passed over the radio,” said McCulver. “The name Fletcher came up.”

Eli cocked his head.

“Captain Fletcher. Regional Recovery Zone security officer. He established Homeland jurisdiction over the mayor’s crime scene. Got the statue cleaned up before sunrise. Seems like he has the Sanford PD in his pocket now.”

“Son of a bitch. This Fletcher guy has his hand in everything.”

“And he still travels back and forth to Sanford from Limerick,” said McCulver.

Eli put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, and I approve, after we find a new headquarters. Something much smaller. Suitable for wintering over.”

McCulver glanced around furtively. “How much room will we need?”

“Enough for one squad. Roland Byrd’s crew.”

Chapter 22

EVENT +11 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex opened the front door and shielded his eyes from the halogen lamps illuminating the field across the driveway. The persistent low-pitched growl of a diesel generator bounced off the trees, reaching his ears from multiple directions. The neighbors were going to love this.

Unlike 4th Brigade Combat Team’s daytime arrival, Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s battalion rolled across the Maine/New Hampshire border at “zero dark thirty,” arriving at their designated locations between midnight and 3AM. The battalion’s vehicles left Londonderry and linked up with Route 95 near Hampton, driving the vacant turnpike north into Maine. Refugee traffic had been diverted westward several miles before Hampton, in response to the growing crisis at the Seabrook nuclear power plant.

Two Matvees and a medium utility truck detached from the long convoy before it reached Sanford, bringing twelve Marines, a DRASH (Deployable Rapid Assembly Shelter) unit and support gear to “FOB Lakeside” in Limerick. Alex would ride back to Sanford in the truck to meet with Grady, returning later in the day to assume command of the Forward Operating Base. He’d still serve as the battalion’s primary liaison with the York County Readiness Brigade, which required frequent trips into Sanford to oversee the recruiting station and guide the training of the battalion’s provisional security platoon. His duties threatened to take more time than he’d hoped, but it bought him peace of mind. With six armored vehicles and twenty-four Marines permanently stationed at his house, he could finally sleep easier.

A hand touched his shoulder.

“Looks like one of those eerie scenes in a post-apocalyptic movie. You know, where the government sets up a command post in the middle of hostile territory,” said Kate. “The lights attract the zombies or whatever; then they get overrun.”

“I’d say that was pretty farfetched if I hadn’t spent the last few days repairing bullet holes,” he replied, kissing her hand.

“I’d try to hug you, but I can’t seem to get my arms around all of your gear.”

“Grab lower,” he said.

“Nice. I’m sure the Marines wouldn’t appreciate the show.”

“Quite the opposite. They’d probably turn a few more of the lights in our direction.”

“Grady really needs to see you at five-thirty in the morning?” asked Kate, stepping next to him on the porch.

“He’ll be running at full speed, 24/7, until the battalion settles into their new role. I’m just hoping he doesn’t request my presence every morning at the battalion staff meeting.”

“What if he does?”

“He’ll have to settle for my smiley face on one of his computer screens. I should get going. I’ll ring the satphone when I get a chance.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how much time Grady wants to spend with me. He’ll want to see what we have set up for the recruits, maybe take a trip downtown to the recruiting station. I’d like to introduce him to the chief of police in Sanford. Lots of little things. I’ll keep you posted,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

“Why can’t you take one of the Matvees? I don’t like knowing that those militia nuts are still watching us.”

“The truck is armored,” he said.

“It doesn’t look as safe.”

“I wouldn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence insisting that I ride in a more heavily protected vehicle. The truck is fine, trust me.”

“Be careful,” Kate said, kissing him again.

“I’m always careful.”

“That’s not exactly what Ryan described in Boston.”

“I had everything under control…more or less,” Alex said and jogged away before she could delay him any further.

Thirty-five minutes later, the vehicle transporting Alex passed through a reinforced checkpoint at the junction of Route 109 and Airport Road. Two rows of concrete Jersey barriers stretched across the two-lane road, reducing it to a single lane flanked by a modular, armor-plated sentry post. A small generator concealed from the road by one of the barriers powered the portable light towers illuminating the road in front of the checkpoint.

Once inside the Maine Operating Base’s outer perimeter, the driver activated the vehicle’s headlights and followed Airport Road to the gate behind the battalion’s hangars. A sandbag post framed by a hastily constructed wood structure greeted them at the airport’s outer fence. A ranger dressed in full combat gear and helmet stepped in front of the vehicle with a flashlight and a handheld device. On his way to the passenger side of the cab, he placed the device over one of the barcode tags on the side of the MTVR’s hood and read the illuminated screen. Alex slid the thick ballistic glass window back several inches and held out his identification card as the soldier approached.

“We’re headed to 1st Battalion, 25th Marines,” said Alex.

“Copy that, sir,” said the ranger, saluting.

“Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Aside from your expert marksmanship and superb grenade-throwing skills, how do you stop a hostile vehicle from breaching the airport perimeter without a gate?”

“You really don’t want to know, sir,” said the ranger.

“Now I have to know.”

“You’re parked over a reconfigured M19 antitank mine. Remote detonated,” said the ranger.

“Fucking-A. Can we get moving, sir?” asked the lance corporal driving the MTVR.

“Sorry I asked. Carry on, Sergeant,” Alex said, and the MTVR lurched forward.

They turned left on a crumbling asphalt strip and drove behind a dark two-story hangar, continuing to the interior fence separating the Marine battalion’s hangar complex from the service road. Bathed in the MTVR’s headlights, several Marines manually opened the sliding gate and waved them forward.

“Drive around the back of the rear hangar!” one of the Marines shouted through the driver’s window.

Alex leaned across the private first class squeezed between him and the driver. “Where’s the battalion TOC?”

“Front hangar to the left, sir,” replied the sentry.

He grabbed his rifle and opened the door. “I can take it from here, Marines. Have a detail bring the prisoners from the first raid to the TOC. I have no idea what to do with them. Thanks for the ride.”

“Ooh-rah, sir.”

Alex jogged toward the first hangar along the airport’s westernmost taxiway, taking in the drastically changed runway scene. More tents crowded the five-acre triangle of grass between the taxiway and the airport’s secondary runway, completely surrounding the Mobile Tower System (MOTS) deployed by members of the 258th Air Traffic Control Squadron. 4th Brigade Combat Team’s Tactical Operation Center lay hidden somewhere in the jumble of tents growing to accommodate the brigade’s widening footprint at the airport. Alex had assumed that the brigade staff would occupy the hangars adjacent to the Seacoast Aviation office suite occupied by Captain Adler, instead of going through the trouble of erecting a small city of tents and generators.

When you bring toys, you tend to play with them—and the army had a lot of toys.

Beyond the northern edge of the tent city, rows of quiet, dark shapes lined the distant tarmac, barely discernible as transport helicopters. It was quiet for now. Once RRZ border security and refugee camp operations kicked into full swing, the airport would resemble a beehive, with reconnaissance, troop-ferrying and refugee relocation missions flying twenty-four hours a day. Past the tarmac, over the tops of the hangars, a faint ribbon of light blue sky merged with the star-filled sky. Reveille for MOB Sanford.

Alex reached the hangar and slowed to a walk, not wanting to surprise a tired and edgy Marine sentry near the battalion headquarters. He turned the corner and examined the well-lit, two-hundred-foot-long hangar. The interior had changed drastically since his visit in the afternoon. All of the individual bay doors stood open, likely to ventilate the stifling heat collected in the hangar throughout the previous day.

He didn’t envy the Marines quartered under the corrugated tin roofs. Beyond accessing the shipping containers to withdraw a few choice items, he had conducted most of his business outside in the shade. Even the small contingent of Marines that straggled down from Brunswick slept in the grass behind the hangars.

The far left side of the structure, front to back, was occupied by the same tables, display screens and electronics gear he’d seen inside the command tent at Harvard Yard, forming the TOC (Tactical Operations Center). The screens were blank, and only a few of the computers looked operational. Marines stripped down to tan T-shirts, utility trousers and boots worked under the tables, distributing clusters of cables and connecting fiber-optic wire. Lieutenant Colonel Grady, still dressed in combat gear without a helmet, sat alone at a table in the center of the TOC, typing on a laptop. Alex remained unobserved for the moment.

Three recently delivered shipping containers separated the TOC from a fifty-foot-wide area dominated by thick, waist-tall plastic bins and several gray folding tables. A group of five Marines helped offload a utility truck backed up to the hangar opening across from the supply area. The rest of the hangar housed several dozen Marines busy cleaning weapons or checking their personal gear. A few lounged on neatly arranged foam mats.

“Alex!” said Grady, closing the laptop.

Alex hustled into the hangar, stopping a few feet away to salute Lieutenant Colonel Grady. “Captain Fletcher reporting as ordered, sir.”

“At ease. Have a seat,” Grady said, sliding a chair over from the nearest table. “I was just looking at the after-action report from Greg Hoode’s murder. Fucking brutal. Looks like the problem bizarrely took care of itself.”

“Bizarre doesn’t begin to describe it. The .308 shell casings recovered in the forest belong to the bullets imbedded in one Edward Vega. Jeffrey Brown had the only .308 in the group and reportedly cut the mayor’s wife and daughter free. Blood-spray patterns inside the vehicle recovered at the hospital suggest that three of the occupants were quickly killed at point-blank range by the shooter in the right rear passenger seat. Had to be Brown.”

“But you found evidence that he had conducted reconnaissance outside of FOB Lakeside?”

“Right. We recovered a notepad filled with information about our vehicle movements. Nothing to indicate direct surveillance of the compound.”

“And Brown turned on them”—Grady snapped his fingers—“just like that?”

“He must have heard the women in back and had a change of heart,” said Alex, shrugging his shoulders. “The guy had a solid military record and no criminal priors, unlike the rest of the shitbags in that car. Didn’t seem like his type of crowd.”

“You indicated that two of them shouldn’t be on the streets. Tell me a little more about that. I didn’t read the full extract portion of the report.”

“Lee Hanson and Simon Shaw are—were—registered inmates at the Maine Correctional Facility in Windham, Maine. The facility was abandoned four days ago by correctional officers when a large contingent of heavily armed men broke through the gate. They used explosives to knock out the Cumberland County Communications Center across the street right before the attack.”

“Explosives?”

“At the base of the tower. No personnel casualties.”

“So, the big question is how did two inmates from the prison raid end up involved in the mayor’s murder?”

“I have a theory,” said Alex.

“Eli Russell,” stated Grady.

“It traces back to him, more or less.”

“I don’t like more or less,” said Grady.

“It’s a solid connection, sir. Prisoners from the attack identified Brown as one of the squad leaders used by Eli in the attack on my house. Brown gets picked up by the car used in Greg Hoode’s murder. Two of the guys in the car should be sitting in the correctional facility raided four days ago. Brown’s the link. If they’d been killed in a car crash before picking up Brown—”

“You’d probably still blame this on Eli Russell. I understand, Alex,” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’d want to get that fucker too. Family is family.”

“It doesn’t matter who’s behind this, sir. Something is brewing in southern Maine, and that doesn’t bode well for the battalion’s mission.”

“What about these prisoners?”

“I brought them back with the MTVR. They should arrive at the TOC in a few minutes.”

“Do they know anything else?” said Grady.

“I highly doubt it,” said Alex, hoping Grady wouldn’t press for an explanation of his response.

“The prisoners may come in handy if they can identify Russell’s crew. I’ll talk with the RRZ folks about setting up a temporary detention facility on base.”

“Did the Authority arrive?”

“Negative. They’re still trying to sort that out. Simultaneously assembling and transporting thirty-six teams turned out to be easier in theory than reality, especially in light of the damage to our infrastructure.”

“How many in each team?” asked Alex.

“Two hundred twenty-five, give or take a few.”

“Jesus. Sounds like a lot of people.”

“Not all of them will be based here. Liaison groups will be deployed to the state capitols and major cities to direct localized efforts. Some forward elements are already in place.”

Alex shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like they’re off to a good start up in Augusta. The governor’s office didn’t appreciate being told to take a back seat. The word is spreading over HAM radio.”

“I stay out of the politics,” said Grady.

“Good luck with that. If my suspicions about the RRZ Authority are correct, politics is about to become your top priority. Shoving a cadre of two hundred twenty-five bureaucrats in the state’s face is bound to cause friction. Add several thousand soldiers to the mix, none of whom report to local government, and you have the makings of a political disaster. Guess who’s going to be the RRZ’s front man? I’ll give you a hint,” said Alex, pointing across runways toward the RRZ Authority’s barbed-wire enclosure. “Not them.”

“Thanks for painting a bleak picture,” said Grady.

“You probably don’t want to hear the rest of my predictions,” stated Alex.

“The battalion has enough to worry about.”

“Like the snazzy uniforms behind door number three,” Alex said, nodding at the rightmost shipping container.

Grady paused before changing the subject. “How is the provisional security platoon coming along?”

“Not bad. In two days, we’ve picked up fourteen recruits. Four signed up under the militia banner. The rest joined as provisional Marines. Gunny Deschane and a few of the Brunswick Marines have been whipping them into shape. It’s a bit of a motley crew. We also have the York County Readiness Brigade’s training officer, Gary Powers. He’s been working closely with Gunny to create a useful three-week training curriculum.”

“That’s nearly half of a platoon. I’d call that excellent progress,” said Grady.

“Don’t get too excited. Things slowed down considerably yesterday. Three showed up; two had to be turned away. Despite our best efforts to contain the murder scene, word got out.”

“How do we reverse that trend?”

“Community outreach. The recruiting station is located next door to the Readiness Brigade’s community assistance center. They distribute limited quantities of food and basic medical supplies on a case-by-case basis to the public. Backing their efforts with a more robust aid package will draw people to the downtown area and the recruiting station.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’d like to get that platoon training together as soon as possible. What else do you have on your plate?”

“Something related. I’m working loosely with the Sanford Police Department to ease some of their concerns about the RRZ security situation. I’d like to include a few of their reserve police officers in the provisional platoon structure. We may as well add a local law enforcement element to the mix—especially if we plan to deploy standalone teams within the RRZ.”

“Vesting local law enforcement and militia in the military efforts? Sounds like you’ve done your homework. What about other communities pitching in, or maybe the sheriff’s department?”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Sanford has the biggest police department south of Biddeford, and they’re barely keeping up. The York County Sherriff’s department is spread all over.”

“See what you can add to the platoon. I like the concept. This is the kind of initiative the RRZ Authority expects from its Marines.”

“Speaking of initiative, I’d like to go on the offensive against Eli Russell. My gut tells me he’s just getting started. Prior to the attack, he visited several towns around Limerick, stirring up antigovernment feelings. Sounded like a recruiting drive.”

“Recruitment couldn’t have gone very well. Not if he had to resort to prison inmates.”

“You should spend a few minutes chatting with the prisoners I delivered. They believe I was planted in Maine by the government. Part of a false-flag operation designed to subjugate the people. You have to admit, it’s a clever story. From an outsider’s perspective, all of this looks highly suspect.”

“The government didn’t conjure an asteroid, then turn out the lights. We were attacked with a low-orbital EMP device.”

“How did an asteroid sneak by billions of dollars of technology aimed at detecting near Earth objects one meter in diameter, one hundred years away? I’m just asking a question the RRZ needs to be prepared to answer.”

“Whoever detonated the EMP device obviously knew about the asteroid. Both hit us at the same time.”

“Still doesn’t clear the United States of perpetrating a false-flag operation in their minds,” said Alex.

Grady shook his head and walked to the open bay door. “Have you seen the light show up there? It’s slowed to a trickle now, but it was particularly active four days ago.”

“We caught some of it. Wasn’t moving fast enough to be a meteor shower.”

“Rumor has it that we knocked out every Chinese satellite in orbit. My guess is the Chinese hit us with an EMP, and the U.S. wasn’t taking a chance on a follow-up attack.”

“Still doesn’t explain how an asteroid the size of a small business park evaded detection for so long. Eli’s stories are gaining traction, and we can’t afford him gaining some kind of foothold in southern Maine. I’d like to start regular vehicle patrols and aerial reconnaissance extending north of Limerick.”

“Air assets are out of the question right now. Every helicopter is tied up with border surveillance and transport missions. You have six vehicles attached to the FOB. That’s the best I can do until we figure out our tasking.”

“That’s barely enough to scratch the surface! I’m looking at nearly a thousand square miles between Limerick and Route 302, assuming he didn’t go further north. Cached satellite imagery shows hundreds of houses buried in the woods off the established roads. He could be at any one of those sites.”

“Not if he just liberated a prison.”

“We have no idea how many prisoners he took. Without more vehicles and helicopters, we’ll be lucky to find him before Christmas.”

“Unfortunately, much of the battalion’s mission is rather strictly defined by RRZ protocol. Checkpoints, patrol routes, VIP security—the list goes on. You’re lucky to have six vehicles at your disposal. I’m not sure I can meet the battalion’s baseline obligations with the remaining inventory.”

“Russell’s the only internal security threat on our radar right now. Just saying, sir, if we wait too long, this’ll bite us in the ass. Bite the RRZ in the ass. I can feel it.”

“I’ll give you what I can, when I can,” said Grady.

“I hope it’s enough to make a difference.”

Chapter 23

EVENT +12 Days

Bridgton, Maine

“Slow down a little,” said Eli, nestling a pair of binoculars between the dashboard and the windshield.

The Welcome to Bridgton sign stood several hundred feet ahead of them, marking the start of a sharp curve that would dump them into the roadblock.

“You ready?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at McCulver.

“Strong signal. Ready to go.”

A red SUV followed closely behind them, filled with the remaining Vikings. As Eli predicted, the last of Jimmy’s criminal brethren had chosen to ride together as the raid’s shock troops. Once through the checkpoint, they would ride ahead into town and attack the police station, cutting off communications to the officers on patrol, or so they thought.

“You sure we’ll be safe?” Eli asked.

“Duck if it makes you feel any better,” said McCulver, holding a garage door remote control.

Eli slid his Colt Commander out of the holster on his thigh and cocked the hammer with his thumb.

“Start flashing your high beams so we don’t have a blue-on-blue engagement here,” he said, noticing Grizzly’s nervous glance toward the pistol. “Can’t be too careful.”

Grabbing the binoculars with his free hand, Eli scanned the roadblock. A scoped rifle without a shooter sat on the hood of the same blue pickup truck they had encountered a week ago. A figure dressed in MultiCam utilities and a tactical vest stood behind the roadblock, firing a pistol at someone obscured by a two-door, silver sedan. The sound of gunfire reached the car, causing Grizzly to brake.

“They’re firing at us!” he blurted.

“Keep going. It’s something else,” Eli said, pretending to care about what he saw through the binoculars.

“I told you, Eli. They’re up to something,” said McCulver.

“Son of a bitch, Kevin. You were right,” muttered Eli.

“Right about what?” asked Grizzly.

“Griz, I need you to do exactly what I say. I’ll explain when it’s over.”

“When what’s over?” he protested, stopping the car.

“Keep us going, or we’re all dead. Stop right in front of the roadblock, and don’t move the car.”

“Jesus,” said Grizzly, glancing at the rearview mirror.

“We have this under control,” said Eli, raising his pistol to the bottom of the door frame. “Please drive forward, and stop at the roadblock.”

Grizzly eased the car forward, breathing rapidly between panicked statements. Eli hated to put the man through this kind of fabricated stress, but his perception of events, when recounted among the troops, would prove important to his credibility as a morally honest leader and shrewd tactician, two traits he needed magnified to pull off the next phase of his plan. As the car approached, Craig Page squeezed between the roadblock vehicles, grinning wickedly.

“Eli, I could run him over,” said Grizzly.

“Negative. We have to do this right, or we’re dead men. Stop right here.”

Pistol along his right side, Craig jogged forward and leaned in Eli’s window.

“You see that shit?” he yelled, unaware that Eli’s pistol was pointed at his face.

“Unfortunately,” said Eli, jamming the pistol beneath Craig’s jaw.

Before Craig could register a look of surprise, or betrayal, Eli pressed the trigger, blasting a hole through the top of his skull and snapping his head backward.

“Duck!” he said, throwing his head down as a deep thump shook their car.

Eli swung the door open and aimed down the side of his car, sliding against the metal until the red SUV came into view. Through the billowing gray and white smoke, the roof appeared punctured in several places, warped upward from the cabin. The vehicle’s shattered windows littered the road with pieces of bluish-white safety glass. He kept his pistol sighted on the cabin, unable to determine the true effects of the blast through the smoke billowing out of the windows.

“They’re dead, Eli. Trust me on that. There’s a head on the road about thirty feet back,” said McCulver, pointing beyond the smoldering car.

“Remind me never to piss you off. I thought you’d blow the whole car,” said Eli.

“I don’t like to waste explosives. That was a small thermobaric charge, which fit snugly inside the center console compartment. I basically detonated a racquetball-size quantity of magnesium powder inside the car. Nasty shit.”

“Holy shit. You weren’t kidding about the head,” said Grizzly, stepping out of the car. “We need to get out of here.”

“Griz, why don’t you drive back to Porter and warn the others? We’ll take the pickup and head to the other checkpoints manned by the rest of these psychopaths. You tell the sentries to shoot on sight if any of them try to get back to the farm.”

“How many are there?”

“Only two left after this, but I’ve got regular troops at five other checkpoints. I need to get to them immediately before this spirals out of control. Don’t stop for anyone. Don’t fuck up the passcode on the way in, or they’ll turn the SUV into Swiss cheese.”

“Roger that. Good luck, sir.”

“Carry on now, Griz. Hey, sorry you had to see this, but I won’t tolerate the murder of civilians. We’re all in this fight together.”

“That’s right, sir. I’ll pass the word.”

“What’s the code?” Eli prompted.

“Code?”

“The code to keep your ass from getting shot.”

“Born to Run. Backstreets,” stated Grizzly.

“How many flashes?”

“Track number four. Four flashes.”

“Good man. Get out of here,” he said, patting him on the back.

When Eli’s SUV swerved to avoid the blackened head in the middle of the road, McCulver shook his head.

“He’s not coming with us, is he?”

“To the new place? I don’t think so. He wouldn’t fit in with that crowd,” said Eli, removing a handheld radio from one of his vest pouches.

“All cleanup units, this is Liberty Actual. Over.”

Staticky voices responded, acknowledging his transmission.

“The northern checkpoint has been neutralized. Commence your runs. Stick to the script. No improvising. I want all units headed back to base within ten minutes. Out,” said Eli.

“You want to hit the route three-oh-two checkpoint on the way out?” McCulver asked.

“Not a bad idea. Byrd’s men are good, but you never know with Jimmy’s old crew.”

Chapter 24

EVENT +15 Days

Porter, Maine

Alex stood in the shade of the two-story pavilion next to the Ossipee Valley Fairgrounds, hiding shamelessly from the late afternoon sun. Transitioning from the Matvee’s cool, crisp environment to the humid August air proved infinitely uncomfortable in full combat gear. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to pull this off in Iraq, where the temperatures routinely soared twenty degrees higher than the hottest day on record in Maine, made worse by a complete lack of air-conditioning in any of their vehicles.

“Guardian Four-Zero inbound with local contact. ETA one mike,” his squad Motorola crackled.

“Roger. Break. Guardian Two-Zero, this is Guardian Actual. What is your ETA with Guardian Three-Zero?” radioed Alex.

“This is Guardian Two-Zero. Five mikes. Over.”

“Copy. All units meet by the white pavilion inside the front gate.”

“Sounds like we might have a break,” said Staff Sergeant Evans, scanning deeper into the fairgrounds with binoculars.

“I hope so. Three days without a sniff of Russell is a little discouraging.”

“We’ve barely scratched the surface, sir. This is going to take time unless we get lucky.”

“Tell me about it,” Alex muttered.

They’d spent almost every daylight hour driving the three main roads heading north toward Route 25. Most of their effort had been focused on areas directly north or northwest of Eli’s previous headquarters, leading them to the towns of Porter and Cornish. Alex planned to stay south of Route 25 and sweep east, canvassing rural roads until they hit Standish. Canvass was the operative term. Each team of two vehicles set out to explore dozens of sites selected the night before using archived satellite imagery. If the team leader spotted an unmarked dirt road or trail, they radioed their position and took a closer look.

The process was slow and tedious, requiring an entire day to thoroughly investigate a fifteen-square-mile area. By his calculation, they had nine hundred square miles to search before reaching Route 302. Sixty days. Eli Russell wasn’t going to wait sixty days.

A tan Matvee appeared on Route 25, racing toward the fairgrounds’ entrance with a promising lead: a local claiming to have seen a few vehicles pull deep into the fairgrounds eleven days ago. Same day as the attack in Limerick. Alex highly doubted Eli Russell picked the fairgrounds as his headquarters, but he wasn’t discounting the possibility that a small cell had remained behind for surveillance or to serve as a radio relay. Jeffrey Brown’s notebook suggested the use of a mobile communications network, which made sense given the geographic separation between Sanford and points north of Limerick. They’d sweep the grounds and surrounding trees with all four vehicles just to be sure.

The most likely scenario here involved Eli using the fairgrounds as a staging area or rally point while a new base of operations was established. It suggested they would find Eli north of Route 25, but that wasn’t a guarantee. The Ossipee fairgrounds could have been established as a fallback point well before the Limerick raid. Unless the eyewitness saw the bulk of Eli’s vehicles headed in a particular direction, Alex couldn’t draw any conclusions or make any assumptions about the location of Eli’s hideout.

Alex walked into the scorching sun and met Sergeant Keeler’s tactical vehicle in front of the pavilion, noticing a mountain bike strapped to the side. Keeler hopped out of the front passenger seat and opened the door behind him. A stocky, gray-haired man wearing faded jeans and a yellow short-sleeve button-down shirt jumped down to the dirt road, kicking up a shallow cloud of dust.

“Perry Gerson. Hope I can be of some help with this, Captain,” said the man, extending a hand, which Alex gladly accepted.

“Alex Fletcher. Any help at this point is highly appreciated. Prior service?” said Alex, shaking his hand.

“Army staff sergeant. Infantry. Last tour was with 1st battalion, 6th Infantry. An IED sent me home with two broken legs and a permanent back injury.”

“Ramadi 2006?”

Gerson nodded with a confused look on his face.

“He’s like a walking encyclopedia of the Iraq War,” said Staff Sergeant Evans, shaking his hand.

“Insurgents took over Ramadi after the fall of Fallujah. Not a fun area of operations. They relieved 3rd Battalion, 8th Marines. One-Six had a rough go of it.”

“The good captain fought with Regimental Combat Team One in Iraq.”

“Now I’m really confused,” said Gerson. “I thought they eventually put officers out to pasture if they didn’t pick up major.”

“Apparently, if you wander too close to a group of Marines during a national crisis, they hand you a rifle and restore you to your old rank,” said Alex.

“I’ll keep that in mind if I see any army units. So, the sergeant here tells me you want to hear more about the vehicles I saw last week?”

“Yes, please. Why don’t we step behind the pavilion before I die of heat exhaustion,” Alex suggested.

Staff Sergeant Evans checked his watch.

“Yep. He’s been out of the air-conditioning for twelve minutes. Ten’s the limit.”

“That’s what happens when you strap sixty pounds of armor and gear to a forty-eight-year-old body,” said Alex.

“Point taken, sir. You are getting a little old,” retorted Taylor, flashing a smirk.

“See what I put up with?” said Alex, guiding them to the shade.

Getting out of the sun was only part of the reason Alex moved Perry Gerson behind the pavilion. If Eli had left a surveillance team behind, the less time Gerson spent in the open, the better.

“So, you’re sure about the day you saw vehicles here?”

“Definitely. I bike to Porter every day to check on my mom. Up until that day, I could count the number of running vehicles I’d seen on my two thumbs. All of a sudden, I got three pulling into the fairground.”

“They came from the west?”

“Definitely. Two SUVs and a smaller car. I took a side road off Route 25 to bypass the fairgrounds. Seeing three cars pull in at the same time made me nervous.”

“Good instinct. This is a particularly nasty group,” said Alex. “Were you able to see into the fairgrounds?”

“I stopped a little ways up the side road behind the Quick Mart and hoofed it over to those bushes. Watched them for about fifteen minutes through my rifle scope.”

“That’s why we stopped him,” said Sergeant Keeler. “Carrying a hunting rifle over his back.”

“And I really didn’t appreciate that. There’s a lot of talk about Homeland confiscating firearms. We’ve been hearing about it all over the HAM radio frequencies,” said Gerson.

“We’re not following that directive. I ordered my Marines to stop and question any civilians carrying firearms because anyone carrying a gun is more likely to observe their surroundings.”

“Either way, it’s a little unnerving being pulled over by an armored vehicle, though I have to admit, it’s good to see the military. Beyond a visit from the state police six days ago and a flight of Chinook helicopters headed north, we haven’t seen anyone in a position of authority since this whole thing started. What’s happening out there?”

Alex glanced at Taylor, who imperceptibly nodded. They had agreed to share details with the public on a case-by-case basis. Information regarding the battalion’s RRZ mission was strictly off-limits, but general information about the event was fair game. Neither of them felt this was a violation of information security, since most of it was conjecture and theory. Alex had scoured the information available through his link to the classified SIPRNet, trying to find an official release verifying some of Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s rumors. His search came up empty. Neither the government nor the military confirmed an EMP attack, or any of the follow-up action suggested by Grady.

“Here’s what I know for sure. An asteroid or large meteorite hit somewhere in the Gulf of Maine, causing significant blast and seismic damage up and down the New England coast. It triggered a tsunami, which did even more damage. Boston was hit the hardest by the blast effects, but the tsunami devastated the entire coastline. I saw Portland Harbor firsthand. It’s a mess.”

“Good God,” Gerson said incredulously.

“Obviously, we were hit by an EMP, but I have no official confirmation,” said Alex.

“This couldn’t be related to the asteroid?”

Alex shook his head. “No. The timing might suggest it, but I’ve researched EMPs pretty extensively. Atmospheric breach by a sizable near-Earth-object contains no scientific mechanism to create an electromagnetic pulse. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but the EMP effects are mostly confined to the United States. Evidence suggests a more localized, North American event.”

“Invasion? I have to admit, that’s the first thing that came to mind when I saw that vehicle.”

“I haven’t seen anything to suggest that. The soldiers and Marines are here to keep the peace and speed along the recovery,” said Alex. “Which brings me back to what you saw through your rifle scope. What are we looking at?”

“I couldn’t see the whole gathering without exposing my position, but you’re looking at maybe two dozen vehicles. All makes and models. I counted about twenty men in camouflage. MultiCam pattern with matching boonie hats.”

Alex shared a look with Evans. Luck had arrived in the form of a medically retired, army staff sergeant.

“Most of them were armed with AR-style rifles. A few shotguns. I spotted two hidden sentries at the entrance back there. I was pretty happy about my decision to take a side road. I would have ridden right by the sentries. God knows what might have happened.”

“I’d venture to say you made the right call. Did you see any of them leave?”

“A gray Suburban left a few minutes after the other cars arrived, headed east on 25. I didn’t stick around long after that. Had to get over to my mom’s place. She’s not handling the heat so well. When I made the return trip a few hours later, the fairgrounds were empty. They left at some point between 1:30 and 4 PM. You might want to head into Cornish and ask around. Be damn near impossible to drive twenty cars through town without attracting attention, and that’s really the only way to head east without getting really creative. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“This is fantastic, Mr. Gerson. One way or the other, we should be able to narrow our search focus. Would you mind accompanying us into town? Your presence would go a long way toward loosening tongues, if you catch my drift.”

Two Matvees sped into view from the east, roaring into the fairgrounds and skidding to a halt behind the other vehicles. A thick plume of dust followed and enveloped the entire group.

“Damn, I miss shit like that!” Gerson said and covered his eyes as the dust cloud intensified. “I suggest we park your fleet of armored trucks on the outskirts of town and walk it in. Might be a little less imposing.”

Alex coughed and let the dust pass before responding. “Probably a good idea. Crazy question for you. Can we help you move your mother, or is she hell-bent on staying in her own house?”

“Seriously? That would be fantastic. I’ve been making the trip because I didn’t have a way to get her from point A to point B. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do. We’ll head over to her place and let you break the news. Then we’ll make the rounds in Cornish. Sound like a plan?”

“Best plan I’ve heard so far. I think this officer might be a keeper, Staff Sergeant Evans.”

“The jury’s still out, Mr. Gerson.” Evans winked.

***

Alex wedged his rifle against the utilitarian dashboard and removed his helmet, bathing in the cool air pumped out of the Matvee’s vents. He was glad to be out of the stagnant, humid air, having spent the past hour and a half walking through Cornish.

“Guardian units, this is Guardian Actual. RTB via Route 5. Standard interval. 360-degree sector coverage. Good work out there. I think we have something. Guardian standing by this channel.”

Once each Matvee responded, Corporal Lianez pulled onto Route 25, headed toward the Route 5 bypass just west of downtown Cornish.

“What do you think, Staff Sergeant? Is it enough to focus the search north by northwest from Cornish?”

“It’s enough to justify starting our search north of Route 25 near the border, but I don’t think we can definitively clear the areas southeast of Cornish. Gerson spotted a gray Suburban heading east. Could have been a final scouting run.”

“But nothing passed through Cornish, including the back streets—unless they miraculously slipped through town with twenty-plus vehicles without anyone noticing. They either turned south on Route 5 and burrowed east into the zone we haven’t searched, or they headed west and turned north on Route 160.”

“They hit the correctional facility in Windham. That’s a helluva lot closer to the eastern side of our search grid than the west. They drove two correctional buses out of there. Hard to miss those. Not easy to hide either,” said Evans.

“I don’t want to spend three more days south of Route 25,” said Alex, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense for Eli to head back toward Limerick.”

“We can’t make any assumptions,” Evans countered. “For all we know, he has two or three locations. He’d be smart to split up the group. Less traffic in and out. Less exposure if one of his men was captured. Might explain how he was able to pull off the murder in Sanford. That’s a long-ass way from here.”

“Are you doing this to fuck with me?” said Alex.

“I’m just here to make sure you don’t try to jam the square peg in the round hole, sir.”

“All right. Pull out your tablet, and we’ll take a close look at the satellite imagery east of Route 5—mark off roads to hit tomorrow. I’ll give this one day; then we start looking north of Cornish.”

Chapter 25

EVENT +15 Days

Porter, Maine

Eli unzipped the green duffle bag and descended the sturdy wooden plank stairs into the clammy cellar. The change in temperature was a welcome relief from the stagnant, overheated air trapped inside the farmhouse.

No wonder Kevin spends most of his day down here.

Halfway down the stairs, McCulver’s workshop came into view. Three long folding tables covered with various electronics devices and tools stood parallel to each other, illuminated by two standing lamps placed next to each end of the middle table. The lamps were connected to a portable generator they kept running for several hours at a time.

For all of McCulver’s bitching about gasoline consumption, he put a sizeable dent in their supply with his own little operation down here. Not that Eli was complaining. Kevin’s bomb-making expertise was critical to their operation, especially now.

“How’s it coming along?” Eli asked, his feet hitting the hard-packed dirt floor.

McCulver sat on a wooden stool taken from the kitchen island, hunched over a small object on the center table. A thin tendril of gray smoke rose between his hands. He answered without looking up.

“Not bad. I’m working on the remote detonation mechanisms for the car bombs. I should finish up in three to four days.”

“I don’t think we have that much time. The surveillance team in Kezar Falls spotted two military vehicles crossing the Ossipee River Bridge, driving east on Route 25.”

“Jesus, that’s kind of close.”

“That’s not the worst of it. Guess where they stopped?”

McCulver looked up from his work and shook his head.

“Ossipee Valley Fairgrounds. To have a chitchat with one of the locals and join up with two more military vehicles.”

“Four tactical vehicles? That’s enough to roll us up for good. We can’t resist that kind of firepower. Not with rifles and shotguns. Do we know who they talked to?”

“Negative. The team took a big enough risk driving down to Cornish. They didn’t stick around for long.”

“Fuck, Eli. Route 25 is more than thirty miles from Sanford. This isn’t a random event. Was this part of the brigade that arrived in York County?”

“That’s the interesting part. The team said they were dressed differently than army soldiers. Wore a darker green uniform.”

“Marines wear MARPAT in either desert or woodland. Army uses a universal pattern. Lots of gray and tan. Could be part of the detachment based out of Limerick.”

“Brown reported four vehicles total at the Limerick site. Gives me an idea.”

“The plan is ambitious enough, Eli.”

“Either way, it has to be modified. Previous intelligence indicated this Fletcher guy left every morning with one vehicle. Sometimes two. The plan can handle two vehicles.”

“One is better,” said McCulver.

“And four is impossible. We need to split them up, which is where you come in,” said Eli, patting McCulver’s shoulder.

“What’s the timeline?”

“Three days, but we move everyone out of here to the forward staging areas tomorrow night.”

“Forward staging areas?”

“I’m sending Harry Fields’ squad to find suitable locations near our targets. The rest will follow tomorrow night. I want everything out of here by midnight. Once the troops depart, Byrd’s squad will help us move all of the remaining shit to our new place up north. We’ll be in position with the Limerick team before the sun rises.”

“Lots of moving parts, Eli. Sure we can trust Byrd’s men to keep this quiet?”

“They don’t know shit about shit. All Byrd knows is that his squad gets to sit this one out. I didn’t hear him complaining.”

“And Fields?”

“He’s eager as a motherfucker to get in on the action.”

“Uh-huh. What about the inmates? I assume we won’t be busing half of them north to be released?”

“I have something special lined up for the jail-break battalion,” he said, grinning wickedly.

“I assume it has something to do with the rigged-up buses?”

Eli nodded. “I wish I could be there to witness your masterpiece.”

“I don’t—wait. What do you mean my masterpiece?”

Eli pulled a wide-brimmed, dark green campaign hat out of the duffel bag, placing it on McCulver’s head.

“Deputy Sheriff McCulver, welcome to the York County Sheriff’s Department.”

McCulver stood up and removed the hat. “You do remember that I know this is a suicide mission, right?”

“Oh. Did we talk about that already?” said Eli, trying desperately to maintain a straight face.

McCulver’s eyes darted to the table, presumably looking for a weapon.

Eli broke out in a sudden fit of laughter. “Jesus, Kevin. You’re one paranoid son of a bitch,” he said, grabbing the hat out of McCulver’s hands. “I just need you to get the buses past the first checkpoint on Route 99 and coordinate the fireworks, from a distance. You need to relax a little, brother.”

“I’ll relax when I’m tipping back a few cold ones up north.”

“The first round’s on me.”

“First and last,” said McCulver.

PART III

“REENGAGE”

Chapter 26

EVENT +17 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex’s vehicle rolled past the rangers’ outer perimeter checkpoint and turned toward the Marines’ hangar complex. The six-foot-tall chain-link fence separating the battalion staging area from the rest of the airport had been reinforced since his last visit. A thick coil of concertina wire ran along the ground, extending the entire length from the outer perimeter to the edge of the taxiway. Tan HESCO bunkers flanked the battalion access gate; the left barrier sporting a bipod-mounted M240G machine gun. The airport was slowly transforming into an isolated firebase.

A dark gray blanket of clouds dominated the sky beyond the green hangar, a stark change from the long stretch of sun-blasted weather that would have marked a successful Labor Day weekend—if weekends mattered anymore. The Marines at the gate waved them through, directing them toward the rear hangar, which housed the battalion’s motor-transport section. When they reached the hangar, Alex received a call via ROTAC from “Patriot.”

“Captain Fletcher,” he answered.

“Alex, I’m in front of the hangar with Major Blackmun.”

“Roger. Heading your way now,” he said, turning to Staff Sergeant Evans in the back seat. “Why don’t you and Jackson take a little break? I need to make room for Colonel Grady and Ops.”

He picked up Grady and Blackmun, giving up his seat to the battalion commander and joining the battalion operations officer in the crew compartment.

“Major Tim Blackmun,” said the marine, shaking his hand. “The colonel’s been singing your praises since Boston.”

“All part of my propaganda campaign to keep you on board,” said Grady.

The battalion commander turned in the front seat and forced a grin through the exhausted exterior of his weathered face. Alex wondered if he looked as bad as Grady. He hoped not. His former platoon commander looked half dead.

“Good to have you at this meeting, Alex. The bulk of the RRZ Authority arrived yesterday afternoon, and they didn’t waste any time tearing into things. Apparently, RRZ New England North is way behind schedule.”

“What does that mean?” Alex asked.

“Somewhere inside the Beltway, someone with a few PhDs and no clue opined that most of the RRZs would be fully operational within fifteen days of receiving the executive order.”

“Looks like the place is up and running to me,” said Alex, staring out of the compact window at three Chinook helicopters rising from the tarmac.

“The MOB is mostly operational. It’s the rest that has them worried. The FEMA camps are massive gaggles of humanity sleeping in the open. They haven’t begun to ship tents and supplies south. Border security is marginal at best.” Grady sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know if that will ever get better. Supply and fuel logistics are another story altogether. With most of the port facilities in the region destroyed, we’re running our vehicles on fuel farm reserves. RRZ contingency planning didn’t include the possibility of a tsunami.”

“Why would it?” Alex remarked.

“Exactly. We spent the entire night and much of the early morning all trying to explain, with minimal success, that they’d be lucky to see a fully operational RRZ by the end of September.”

“What were these people before the event?”

“Mixture of everything as far as we can tell. Former governors and mayors, consultants, industry types, career government employees. Lots of smart people, so I was told—over and over again.”

“D.C. loves to throw smart people at a problem. Anyone with any real experience running refugee camps or humanitarian aid missions?”

“Each region has a fully staffed FEMA team,” Grady said. “They might be the only full-timers in the bunch.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “How often did they train as a group?”

“They met once a year in D.C. to run a three-day field scenario at Andrews Air Force Base, followed by four days of briefings.”

“Then everyone went back to their day jobs?”

“Sounds like it.”

“No wonder they’re pissed. They actually have to do something.”

“Better than nothing, I suppose,” said Grady.

“Let’s reexamine that statement in a few weeks, sir,” Alex said as they stopped at the edge of the eastern taxiway.

An airfield controller stood at the entrance to the tarmac, holding up a hand to stop the vehicle for two Black Hawk helicopters. Soldiers loaded down with full combat gear and field kit streamed single file under the spinning blades.

“Did you read my summary of the Bridgton report?”

“Sounds pretty conclusive,” said Grady.

“Irrefutable. Eli’s building up his vehicle fleet. Most likely to outfit the prisoners he snagged from Windham. We’re not going to catch him with two vehicle teams working a thousand square miles of territory.”

“Every helicopter is tasked for border missions,” said Grady, exhaling deeply. “We can bring it up this morning, but I’m not sure how well it will be received. Their heads are spinning.”

“We need to try.”

The Black Hawks rose above the hangar and dipped south, speeding away from the airport. Cleared to proceed, their vehicle continued past the vacant Sea Coast Aviation building and raced across the empty blacktop toward the “Authority Complex.” The fence surrounding the series of small hangars and office structures was topped with concertina wire and lined with evenly spaced Jersey barriers set several feet in front of the fence. A modular, armored guard post sat behind the right side of the fence, buried behind several, waist-height HESCO barriers blocking the entrance to the compound. A white sign with bold black letters attached to the left side of the fence read “RRZ AUTHORITY. Authorized Personnel Only. No Vehicle Traffic.”

“Jesus, the engineers could have built their own port facility in the time it took to construct the RRZ’s Green Zone,” said Alex, eliciting a quick laugh from Major Blackmun.

“Don’t laugh. Long-term plans require a twelve-foot-tall HESCO barrier with cameras and elevated guard positions,” said Grady.

They parked next to a row of four-door Jeep Wranglers with “RRZ1/NEN” painted on the sides and hood. A JLTV (Joint Light Tactical Vehicle) with 4th Brigade Combat Team/10th Mountain Division markings pulled alongside as Alex dismounted the Matvee. The turret in the army vehicle swiveled, pointing the M240 toward Route 109 beyond the perimeter fence. For all of their security concerns, the RRZ Authority had picked one of the worst possible locations for their “secure” compound. Located less than four hundred feet from the road passing the airport, the cluster of hangars could be taken under accurate, concentrated fire from vehicles outside of the outer perimeter. Maybe the HESCO wall wasn’t a bad idea.

An army captain and staff sergeant emerged from the JLTV, saluting Grady and Blackmun.

“You guys drew the lucky straw?” said Grady, returning the soldiers’ salute.

“I was volunteered, sir,” said the officer. “Captain Van Tassel. Assistant ops.”

“I’m just here to make sure the good captain doesn’t stick a boot in his mouth, or up one of their asses,” said the staff sergeant, nodding at the compound.

“Good luck,” said Grady. “I brought two to keep me in check.”

Alex ran his hand along the rear bumper of one of the vehicles.

“Brand new,” he announced. “Did they fly in with these?”

“Negative,” Captain Van Tassel answered. “The security team delivered them from one of the warehouses. Armored J8s. Blast and small-arms resistant. The Diplomatic Security Service uses these all over the world.”

“One of our security teams?” asked Alex.

The captain and Grady shared a brief, pained look.

“Mercenaries,” responded Major Blackmun, nodding at the compound’s security checkpoint.

“Contract security, Major,” Grady replied dryly.

Three serious-looking men wearing hiking boots, khaki pants, assorted dark T-shirts and olive-green tactical vests stood in front of the HESCO barriers, short-barreled assault rifles at the ready.

“Big business,” muttered Alex.

“What was that?” said Blackmun.

“I’m just thinking about the business behind all of this. The RRZ concept must have made some people rich.”

Grady stopped, halting the group in front of the first set of Jersey barriers.

“Careful what you say in there. Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat scorned.”

A second contract security team escorted them to a conference room on the second floor of a run-down building in the center of the compound. Rows of mismatched chairs sat facing a worn wooden conference table at the front of the room. Unopened boxes of electronics equipment were stacked floor to ceiling against the inner wall of the thirty-foot-long room. Flat-screen monitors, wireless router gear, computers—enough off-the-shelf gear to set up a full-scale operations center.

“Doesn’t look or feel like they’re setting up,” said Major Blackmun.

“I saw a few people working on laptops in the offices downstairs. Not exactly a beehive of activity,” said Alex.

“I think they expected this to be assembled prior to arrival,” said Grady.

“I’m sensing a trend with these expectations,” said Alex.

“You and me, both.”

A man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve collared shirt walked into the room and squinted, nodding at Colonel Grady.

“Fantastic. You’re early. We’re trying to iron out a few last minute changes. I’m Ian Day, assistant chief of staff,” he said, remaining near the door.

“We met briefly last night. Lieutenant Colonel Grady, 1st Battalion, 25th Marines. This is my operations officer, Major Blackmun, and one of my intelligence officers, Captain Fletcher.”

“Perfect. I’ll let the governor know you’re here,” he said, stepping out of the room.

“The governor?” whispered Alex.

“Governor Medina. RRZ governor,” said Grady, tilting his head. “I think I hear her now. She’s kind of hard to miss.”

“Do we have to call her governor?”

“I just call her ma’am. She hasn’t complained about it yet—and she doesn’t seem to be one to hold back on complaints.”

Voices grew in the hallway, reaching a peak outside of the door.

“Colonel, I don’t care who you have to displace. My people are taking over the hotel. Start making arrangements,” ordered a sharp female voice. “Ian, tell Eric that this whole operation is moving across the street. I don’t give a shit what they have to do to make that place secure. I’m not spending another night in one of these dirty offices.”

A male voice mumbled something.

“I don’t care if they have to surround the place with an entire battalion until the barriers are up.”

A muted response yielded another shrill retort.

“Everything! Move everything! Put the operations center in the fucking restaurant. I don’t care. Just get it done!”

This should be interesting.

A few seconds later, a tall Hispanic woman in navy blue business attire strode into the room with her entourage of security guards and staff. Grady stood up when she entered the room, furtively signaling with his right hand for the rest of them to do the same.

“Lieutenant Colonel Grady, why are you still wearing those uniforms?” she said, putting out both hands in a stop gesture. “Please sit down. I hate faux respect more than a complete lack of it.”

“We’re still sorting out the sizes, ma’am,” said Grady, taking a seat.

“Look, I know you don’t want to wear the new uniforms, but it’s non-negotiable. Someone put a lot of time and thought into the color scheme. As internal security, your troops need to be instantly recognizable as such. Just like the police,” she said, taking a seat with her staff at the conference table.

“Only Russian internal security troops wear blue camouflage uniforms. Secret police types,” said Grady.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing the people don’t have access to the Internet, or they might make the connections. Figure out the sizing issue, Colonel. You have enough uniforms to refit a full battalion—last time I checked, you have half of a battalion,” she said, her eyes narrowing on Alex. “I assume this is your militia expert?”

“Alex Fletcher, ma’am,” said Alex, nodding.

“You suspect the mayor’s murder is militia related?” she asked.

“We know it’s connected to a growing militia based in southern Maine called the Maine Liberty Militia, most likely perpetrated to discourage civilian cooperation with the military and RRZ Authority.”

“Yet we’re actively admitting militia volunteers onto the base for training?”

Grady saved him from airing a sarcastic response.

“Part of a provisional security detachment, designed to operate under battalion supervision in the southern Maine zone. I’ve successfully implemented this type of program before in Afghanistan. Active partnerships with recognizable civilian institutions serves to ease fear and engender trust,” said Grady.

“We’re talking about U.S. citizens, not tribal Afghans. I’m a U.S. citizen. You’re a U.S. citizen. This isn’t an invasion force. It’s a humanitarian mission. I’m not sure why you’re treating this like the Helmand Province.”

“Six deployments taught me to work closely with the locals, preferably before arriving. I sent Captain Fletcher and a small contingent of Marines ahead of the battalion to liaison with the York County Readiness Brigade, an upstanding militia group.”

“And his community outreach efforts have resulted in the murder of Sanford’s mayor?”

Alex shook his head and muttered, “This is fucking pointless.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Governor Medina said.

“I said this is fucking pointless .”

“Colonel?” she stated, shooting Grady a nasty glare.

“I’ll work on Captain Fletcher’s language, ma’am.”

She regarded him for a moment, a thin grin forming on her pressed lips. “Message received, Colonel. I’m taking this in the wrong direction. Let’s start over. Captain Fletcher, what are we dealing with? Who’s running this Liberty group?”

“The Maine Liberty Militia is run by Eli Russell. Surprisingly, he has no criminal record. Former army, discharged honorably. Worked for a local auto parts company as a salesman for fifteen years prior to the event. According to Harrison Campbell, York County Readiness Brigade commander, Eli was kicked out of the brigade three years ago during a purge of ultramilitaristic types. Unfortunately, the purge gave Russell a head start forming his own group. The MLM.”

“And he’s perpetrating crimes in the security zone, using this group,” she said.

“Correct. We’ve linked him to a growing number of disturbing incidents within the southern Maine zone. Most recently, he raided a correctional facility thirty miles north, adding an unknown number of hardened criminals to his organization. Five days later, he hit Bridgton, less than forty miles away, killing more than a dozen checkpoint volunteers and stealing several vehicles.”

“It sounds like he’s taking his business north,” she said.

“The mayor was mutilated and tied to a town landmark about two miles from here,” said Alex.

“Seven days ago. The Bridgton incident occurred after the murder.”

“Trust me, ma’am. He’s still active in the area.”

“Either way, I’m seeing this as more of an annoyance than a viable threat to security,” she stated.

“He has a guy that knows how to build bombs. Big bombs. Police reported a large quantity of slurry explosives stolen from an excavation company in Windham.”

“Slurry explosives?”

“Water gel-based explosives used for mining and excavation. They can be poured into common objects, completely evading detection, or used to create shaped charges. We’re talking high order detonation stuff. Trust me, Eli Russell has the immediate capacity to be far more than an annoyance.”

“And his whereabouts are a complete mystery?”

“I have a few solid leads regarding his general location. If I had dedicated helicopter support, I could better exploit those leads,” he said, glancing at Grady, who took his cue.

“Ma’am, freeing up some of the battalion’s vehicles from rural patrols and checkpoints south of Sanford would be a solid investment in our security mission.”

One of the governor’s staff whispered and pointed at a printout on the table. She examined the paper and shook her head.

“None of that is going to happen right now. Brigade air assets are maxed out with current mission requirements, and I have additional tasking for your battalion.”

“I’m at 55% manning, with ten vehicles down. I’d suggest leaning on 4th Brigade for additional tasking,” said Grady.

“RRZ protocol strictly delineates areas of operation. Even if I could deviate from the protocol, I wouldn’t. 4th Brigade has its hands full with the border areas.”

Grady pulled a handheld tablet device out of his tactical vest. “What am I looking at in terms of tasking?”

“We’ll need 24/7 security for the CISA Camp being set up at Sanford High School. Helicopters should start ferrying personnel from New Hampshire to the MOB within a week. Count on security for transport back and forth to the airport.”

“CISA?” said Grady.

“Critical Infrastructure Skills Assembly. Refugees processed through FEMA checkpoints outside of the security area are screened for backgrounds and skills that can assist in the recovery. We fly them here for further evaluation. The goal is to assemble teams with the expertise to tackle projects focused on restoring essential services like electricity and communications. The list is pretty exhaustive.”

“The process sounds exhaustive—and manpower intensive,” said Grady. “What level of security do you expect at the high school?”

“CISA is essential to the recovery effort.”

“I don’t doubt that, but securing several hundred civilians in a fluid environment will eat up Marines, especially with a known explosives threat in the area. A more proactive approach to the militia is preferred.”

“Then we’ll have to focus on hardening all potential RRZ targets against explosives. Engineers will build a HESCO barrier to assist with CISA security,” Medina said.

“You can’t put a twelve-foot HESCO barrier around the entire state and hope for the best,” said Alex.

“We have a lot of HESCO material and—”

The conference room windows rattled, followed shortly by a distant sound resembling thunder. Chairs scraped the linoleum floor as Alex and the military contingent stood.

“Thunderstorms predicted for the morning,” one of the staff members offered. “Sixty percent chance.”

“That wasn’t thunder,” said the staff sergeant.

Grady’s ROTAC chirped. “Send it,” said Grady, listening for several seconds before responding. “Deploy the quick reaction force. I’ll catch up with them on Route 109. Order all checkpoint units to maintain their positions. Defense posture Red. Nothing gets in or out.”

“What happened, Colonel?”

“Units in Sanford report a massive explosion near the downtown area.”

The recruiting station.

Chapter 27

EVENT +17 Days

Sanford, Maine

From Alex’s elevated vantage point in the Matvee’s armored turret, he caught the first glimpses of the devastation ahead. The four-story brick building appeared through the cloud of gray-black smoke enshrouding Sanford’s central park area. Smoke from the blast should have cleared by now. The vehicle decelerated in front of Town Hall, the driver approaching cautiously. Flashing red lights cut through the murk at the western end of the park area across from the building, headed toward Main Street.

As they passed Town Hall, the scene took shape. Windows on the second floor directly above the recruiting station poured smoke and flames skyward. Broken glass and crumbled brick debris littered the street and sidewalk. Deeper in the park, small groups of people huddled over injured bystanders, waving frantically for the inbound ambulance. The Matvee slowed to a standstill. A jagged, scorched hole encompassed the entire right half of the building’s storefront.

“What are you seeing?” Grady asked over the vehicle net.

“I’m not seeing the remains of a vehicle. Probable remote detonation, like at Harvard Yard. We need to lock this area down hard, sir.”

“Copy. How many people did we have in the station?”

“Eight. Three Marines and five of Harrison’s people.”

“You better let him know,” said Grady.

The vehicle edged forward, pulling over the curb and stopping in the park. The rest of the quick-reaction force raced by, deploying at even intervals across from the burning building. One of the vehicles continued to Washington Street and turned left, headed toward the back of the building to check for survivors. Alex swiveled the turret to cover the road heading back to the airport, digging through his vest to retrieve his ROTAC.

***

The binoculars started to tremble when the convoy of four heavily armed tactical vehicles appeared through the haze. He knew the heavy machine guns mounted in the turrets could tear through the brick wall in front of him with little effort, and every time one of the barrels shifted past his window—he flinched. He’d been happy to leave the general ranks and return to Sanford, especially after the massacre in Limerick. They needed someone to keep an eye on the county seat of York County, and nobody knew the town and the people better than Sanford’s top realtor, Tim Barrett—but this was too much! Too risky.

This particular spot had been his best idea. Overlooking the central commons, the empty corner office on the third floor of the Sanford Trust Building gave him a bird’s-eye view of the town’s main thoroughfare. As a realtor, nobody questioned his presence in the office buildings, especially downtown, where most of the buildings remained empty from the recession. He’d felt safe, almost untouchable until a few minutes ago. Something had gone wrong with the bombing.

A guy wearing a gray T-shirt and red hat was supposed to stuff a small package into a city trash container outside of the storefront, remotely detonating the device from a pickup car on Washington Street when Barrett confirmed that the sidewalk and street were clear of innocent bystanders.

Nothing had gone according to the plan relayed by Kevin McCulver. The man showed up wearing a dark orange student backpack, and walked into the recruiting station. The building exploded before the glass door closed behind him. The blast turned out to be far more powerful than he expected, injuring citizens gathered in the park.

Had the plan changed? What else had changed?

The whole point of the operation had been to draw the Marines to the recruiting station so Barrett could observe the marine’s response. The vehicles continued down Main Street toward his building, and he considered abandoning the mission.

If he stayed and the Marines captured him, he could be forced to divulge information critical to Eli’s plans. He suspected elements of the Maine Liberty Militia had been moved closer to Sanford, since he no longer had to drive north to make his reports. McCulver took them directly, every four hours. He’d even met with McCulver two days ago on his last trip north. Combined with the targeted information McCulver had just requested, he had no doubt they were preparing an imminent strike. On the other hand, if he deserted his post before delivering the information, Eli would no doubt hunt him down and kill him and his entire family. It wasn’t much of a choice.

Tim steadied the binoculars against the windowsill and searched for the face he’d seen on numerous occasions in front of the recruiting station. Hampered by the thick smoke hanging over the street, he still hadn’t located his target. Shifting from vehicle to vehicle, he studied the dismounted Marines, muttering curses. This was taking too much time. He started to envision slipping down the stairwell and disappearing into the parking lot behind the building before the shock of the bombing wore off and the Marines started to process their options. The turret gunner in the most distant vehicle yelled down to four huddled Marines helping a group of wounded civilians at the edge of the park. When he started pointing at the buildings surrounding the commons, Barrett almost lost control of his bladder.

Fuck this. I’m out of here.

He started to lift his head from the binoculars when a familiar silver sedan materialized on the street behind the tactical vehicle. Harrison Campbell’s car. The gunner waved at the car and dropped into the vehicle. Breathing rapidly, Tim looked through the binoculars, focusing on the Marine that emerged from the armored transport.

Gotcha.

He stared at the symbol painted on the hood of the tan vehicle and wrote them in a small notebook taken from his pants pocket: Six-one-one inside an octagon. He had no idea what the numbers meant, but who gave a shit. Mission accomplished.

Tim slowly withdrew the binoculars, careful not to disturb the blinds. He stuffed them in his backpack and started for the door, faltering before opening it. McCulver had been really clear about passing the information immediately. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. They were probably worried about him being captured without passing the numbers. Ten more seconds wasn’t going to kill him. McCulver answered his radio transmission immediately.

“Sanford Overwatch, please confirm the following. Vehicle marked as six-one-one, surrounded by an octagon,” said McCulver.

“Affirmative. Solid copy. Over.”

“Roger. Proceed to extract point. Don’t leave anything behind.”

“Copy. Heading to extract,” Tim said, switching the radio off and stowing it in the high-end daypack McCulver had given him when they met.

Tim opened the door and walked down the dim hallway to the stairwell leading to the back exit, suddenly very aware of the backpack in his hands. He’d been very excited to get the backpack, instantly recognizing the expensive brand. His thoughts flashed to the dark orange backpack carried by the bomber.

Stop. You’re being ridiculous.

Tim pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and pushed the fire door open, illuminating the empty stairwell. He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him.

***

Alex rushed out of the Matvee, wanting to get between the arriving vehicle and the building. There was nothing anyone could do for the men and women inside. Harrison Campbell burst out of his car and ran toward the building, stopping to shield his face from the heat. His driver, the tough-as-nails woman he’d met at Campbell’s compound, sprinted to catch up, grabbing his arm. He shook it free and pushed Alex out of the way.

“They’re all gone, Harrison. Nothing we could do,” said Alex.

“All of them? They can’t all be dead,” he said, peering at the storefront through the smoke.

“I have a vehicle around back. Nobody made it out.”

“My wife’s cousin is in there,” he said.

“I’m really sorry, Harrison,” said Alex, stepping behind the vehicle to escape the heat, pulling Campbell with him.

“You know what we have to do,” Campbell stated emphatically.

Alex nodded gravely. “I’m working on it.”

A deep, muffled thump reached Alex’s ears, and he reflexively crouched, scanning the buildings for signs of gunfire or an explosion. Marines yelled, “Secondary!” and scrambled for their vehicles.

“Get inside the Matvee,” Alex said, pushing Campbell toward the armored vehicle.

“Second floor, west of park,” he heard through his headset.

Grady’s and Blackmun’s rifles swung in the direction of the Sanford Trust Building. Alex searched through the smoke for evidence of an explosion, noticing a cloud of smoke, or possibly drywall dust, drifting out of the third-story windows and floating toward the park.

Internal blast? Accidental detonation?

Whatever it was, it signified a dangerous shift in tactics. Two bombs in one place represented a concentration of focus. The first blast changed the rules. The second changed the entire game. Eli was on the offensive. Governor Medina couldn’t bury her head and hope for the best. That ship had just sailed.

Chapter 28

EVENT +17 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex examined the RRZ Authority parking lot through his binoculars, noting the same number of tactical vehicles lined up next to the evenly parked row of conspicuous white Jeeps. The fact that he hadn’t been summoned with Grady left him feeling uneasy. If the RRZ Authority didn’t want the battalion’s counterinsurgency officer present at a meeting to discuss the targeted bombing of RRZ personnel, he suspected Grady would return with unpleasant news.

Distant thunder echoed through the hangar, drawing his attention to the western sky. A thick band of thunderclouds dominated his view through the hangar door, occasional branches of lightning breaking up the dark, featureless wall of rain rapidly approaching the airfield. He wondered how the house in Limerick would hold up under the storm.

As a short-term fix, they had patched up the exterior holes in the house and barn using a crate of all-weather sealant taken from the Home Store in Sanford. Theoretically, the sealant should be all they needed, but Alex’s dad wanted to reinforce the job by nailing strips of board over the heavily damaged areas to reduce weather-induced wear on the sealant. It was a project Alex suggested they delay until the long-term viability of remaining at the compound had been decided. Today’s attack represented a major setback to staying in Limerick. Lightning illuminated the hangar’s interior, followed by a single, explosive crack that rattled the building’s metal frame. A few dense raindrops smacked the asphalt taxiway in front of the hangar.

“Lower the doors halfway!” yelled Sergeant Major Howard.

“I got it, Sergeant Major,” said Alex, jogging toward the automatic controls to the left of the TOC.

Alex lowered each of the five doors separately, not wanting to overload the battalion’s primary generator. The wind intensified before the door in front of the TOC reached the halfway mark, blowing rain sideways into the hangar. He let the door continue to the end of the track, then glanced over his shoulder at the battalion sergeant major.

“Close it up, sir! Rain’s coming in sideways!”

Alex felt the humidity level rise even before the last door nestled against the painted concrete floor. At least it was ten degrees cooler than yesterday. He joined the battalion intelligence officer, Captain Paul Bernstein, who had just returned from the supply station.

“Any luck?” Alex asked him.

“The sensors are in the supply system. It’s just a matter of getting them here under the circumstances. The lieutenant wasn’t hopeful, even with our CO pushing for delivery. Then there’s the issue related to the parent gear required to monitor passive sensors. We don’t have anything like that at the battalion level. This is a theatre-specific, division-level asset.”

“What about the RRZ supply system? Every time I close my eyes, they drag something new out of those warehouses.”

“No surveillance gear, unless it’s classified or named differently,” said Bernstein.

“Can the supply officer see the full inventory of gear hidden away out there?”

“Negative. She can search by name or specific supply system number. And she isn’t keen on searching for gear that doesn’t bear directly on our mission, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Maybe we can get Grady to lean on 4th Brigade’s commanding officer. I know they have acoustic sensors.”

“Not the kind you’re looking for. Mostly low power, localized stuff monitored by a nearby station. One thousand meters or less.”

“Then we’ll have to put LP/OP teams in the field,” said Alex.

“Patriot’s en route. He wants to meet with ops and intel staff immediately,” announced one of the Marines monitoring the battalion tactical along the back wall of the hangar.

“We can barely cover the battalion’s checkpoint requirements,” stated Bernstein, waving for his staff sergeant to join them.

Alex took a seat in one of the folding chairs facing a table-mounted sixty-inch flat-screen. Major Blackmun, a first lieutenant and the operation’s first sergeant joined them a few moments before Grady burst through the side hangar door next to the monitor. They stood and waited for him to approach.

“As you were,” said Grady, hanging his rifle on a rack of hooks bolted to the wall next to the door.

He stared at them, his weathered, battle-scarred face betraying no emotion. “Here’s the situation. The RRZ Authority has changed our tasking to focus on immediate area security, with a major emphasis on—you guessed it—the airport. The Route 109 corridor from the airport to Sanford High School will be secured by vehicle checkpoints and foot patrols. Goodall Hospital is now our responsibility. I’ve convinced them to consider moving the CISA camp to one of the structures across the street, where it will be easier to defend. Our security mission will remain compacted until the militia threat has been neutralized.”

Alex started to form a question.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” said Grady, preempting him. “How can we neutralize the militia threat if everything is tied up in Sanford? I haven’t figured that out yet. They’re aware of the dilemma, but all of their Ivy League think-tank analysis paperwork suggests that domestic-based militias do not have the strength or resolve to address a hardened, tighter security posture.”

“Long term, the Green Zone approach doesn’t work, sir. We’ve proven that time after time,” said Major Blackmun. “That’s in the record books.”

“They’re not looking at this long term. They think if we can keep the militia threat from disrupting RRZ operations for the next three to four months, the winter will slow them down, if not bury them. There’s some truth to that.”

“Four months is a long time. I’ve read the RRZ protocols,” said Alex. “If we can’t secure southern Maine, they’ll shift the security area north. We have to be more proactive about Eli Russell. I don’t think it will take much. He blew up two of his own men today, which leads me to believe he doesn’t like loose ends. If we get enough vehicles searching north, we’re bound to find something. All we need to do is grab a few of his people to unravel the whole group. The guys we captured at my house were eager to give up Eli’s original headquarters.”

“Unless I can get Authority to scrap the high school idea, I can’t spare additional resources,” Grady said. “I barely convinced them to keep FOB Lakeside, and that fight isn’t over. They aren’t convinced of its short-term ROI.”

Alex paused for a second, staggering mentally from the thought of losing the Marines protecting his house. If the RRZ forced Grady to dismantle FOB Lakeside with Eli on the loose, he’d have no choice but to evacuate north, with or without Grady’s permission.

“ROI? This isn’t a publicly traded company. Fuck it. We’ll accelerate the provisional security group’s training and get them out there shaking the trees alongside any Marines we can spare.”

Grady winced, his stoic face clearly pained to proceed. “Governor Medina ordered all militia removed from the base—effective immediately. She doesn’t want any unfriendly militia slipping into the group, especially in light of the fact that the Maine Liberty Militia isn’t mentioned in Homeland’s database.”

“Can I train them off base?”

“Not with RRZ personnel or equipment.”

“What about the provisional Marines? They’re not militia.”

“They don’t want any new personnel involved in RRZ security matters,” said Grady.

“So the program is scrapped.”

“Essentially.”

“All right. I’ll need to borrow one of the Armadillos to return the volunteers, unless Medina plans to make them walk home,” said Alex, resolved not to say another word.

“Operations will secure a vehicle for their return,” said Grady, nodding at Major Blackmun.

“Got it, sir,” said the major.

“Anything else?” said Grady, looking at Alex, who shook his head.

“Nothing? Very well. Alex, I need to speak with you before you leave. Ops, gather up the rest of your staff plus all of the company commanders. We need to redeploy the battalion by twenty-hundred hours, which doesn’t give us a ton of time.”

Alex approached Grady as soon as the group broke apart.

“Sir?”

“Guardian represents the battalion’s only dedicated search assets,” said Grady, referring to the vehicles and Marines stationed in Limerick.

“It’s not enough, but we’ll do what we can. If Harrison Campbell agrees, I’ll try to field a few of his vehicles. Not sure how he’s going to take this. It’s kind of a slap in the face after what happened today. I sold him pretty hard on the cooperative aspect of working with the RRZ.”

“If he’s willing to help, we’ll keep his vehicles fueled. I completely understand if he isn’t interested.”

“He understands what’s at stake if Eli destabilizes the RRZ.”

“Just do me a favor and keep their involvement out of your digital reports. I’m not the only one reading them—and make sure you recover all of the ROTAC gear.”

“It makes sense to let Campbell keep one of the ROTAC sets. It’s the only way we can get in touch with him in the field. He doesn’t have access to any of the battalion or RRZ traffic.”

“I was specifically told to recover the ROTAC gear,” stated Grady.

“I never recorded the ROTAC transfers in any of my reports. You didn’t tell them, did you?”

Grady shook his head.

“They’re tracking the phones? Fuck, there’s something wrong with all of this. The whole RRZ set up seems like one giant clusterfuck, except for surveillance. No problems there. What else are they tracking?” demanded Alex.

“Vehicles. ID cards. But you didn’t hear that from me,” said Grady.

“ID cards? They can track these?” said Alex, pulling out his card and examining it.

“No, but they can track when and where they’ve been swiped. I received a digital message eight days ago notifying me that Captain Alex Fletcher had accessed the Northeast Sector Coast Guard base in South Portland, Maine.”

Alex didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t prepared an excuse for visiting the Coast Guard station because he’d underestimated the depths of the government’s paranoia.

Never again.

“This is fucked up, Sean,” Alex whispered. “They spend more time watching and analyzing our movements than trying to fix the shit storm out there.”

Grady contemplated Alex’s statement, lowering his voice to respond. “I’m not sure how much of a difference any of this will make in the long run, but we have to try. It’s our best option.”

“Maybe,” said Alex, rubbing his sweaty face with both hands.

“Promise me you’ll stick around until this Eli Russell business is finished. Whatever you do decide to do after that, I’ll make sure nothing stands in your way.”

“I’ll need some leeway with this. More Marines would help,” said Alex.

“I can’t give you more vehicles. They’re tracking our deployment carefully.”

“If I had an additional squad of Marines at the FOB, I’d feel comfortable releasing the rest of my vehicles to search for Russell.”

“We could probably spare a few fire teams from Alpha Company. Would that work?” said Grady.

“We’ll make it work.”

Chapter 29

EVENT +17 Days

Sanford, Maine

Alex selected Harrison’s ROTAC channel and pressed “lock.” He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting.

“Harrison Campbell.”

“Harrison, it’s Alex. I’m sitting on the road in front of your property with Gary, the Kleins, and the twelve volunteers that decided to stay with the brigade. I can drive them up if that’s all right.”

“Probably not a great idea right now. Not everyone took the RRZ’s move in stride.”

“I understand, but I do need to talk with you in person. Trust me, it’s important.”

“I’ll meet you at the first checkpoint,” said Campbell.

“Is that the one where your folks pop out of the woods with guns, or the fortified bunkers a little further down the road?”

“I’ll call ahead and make sure they don’t shake you down.”

“I appreciate that. I’ve hit my shakedown limit for the day,” said Alex.

“That bad?”

“It’s not good. See you in a few minutes.”

Alex trailed the group, drifting back as they disappeared around the bend leading to the gate. A gust of wind unleashed a cascading shower of water from the drenched leaves above. The drops pelted his helmet and uniform, tapering off as the breeze died. He removed his helmet and let the damp, shaded air wash over his head. A purposeful rustling of the bushes to the right drew his attention to a familiar face.

“Ms. Nunya.” He nodded. “Glad to see you back on point.”

“Harrison wants you to wait here,” she said, resuming her watch of the forest’s edge through the thick trees.

“Back where we started, huh?”

She didn’t respond.

Message received.

When Harrison arrived a few minutes later, they walked slowly back toward the rumbling military vehicle.

“Sorry I dragged you into all of this. I should have known the RRZ would do this.”

“No need to apologize. I knew exactly what I was getting into.”

“Still,” he said, glancing behind them. “They seem pretty pissed.”

“They had hoped this would turn out very differently. We took a vote after you came to visit me the first time. The decision to partner up with a government entity was far from unanimous. I gave everyone the option to decline participation and remain in good standing within the brigade. Nobody took me up on the offer.”

“The York County Readiness Brigade isn’t out of the fight yet,” said Alex. “I need your help searching for Eli.”

“Doesn’t the RRZ have several thousand soldiers and dozens of helicopters in southern Maine?”

“Most of the battalion’s assets have been re-tasked with protecting the area immediately surrounding Sanford. 4th Brigade Combat Team units are off-limits unless it has something to do with the border.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. They’re just holing up at the airport and hoping for the best?”

“Pretty much. I still have the Marines stationed at the Limerick FOB, but Grady’s not sure how long that will last. The more teams we have searching for Eli, the better. Grady authorized me to refuel any vehicles used in the search effort.”

“I’ll bring this up a little later today and get back to you,” said Campbell. “What’s your plan if Grady recalls the Marines from your property?”

Alex shook his head. “I’d have to leave.”

“Well, you’re always welcome here. Plenty of room in the barn, and it has a nice fireplace. Not a bad place to spend the winter.”

“That’s a generous offer, Harrison. In light of what I put you through—put your wife through—very generous. Thank you.”

“My wife isn’t angry with you or any of the folks dug in at the airport.”

“Eli Russell,” stated Alex.

“And Kevin McCulver. He wasn’t a bad guy when he was part of the brigade. Just couldn’t stop playing with things that go boom. Hard to believe Eli twisted him that far. Then again, I never suspected Eli was warped enough to murder his way across the county. Did your people figure out what happened with the second bomb?”

“Hard to say. State police are sending an evidence team to work with the Sanford department. From what I could tell, the bomb detonated inside the rear stairwell on the second floor. Big hole in the brick wall facing the parking lot.”

“Accidental detonation?” said Campbell.

“Once again, hard to tell. Timing suggests the bomber might have been on his way down to detonate a secondary device among the arriving Marines.”

“Suicide bombing? Doesn’t sound like Eli’s people. We’re not talking brainwashed Jihadis.”

“My thoughts exactly, but witnesses report a man with a backpack walking into the recruiting station seconds before the bomb detonated,” said Alex.

“Bizarre. They could have thrown the backpack through the door and remotely triggered the explosive with the same result,” said Campbell.

“Unless they have something bigger in the works, and they’re not taking chances with a slipup,” said Alex.

“You think the second explosion was deliberate?”

“We’ll probably never know. There wasn’t much left to examine. How are you set for security? Eli might have a sizeable group.”

“We’re good. Most of the chapter members have brought their families over until this Eli thing blows over. Not taking any chances that he might remember some names.”

“Smart move. We’ll monitor the HAM radio 24/7 in case you run into a problem. You know our station ID, so don’t hesitate to call,” said Alex.

“Be a lot easier with one of these,” he said, holding out a translucent shopping bag containing the ROTAC handhelds.

“Trust me, these are more trouble for you than they’re worth. The RRZ can track these,” said Alex. “I didn’t want to tell you when I called, because I suspect they can listen to our transmissions.”

“Shit. I put a tracking device in the hands of every chapter.”

“Take this as a good sign. If they wanted to keep a close eye on the brigade, they wouldn’t have asked me to collect them.”

Campbell barely smirked.

“I’m trying to find anything positive about the RRZ.”

“Good luck with that,” said Campbell. “I’ll get back to you later about a possible joint search effort.”

“You know where to find me.”

Chapter 30

EVENT +17 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Fiery orange rays of late afternoon sunlight crowned the tree canopy surrounding the clearing, distinct from the shadowy forest behind the Marine encampment. Kate peered into the growing dusk, waiting for Alex’s vehicle to emerge. News of the attack in Sanford was unwittingly delivered to the house by Staff Sergeant Taylor, who momentarily forgot that the house Motorola was tuned to the FOB’s security channel.

After sending a Matvee to reinforce the HESCO position guarding the entrance to Gelder Pond Lane, Taylor was bombarded with questions when he delivered one of the Marines to the sandbag position on the back deck. He cracked easily under the pressure of three mothers demanding more information.

This led to a heated daylong debate about the pros and cons of staying at the compound, dominated by Ed’s end-of-the-world predictions and sudden outbursts demanding that the Marines immediately escort them north to the Thorntons’ lake house. Charlie and Linda stayed mostly neutral, but Kate could sense that they wanted out of FOB Lakeside just as much as the Walkers. She understood why. The Limerick property had turned into a mental and physical prison, despite the robust protection delivered by the Marines.

The discovery of Jeffrey Brown’s surveillance post on Old Middle Road had unnerved everyone, rendering the simple pleasure of sitting on the porch impossible. Every glance at the impenetrable forest left you wondering if you’d just taken your last breath. Forget about letting the kids out of the house. Same problem—but worse. Logically, Kate knew the forest was clear of intruders. The Marines patrolled regularly during the day and took up positions in the forest at night. Odds were stacked against anyone slipping through the Marine security perimeter.

Daily, she tried to convince the group that staying here was everyone’s best option, but her faith in the option had waned. Even Alex, who had lobbied heavily against leaving, seemed less enthusiastic about defending his position. They had reached the inevitable crossroads. Should they stay, or should they go? Ed had been ready to go six hours ago, but she asked him to wait until Alex returned before reaching a decision—or leaving. She made sure to reinforce the danger of running into Eli’s men on the road, which seemed to cool him off temporarily.

She heard the Matvee’s deep rumble, then spotted the grayish-tan vehicle racing through the trees. She waited for Corporal Lianez to execute a three-point turn and park the Matvee facing the exit road before jogging across the gravel driveway toward the assembly area. Alex rushed out, hugging her tightly, and the Marines disappeared into the tent.

“I really missed you today,” she said, kissing him.

“It wasn’t a good day to be away. I’m sorry. The shit never stopped rolling in my direction.”

“Same here. Ed’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The rest aren’t too far behind.”

“How are you holding up?” he said.

“I’m fine, I guess.”

“You guess?” he said, his eyes shifting to the DRASH tent. “Let’s check out the lake.”

“Uhhh, sure,” she said, taking his arm.

The fact that Alex felt uncomfortable discussing their situation in front of the Marines didn’t boost her confidence. Neither did her reluctance to take a sunset stroll on her own property. Something had to change. He waited until they had put about thirty feet behind them.

“What’s going on?”

“I feel like we’re back on Durham Road during the pandemic. Trapped, just waiting for the inevitable.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m feeling the same way, but on a bigger scale.”

“My perspective is confined to the house. I’m afraid to step outside. We’re all afraid.”

“I know we’re safe here, honey. I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t believe that,” he said, hesitating to continue.

“But what?”

“We met with the RRZ Authority today,” he said and shook his head. “If Eli Russell blows up their headquarters compound, along with everyone inside, the RRZ might have a chance.”

“Don’t say that. They left behind families and other responsibilities for this. They’re just like the rest of us,” she said.

“I know. I know,” he mumbled. “But something’s off with the overall picture. Grady said something that really got me thinking. The RRZ Authority arrived thinking all the initial work had been finished, or should be. Seems like one hell of a disconnect from reality.”

“Maybe they weren’t getting reports from the ground units,” said Kate.

“Wouldn’t surprise me given the chaos of assembling the RRZ teams, but that doesn’t ease my worries. How could anyone with any experience in disaster-response planning think that a system of FEMA camps designed to handle hundreds of thousands of displaced New Englanders would be up and running sixteen days after an EMP attack? Not to mention the sheer impossibility of executing a camp structure that enormous. I don’t care how many warehouses they have stocked with dehydrated food and propane heaters. This isn’t going to work.”

“What are they supposed to do? Say fuck it and stay home?”

“At least pretend not to be surprised when an understaffed National Guard engineering battalion can’t build forty camps, each designed to hold several thousand refugees, in sixteen days. That’s all.”

“And that would make you happy?” she asked, hoping his rant was over.

“No. I’d still be wondering if trying to stay here long term was a mistake.”

“Even if you find and kill Eli?”

“Even if we hunt down and kill everyone in his militia. A million-plus people are streaming toward the Maine border. The only thing standing between them and us are about four thousand soldiers and a few easily fordable rivers. Once the refugees start trying to cross en masse, the whole thing will fall apart, leaving us to fend for ourselves.”

“Unless you stay with the Marines. We can move with the battalion.”

“And live where? In a tent next to the battalion’s hangar? Take over someone’s house?”

“I’m just thinking aloud. Trying to make this work,” said Kate.

“I know you are. I’m sorry. We don’t have to make this decision yet. One step at a time. What’s the consensus in the house?”

“The Walkers want out of here pretty badly. I pulled the Eli card to keep them in place until you got back,” said Kate.

“I can’t send any of the Marines north. All of the vehicles and satellite-enabled radios, like this one,” he said, tapping his ROTAC, “can be tracked by the RRZ and Homeland. That’s the other thing that has me skeptical. There’s a disturbing Big Brother aspect to the way Homeland has been running things.”

“They can’t drive up by themselves. Three of the four adults can’t drive. The kids have their licenses. I mean, maybe—”

“I have an idea,” said Alex.

“I don’t want you out there in one of those cars,” said Kate.

“Something different. Tell Dad to get Harrison Campbell on the HAM radio. I’ll be right inside. I need to check on something,” he said, kissing her.

“Wait. What’s the plan?” she said, pulling at his arm.

“Something I should have thought of earlier.”

Chapter 31

EVENT +18 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex opened the door for Harrison Campbell and Gary Powers, motioning for them to step inside. The two men stopped a few feet into Alex’s mudroom, examining the walls. Campbell extended his hand to the doorframe next to Alex, putting his finger through one of the bullet holes.

“Good heavens. I had no idea it was this bad,” he said, shaking his head.

“It gets worse in the kitchen. We killed twenty-nine of Eli’s men, most of them trying to rush the house. He probably escaped with a half dozen.”

“Thirty-six shooters? All with semiautomatics? I don’t see how any of you survived this,” Campbell said, walking into the bathroom to inspect the sandbag position. “Steel reinforced. Clever.”

“Sheet metal. Didn’t stop the .308s.”

“Good thing he never put the thirty-cal into action against you. Would have sawed right through the house, sheet metal and all.”

“We got lucky with that,” said Alex. “It was bad enough with a squad peppering us from the trees behind the house. In a strange sense, Eli’s tactics kept us in the game long enough to repel his final attack. He went for a two-pronged assault. One squad from the eastern tree line, another from the barn. If he’d added one of those squads to the base of fire pouring into the back of the house, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The volume of fire would have been overwhelming. We could barely move around with twelve men emptying magazines into the house.”

“Looks like you have some work ahead of you,” said Campbell.

“New toilet?” said Powers. “No way the other one survived.”

“Priorities. Grabbed two from the Home Store. Not much demand for plumbing items these days,” said Alex.

“Basic, yet inventive. Not a bad idea for the house and barn,” said Powers, patting the sandbags.

“And most importantly, effective. The only improvement I’d make is to double up on the sheet metal. A few of the positions experienced breakthrough. Step this way, and I’ll introduce you to the walking wounded,” he said, guiding them through the kitchen to the great room.

Charlie tried to stand up as they approached.

“Charlie, save your strength. You’ll need it to deal with Linda during the ride,” he said, winking.

“I have to be in the same car?” said Linda.

“Funny.”

“Everyone, this is Harrison Campbell, founder of the York County Readiness Brigade, and his training officer, Gary Powers. They’ll lead the convoy north, along with yours truly,” said Alex.

The room broke into a disharmony of questions.

“I’ll explain the details in a moment. From left to right, we have Charlie and Linda Thornton, both wounded in the attack. Charlie’s close to walking again, but Linda has a ways to go. She needs surgery, which I don’t see happening any time soon. Need to be careful with her foot.”

“Don’t worry about me, gentlemen. Damn foot can’t get any worse,” she said. “I can still shoot, so don’t count me out of the game.”

“You got an empty trunk?” asked Charlie.

Campbell laughed. “Sorry, sir. We’re packed to the gills. I can put you in separate cars if that would help.”

“Families ride together,” said Ed.

“You’re just trying to keep him out of your car,” Linda groused.

“Is it that obvious?” said Ed, winking at Campbell and Powers.

“After all we’ve been through,” said Charlie.

“Especially after all we’ve been through,” said Ed, and they all laughed.

Alex gestured toward the Walkers. “Ed and Samantha Walker. Ed was wounded saving my hide—again. They have three children, ages fourteen through nineteen. Overall, you’re looking at a highly capable group.”

“I can still shoot out of a window,” stated Linda.

“I want her in my car,” said Gary.

“Sold, to the man in jeans and woodland camouflage jacket!” howled Charlie, receiving a shoulder punch from his wife.

“Hey, careful,” Charlie said, “I’m injured.”

Alex turned to Campbell. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Too late to turn back now,” he said.

“Let’s get this wrapped up,” Alex said. “The cars are packed and waiting. I’ll ride in the lead vehicle with Harrison. The Walkers will follow in their Jeep. Gary and the Thorntons will be in the third vehicle. The last two cars in the convoy will carry the bulk of the convoy’s supplies.”

“Maybe the Thorntons’ car should be in the rear,” Ed suggested.

“I’m not that loud,” said Charlie. “Jesus.”

“All the more reason,” he said. “No. I’m more concerned with the supplies. Sorry to put this out there, especially since you guys are doing us a huge favor, but that’s a lot of temptation. Especially the truck pulling the utility trailer.”

“No offense taken,” Harrison said. “I’m way ahead of you. I’m breaking up the groups that drove up together from Sanford. I’ll have a good mix of old and new members in each vehicle. I trust everyone implicitly, but we can’t change human nature.”

“Plus, it would be pretty damn hard to make an escape pulling the trailer,” said Powers.

“Sounds good,” said Ed. “I guess we should get rolling.”

“Before we leave, a couple of critical points to remember,” said Alex. “Five cars travelling in a convoy will attract attention. I expect to be stopped. Keep your weapons out of sight at all times. I’m riding in full uniform with my magic badge, but we can’t count on that solving all of our local law enforcement problems. Weapons need to be stowed out of plain sight, but easily accessible. Take some time to work on this once everyone is situated. Safeties engaged at all times. Harrison, I’ll need you to brief your people on this.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Powers.

“If we’re stopped by law enforcement or the military, I do all of the talking. Everyone stays in their vehicle unless I direct otherwise by hand signal or radio. I don’t expect trouble, but you never know. If we run into any non-authority-based—”

“You can use the word. We’re all grownups,” said Campbell, eliciting a few muffled laughs.

“If we run into any militia blockades, we stop and turn around. Drivers have been briefed on those procedures. Samantha, you execute a simple three-point turn, and we all proceed in the opposite direction in a group until we can safely stop and figure out an alternate route. I made this trip with my dad a little over a week ago, and we didn’t have a problem. One police checkpoint in Westbrook. A lot can change in a week. We just have to be careful and keep communicating over the handhelds. Easy enough?”

“Easy enough,” said Ed, followed by the rest.

“Guys, can you start getting everyone situated? We’ll be ready to transport the walking wounded in a few minutes,” he said to Campbell and Powers.

“Gotcha. You know where to find us,” said Campbell.

When Alex heard the mudroom door close, he sat in one of the chairs facing his friends.

“I trust Harrison and Gary, but I don’t know the other guys—which is why I’m keeping them separate from the families. I recognize a few of the faces from the volunteers we started training at the airport. At least I know they cleared criminal background checks and passed Gunny Deschane’s interview, which was more like an interrogation.”

“How well do you know Gary?”

“I worked with Gary a couple of times at the airport. Harrison vouches for him.”

Charlie and Linda didn’t look convinced.

“He’ll be driving, so you’ll be able to watch him closely. Keep the radio in the back, along with a readied pistol. If he’s not acting right, give me a call and mention John Wayne. This will be our distress code. Say, ‘Hey, Alex, I feel like John Wayne riding off into the sunset,’ or something similar. If I hear John Wayne, we stop the convoy.”

“Roger. John Wayne.”

“I picked that because of your Daniel Boone cap and tiger-striped camouflage. Easy to remember.”

“Jesus, Alex. I got it,” said Charlie.

“What else?” said Alex.

“You should really consider sending the kids up with us. At least until you take care of this Eli Russell character,” said Samantha Walker.

“Ethan and Kevin won’t go without my parents, and Kate won’t let any of the kids out of her sight.”

“Maybe they should all come up while you sort things out with Eli Russell and the RRZ,” said Ed.

“I won’t separate us. We’re safe here,” said Alex.

“For now,” said Ed.

“For now,” he agreed. “If I can’t find Eli or the RRZ implodes, we’ll leave.”

“You know where to find us,” said Charlie.

“I certainly do. Save me some sleeping bag space away from the bathroom,” he said, getting a few laughs.

“Yeah, we’ll need to build an outhouse or steal one of those Porta-Johns. Charlie can take his newspaper out there,” said Linda.

“There won’t be any newspapers, sweetie,” said Charlie.

“Point is, you aren’t conducting your morning business inside,” she said.

“That’s more than enough. I can see where it’s going,” said Alex.

“You started it,” said Charlie.

“My bad,” said Alex, his mind drifting to the realities of the topic.

Alex hadn’t thought about the cottage’s sanitary situation. Most septic systems are designed to accommodate the expected purpose of the dwelling. He couldn’t imagine the builders had anticipated seventeen people using the small lake house indefinitely. Even without the addition of the Fletchers, they’d be lucky if the system survived the winter. Life on Great Pond in Belgrade would degrade fairly quickly without the use of an indoor bathroom. Another reason they were better off elsewhere. He had to be practical about this decision, and seventeen people crammed into an 800-square-foot cottage designed primarily for three-season use was far from practical.

“Let’s get out of here before I rethink the bathroom situation,” said Ed.

“You might want to stuff a few extra packs of toilet paper in each car,” said Alex, extending a hand to lift Ed out of his seat.

“Trust me, I thought about it,” Ed said, resting his arm on Alex’s shoulder. “Another week, and I should be able to get around on my own without any help.”

“Sounds about right,” said Alex. “I got him, Samantha. We’ll see you at the Jeep.”

“I’ll get everyone situated,” she said, sharing a concerned look with Ed.

Alex helped Ed out of the door, purposely letting Charlie and Linda pull ahead.

Ed leaned over and whispered, “You don’t have any plans to head north—do you?”

Alex shook his head. “I don’t think it’s in the group’s best interest.”

“It could work,” said Ed.

“I appreciate your optimism, but we both know Charlie’s place can’t sustain seventeen people. It’ll be tough enough with nine of you.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Ideally, I’d like to stay right here,” said Alex. “But it’s not looking hopeful.”

Ed snapped his head toward Alex.

“You’ll be fine up north. If the security situation in York County implodes, for whatever reason, they’ll reestablish the security area border at the Saco River.”

“What if that fails?”

“It can’t,” stated Alex.

Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t see a plan for a tertiary security border,” he said, grimacing.

“Come hell or high water,” muttered Ed.

“Charlie has a good plot of land next to a pristine lake. I packed up a kit with enough seeds for two seasons and a slightly worn copy of a book we’ve used to figure out a lot of this homesteading stuff. Sort of a dummies guide to self-sustainability.”

“I can’t take the book from you,” said Ed.

“If we stay here, I’ll borrow it back from you in the spring. If not, the book is better off in your hands. I don’t think we’ll have much need for it where we’re headed.”

Chapter 32

EVENT +21 Days

Kennebunk Road

Sanford, Maine

The trees flanking Kennebunk Road disappeared, exposing a well-lit labyrinth of concrete barriers designed to funnel traffic through a single opening next to the armor-plated guard post. Darkness lay beyond the halogen lights mounted to the roof of the shadowy structure. Kevin McCulver slowed the York County sheriff’s car as they approached the checkpoint. One of the sentries stepped onto the road, motioning him forward. The second guard was nowhere in sight—presumably still inside the impenetrable enclosure.

He’d read about these modular armor designs a few years ago, when they were widely fielded by the U.S. military at entry points to most outposts and bases in Afghanistan. Afghan National Police units based in remote areas had begun to install larger versions at police stations to serve as “safe rooms” during frequent Taliban raids. Impervious to heavy-caliber bullets and bomb fragments, occupants could safely fire on attackers and call for reinforcements, which was exactly why this morning’s plan required both guards to step out from inside the bunker.

He drove between two rows of concrete Jersey barriers and dimmed the cruiser’s headlights as they pulled up to the sentry post. Light penetrated the car’s windows, casting serious doubt on their charade. McCulver wore a freshly pressed York County sheriff’s uniform, but stepping out of the car wasn’t an option for him. The uniform hung on his meager frame like a scarecrow; the bullet-resistant vest worn underneath doing little to improve the situation. A shadow moved behind one of the ballistic glass windows set high in the enclosure.

This isn’t going to work.

“Change of plans,” he whispered to the passenger next to him. “We talk our way through and stop just past the checkpoint. Make up some excuse to draw the second sentry out.”

The stone-faced former inmate slowly shook his head. “Eli’s orders were clear. No improvising.”

“Eli isn’t here. If we don’t take them down at the same time, one of them will radio ahead.”

“You let me worry about that,” he said, adjusting his grip on the suppressed pistol tucked between his right thigh and the door.

When the bright light started to fill the cabin, McCulver stole a closer glance at his passenger and nearly stopped the vehicle. A stain several shades darker than the hunter green uniform shirt covered most of Karl Pratt’s left shoulder, an anomaly somehow overlooked when they distributed the dead sheriffs’ gear by flashlight at the staging area. The blemish continued past the yellow patch sewn into the upper sleeve, covering half of the York County emblem with a crusty maroon film.

“Jesus, Karl,” he hissed. “You look like you dressed a deer in that uniform.”

Karl glanced at his shoulder patch as the sentry approached. “Change of plans,” he said, raising his handheld radio. “Shooter, this is Raider Lead. Fire at the sentry next to our car. Fire now.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” said McCulver, putting the cruiser into park.

“Saving the operation,” said Pratt, tossing the radio on the dashboard.

The ranger’s body language didn’t change when Pratt stepped out of the car. He kept his rifle aimed at the ground in a patrol ready position.

Maybe this will work.

Despite McCulver’s initial reservations, the police cruiser and uniforms got them close enough without drawing suspicion.

“Deputy, please wait inside the vehicle while I clear you with dispatch,” he said, removing one of his hands to activate his radio.

A sharp crack spun the soldier flat against the guard post wall. Pratt was already in motion, sprinting in front of the car with his pistol aimed across the hood. A second bullet hit the sentry, knocking him to the ground and spraying a bright red line across the police cruiser’s windshield. Bullets clanked off the thick armor as Pratt disappeared behind the guard post, relentlessly firing his suppressed pistol at an unseen target.

Through the thick glass windows imbedded high in the armored wall next to the car, successive flashes illuminated the sentry station’s interior, followed by muffled gunshots. The night fell silent for several moments until a single flash and muted crack inside the guard post temporarily jolted McCulver out of his fear-induced stupor. He fumbled for the door handle, spilling onto the asphalt next to the downed sentry.

The wounded soldier reacted to his arrival by clawing at the Motorola attached to his tactical vest. Lurching forward, McCulver ripped the radio free before the sentry could send a warning. Karl Pratt poked his head around the corner of the guard post.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, stepping into view. “Start the attack. No way this went unnoticed.”

“Did you get the other sentry?”

“What do you think?”

McCulver grabbed the radio Pratt had left on the dashboard, settling into the driver’s seat. Two sharp reports caused him to duck and reach for the compact pistol hidden in the door panel. Groping for the door, he peeked over the dashboard. Pratt’s pistol was aimed downward at the sentry—slide locked backward.

“All Raider units, this is Raider Lead. Commence your attack runs. I say again. Commence your attack runs.”

Pratt ran up to his door. “Are you going to move the car?”

“Douse the lights,” McCulver said, shifting the car into drive.

He pulled the cruiser through the opening and parked behind the armored enclosure. In the rearview mirror, he watched the checkpoint darken. Pratt’s shadowy figure emerged from the back door a few seconds later, sprinting for the car. McCulver climbed over the center console, twisting into the passenger seat. He reached between the seats and pulled a red plastic toolbox into his lap.

“You didn’t have to park fifty feet away,” said Pratt, crashing into the driver’s seat.

McCulver didn’t respond. Something was off with this guy. He didn’t like the mercurial shift from respectful to insolent when they arrived at the guard post. Eli would never tolerate shit like that. Not from a piece of shit like Pratt. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it right now. Pratt had demonstrated enough competence under pressure to buy him a second chance—or at least another five minutes.

***

Specialist Gabriel Martinez froze, straining to listen over the leaves rustling in the faint breeze. Nothing for several moments, then two barely audible cracks from the west. He turned his head in the direction of the airfield and processed the green image provided by his night-vision goggles. Nothing. He flipped the goggles upward and completed the same sweep with his rifle’s thermal scope. They were still alone as far as he could tell.

“You hear any of that?” he whispered to Staff Sergeant Mark Jensen, his patrol leader.

Jensen edged closer.

“Just the one sound.”

“Nothing out there?”

“Negative. I thought the relief team had arrived early,” said Martinez.

They were an hour away from completing a six-hour shift patrolling the 1,500-foot strip of forest bordering Route 109, along the eastern edge of the airfield. The woodlands lay just inside the airport’s security fence, representing a possible security risk from insurgent teams wishing to approach the airfield unseen.

“Wishful thinking. Suppressed weapon?”

“Hard to tell. Thought it came from the airfield.”

“The Marines have a shit ton of those suppressed HK rifles,” said Jensen.

“I haven’t seen them carry any on patrol,” replied Martinez.

“Call it in. We’ll make our way to the airfield.”

“Roger that, Staff Sergeant.”

***

Second Lieutenant Kyle Walker sat on a rusty folding chair inside the Seacoast Aviation hangar, watching the steam rise from the metal canteen cup perched on a WhisperLite camp stove. He’d pulled the mid-watch again, putting him in front of Bravo Company, 2nd Ranger Battalion’s radios for eight hours, starting at twenty-two hundred hours. The eight-hour stretch was brutal, but he’d fall out of the rotation for the next twenty-four hours, giving him a chance to patrol with his platoon and catch up on rest. With five officers in the company, including the company commander, they had enough flexibility to meet the RRZ’s requirement to keep an officer and staff NCO on dispatch duty at all times.

“That water ain’t gonna boil any faster with you eyeballing it, sir.”

“How did I get stuck with you, First Sergeant?”

“Captain asked me to keep an eye on you,” said First Sergeant McMillan, glancing deeper into the hangar. “Speaking of the good captain…”

A muscular African-American man dressed in running gear emerged from the shadows, walking toward the tables of electronics gear pushed against the hangar wall.

“Morning, gents. I’m headed out for a quick run and some PT before the RRZ briefing. Brought this for you, First Sergeant,” Hines said, tossing the MRE at McMillan. “Briefing’s at 6:15.”

“I don’t like to eat on duty, sir. Sets a bad example for the more impressionable members of the company,” said McMillan, nodding at the lieutenant.

The radio squawked. “Rogue Watch, this is Rogue Three. Over.”

Walker glanced at his watch before answering. 5:12. Perimeter teams checked in at the bottom of the hour. This wasn’t a check-in.

“This is Rogue Watch. Over.”

“Interrogative. Did any other Rogue units report noise to our west?”

“Negative. What did you hear?”

“Distant crackling noise. Best guess is suppressed gunshots.”

The amplified words hung in the air for a moment.

“Tell them to stand by,” said Hines. “What’s Rogue Three’s location?”

“Stand by, Rogue Three. Out.”

Walker turned to the laptop on the table in front of him, forgetting about the boiling water on the concrete floor next to him. After a few mouse clicks, he had zoomed in on Rogue Three’s passive tracking beacon.

“Moving parallel to Route 109, less than one hundred feet from the western edge of their patrol zone.”

“Where’s Rogue Two?”

“Sweeping the woods adjacent to the RRZ Authority compound,” said Walker.

“Contact Rogue Two and the Outland Four,” Hines ordered. “I want to know if they can corroborate any of these sounds. First Sergeant, may I borrow your NVGs?”

The seasoned ranger handed the captain his helmet with NVGs attached while Walker contacted the units. Rogue Two had nothing to report. He grabbed the radio handset tuned to the outer perimeter checkpoints and transmitted.

“Outland Four, this is Rogue Watch. Over.”

No response.

“Outland Four, this is Rogue Watch. Over.”

He waited a few seconds before checking the radio set to make sure he was still transmitting on the Outland frequency. He tried one more time before calling out to Captain Hines, who stood in the middle of the open hangar door twenty feet away.

“No response from Outland Four.”

“I don’t see their security lights,” said Hines.

“I recommend we send QRF out to the checkpoint, sir,” said First Sergeant McMillan, standing with his rifle.

“Send QRF. Raise alert status to Red for all stations. Contact Patriot and pass the alert. Wake the troops, First Sergeant.”

***

Specialist Martinez held up a fist, stopping their progress.

“Vehicle. Up ahead,” he whispered.

“Let’s go,” said Jensen, sprinting past him.

They stopped at the edge of the woods and crouched, searching the open landscape next to the airfield for the source of the engine sounds.

“Two buses and several smaller vehicles headed toward the airport from Outland Four. Running dark,” said Jensen, turning his head east. “What the fuck happened to Outland’s lights?”

“They should be on. I’m calling this in,” said Martinez.

“Hold on. I see a police cruiser behind the buses.”

Martinez watched the darkened convoy speed toward the empty intersection ahead. The buses showed no signs of slowing.

Something’s way off.

“Staff Sergeant?” said Martinez.

“Send it as a SPOTREP,” said Jensen, disengaging his rifle’s safety.

Before Martinez could transmit, his earpiece activated.

“All Rogue and Outland units. Alert Level Red. Outland Four not responding to radio calls. Any unit with eyes on Outland Four—report immediately.”

“Rogue Watch, this is Rogue Three. SPOTREP. Fifteen vehicles headed west on Kennebunk Road. Outland Four is dark. Over.”

“Copy fifteen vehicles. Are you reporting them as confirmed hostile?” said Rogue Watch.

“Uh—wait one,” said Martinez, releasing the transmit button. “Staff Sergeant, what do you—”

“Confirmed hostile!” interrupted Jensen. “They’re ramming the fence!”

The lead bus slammed into the gate directly across from the intersection, snapping the padlocked chains and barreling through the fence like it didn’t exist. He thumbed the Motorola button as the second bus passed through the new opening, headed toward the runway.

“Confirmed hostile! I say again, confirmed hostile! They just breached the gate in front of the Kennebunk Road intersection.”

Chapter 33

EVENT +21 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Standing in the stairwell next to the folding doors, Matt Gibbs gripped the steel handrail and ducked when the front of his bus smashed into the fence. A quick jolt, followed by several halfhearted cheers, told him that McCulver had been right. The brute force produced by a fifteen-ton bus travelling at thirty-five miles per hour had snapped the gate like a twig, leaving a few spider cracks in the windshield.

“I can’t see the runway,” said the driver, slowing the bus.

Gibbs opened his eyes and peered through the windshield, quickly reaching the same conclusion. The shapeless black view ahead gave him no indication if they were on the dirt access road leading to the runway. Logic told him the runway was dead ahead, but he couldn’t afford to be wrong. Eli had stressed the importance of timing and speed on this operation, especially if they hoped to return alive. Any delay reaching the primary targets could doom them to failure, and failure was not an option—especially with Eli. He hated to give up the element of surprise, but he needed to be sure.

“Hit the lights for a second.”

“Don’t you have night vision?”

“Did you see me bring any on board? All of the night vision is in the cars. They need it to get to their targets.”

“We turn these lights on, they’ll see us coming.”

“We’re not driving the whole way with the lights. Just long enough to reach the runway. Hit the goddamn lights,” said Gibbs.

“Whatever,” the driver said and flipped on the headlights.

They were twenty or thirty feet to the right of the dirt road. The runway lay several hundred feet ahead.

“Get us back on the road,” he said. “Careful turning in the grass.”

As the bus eased left, his radio squawked.

“Raider One, this is Raider Lead. Turn your lights off immediately.”

“This is Raider One. We’re off the road. We can’t see where we’re going,” said Gibbs.

“Turn your lights off—immediately. You’re compromising the mission. I’ll guide you to the runway. Follow the green light,” said Raider Lead.

“Told you,” said the driver, killing the lights.

Before the view ahead disappeared, he caught a glimpse of McCulver’s police cruiser speeding past. A few seconds later, a subdued, green glow lit the cruiser’s interior. Through the bus’s windshield, the familiar shape of a chemlight waved side to side.

“Follow that car,” Gibbs said.

Ten seconds later, the chemlight flew out of the cruiser’s window and bounced twice before stopping.

“Raider Two, this is Raider Lead. Green chemlight is your mark to turn right and proceed down the taxiway to your targets. Good luck and God bless America. Rally at the same chemlight for group extract to staging area. Raider One stay on me. The main runway is dead ahead. Out.”

The bus continued past the green mark, driving blind until the cruiser’s interior reappeared, bathed in green light. McCulver had clearly thought this one through. Gibbs had a good feeling about it, despite the audacity of Eli’s overall plan. Casualties would no doubt be high, and there was no guarantee he’d survive to celebrate their victory, but the price paid in blood today would be well worth the sacrifice. This morning’s attack would deliver a strong message to the government, rallying patriots throughout New England and ultimately sparking a countrywide revolution. He was proud to play an integral role in a battle that would be compared to the “shot heard round the world” fired at North Bridge in Concord.

“Raider One, this is Raider Lead. Mark your turn at the chemlight and commence your attack run. Good luck and God bless America. Hit them hard and rally at the chemlight.”

The second chemlight sailed in a shallow arc, landing on the runway ahead of the bus. Gibbs pulled the door release handle, retracting the bifold door and bathing the stairwell in a cool gust of moist air. Peering through the open doorway, he could vaguely identify the dark shapes of Raider Two racing down the taxiway toward the hangars crowding the airfield’s main tarmac. As the bus started its wide turn onto the runway, he tightened his grip on the vertical handle in the stairwell and triggered his radio.

“Raider One units, this is Raider One Lead. Once you hit the runway, proceed at best speed to the hangars along the western edge of the airfield and return to the chemlight. We need to be back on Kennebunk Road in less than five minutes. Respond. Over.”

By the time Raider One-Six, the sixth vehicle in Gibbs’ formation, responded, the bus had completed its turn, accelerating on the open runway. He could barely believe they were doing this. Gibbs climbed the stairs and studied the view ahead. The obsidian murk still hid the distant hangars, but he knew the bus was headed in the right direction. A dark gray strip, several times wider than the bus, cut through the sea of black ahead. A dark shape appeared in his peripheral vision as one of the Raider vehicles sped past the bus.

“How fast are we going?” he yelled over the wind blowing into the doorway.

“Fifty-five!”

“Kick it up to seventy. I don’t want to fall too far behind the cars.”

“This thing isn’t designed for drag racing,” said the driver.

Gibbs felt a weak burst of acceleration as the rest of his attack force zipped by on both sides of the bus.

“I got the damn thing floored. This is it!”

He patted the driver on the shoulder.

“Keep it going as fast as you can,” he said, watching the dark shapes pull away.

Raider One Lead had the same problem. Three hundred feet away, running parallel to the main runway, the long, gray shape of the second correctional bus drifted further behind the pack of smaller vehicles, which had nearly disappeared in the darkness ahead. Gibbs didn’t like the separation between the buses and the cars. It was the one aspect of Eli’s plan that left him uneasy.

With the faster vehicles arriving ahead of the buses, they would bear the brunt of the return fire from the stirred-up hornets’ nest at the other end of the runway. Eli spun the situation differently, which rallied the troops but did little to quell his apprehension. He described the buses as battleships, which would shatter the confused enemy’s morale with a broadside of concentrated gunfire. A little overstated, Gibbs thought, but not a bad image.

Much like the battleship Eli described, a mixed group of militia and inmates would simultaneously fire a medley of semiautomatic rifles, bolt-action hunting rifles and shotguns at the hangar. The volume of fire exiting the slatted security windows might be impressive, but it hardly qualified as a fearsome broadside. Firing into the dark from a moving platform, his team of twenty-three men would be lucky to hit anything. Despite Eli’s elevated claims, Gibbs understood that the buses functioned more as a show of force than a force multiplier. The car bomb would do most of the damage.

“Raider One Lead, this is Raider One-One. I’m seeing a ton of shit up ahead. Looks like some kind of tent city in the area between the runway and western taxiway.”

“This is Raider One Lead. Is this before or after the turn?”

“Pretty sure it’s after the turn. Jesus, I have a dozen, possibly more helicopters on the tarmac. Are you sure we’re just looking at a company of soldiers? This looks a lot bigger.”

“Intelligence reported a company-sized infantry unit housed in our target hangar, along with elements of the National Guard in Raider One’s target area. How far until the turn?”

“Coming up in a few seconds. This is not a company-sized unit. Shit, I have troop movement around the tents and vehicles. Holy fu—”

The radio transmission abruptly ceased, and a stream of red tracers raced from left to right across the black horizon, ricocheting skyward when it reached a point a few hundred feet in front of the bus. Some of the tracers continued uninterrupted on their slightly parabolic trajectory across the airfield.

“Raider One-One, this is Raider Lead!” he yelled.

No response.

Damn it!

One-One carried the explosives, and he didn’t have communications with the rest of the vehicles. Eli wanted to keep command and control simple. The rest of the cars were supposed to follow One-One to the hangar and provide covering fire while they triggered the car bomb. Lines of tracers erupted from both directions, stitching the darkness ahead of them and deflecting in wild, high arcs. He lurched forward as the bus decelerated.

“What are you doing?” said Gibbs.

“It’s a fucking ambush, man!”

He stared through the windshield at the intensifying maelstrom of crimson streaks crisscrossing their intended path. He knew each tracer represented four projectiles, which meant the space ahead of them was filled with hundreds of 7.62mm bullets.

“Keep your speed until I get clarification.”

“Clarification? They’re getting the shit pounded out of them!” screamed the driver.

“Just give me a few seconds!” Gibbs yelled, grabbing his handheld radio.

“Raider Lead, this is Raider One. Taking heavy fire from both sides of the airfield. Lost contact with Raider One-One. Request permission to abort mission.”

“Negative, Raider One. Your lead vehicle has made the turn. Proceed to target and provide covering fire for extract. Do not abandon your men!” said McCulver.

“Roger. Proceeding to target.”

“He’s full of shit,” said the driver, slowing the bus. “We’re driving into a kill zone.”

Gibbs drew his pistol and jammed it into the inmate’s shoulder. “You keep this fucking bus moving forward.”

Before either of them could process the situation, tracers skipped wildly across the runway thirty feet in front of the bus, engulfing the last Raider Two vehicle in a brilliant storm of high-velocity streaks. The SUV abruptly swerved when tracers penetrated the vehicle and ricocheted through the interior, briefly illuminating the blood-splattered rear windshield.

“Stop the bus!” screamed Gibbs, unaware that he’d just killed himself.

The driver slammed on the hydraulic brakes, propelling Gibbs through the windshield.

***

McCulver watched the battle unfold through night-vision binoculars with a tinge of disappointment. Soldiers from the tents and hangars had responded faster that he’d expected, with lethal results. Few of Raider’s vehicles made it off the runway or taxiway, striking deeper into the airfield as he’d hoped. Eli told him it didn’t matter. As long as they got close to the business end of the runway, Eli was satisfied—mission accomplished. McCulver wanted more. He’d put most of the explosives into the airport phase of the operation and hated to see it wasted. He inwardly cheered them on, urging them to break through the hail of machine-gun fire to deliver one of his creations.

The buses had been his biggest hope, but one of them had faltered, the driver a victim of “cold feet,” according to the most recent radio transmission. He focused on the stalled bus, watching bright green streaks pour into the metal coffin from both sides of the airfield. Two figures piled out of the front door, stumbling several steps before a stream of tracers swept through their bodies and dropped them to the asphalt. Through the horizontal security bars affixed to the outside of the corrections vehicle, he witnessed a bizarre light show inside the bus as tracers bounced around inside, exiting at dozens of different angles like a Fourth of July sparkler.

Glancing at the taxiway, the second bus lumbered forward, somehow miraculously continuing its doomed journey toward the end of the airfield. If it survived the next fifteen seconds of concentrated gunfire, McCulver might get secondary explosions from the fuel-laden helicopters crowding the tarmac.

He zoomed in on the cluster of protected hangars closest to the taxiway, searching for evidence of the pickup truck assigned to ram through the fence and shoot up the mini-compound. Based on the extra layer of security surrounding the buildings, they guessed this had to be some type of headquarters. He spotted the pickup truck buried halfway through the chain-link fence next to a long hangar. Figures scurried across the inner perimeter firing into the wrecked vehicle, presenting an opportunity he couldn’t resist.

A quick check on the second bus confirmed that it wasn’t going to reach the helicopters, so he tuned the handheld radio to the first of three preset frequencies and pressed the transmit button. The view through his binoculars flashed bright green, followed by a sharp explosion that rattled the police cruiser. Temporarily blinded, he panicked and jabbed at what he hoped was the button that advanced the preset. He hit the transmit button. Nothing.

“Pratt, I can’t see. Dial this to preset channel two and press transmit. Repeat for preset channel three,” he said, holding the radio out.

“What do you mean, you can’t see?”

“Night-vision flare. I need you to do this fast,” said McCulver.

Really fast.

Their car was two thousand feet away from the nearest hangar, still within range of the heavy-caliber machine guns reported by Tim Barrett.

“Jesus, you’re a regular clusterfuck,” said Pratt, snatching it out of his hand.

A few seconds later, with his vision slowly returning, he still hadn’t heard the explosions.

“I can’t figure this cheap piece of shit out. Where the fuck did you buy these?” said Pratt.

“It’s a basic handheld radio! How hard can it be?”

Several blurred flashes passed the windshield, followed by loud cracks.

“They’re ranging us!” McCulver shrieked. “Hurry the fuck up! It’s a radio not a Rubik’s Cube!”

“I can’t make any sense out of these buttons. Who the fuck buys a radio with only three buttons?” said Pratt.

“Someone who’s working with a bunch of dipshits. Give me the radio and get us out of here!”

“I’m done taking orders from you,” said Pratt, pressing something metallic against his left temple.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said McCulver, gripping the binoculars tightly.

“What I was ordered to do—by Eli.”

McCulver jammed his left hand upward, pinning the pistol to the roof of the car, while he slammed the binoculars into Pratt’s head. He repeatedly pummeled Pratt until the pistol clattered against the center console. Opening the door, he jumped onto the runway and slammed the door, feeling his way to the back of the car. Risking a glance over the trunk, he registered movement and ducked, barely avoiding two suppressed bullets. The sound of scuffling along the asphalt on the other side of the trunk forced him to scramble to the front of the car. A line of red tracers arced over the car, illuminating Pratt’s figure kneeling by the trunk.

Shit!

He rolled in front of the car as bullets snapped by his head.

Peering under the front bumper, he spotted feet shuffling down the side of the car. Before he could react, a bright red flash tore through one of Pratt’s feet, followed by a torrent of bullets striking the cruiser. Lying flat, he watched Pratt’s body crumple to the runway in a hissing pile of battered flesh and clothing. McCulver scrambled behind the engine block and crouched on shaky legs, listening to the distant crackling of small-arms fire over his thumping heart. He waited for another burst of machine-gun fire to rake the cruiser, but several tense seconds passed with no incoming fusillade.

McCulver weighed his options. Driving the car would attract bullets. If the cruiser had been pointed at the fence, it might work, but they had parked facing the other direction so he would have a clear view of the attack through the passenger-side window. The time required to turn the vehicle spelled the difference between life and death, eliminating that choice. The only hope of escape lay in the trees due east of the car. He didn’t know the distance to the tree line, but he knew it was far enough away to present a serious challenge. Crossing several hundred feet of open terrain with night-vision-equipped M240 machine guns at his back sounded like a bad bet. Unless he could distract them.

Rising slightly, he shuffled past the open door and kneeled next to the driver’s seat to search for the radio detonator. The car held a sharp, coppery smell mixed with a faint ammonia odor. Feeling around the wet, sticky interior, a flush of anger warmed his face. Fucking Eli. He should have known better than to trust that self-serving snake. His hand hit the radio in the driver’s foot well. Lying prone several feet away from the cruiser, he examined the radio, which appeared to be dead. He pressed the power button next to the antenna, and the radio buttons and channel LED display glowed muted orange. The dumb fuck had turned the radio off. Without hesitation, he pressed the button labeled “Preset” until the LED displayed “Preset 2.”

***

Specialist Martinez dropped to the ground as a stream of tracers raced past to his left.

“Rogue Dispatch, this is Rogue Three. Cease fire on the police cruiser at the end of the runway. Friendlies in contact. I say again, cease fire on the target at the eastern end of the runway. Friendlies in contact.”

“What the hell are these two doing?” whispered Staff Sergeant Jensen lying several feet to his right.

“Trying to kill each other,” said Martinez, staring at the grayscale image through his thermal scope.

The heat signature kneeling behind the trunk of the car fired two shots before moving down the right side of the car. A burst of white streaks ripped through the figure, passing through the car. Martinez ripped his head away from the scope in time to see another line of red tracers shoot by less than twenty feet away.

“Goddamn it!” yelled Martinez, grabbing his radio microphone.

“Rogue Dispatch! This is Rogue Three. Cease fire on target at eastern end of runway. Friendlies in contact! Acknowledge. Over!”

“This is Rogue Dispatch. Cease fire acknowledged by airfield units. Out.”

“Stay low,” said Jensen. “No way every shooter out there got that order.”

One hundred feet from the cruiser, at the edge of the runway, the two rangers watched the surviving heat signature crawl around the front of the vehicle and pause. A few snaps passed overhead and to the side.

“Told you,” said Jensen. “We stay right here until the snap, crackle, pop is over.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Martinez. “Should we drop him?”

“Negative. This looks like a command and control target. He isn’t going anywhere.”

When the figure started frantically digging around the driver’s seat, Martinez zoomed in, interested to see what the man needed so badly.

A handheld radio? Shit!

“Possible detonator,” he hissed.

“Got it,” said Jensen. “Stand by to take him out.”

Martinez concentrated on the gray image, which crawled away from the vehicle and stopped. He kept the scope’s crosshairs on the figure’s head.

“Take the shot,” said Jensen when the figure raised the handheld radio.

Martinez steadied the sight picture and pressed the trigger, exploding their relatively calm corner of the airfield.

“You missed,” said Jensen.

“Uh-huh,” replied Martinez, watching the man writhe in pain holding his mangled fingers.

Chapter 34

EVENT +21 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex leaned over the map stretched across the folding table in the DRASH tent, matching satellite image features on his digital tablet to paper. He drew small circles on the map, each representing a field or some kind of clearing in the woods that held a structure. When he finished, his vehicle leaders would use the tactical tablets assigned to each Matvee to snap digital pictures of assigned search sectors. They’d keep the quick reference images of the paper map minimized on their tablet screens, “checking off” each location after it had been cleared.

The Marine seated at the communications table next to him suddenly sat up, adjusting his headphones and grabbing a pen. He scribbled furiously on a pad of paper before responding.

“Copy all. Passing to Guardian Actual now,” he said, turning to Alex. “Sir, MOB Sanford is under coordinated attack by car bombs and small-arms fire. Patriot wants our vehicles on the road ASAP, heading south to intercept retreating hostile forces.”

“Acknowledged. Will contact Patriot en route. Send it.”

Alex grabbed his rifle and burst out of the tent, nearly colliding with Staff Sergeant Taylor.

“You’re up earl—”

“MOB Sanford is under attack. Car bombs and small arms. I need four vehicles, four Marines each, including gunners. Full tactical load outs. We roll in two minutes. Staff Sergeant Evans!” he said, sprinting toward the house.

He met Evans on the gravel driveway in front of the porch. “I just heard!”

“I’m taking four Matvees and fifteen Marines to Sanford. Pull the forest LP/OP’s back to the house immediately and set up 360-degree coverage. Send one Matvee with four Marines and a two-forty to reinforce the Old Mill Road LP/OP. The other Matvee sits right here on the driveway.”

“Copy. What about the LP/OP at the entrance to the compound?”

“Keep them in place in case something slips through,” said Alex, holding up a finger to Kate, who had just arrived. “One second, hon.”

“ROE?” said Evans.

“Weapons free. Assume all unidentified vehicles or ground personnel are hostile. They’re using car bombs. Don’t let any vehicles near the OPs,” he said, slapping Taylor on the shoulder. “Get your men situated.”

“I’m on it, sir,” said Evans, disappearing for the command tent.

The Matvees parked in front of the DRASH tent rumbled to life in the darkness, followed immediately by the vehicle east of the house.

“Where are you going?” said Kate, turning her head to Matvees. “Where are they going?”

“South to cut off Eli’s retreat. He’ll be long gone before the Marines deploy the quick-reaction force. If we’re lucky, we might catch him heading north.”

“He’s up to something,” she said.

“I’m leaving two vehicles and more than half of the Marines. You’ll be fine,” said Alex, quickly kissing her.

“I’m not worried about us— I’m worried about you.”

“He can’t take on four armored tactical vehicles.”

“Then why would he attack the airport?”

“Because he’s crazy,” said Alex.

“Crazy doesn’t mean stupid,” she said. “Be careful.”

***

Houses peeked through the trees along the road, marking the outskirts of Limerick’s downtown area. Alex searched the green image for anything out of place. A church steeple rose above the trees. First Baptist stood at the intersection of Routes 160 and 5. He’d split the convoy in less than a mile.

“Slow us down until we get to Route 11,” said Alex.

“Copy,” said Corporal Lianez, and Alex felt the Matvee downshift.

His ROTAC chirped. “Alex, what’s your plan?” Grady asked.

“I’m sending one vehicle down Route 11 in case he heads west. We’ll hit the Route 4 junction in eight minutes, where I’ll send another Matvee east to intersect with 35. I’ll proceed down Route 4 with the rest. What makes you certain he didn’t die in the attack?”

“A solid hunch. Half of the cars involved in the attack exploded simultaneously. 4th Brigade had a car rigged with explosives pile right through their tents surrounding their TOC. Miraculously, it didn’t detonate. Either it malfunctioned or the triggerman was killed. Rangers think they nabbed the guy setting off the explosives, but it wasn’t Eli. My guess is he watched from a safe distance and bolted when it became clear that the attack had failed. That was five minutes ago.”

“Do you have units in pursuit?”

“I’m waiting for clearance. The Authority compound got hit pretty hard, and they’re not keen on sending heavily armored vehicles away from the MOB. Work up a search plan for ten vehicles.”

“That’s it? They should have every vehicle at their disposal looking for this lunatic,” said Alex.

“Ten is all I could convince them to consider. They think this is a diversion to draw everyone away.”

“How big of a militia do they think he has?”

“It just got a lot bigger in their minds. Contact me when you have a plan. I have to go,” said Grady, disconnecting the call.

“Punch it, Lianez. We need to make up lost time.”

***

Eli peered through one of the First Baptist Church’s steeple windows and counted the tactical vehicles speeding past Duvall’s Market. Four oversized armored baddies headed south through town. He steadied his handheld night-vision scope on the hood of the lead vehicle, studying the infrared markings.

Bingo. Six-one-one.

The Matvees roared past the church, running the intersection and quickly disappearing down the narrow, two-lane road.

His first instinct had been correct. The large-scale attack on the airfield drew the compound vehicles out. Now to test his deepest instinct.

“Liberty One, this is Liberty Actual. Four tactical vehicles headed south through Limerick. The nest is empty. Commence your attack.”

Chapter 35

EVENT +21 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Corporal Eugene Merrick leaned against the back of the armored turret, studying the road through his night-vision goggles. Four white glows, infrared chemlights spaced evenly along the right side of the road, broke up the green-scale image. The entire scene seemed noticeably brighter, prompting him to raise his NVGs and examine the road unassisted. The dark blue-gray image deteriorated rapidly, forming a murky screen a few hundred feet down the road. Better than the last time he checked, but still twenty to thirty minutes away from transitioning to daytime optics. Merrick lowered the NVGs, immediately spotting a distant, grainy vehicle in the center of Old Middle Road.

“SPOTREP. Vehicle approaching from the west. Running dark. Estimate twelve hundred feet. Definitely beyond the one-thousand-foot marker. Request permission to engage,” said McCall, lowering himself into the gunner’s sling and nestling the M240G into his shoulder.

“Negative,” said Sergeant Keeler, his vehicle leader. “Report number of vehicles.”

“Stand by,” said Merrick, lifting his goggles.

He looked through the 6X ACOG scope mounted on the machine gun, hoping the magnified view might provide the answer. Staring through the illuminated red reticle, he found the lead vehicle and quickly confirmed a total of four in the convoy.

“Four vehicles. Lead is an SUV. I can’t make out the rest,” he said, lowering his NVGs.

“Copy. Engage lead vehicle at the five-hundred mark. Groves, move your two-forty closer to the road and watch the western approach,” said Keeler.

Merrick lifted his head above the scope, keeping the metal stock buried in his shoulder. The furthest glow disappeared momentarily as the convoy sped past the one-thousand-foot marker.

“Mark. One thousand feet,” he said, disengaging the safety.

“Copy. One thousand,” repeated Keeler.

A few seconds passed before the second marker vanished.

“Mark. Seven hundred fifty feet.”

“Copy. Three point four seconds. Vehicle speed estimated at fifty-plus miles per hour. Commence firing,” said Keeler.

Merrick triggered the infrared laser mounted to the machine gun and nudged the gun right, connecting the bright green line with the hood of the lead SUV.

***

Harry Fields scanned the road through his AR-15’s night-vision scope, pressing the rubber eyepiece against his eye socket. The SUV jolted, and the barrel of the rifle struck the windshield, jamming the scope into his cheekbone.

“Damn it,” he hissed, a sharp pain radiating down his face.

Using rifle optics from the cramped seat made little sense, but Eli had only issued his team one pair of NVGs, and it made a hell of a lot more sense to equip the driver with those. He hesitantly returned the scope to his face and searched for the target. The turn onto Gelder Pond Lane was somewhere up on the right. The scope bounced into his face again, causing him to wince—but he kept staring ahead. A bright green line hit their hood, deflecting through the windshield.

“What the—shit!” he screamed, yanking the steering wheel right.

Red streaks flashed past down the left side of the SUV, illuminating the interior as they rumbled along the gravel shoulder of the road. Fields turned his head in time to see the tracers ricochet off the next vehicle in line, which abruptly swerved left and disappeared.

“Keep us right here and slow to ten miles per hour.”

He raised his rifle and tried to locate the concealed machine-gun position. A second burst of tracers lit the road, barely missing the next car in line, which maneuvered behind Fields’ SUV to avoid the fusillade. Momentarily safe, he decided to call for the reinforcements waiting in Limerick. With a second threat distracting the machine gun from the opposite direction, he could get close enough to use the explosives against the emplacement.

“Liberty Actual, this is Liberty One. Request reinforcements from your direction. I have a machine gun—hold on,” he said, squinting through the scope.

An armored vehicle lurched into view, blocking Old Middle Road.

“That’s not supposed to be there,” he whispered before his SUV swerved off the road.

Red flashes chased them off the shoulder, striking the back end of the SUV and bouncing around the cargo compartment. His driver slammed on the brakes, grinding them to a halt in front of a thick tree trunk. One of his convoy’s vehicles raced past on the road, engine revving at maximum RPMs, tracers pouring through the cabin and igniting the interior. He stared at the flaming car until it fishtailed and veered off the road, vanishing in the thick foliage ahead. He fished the radio out of the foot well and opened his door.

“This is Liberty One. Abort mission. Tactical vehicles sighted in road. They knocked out two of our vehicles before we could reach the intersection. Cancel reinforcements. We’re gonna try to get out of here on foot.”

He waited several moments for a response.

“Outstanding, Liberty One! Reinforcements en route,” replied Eli.

“What? Negative. Gelder Pond Lane is blocked by a tactical vehicle. My entire convoy is out of action,” he said.

“Roger. Clearing inner checkpoint with explosives. Reinforcements ETA three minutes. Give ’em hell! Out.”

Fields gawked at the radio as everyone abandoned the vehicle.

“What the fuck is he talking about?” said Fields.

“Don’t you get it, Harry?” said his driver.

“Get what?”

“He set us up! We’re on our own!”

“No. I saw Brown’s notebook. The count is right. Four tactical vehicles. They all left.”

The deep sound of a powerful diesel engine reached their ears.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he said, crouching behind the door. “We need to get away from this heap as fast as—”

Tracers tore through the door, ripping through the driver’s body and spraying Fields’ face with blood. He tumbled out of the SUV as bullets slapped into the hood and shattered the windshield, crawling on all fours through the brush. Projectiles and tracers snapped overhead, followed by piercing screams, as the vehicle gunner cut down the rest of his men. Fields slithered into a muddy ditch and pressed himself flat, hoping they might have escaped undetected.

He started to lift his head up to take a quick look when a deafening blast, followed by a sharp concussive wave, shook the ground and echoed off the trees. For a moment, he thought they had fired a grenade or some kind of shoulder-fired rocket at him. A second explosion left him covered in dirt and debris, his ears ringing. He curled up in a fetal position, fully expecting the next one to land on him.

***

Corporal Merrick aligned the laser with the man crawling through the bushes and started to apply pressure to the trigger. He was a breath away from dispatching the last of Eli Russell’s attack force when the man dropped out of sight.

Shit.

The twenty-two-year-old gung-ho Marine in him said pull the trigger and bury the fucker in hot steel, but the combat-experienced noncommissioned officer told him to give it a few seconds. He eased the laser to the top of the ditch and waited. His patience was rewarded when he detected movement a few inches below the green beam. Before he could adjust his aim, a brilliant explosion appeared through his port-side ballistic screen, followed by a sharp blast that rattled the turret.

“What’s happening out there?” Keeler asked.

“Explosion south of the road. Vicinity of the flaming car. Looks like a car bomb,” said Merrick.

“Copy. Mop ’em up so we can get off this road,” Keeler said.

Merrick said, “I got one left playing hide and seek.”

“Hit him with a grenade if you have to,” said Keeler.

“Don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he said, centering the laser on the top of his target’s head.

A second explosion pelted the turret’s armor and ballistic glass with debris and shrapnel. Merrick instinctively ducked, though his life had already been spared by a combination of chance and probability—less than 5% of his body had been exposed to the fragments thanks to the turret’s design. He gripped the sides of the turret hatch to stabilize himself as the Matvee rocked violently on its suspension. A muted voice sounded in his right ear.

“You okay up there?” asked Keeler.

Merrick slipped out of the gunner’s belt and dropped into the Matvee. Dirt and small branches poured through the hatch with him.

“I’m fine!” he yelled, barely able to hear himself. “SUV blew up! I think all the cars are rigged!”

Keeler turned in the front passenger seat to face him. “We’re heading back to the OP. Cover our six.”

“There’s still one out there,” said Merrick.

“We’ll pick him up later,” he said, turning to the driver. “Get us back to the OP.”

Chapter 36

EVENT +21 Days

Limerick, Maine

Alex’s ROTAC chirped twice and displayed “Dagger,” the call sign given to the FOB’s perimeter security team.

“Captain Fletcher,” he answered.

“Sir, the OP situated on Old Middle Road just engaged four vehicles approaching from the west. Two vehicles confirmed destroyed. The other two swerved into the forest just beyond the two-hundred-fifty-foot marker. Guardian Four-Zero is in the process of mopping up the survivors.”

“Do you require assistance? I can be there in five,” said Alex, hoping Taylor waffled on the decision.

He was looking for any excuse to head back. Logically, he knew Taylor had enough firepower at the compound to repel any attack thrown at them by Eli, but Kate’s words had stuck with him: He’s up to something.

“Negative. I have a night-vision-equipped, two-forty team watching the opposite approach. We can handle anything that approaches from either direction.”

“Copy,” said Alex. “Advise if the situation changes.”

“Affirmative. Sounds like Keeler’s gunner is chewing them—whoa! Jesus!” yelled Staff Sergeant Taylor, momentarily ceasing his transmission.

“Staff Sergeant?”

“Stand by, sir.”

Stand by? What the fuck?

“Slow us down, Lianez,” he said, retransmitting. “Taylor. What the fuck is going on?”

“Taking a report from Guardian Four-Zero. Wait one,” said Taylor.

“Pull us over,” said Alex, switching to Guardian’s tactical frequency. “Guardian Two-Zero. This is Guardian Actual. Lakeside was attacked. We’ll wait here for Dagger’s status report. Watch your sectors.”

“This is Two-Zero. Copy.”

Through the oversized side mirror, Alex watched Sergeant Copeland’s Matvee nestle in several yards behind them. He raised the ROTAC to his face.

“Taylor, you’re making me nervous. Do I need to turn around?”

“Negative. Keeler reported two explosions in the forest. No friendly injuries. Sounds like a repeat of the airport.”

Alex shook his head. Four explosives-laden vehicles? What was Eli hoping to accomplish?

“How many men did Keeler report in the forest before the explosions?”

“His gunner reported seven kills. They left one alive—crawled into a ditch near one of the explosions. If he isn’t gone, he’s pretty fucked up,” said Taylor.

“It’s not enough to get through,” muttered Alex.

“Say again, sir?”

“Something’s not right. I’m bringing Guardian One-Zero back to the FOB. Advise Keeler and all Dagger units of the change. ETA five mikes.”

“Copy, sir. One vehicle returning. Redeploying LP/OPs. Will advise Dagger and Guardian Four-Zero,” said Taylor.

“Taylor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get my family into the basement.”

“I’m not sure Mrs. Fletcher will comply, sir. She relieved the Marine I had watching the remote sensors.”

“I don’t care if you have to drag them down the stairs and sit on them. I want them out of the line of fire,” he said, lowering the ROTAC.

Kate was right. Eli was up to something. Throwing explosives-laden cars and armed inmates at the airport accomplished nothing beyond momentarily tightening a few RRZ sphincters. With spies in the Sanford area, Eli knew what his militia faced at the airport, and he’d sent them anyway. Nothing added up so far, and Alex couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that Eli had bigger plans for FOB Lakeside. He wasn’t taking any chances with his family.

“Take us back to the FOB.”

***

A second, distant burst of automatic gunfire filled the steeple, followed by an urgent transmission in his headset from Harry Fields.

“This is Liberty One. Abort mission. Tactical vehicles sighted in road. They knocked out two of our vehicles before we could reach the intersection. Cancel reinforcements. We’re gonna try to get out of here on foot.”

More tactical vehicles?

This changed things. Brown had been confident about the vehicle count. Four total. Now he had mobile threats in two directions. He’d have to sacrifice the rest of his men to buy some time.

“Outstanding, Liberty One! Reinforcements en route,” replied Eli.

“What? Negative. Gelder Pond Lane is blocked by a tactical vehicle. My entire convoy is out of action,” he said.

“Roger. Clearing inner checkpoint with explosives. Reinforcements ETA three minutes. Give ’em hell! Out,” he replied, turning to Jim Hunt and grabbing the barely visible squad leader by the shoulders.

“Son of a bitch, Harry broke through! They left their guard down, and now we’re gonna fuck them up. Take your vehicles west on Old Middle Road and link up with Liberty One.”

“Hot damn!” said Hunt, scrambling for the trapdoor near the back wall. “You sure you don’t need our help here?”

“Negative. We got the easy part,” said Eli, removing his backpack. “Not much can go wrong. Pay attention to the radio. Once we’re done here, I’ll be headed in your direction. Don’t want to get fragged.”

“We’ll be ready for you,” said Hunt, disappearing through the steeple floor.

Eli rifled through his backpack, pulling a handheld radio from a zippered internal pouch. He pressed the power button and checked the bright orange LED as another burst of staccato gunfire echoed through the quiet, rural town of Limerick. Verifying the radio was set to “Preset 1,” he pushed transmit and waited. The windows rattled, followed by a deep, reverberating boom.

Perfect.

He quickly selected “Preset 2” and hit transmit. Nothing. He pressed it again. Silence. “Preset 3” yielded the same disappointing stillness.

No worries.

McCulver had warned him that substantial damage to the car might disable the bomb, and Fields reported two out of the four cars out of commission. He calmly cycled to “Preset 4” and was immediately rewarded with a steeple-shaking detonation. Eli carefully changed the channel to “Preset 8” and gingerly set the radio on the windowsill facing south. McCulver had skipped three channels as a safety precaution against prematurely detonating the grand finale.

“Time for the real show,” Eli mumbled, focusing his night-vision scope on the furthest visible point along Route 5.

Chapter 37

EVENT +21 Days

Limerick, Maine

Alex leaned forward against the five-point harness and scanned the approaching intersection. His eyes flickered between the structures racing by, searching windows, parking lots and driveways for signs of human activity. Brake light reflections, cigarette glows, car door lights, flickering curtains—anything that could signify a hidden threat. He sensed the Matvee easing into a shallow left turn after the gazebo marking the center of town.

“Keep your speed,” he said. “One more intersection, gents.”

A small hill rose behind the gazebo, crowned by a stand of trees. A steeple peeked over the broken canopy of branches, drifting right and quickly disappearing behind them. When the road straightened, a second church appeared directly ahead, marking the next intersection.

“Route 5 coming up on the right. Stay left and watch for inbound.”

Racing into the Y-shaped junction at seventy miles per hour, he spotted a faint glimmer of light in the steeple. Before he could warn the driver, his ROTAC illuminated, drawing his attention to the center console. When he looked up again, they were halfway through the intersection.

“This is Dagger. Hostile vehicles inbound from the east. I say aga—”

***

Eli’s index finger twitched over the transmit button while his other hand pressed the night-vision scope into his face. The timing had to be perfect. McCulver told him to expect a half-second delay between transmitting the signal and the detonation, which had to build into the equation based on the approach speed. Kevin helped him work out a chart to calculate the speed, but the tactical vehicle was moving too fast for him to put it to use. If he took his eyes off the scope, he might miss his chance. The attack was a one-shot deal. They had buried two charges along the north side of the road, separated by thirty feet.

Eli raised the handheld radio next to his face and held his breath, finger pressed against the textured rubber button as the armored car raced through the intersection. At the last moment, Eli panicked, not trusting himself to time the detonation correctly. Instead of waiting to target the vehicle with the more powerful of the two IEDs, he pressed the button early and ducked.

The blasts shattered every window in the steeple, splintering the wooden window frame with hissing asphalt fragments. Donning the backpack, he took a quick look out of the missing window with his scope. A thick cloud of dust billowed through the town, rendering the green image useless. Unable to make an immediate assessment of the situation, he swung his rifle into the ready position and descended the ladder.

“Viper team, where are you?” he said, unable to locate them in the haze.

“Over here,” someone croaked, the voice muffled.

“Where is here?” he demanded. “Speak up!”

“By the front windows, all the way to the right!”

“What the fuck are you doing there?” he said, running down the center aisle, still unable to see them through the veil of dust.

“We wanted to see the explosion,” one of the men mumbled. “I think Ronnie’s dead.”

Eli followed his voice to the rightmost front window of the church, where he found the two of them in a heap on the glass-covered floor. Triggering his rifle light, he confirmed the man’s suspicion. Ronnie had a three-inch piece of jagged metal protruding from his scalped forehead. Joe didn’t look much better; his face and neck were shredded by glass fragments that had miraculously missed his carotid artery. He kneeled in front of him.

“Did you see the explosion?” asked Eli, slipping his razor-edged KA-BAR out of the sheath attached to his belt.

“Fucking thing flipped right off the road,” rasped Joe. “You did it, man. Help me up.”

In a blur of hands, he grabbed Joe’s long, knotted hair and yanked his head forward, jamming the seven-inch blade into his neck. Joe’s body went slack immediately, his spinal cord severed near the base of his skull.

“Sure. I got all day to deal with fuckers that can’t follow directions,” replied Eli, pulling Joe off the glistening blade and tossing him aside.

He rushed to the front door, not wanting to waste the time backtracking through the church. After throwing a few latches, he wrenched open the right side of the warped door and squeezed onto the concrete steps. The dust-choked air smelled like ammonia and charred wood. He stood there for a moment, searching through the haze for an outline of a vehicle. There was nothing. Several small fires burned brightly near the intersection, bushes and trees ignited by the superheated blast.

He hesitated on the stairs, not keen on rushing into the unknown. The Matvee was designed to withstand roadside bombs, and he couldn’t take the chance that the damn thing flipped over and landed right side up. The dampened sound of distant machine-gun fire reached him, prompting him to abandon caution. Fuck it. Even if the thing landed on its wheels, nobody inside would be walking a straight line anytime soon. He ran blindly toward the intersection, activating his radio.

“Griz, bring the car directly to the intersection. Lights on. I need the Molotovs right away. We don’t have much time.”

***

A strong ammonia smell permeated the Matvee’s cabin, competing with the industrial stench of diesel fuel. Alex shook his head and rubbed his eyes, initially confused by the counterintuitive feeling of moving his hands downward to reach his face. Something was different. An intense pressure strained against his shoulders, and one of his legs dangled freely; his Kevlar knee pad was looming inches from his flushed face. He released his hands, surprised when they flopped upward, striking the shattered ROTAC on the roof of the vehicle.

Fuck. We flipped.

He stared at the spiderwebbed windshield, trying to make sense of what had happened. The dark, fragmented view didn’t offer any clues, aside from the very fact that a ballistic window designed to withstand IED fragments and .50-caliber armor-piercing projectiles had been shattered. He grabbed a flashlight from the clutter of gear littering the roof and directed the beam at Lianez.

The corporal’s left forearm was wedged into the steering wheel, his elbow hyperextended at least forty-five degrees. His right hand lay uselessly against the roof, most of his fingers twisted at odd angles. Alex didn’t see any blood, which was a good sign. Busted-up limbs could be fixed. Lianez moved his lips, but Alex didn’t hear anything. He tried to respond, but the words came out as vibration, like the Matvee had been submerged underwater. He couldn’t hear.

The fuel odor intensified, stinging his eyes and spurring him into action. The Matvee wasn’t flame resistant, and he detected a flickering orange glow through the driver’s window. They needed to get out of here immediately. He eased his right leg out of the foot well and let it hang in front of him with the other, his feet inches from the roof. Alex triggered the harness buckle and dropped to his knees and elbows.

He gripped the flashlight and turned his attention to the rear compartment. The Marine behind him hung unconscious in his seat harness, suspended with no obvious external injuries. Moving the beam to the right yielded a ghastly sight. PFC Jackson lay crumpled against the roof in the rear cargo compartment, his neck bent at an unnatural angle against the rear hatch. Lifeless eyes stared back into the passenger cabin.

Shit.

Light poured through the driver’s side windows, distracting him. He squeezed along the roof to the window behind Lianez’s seat and peered through the small, ballistic-glass window. An SUV sat in the middle of the road, illuminating the Matvee with its headlights. Alex thought about banging on the door with his flashlight, but quickly abandoned the idea. The vehicle wasn’t there to rescue them. He grabbed the radio handset dangling between the seats.

“All units, this is Guardian One-Zero. Troops in contact. We’ve been hit by a roadside bomb. Request immediate assistance at the intersection of Route 5 and Route 160.”

In a panicky voice, Alex repeated the call, unsure if anyone responded. He could barely hear his own voice, let alone the digitized, staticky voices often heard over the VHF radio net. When he checked the window again, a face blocked his view of the SUV. He immediately recognized Eli Russell’s grinning, pockmarked face from the DMV photos downloaded to his laptop. The man looked even scarier in person.

***

Eli stopped short of the intersection and gawked at the damage done by McCulver’s largest IED. A jagged, three-foot-deep crater, centered on the gravel shoulder, extended several feet into the asphalt road. Wide, gaping cracks continued beyond the hole, reaching the far side of the blacktop surface. The asphalt fissures closest to the crater’s epicenter hissed and crackled from superheated bitumen, the petroleum-binding product used to shape modern roads. All that remained of the telephone pole that stood behind the roadside bomb was a splintered stump just outside the crater; the remainder of the pole and the wires it suspended were nowhere in sight. He’d never seen anything like this. The devastation was perfect.

He jogged south along the road until he found the second crater. Long fractures reached into the southbound lane, connected to a sizzling hole half the size of its sister IED.

He muttered obscenities until he spotted the tactical vehicle upside down in a thick cluster of bushes next to a used car lot. The truck had flattened a path through the brush, rolling from the road to its resting site. He eyed the lush undergrowth surrounding the vehicle.

That’ll burn nicely.

Skirting the massive crater, he crossed the road and examined the wreckage in the dancing light cast by the small fires. Every external feature had been blasted off by the explosion or crushed by the rolling motion of the vehicle. A strong diesel smell hit his nose, competing with the ammonia, telling him that the monster’s fuel tank had been ruptured. All the better. Beams of light cut through the dust to his right as the SUV slowly navigated the intersection. Eli motioned for Grizzly to bring the vehicle forward and point its headlights at the vehicle.

“Watch for anyone crawling around the sides. I’m gonna light this thing up like the Fourth of July,” he said, hurrying around to the rear lift gate.

He pulled a plastic milk crate filled with Molotov cocktails out of the cargo compartment and shuffled toward the overturned vehicle. A light flickered through the compact door window, causing him to instinctively stop halfway between the road and the charred armor hull. If one of the occupants opened the door, he’d be caught in the open. He sprinted past the windows and kneeled next to the armor junction behind the rear driver’s side door, breathing heavily. The SUV eased over the shoulder of the road and poured its high beams over the wreckage.

He dropped the crate of clinking bottles behind him and crawled along the side of the steel hull until he reached the rear driver’s side window. A face appeared in the window, disappearing moments later. Eli centered his face on the window and watched a Marine fumble with something on his vest. The marine’s lips moved rapidly, and Eli realized he was calling for help.

He needed to get this over with. The machine-gun fire north of here had stopped just as quickly as it started, which meant Liberty Two was finished. He checked his watch. One minute and they needed to be on the road. Just as he was about to pull away from the window, the Marine turned his head and they locked eyes. A flash of recognition passed over the marine’s face, replaced by rage.

Fletcher.

Eli grinned and winked.

“Cover that door!” he yelled over his shoulder to Grizzly, who kneeled behind the driver’s door and leveled his rifle at the vehicle.

Shaking with excitement, he returned to the crate and removed two Molotov cocktails. McCulver had conveniently stuck a camping lighter in the crate, which he used to light the kerosene-soaked cloth wicks on both bottles. He scurried around the other side of the vehicle just in time to see the rear passenger door open.

“Burn, motherfucker!” he screamed, heaving one of the bottles at the rear-facing door.

The bottle hit the armored hatch squarely, engulfing the door in flames when the gas and motor oil mixture ignited. Eli hurled the second bottle at the flat armor above the hatch, showering fire between the door and open interior. The hatch slammed shut, cutting off a scream of agony, and the dense bushes next to the door burst into flames.

He pulled out three more bottles from the crate and returned to the burning side of the vehicle. The mixture still burned against the armor, the thickened concoction sticking in place like napalm. He lit the wicks and walked along the vehicle, smashing two of the Molotov cocktails against the front door and throwing one under the hood against the partially buried, cracked windshield. Thirty seconds later, he had expended every bottle in the crate, completely enshrouding the armored vehicle in flames.

“Get the next crate!” he yelled, jogging up to the shoulder of the road.

He met Grizzly in front of the SUV, yanking bottle after bottle out of the tray and tossing them in an arc toward the burning vehicle. Each bottle exploded, adding to the inferno until the hull nearly disappeared behind a wall of flames. He pulled the last bottle, stepping next to his driver.

“Griz, I saved the last one for you,” he said, cocking his arm back.

“You should be the one to—”

The petroleum-filled wine bottle swung in an arc, shattering over his head. Grizzly stumbled forward, clawing at his eyes and screaming curses. Eli kicked him in the back, sending him in an uncontrolled fall toward the burning vehicle. He rolled to the edge of the firestorm and had started to get up when his head and torso burst into flames, turning him into a human torch. Eli watched with depraved satisfaction while Grizzly twisted and flailed, disappearing inside the inferno. The fire caught in the trees and spread through the bushes.

The temperature inside Fletcher’s sealed metal coffin would soon reach intolerable levels, forcing the Marines to abandon their bulletproof cocoon and venture into the fire, but he didn’t have time to savor the glory of shooting them down in person. He’d far overstayed his welcome in Limerick. In the end, it didn’t matter; Eli had a better way to make Fletcher suffer.

Chapter 38

EVENT +21 Days

Limerick, Maine

Alex lunged at the door, pounding the heavy armor plating after Eli’s face disappeared. He considered opening the door, but decided to lock it instead. He had no idea where Eli had gone.

Crawling under Corporal Ragan’s unconscious body, he drew the Heckler & Koch P30 compact pistol from his drop holster and gripped the rear passenger door handle. He opened the door with his left hand, pointing the pistol toward the front of the vehicle with his right.

Clear.

Before Alex could check the back of the vehicle through the window, flames consumed his arms. He screamed and dropped the pistol inside the vehicle, as fire rained into the vehicle compartment.

Without thinking, he slammed the door shut, locking it to prevent Eli from tossing an incendiary bomb inside. Within milliseconds of the door closing, the Automatic Fire Extinguishing System (AFES) activated, instantly saturating the enclosed space with a dry chemical that extinguished the fire before it burned through his uniform. Alex lunged through the cloud of chemical dust to lock the two front doors. He didn’t feel like testing the AFES against the full contents of a Molotov cocktail.

While locking the front passenger door, flames erupted beyond the ballistic window. Seconds later, a bright yellow flash consumed the windshield. He slid into the empty back seat and studied the SUV through the window, calculating his chances of breaking out and killing Eli. Beyond the powerful headlights, a lone figure crouched behind the open driver’s side door, no doubt covering the Matvee with a rifle. Before he could further analyze the situation, flames obscured his view.

This fucking lunatic is trying to burn us alive!

Thick black smoke started to seep into the cabin from the open turret. Alex reached down and tried to raise the hatch, but extensive damage to the turret structure trapped the metal hatch in place. Alex had no idea how long they could stay inside the vehicle, but he knew it wasn’t long. Beyond the caustic smoke, which had no way to escape, the temperature had risen at least twenty degrees since the first Molotov exploded. They were sitting inside an oven.

“Lianez! Can you hear me?” he said, squeezing into the space next to the corporal.

The corporal’s words came out slurred. “I hear you, sir. I think I’m all fucked up!”

“You’re fine, but I have to move you!” he said, studying Lianez’s hyperextended arm. “First I need to untangle that arm!”

“Hold on, sir! Let’s think about this for a—”

Without warning, Alex straightened the marine’s arm and pulled it clear of the steering wheel at the same time, extracting a prolonged, expletives-filled scream.

“Sorry I had to do that! No time to fuck around! Ready for round two?”

“What?”

“Keep your left arm straight!”

“What? No!”

Alex grabbed the top of Lianez’s tactical rig and released his harness. He pulled the Marine onto his right side as the buckle detached, keeping his head from hitting the roof and snapping his neck. Unfortunately, there was no way to prevent his mangled arm from bouncing off the steering wheel and hitting the door. With Lianez cursing and screaming, he dragged the Marine into the cargo compartment, sliding him next to Jackson’s lifeless body in front of the rear hatch.

He’d forgotten about this egress point earlier, which allowed them to exit the vehicle without exposing himself to the shooter next to the SUV. He’d still have to worry about Eli, or anyone else that arrived in his entourage, but at least he didn’t face a guaranteed firing squad. It was their best chance at this point, and they needed to get out. He could barely see through the smoke.

“Ragan! Let’s go!” he said, slapping the unconscious Marine still hanging in his harness.

The Marine stirred, regaining some motor control, but Alex didn’t have time to nurse him along. He pulled the corporal toward the middle of the Matvee and released his buckle, jarring him back to consciousness with a short fall.

“We need to get out of here!” said Alex, starting to cough.

Corporal Ragan squinted with a confused look. “Why can’t I hear?” he yelled, scanning the cabin. “What the fuck happened?”

Alex grabbed the marine’s vest and pulled him close. “Ragan!” he said. “Look at me!”

Ragan’s wild eyes settled on Alex.

“We’re trapped inside a burning vehicle! Jackson is dead, and Lianez is fucked up!”

A thump hit the door behind Alex, distracting him long enough to see a burning hand press against the window.

“Fuck!” said Ragan, fumbling for his door handle.

Alex dove across the vehicle, stopping him. “It’s not safe! Hostiles! We have to exit through the rear hatch, together! Find your rifle!”

Snatching his HK416 from the front of the vehicle, Alex crawled over Jackson and leaned against the scorching hatch, waiting for Ragan to join him. When they were both next to the door, he lifted the handle and nodded at Ragan, who kicked the hatch open. Alex scrambled clear of the blaze, kneeling in the grass and aiming toward the road. The SUV was gone.

“Right side clear!” he yelled, feeling the ground sway under him.

“Left side clear!” answered Ragan.

“We have to get them out!” said Alex, taking a few wobbly steps toward the fire.

His vision blurred, narrowing as the familiar dark shape of a Matvee roared into the intersection.

Chapter 39

EVENT +21 Days

Forward Operating Base “Lakeside”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex bolted upright, coughing—trying to make sense of his surroundings. He sat in a dark space on a hard floor. The floor jolted, bouncing his head off of something hard and fixed.

My helmet’s gone.

A pair of hands pushed against his chest. He reached for his pistol, suddenly remembering that he’d dropped it in the Matvee.

“Sir, I need you to lie back down!” said a familiar voice. “God damn it, Allen, will you watch the fucking road! He might have a head injury!”

“I’m trying! We’re almost there,” replied the driver.

Sergeant Keeler. Corporal Allen.

He was in friendly hands. For a moment, he thought Eli might have captured him. He hated to think what the man would do to him or any of his family if they were captured.

“Lianez and Ragan?” asked Alex.

“They’re fine, sir. Both up front. Jackson’s with Guardian Two-One, back at the site.”

“Jackson,” mumbled Alex, shaking his head. “Any sign of Eli?”

“Don’t know yet. We saw one crispy critter next to your Matvee, but we couldn’t get close. We barely got your guys out.”

“I won’t stop until Eli Russell is dead. That’s my promise to Jackson.”

“Wish I could be there to see it,” said Lianez, leaning in his seat to nod at Alex.

“We all want to be there for that one,” said Keeler from the shadows of the compartment.

The vehicle jolted to a stop.

“We’re at the FOB, Sergeant,” said Corporal Allen.

The back hatch opened, filling the compartment with cerulean predawn light.

“Alex!” yelled Kate, pushing past Staff Sergeant Taylor, who held his hands up.

“Easy, ma’am, they got rattled pretty bad,” said Keeler, kneeling in the doorway.

“I’m fine,” said Alex, sliding through the hatch, barely able to stand on his own.

He held Kate tightly, burying his head in her shoulder.

“You don’t look fine—or sound fine,” she said, kissing the nape of his neck.

“Where are the kids?” he whispered.

“In the basement with your parents and two Marines. The place is swarming with Taylor’s men,” she said.

“Good,” he said, kissing her lips briefly. He whispered in her ear, “Start packing up the trailer and roof carrier. Everything on the list. Just in case.”

She pulled back a few inches, staring at him quizzically. “We’ll get started on that, together , after you get medical attention and a little rest.”

Alex kissed her again and stepped back, reaching into the Matvee for his helmet and rifle. “He’s still out there.”

“You don’t know that. It doesn’t sound like anybody survived the attack, either here or at the airport. Odds are good that he was killed.”

“He looked fine when I saw him—right before he tried to burn us alive,” he said, clipping his rifle into the sling points integrated into his Dragon Skin vest.

“You can barely stand up on your own! Let the Marines deal with this!”

“I can’t!” he snapped, turning to her. “He’s still out there. And if he’s still out there, you and I aren’t safe. The kids aren’t safe. None of us are safe.”

“Then we pack up, together , and go. He can’t follow us where we’re going,” she said.

“He went through a lot of trouble to get at me, again. What makes you think we’ll ever be safe? He’s obsessed.”

“He’s not the only one,” she said, frowning.

“That’s not fair,” Alex said, pointing at her.

“Neither is this,” Kate said, grabbing his helmet. “Your family needs you here .”

Alex let go of the helmet, exhaling deeply. He hated fighting with Kate, especially when she was right. He could leave this to Grady and slip away. The Marines might think less of him, which would sting, but ultimately, he had a duty to protect his family.

“He could have stayed and finished the job. There’s something else up his sleeve. Something we can’t predict. I have to finish this. It’s the only way to be sure.”

Kate embraced him, pressing her head into his neck. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“No. Someone’s watching out for me,” he said.

Kate pushed back, shaking her head in disbelief. “Really? I’d hate to have your guardian angel.”

“I’m still standing, right?”

“Barely. Make sure you stop by and see the kids before you take off. Emily hasn’t stopped crying since the bombs started going off. Amy’s not crying, but I know she’s worried.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said, kissing her passionately on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you more. You better not leave me with your parents,” she said.

Alex laughed. “Might be in your best interest to loan me your guardian angel. Double duty.”

“Tempting. See you inside,” she said. “Don’t forget.”

“Never,” he said, searching for Staff Sergeant Taylor, who had mysteriously disappeared with the rest of the Marines when they started arguing. “Staff Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir?” Taylor said, appearing from the side of the Matvee.

“I want a two-vehicle convoy to transport Lianez, Ragan, and Jackson back to Sanford,” he said. “Sorry, Staff Sergeant. Jackson was my responsibility. I should have taken him down from the turret when I returned. I was convinced we’d run into Eli’s follow-on force, and I—”

“Sir, Jackson didn’t belong anywhere but in that turret. We don’t drive around with gunners strapped into seats. Jackson pulled a bad card,” Taylor said, his eyes glistening.

Alex grabbed both of his shoulders. “We’re gonna find that fucker. Trust me on that.”

“I have no doubt about that, sir. Just don’t piss off the old lady too much. You get to drive out of here in ten minutes. Some of us don’t have that luxury. She’s an ass kicker,” said Taylor, brightening up slightly. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“She’d take it as a compliment,” said Alex, walking them toward the DRASH tent. Guardian Two-Zero is at the bombsite. What about the rest?”

“Six-Zero replaced Four-Zero at the OP on Old Middle. I sent the rest to the bombsite. They should be there by now.”

Alex nodded, looking back at the Matvee. “Keep Lianez and Ragan in place. We’ll use this vehicle and Five-Zero to make the trip to Sanford. Departure in ten minutes. Has Grady called?” he asked, feeling his vest pockets for his ROTAC.

“He was headed into an emergency RRZ meeting a few minutes ago. I briefed him on the situation before he had to cut me off.”

Alex nodded, picturing the broken handheld radio on the roof of the Matvee. The memory triggered a daisy chain of images.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

“Have the Marines at the bombsite scour the church. I remember seeing a light in the steeple. After that, pull everyone back to the FOB. Tell Evans we’re heading out later this morning. When I get back with the ten Matvees Grady promised, we’re going on a little overnight trip.”

“The Marines will be happy to hear that,” said Taylor.

“Just keep it quiet around my wife, or guess who’s gonna stay behind to watch over the place.”

“Mum’s the word, sir.”

“That’s what I thought,” Alex said.

He jogged toward the house to catch up with Kate.

PART IV

“REVENGE”

Chapter 40

EVENT +21 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex craned his head forward as they approached the outer perimeter checkpoint on Route 109, staring skyward. A staggered formation of military helicopters crossed the road far ahead, heading north. Six Black Hawks and two Chinooks. Someone was having a party.

“I wonder what that’s about,” he remarked.

“Looks like a company-sized raid,” said Corporal Allen, slowing the vehicle at the entrance to the maze of concrete barriers.

“Maybe they found our man,” said Sergeant Keeler from the back.

Alex shook his head. “They wouldn’t need eight helicopters.”

When the formation disappeared over the trees, he turned his attention to the checkpoint. One of 1st Battalion’s Matvees was parked next to the concrete-barrier-lined entry road and opposite the armor-plated sentry post.

The Matvee’s gunner peeked over the turret with binoculars, yelling down to the rangers, who remained out of sight. A few seconds later, the gunner held a hand out, signaling for them to stop. Sergeant Keeler reached forward and grabbed the hand microphone attached to the VHF radio set.

“New procedures, sir. Outland Four was wiped out by two guys in a stolen police cruiser last night. That’s how they got onto the airfield. Switch me over to channel eight, sir?”

Alex reached over his lap to select the requested channel on the AN/VRC-110 radio receiver mounted next to him.

“It’s all you, Sergeant,” he said.

“Outland One, this is Guardian Four-Zero, in formation with Guardian Five-Zero. Requesting permission to approach.”

“This is Outland Four. Pull up to the stop sign and send your vehicle commander forward. We need to verify ID.”

“Copy. Moving forward,” said Keeler, unbuckling his harness.

“I got it, Sergeant,” Alex said. “I want to ask a few questions.”

When the vehicle stopped, Alex hopped out and jogged up to the guard structure. His body felt sluggish on the short run up the road, like he’d just finished a long run. Combined with a dull headache, the full body stiffness wasn’t a good sign. He’d barely paid attention to the effects of the IED explosion at the FOB. Fueled up on adrenaline and the thought of smashing Eli Russell’s head in with his rifle stock, Alex had moved on autopilot until he settled into the Matvee’s seat for the thirty-minute drive. He’d almost fallen asleep twice, which was unusual for him during the morning, especially after a few cups of coffee. Maybe Kate was right, and he needed to throttle it back a little. Maybe he needed to throttle it back all the way and get checked out by one of the corpsmen.

“He’s good to go!” yelled the Marine in the turret. “That’s Captain Fletcher.”

One of the rangers appeared, shaking his head at the gunner as Alex handed over his ID card. The ranger vanished for a few seconds.

“You’re clear, sir,” he said, handing the card back.

“I just heard about Outland Four. Sorry,” said Alex. “What happened?”

“Two shitheads dressed like cops jumped them at the checkpoint. Fuckers had a York County Sherriff’s car and everything. We caught one of them at the end of the runway, trying to set off the rest of the bombs. RRZ snatched him up real quick.”

“What did they do with him?”

“He’s in some kind of solitary lockup at the detention center. 4th Brigade nabbed a few more on the runway.”

“Where’s the detention center?” said Alex.

“One of the hangars next to the northern end of the runway,” said the ranger.

“Any idea where the helicopters are headed?”

“Negative, but that’s the first time I’ve seen more than two head north at the same time.”

“That’s what I was thinking. I’ll get out of your way,” he said, turning to the turret gunner.

“Marine, does Grady have one of these at every checkpoint?”

“Yes, sir, and all over the inner perimeter. Half of the battalion’s vehicles are tied up,” said the corporal.

Alex didn’t like the sound of that. With most of the Matvees tied up with airfield security, his chances of squeezing any support out of Grady dropped into the single digits.

When Alex stepped into the TOC, Lieutenant Colonel Grady was glued to one of the widescreen monitors at the command table, talking into his ROTAC. He didn’t notice Alex until one of the Marines slammed the door to one of the storage containers, drawing his attention away from the screen. Grady held up his index finger and winked, nodding at the chair next to him. Alex mouthed, “I’m fine,” and waited for the battalion commander to finish the call. From Grady’s harsh tone and hushed voice, he guessed the RRZ Authority was on the other end of the line. Less than a minute later, Grady shook his head and slammed the radio down on the table.

“Good news, sir?”

“No. The good-news fairy walked off the fucking job. More shit about the blue uniforms. Good to see you in one piece, Alex,” said Grady, shaking his hand and slapping his shoulder. “Sorry about Jackson.”

Alex was struck by the last part of Grady’s comment. He thought of himself as an outsider in the battalion, just a temporary stakeholder. Even this morning, when he apologized to Taylor for Jackson’s death, he still viewed himself as an outsider. Grady didn’t see it that way. Alex had been put in command of FOB Lakeside, and all of the Marines assigned. They were his Marines. He’d somehow forgotten.

“You all right?” asked Grady, snapping him out of the deep thought.

“Yes, sir. Hearing’s still a little fucked up. Ringing coming in and out,” he said, tapping his helmet. “Jackson was a good kid. Good Marine. How do they handle next-of-kin notification?”

“Given the circumstances, I don’t know,” said Grady. “Nobody seems to know.”

Alex watched a lone Black Hawk helicopter approach the outer tarmac, slowing to a hover in front of the lone two-story hangar north of the Marines’ compound.

“Where did they send the helicopters?”

“North. To raid Eli’s compound,” said Grady.

“What? Fuck!” yelled Alex, running toward the open hangar door. “I need to be on that raid! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.”

“Alex!” said Grady, chasing him out of the hangar. “The mission was given to 4th Brigade. No Marines involved per RRZ orders. We need all hands on deck.”

“I saw, sir. How many of our vehicles do they have tied up with perimeter security?”

“We had a major breach here, if you hadn’t noticed!”

Alex shook his head. “We knew the York County Sheriff’s Department was missing a few cruisers. I had one of them show up at my house two weeks ago, right before Eli threw an entire platoon of men at my family.”

“I submitted that intelligence through the RRZ data system and personally briefed the rangers. We did our part,” said Grady. “Surveillance camera footage indicates that the car was used to get close enough for the militia team to get lucky. We’ve modified the procedure to prevent a repeat.”

Staring at the northern horizon, Alex balled his fists. “Where’s Eli’s compound?”

“About five miles north of Route 25, off 160,” said Grady, wincing.

“Imagine that. Right where I wanted to search a several days ago,” said Alex. “How did they figure it out?”

“A few of the militia prisoners saw the light when we showed them that all of their cars had been rigged with explosives, including the buses. They were under the impression this would be a quick hit spearheaded by a few diversionary car bombs. Apparently, nobody signed up for a suicide mission.”

“He won’t be there,” said Alex.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Eli’s too smart for that. He knew there was a chance someone would end up talking. They’ll find the place emptied out. At most, he left a small crew of expendables behind. They won’t know a damn thing about Eli’s next move.”

“I don’t think there’s another move, Alex. Eli’s done. We identified seventy-three bodies at the airfield. Five prisoners. Taylor just called in with the count in Limerick. Thirty-one dead. For all we know, Eli burned up in his own fire at the intersection.”

“Don’t count on it. Did they find anything in the church?”

“Two bodies. One stabbed through the throat. The other took shrapnel from the explosion.”

“Brilliant,” muttered Alex.

“Brilliant?”

“Killed two birds with one stone. Got at me while shedding his own dead weight.”

“He only killed one of those birds,” said Grady, patting him on the shoulder.

“Which is why we need to go after him right now. He doesn’t strike me as the type to give up on a grudge.”

“You look like you could use a seat,” said Grady, pointing to the makeshift briefing area. “I need to discuss something with you.”

Alex turned his head, staring directly into Grady’s grizzled, tired face. “Sounds like I’m not getting ten vehicles to hunt down Eli.”

“Worse. The RRZ ordered me to shut down the FOB,” said Grady.

“When?”

“I’m stalling on them on this,” said Grady.

“When?”

“Effective immediately. They’ve compressed the RRZ Security Area,” he said, looking around, “and there’s talk about declaring martial law.”

This sealed Alex’s decision. The only thing standing between his family and a return visit from Eli was a twenty-four-hour security shield provided by 1st Battalion, 25th Marines. Even that had proven to have its limitations.

“Martial law? I didn’t see that on the RRZ menu.”

“Neither did I. Apparently, there’s a private menu, which requires approval from Washington. Governor Medina didn’t seem to think her request would be denied.”

“What are we looking at?” said Alex, crumpling into one of the folding chairs.

Grady dropped into the chair in front of Alex, facing backward.

“They’ve drawn a five-mile circle around Sanford, then a straight line through it from the coast to the New Hampshire border. Anything in the circle, or south of the line, is subject to restricted daylight hours, strict nighttime curfew, random searches, RRZ ID card registration.”

Alex hung his head in his scorched Kevlar-weave gloves and started laughing. “How are people supposed to register for IDs when they don’t have any way to get to their designated registration point? Nobody has a car. Someone needs to pull those fuckers out of their compound and drive them around. They might be surprised to see we got hit by an EMP.”

“They won’t be coming out of there anytime soon. Not after this morning’s attack. As for the ID card program, someone had the foresight to design mobile card-making equipment. 1st Battalion, along with a full battalion from 4th Brigade, will go door to door in the Security Area. We start training on the gear tomorrow.”

“I suppose you’ll be confiscating firearms at the same time,” said Alex, stifling a laugh.

Grady just stared at him, his face betraying no reaction.

“Jesus, Sean. This isn’t Washington, D.C., where guns are banned. More than fifty percent of this population owns a firearm. You start asking for guns, and you better be prepared for a gunfight.”

“I know, and the 4th Brigade CO agrees. We’re waiting for heads to cool down over in the Green Zone before we try to talk some sense into them. People might have to live with the curfews and restricted hours, even the unconstitutional searches. Our goal is to stop the insanity there.”

“What if Medina won’t listen?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Better not let Eli cross it first. He’ll be back in business within the week if you start taking the guns away. The entire state will turn against the RRZ,” said Alex. “How the fuck don’t they see that?”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” said Grady.

“What about Harrison Campbell’s folks? I can’t envision this playing out well for them.”

“You need to give him a heads-up. All known or suspected militia types within the Security Area have been designated as high threat. The York County Readiness Brigade was mentioned by name. They’ll be at the top of the gun confiscation list if the measure is approved. I wouldn’t be surprised if the RRZ issued a detention order.”

Alex stood up. “Damn it. I feel like an asshole for getting his people into this.”

“They would have been targeted anyway. If anything, your short collaboration with the brigade will help the situation. Harrison’s folks did some good work on the RRZ’s behalf. That gives me leverage to keep them from being treated like criminals. That said, they might have to hang up their guns for a while, or at least keep them out of sight if we pay them a visit. I need you to explain this to him. I’ll do everything in my power to protect them, but I need them to play along when the time comes.”

“I’ll pass this along, but you need to sit down with Harrison and work this out, sir. Passing along good intentions isn’t the same as directly shaking on them,” said Alex.

“I copy you loud and clear on that. Ask Motor-T for a clean vehicle to visit Campbell.”

“I’m sure Campbell won’t mind a little mud,” said Alex.

“Clean, as in we’ve disabled the tracking devices. They’re watching us closely. Leave your ROTACs behind and don’t activate the vehicle data system. Use the VHF if you have to pass traffic,” said Grady.

Alex smiled for the first time since he woke up. The fact that Grady was finding ways around the RRZ system gave him hope that he wouldn’t leave Campbell at the mercy of the government. It also left him with the distinct impression that Grady was more interested in honoring his Oath of Office than playing federal shell games with the people’s constitutional liberties. He distinctly remembered raising his right hand at the Navy Marine Corps Memorial Stadium in Annapolis and swearing to “defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” said Alex, moving a chair out of his way.

“You should stick around. We’re patched into the 4th Brigade’s radio feed for the raid. Time on target is zero-seven-twenty. Twenty-one minutes from now.”

“He won’t be there,” said Alex, shaking his head.

“Never know,” said Grady.

“I know.”

Chapter 41

EVENT +21 Days

Sanford, Maine

Alex met with Harrison Campbell at the edge of the forest leading into the property, under the watchful eyes of several heavily armed men and women. He sensed something was different. Campbell’s people looked tense.

“Keeler, why don’t you head down the road about three hundred meters, until you’re out of sight.”

“Copy, sir. We’ll point the Matvee in your direction in case you need a quick extract,” he replied, over the intrasquad radio.

“I appreciate that. The reception is looking a little frosty. Out,” said Alex, turning to Campbell.

“Frosty?” said Harrison, extending a hand. “No, cautious. Glad to see you in one piece. I talked with your dad a little earlier on the HAM.”

“Eli really outdid himself this time. He threw close to a hundred of his people to the wolves, including inmates from the correctional facility. Most of the cars were rigged with explosives. Some were remote detonated, still containing the occupants.”

“We knew something big was going down. Sounded like the Battle of Gettysburg toward the airport. What about the compound?”

“He sent a total of seven cars, in two waves, at the compound. None of them got past the checkpoint at the turnoff. The second wave sped down Old Middle Road like nothing happened to the first wave.”

Campbell shook his head. “All to get at your sorry ass?”

“Apparently. He buried two roadside bombs in downtown Limerick. My vehicle was hit by the smaller of the two,” said Alex.

“Two in one place?”

“He wasn’t taking any chances that I might return with a second vehicle. This was a well-planned attack. I’m worried it’s not his last.”

“Well, he can’t have much of an army left,” said Campbell.

“It only takes one person to press a button. Who knows how many IEDs he has planted around southern Maine?” said Alex.

“You should be fine driving around in one of those things,” he said, nodding toward the Matvee disappearing behind a stand of trees down the road.

“I might not be driving in one for very long. The RRZ is making some changes after the attack.”

“This doesn’t sound good,” Campbell said, stepping into the sun. “Should we take a walk?”

“Probably a good idea.”

When they were far enough away not to be overheard, Alex explained the full situation. Campbell listened impassively, showing little response to his revelation. When Alex finished, he stopped walking and rubbed his face, exhaling hard.

“You really trust Grady?”

Alex nodded. “I trust him to do the right thing with his battalion. Unfortunately, the RRZ has another five thousand soldiers at their disposal. It sounds like the 4th Brigade commanding officer is on the same page as Grady, but I don’t know where his loyalties will fall if the RRZ doesn’t bend on this.”

“We’re not giving up our guns, Alex. You know that.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, but I’m sure you can work something out with Colonel Grady if he’s required to pay a visit, especially if any RRZ observers tag along.”

“They have no right to pay us a visit,” said Campbell, crossing his arms over his rifle-magazine-laden vest.

“Harrison, don’t be a stubborn ass. Work with him on this. Bury the damn rifles for an hour when he comes to inspect, or whatever he’s required to do.”

“This is going to be a tough sell. Disarm while the government walks through the camp armed to the teeth? You see the problem, right?”

“Very clearly. I also know the RRZ has designated your organization as high threat. You’re one classification level away from a direct action raid. I watched eight fully loaded helicopters head north to Eli’s compound. You don’t want that kind of visit. Sit down with Grady and hash this out,” said Alex, raising his voice.

“Most of us feel more comfortable working with you,” said Campbell.

“Well, I can’t make any promises that will amount to anything. Grady has a battalion of Marines that’ll follow him through the gates of Hell. He’s your man moving forward.”

“I think you’re making a mistake taking off. You’re more than welcome here. It’ll be a bitch of a winter, but we’ll come out on top,” said Campbell.

“The offer is tempting, Harrison. Thank you,” said Alex. “But I’m not so optimistic about the bigger picture. I think it’s time for a change of scenery.”

“Northern Maine is a change of scenery. I have a feeling you’re headed for a bigger change. Will we see you again?”

“Probably not,” Alex said, holding his hand out.

Campbell took his hand and surprised him with a quick bear hug.

“Good luck out there. Stay safe.”

“I will, and you do the same. I wouldn’t be surprised if Eli turned his full attention to the York County Readiness Brigade. Frankly, I’m amazed he left you out of this morning’s festivities.”

“Funny you mention that. We had a guy go missing last night. He took off around eight to check on his mom and never returned. At first we figured he had second thoughts about the brigade and split, but maybe he ran into Eli’s crew on the road last night.”

“Second thoughts? Was he new?”

“Yeah, he was one of the guys that joined through the recruiting station. He drove up with us to Belgrade. Skinny-looking guy with a buzz cut. Local kid. Rob Duhaime.”

“I remember him. Knew his way around a rifle. He had one of your cars?”

“No. He had his own car. That’s why we brought him along for the trip to Belgrade. Rob’s pickup was the only vehicle with a tow hitch for your trailer. Not all of the brigade was keen on driving your friends up north.”

“I’ll pass a description of his vehicle to the police and our battalion operations staff. They can keep an eye out for his truck. If he ran into Eli’s group somehow, he’s probably dead on the side of the road,” said Alex. “Silver pickup. Do you remember the make and model?”

“Nissan Frontier.”

“If the Nissan returns, make sure Duhaime’s driving. Never know,” said Alex.

“Way ahead of you. We planned on searching it thoroughly, regardless of who’s driving.”

“Take care, Harrison. I hope our paths cross again.”

“Same here, Captain Fletcher.”

Alex walked across the tall grass field connecting with the dirt road leading to the gate. He pressed the remote transmit button on his vest and recalled the Matvee, which raced out of the tree line to meet him on the road. Looking over his shoulder at Campbell’s property, he tried to picture what would have happened if Eli had concentrated his attack on the York County Readiness Brigade headquarters. A hundred men armed with rifles and explosives-laden vehicles could have punched through the defenses fairly easily unless Campbell had a few surprises he hadn’t disclosed.

He wondered if the Marines back in Limerick would notice if the thirty-caliber machine gun disappeared. Maybe another trip to see Campbell was in the very near future, bearing a proper farewell gift. As one thought triggered another, he settled on the silver pickup truck, imagining one of Eli’s unwitting followers driving it toward Campbell’s people in the woods. Something bothered him about the mental image. He kept picturing Duhaime behind the wheel. Duhaime. The twenty-three-year-old kid that knew his way around an AR-15—and happened to own a brand-new pickup truck.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, sprinting behind the Matvee to the passenger side.

He jumped in and slammed the door shut.

“Is this set to Patriot?” he asked, grabbing the VHF handset.

“Yes, sir. Is everything all right?” said Keeler.

“Hold on, Sergeant,” he said, triggering the radio. “Patriot, this is Guardian Actual. Over.”

Static filled the Matvee for several moments.

“Patriot, this is Guardian Actual. Over,” he said, releasing the transmit button. “Where the fuck are they! Allen, get us moving. RTB. Don’t stop for anything.”

The Matvee lurched forward as the radio speaker crackled. “This is Patriot Three,” replied Major Blackmun.

“Ops, have they started identifying the suspects from this morning’s attack?”

“They’ve identified three of the five prisoners. Not sure about the rest. They’re still trying to get the vehicle wreckage off the runway.”

“Copy. Any chance one of those vehicles is a silver Nissan pickup truck?”

“Wait one. I need to call 4th Brigade. They’re collecting all of this information.”

“Standing by,” said Alex.

Sergeant Keeler leaned between the driver and passenger seat. “Anything we need to be worrying about, sir?”

“Get Peterson out of the turret. Make sure everyone is strapped in tight,” said Alex, fumbling with his harness while trying to hold onto the radio handset.

“Gunner stays in the turret, sir,” said Keeler.

“You can’t shoot an IED. Get him down now. I’m not having a repeat of this morning.”

“Roger that, sir,” Keeler said, pulling PFC Peterson down through the hatch.

“This is Patriot Three,” Blackmun’s voice said over the radio. “Good guess on the pickup. We have a silver Nissan Frontier with Maine plates sitting in the grass between the main runway and the outer taxiway.”

“Was the vehicle rigged with explosives like the rest?”

“Affirmative.”

Alex froze for a moment, terrified by the possible implications.

“Did they find all of the occupants? I’m looking for someone specific,” said Alex.

“Three dead inside the vehicle. A fourth cut down about twenty feet away. 4th Brigade sent me a list of names they’ve collected. What’s the name?”

“Rob Duhaime,” Alex said, his heart pounding.

“Bingo—two for two. Robert Duhaime. Source of ID is a Maine driver’s license. Age twenty-three. Springvale address. Right up the road.”

Shit. Eli knew about the Belgrade house, and Alex had no way to warn Charlie and Ed.

Eli wouldn’t head up to Belgrade alone, not after his spectacular failure at the Limerick compound. He’d head to a predetermined rally point and link up with whatever remained of his militia army. If Alex acted quickly enough, he might be able to nail Eli before they left the rally point. Someone had to know where he was headed. Alex started thinking about possible links to Eli, starting with the most obvious.

“The ranger at Outland One mentioned a guy they captured by the police cruiser. Can you read the names of the prisoners?”

“Pinette, McCulver and Bowen. Two unknowns,” said Blackmun.

“What was the middle name?” said Alex.

“McCulver. Kevin McCulver. There’s a note attached to his name. Rangers picked him up by the police cruiser at the far end of the runway. Says the driver had chased him around the car, trying to kill him with a suppressed pistol.”

They have Eli’s bomb guy.

“Interesting. Which unit is running the detention center?”

“262nd Engineering,” said Blackmun.

“Copy. Striker Two-Two is inbound. ETA five minutes. Out,” said Alex, pulling the vehicle commander’s data tablet out of the docking station attached to the dashboard.

“Sergeant Keeler, can I use this thing offline?”

“Yes, sir. Select ‘local mode’ on the first screen.”

After following the sergeant’s directions, he chose “navigation tools” from a list of offline applications and opened a map of Maine. By the time they reached MOB Sanford, he had a plan. A desperate plan with no guarantees outside of the fact that September 8th , 2019, would most likely be his last day in Maine.

Chapter 42

EVENT +21 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Alex grabbed his rifle and turned to Sergeant Keeler in the back seat. “If anybody asks, I’m trying to get a little more information about the two unidentified prisoners. One of them might be this Duhaime guy.”

“If anybody asks,” said Keeler.

“If being the operative term,” Alex said, closing the door.

He walked through the dusty parking lot, slipping between a pair of Humvees parked in front of a corrugated steel hangar. A handwritten sign was taped to the inside of the glass door leading into the building that read “262nd Engineering.” A gray-haired, slightly overweight soldier typing at a laptop greeted Alex inside, barely looking up from his work.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I’m here to see Captain Adler,” said Alex, looking at the empty computer stations spread throughout the sparse office. “Where did everyone go?”

“All hands on deck reinforcing the RRZ compound. Captain Adler’s across the tarmac, trying to unscrew that situation. They want Jersey barriers around the whole thing. Both sides of the fence.”

“Where’s the good captain going to find that much concrete?”

“Where else? The perimeter checkpoints. RRZ’s orders,” said the soldier. “Robbing Peter to pay Paul.”

“Perfect.”

“I’m sure we can expect even brighter decisions in the future. Do you want me to contact the captain, sir?”

“Yes. I need to see one of the prisoners.”

“You can see them right on this monitor, if you’d like,” said the staff sergeant, pointing to the laptop next to him on the desk.

Alex walked behind the desk and examined the green image. Five men sat next to each other along a wall, hands behind their backs.

“Where are they?”

“Locked inside a storage container at the back of the hangar. We had them under guard in the open until Captain Adler mobilized the company.”

“Why do they have engineers watching prisoners?”

“The RRZ didn’t want the rangers watching them, or any of the Marines. My guess is they’ll be transferred over to 4th Brigade. There was some talk of building a fenced-in area past the main runway for detainees. Some kind of tent city setup.”

“Sounds like they’re expecting more guests,” said Alex, turning from the screen to the soldier. “I can’t make an ID with this night-vision image. I need to see them in person.”

“I’ll have to clear that with the captain. The RRZ threw a fit when they found out the ranger guys went to town on the prisoners,” he said, grabbing his ROTAC.

“Sounds like they got solid intel on the group responsible for the raid.”

“Old intel. The place was empty,” he said, raising the handheld radio. “Sir, I have a Marine captain here requesting to see the prisoners. He needs to make an ID, and the night-vision camera view isn’t cutting it.”

The staff sergeant looked up. “He wants to know if it can wait, sir?”

“The prisoner I’m trying to locate may be able to shed some light on Eli Russell’s location,” he said, staring at the screen while the staff sergeant relayed his response.

“He’d like to talk with you, sir,” he said, handing over the ROTAC.

Alex considered his approach and decided to go with direct.

“Rick, it’s Alex Fletcher. I need a favor. One of your prisoners might have information that can lead us to Eli Russell. I need to see them immediately.”

“Alex, I can’t grant you access to the prisoners. The information shaken out of them this morning didn’t pan out. The RRZ wants a proper interrogation team handling this. They’re flying in a team from somewhere. Nobody is allowed to handle the prisoners until they arrive.”

“This is a personal favor, Rick. The asshole responsible for the airport raid is the same psycho responsible for two attacks against my family. He’s disappeared, and I think he might be targeting friends of mine. I don’t have much time here. Eli has a three-hour head start.”

“They’ll throw me into one of those containers next if they find out about this. Something tells me you’re not planning on a quiet sit-down with the prisoner in question.”

Alex walked deeper into the office and whispered his response.

“I don’t think I’ll need to take it that far. Sounds like he had a little falling out with the other guy in the police cruiser. Instinct tells me it was more than an argument about who was driving. Just give me some time with the guy. Ten minutes. If I can’t get the information I need in that time, I’ll approach this from a different angle.”

“I know I’m going to regret this,” said Adler. “Put Staff Sergeant Gates on the line. The clock starts as soon as Gates steps through the door. Ten minutes.”

Alex jogged back and handed the ROTAC over to Gates, who listened to Adler’s instructions.

“I don’t think we should leave the prisoners unattended, sir,” he said, glancing nervously at Alex while Adler responded. “Understood, sir,” he said, setting the ROTAC on the desk.

“Captain Adler needs me to run a new laptop over to him at the RRZ compound. He wants you to watch over the hangar while I’m gone,” said Gates, raising an eyebrow. “The keys to the prisoner container are hanging there. In case something happens that might require you to evacuate them in the next ten minutes.”

“I suppose I could hold down the fort for you,” said Alex, suppressing a grin. “I should probably keep your ROTAC. Do you have a directory for the MOB?”

Staff Sergeant Gates stood up. “Who do you need to call?”

“Combat Controllers. Tech Sergeant Gedmin, if you know his station.”

“Preset nine,” said Gates, running his hand over his balding head. “Ten minutes.”

“Make it thirty. Please.”

“I might make it four hours…go home and have a drink. Something tells me I’m going to need one,” he said, walking toward the door with a black nylon laptop case. “Good luck, Captain. I hope whatever you got planned is worth it.”

“It’s more than worth it,” Alex said, selecting preset nine.

“Tech Sergeant Gedmin,” the phone squawked.

“Tech Sergeant, this is Captain Fletcher.”

“Good to hear your voice, Captain. Word on the street is you had a close call this morning.”

“Too close. I lost a Marine in the attack,” said Alex.

“Sorry to hear that. It wasn’t a good morning, and it just got worse,” said Gedmin. “NOMAD’s raid was a bust.”

“I heard. What if I told you I know how to find Eli?”

“I’d tell you to grab Lieutenant Colonel Grady and head over to the RRZ compound ASAP.”

“That won’t work for a number of reasons. I have something different in mind, but it requires a huge favor. One I can’t pay back.”

“Define huge.”

“The size of a Black Hawk helicopter.”

“That’s one hell of a favor,” said Gedmin.

“And I need it delivered to Captain Adler’s hangar in less than ten minutes, fueled and ready for a 115-mile, maximum-speed transit to the Belgrade Lakes area. This is a one-way trip for me, and I’m running out of time. There’s more at stake than just losing Eli Russell.”

Gedmin didn’t respond for a few seconds. “What’s your alternative plan if I can’t pull this off?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Alex.

***

Kevin McCulver thumped the back of his head against the metal wall, creating a steady, low-grade pounding rhythm to compete with the self-hating voice inside his head. The distraction technique hadn’t proven very effective. Sitting in the dark on the coarse plywood floor, all he could think about was how stupid it had been to think he was indispensable, part of Eli’s inner circle.

He kept trying to rationalize Eli’s decision. Maybe Eli had ordered him killed if it looked like they might be captured, to keep the Rangeley Lake house a secret. Possible, but deep inside, he knew it wasn’t true. Eli had used him to cull the herd, and he’d never once suspected that he was being played. None of them, including Karl Pratt, had a place at Eli’s next table. He quietly laughed at the irony of the situation. He sat in a hot, unventilated shipping container, zip-tied to the floor next to four men he had readily betrayed. They’d tear him to pieces if they discovered the truth, just like he’d stab Eli in the throat if he ever saw him again.

“Quit banging your fucking head against the wall!” someone shouted, startling him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, resting his head against the corrugated steel.

A voice to his left started the same angry line of questions they’d rehashed at least a dozen times since their capture. He was thankful everyone was handcuffed to the container tie-down bolts. Two of the prisoners were from the correctional facility, and there was little doubt they would beat him to a pulp given the opportunity.

“How the fuck didn’t Eli know they had this much shit here? He had to know!”

McCulver stayed silent, hoping the question would go away.

“I’m talking to you, shit stain! Don’t act like you don’t know that!”

McCulver cleared his throat. “I told you. Reports from our guy in town indicated one company of Marines and a few vehicles. That’s why we planned a run-and-gun operation. A quick shake-up.”

The container jolted as the inmate pulled on his restraints.

“More like a shake and bake! Our cars were rigged to explode!” he said, kicking the plywood floor with his heels. “First chance I get, you’re a dead man.”

The guy next to him, one of the men assigned to Matt Gibbs’ squad, spoke for the first time since the soldiers locked them in the container.

“You knew everything was rigged, right? I mean, you’re Eli’s bomb guy.”

Time for some tap dancing.

“Not all of the cars were fitted with explosives. We had a primary and a secondary, in case the first car didn’t make it to its objective. Everyone driving in one of those cars knew about the explosives.”

“GI Joe said all the cars had explosives,” said a gruff voice at the back of the container.

“They made that up so you’d give them Eli. You didn’t tell them anything, did you? A bunch of helicopters took off right after they finished pulling us one at a time into the office.”

McCulver hoped floating a few of his own accusations might put a stop to this line of questioning. Nobody like being called a rat.

“I didn’t say shit!” yelled the prisoner who had started the inquisition. “Maybe I should have.”

The container door swung open, causing him to squint. With the sun blazing through the doorway, he couldn’t see who had opened the container. The outline of a combat helmet appeared briefly.

“Which one of you is McCulver?” said the figure, stepping into the enclosure.

“The piece of shit right in front of you,” said an angry voice.

A gun barrel pressed into his right temple, lukewarm against his skin. “Is that right? Just nod or shake your head.”

He nodded swiftly, concerned about the situation. The gun barrel jammed into his head represented a significantly disturbing setback in their treatment. All of them had been abused upon capture, subject to sudden, short-lived beatings while they were corralled into the hangar. The situation changed quickly with the arrival of some government-looking types. The civilians put a stop to the blatant physical abuse, removing their captors from the scene. The group that took responsibility for their custody seemed less intense, like they didn’t do this for a living. The soldier pushing the business end of his rifle into McCulver’s head looked deadly serious, and he was alone. Not a good combination for someone wearing a dead sheriff’s deputy’s uniform.

“I’m going to cut you loose. If you do anything besides sit there quietly, I’ll use the same knife to spill your guts on the floor. Understood? Nod or shake.”

He nodded, spurring the soldier into action. A second later, with his shoulders nearly pressed out of their sockets, a sharp pain seared through the top of his left wrist, causing him to writhe against the floor. McCulver howled as the pain continued, burrowing into the top of his hand. A moment later, his hands snapped free.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” yelled McCulver, receiving a bloody fist to the side of his head for the question.

“You’re lucky I didn’t cut off one of your thumbs and slide the zip-tie off,” said the soldier, kicking him in the solar plexus and knocking the wind out of him.

McCulver was yanked to his feet and kneed in the right quadriceps muscle, causing an agonizing spasm. His leg felt immobile from the blow, and he couldn’t put weight on it. A second strike to the side of the thigh collapsed his leg in a series of unbearable cramps, and a forearm locked under his neck. The soldier’s hot breath washed over the right side of his face.

“You won’t be able to run, not that you’re going anywhere,” he said, tightening the grip against his neck.

“You’re choking me,” gasped McCulver, struggling to breathe.

“Not even close. We’re moving forward now,” he said, manhandling him out of the container.

Once clear of the makeshift prison, he marched them behind the container, out of sight from any observers on the airfield. The soldier shoved him against the hangar wall, knocking him to the ground. Glancing around, McCulver noted the hangar looked empty.

Not a good sign.

“This isn’t an officially sanctioned visit, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said the soldier.

McCulver lifted his trembling left hand, examining the damage. A deep gash ran from the bottom of his hand to the knuckle under his middle finger, bleeding profusely into his lap.

“What do you want?”

“I want Eli.”

“I already told them where to look,” McCulver whispered.

“Let me see your other hand,” said the soldier.

McCulver kept the previously bandaged hand pressed against his spasming right thigh. He’d momentarily forgotten about the throbbing pain of his mangled fingers.

“They already know everything.”

When the soldier squatted a few feet in front of him, he immediately recognized the digital camouflage pattern.

Now I’m really fucked.

The marine’s uniform looked filthy, like he had spent the past week crawling through the forest. Patches of frayed, blackened material covered his arms, and his face was smeared with a gritty black film. A faint, charred rubber smell filled the air between them.

“The place was abandoned,” said the marine, staring at him impassively.

“That’s because we threw everything we had at the airport. There’s nobody left,” said McCulver.

The Marine checked his watch, fiddling with the buttons. “One minute before I start slicing and dicing, and there’s no going back from that.”

McCulver swallowed hard, not doubting for a second that he meant it. He didn’t see any other option. Maybe he’d be willing to trade information.

“What do I get in return…if I knew where you might find him?”

The Marine glanced at his watch. “For saving me a little time? I won’t cut the rest of that Deliverance crew loose and toss you back in the container with them. I need an answer in the next five seconds.”

“What happened to the minute?”

“I’m on a tight schedule,” he said, standing up and drawing a black serrated knife from a scabbard on his belt.

“I know where to find him,” said McCulver. “We secured a place on Rangeley Lake.”

The Marine leaned over and grabbed his collar, pulling him to his feet. The knife bristled against his neck.

“You and I are going on a field trip,” he said, dragging McCulver to the front of the hangar.

The marine’s radio chirped when they reached the left side of the open hangar door.

“Captain Fletcher,” the Marine answered.

Fletcher? This can’t get any worse.

“Just in case you’re curious, sir. I saw you walk the prisoner to the side of the hangar. At least make some kind of an effort to conceal yourself until the helicopter arrives. I’m not the only one keeping an eye on the situation.”

They don’t know he’s taking me? It’s worse.

“Does that mean you found me a helicopter?” Fletcher inquired.

“Medical bird from the 126th Aviation Medevac unit based out of Bangor. They just returned from a trip ferrying two of the RRZ casualties to Central Maine Medical Center. I didn’t see any follow-on tasking, so I took the initiative.”

“What’s my cover?”

“Vehicle injury sustained during routine patrol in the vicinity of Belgrade Lakes. Transport to Central Maine Medical Center and RTB.”

“I need to stop in Limerick on the way up. Any way you can help with that?”

“I’m staying clear of the control tower for a while, sir. Any add-on services are your responsibility. Good luck out there.”

“Thanks for taking a chance on me. Sorry I won’t be around to return the favor.”

“It’s all about building good karma, sir. Remember that when you’re thinking about pushing your guest out of the helicopter.”

“I’ll try,” said Fletcher, pushing McCulver’s face into the hangar wall.

His cheekbone ground into the corrugated metal, the cheaply fabricated sheets of steel scraping his skin.

“I think I see our ride spinning up right now,” said Fletcher, turning him around.

“Here’s the way this works. You’re an injured sheriff’s deputy who will accompany the injured Marine to Central Maine Medical Center.”

“How was I injured?” asked McCulver.

“Car accident, from what you can remember. You hit your head pretty hard on the door,” said Fletcher before yanking his head back by the hair and slamming it against the hangar—twice.

Cheers echoed from the shipping container as he spat bloody tooth fragments onto the concrete floor.

“One more for the crowd?” said Fletcher, pulling his head back.

“No. No. Please,” he begged. “Please.”

His head raced forward, abruptly stopping less than an inch from impact.

“Take a seat. I need to make a few calls,” said Fletcher, releasing his grip.

McCulver quickly lowered himself to the ground, wincing at the pain caused by using his hands. He looked up at Fletcher, who held the olive-drab tactical phone to his ear.

“Don’t think I’m not watching you,” said Fletcher, never looking down at him.

“Staff Sergeant Taylor, I need a twelve-marine assault team assembled in five minutes. This is not an authorized mission, so volunteers only. I guarantee this will be a career killer.”

“Can I assume this has something to do with Eli Russell?”

“This has everything to do with Russell.”

“I don’t think career progression is on the front burner at the moment. I shouldn’t have much trouble rounding up a few eager Marines for some payback, sir.”

“I didn’t think you would. Find a suitable location to land a Black Hawk helicopter and pass me the grid. Red smoke marks the LZ. I need to talk to my wife.”

“I’ll get her a ROTAC after we pick the LZ, sir.”

“Roger, see you in less than fifteen minutes. Out,” said Fletcher, peeking out of the hangar. “I hope you don’t get airsick.”

McCulver kept his eyes on the bloody pile of teeth and saliva on the floor in front of him. He’d finally met the one person that scared him more than Eli.

Chapter 43

EVENT +21 Days

Medevac flight over southern Maine

Three minutes out of MOB Sanford, Alex pretended to receive a call on his ROTAC, writing on a green notepad that already held the location of a baseball field in Limerick. He tore the page from the pad and held on to it tightly as it whipped around in his hand from the wind generated by their high-speed transit. The pilots were pushing the helicopter’s speed envelope, flying them north at close to one hundred eighty miles per hour. He stood up, holding onto one of the straps attached to the ceiling, and walked forward, passing the medevac litter restraining “Deputy” McCulver.

Reaching the cockpit, he thrust the paper between the seats and activated the headphones connected to the helicopter’s communication system.

“I just received information that the vehicle accident may have been caused by a local militia group. My CO wants us to set down at the FOB in Limerick to pick up a squad of Marines. They’re at this ten-digit grid. Red smoke will mark the LZ.”

The copilot reached up and took the paper, clipping it to his kneeboard.

“Copy. Inputting grid coordinates. We can take six-combat loaded Marines. Any more than that is pushing the cabin configuration,” said the copilot, pushing buttons underneath one of the color displays in front of him.

“We don’t mind squeezing in,” said Alex.

“Hang on back there,” said the pilot, and the helicopter banked sharply left.

“ETA five minutes. Tell them to pop smoke as soon as they hear us,” said the copilot. “We’ll try to fit as many in as possible.”

“Copy. I’ll take as many as you’ll give me,” said Alex, kneeling next to McCulver, who stared at him wide-eyed.

The helicopter descended a few minutes later, heading toward a distant swirl of red smoke past the outline of a baseball diamond.

“ETA one minute,” said the copilot.

Alex removed his headset and replaced it with his helmet. He kneeled next to McCulver, patting him on the head. “Don’t go anywhere.”

When the helicopter touched down behind second base, Alex jumped down onto the flattened grass and jogged toward Staff Sergeant Evans, who kneeled behind the pitcher’s mound at the front of a column of combat-loaded Marines. Sand from the infield pelted Alex while he yelled over the thunderous drumming of the helicopter’s rotor blades.

“Load them up, Staff Sergeant! It’s a medevac bird, so we might have to leave a few behind. Priority goes to the automatic riflemen. I want them closest to the doors!”

While Evans led the Marines toward the helicopter, Alex ran toward the third base dugout, where Kate sat out of sight behind a translucent privacy screen fixed to the chain-link fence.

“Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff,” he said, kissing her quickly. “I’ll explain later.”

“How sure is this?” she asked.

“One hundred percent.”

“How will you—”

“Honey,” he interrupted. “I need you on the road within the hour.”

“Alex, we can’t be ready in an hour! We haven’t started loading the trailer!”

“You have to be on the road in an hour. This is a one-way trip for me. I can’t predict how the RRZ will respond to this stunt. I kidnapped one of the prisoners held in the detention center, and this mission isn’t exactly legitimate.”

She stared vacantly at the helicopter loading the Marines. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“We’ll be fine. It’s just happening a little faster than we expected. Everything on the list is packed and ready to move. You have plenty of able bodies to help.”

Four Marines started jogging away from the helicopter.

“I have to go. If I don’t show up by this time tomorrow, you have to leave.”

“We’re not leaving without you,” she said, her face regaining confidence.

“Twenty-four hours and you push off. If all goes well, you’ll see me this afternoon,” he said.

“Say good-bye to everyone for me,” she said, kissing him once more.

He nodded, then ran across the sand swept infield toward the helicopter.

Chapter 44

EVENT +21 Days

Rangeley, Maine

Alex glanced nervously at Staff Sergeant Evans. He’d caught a glimpse of Rangeley Lake through the compartment door, which meant their medevac mission cover story was a few seconds away from completely unraveling. They needed to move McCulver into a position next to him, where he could see the lake and guide them to Eli’s exact location. Sitting a wounded sheriff’s deputy near one of the doorways during the approach would invariably raise questions that Alex couldn’t answer. The pilot’s voice filled his headset.

“Captain, I just received orders to return to base immediately. Breaking off the approach.”

Alex felt the helicopter pitch right, exposing the entire lake through the port-side troop compartment door.

“Negative. My unit on the ground reports possible militia movement near the accident site. I need you to set us down as close as possible to their location,” he said, nodding at Evans.

Evans tapped Sergeant Copeland’s forearm, and the two Marines slid across the helicopter from their positions along the starboard hull, behind the copilot’s seat. They started loosening McCulver’s safety restraints.

“Captain, my orders are to bring everyone back to MOB Sanford. This is straight from the top,” the pilot said, looking over his shoulder at the Marines huddled over McCulver. “Why are your Marines releasing our patient?”

“He needs some fresh air,” said Alex, putting his hand out to stop the helicopter’s crew chief from standing up. “We have this under control, Sergeant.”

The crew chief looked around the helicopter at the scene unfolding, then glanced sharply at Alex.

“Is this a hijack situation?” he yelled over the wind buffeting the back of the cabin.

Alex withdrew his arm. “Not yet!”

Evans and Copeland manhandled McCulver into position next to Alex.

“Who is he?” yelled the crew chief.

“He’s one of the prisoners captured at the airfield! Killed two rangers while impersonating a cop! Give me two more minutes of flight time!” said Alex. “It’s important.”

“Everything all right back there, Sergeant?” he heard over the headphones.

“Good to go, sir,” the Air National Guard sergeant said, glaring at Alex. “I strongly suggest we give these devil dogs a quick aerial tour of the southeastern shore. Looks like they brought a guide to point out the more important features.”

“Fuck, I knew something was off here. When we land, I want your team off my helicopter. This is bullshit,” said the pilot.

“Fair enough. Just get us close to our target,” said Alex, feeling the helicopter bank right.

“This better be a valid target, Captain, or we’re out of here.”

“We’re hitting the suspected location of Eli Russell, the militia leader responsible for this morning’s attack.”

“4th Brigade’s air cavalry already hit that target,” said the pilot.

“They hit an abandoned site. Deputy Dog here provided a more current location.”

“That’s not a sheriff’s deputy?”

“He’s Eli Russell’s second in command. Captured in the raid on the airfield. I’m borrowing him for a few hours, along with these Marines.”

“No wonder the RRZ is frantic,” said the pilot, starting their descent. “What are we up against on the ground? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not armed for a combat mission.”

“Unknown number of hostiles armed with semiautomatic rifles. We’ll keep them busy during the approach and departure. Set us down as close to the objective as you feel comfortable.”

“I see a nice flat spot right below us,” said the pilot.

“Just a little further. Sorry to drag you and your crew into this,” said Alex. “I’m going to transfer my headset to Deputy Dog, so he can guide you to the objective.”

“Roger. I’ll do what I can to get you close. Feet wet in one minute.”

Alex removed his headset, leaning close to McCulver’s face. “This better be fucking real, or you’re going skydiving. Understand?”

McCulver nodded, and Alex slipped the headphone-equipped aircrew helmet over his bleeding head.

“Press this button to transmit,” he said, placing McCulver’s hand on the remote trigger hanging from the headset below his right shoulder.

“Staff Sergeant Evans! Get the gunners ready!”

Alex readied his own gear. The helicopter dropped toward the trees, banking left along Rangeley Lake’s southeastern shoreline. A hand forcefully tapped his shoulder.

“Sir, the pilot thinks your target is that point jutting out into the lake! We’ll make a two-hundred-foot, high-speed pass down the port side and look for an LZ!” yelled the crew chief.

Alex gave him a thumbs-up, then transmitted over his intrasquad radio, “Target coming up on the port side! Weapons hold until I give the order.”

The two Marines next to McCulver nodded, shouldering their M27 Infantry Automatic Weapons. Alex leaned his head forward and located the spot where the gently curving shore protruded into the dark blue water. From this altitude, he couldn’t see a break in the trees indicating the presence of a house or field, but that also meant Eli’s people would have the same issue scanning the horizon to locate the helicopter.

The helicopter turned a few degrees to port, lining up for a pass directly over the point. As the trees approached, the outline of an open area appeared, starting at the neck of the landmass and extending to the roof of a massive cedar shingle, craftsman house situated on the water’s edge. Alex leveled his rifle at the house as they passed, seeing nothing on the expansive deck facing the lake. A steep wooden staircase led from the deck to a dock and covered boathouse that contained a bow rider powerboat and three yellow kayaks. The house and dock disappeared when the helicopter banked left. The two Marines stationed in the doorway lowered their rifles slightly, each of them looking at Alex and shaking their heads.

“I didn’t see anything through binoculars,” said the crew chief. “We’ll make a second run across the field in front of the house. Looks like plenty of room to set down.”

The helicopter eased out of the turn, settling on a low-level run that would bring the front of the house down their port side.

“Six vehicles parked in front of the house. People in camouflage running toward the vehicles!” yelled the crew chief. “The pilot is widening his approach to open the distance.”

Alex passed the information to the Marines and steadied his rifle. The helicopter swayed right and slowed as it crossed the field. Through his ACOG scope, he spotted four men headed for the vehicles parked fifty feet from the house, all of them carrying military-style rifles. The helicopter rapidly drifted toward the far end of the clearing, seconds away from reaching the water.

“Weapons identified. Request permission to engage,” said one of the gunners.

“Stand by,” Alex said, grabbing the crew chief’s binoculars and shoving them into McCulver’s face. “I need a positive ID on someone!”

McCulver stared through the binoculars for a moment. “Roland Byrd! He’s one of the squad leaders.”

“Weapons free!” Alex yelled through the cabin, flipping the selector switch on his rifle to automatic.

The cabin exploded in a discordance of gunfire. The Marine gunners fired repeated short bursts of automatic fire from their M27s. Pressing the trigger rapidly, Alex tried to keep the scope’s bouncing reticle on the torso of a man next to a black SUV. A red cloud burst behind the man’s head after the hail of bullets shifted across the windshield and found their target. A crack passed through the compartment, followed by the distinctive, repetitive clang of bullets hitting metal. The helicopter tilted forward and surged over the trees, robbing them of targets. He turned to the crew chief.

“Tell the pilot to put us down at the entrance to the clearing! I don’t want any of the cars getting off the point! We don’t know if Eli is here!”

A few seconds later, the helicopter banked hard left, causing everyone to grab on to something bolted to the helicopter. Alex let his rifle hang by its sling and put an arm around McCulver, whose legs dangled freely over the edge. He caught the staff sergeant’s eye as the helicopter leveled.

“Tempting!” he said, pulling McCulver toward the cockpit, where the assault team secured him to the fixed medical litter with zip ties.

The crew chief grabbed him while he repositioned. “Tell your gunners to concentrate on the ground level of the house during the approach. There’s an automatic weapon in one of the windows. This is a one-shot deal.”

“Just get us low enough to jump!” said Alex.

“Team, we’re on final approach. Assault team exits on the port side. Out the door in less than two seconds. Starboard-side gunners, concentrate your fire on the ground floor. Possible automatic weapon in one of the windows or doors. Starboard gunners stay with the helicopter and provide cover for their departure.”

“Ten seconds!” yelled the crew chief.

Alex reloaded his rifle, mentally counting the seconds. He’d exchanged rifle magazines and reached seven when the starboard-side automatic rifles erupted, tearing into the windows partially obscured by the home’s wraparound porch. A red pickup truck lurched forward, speeding down the dirt road and closing the distance to the helicopter.

“Concentrate all fire on that vehicle!” said Alex, sliding past the crew chief to help.

The two gunners tracked the moving target with short bursts of fire, and the road exploded around the truck. Alex canted his rifle and lined up the iron sights with the hood, hoping to lead the target enough to send all of his bullets into the front seat. The rifle bucked repeatedly against his shoulder. The pickup truck’s tires exploded, and the windshield disintegrated from the concentrated fire of three rifles. The red vehicle swerved off the road and rolled to a stop, smoke pouring out of the crumpled hood, its lifeless driver visible through the shattered passenger-side window.

“Time to go, sir!” yelled the crew chief, pulling him away from the starboard opening.

Alex followed the last Marine out the door, jumping several feet to the hard-packed road. Bullets snapped past as the helicopter rapidly climbed out of the way, heading for the cover of the eastern tree line. The Marines wasted no time sprinting for the remnants of a crumbling rock wall fifty feet in the direction of the house. Several closely spaced cracks exploded overhead, confirming the crew chief’s warning about an automatic weapon. They slammed into the knee-high pile of rocks, bullets striking all around them. He crawled next to Evans, keeping his head well below the rocks.

“Hit the house with 40 mike-mike until the incoming automatic fire stops, then move your men forward,” he said, as another burst of gunfire whipped overhead. “I’ll see if I can find your target.”

“Copeland, Derren, 40 mike-mike at the windows. Now! Kennedy, Bradley, put the targets hiding behind the vehicles out of business,” said Evans, pulling a gold-tipped 40mm grenade from the Velcro pouch attached to his tactical vest.

Alex crawled along the stones until he reached a break in the wall. He nestled the vertical fore grip against a rock and scanned the house through his scope. All of the ground-floor windows were partially broken or missing. Gunfire reached his ears, immediately followed by stone fragments and dirt striking his face.

“Leftmost bottom window!” he said, lining up his scope’s reticle with the corner of the house.

He fired steadily until he heard three nearly simultaneous thumps from the Marines’ M320 grenade launchers. A few seconds passed before the high-explosive, dual-purpose grenades struck the house. The first projectile hit the roof of the porch, penetrating several inches before exploding the overhang above the corner window. The second and third grenades hit milliseconds later, passing through the shingle siding under the porch roof and detonating inside the house. The three windows spaced evenly to the left of the front door ejected a cloud of wood fragments and drywall twenty feet into the front yard.

With the automatic weapon neutralized, the M27 gunners tore into the bullet-riddled silver sedan hiding two men. A short burst of automatic fire knocked one of the men into the open, where he dropped to his hands and knees. A second burst stitched across the side of his torso, collapsing him in a cloud of dust.

“Hold your fire!” yelled Alex, spotting two empty hands held palms forward through the car’s missing windows.

“Hold your fire!” repeated the Marines, up and down the rock wall.

“How far away are the cars? Rough guess.”

“One hundred yards.”

“All right. Here’s the plan,” he said, talking loudly enough for the entire team to hear. “We’re gonna move up with Kennedy and Bradley covering the front of the house with their M27s. We’ll move them up after we secure the prisoner and clear the house. Ten seconds. Do not fire on the man behind the vehicle unless he presents a weapon. Clear?”

“Clear, sir,” they responded.

“Reload and get ready,” he said, dropping the magazine from his rifle and stuffing it in one of his cargo pockets.

The Marines reloaded their weapons and inched forward against the rocks, waiting for his signal. Alex pushed off the ground and jumped over the wall, motioning for them to follow with his left hand. He wanted to be the first Marine over the wall, in case a sniper watched them from the house or trees, but he also needed a head start. Most of the Marines in the battalion were twenty years younger than Alex, and he didn’t want to arrive at the cars embarrassingly far behind the rest of his team.

Halfway across the field, the Marines overtook him, yelling for the lone survivor to step into the open with his hands above his head. He arrived a few seconds after the first marine, sliding between the leftmost cars and scanning the front of the house. Dark gray smoke poured out of the windows on the ground level, indicating a secondary fire caused by the grenades. A quick look at the second floor showed a few broken windows, with all of the shades closed. He turned to Evans.

“Keep the M27s in place at the rock wall. I don’t think we’ll get the chance to clear the house.”

Evans nodded, grabbing the zip-tied prisoner delivered by Corporal Derren and shoving him to his knees against the black SUV’s hanging bumper. Alex approached the scruffy, bearded man, who spit a combination of dirt and blood onto the ground, keeping his head low. He squatted and used his rifle barrel to lift the man’s face.

“Look at me, you piece of shit. Is Eli here?”

“No,” he croaked, shaking his head and avoiding eye contact.

We beat him here?

Alex didn’t think it was possible. The Matvee’s navigation software calculated the driving distance between Limerick and Rangeley Lake to be one hundred twenty-nine miles, roughly three hours utilizing the most obvious roads north. He doubted Eli would take a predictable route, so he adjusted the course through rural western Maine and added another thirty minutes to the trip. Eli should be here, unless he drove straight to Charlie’s place.

“Have you seen him this morning? Feel free to expand your answer beyond yes or no,” Alex said, jamming the barrel into the soft spot above his trachea.

The man coughed. “He left about fifteen minutes ago with the other half of the squad. Two cars.”

“Do you know where he was headed?” said Alex, moving the rifle barrel to his forehead.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, “No. He drove in and sped off. Said he’d be back later this afternoon.”

Eli wasn’t wasting any time.

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

“Later this afternoon. Exact words,” said Alex.

“Exact words. Are you gonna kill me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said, watching the man’s eyes tear up. “Do you have a way to get in touch with Eli?”

“Handheld channel 11, subcode 33. If he asks you to jump stations, go to channel 14, subcode 21.”

Evans wrote the codes on the top of his wrist with a black marker. “Got it.”

“Is there anyone left in the house?”

“I don’t know. Ron had the drum-fed AR. He stayed behind to cover us.”

“I think it’s safe to say Ron is out of the picture. How many more?”

“Five.”

“You better hope the math works out,” said Alex, pressing the barrel against the man’s left eye. “We should have four bodies, Staff Sergeant. I see one to the left of this SUV and at least one in the pickup that tried to escape.”

“Pretty sure there’s two more over here,” said Evans, scooting to the far right vehicle and poking his head over the hood. “Two dead!”

“That makes five. Where are the keys to these cars?”

“I have the keys to the Honda over there,” he said, tilting his head to the left. “Everyone had different keys. The plan was to split up.”

“We’ll start searching the bodies, sir,” said Evans.

Alex stood. “Roger that, Staff Sergeant. I want to be on the road in two minutes, assuming we didn’t disable every car in the lot.”

“We’ll figure it out, sir,” Evans said, mustering the Marines.

Alex yanked the prisoner to his feet by his shirt. “I need one of your radios.”

“Byrd had the squad’s radio,” he said.

Alex shrugged his shoulders. “Which one is Byrd?”

The prisoner nodded at the bullet-riddled red pickup truck burning in the middle of the field.

“That figures,” said Alex, rubbing his face.

“Sir?” said the prisoner, still avoiding eye contact.

“Yes?”

“I assume you’re using a PRC-153 radio to communicate with your squad?”

“Go on,” said Alex.

“Your radio is basically a spiffed-up version of Motorola’s XTS-2500 line. It can access the same UHF frequencies used by Eli’s radio, with the same coding functionalities. I used to work at the Radio Shack in Windham.”

The black SUV behind them roared to life, startling the prisoner. He dropped to his knees, pleading for his life. The gray, four-door sedan to the left of the SUV started next, followed by the pickup next to it. A rifle stock punched through the milky-white windshield, knocking hundreds of safety glass particles onto the hood and dashboard. Staff Sergeant Evans dragged his rifle over the dashboard and grinned.

“I think we’re ready to roll, sir. Is he coming with us?”

Alex kicked the prisoner’s feet, gaining his immediate attention.

“If you can show me how to access those UHF channels, I promise we’ll slow to ten miles per hour before we toss you out of the car. Deal?”

The terrified man nodded.

“He’ll be along for part of the ride.”

Chapter 45

EVENT +21 Days

Belgrade, Maine

Alex raised a hand to cut down on the gale-force wind battering his face between the front headrests. At least he wasn’t in one of the front seats. He’d eaten his lifetime quota of bugs on the way to Boston in Ed’s Jeep. Boston felt a lifetime away.

“Take a right after that collapsed barn,” said Alex. “That should be North Pond Road.”

He picked up the computer tablet on the seat next to him and checked the map, making sure this turn was correct. They couldn’t afford the slightest delay. Despite the severely unsafe speeds endured during the Grand Prix-style, sixty-seven-mile drive between Rangeley Lake and Charlie’s lake house, Alex’s convoy didn’t have a shot at catching up with Eli. A twenty-minute head start guaranteed Eli would arrive first. He just hoped Kennedy’s driving had closed enough of the time gap to catch Eli in the planning or surveillance phase of his attack. If Eli opted to skip the prudent course of action and drove his Bronco right through Charlie’s front door, the Marines might arrive too late.

“North Pond Road, sir! Hang on!” said Private First Class Kennedy, yanking the steering wheel right.

The oversized SUV skidded into the turn, barely slowing as it fishtailed toward a utility pole on the other side of the crumbly asphalt road. Alex dropped the tablet in his lap and braced himself. The tires screeched, and the wooden post loomed in the rear driver’s side window. The SUV’s tires quickly regained traction, propelling them forward. The utility pole swiftly disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust, and Kennedy floored the accelerator. He twisted in his seat, peering through the rear cargo hatch window. The pickup truck and sedan carrying the rest of his team slid into the turn, successfully emerging from the dust cloud unscathed.

“One point two miles to the turn onto Crane Road. Let’s slow down for that one so we don’t alert the entire lake,” said Alex, patting Kennedy on the shoulder.

“Got it, sir,” said Kennedy, flashing two thumbs-up from the steering wheel.

“I can’t imagine we’re too far behind him, sir. Not with Formula One’s driving,” said Evans, shaking his head. “They’re probably still sitting around tying their boots and adjusting their gear.”

Alex nodded. “I don’t think he’ll wait around too long. He knows exactly what he’s up against.”

“Which is why I doubt he’ll rush the process. He’s facing some of the same folks that kicked his ass the last time.”

“I hope you’re right, Staff Sergeant,” Alex said, focused on the computer tablet.

One mile until we find out.

He thought about the layout of Charlie’s cottage. The 800-square-foot A-frame’s first floor was an open-concept design with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake. A spiral staircase situated in the middle of the house led to a suspended loft. Front to back, the only closed room in the house was the bathroom, which was located behind the kitchen next to the pantry. Two small windows and a door adorned the street-facing side of the house, which mostly shielded them from direct observation, but also restricted their view of the most logical approach. The steep roofed sides of the A-frame design came down to the ground, creating wide blind spots next to the house. From a tactical perspective, Charlie couldn’t have chosen a more difficult house to defend. Now Alex understood why Eli only brought half of the militia squad. Eli could effectively surround the structure by taking up positions on opposing sides of the house.

The only feature of the house that might work in his friends’ advantage was the cellar. Robert Duhaime never set foot in the house, and cellars were not a common feature in lake houses, unless you were a prepper. Charlie had insisted on buying a plot of land high enough above the water table to dig a suitable cellar to store his supplies. With a little warning, they could take shelter underground and keep Eli at bay. Part of him wanted to fire an entire magazine out of the window at the trees, hoping that the gunfire might warn them of the impending danger, but he knew this might also warn Eli. With a threat at his back, Eli’s best chance of survival was to attack immediately and secure hostages. If he hadn’t killed them already.

His decision to attack Eli at Rangeley Lake put his friends at risk. The choice had been clouded by a selfish desire to put an end to this once and for all. He just hadn’t counted on losing the helicopter and missing Eli by twenty minutes. The RRZ’s return to base directive had arrived at the worst possible moment. He didn’t have time to consider how they would reach Charlie’s if they missed Eli.

He glanced past Kennedy’s arm at the speedometer. Ninety miles per hour. Several seconds later, they passed a long, tree-wrapped gravel road, which satellite imagery showed to be the last driveway on their right before the Crane Road turnoff. He’d know really soon whether the decision to take the helicopter to Rangeley had been a mistake he’d live with for the rest of his life.

“Start slowing down. The turn is five hundred feet on the left. It’s the only turn showing on the map,” he said, lurching forward in his seat from the car’s immediate deceleration.

“All stations, prepare for dismount. Coming up on the turn,” said Evans over the squad radio.

“I got it,” said Kennedy. “Green street sign right next to the utility pole.”

“Let’s try to miss that pole, Kennedy,” said Alex, searching the woods surrounding the turn. “Looks clear.”

“And I don’t hear any shooting,” added Evans. “We need to roll in quietly. Take the turn extra slow, Kennedy.”

The Marine nodded, gently easing the SUV onto a smooth asphalt road flanked by signs announcing “Private Road. Dead End.” They cruised past the signs, slipping into the shadows cast by the tall pines bordering the road. Alex slid across the rear bench seat to the driver’s side and angled his rifle out of the window. The tires crackled over acorns, twigs and pebbles strewn across the asphalt, each sound exploding in Alex’s ears.

“We’re looking for a black Bronco and a red Chevy Tahoe,” said Alex.

“Or seven guys in woodland camouflage with rifles,” said Evans.

“That too,” said Alex, peering through the trees.

He risked a quick glance at the computer tablet, gauging their progress.

“The road angles to the right, then goes straight about two hundred feet until it splits. We go left at the split, carefully,” said Alex.

“Copy, sir,” whispered Kennedy.

“Why are you whispering?” said Alex.

“Because you’re whispering, sir.”

Alex felt the SUV change direction, turning slightly right.

“I see the split,” said Evans. “No sign of Eli’s vehicles. Still quiet.”

“Take the turn as close to the left side of the road as possible, Kennedy,” said Alex, leaning over to view the turn.

He caught a sparkle between the trees and a few slivers of blue. Patches of North Bay widened as they approached the “T” intersection. Kennedy skirted the right side of the road and executed a gradual, shallow left turn, cutting the corner as close to the shoulder as possible. The tactic minimized the car’s exposure before Evans had a chance to scan the road.

“Red SUV ahead. Two hundred feet. Facing north,” said Evans, settling in behind his rifle.

“Stop!” said Alex, hitting Kennedy on the shoulder and sliding to the middle. “What about Eli’s Bronco?”

“Hold on,” said Evans, staring intensely through the ACOG scope on his rifle. “Got it. Black SUV in front of the Tahoe. No passenger movement.”

“The house is another two hundred feet past Eli’s vehicles. Time to dismount,” said Alex, pushing the door open and jumping into the road.

Sustained machine-gun fire shattered the quiet, followed by the sporadic pop-pop of semiautomatic fire. Alex dropped to the road and rolled next to the SUV, just as a shorter burst of automatic fire ripped through the lakeside community. Evans leaned out of his window.

“They’re firing at the house!”

Alex pushed off the ground, crouching behind the door. Another long, staccato burst echoed through the street, devoid of the telltale hisses and cracks.

Shit!

“Drive!” he screamed, hopping into the car.

They roared past Eli’s Bronco, as long bursts of automatic fire continued.

We’re too late.

Based on the feeble level of return fire, he doubted many of his friends had survived the initial fusillade.

“Dismount! Take your Marines down the road on foot and push through the yard. Weapons free!”

Before Kennedy hit the brakes, Alex pushed off the seat in front of him and leapt out of the SUV, skidding across the shoulder into the bushes on the right side of the road. Without pausing, he lurched forward, breaking through the dense brush and tumbling onto a well-manicured lawn. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the thick wall of evergreens that marked the boundary of Charlie’s property, cringing with every devastating burst of rifle fire.

“Staff Sergeant, you got anything on the road?” said Alex, his rifle barrel entering the wall of pine needles.

“Negative. We’re almost in position in front of the house.”

“Advise when ready. I’m entering the bushes on the right side of the property. Out.”

The gunfire stopped, dropping a heavy silence over the yard. Gunfire meant his friends were still in the fight.

Please. No.

Alex shouldered his rifle, advancing cautiously in the face of the unbearable silence. When a few seconds passed without another shot, he stopped in the middle of the evergreen hedge and switched his squad radio to the first frequency programmed by the militia prisoner. He needed to distract Eli long enough to save anyone left alive in the house. It was all he could do at this point.

“Eli, I’m going to kill you just like your piece of shit brother and nephew,” hissed Alex. “Make a bullet in the head a new Russell family tradition.”

“Good luck with that.”

The bush in front of him exploded, discharging a bloodied man in camouflage.

Charlie!

He collided with Alex, knocking them both to the lawn under bullets snapping through the branches. The sound of sustained automatic gunfire kept Alex pressed to the ground while the man desperately clawed at the grass beside him to get away. Alex twisted onto his side and reached out to calm Charlie, his hand knocking a Motorola radio out of the way. What the— Eli Russell stared back at him, stunned for moment, before his blood-splattered face morphed into a demented grin.

“You!” he screamed, flipping onto his back and fumbling with the pistol holster on his belt.

Alex rolled onto Eli, jamming his left hand against the top of the holster while driving his knee into his groin. Eli bellowed and planted his left foot under Alex’s lower abdomen, propelling Alex into the evergreen bushes. He tripped over the sturdy branches of a dwarf spruce and crashed to the ground, smashing the back of his helmet against a landscaping boulder. The blow left him stunned, until the first bullets from Eli’s gun whipped through the pine boughs, passing inches overhead.

Alex rolled to his right in a desperate attempt to evade the storm of bullets chasing him. He collided with a tree trunk as Eli crashed through the bushes, screaming and firing his pistol until the slide locked back. One of the .45-caliber bullets struck the top of Alex’s helmet, snapping his head backward against the ground. The second bullet pounded his upper sternum—one inch below the top of the Dragon Skin vest. The impacts stopped him cold, freezing him in place for the kill shot. Eli crouched a few feet away, quickly reloading the pistol’s magazine and leveling it at Alex’s face.

“What were you saying about my brother?”

Alex kicked his right foot in an arc over his body, hitting the pistol but failing to knock it out of Eli’s grip. Eli backed up and extended the pistol forward, his eyes darting nervously to the left. A rifle barrel protruded through the bushes, hovering inches from Eli’s temple. A single, point-blank shot snapped Eli’s head sideways. His body remained upright for a moment, then crumpled to the ground next to the dwarf spruce, a bright crimson fountain pulsing skyward from the neat hole punched through his head. Charlie limped into the open, keeping his AR-15 aimed at Eli’s motionless body. A Marine shouldering a bipod-equipped M27 burst through the bushes a fraction of a second later, sweeping the smoking barrel left and right for targets.

Corporal Almeda? He’d stayed behind in the helicopter, or so Alex thought.

“Hostile is down. Say again. Hostile is down,” said the marine, crouching over Alex. “That was stupid, Mr. Thornton. You all right, Captain?”

“The rest of your squad is hidden along the road,” he rasped, still struggling to breathe from the sternum shot.

“Copy that, sir,” said the marine, activating his microphone. “Friendlies on road in front of the house. Hold fire. I repeat. Hold fire.”

Charlie kneeled next to him, slowly shaking his head. “What the hell happened to you?”

“What the fuck hasn’t happened to me?” Alex grumbled, clasping Charlie’s hand. “Is everyone all right?”

“Ed fell off the deck trying to follow me. He’s the only casualty I’m aware of.”

“I’m fine, jackass!” said Ed, hobbling stiff-legged into view. “You knocked me down the stairs.”

“You were moving too slow!” said Charlie. “Everyone’s fine. We moved the kids into the cellar after the Marines arrived.”

Alex stared quizzically at Almeda. “How did you pull that off, Corporal?”

“You owe that crew chief a few bottles of something expensive,” said the Marine. “He convinced the pilots to drop us off at the second set of coordinates.”

Staff Sergeant Evans squeezed between the bushes next to Alex, his eyes drawn to the blood-soaked corpse on the ground.

“Is that him?”

“That’s him,” said Alex, staring at Eli’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes.

“I’ll snap some pictures so they can confirm his ID,” said Evans. “Almeda, escort these gentlemen back into the house until we secure the perimeter. I don’t want any surprises.”

“Affirmative.”

“I got them, Staff Sergeant,” said Alex, using Ed’s hand to pull himself up.

“You got us?” said Ed. “I’m losing track of the number of times we’ve saved your ass.”

“Me too,” said Alex, brushing off the pine needles. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you guys watching over me.”

An awkward silence enveloped the group.

“There’s an empty house at the end of the road. The owners live in Hartford. Doubt we’ll ever see them,” said Charlie. “We can make it work up here—together.”

Alex unfastened the nylon straps against his chin and removed the three-pound ballistic helmet, accepting the sun’s warm rays on his face. He liked the sound of that.

Together.

“Does the other house have more than one toilet?” asked Alex, raising an eyebrow.

Charlie and Ed broke into laughter, knocking down more of the wall Alex had spent the past six years building around him. He flipped the selector switch on his rifle to “safe,” and clipped the helmet to the side of his vest.

“Can’t be any worse than a thirty-eight-foot sailboat,” said Ed.

Alex smiled, shaking his head. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Chapter 46

EVENT + 22 Days

Penobscot Bay, Maine

A crisp, north Atlantic gust penetrated his jacket, providing a stark reminder of the family’s decision. Instead of warm trade winds and endless summer days, they unanimously decided to steer the Katelyn Ann north, toward a bitter cold winter in Belgrade, Maine, relieved to keep the sturdy bonds of hard-earned friendship intact. Doubts still lingered about the Federal Recovery Plan’s long-term impact on New England, but they all agreed that northern Maine provided adequate geographical isolation to keep them out of harm’s way for the immediate future.

Alex raised the binoculars hanging from his neck and scanned the wispy fog ahead for the signs of Belfast harbor. His handheld GPS receiver indicated they were less than a nautical mile from the town docks. White specks materialized in the distance, announcing the outer edge of Belfast’s extensive mooring field. From what he could tell, the field was intact, untouched by the wall of water that had devastated coastal facilities further south in Casco Bay.

Sailing the Katelyn Ann out of Yarmouth through petroleum-covered inner Casco Bay had reintroduced Alex to the extent of the tsunami’s damage. Marinas and town facilities they’d frequented on family sailing trips had been wiped out of existence, now marked by little more than bobbing clusters of discarded boats, heavy debris and the occasional decayed body. Alex steered them as far away from land as possible until they passed Monhegan Island, where he pointed the bow in a northeasterly direction for the transit into Penobscot Bay.

He tracked a steady flow of merchant vessels and petroleum carriers headed in the same direction, maintaining a cautious distance from the behemoths. The sight of inbound maritime traffic was encouraging, signaling the first real steps toward recovery he had seen since the morning of the event. The unusual volume of ships plying the bay’s restricted waters meant one thing: Searsport’s Intermodal Cargo Terminal had power and was open for business. Good news since petroleum and durable goods reaching Searsport could be transported by pipeline and truck to points south, easing recovery efforts in the most damaged areas of New England.

As the field of swaying sailboat masts came into focus ahead, the familiar deep growl of a throttling lobster boat reached him. Scanning the mist, he spotted the ancient wooden contraption cutting across the bay for open water and its crustacean harvest. On the surface, Belfast harbor appeared unchanged in the wake of the disaster. Alex knew better, but seeing the waterfront emerge unscathed gave him hope. He’d seen nothing but one devastated harbor after another on the trip up the coast.

“Mom, bring the kids topside!” said Alex. “We’re getting close.”

Amy Fletcher appeared through the open cabin hatch. “How close?”

“Ten minutes from tie up.”

“That close?” she said, climbing into the cockpit and peering over the ripped dodger. “Belfast looks completely untouched,” she said.

“On the outside. It’s a different story behind every door. We need to offload as quickly as possible and get out of here. Two vehicles and a loaded trailer are bound to attract attention.”

“What about the boat?” she said.

“I’ll find an empty mooring and do a ten-minute winter prep. Throw a little fuel stabilizer in the diesel tank. Pump the water from the lines and run a jug of antifreeze through the system. Same with the engine. If we need to leave, we can have the boat running in less than two minutes.”

“We won’t need to do that. I have a good feeling about this,” said his mom.

“Me too, Mom, but it’s always good to have options.”

“I’ll leave you to your options while I get the kids up to help,” she said, climbing below deck to send the kids topside.

Alex pulled back on the stainless steel throttle lever, slowing the sailboat for their transit through the crowded mooring field. Most of the boats appeared empty, devoid of the telltale signs of a cruising family or couple: towels and bathing suits draped over the boom, or dinghies swinging lazily from a line tied off to an aft cleat. Occasionally, a head peeked through a hatch or appeared in a cabin window. He wondered if they had been there since the day of the event or if they had fled north seeking refuge. Either way, they couldn’t stay on the water much longer.

Studying the rapidly developing image of Belfast’s waterfront in his binoculars, he spotted the first marina on the edge of town. He’d arranged to meet Kate at the first dock that could handle a five-foot draft at low tide. Extending a few hundred feet into the harbor from a concrete pier at the end of a dirt parking lot, the slips looked full—and Kate was nowhere in sight. He struggled with a rising sense of anxiety. He’d been out of radio contact with Kate for more than a day. A lot could happen in a day.

The decision to join the Walkers and Thorntons in Belgrade came with a few logistical requirements, which they decided should be handled by splitting up in Yarmouth. The most critical necessity was food. They had stocked the boat with a two-month supply of dehydrated food packets and MREs, which represented more than enough sustenance to reach South America, but nowhere close to the amount required to survive a Maine winter. The earliest they could expect to start eating modestly from a garden was mid-June. Nine months. He came up with a plan, utilizing the Marines, to transport the rest of their long-term food stores from Limerick to Belgrade.

Since Alex needed to keep a low profile in southern Maine, he agreed to take the sailboat north, ferrying the younger kids and his mother to the Belfast harbor. Kate, Tim and Ryan split up between the two vehicles in Yarmouth and returned to the compound in Limerick. With Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s blessing, Alex had arranged for the Marines at FOB Lakeside to stuff two Matvees with most of the remaining dry foods in their basement. Additional survival gear, ammunition and domestic supplies would be packed in the two SUVs, which would join the convoy of tactical vehicles headed north. Grady justified the deployment of the Matvees to recover his “stranded” Marines.

Alex scanned the dock again, still not seeing any signs of human activity. She was probably at the next dock. At the far left of his visual field, a car door opened in the parking lot. Two figures ran across the concrete pier, waving with both hands as they sprinted down a steep metal ramp toward the floats. They stopped three-quarters of the way down the dock, jumping up and down to draw his attention. The empty slip appeared as soon as he cleared the last cluster of boats in the mooring field. He lowered the binoculars and steered toward the dock, curious and eager to start a long chapter with his new Band of Brothers—as long as it didn’t involve sharing a bathroom.

Epilogue

EVENT +45 Days

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Lieutenant Colonel Grady pressed orange earplugs into his ears and muttered a few obscenities. The noise from the C-17 Globemaster III’s massive quad turbofan engines cut through the foam as the beast taxied in front of the battalion’s hangar and stopped. The table vibrated under his laptop computer, and papers started to flap on the clipboards fixed to the tables.

“Sergeant Major!” he said, standing up and knocking his chair back. “Close the hangar doors.”

According to the air operations task list, MOB Sanford had twelve hours of continuous heavy airlift scheduled, which guaranteed one of these noisemakers parked right in front of his TOC for the rest of the day. When the last hangar door clanged against the concrete hangar deck, he risked removing one of the foam earplugs. It was better. Sort of. The high-pitched scream of the engine had been replaced by the rattle of the metal bay doors, which he could tolerate. He turned his attention to the computer screen and read today’s tasking report, shaking his head. Maybe Alex had the right idea.

020245Z OCT 19

FM NSC WASHDC IMMEDIATE

TO DIRECTOR FEDREC/HOMELAND WASHDC

INFO RRZ AUTHGOV IMMEDIATE

INFO RRZ MILCOMMAND

SECRET NOFORN SECTION 1 OF 1 WASHDC

DECL: NDA

FEDRECBULLETIN

SUBJECT: TASKREP OCT19

GENTEXT/REMARKS/

1. URGENT//RECALL INITIATED 010001Z OCT 19 FOR ALL FORWARD DEPLOYED MILITARY COMPONENTS OF FOLLOWING UNIFIED COMMANDS: A. USCENTCOM B. USPACOM C. USEUCOM D. USAFRICOM. RETURNING UNITS WILL BE REDEPLOYED IAW CATEGORY FIVE PROTOCOLS WHEN 80 PERCENT READINESS ACHIEVED. ESTIMATED REDEPLOYMENT DATE FOR PHASE ONE RECALL UNITS 010001Z DEC 19. ESTIMATES ON LATER PHASES TBA.

ACTION//START PROCESS OF EXPANDING FOOTPRINT WITHIN RRZ TO EMPLOY UNITS. PRIORITY TO SECURITY AND HUMANITARIAN MISSION.

2. HIGH PRIORITY//INFRASTRUCTURE REPAIR BELOW EXPECTED LEVELS. ACTION//EXPEDITE IDENTIFICATION OF KEY CRITICAL PERSONNEL FOR REPLACEMENT/REPAIR OF TRANSFORMERS AND LOCAL LEVEL ELECTRICAL GRID SUPPORT EQUIPMENT.

ACTION//SUBMIT CRITICAL TRANSFORMER REPLACEMENT REQUESTS TO FEDREC/HOMELAND DIRECTLY. SEE PRIORITY TABLES IN FEDRECINST1057.3B

3. HIGH PRIORITY//DOMESTIC TERRORISM EXPECTED TO INCREASE IN NORTHERN LATITUDE RRZS AS WEATHER DETERIORATES.

ACTION//EXPEDITE EXPANSION OF REFUGEE CAMP SYSTEM BEYOND CURRENT AUTHORIZED CAPACITY. ACTION//INITIATE FRONT LOADING NUTRITION PROGRAMS WITHIN CAMP SYSTEM TO ENCOURAGE COMPLIANCE AND PARTICIPATION IS AUTHORIZED. USE OF LONG TERM FOOD RESERVES IS AUTHORIZED. DO NOT EXCEED 70 PERCENT INVENTORY DEPLETION LEVELS WITHOUT APPROVAL FROM FEDREC/HOMELAND.

4. PRIORITY//COMMUNICATIONS BANDWIDTH EXPECTED TO DECREASE WITH CONTINUED LOSS OF LOW EARTH ORBIT SATELLITES DUE TO ANTI-SATTELITE MISSILE ATTACKS BY PRC.

ACTION//IMPLEMENT SATELLITE DATA COMMUNICATION RESTRICTIONS ALPHA THRU DELTA EFFECTIVE 030001Z OCT19.

5. PRIORITY//HUMANITARIAN AIRLIFT FROM EUROPE EXPECTED TO CEASE WITHIN NEXT FIVE TO TEN DAYS. MILITARY PRESSURE FROM RUSSIAN FEDERATION INVASION OF FORMER SATELLITE NATIONS CITED BY EUROPEAN COUNCIL AS PRIMARY REASON. CHINESE ECONOMIC PRESSURE SUSPECTED TO PLAY A SECONDARY ROLE.

ACTION//REFOCUS CURRENT HUMANITARIAN AID MATERIALS TO TASKS CRITICAL TO SECURITY.

BT#3459

NNNN

****

CLICK HERE TO LEAVE A REVIEW for Point of Crisis. Even a short, one line review can make all of the difference. Thank you!

Go back to Contents

Turn the page to read the final Book in the Alex Fletcher Series:

Dispatches

Dispatches

Alex Fletcher Book Five

About Dispatches

After finishing Point of Crisis , I thought the series was finished. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. As I walked away from the series, glancing fondly over my shoulder, two main themes emerged from emails, reviews and blog comments. 1.) What’s happening in the world outside of New England? 2.) I can’t wait to see what happens to the Fletchers after the winter.

I tried to keep walking, but eventually I turned around and stared at these loose ends. Ideas formed, and before I knew it, a new concept emerged. One that would address both themes voiced by readers. The format for this concept changed several times, ultimately resulting in a hybrid novel. Essentially two stories in one.

Dispatches is broken into two parts. Big Picture and Little Picture . Big Picture takes readers across the globe, to conflicts arising in the absence of the United States’ foreign presence. Of course, America is not out of the fight—she’s just taking a quieter, more satisfying role in the unfolding events. Little Picture pulls you back to Maine, to once again walk in Alex Fletcher’s shoes (and many others), as the Fletcher crew is once again faced with drastic choices that will ultimately decide their fate.

But first—Happy Reading!

PART I

“BIG PICTURE”

Winter 2019-2020

“Meet the New Soviets. Same as the Old Soviets”

Chapter 1

Narva, Estonia

Late November 2019

Colonel Egon Saar drifted to sleep in his seat, his head snapping up to greet the same digital screen he’d stared at for the past several hours. He checked his watch, already knowing the time. Zero-two hundred. Two in the damn morning and the Russians were still playing games across the river.

“Let’s get this over with already,” he mumbled.

His artillery battalion had been moved to Narva two weeks earlier, based on NATO satellite intelligence suggesting a buildup of Russian armor units east of the Luga River. Three days ago, Estonian agents in Kingisepp reported T-14 “Armata” tanks crossing the Luga. He hadn’t slept since receiving that message. The presence of T-14s, Moscow’s latest generation main battle tank, meant one thing. Invasion was imminent, spearheaded by the Moscow-based, elite 4th Independent Tank Brigade. The Estonian Defense Forces assembled in the vicinity of Narva would be little more than a speed bump on the road to Tallinn for a Russian tank brigade.

He prayed his wife had listened and taken the kids to Stockholm. If they hadn’t left by now, they might never get out. The Russian invasion would undoubtedly be combined with an air and naval blockade of Tallinn, cutting off any possible means of escape. Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing if they had left the country. Saar had surrendered his cell phone before deploying. It was better not knowing, because there was nothing he could do to help them.

He’d said goodbye in their apartment, a few blocks from the main gate to the sprawling Estonian Defense Force base in Tapa—fighting off tears his children couldn’t fully understand. His wife knew there was little chance that he would return. She had heard enough about Russian artillery from him to know that he’d be among the first casualties. Kissing them goodbye for the last time was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The Russians would pay a dear price for this.

He removed his headset, stood up in the cramped command vehicle, and weaved through the equipment operators, pulling his headset cable with him. A small coffee station stood on the map table, rigged directly to the armored personnel carrier’s electrical system. Besides the heating system, the coffee maker represented their only luxury in the field. A gust of wind buffeted the thirteen-ton vehicle, barely audible through the armored hull. Conditions outside were miserable. Positioned in a thick forest on the bluffs northeast of Narva, his artillery battalion was exposed to the bitter northerly winds sweeping off the Gulf of Finland.

The weather didn’t matter to the men and women of his artillery battalion. They were all tucked inside heated vehicles. The battalion consisted of twelve self-propelled ARCHER systems and three times that many support vehicles. Not a single soldier in his unit needed to be outside in the subfreezing temperature. The same couldn’t be said about the infantry battalion guarding his position. Their perimeter extended several hundred meters in every direction, consisting of observation posts, machine-gun nests and squad-sized rapid response teams—huddled in shallow holes carved out of the frozen ground. They were miserable.

“Colonel, I’ve lost the ARTHUR feed,” said the operator next to him.

Colonel Saar turned his attention to one of the screens behind him. ARTHUR, or Artillery Hunting Radar, represented their only chance of detecting an incoming artillery attack. Since his battalion’s artillery batteries were the only viable threat to Russian tanks crossing the Narva River, he fully expected to be the focus of an intense artillery strike at the outset of hostilities.

“Get a report from them immediately,” said Saar.

A few seconds later, the operator lifted the headset above his ears. “I think we’re being jammed.”

Saar pressed one of the buttons connected to his headset. “Vortex, this is Thunder actual. Lost contact with Watchtower.”

When he released the button, a shrill, oscillating sound filled his ears, causing him to throw the headset onto the map table. They were most definitely being jammed. Somewhere high above the cloud layer on the Russian side of the border, several aircraft were flooding his battalion’s radio frequency spectrum with “noise,” rendering digital communication impossible. He started the stopwatch function on his sports watch.

“Contact battalion spotters via landline. I want to know what’s happening in Narva.”

“Colonel, spotters report heavy small-arms fire at the Narva Bridge.

“Which side?” demanded Saar.

“Ours!”

“Copy,” said Saar, contemplating the situation.

The Russians had probably sent a sizable Spetsnaz force to secure the western bridgehead. There was only one course of action left, and Saar needed to act immediately to give it any chance of success.

“Transmit over landline to battery commanders. Execute Fire Plan Alfa X-ray. Expend all rounds.”

The sergeant stared at him for a moment before quickly lowering his headset to pass Saar’s command. “Alfa X-ray” was a northern-front battle plan devised several days earlier under the direction of his commanding officer, Brigadier General Lepp. It wouldn’t prevent the Russian invasion, but it would buy Tallinn some time to petition NATO. Not that NATO was in much of a position to help. They had been completely unprepared for the sudden withdrawal of U.S. military forces from Europe.

“Battery commanders have acknowledged the order, sir.”

Saar nodded before grabbing his combat helmet hanging on his seat. “I suggest everyone gears up.”

He didn’t need to elaborate. The combined firepower of an entire Russian artillery brigade would be leveled against them. There wouldn’t be much left of his battalion after the Russians’ first salvos. Before he’d finished snapping his chinstrap, the vehicle shook from a hollow crunching sound—the first of his battalion’s two hundred and fifty-two high-explosive artillery rounds had been fired.

The command vehicle continued to rattle and drum as the ARCHER Artillery Systems fired shell after shell into the night sky.

ARCHER was a fully automated, self-contained system utilizing a preloaded magazine drum filled with twenty-one artillery shells. The 155 mm field gun could fire the entire magazine in less than a minute in salvo mode, nearly quadrupling the sustained firing rate of conventional artillery pieces. Fire plan Alpha X-ray’s success depended on this unique capability. By his best guess, the first enemy rockets would strike Saar’s battalion in less than—he glanced at his watch—forty seconds. He needed to empty the battalion’s guns before the rockets struck.

Fire Plan Alpha X-ray had two components, split between the battalion’s twelve ARCHER units. When initiated by the gun commander seated in each ARCHER vehicle, the system’s fire control computer took over and delivered the ordnance according to the plan. The first eight rounds fired from each gun would target the two vehicle bridges spanning the Narva River, focusing most of the barrage on the solidly constructed Tallinn-St. Petersburg Highway (E20) Bridge.

Twenty of the ninety-six precision-guided shells would hit the smaller bridge south of Ivangorod. Shutting down these crossings would either force the 4th Independent Tank Brigade one hundred and eighty kilometers south to press their attack into Estonia, or stall them outside of Narva—until Russian combat engineers figured out how to get the brigade’s tanks across the river. Not all of the Russian tanks would make the trip across.

The remaining one hundred and fifty-six shells would arc over Narva, targeting a six-mile stretch of the Tallinn-St. Petersburg highway. Each specialty projectile carried two self-guided sub munitions, which independently detected and attacked enemy tanks or armored personnel carriers below. In practice, the smart munitions yielded a seven out of eight hit ratio, putting two hundred and seventy-three Russian tanks at risk of destruction.

The math was encouraging, but Colonel Saar wouldn’t survive long enough to measure the effects of his plan against the Russian tank brigade. It didn’t matter. He’d done his duty for Estonia. The rest was up to God—and the British Aerospace engineers that designed the ammunition.

Fifty-seven seconds after the Russians started jamming their communications, the sergeant seated next to him yelled triumphantly, “Spotters report multiple direct hits to the E20 Bridge! Too many to count!”

“Excellent work! We did it!” yelled Saar, the pride of their accomplishment momentarily overshadowing the inevitable.

He stole a glance at his watch. Sixty-two seconds. Saar never saw sixty-three. The first salvo of Russian 300 mm rockets exploded above the forest, showering his battalion with thousands of baseball-sized munitions. He heard the muted crackling of the first bomblets exploding in the trees, but nothing after that. His battalion essentially ceased to exist, along with most of the forest that sheltered it.

Chapter 2

Ferry Terminal D, Port of Tallin

Tallin, Estonia

Mari Saar pulled on her children’s overstuffed backpacks, reining them tight against her body. The three of them fought against the packed crowd as one shape, constantly expanding and contracting to press a few centimeters closer to the passenger gate. She should have known better than to try for one of the main passenger terminals, but her husband insisted that Terminal D had been reserved for military families. By the time she learned that plans to evacuate Estonian Defence Force dependents had been abandoned, it was too late to change course. The buzzing swarm of panicked humanity surged in one direction—forward to the perceived safety of the ferries.

Her son cried out, turning to look up at her with tear-soaked eyes. Erik had been accidentally kicked, knocked down and hit in the face dozens of times over the past three hours, as Mari struggled to shield him with her arms. She could barely reach over them because of the size of their backpacks. They’d stuffed the school packs with cold-weather clothing, energy bars and bottles of water until she could barely work the zippers. Her husband, Egan, had stressed the importance of carrying everything they needed in backpacks. Traditional luggage would be the first thing to be abandoned or lost in the struggle at the terminal, he had warned them. He’d been right about everything, except for Terminal D. Now she was fighting for enough space so her children could breathe.

At seven, Erik barely came up to her navel. Fortunately, Helina was taller and could somewhat hold her own, letting Mari focus on keeping her son off the ground. She wasn’t sure how much further Erik could continue like this. The look on his face told her not very long.

“We’re almost there, sweetie,” she said, forcing a big smile.

He pursed his lips and nodded, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. Mari was glad that Erik couldn’t see over the crowd. An endless sea of wool hats, matted hair, backpacks and piggybacking children extended to the staircase leading to the third-floor departure gates. She dreaded the stairs. They almost didn’t make it up the last staircase. Helina kissed her fair-haired brother on the temple.

“It’s fine, Erik. We’ll be out of here soon,” she said, pushing against a dirty black backpack that hovered inches from his face.

“I miss Daddy,” he whimpered.

“Daddy’s fine. He’ll join us in Stockholm,” said Helina, her eyes meeting Mari’s for a moment.

They both knew the truth. Colonel Saar would undoubtedly be among the first Estonian soldiers to fight the Russians.

“Helina, how are you doing?” she said.

“Fine, Mom, but I need to go to the bathroom,” said Helina.

Mari didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t put any thought into how long they might be trapped, unable to move in any direction except forward. She scanned the yellow walls of the terminal, not spotting a bathroom nearby—not that it would have mattered. A few seconds later, her son looked back at her.

“I have to go too,” he said. “Really bad.”

“Soon, sweetie,” she said, rubbing his head through his gray hat. “Maybe it’s time to have something to eat. I’ll break open some candy.”

His eyes lit up briefly as she dug into her coat pocket for the chocolate bar she had been parceling out to the kids for the past hour. She snapped off a large piece and handed it to Erik, breaking off another for Helina. Even at eleven years old, the allure of chocolate hadn’t worn off her daughter. The kids seemed placated for the moment, while she checked her smartphone for messages. Her parents had made it to Riga by car, though she wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse for them. They lived on the southern coast of Estonia, on the Bay of Riga, and Mari begged them to drive south immediately. At least Riga put them farther away from the Russian hordes. Nothing from Egan, which didn’t surprise her.

The lights flickered in the terminal, followed by a sudden rumbling as military jets flew over the port. She hoped they were friendly jets, but somehow knew this was wishful thinking. The crowd pressed tighter around them, causing Erik to moan. His chocolate-stained mouth quivered as the smell of urine hit the air.

“I couldn’t help it, Mommy,” he said, turning his head to escape the backpack pushing into his face.

Mari wanted to scream at the young man in front of them. She’d asked him to reverse the backpack twice already, but he’d just shook his head and mumbled something about it being her fault for having kids.

“It’s all right, Erik. Next time make sure you pee on the man in front of you,” she said, shoving the black backpack as hard as she could.

She instantly regretted her action, seeing that it caused a ripple effect in the crowd. The man spun around and raised a fist, his hand hesitating. Mari squeezed in front of her children.

“I’m very sorry,” she said forcefully. “But your backpack has hit my son’s face nonstop since we started. I wish you would wear it on the front of your body. Just until we get on the ferry.”

“You should have thought of that before having a bunch of illegitimate kids.” He snickered.

“My husband is the commanding officer of an artillery battalion stationed at the border,” she stated. “Why haven’t you reported to your Defence League unit? The reserves were called up weeks ago. I don’t see anything wrong with you.”

“What’s the point of dying in a frozen foxhole on the border? Fucking stupid if you ask me,” he replied, keeping his hand up as if he might hit her.

A thick hand grabbed his wrist. “Her husband is on the border, buying the rest of us time to escape. It’s a time-honored tradition called sacrifice. Something your generation doesn’t know the first thing about.”

A stocky man with graying hair, dressed in a thick, gray and orange weatherproof jacket, held the man’s wrist in place.

“Now you will reverse the backpack, or I will beat you senseless and let them walk over you. Your choice,” he said.

“Fine,” said the young man. “I guess this is how your generation solves things.”

“That’s right,” he said, nodding at Mari as the guy carefully removed his backpack.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No. Thank you,” the older man said, squeezing between the young man and Mari. “Get behind your kids again, and I’ll make sure you have smooth sailing for the rest of the trip.”

She noticed that he carried no backpack or luggage.

“You’re not carrying anything?” she said.

“I didn’t have time. My daughter is at Stockholm University. I have to be on this ferry,” he said.

“Let me know if you need water or food. We have plenty to last the trip—if we ever get on the ferry,” she said.

“We’ll get on. It’s moving slowly because there’s only one ferry at the terminal, and they’re loading it carefully. All of the ferries will be here shortly. Right now they’re waiting,” said the man.

“Waiting for what?” she said.

He leaned back and whispered, “Waiting for NATO to sink the Russian blockade.”

“What? How could you know that?” she whispered back.

“Because my son is a lieutenant at the Miinisadam Naval Base a few kilometers from here. I dropped him off before coming here. All hell is breaking loose on the water. I’m pretty sure we just heard our own jets fly over.”

“God help us,” she said, hugging her children.

“God—and people like your husband and my son,” he said.

“Say a prayer for them, children,” said Mari, buoyed by a complete stranger’s kindness.

Chapter 3

Baltic Sea

Fifty-two miles north of Gotland, Sweden

Through the night-vision-enhanced visor on her flight helmet, Lieutenant Commander Robyn Faulks watched the coastline slip past her F/A-18F Super Hornet. At three hundred and ten knots, the light green strip was long gone when she glanced right. She caught a glimpse of another attack aircraft in her flight of six Hornets. In less than a minute, they’d deliver their payload and turn for the Swedish coast, disappearing just as quickly.

They’d launched from the USS George H. Bush nearly eight hours ago, stopping at Royal Air Force Base Mildenhall to refuel and wait for the final mission “green light.” They didn’t wait for long; the pilots and flight officers rushed to their aircraft less than two hours after arriving. They left with a pair of KC-135 refueling aircraft, the last strategic aircraft still stationed in Europe. The flying “gas stations” topped them off north of Denmark and returned to the protective cover of the United Kingdom’s air defense zone. With the secret approval of the Swedish government, the Hornets flew a low-level profile over the sleeping country, heading toward the Baltic.

Her helmet-integrated HUD flashed a thirty-second warning, which she knew would be seen by the flight officer seated behind her. The mission profile required the strictest emissions control (EMCON) standards, prohibiting the use of radar, radio gear or internal communications circuits. Silencing the internal link was overkill, but mission planners didn’t want any of the pilots “fat fingering” the wrong button and giving the Russians an excuse to escalate tensions. American forces could not be implicated in the upcoming strike. The two stealth missiles attached to her wing pylons were a testament to their quiet, yet continued commitment to NATO.

Twenty seconds . In her HUD, the green tinted missiles’ status field change to “Armed.” A string of secondary symbols confirmed that latest targeting data uploads had been received less than a minute ago, ensuring that the missiles would reach their targets without using radar.

Capable of autonomous targeting, the LRASM (Long Range Anti-Ship Missile) would use a combination of radar, infrared signature and electronic intercept data provided by Finnish sensors to independently detect and track their targets—ensuring the simultaneous delivery of each one-thousand-pound warhead. Only one missile was needed per ship, since the Russian’s Baltic Fleet consisted of nothing heavier than a Sovremenny class destroyer. A reserve missile would loiter twenty miles away from the first Russian vessel, just in case one of the ships got lucky. Within the span of seconds, the naval blockade of the Baltic States would be lifted. Ten seconds to launch.

She watched the countdown timer, giving a thumbs-up to her flight officer when it hit zero. The aircraft shuddered, adjusting to the sudden reduction in weight. A brilliant yellow-green flash filled her visor, as the LRASM’s booster propelled the cruise missile ahead of the Hornet. The light faded as it pulled away, the missile travelling two hundred knots faster than her aircraft. A second shaking, followed by another night-vision bloom confirmed the successful launch of their final missile. She counted a dozen successful booster ignitions from her strike force before the last LRASM’s were swallowed by the night.

Her HUD displayed a Time-To-Target (TTT) of twenty-eight minutes. They’d be long gone before the Russian ships hit the bottom of the Baltic. Faulks eased her aircraft into a shallow turn, proud that the United States was not out of the fight.

“Red Dragon Redux”

Chapter 4

USS GRAVELY (DDG-107) off the coast of Delaware

Early December, 2019

Lieutenant Commander Gayle Thompson stared into the darkness beyond the starboard bridge wing. The frigid air stung her face, forcing her to squint against the wind created by the ship’s transit. Not even the horizon was discernible.

There’s nothing out there, she thought.

She still couldn’t fathom the sheer absence of shipping traffic outside of the Delaware Channel. Four months into the crisis, and the humanitarian aid from Europe had trickled to nothing—not that it had ever really started. Russian aggression across the Eastern European front started within a month of the EMP attack against the United States, effectively drawing NATO into a quagmire of idle military threats and useless political posturing across Europe. One former Soviet satellite nation after another fell to bloodless coups, or in some cases, Blitzkrieg-like attacks. The brief battle in Estonia had been particularly bloody, for both sides. In less than a week, Russian Federation borders extended to Poland, Slovakia, Hungary and Romania. NATO didn’t expect the Russians to stop, not with the United States out of the picture.

Tensions at sea had returned to Cold War levels, an era Thompson had never experienced during her eleven-year career. Few of the sailors onboard Gravely remembered the days when a constant, low-grade fear of the Soviets ruled the sea. NATO and Soviet seaborne units played endless games of cat and mouse, the contest occasionally turning deadly. The Russian surface navy posed little threat in 2019, the supremacy myth surrounding their missile-bristling warships was busted more than two decades earlier. The same couldn’t be said about their submarine force, which was why Gravely had spent the past one hundred and four of the past one hundred and eight days at sea. A four-day stop to reload weapons at the Yorktown Naval Weapons Station represented the crew’s only break since the “event.”

Thompson had expected to take on additional crewmembers during the stop, but the Atlantic Fleet barely had enough sailors to put the minimum number of required ships to sea. The asteroid strike south of Richmond, Virginia, had killed, injured or “disappeared” more than a quarter of Naval Station Norfolk’s sailors and officers. Even more surprising, she had retained command of Gravely . It seemed logical that Atlantic Fleet commanders would put someone more experienced in charge of one of their most important assets. Thompson had half the sea-time experience of a typical captain. Either she had proven herself worthy during the three weeks following the event, or they had run out of command-eligible officers. She guessed it was a combination of both.

The door next to her clanged open, spilling red light onto the bridge wing’s crisscrossed metal decking. The officer of the deck held the door open several inches against the wind.

“Captain, CIC reports a POSSUB bearing zero-six-five/two-nine-five relative. Sonar is working on a classification. TAO requests permission to bring the ship to a new heading of one-one-zero to resolve the bearing,” said the officer.

She instinctively turned her head toward the relative bearing of the possible submarine, staring once again at a black canvas of howling winds and crashing waves.

“Come right to course one-one-zero,” she said, grabbing the door handle and pulling it open far enough to slip inside. “Tell the TAO I’m on my way down to CIC.”

The bridge felt like a sauna compared to the bridge wing, the temperature outside barely hovering above freezing. The familiar smell of burnt coffee permeated the dark space, competing with the salty, open ocean air. She closed the watertight door and locked the handle, hearing the door hiss. The ship’s positive pressure system, designed to prevent biological or chemical weapons intrusion, had recharged the pressure behind the door. The system ran continuously while they were underway.

“OOD, let’s get a lookout on that relative bearing with night vision. You never know,” she said, heading toward the ladder that would take her off the bridge.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” said the young officer.

“Captain’s off the bridge,” announced a hidden petty officer to her right, startling her.

She felt the ship turn as she slid down the ladder, landing in front of the door to the captain’s stateroom. Her stateroom. Located between the bridge and the Combat Information Center, it gave the commanding officer quick access to either critical station, a necessity she had never fully appreciated before assuming responsibility for the lives of Gravely ’s crew. A few twists and turns later, she descended to the Combat Information Center entrance.

“Captain’s in CIC!” yelled a sailor at a nearby console.

A petty officer at the chart table announced, “Ship is steady on course one-one-zero.”

Lieutenant Mosely rushed to meet her.

“Ma’am, I have every sonar tech on the ship crammed into sonar control, trying to figure this out. There’s no traffic out here, so they were able to isolate the signal,” he said.

“The contact just appeared out of nowhere?” she asked.

“We’ve had the passive towed array below the thermocline layer for several hours, looking for any long-range stalkers,” he said, walking away. “ST1 Herbert is convinced this contact came into detection range above the layer, either snooping for electronic signatures or receiving updated orders. The submarine just descended below the layer.”

“Does sonar have any idea what we’re looking at?”

“They’re still trying to classify the contact.”

“So this could be surface noise caught in a convergence zone?”

“They don’t think so. The signature is too distinct to have crossed the layer and bounced around for hundreds of miles. Plus, it appeared too suddenly.”

She nodded and followed him through the dimly lit CIC to the sonar control room. Beyond the curtain separating the two spaces, several men and women huddled around the AN/SQQ-89 Integrated Anti-Submarine Warfare Display. They quickly made room for her.

“What do we have, Herbert?”

“Ma’am, if I had to guess before the analysis was finished, I’d say we’re hearing reactor equipment.”

“A boomer?”

“I can’t say, ma’am. Could be a fast-attack boat,” replied the petty officer.

“Not a surface contact?” she pressed.

“Negative, Captain. Guardian just lit up our sector. No surface tracks.”

Shit. The presence of a nuclear-powered submarine was bad news, regardless of the type. It meant Russian or Chinese nuclear assets had been sent closer to the U.S. mainland; a move deemed unacceptable by the National Security Council and Pentagon planners. Gravely ’s orders were specific: Hunt and kill any subsurface contacts in their operating area.

The problem they faced was localization. The towed array gave them a direction, but no distance. Their first tactic would be to send an aircraft down the line of bearing from Gravely , hoping to detect the magnetic disturbance caused by the submarine’s metal hull. Unfortunately, this tactic wasn’t an exact science and could last for hours. Despite the sheer volume of math and science behind antisubmarine warfare operations, luck played an almost equally important role.

To expedite the process, they’d utilize Guardian’s extensive supply of passive sonobuoys along the detection bearing to fix the location of the sub. Easier said than done against a moving target that could be anywhere along a thirty- to fifty-mile line.

“Very well,” said Thompson, backing up a few feet. “TAO, report this as a POSSUB, high confidence, and request that Guardian remain on station to assist. We’re going to need their sonobuoys. Set flight quarters for Spotlight One-One. I want the flight crew briefed and the helo in the air within thirty minutes.”

“I’m on it,” said Mosely, disappearing through the curtain.

“And TAO?” she said. Mosely reappeared. “Energize the Aegis system. Once the sub figures out we’re prosecuting them, they might do something desperate. I don’t want anything slipping through our net.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he said enthusiastically.

Thompson turned to Petty Officer Herbert. “How long until we’ve resolved the bearing?”

“It’ll take the towed array at least fifteen minutes to steady on our new course. We’ll have a solid bearing to pass on to the helo at that point.”

“I want to know what we’re up against before the helo is airborne,” she said.

“If this submarine type is in the catalogue, we’ll get it classified within ten minutes,” said Herbert.

“Excellent,” she said. “Nice work. All of you.”

Lieutenant Commander Thompson left the cramped space and caught up with Lieutenant Mosely.

“I’ll be on the bridge. Let me know as soon as sonar classifies the contact.”

She barely heard them announce her presence on the bridge. Thompson settled into the captain’s chair and closed her eyes. Her head swam with scenarios and contingencies. Once Lieutenant Mosely passed the report, there would be no going back. Atlantic Fleet commanders would commit Gravely to the fight. Kill or be killed. A seasoned submarine captain versus—don’t go there. She knew Gravely ’s combat systems inside out, and so did her crew. They were ready for anything.

Chapter 5

“Guardian” P-8 Poseidon Aircraft

37 miles southeast of USS GRAVELY

Lieutenant Commander Kyle West scrutinized the tactical action display in front of him. Seated in a row on the port side of the aircraft’s cabin, four additional operators monitored the aircraft’s sensors and surveillance feeds, making sure his display had the latest data from all transmitting units. The seat pitched downward, pulling his stomach with it. A few more of those, and he might lose his midnight snack. The P-8 was a militarized version of a Boeing 737, not exactly the ideal passenger aircraft for low-altitude submarine-hunting maneuvers. He took a few deep breaths and tried to ignore his worsening stomach situation.

“Sonobuoys Kilo-Three and Kilo-Four picking up the track,” announced one of the enlisted operators in West’s headset.

He pressed a button and replied, “Got it. Track hooked.”

Unable to get a MAD reading from Gravely ’s helicopters, Guardian and Sentry, another P-8 aircraft launched from Naval Air Station Oceana and started deploying passive sonobuoy patterns ahead of the reported bearing line in a “hail Mary” attempt to find the submarine. After exhausting more than three-quarters of their sonobuoy load out, they got lucky. A subsurface contact passed through one of the patterns, ten miles away from the helicopter. While Guardian swooped down to deploy more sonobuoys, Spotlight One-One closed the distance to the submarine, hovering nearby with two armed torpedoes.

So far, the Type 093 Chinese submarine had maintained course and speed, heading toward the Delaware Channel at ten knots, a relatively quiet, but urgent running speed. All of that was about to change. They needed to fine-tune the submarine’s position for a deliberate torpedo attack by the helicopter. He expected all hell to break loose underwater once the submarine was pinged by the active directional sonobuoys.

“Go active on Oscar-Four and Oscar-Five,” said West, switching channels. “Spotlight One-One, this is Guardian. Oscar-Four and Oscar-Five just went live. Confirm link to these sonobuoys.”

A garbled, but readable voice responded, “Copy. Links are active. Bingo! I’m showing active bearings to target.”

The submarine was as good as dead at this point.

“Spotlight, do you require further guidance to target?” asked West.

“Negative. I have a strong link to your sonobuoys. Moving into position to attack.”

“Give ’em hell, Spotlight,” said West.

He turned to the officer seated next to him, making sure his headset wasn’t transmitting. “That should teach those Commie fucks a lesson.”

“A cold, wet lesson,” said the lieutenant.

“They probably won’t feel a thing,” added the radar operator two seats over.

“Too bad,” said West, leaning back in his seat to watch the digital battle.

“New radar contact, bearing two-five-five! Correction. Two new contacts—shit, these things are moving fast!” said the radar operator.

West stared at his screen, watching the new contacts speed away from the submarine’s location, hoping that Spotlight One-One’s link-track didn’t disappear. The new contacts and the helicopter merged on his tactical screen.

Chapter 6

USS GRAVELY (DDG-107)

Off the coast of Delaware

Chief Fire Controlman Jeffries was hovering behind the ship’s Anti-Air Warfare (AAW) console when Petty Officer Clark screamed in his face.

“TAO! New air tracks 1025 and 1026. Bearing zero-three-three. Distance forty-five miles. Heading two-niner-three. Speed three hundred knots and increasing. Altitude four hundred feet and rising!”

The sailor seated at the AN/SLQ-32 Electronic Warfare console on the other side of CIC called out what Jeffries suspected.

“I have no fire control radars or missile seekers along that bearing.”

The new targets did not emit an electronic signal, which meant they were either land-attack cruise missiles dependent on GPS and terrain comparison to reach their targets, or anti-ship missiles in booster phase. Gravely ’s response to each scenario would be the same.

“Stand by to take those tracks, Clark,” he whispered in the petty officer’s ear before turning to gauge Lieutenant Mosely’s reaction.

Lieutenant Mosely stood behind his station, staring at the bank of raised flat-screen displays at the front of CIC. One of the screens showed the direction of the air tracks superimposed on a digital map overlay of Gravely ’s assigned area of operations. The missiles fired by the Type 093 Chinese submarine were headed toward the Washington, D.C., area. Captain Thompson stood next to Mosely, reaching the same conclusion. She nodded at the TAO, who issued the orders.

“Fire Control, kill air tracks 1025 and 1026. I don’t care what it takes. Spotlight One-One is weapons free to conduct a deliberate torpedo attack. I want that submarine dead,” he uttered.

The Anti-Submarine Tactical Air Controller (ASTAC) two seats over from Clark responded. “Passing the order to Spotlight One-One. Weapons free.”

Jeffries watched as the Combat Information Center flawlessly executed the multi-contact engagement. The Aegis combat system had been designed for a nearly automated engagement of enemy targets. By the time he turned to face the Anti-Air Warfare console, Clark had assigned three SM-2 surface-to-air missiles to each track. He patted the sailor on the shoulder.

“You know what to do,” said Jeffries.

Clark pressed a series of buttons authorizing the salvo firing of six missiles. The ship rumbled against the pitch and roll of the sea, their only physical indication that the Vertical Launch System (VLS) had released the missiles. One of the screens in front of the captain and TAO flashed to a green image of the forward VLS battery. The dark green scene flashed white six times in rapid succession. A hollow voice echoed through one of the speakers.

“TAO, this is the OOD. I confirm six birds away.”

“Confirmed by Fire Control,” yelled Petty Officer Clark. “Six birds clearing booster phase. Looking good!”

“Time to impact?” said the captain.

Clark took a moment to examine his data fields. Jeffries refrained from helping the young sailor find the information. Coddling his sailors had never been part of the chief’s training philosophy.

“Time to first impact in thirty-nine seconds, Captain.”

Jeffries nudged him.

“Three niner seconds, ma’am.”

“Very well,” said Captain Thompson, nodding her approval at Jeffries.

“Torpedo away!” announced the ASTAC. “Spotlight One-One is maneuvering for re-attack, Captain.”

“Don’t make your reports to me. Lieutenant Mosely is fighting the ship,” said Thompson.

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” said the petty officer. “TAO, Spotlight One-One—”

“Got it, make sure Spotlight drops a sonobuoy for battle-damage assessment,” said the TAO.

“Already in the water, sir. Sonar reports active torpedo pinging. It’s just a matter of time,” said the ASTAC.

Several seconds later, Clark gave them an update.

“Missiles entered terminal-guidance phase. Revised time to target estimate is one five seconds. Aegis shows a solid lock on the targets.”

Jeffries mentally counted down the seconds. He reached twelve when Clark announced their arrival.

“Splash tracks number 1025 and 1026. Aegis is picking up nothing but falling debris from the tracks.”

“Copy. Splash tracks,” said the TAO, among a chorus of cheers.

Moments later, it was the ASTAC’s turn to pass on some good news.

“TAO, all acoustic sources confirm an underwater detonation. The torpedo has stopped pinging. Sonar assesses a hit. They’re processing more data from the sonobuoy and towed array feeds to assess the extent of the damage.”

Everyone cheered except for the captain, who whispered something to Lieutenant Mosely. He nodded before abruptly interrupting the celebration.

“Keep it down! This isn’t over! ASTAC, order Spotlight One-One to re-attack the target with its second torpedo,” said the TAO.

The order quieted the crew. The captain wasn’t taking any chances with the submarine, which had very likely fired two nuclear-tipped cruise missiles at the capital—and could fire a whole host of antiship missiles on Gravely if it survived the first torpedo. Jeffries suspected that Guardian and Sentry would continue to drop torpedoes until they heard the Chinese submarine break apart underwater.

Chapter 7

15 miles northeast of Guangzhou, China

Early December 2019

Staff Sergeant Chen Tang-shan sat on the cold ground next to his assigned tent, peering through the fence at the orange aura visible over the darkened hilltops. Based on the distant glow, he knew the camp was due east of a major industrial area, but he couldn’t be sure where. They could be outside one of several dozen Chinese cities, coastal or inland. The truck ride from the pier in Xiamen had lasted several hours by his guess. He wasn’t sure, because his watch, along with the rest of his personal items, had been confiscated a few hours after his capture on Penghu Island.

As a Republic of China (ROC) Marine, he had devoted his career to preparing for this invasion, an unsurprising continuation of a youth spent under the constant threat of a breakdown in “cross-strait” relations. They had always understood the odds stacked against them, even with the prospect of American intervention. When the United States started to withdraw its military forces from the western Pacific theatre of operations, the Taiwanese government took immediate steps to safeguard the people. Chen’s battalion was ferried from the Taiwanese mainland to Penghu, a small archipelago in the Taiwan Strait.

To what end? He’d spend the rest of his life in labor camps, with an occasional stint in a re-education facility. If he showed promise, and no signs of aggression, he might be returned to his family on Taiwan—if his family hadn’t been moved to a labor camp in China. He wished he had been killed on Penghu.

Instead, his tank had been hit by an antitank missile fired from a Chinese attack helicopter within the first few minutes of the battle, killing the rest of his crew and disabling the tank. He spent the next seventy-two hours sprinting from one blasted structure to the next with a Marine infantry squad, occasionally stopping long enough to fire on an unsuspecting Chinese patrol. Chen and the two remaining Marines were captured at night on the third day of the invasion while swimming across Magong Bay to an outlying island.

They had hoped to find a serviceable boat on one of the islands so they could retreat to the mainland. They felt useless on the island. At night, they saw flashes across the channel between Taiwan and Penghu. The battle for Taiwan raged on while their fight dissolved into a pointless game of hide and seek with the Chinese. Their families needed them.

His wife and children lived in the West District of Chiayi City. They would no doubt see heavy fighting as the Chinese fought their way east through the city to the provincial government complex. Chen had seen the Army Reserve battle plans for defending the mainland. It would be a fight to the bitter end for the regular and reserve units assigned to defend the city, and the civilians caught in the middle.

They hadn’t been the only ROC Marines with the same concern. The Chinese patrol boat that pulled them out of the water held several Marines from the 66th Marine Brigade, all plucked out of the jet-black water. Less than twenty-four hours later, he was deposited at Camp 78 with the clothes on his back and a pair of cheap plastic sandals. Made in China, no doubt.

Chen shivered, knowing it was time to return to his overcrowded tent and the worn bamboo mat so graciously “loaned” to him by the “people.” The propaganda had started immediately. People’s this and people’s that. Intolerable on every level.

Headlights appeared in the hills, approaching the camp. One pair turned into several, as the road turned gradually toward the entrance on the northern side of the camp. More prisoners. Just what they needed.

A high-pitched noise drew his attention away from the trucks. The sound grew louder over the next few seconds, resembling a jet engine. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and jerked his head left—just in time to see a long, dark object fly over the eastern half of the camp. The sound rapidly faded as Taiwanese prisoners streamed out of the tents, cheering at the sky. Like Chen, many of them knew exactly what had passed overhead: a cruise missile.

Moments later, the watchtowers lining the camp bathed the prisoners in blinding light. Whistles blared, and amplified voices ordered them back to their tents. A few bursts of automatic fire emphasized the guards’ urgency to restore order to the “people’s camp.” Chen wondered where the missile was headed, and if it signified anything beyond a random, desperate, retaliatory shot fired by one of their submarines or destroyers. He hoped so.

Chen had barely settled onto his mat when the tent went dark—the intense light from the watchtowers no longer penetrating the thin brown canvas. The sudden change quieted the tent, only a few whispers penetrating the silence. Absolute silence. Something was wrong.

He scrambled to the tent flap on his knees, pushing through a sea of huddled prisoners. He crawled out of the tent and lay still in the rocky dirt. Aside from a few flashlight beams sweeping across the fence line in front of the closest guard barracks, the camp was completely dark. Only the lights on the inbound trucks penetrated the night—but the trucks had stopped moving. He stood up, fixated on the lights.

Why the hell would they stop in the open?

The guards in the tower to his right started shouting at him. Chen heard the words “last warning,” so he raised his hands above his head and nodded.

He turned toward the tent, noticing something he had missed a few moments ago. Chen stopped and stared beyond the trucks.

Impossible.

He hoped his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. The prominent orange glow above the hills had vanished. The trucks. The camp’s lights. The city. It all made sense. Someone had just thrown the switch over part of the People’s Republic of China. Why had the Americans waited so long to strike back? It didn’t matter. He was deeply satisfied knowing that the people’s lives had been permanently cast into darkness.

Fuck the people.

Chapter 8

KJ-3000 Airborne Early Warning aircraft

153 miles east of Guangzhou

Major Xhua Hua stabbed at the button next to the console’s trackball, locking the target in the system. A flurry of voices and movement erupted around him as equipment operators scrambled to report the target to a dizzying array of People’s Liberation Air Force units on the ground. He swiveled his chair to brief his commanding officer, who had already crisscrossed through the maze of consoles to reach him.

“Colonel, I have an unidentified air track eighteen point two miles north of Guangzhou. Altitude 600 meters and rising. Speed 700 kilometers per hour. Zero horizontal trajectory. Zero squawk. Designating track number eight-five.”

“Where did it appear?” asked the colonel, leaning in to view the screen.

“Here,” said Xhua, pointing at his wide-screen display. “Eighteen point two miles north of Guangzhou.”

“It’s flying straight up?”

“Affirmative, sir. Altitude eleven hundred meters.”

“It can’t be a missile or a rocket. It’s too slow,” said the colonel, shaking his head. “And there’s nothing listed on the ground in that area.”

An officer behind them interrupted. “Colonel Jin! Southern Air Defense Command demands a personal report on the contact!”

The colonel’s face tightened, and he nodded stiffly to the junior officer before scrambling back to his station toward the front of the aircraft. Xhua turned his attention back to the display and watched the baffling contact profile.

“Altitude twenty-one hundred meters. Speed steady at seven hundred!” he yelled to the colonel.

This was a first for Major Xhua. He’d been assigned to airborne early warning aircraft since he joined the People’s Liberation Air Force, rising through the ranks to the second-most senior position in the command and control center aboard the PLA’s premier air defense platform. Only Colonel Jin and one of the pilots outranked him. In all of his eighteen years, he’d never tracked a straight-vertical contact this low to the ground. Military jet aircraft occasionally pulled this kind of maneuver during combat training, but in every case the aircraft started the steep ascent from a two- to three-thousand-meter altitude. Nothing about “eight-five” made sense. Another five seconds passed.

“Altitude thirty-two hundred meters. Speed holding,” he said. Three kilometers .

“Review the feeds and confirm that we didn’t miss anything prior to detection!” yelled Colonel Jin.

“Yes, sir!” he yelled, looking between the consoles behind him to assign the task to one of his junior officers.

“No! You review the feeds!” screamed the colonel.

Here we go. Southern Air Defense Command had started their inquisition. He wondered if the phased array ground radars situated further inland had seen anything different. Doubtful. They were focused on higher altitude, over-the-horizon threats. He nodded and opened a separate command window on his screen.

“Captain Wu, stand by to assume primary tactical actio—” What is this?

The data window for track eight-five couldn’t be correct. Altitude seventy-three hundred meters? Speed twenty-nine hundred kilometers per hour? Supersonic?

“Colonel! Track eight-five has increased speed to Mach two point three. Eight thousand meters!” said Xhua.

Colonel Jin snapped his head in Xhua’s direction, but didn’t respond. He kept nodding in acquiescence to the generals undoubtedly screaming at him through his headset. Xhua watched the altitude climb. Nine thousand. Ten thousand. Nearly a thousand meters per second. What the hell is this? A chilling thought entered his mind. ICBM? Second Artillery Corps certainly wouldn’t disclose the location of their mobile launchers, so the area would appear empty to conventional PLA forces.

It was the only thing that made sense to him. The Americans had responded to the invasion of Taiwan with nuclear weapons, and China was retaliating. He resisted the urge to get up from his seat. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do except wait.

“Southern Air Defense Command confirms your data!” said Colonel Jin. “I have been assured there is nothing in the area.”

“Retaliatory strike?” asked Xhua, silencing the command and control center.

Jin stared at him with his mouth agape for a moment before shaking his head.

“No. We would have an inbound warning by now,” said Jin, the confidence in his voice fading.

“Twenty-one thousand meters, sir,” said Xhua, grimacing.

What else could this be? A UFO?

“Guangzhou Air Base has scrambled a flight of two J-10 fighters!” yelled one of the console operators.

“I hope they brought space suits,” said Xhua. “Because the contact will be in low Earth orbit before they reach it.”

The colonel cursed and spoke forcefully into his headset, never breaking the steely-eyed glare at Xhua. Message received. Quit speculating about nuclear weapons—do your job. He turned to the screen. Twenty-three thousand. The altitude continued to climb while Jin talked to the Southern Air Defense Command. Thirty-two thousand. It had to be an ICBM.

At sixty-eight thousand meters, the track disappeared—followed immediately by the picture on his display. The cabin lights blinked and the plane shook violently, throwing Xhua against his seatbelt harness. The engines whined through the hull before settling into a stable pitch. The crew erupted in a cacophony of reports punctuated by cries of pain. He looked around and saw four members of the crew sprawled over the consoles and deck. They all appeared to be moving, which was a good sign. Panning toward the front of the cabin, he saw that Colonel Jin hadn’t been so lucky. Jin’s lifeless eyes stared at him from the rubber-matted deck, his head and neck jammed at an unsightly angle against the aircraft’s mid-cabin door.

He flipped a switch to talk to the flight deck, but couldn’t get the pilots to answer. His display screen reappeared with a prompt that told him that the system was in the reboot phase. The southern air defense zone was temporarily blind. He unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way to the cockpit door, grabbing anything sturdy in case the aircraft hit another patch of turbulence. Glancing down at Colonel Jin, he realized it wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t hold himself steady if the aircraft shook again. He knocked on the door, which opened before he lowered his hand.

A bloodied flight officer stood in the opening, his gray helmet cracked down the middle. He wiped the blood from his face and glanced at Colonel Jin’s legs, which protruded into the aisle.

“Jin’s dead. What is the status of the aircraft?” said Xhua.

The pilot pulled him into the spacious cockpit, taking Xhua by surprise.

“One of the engines is down, but the aircraft is stable—for now. We’re running a diagnostics check on the main systems. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know. We were tracking a target headed straight up. It reached sixty-eight thousand meters and vanished right before the system shut down.”

“Sixty-eight thousand? What was it, a missile?” asked the lead pilot.

“We don’t know, sir,” said Xhua.

“You don’t know?” replied the pilot. “I’m taking us back to base.”

“I need to get authorization from South Air Defense Command to end the mission,” said Xhua.

“The mission is over.”

“Negative, sir. We can’t come off station without their permission,” said Xhua.

The copilot interrupted the argument. “Both of you need to see this. Look toward the ground.”

Xhua pushed past the dazed flight officer and leaned between the pilot and copilot seats, craning his head to see through one of the side windows.

“I don’t see anything,” said Xhua.

“That’s the problem. The lights are out—everywhere,” said the copilot. “Consistent with the equipment fluctuations, I’d say we’ve been hit by an EMP.”

“I don’t see how,” said Xhua. “We would have been notified of an incoming ICBM.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m declaring an emergency and landing this aircraft,” said the pilot. “It’s only a matter of time before we have a catastrophic equipment failure.”

“Yes, sir. That’s probably…the best course of action,” he said, backing into the cabin, not sure what to do next.

The tactical situation over southern China had drastically changed, and not for the better.

Chapter 9

Sky View Tower

136 th Floor

Pudong District, Shanghai China

Huan Xiao swiped the air a few inches from the ample touchscreen of her Jianyu smartphone, activating the device. Responding instantaneously, the screen displayed a picture of her family posing in front of a tranquil, azure bay in the Maldives. Her boys, ages five and seven, grinned widely at the photographer. Her husband displayed a forced smile, his thoughts thousands of miles away at Jianyu Tower.

She stole a glance out of the two-story, floor-to-ceiling window, the centerpiece of their 9,200-square-foot residence, at the zenith of Shanghai’s tallest building. Across the Huangpu River, the warm, distant lights of the Bund waterfront beckoned over the cramped array of Technicolor towers jammed into Pudong. Jianyu Towers rose among them, displaying a dizzying array of brilliant colors that slowly shifted from dusk until dawn. Huan was thankful that she could still see the Bund. She was thankful for many things, mostly her two children, who were sound asleep.

Huan flicked her head a few centimeters left, clearing the screen with the nearly imperceptible movement, the device having already verified her identity through a subtle retinal scan. She had to admit, her husband’s company’s latest device was slick. Jianyu Industries didn’t invent gesture-guided screen technology, but they had nearly perfected it. With a little practice, the features performed flawlessly, freeing a hand to hold a cappuccino or shopping bag. Another technological marvel designed to enable an upwardly mobile lifestyle. At least that’s how they were selling it—or trying to sell it.

What should have been a breakthrough for Jianyu Industries, and the Chinese economy, had been hampered by another round of international trade setbacks. The launch was already three months behind schedule. The European release date, scheduled for early September, was inexplicably pushed back to November, followed by another delay in late November.

She suspected the problem stemmed from the brewing conflict with Taiwan. After the Americans withdrew their ships from the region, the Taiwanese government and military escalated their aggressive stance toward the Chinese. Rumors had spread through underground news agencies that Taiwanese Special Operations teams had been captured near Shantou, scouting the South Sea Fleet Naval Base. Whatever was happening, her husband knew more than he was willing to tell. He’d grown edgier by the week since the announcement of the November delay.

The scene beyond the reinforced, quadruple-paned windows vanished, leaving an impenetrable blackness—everywhere. Her phone’s screen cast the only light she could detect inside or outside of the residence. She stopped breathing, listening to the unfamiliar stillness around her. Something must have gone wrong with the auto-tinting windows. But why would the entire suite go dark?

“Wei?” she said, calling out to her husband.

He was on the second level, in his study, just beyond the balcony. A light illuminated the windowpanes of a double set of French doors above her. She heard them click open.

“Wei? Something is wrong with the windows,” she said, standing up in the darkness.

“It’s not the windows!” he barked. “I just lost power to everything. Not even my laptop works!”

“How is that possible?” she said.

“It’s not. The building has its own backup power system. The residence has its own backup system. This is bad news, Hu,” he said, using his phone’s built-in light to make his way to a spiral staircase.

Instead of heading toward her, Wei drifted to the center of the massive window. She stumbled across the marble floor to join him. Small lights flickered across the river, pinprick signs that the darkness wasn’t a mirage caused by the high-tech, light responsive glass. Huan peered at the horizon, finding it devoid of Shanghai’s endless sea of lights.

“Nothing,” she said. “How could the power fail for the entire city?”

He took deep breaths, but didn’t answer her. Wei was acting way too calm, almost like he had expected this to happen.

“Wei, what’s happening?” she said.

“We need to pack up and get out of here,” he said, putting both of his hands on the glass.

“What are you talking about?” she said, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him to face her.

She held her phone in the other hand, with the screen facing up. The light washed over his face, exposing a frighteningly detached look. He swallowed hard before turning his head and staring blankly past the glass.

“It won’t be safe for the children in the city,” he muttered.

“Wei! You’re scaring me! Why won’t it be safe here?” she pleaded, her hands trembling.

“Twenty-two million people live here, half of them migrant labor from the interior. We don’t stand a chance,” he muttered.

“In a power outage? You’re not making sense,” she said, shaking him.

He looked at her with wild eyes.

“The power isn’t coming back on, Hu,” he said.

“Of course it is,” she said, cocking her head. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“The rumors were true,” said Wei.

“What rumors?” she demanded.

“Nobody thought they would retaliate,” he said, ignoring her.

“I’m taking the kids to my parents,” she said, walking away from him.

Whatever he was saying about the lights sounded like the ramblings of a madman on the verge of a breakdown. It wouldn’t surprise her given his odd behavior over the past few months. The delayed launch of their flagship product had obviously been too much for him to handle. She’d check into the hotel on the seventieth floor of the tower, just to put some distance between them until the city restored the power. She sensed his presence close behind and whirled to defend herself if necessary.

“Sorry, Hu. This is just…this is like a bad dream,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to cross the river to get to your parents—and we need to be moving away from the populated areas.”

He sounded normal again, but she still didn’t understand what had him so spooked.

“I still don’t understand why we can’t stay,” she protested. “The tower has its own security. Its own grocery stores. We have everything we need right here.”

“Sky View is home to ten thousand residents. The stores will be emptied within minutes once people realize that the lights are out for good. Then they’ll turn their attention to us, at the top of the building. That’s how it works. The building will devour itself from within, and whatever’s left will be devoured by the millions of people living in the slums we created. Our only chance of survival is to get out of this building—immediately,” he said.

“We should just wait for the power to be restored,” she said. “It’s too dangerous to travel in a blackout.”

“Hu, my love, this isn’t a blackout. Can’t you see? Nothing is functioning here,” he said, gesturing around the deathly still residence. “The residence is on backup battery power, but nothing works.”

She stared at him, still not grasping what he was trying to say.

“This is a retaliatory EMP attack. It all makes sense now. The trade restrictions, bogus underground news reports, travel bans—they’ve been keeping us in the dark. Ha! Did you hear that? In the dark. Now we’re really in the dark,” he said, laughing.

He was starting to sound crazy again. Huan backed up slowly, bumping into an end table and knocking over a lamp. The room brightened momentarily, an orange fireball fading on the southwest horizon. They ran to the window together, pressing against the cold panel. Something big had exploded on the outskirts of Pudong. The metal chandelier above them rattled, followed by a vibration through the floor and glass. She recoiled from the glass, feeling completely exposed twenty-two hundred feet above the ground.

“I better wake the kids,” she said.

“I’ll take an inventory of our food and supplies. We won’t be able to carry much,” said Wei.

“What do we tell the kids?” said Huan.

“We’re going on a bike trip. That’s all,” he said, lowering his voice to finish. “A bike trip as far away from the city as possible.”

“The New Caliphate”

Chapter 10

Headquarters of the Home Office

London, United Kingdom

Michael Atlee tightened his royal blue tie and examined his thick brown hair in the full-length mirror in his private bathroom. Impeccable. He was scheduled to meet with the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street in a half-hour—just a five-minute car ride away. Unfortunately, the security procedures required to transport him one bloody kilometer could last twenty minutes. He could walk there in less time, which wasn’t a bad idea. A little fresh air might do him some good.

Atlee still felt flush, his heart racing at the prospect of the sudden request for an audience. The mass emigration had finally drawn enough attention to warrant a cabinet meeting to discuss a strategy. He had his own opinion on the matter, but he’d wait to see what the “decision makers” had to say. So far, the Home Office had simply tracked and observed the growing trend, reporting the details to the Prime Minister’s office.

He opened the bathroom door and stepped inside his spacious, modernist office, hoping to review a few emails before his security detail arrived. A knock at the door stopped him before he reached the desk. He hated when they came for him early. A few minutes shaved off his day, here and there, landed him woefully behind schedule. Glancing at his watch, he sighed.

“Come in,” said Atlee, the door opening immediately. “I was just—”

Two men he instantly recognized stepped inside and closed the door. David Wilson, Deputy Prime Minister, and the Right Honorable Malcom Straw, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, both senior Cabinet members like himself. Something was seriously amiss to draw two of the most powerful government figures in the United Kingdom out of their offices—unannounced.

“Gentlemen, please,” he said, gesturing to the Scandinavian-style furniture surrounding an art deco coffee table. “Shall I have Mary bring tea?”

Malcom Straw consulted his watch. “I would suggest something stronger, if it weren’t ten thirty in the morning.”

“Let’s not cross the possibility off the list,” said the Deputy Prime Minister, cocking an eyebrow. “Sorry to ambush you like this, Michael, but we thought it might be best to put some…distance between 10 Downing and our conversation.”

Atlee strode to the cherry-top bar cabinet behind the dark yellow leather couch.

“Sounds like we could all use a nip, if this conversation is headed where I suspect,” said Atlee.

The two well-dressed men agreed, sitting across from the couch on matching chairs.

“Ghastly furnishings, Atlee. What have they done here?” said Straw.

“Ghastly indeed. The entire building is an affront, if you ask me,” said Atlee.

“A far cry from Whitehall,” said Wilson.

“Neat, I presume?” said Atlee, removing three crystal tumblers.

“Sounds good. No need to get complicated,” replied Straw.

“Agreed,” said Wilson.

Atlee greeted the men with three glasses, each holding a generous, dark amber pour of a rare Highland Scotch. With tumblers in hand, they toasted the Queen and took liberal drinks.

“So, I’ve been given some direction regarding the startling rise in Muslim departures,” started the Deputy Prime Minister.

Atlee knew it. His report had stirred up a mess. He wasn’t surprised. Conservative estimates put the number of Muslim males departing the U.K. at more than five thousand per day—with the figure increasing steadily. The Mullahs’ call to form the New Caliphate resonated within the Muslim community here and on the Continent. The sudden withdrawal of United States military forces from the Arabian Gulf region tipped the balance of power in favor of the rising Caliphate. The last European units departed three weeks ago, scuttling their equipment in northern Iraq to prevent its use by the swiftly approaching militant army.

“This is guaranteed to stir up controversy,” said Atlee. “Not to mention the possibility of upsetting an already tenuous peace.”

“The Prime Minister just departed a meeting with the French Prime Minister and German Chancellor. They’ve agreed on a political strategy to bring the rest of the European Union onboard with the plan,” said Straw.

“I meant here in the U.K.,” said Atlee, posing a quizzical look. “That’s not what you’re talking about—is it?”

Straw and the Deputy Prime Minister shared a glance, Wilson breaking a tight grin.

“Far from it. The Prime Minister wants to expedite their departure. Encourage it,” said Wilson, belting the rest of his Scotch. “Even enable it.”

They studied his reaction, like best friends proposing something unthinkable to test each other’s loyalty.

“And the rest of Europe plans to do the same?” said Atlee.

“France and Germany see this as a chance to start over. The rest will follow suit,” said Wilson.

“Good God,” Atlee muttered, unable to suppress a growing smile.

“Something amusing?” said Straw, casting a doubtful look his way.

“Not at all. This is like a dream come true, though it will be a mess to implement,” said Atlee.

“A little mess now to prevent a bigger mess later. Just so we’re clear, once they leave, they will never be readmitted. This is a one-way ticket,” said Wilson. “That’s where the Home Office earns its money.”

“What about the families remaining here?” said Atlee, finishing his Scotch.

Wilson shrugged his shoulders and threw back his tumbler. “One step at a time, Michael.”

Atlee contemplated another drink while countless thoughts and questions emerged. He hadn’t expected this at all. Not in the current political climate. This would take some serious maneuvering in Parliament, although the general public would overwhelmingly support the measure. A thought stopped his reverie.

“I can’t imagine Israel will appreciate the sudden, uninvited deposit of several million radical Islamic recruits at their doorstep,” he stated.

“I’m told the Foreign Office already worked out the details,” said Wilson, turning his head toward Malcom Straw.

“I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” said Straw, smiling wryly.

Atlee got the message. The fewer people privy to the full plot, the better. A sense of dread dampened the elation that had energized him minutes ago. His eyes drifted to the half-filled decanter in his peripheral vision. Something told him he’d need to refill the crystal vessel before the week was up.

Chapter 11

10 miles south of Mosul

Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS)

Captain Harrison McDaid lowered a pair of powerful binoculars onto the sand-colored, cloth mat in front of him and rubbed his eyes. Nothing had changed on the highway leading out of Mosul. Large convoys departed the city hourly, ferrying fresh recruits south to the training center outside of Ramadi. A mix of sedans, civilian pickups and Soviet-era, open-back diesel transports, he estimated they carried nearly a thousand jihadists an hour south. An equal number of vehicles streamed north along the sand-swept road, returning from the long journey to deliver recruits. Highway One fed the Caliphate’s push against Israel, and there was nothing they could do about it.

His mission was to observe and report ISIS movement south of Mosul—and that’s all his team had done for the past seventy-two hours. They established a hidden observation post in the rocky hills a few kilometers from the highway, guided by a pair of Peshmerga Special Operations soldiers who joined the team in Arbil. The Peshmerga had been essential to their undetected navigation through the badlands southeast of Mosul. He felt safer with them around, their hatred of ISIS nearly palpable.

The Kurdistan government had a vested interest in keeping a close eye on the rising extremist menace to their west. ISIS incursions into the autonomous region had been limited, stopped by the same Peshmerga brigades that had fought them to a standstill on the Syrian/Kurdistan border a year earlier. The Caliphate settled for Mosul, temporarily ignoring the oil-rich lands in Kurdish hands. They had a more pressing duty, or jihad, on the front burner.

The prospect of pushing Israel into the Mediterranean Sea was too tempting for Caliphate leadership, fueling an unprecedented recruitment surge. Conservative estimates put the number of jihadists gathered near Ramadi at 1.2 million. The recruit-processing center in Mosul was the largest feeder into Ramadi, funneling European Muslims from the Turkish/Syrian border to the sprawling training center.

Based on what he had seen over the past few days, the numbers would likely double in less than a month. Possibly half that time, if reports filtering out of Umm Qasr and Kuwait City were accurate. Merchant vessels arrived daily, carrying military equipment and fresh recruits from outside of the Arabian Gulf.

McDaid shook his head and yawned. He had no fucking clue why coalition forces were taking a wait-and-see attitude here. One million jihadists was more than enough to force Israel into a strategic withdrawal of their population. Two million was enough to rapidly overwhelm their armed forces, putting them at risk of a second genocide. What they needed to do was turn this road into another “Highway of Death,” like the first Gulf War.

He patted Sergeant Harrow on the shoulder. “Going to stretch my legs for a minute.”

“Take your time, sir. Next convoy leaves in thirty minutes,” said the soldier.

“I’ll bring us some hot coffee,” said McDaid.

“Sounds grand, sir,” he said, scanning the distance through a sand-colored, tripod-mounted spotting scope.

McDaid slithered backward, clearing the desert camouflage net stretched over them. Once outside of the two-man hide site, he turned onto his back and slid down the back of the rocky outcropping toward a larger net staked between an irregularly dispersed pattern of half-buried boulders. Two smaller nets, hidden among the boulders, protected the flanks of the SAS position from unwelcome guests. They had a tidy, well-concealed position, unlikely to be disturbed—unless they were spotted from the road.

His feet struck the hardened sand next to the net, rousing one of the resting soldiers from a nap. The outline of a head and hand appeared through the tightly woven netting as McDaid ducked inside the partially shaded enclosure. Lieutenant Murray Osborne squinted at him, his hand a few inches away from his face. The officer lay in a tan sleeping bag next to one of the Peshmerga, who he suspected was not sleeping either. Nobody slept well out here.

They stole whatever sleep they could, spending most of their time awake—hoping the men on the perimeter didn’t fall asleep. This cruel, almost ironic cycle continued until their bodies simply forced them to sleep, often for extended periods of time. They were about forty-eight hours from reaching that point. That’s when life at an isolated observation post got interesting.

“Time to swap already?” he croaked, not bothering to check his watch.

“Negative. You have a few more hours,” said McDaid, fiddling with a small portable stove set on a flat rock. “Thought I’d brew a cup.”

The young officer pushed his sleeve down to examine his watch.

“Might as well join you,” he said. “I can’t sleep a wink in this cold. Who’d have thought we’d hit freezing temperatures out here?”

“I’ve become convinced that January anywhere outside of the tropics is miserable business,” said McDaid, igniting a small stove perched on a flat rock next to the team’s backpacks. “Cheer up. It’ll be sunbathing weather by one in the afternoon.”

“Just in time to cook us,” said the lieutenant.

The headset concealed beneath McDaid’s shemagh crackled. “Captain, you need to see this. I have military-grade vehicles headed north along the highway.”

“Copy that. Be right up,” he said, turning the stove off.

Lieutenant Osborne unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up, tapping his earpiece.

“Need me up top?” he said.

“Not yet. Wake Besam and prep for withdrawal—just in case,” said McDaid.

“I’m awake,” said the Kurdish soldier, holding a thumbs-up out of his sleeping bag.

McDaid scurried under the netting, transmitting to the two sentries watching their flanks.

“Nari and Hughes, did you copy that last transmission?”

“Solid copy. North by northeast clear,” said Staff Sergeant Hughes.

“All clear, south by southeast,” said Nari, in a thick, almost indecipherable accent.

“Roger. Prepare for immediate withdrawal,” said McDaid.

He crawled up the hill to the primary observation post, nestling into position next to the soldier watching through the spotting scope.

“Care to take a look, sir?” said Sergeant Harrow, sliding over to make room for him.

“What do we have, Harrow?” said McDaid, adjusting the scope to examine the lead vehicle.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say Humvees,” said Harrow.

Harrow was right. A line of turret-equipped, armored vehicles, similar in size and shape to the American Humvee, raced toward Mosul. For a brief moment, he wondered if this was some kind of raid against the ISIS recruitment center. The confused thought vanished when he was able to magnify one of the turrets. He recognized the Type 85 heavy machine gun first, followed by the standard black garb worn by ISIS regulars.

“Looks like the Caliphate got an upgrade. Mengshi tactical vehicles. Humvee knockoffs—and damn good knockoffs at that,” said McDaid, searching for vehicle markings.

“I don’t see any identification. Could be from Pakistan or Indonesia. Both countries have ordered more than twenty thousand of these from our friends in the People’s Republic.”

“Could be from China, given the circumstance,” said Harrow.

“True. Regardless of the source, this does not bode well for any of the Caliphate’s neighbors. What else are they offloading in Basrah and Umm Qasr?” said McDaid.

“That’s for a different troop to worry about, sir. I’ll call this in. I guarantee our boys will be interested in this development—along with the Kurds,” said Harrow.

“Very interested. Might prompt them to do something about this rubbish,” said McDaid, staring at the black ISIS flag fluttering above the armored vehicle.

Chapter 12

140 Miles east of Jerusalem

Highway 10, Jordan

Aariz Khalid bounced against the rough wooden bench, gripping the canvas top’s metal frame to stay upright. His other hand clutched the automatic rifle he had been issued in Ramadi. The ride had been smooth until they reached portions of the highway that had been purposely bombed by Jordanian Air Force pilots. Periodically, the convoy slowed to avoid the charred hulk of a truck bearing a frightening resemblance to the one transporting him to the Safawi staging area. The pungent smell of burnt flesh mixed with diesel fumes reinforcing the severity of his situation.

He’d gone from attending classes at Birmingham City University to an ISIS training camp within the span of three weeks, a radical transformation for a twenty-year-old more interested in chasing girls on campus and playing video games than attending daily, let alone weekly Mosque. There had been no choice, really. He’d joined his friends out of fear. Not the fear of letting them down, but out of true fear for his family’s safety. When the American-led coalition pulled its forces out of the Caliphate’s way, many of his university and secondary school friends changed overnight.

Their hushed rhetoric and restrained preaching exploded, yielding an unapologetic, unrelenting barrage of threats against both him and his family. After his youngest sister was cornered walking home from school by a group of young men turned “religious police,” he relented. Three days later, he was on a merchant ship headed to Turkey. Five weeks after that, he was riding in a canvas-covered coffin, on a flat, exposed road less than a few hundred miles from their “greatest enemy.”

He looked around the dusty compartment in the fading light, reading the faces of his platoon. Some of them looked at peace with their fate. Most appeared nervous, their eyes furtively glancing from side to side, widening with every bump or unfamiliar noise. Others stared into the middle distance, trying to come to grips with the battle ahead. He wondered how many of them had been bullied into their seats on this truck. None of them dared to say anything about their predicament. Recruits stupid enough to complain about their treatment or request a return to the U.K. had been executed on the spot in Turkey. The killings stopped after Mosul, the message now crystal clear. There was no turning back.

The truck rapidly decelerated, pushing Aariz against the middle-aged man to his right. The man to his left slammed into him, knocking both of them to the metal floor. A rifle barrel hit him in the left temple as half of the truck’s occupants tumbled off the center-facing benches. The shrill voice of their platoon commander, a hardened ISIS fighter, pierced the chaos. Aariz peered through the tangle of legs and arms to see him waving them out of the truck. Through the din of yelling and curses, he heard the word “helicopter,” followed by an ominous deep thumping.

The men responded to the sound and its obvious implications, scrambling out of the truck. By the time Aariz hit the pavement, the whoosh of a rocket reached him. A sharp explosion vibrated the convoy, followed by a concussive blast wave. Turning his head in the direction of the blast, he saw several black-clad men land in smoking heaps on the side of the road. Cracks filled the air and the asphalt disintegrated next to Aariz, drawing his attention to three squat-looking objects spaced evenly over the low hills north of the convoy. Apaches. He sprinted away from the truck, diving to the ground as the air exploded with cannon fire.

He put his hands on the back of his head and pressed down, trying to present the smallest target imaginable to the gunners in the helicopters. He’d seen enough Apache footage online to know that he couldn’t hide from their thermal cameras. His only hope was to become a much smaller target than the rest of the jihadists. A hand gripped the back of his ammunition vest, yanking him off the ground.

“Get on your feet and honor Allah,” his platoon commander screamed.

Aariz twisted free, ending up on his back. The bearded militant snarled and reached down to grab him, disappearing in a scarlet burst of gore and pieces. He stared at the suspended remains of the man’s body, vaguely aware of his truck exploding in the background. The detonation shook the sand, knocking the shredded corpse on top of him. He lay in complete stillness, praying for mercy, as the helicopters strafed and rocketed the convoy.

Nor did he move after the attack when the men prodded his blood-soaked, body-part-covered “corpse.” He stayed there until dark, long after the convoy departed. Rising slowly, he scanned the dark road next to the closest smoldering truck. Several dark lumps littered the ground, giving him hope. The men sent to examine him hadn’t been interested in the sustainment pouch attached to his vest—only the rifles.

His first priority would be to search the bodies for food and water. They had been issued two bottles of water and a vacuum-sealed, Chinese meal upon boarding the trucks in Ramadi. He saw five more wrecks spread out along the road, each likely surrounded by more dead fighters. Aariz planned to load up and get off the road. He’d head east toward the Mediterranean, hoping to run into a true Arab brother—if they hadn’t all been wiped out by the Caliphate.

Chapter 13

West of Ramadi, Iraq

Major Ilan Katz watched the featureless, purple-gray landscape race below his F-15E Strike Eagle.

“Sixty seconds to maneuver point alpha,” said Captain Jacob Eshel, the aircraft’s Weapon Systems Officer. “ESM is clear. Spotlight One reports radar clear to target.”

An Airborne Early Warning (AEW) aircraft circling over the empty desert fifty miles south kept a close eye on their approach. ISIS had no known aircraft-intercept capability, but the quality of military equipment arriving in Iraqi ports left mission planners nervous. The nations backing these extremists had deep pockets, and it was only a matter of time before their commitment to the Caliphate started to include trained pilots.

“Very good. Run final weapon diagnostics,” said Katz.

“Running diagnostics now,” said the captain.

The aircraft rumbled, hitting an early evening temperature gradient common to low-level desert flying. With the sun below the horizon, the ground radiated heat into the cooling air. Evenly distributed near the ground, it didn’t create a problem, but the temperature differentials occasionally concentrated in a single location and created a “bump.” Nothing to get worked up about.

“I have a clean diagnostics check. Ready to arm the weapon,” said Eshel.

“Stand by,” said Katz, opening the designated command and control frequency.

“Forge, this is Hammer One. Approaching maneuver point alpha. Request failsafe instructions. Over.”

Failsafe was the point of no return for the mission. Once the weapon left the aircraft, they couldn’t take it back. He was giving them one last chance to call off the mission.

“Hammer One, this is Forge. Proceed with Clean Sweep,” said a voice through his helmet speaker.

“This is Hammer One, copy proceed with Clean Sweep,” he replied, switching back to the cockpit communications circuit. “Jacob, arm the weapon.”

“Weapon armed,” said Eshel, moments later. “Toggle the consent-to-fire switch, and the fire control computer does the rest—except fly the aircraft.”

“Eventually, they will fly themselves for missions like this,” said Katz.

“Let’s hope there are no more missions like this,” replied Eshel.

Katz saw the status of the weapon change on his helmet-integrated HUD. He selected “Special” with a toggle switch on the center control stick and changed the status to “Consent Release.” All he truly had to do from this point forward was follow the maneuver pattern calculated by the computer.

“Maneuver point alpha in five, four, three, two…here we go,” said Katz, easing the control stick back and increasing the throttle.

His G-suit responded immediately, squeezing his lower extremities. The maneuver wasn’t extreme, but the aircraft’s computers were programed to counter the G-forces diverting blood and oxygen away from his brain. He steadied the Strike Eagle in a forty-degree climb, watching the altitude rapidly increase. A dark orange sun appeared over his left shoulder, bathing the cockpit instruments in a rusty glow.

“Fire control radar detected bearing zero-niner-three,” said Eshel.

Hundreds of black-clad jihadists were no doubt scrambling to ready their shoulder-fired, surface-to-air missile launchers, in case his jet stumbled into missile range—which it wouldn’t. Their payload would be released far outside of ISIS’s surface-to-air missile range. Satellite imagery and agents stationed in the ports reported nothing more sophisticated than short-range missile systems mounted to several of the new armored tactical vehicles rolling off Chinese-registered merchant vessels.

Katz maintained the climb, keeping an eye on the fire control computer indicator. He was well within the parameters for a successful release. Fifteen seconds into the pop-up maneuver, his HUD flashed “Special Released.” He never felt the bomb detach, which wasn’t unusual.

“Confirm weapon release,” said Katz.

If the bomb remained attached to the aircraft, they would be forced to abort the mission, and a second aircraft ten minutes away would take their place.

“Visually confirmed,” said Eshel, who had access to a camera view of the aircraft’s weapons pylons.

Katz rolled the Strike Eagle starboard and dove for the deck, maintaining a tight turn. His G-suit fought the maneuver as his facial muscles rippled from the extreme G-forces. A few seconds later, he steadied the aircraft at one thousand feet, heading southwest. He’d take a circuitous route over northern Saudi Arabia, steering clear of Safawi.

Hammer Two, piloted by their squadron commander, would release a smaller yield, precision-guided nuclear bomb in less than two minutes—erasing ISIS’s forward staging area. He increased the throttle, breaking the sound barrier and continuing to Mach 1.5. They needed to put as much distance as possible between Ramadi and the aircraft.

“Time to target?” said Katz.

“Thirty-two seconds. At this speed, we’ll have a twenty-one-mile buffer. We’re good,” said Eshel, easing both of their fears.

The 700-pound, GPS-guided nuclear bomb had been tossed on a trajectory toward Ramadi, where it would detonate six hundred meters above the center of the fully exposed ISIS training camp—at the optimal height to unleash the full damage potential of a twenty-kiloton blast against ground targets. They flew in silence, the gravity of the act weighing heavily on their consciences. The immediate death toll would be in the hundreds of thousands, stretching close to a million within a few days.

Ramadi and Fallujah would essentially cease to exist, along with the imminent threat to his motherland. He could never forget that. The use of nuclear weapons had been a last resort—the unavoidable response to a planned invasion by millions of crazed fanatics. The Caliphate had been days away from launching the first wave of an attack that would have assuredly destroyed the State of Israel.

The dark blue sky brightened, a flash momentarily revealing the khaki terrain as far as he could see. The artificial light faded just as quickly, returning the darkness. He activated his helmet’s integrated night-vision system, regaining the horizon. Katz resisted the temptation to look back. He absolutely didn’t want to see it.

“Detonation visually confirmed,” said Eshel, sounding less than enthusiastic.

“Copy and concur,” said Katz, opening the command and control channel.

“Forge, this is Hammer One. We visually confirm detonation of the weapon.”

“This is Forge. Satellite feed confirms detonation on target. Stay thirty miles south of Safawi. Forge, out.”

That’s it? Just a standard radio transmission? He supposed that was all the situation warranted. He hoped that was all it warranted. No celebration back at base. He’d be happy if nobody mentioned the mission again, in any context. Colonel Ilan Katz wanted nothing more than to turn his aircraft over to the on-duty maintenance team and drive home to his family—secure in the knowledge that their home was safe. That Israel was safe.

“Talk of Secession”

Chapter 14

Belfast, Maine

February 2019

Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady took a sip of water from the CamelBak hose clipped to his shoulder, swishing the over-chlorinated liquid around his mouth. That’s how he brushed his teeth these days. Toothpaste hadn’t been a high-priority stockpile item, and the limited quantity uncovered in the storage buildings had been delivered to the FEMA camps in New Hampshire.

The younger Marines joked that the toothpaste was meant to supplement camp rations. Not everyone laughed at their sophomoric attempts at “keeping it real.” The sprawling camp system had struggled to keep up with the constant influx of refugees throughout the winter. There might be some harsh truth to their raw humor, and most of the Marines didn’t want to picture anyone eating toothpaste to stay alive.

Little had gone right once the weather turned bitter cold. Less than ten percent of required camp capacity had been constructed. Regional Recovery Zone leadership had refused to assign security or border units to civil engineering tasks. The militia scare in September left the bureaucrats skittish, afraid to venture out of their compound at Sanford International Airport.

Instead of solving the problem with a few thousand well-fed, structured soldiers, Governor Medina let a hundred thousand severely malnourished and categorically disorganized refugees assemble the camps from scratch. What should have taken two weeks in late September, lasted until December. Countless thousands died of exposure and related sicknesses while building the camps. It had been the closest Grady had come to storming the RRZ compound and putting an end to the endless stream of indecision and incompetence.

Two things kept him from crossing that line, and they were both intimately connected. Family and Corps. He had a duty to protect his Marines, which extended to their families. If he acted on his instinct to mutiny against the RRZ, he’d jeopardize the safety of his Marines and the families successfully relocated to Fort Devens or Westover Air Force Base. He had no idea what would happen to the families if 1st Battalion, 25th Marines was declared a domestic terrorist organization, and he had no intention of finding out. He owed that much to the Marines under his command, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep that promise. There was a good chance he might break it today.

He sat in the lead Matvee of a heavily armed eight-vehicle convoy sent by Governor Medina to secure the Searsport Marine Terminal. “Capture” it was a more accurate description of his mission. Elements of 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment, a Maine-based National Guard unit aligned with the Maine state government, had been reported at the terminal. Satellite surveillance indicated a small garrison of soldiers at the facility. Nothing larger than a platoon.

The garrison was established after hostilities flared between RRZ officials and state government representatives over the use of state infrastructure assets. The RRZ wanted everything funneled south to support the security zone, while the state backed a wider approach to the disaster-relief efforts. It was clear from the beginning that the two sides would never reconcile this difference, and it certainly didn’t help that the state governor refused to acknowledge the RRZ’s authority. The disagreement created more anxiety than either side needed in the aftermath of the event.

The low-intensity political contest between the two entities hadn’t progressed past threatening words and a few tense blockades of military convoys headed into central Maine. He guessed that was about as far as the state government was willing to take it. Actually, he prayed that was the case, because Governor Medina’s light-handed response to the issue had nothing to do with diplomatic savvy. The RRZ had its hands full securing the border and administering the various programs associated with the refugee camps. That was about to change, which was why Grady had been sent north with two platoons of Marines, supported by four UH-60M Black Hawks. He hoped this could be resolved without incident. The last thing any of them wanted was a fight.

A snow-shrouded house tucked between a stand of thick pine trees caught his attention. The long driveway leading to the house had been recently cleared. The barrier of snow left at the bottom of the driveway after the last storm had been pushed into the road to melt. He could tell they had shoveled it by hand based on the clean shave they had given the asphalt. Snowblowers left a quarter of an inch, along with the telltale, even track marks. They must have a working vehicle. Nobody would go through that much trouble without a good reason.

The number of houses along the road increased as they approached Belfast. According to the command tablet attached to the dashboard in front of him, they were less than a minute from reaching Route One, where they would turn north for Searsport. He would have preferred to take a less conspicuous route, avoiding towns like Belfast, but only two approaches to the marine terminal area were kept clear of snow, one leading north and one leading south. The trucks delivering refined petroleum products and supplies to the various state and RRZ entities used the routes to reach Interstate 95, where the vehicles could range the entire state.

“Follow the signs to Route One north. Should be coming up,” he said to the driver, switching to the primary tactical channel monitored by the vehicle leaders.

“All Raider units, this is Raider Lead. We’re ten minutes from the objective. Raider will remain in a weapons hold status unless changed by Patriot. Defensive fire is not authorized in response to small-arms or crew-served heavy-caliber fire. Only the confirmed presence and clear intent to employ anti-vehicle weapons justifies defensive fire. Remember, these are Americans. Brothers and sisters in arms. We don’t give them any reason to think otherwise. Out.”

“Turn coming up, sir. Looks like we have to cross over Route One and drive through the town to reach the on-ramp,” said the driver.

“Roger. Keep us moving through the town.”

Grady called the lead helicopter on a separate, dedicated UHF radio channel.

“Night Train this is Raider Lead, over,” said Grady.

“This is Night Train.”

“Raider is ten mikes out from objective. Request Night Train on station in fifteen mikes.”

“Copy fifteen mikes,” said the staticky voice.

“Roger. Weapons hold unless otherwise ordered,” said Grady.

“Copy weapons hold.”

Grady replaced the handset and shifted in his seat, making room to move his rifle. He expected no trouble in Belfast, but he’d learned never to make assumptions about the perceived threat level. The driver crossed the overpass and turned right on a snowplowed, two-lane road paralleled by a string of telephone poles. The town turned out to be little more than a tighter collection of houses. They passed a VFW hall on the right side of the road. An American flag over a Maine state flag sat motionless at the top of a flagpole in front of the cleared parking lot. It looked like the VFW was in business.

He wished they could settle this business inside the hall over a few draft beers. Grady was sure they could reach some kind of agreement if they sat down as fellow service members, instead of pawns in a dangerous power play.

The Matvee turned onto High Street, bringing them to the Route One North on-ramp. On-ramp seemed like an overstatement, since they transitioned from a two-lane road to a slightly better built two-lane road. Quintessential Maine. The driver slowed the vehicle as soon as they straightened on Route One. Two up-armored Humvees blocked the entrance to the flat bridge less than three hundred feet ahead. He should have guessed this wouldn’t be easy.

Son of a bitch .

“Raider units, we have a roadblock at the west end of the bridge. Raider Two-Zero, pull alongside Raider One-Zero. We’re going to approach slowly as two columns. Stop on my mark,” said Grady.

“Two-Zero copies. Moving up.”

The fifth vehicle in the column swung into the empty oncoming traffic lane and pulled parallel to Grady’s vehicle. The rest of Raider Two-Zero’s vehicle troop followed, creating two columns of four vehicles and filling the road. Grady stopped the formation fifty feet in front of the blockade, examining the scene.

He counted eight soldiers on the bridge and two turret gunners. The turrets contained M240 machine guns, useless against his Matvees. This appeared to be more of a symbolic show than anything—he hoped.

“Raider units, this is Raider Lead. I’m heading over for a chat. Stay alert. Out,” said Grady. “I’ll be right back,” he said, getting out of the vehicle.

The cold air stuck to the inside of his nose as he shut the door to the toasty cabin. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and motioned for the vehicle leader behind him to join the greeting party. Staff Sergeant Taylor stepped onto the asphalt next to Raider One-One and nodded. They met next to Grady’s rumbling vehicle.

“What are we looking at, sir?” said Taylor.

“Looks like more of a welcoming committee than a serious attempt to stop us,” said Grady.

“What if they refuse to move?” asked Taylor.

“Then we’ll have to push them out of the way. We outweigh them by about twelve thousand pounds,” said Grady, patting the hood of the Matvee. “Let’s get this over with.”

As they approached the Humvees, a major dressed in digital ACUs, carrying a short-barreled M-4 carbine, stepped between the vehicles. The officer scrutinized Grady’s uniform for a moment before snapping a crisp salute. Grady returned the military courtesy, eyeballing his name patch.

“What am I looking at here, Major Richards?” he asked.

“Hopefully nothing, Colonel,” said the National Guard officer, looking past the Marines at the column of Matvees.

“Nothing would be a clear road to Searsport. This doesn’t look like nothing to me,” said Grady.

Despite his sympathy for the local government, he had a duty to safeguard his Marines. The best way to do that was to project a strong, uncompromising presence.

“Searsport has adequate security, Colonel. 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment has a company of soldiers guarding the facility.”

Grady stared at the major, sensing his unease with the situation.

Platoon, but I’ll give you credit for the bluff.

“The RRZ would like to free those soldiers for other duties in the state. We’re a little overstaffed down south,” said Grady.

The major nodded. “Would the colonel entertain a meeting with the state governor?”

“Susan Dague?”

“Yes, sir. She’s at the Searsport facility.”

“How much warning did you have about our visit?” said Grady.

“Enough to bring a company of soldiers and all of the battalion’s armored vehicles. Searsport is a secure facility, sir,” said the major.

Maybe the major hadn’t been bluffing.

“You’re not planning to put bags over our heads for the trip, are you?”

The major almost laughed. “Negative, sir. This is more of a site visit, so you can assure the RRZ folks that we have adequate security at Maine’s only fully operational marine terminal.”

“I’d love nothing more than to assure them that the situation is under control, and that the Searsport facility will continue to fulfill the RRZ’s requirements,” said Grady.

Chapter 15

Searsport Marine Terminal at Mack Point

Searsport, Maine

Grady accepted a ride in one of the National Guard Humvees after briefing Captain Williams, the senior officer remaining with the Marine convoy. He reluctantly left Staff Sergeant Taylor behind, suspecting that Governor Dague had more than a tour of the security arrangements in mind. His gut instinct told him that this would be an executive-level negotiation that would likely result in a status-quo arrangement. He wasn’t sure how Taylor would respond to Grady’s dismissal of the RRZ’s directive to “secure the facility—using force if necessary,” and he didn’t want to put the staff sergeant in a position to question the decision.

The first thing he noticed when they arrived at the gate was a series of HESCO barricades anchoring an armored guard post. Two up-armored Humvees were parked behind a long stretch of fence to the right of the entrance, overlooking the Jersey barriers funneling traffic into the facility. He saw no sign of any weapons heavier than the 7.62mm M240 machine guns, which matched their intelligence briefing. 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment’s Category Five Response load out hadn’t included MK-19 grenade launchers or M2 .50-caliber machine guns. Since the unit wasn’t located in a critical, high-population area, Homeland planners thankfully hadn’t seen a need to include heavy firepower.

They passed through the gate and drove a few hundred yards to a parking lot in front of a two-story, corrugated aluminum building. At least twenty Humvees were parked in the lot, facing outward, their crews standing around the vehicles. If this was the extent of their show of force, the RRZ had little to worry about. Unarmored Humvees and lightly armored soldiers posed little threat to his Marines, and even less of a threat to armored elements of the 10th Mountain Division. If the RRZ wanted the facility, they could take it.

Why didn’t Medina send a Stryker company to take care of this?

He knew the answer; she didn’t care for Grady, so she sent him to do the RRZ’s dirty work.

Major Richards nodded as they parked. “Governor Dague is in this building.”

“This is the extent of the battalion’s armored vehicles?” asked Grady.

“We had a limited motor pool to start with at the reserve center. Older stuff, non-EMP hardened,” said Richards.

Grady shook his head. “This can’t be all of it. This is barely enough to transport a company of soldiers.”

Richards ignored the comment and opened his door. The soldiers were called to attention when Grady exited the Humvee.

“Carry on, soldiers,” said Grady.

Grady made a few observations as they crossed the parking lot. Overall, the soldiers looked healthy. They were dressed in the latest generation ACU-patterned Extreme Cold Weather Clothing System (ECWCS) and half of them carried Bushmaster ACRs. He was surprised to see the Adaptive Combat Rifle. The rifle had seen limited distribution throughout the various services, despite rumors of sizable Department of Defense purchase orders. Mystery solved. Just like the thousands of ROTAC satellite phones that had been reserved for Category Five disaster response. Strangely enough, he didn’t see any radios resembling the ROTAC.

He studied the vehicle markings on the hoods of the Humvees, possibly confirming Richards’ statement. He saw a wide representation of various company and platoon unit designations. Grady found it odd that Homeland planners hadn’t included additional vehicles in their load out. Maybe the battalion’s allotment had been reduced to fit the perceived need in central and northern Maine.

“How many Humvees do you have out of commission?” Grady asked when they reached the door to the building.

“More than half,” said Richards.

“We need to get that fixed. Should be relatively simple with the right parts,” said Grady.

“That’s the problem. We don’t exactly have access to the Army supply system,” said Richards.

“I might be able to work something out,” said Grady, stopping at the door. “Is your commanding officer present?”

“You’re looking at him, sir. Major Don Richards. Former battalion S-3,” said Richards. “Our CO was on vacation with his family in Colorado. Camping trip. The XO was at a family reunion in Wells. They rented two big houses side by side on the beach. We haven’t heard from either of them.”

Grady shook his head.

“Everything between the beach and Route One in Wells was swept inland by the tsunami. Few survived.”

“That’s what we heard. The governor officially appointed me as battalion commander a few days after the event,” said Richards. “We’ve been scrambling ever since.”

“So…what am I walking into here, Major?”

“The governor has no intention of recognizing the RRZ’s authority in the state.”

“That’s not really a debatable point. The president activated the National Recovery Plan, which clearly establishes RRZ authority over local government and defines the roles for each entity,” Grady explained. “Security is an RRZ function—like it or not.”

“She doesn’t recognize the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill. Her staff will argue that your presence—the RRZ’s presence— is a violation of the Insurrection Act,” said Richards.

“It’s a little late for that argument,” said Grady. “I hope there’s more to this meeting than a constitutional debate.”

“There is,” said Richards. “Though I can’t guarantee you’ll like what she has to offer.”

“Offer?” asked Grady, opening the door. “This should be interesting.”

Governor Dague was waiting for them in a small conference room on the ground level. The governor was dressed in a thick red winter jacket and winter cap, sporting a worn pair of waterproof boots made famous by one of Maine’s premier outfitter companies. She looked like someone you’d expect to find ringing a Salvation Army bell in front of a grocery instead of a state governor, but looks could be deceiving in Maine. Dague, a career state prosecutor, was rumored to be hell on wheels in a negotiation, and downright cutthroat when the cards were stacked in her favor.

Grady walked around the conference table to shake the governor’s hand.

“Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady, ma’am. It’s an honor and a surprise to meet you,” he said.

“Not a pleasure?” she asked, shaking his hand firmly.

“Under the circumstances, that remains to be seen,” said Grady.

“Please take a seat, gentlemen,” she said, pulling a chair out for herself.

“I can see my breath in here. No heat in this building?” said Grady.

“Every drop of fuel that comes into this port goes to the people of Maine. Hospitals, shelters, health clinics, and public safety. This has been my top priority as governor,” she said. “RRZ fuel demands have severely undercut these efforts. It’s too early to tell, but we estimate that thousands of Mainers died of starvation or exposure during the winter. It’s hard to explain why homes couldn’t be heated and food wasn’t distributed because the federal government needed to maintain twenty-four-hour helicopter coverage over FEMA camps in New Hampshire. Camps receiving food originating in Maine.”

“Ma’am, your reputation precedes you, so I’m not even going to pretend you don’t know that our helicopters, along with all of our vehicles, run on JP-8, not home heating oil,” said Grady.

“Nice try, Colonel, but I know JP-8 is essentially a kerosene-based fuel and can be used in kerosene heaters. I’ve seen studies suggesting it can be safely used in heating boilers. I believe the Air Force looked into this in the early nineties. We’re pretty savvy around here when it comes to heating solutions,” she said.

Grady realized he wasn’t going to win a debate with Governor Dague, though he couldn’t help continuing the discussion.

“JP-8 has a lower flashpoint than heating oil, which requires mechanical adjustments and constant monitoring, unless you want to potentially run your system into the ground. Maybe if the Maine legislature had supported your efforts to convert the state to natural gas, we wouldn’t be in this situation. The Maritimes and Northeast Pipeline from Nova Scotia is fully operational, and could provide enough natural gas to heat every home in the state. Instead, that pipeline is heating homes in Massachusetts and Connecticut.”

“Touché, Colonel. You’ve done your homework,” she said, appearing to seriously contemplate her next statement. “I’ll come right out and say it, Colonel. The Searsport terminal is operating at full capacity, and RRZ shipments are monopolizing terminal intake. From what I can tell, and from what the people in southern Maine can tell, most of the RRZ’s take is being spent on efforts outside of the state.”

“The RRZ is paying for every shipment that comes into the terminal. The last time we checked, the state of Maine had no cash reserves. Everything that comes into that terminal is owned by the RRZ and given to the state. We’re barely maintaining the necessary levels to sustain operations within the New England North zone,” said Grady.

“My sources indicate that you’re stockpiling fuel and supplies. This puts me in an awkward position,” she said.

Grady took a deep breath. She was forcing him to skirt around the authority issue. He wasn’t sure if she was doing it on purpose, or if the natural course of these discussions inevitably led down that path. She had to know. Maybe it was time to embrace the subject.

“Ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you. I have my orders, and right now, a company of soldiers is sitting on my objective. Your recent communication with the RRZ, along with some fiery rhetoric over several HAM radio channels has called into question the security of the RRZ’s supply line.”

“Searsport is in good hands,” said Dague. “Major Richards’ battalion is more than capable of securing the facility.”

“I haven’t called into question 3rd Battalion’s capabilities. You’re deflecting the issue, ma’am.”

“I’m well aware of that. You’ve been respectful and polite, Colonel, but you haven’t addressed me by my title—why is that?”

Here we go.

“Nothing more than an oversight on my part, Governor,” said Grady. “Here’s what I propose. In an effort to free up some of Major Richards’ soldiers to assist the state with other recovery tasks—at your discretion—I’ll garrison four vehicles and two squads of Marines at the Searsport facility,” said Grady.

“How generous,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll have to decline the offer.”

“You should seriously reconsider, Governor Dague,” said Grady. “Leaving Marines gets the RRZ off your back. I can’t go back to my vehicle and report the status quo here. You’ve taken that option off the table by threatening to take control of the Searsport terminal.”

“I never threatened to do that,” said Dague.

“You hinted at it, ma’am, and that’s as good as a threat these days. A threat to the entire RRZ. This isn’t just about Maine. The New England North recovery zone is responsible for several states, and this is the only functioning terminal,” said Grady.

“Nobody believes that,” she said.

“It’s a fact. Three Connecticut maritime terminals deep inside the Long Island Sound survived the tsunami waves from the second strike off Long Island. Stamford, New Haven and Bridgeport. Unfortunately, nothing will be delivered to these facilities, because we can’t guarantee safe passage through the sound or secure docking at the terminals. Searsport is the only show within the RRZ, and frankly, the state of Maine is getting a disproportionate amount of the fuel flowing into the region. Governor Medina has been putting up with it because she’s had her hands full keeping a few hundred thousand refugees from rampaging your state. Trust me, you can handle the bad press of accepting a joint security arrangement in Searsport. It beats the alternative.”

“That sounded like a threat,” she said.

“I carry out orders, Governor Dague. In this case, I’m making a notable exception.”

Dague looked out of the window next to her seat. She waited a few seconds before responding.

“The rumor circulating around Sanford is that you don’t care for the way the RRZ is being run,” she said. “From what I’ve heard, this isn’t the first time you’ve taken liberties with your orders.”

“Disagreement between military and civilian leadership working in close proximity is nothing new. I’ve been through this before. In my experience, as long as the end result is the same, civilians tend to overlook the means. Shall I make arrangements to garrison my Marines at the terminal, or would you prefer Governor Medina gets directly involved? She sent me up here expecting failure. I’d prefer not to give her what she wants.”

“If Major Richards could use some assistance handling the security arrangements in Searsport, I don’t have a problem with it,” said Dague.

Grady turned to the major, raising an eyebrow.

“I see no reason why this can’t work to everyone’s benefit,” said Richards.

“Exactly. The longer we keep the RRZ authority happy, the better for everyone. The situation will gradually improve for Maine. Repairs on the pipeline facilities in Portland are nearing completion, along with the harbor-dredging project. If all goes well, they’ll reverse the flow of the pipeline and start moving product down from the refineries in Montreal.”

“If the RRZ doesn’t take it all,” said Dague.

“I don’t see that happening. The recovery plan starts with Maine and radiates outward. Unfortunately, none of the Category Five scenarios included a tsunami wiping out port facilities up and down the New England coast. You have to believe me when I say that we’ve barely kept up with refugee camp management. If Portland harbor opens for business, the RRZ can stabilize Maine and start moving outward,” said Grady.

“A lot of Mainers don’t trust these RRZ folks,” said Dague. “Myself included.”

“Mainers don’t trust anybody from out of state, Governor,” said Grady. “Which is why I like it up here. I know exactly where I stand at all times.”

Governor Dague laughed at Grady’s statement, patting him on the arm.

“We might make you an honorary Mainer after all,” she said.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, ma’am, but I truly hope I’m not here long enough to earn that title,” said Grady.

She laughed again. “No offense taken, Colonel Grady. The sooner you’re out of here, the sooner things go back to normal.”

“I’m not sure they’ll ever go back to normal—not after this,” said Grady.

PART II

“LITTLE PICTURE”

Late April 2020

Chapter 16

Belgrade, Maine

Alex pulled the snow-encrusted wool cap tighter over his head and grabbed the four-foot-long, wildly flapping sheet of ripped plastic. Reaching into one of his cargo pockets, he fumbled to remove the industrial stapler. A stinging gust of wind tore the clear film from his gloved hands before he could kneel to reaffix the plastic to the raised wood frame. Seizing the sheet, he pulled it downward, hoping to quickly staple it against the lip of the garden frame before another gale-force blast crossed the frozen lake.

“Son of a mother…” he mumbled, getting a close look at the inside of the garden box.

The storm had intensified overnight, packing the ten-foot-by-five-foot box with at least a foot and a half of snow. So much for the cold-frame starter boxes. Surveying the backyard, he saw that all of the boxes they had built in the fall had suffered a similar fate. Plastic either missing or torn, snow drifts inside the frames. He sensed a presence and looked up to see Charlie standing a few feet away dressed in thick winter gear, shaking his head at the disaster.

“Looks like I fucked up,” said Alex. “We started too early.”

Charlie stepped forward, the snow already accumulating in a thin layer on his jacket and hat.

“We haven’t had a storm this late in April for years—if ever,” said Charlie, kneeling next to the box. He stuck his hands inside the frame, gently searching through the sticky snow for signs of the seedlings that had flourished under their vigilant care over the past few weeks. Wilted strands of green emerged. Charlie was careful not to sweep the plants away with the snow, but it didn’t matter. They couldn’t be salvaged at this point.

“I don’t think there’s any point bringing the rest of the crew out,” Alex said loudly over the storm.

Charlie nodded. “We’ll be fine. There’s plenty of food to bridge the gap.”

It was Alex’s turn to nod—although he didn’t share Charlie’s outlook. Alex stood up and brushed the snow off his pants and jacket.

“We’ll see you guys when this calms down. Figure out where to go from here,” said Alex, realizing his statement sounded dreadful.

“This isn’t the end of the world, buddy. It only set us back by a month or so,” said Charlie, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I know, I know,” said Alex. “I was just hoping to eat something fresh for a change.”

“Fresh is overrated, buddy,” said Charlie. “Didn’t you eat nothing but MREs and reconstituted rations in Iraq? This should be a walk in the park for you.”

“The glass is always half full in the Thornton house,” said Alex.

“Just trying to keep it together,” said Charlie.

“You’ve been doing a good job,” said Alex, glancing at the snow-filled planting frame. “Let’s grab the plastic so we don’t lose it.”

Alex departed after rolling the thick plastic greenhouse film with Charlie, seeking the tracks he had left on the way in. He’d taken the road instead of the backyards, not wanting to push his luck with a skittish neighbor. The community had formed a loose association during the fall, mostly promising to stay out of each other’s business. Forming this alliance had been a tough pill to swallow for Alex and his group, despite the fact that the neighbors adamantly denied plundering the Thorntons’ cottage stockpile.

Two years’ worth of food disappeared from Charlie’s basement—enough to have guaranteed his group’s survival next winter if the upcoming summer harvest didn’t meet expectations. Forgetting about the theft wasn’t easy, but Alex wanted above all things to be left alone at this point. Going door-to-door and forcing an armed search, like Charlie initially suggested, would prove far more damaging to their long-term survival prospects than simply letting it go. They had enough food to survive the first winter, and frankly, he couldn’t blame them for taking the food.

Three of the families had been renting for the week and would have been caught with little more than a few days’ supply of chips and hotdogs. Without a working car, they were more or less locked into place. The rest were a combination of full-time residents, mostly retired, and second-home owners caught at the lake during a late summer vacation week. Few of them would have kept a sizeable stockpile of food or emergency supplies, especially during the summer.

With Charlie’s home standing empty for more than two weeks, and none of the other summer-home owners returning, they probably figured the Thorntons had been killed in the tsunami. The fact that nobody coughed up the supplies when they returned reinforced the decision. They didn’t need eleven starving households conspiring against them during the middle of the winter. Charlie reluctantly agreed. They had been down that road before, and nothing good came from it. Alex wanted to avoid the mistakes he’d made on Durham Road, or at least play the game a little differently.

Isolation wasn’t an option here, and he was the outsider. He couldn’t forget that. Most of these people had lived here for years, some raising families on these shores. Six homes had been left vacant, Alex’s family taking the largest of them. Nobody had been happy to see them, especially after the shootout with Eli’s crew. He saw it in their stares during the first community meeting. Distrust. Resentment. Fear. He caught the gist of the whispers nobody dared speak too loudly. They quietly challenged his presence with weak protests of “not the owner” or “squatter.” Alex understood their misgivings. He’d spent the winter of 2013 casting the same judgments—correctly and incorrectly.

Alex found his footsteps, already partially swallowed by the sideways snow, and trudged north toward his house at the end of Crane Road. He had about a quarter-mile hike to reach the post-and-beam home nestled into the trees. The house had proven spacious enough to move the Walkers out of Charlie’s A-frame cottage. Kate opened the side door when he arrived.

“How bad is it?” she asked, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Alex threw his hat and gloves on a wide, rustic bench inside the mudroom, savoring the dry, radiant warmth cast by the kitchen’s wood-burning stove on his hands and face.

“The wind tore the plastic off last night. The frames were filled with snow. A small setback. Not a big deal,” he said.

Kate held out a steaming mug of coffee. “It sounded like a big deal when you left.”

“The fresh air changed my perspective,” he said, hanging his jacket on a row of hooks.

Alex took a sip and grimaced. Refiltered grounds. A step above dirty sink water.

“We’ll refresh the grounds in a few days. Better than nothing,” she said.

“Better than nothing,” he echoed, forcing a smile and trying to shake off the setback.

“We’ll be fine,” Kate said, taking his hands and squeezing them.

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” he said, leaning in and kissing her.

She smelled like a campfire, like everyone and everything inside the house. He only noticed it now after coming in from the outside, when the odor lining his nostrils had faded enough to tell the difference. Alex held her for a moment, acutely aware that he could feel her ribs and shoulder blades. Like everyone, she’d lost a lot of weight.

“I’m just not sure I believe it. We’ve eaten through too much of our food, and that’s on seriously reduced rations.”

“We have nothing to do this summer except prepare for the winter. Losing a few cold frames filled with seedlings isn’t going to make or break us,” she said, taking a step back.

He nodded slowly—a default motion when he wasn’t fully convinced. The food situation had turned out to be more tenuous than he’d expected. By abandoning the Limerick compound, they left behind more than three to four months of planted sustenance—challenging every facet of Alex’s food plan. Grains, potatoes, root vegetables, corn, tomatoes, peppers, cabbage, fruit trees, row after row of dry beans…the list went on. Whatever they couldn’t eat directly from the garden could have been canned or dried for winter months. Even in Limerick he had counted on digging into the prepackaged food to bridge the gap from late winter to early summer.

Thanks to the unexpected storm, they would burn through most of their prepackaged food by the time the first measurable meal could be served from the newly planted gardens. He shook his head. Alex couldn’t envision a scenario that didn’t put them in serious trouble by next January. Even if they had a bumper harvest, with no setbacks, they might be able to produce three to four months of food per family. Hunting and fishing might give them another month, if the area wasn’t completely depleted by the fall.

The lake had been emptied of fish by late November. He had no idea if any of the native species would return in appreciable numbers. Ducks and geese would come through soon, returning again in the fall, but the lake would turn into a shooting gallery at the first sight of them. Last October’s waterfowl season was cut decidedly short by the incessant gunfire. Worse yet, Charlie didn’t seem optimistic about hunting game, especially with every household turning to the forest to procure food.

It wouldn’t be enough.

“You’re doing that nod thing again. What is it?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should revisit our plan to sail out of here.”

Chapter 17

Belgrade, Maine

Kate Fletcher kneeled on the floating dock and lowered a red, three-gallon plastic bucket into the water. She waited until it completely submerged before pulling it onto the dock next to another full bucket of pond water. It was her turn to fill the toilet tanks. The two buckets represented four flushes, barely enough for the first round of early morning bathroom visits. She’d dump the buckets into the tanks and return for more, placing the filled buckets in the shower stalls. The last person to use the bathroom for more serious business would replenish the water and place the buckets outside of the door to the garage, where Kate would see them. She anticipated making at least three additional trips within the next couple of hours. All part of their new life without electricity.

She couldn’t complain—they had easy access to water, and the house was hooked up to a septic system. Their primary sanitation needs could be met without power—indefinitely if the septic system didn’t fail. Trudging back and forth to fetch water was a small price to pay to avoid using a medieval scheme of kitchen bags and receptacles to ferry human waste out of the house. A very small price.

Kate surveyed the lake. Growing pockets of slate-colored water competed with vast sheets of bleached ice that had receded from the shoreline. Long Pond would be “ice-out” within two weeks, maybe sooner if another late season storm didn’t hit the area. She hoped they had seen the last of the snow. Alex was right about their food situation. They needed to replant the cool season vegetables immediately, so they could give the seedlings a head start and clear the way for the warmer season crops. Within a month, cabbage, kale, broccoli and cauliflower plants could be transplanted from the cold frames to the garden beds, making room for beans, peppers, squash, and other warm season crops.

Still, the unexpected late April storm wouldn’t be the big deciding factor Alex dramatically portrayed. They couldn’t plant the lost seedlings for another two to three weeks anyway due to predicted frost dates for this area. Their next-door neighbor, a perpetually swearing, umpteenth-generation “Mainah,” warned against putting any exposed plants in the ground before the end of the third week of May. They’d lost a few weeks, not much more than that.

She suspected Alex’s pessimistic outlook had more to do with the long winter and the prospect of enduring another. Kate shared similar reservations. It had taken them a few years of trial and error in Limerick to produce substantial garden and crop yields, with the help of commercially available compost, fertilizer and organic pest-control products. Here, they would have the benefit of the knowledge gained at the compound in Limerick—and that was about the extent of it. The vast beds of unamended soil they created in the fall would either support their farming efforts or thwart them. By the time they could make that determination, their packaged food stores might be depleted.

Preparing the boat wasn’t a bad idea. She just wasn’t sure leaving would improve their situation. Even if they could save enough dried food to reach South America, which was at least a thirty-day voyage under the best circumstances, there was no guarantee that the food security or political situation would be any better than the United States. The journey itself was fraught with risks and uncertainties. Storms, pirates, equipment malfunctions—they’d be on their own with no expectation of assistance until they reached Bermuda or the outer Caribbean islands, and no guarantee when they did. With the geopolitical situation continuing to deteriorate, there was no way to guess the true impact of the event abroad. They’d have to carefully weigh this decision. Something Alex didn’t seem interested in hearing.

The dock creaked, drawing her attention to the shoreline. Tim Fletcher stood at the edge of the float, one foot on the platform, the other planted firmly on the sandy beach. He held two buckets in his hands. With less hesitation and a lot more balance than she expected from a seventy-two-year-old, Tim propelled the other leg onto the dock.

“Thought you could use some help,” he said, setting the buckets next to hers.

“That’s nice of you, Tim. Thank you,” she said, lowering one of the buckets into the dark water.

“Alex is almost done with breakfast. Figured we could double up on this so we could eat together.”

“What’s on the menu this morning?” she asked, lifting the bucket onto the dock.

“Breakfast skillet. Yummy,” he said, rubbing his flat stomach.

Tim looked the gauntest of everyone in the extended group. Age combined with minimum rations had pulled the skin taut across his face, exaggerating his sunken eye sockets. Like everyone, he complained of chronic exhaustion, but it seemed to have visibly worsened for him toward the end of the winter. He moved fine, but looked utterly drained. This morning he appeared pensive, almost brooding.

“Breakfast skillet number five-three-two-one-seven?”

“Negative. Number five-three-two-one-six. Ham and peppers,” he said and winked.

“My favorite,” she said, standing up.

Tim grabbed two of the buckets by their handles and lifted them off the dock.

“Just grab one. I can run back for the extra bucket,” said Kate.

“I’m not that broken down, Kate.”

“I know. Just be careful at the end of the dock,” she said.

After they had helped each other off the dock and started across the backyard, Tim turned to Kate.

“I’m worried about Alex,” he stated.

“He’s worried about you,” she said, wishing she had just shut up and listened.

“I could use another thousand calories per day, but so could we all. That’s not what we’re talking about. He’s acting despondent, and it’s starting to spread to the rest of the group. What’s going on? And don’t tell me PTSD. He was fine until we started planting the cold frames,” said Tim.

She lowered her buckets next to one of the long garden beds and pretended to examine the soil. They had removed the sod and tilled the soil in ten-foot-by-thirty-foot strips with the shovels last fall. The rows were oriented north-south so none of the rows would overshadow the others. The tallest plants would be placed at the northernmost end. They had spent entire days strategizing the garden during last September, and the rest of the fall diligently digging and preparing the beds. They treated it like the deadly business it would be next year.

“He’s worried about next winter,” she said.

“Already?” he asked, irritated.

“He’s not seeing the garden and our natural surroundings as a viable scenario. Frankly, I’m starting to question it myself,” she said.

Tim sighed, kneeling next to her. “I’m not sailing out of here on a boat. We’re too old for that shit.”

Kate stifled a laugh. “He’s thinking of it as a contingency. Like last year. We’ll do everything we can to make the garden work and assess the situation in September.”

“Hurricane season.”

“We’d start out as late in October as possible. Sail down the coast to Jacksonville and wait for a good stretch of weather. A few good days from there should put us below the southern limit of the fall gales.”

“A lot can go wrong on a trip like that, especially for a crew that’s never been more than ten miles offshore.”

She couldn’t argue with him. He was right on every count, and she wanted more than anything to stay in place. Ultimately it wouldn’t be their decision. The ground under her fingers would make the final call. If the ground didn’t yield enough food for nineteen people, they’d take at least four mouths out of the equation. Maybe everything would be back to normal in the United States by the fall. However, that was doubtful.

“We might not have a choice,” she said, running wet soil through her fingers.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” said Tim. “Until then, square away mister doom and gloom. He sets the tone for everyone.”

Chapter 18

Belgrade, Maine

Charlie dipped his hands in a plastic bucket filled with a diluted bleach solution and opened the bathroom door. Alex stood in the front doorway, next to the kitchen, dressed in woodland camouflage pants and a gray, wool sweater.

“Make sure you rinse your hands in the bucket,” said his wife.

“I know the procedure. I’ve been living the dream for eight months now,” he said, trying not to sound annoyed.

“And shut the door!” yelled Linda, appearing to hand Alex a cup of steaming coffee.

“Jesus Christ, it’s not that bad!” he said, pulling the door closed.

“Well, it hasn’t gotten better, so do us all a favor,” she said, turning to Alex. “Fresh grinds put him in the crapper earlier than usual.”

Alex hesitated to sip the coffee.

“See! You’ve grossed him out, Linda. Sorry about that, Alex. I promise nobody crapped in your coffee mug.”

His friend shook his head with a confused grin.

“I had never considered the possibility of…that. Until now,” said Alex.

A few grunts and groans came from the sleeping bags in the family room, the only signs of life from the group of five teenagers strewn across the floor in front of the wood-burning stove.

“Just kidding, buddy. What brings you over this early?”

Alex motioned for Charlie to join him outside and stepped through the front door, disappearing into the front yard. Charlie stepped into the dining room and nodded at Ed and Samantha, who had already taken Alex’s cue and pushed their chairs back. The group of adults met halfway up the gravel driveway, waiting for Charlie and Linda. He walked slowly with his wife, who couldn’t easily walk without a cane. None of the nearby hospitals could provide the level of orthopedic surgery she required to properly reconstruct her ankle. It was something she would have to endure until things got back to normal.

“What’s up?” asked Ed, glancing anxiously at the trees and evergreen bushes surrounding the property.

“Nothing’s wrong. Sorry about the secrecy. I just didn’t want to get the kids involved right now,” said Alex. “I wanted to talk to you about a contingency plan, in case the summer’s harvest doesn’t add up.”

The smiles and squints in the early morning sun slowly faded to uneasy grimaces.

“I know I’m not the only one that’s more than a little concerned about next winter,” said Alex.

“Where’s Kate?” asked Samantha.

“We’ve talked about this at length, and we’re on the same sheet of music,” said Alex.

“It’ll be tight, Alex, but we’ve done the math,” said Charlie. “I know some great hunting spots less than a half-hour away. Isolated places that people can’t get to without a car. As long as we save some gas for the trip, we’ll come back with a lot of meat.”

“I think you’re overestimating what we can bring in with hunting. The winter was a bust,” said Alex.

“We just need to get far enough away from the lakes. Away from the people. One moose represents about three hundred pounds of meat.”

“Good heavens,” said Samantha, shivering.

“Don’t knock it, Sam. Done right, moose is good eating. Right, Linda?”

“You’ve never dressed a moose…or shot one,” said his wife.

“I’ll figure it out if I bag one,” he mumbled, knowing that the odds of finding a moose were slim to none.

“Anyway. I’m talking about a contingency plan, in case the math doesn’t work out.”

Another thought hit Charlie like a bolt of lightning. “We can use the sailboat for fishing, especially in the fall. I know how to cut and dry fish. That’s how they used to survive the winters in Iceland and Norway.”

“The contingency plan involves the sailboat,” said Alex.

“I thought Kate talked you out of sailing to the Caribbean,” said Linda.

“She did, after I talked myself out of it,” he said.

“Then why the sudden one-eighty? We have a good plan. The storm set us back a little, but that three weeks isn’t going to make or break us,” said Ed.

“I agree, but if we have a serious shortfall from the harvest, the group will be better off with fewer people to feed,” said Alex, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “And everyone remaining behind can squeeze into the other house.”

“Why would we do that?” asked Ed.

Charlie understood immediately. “Damn it. You think of everything, don’t you? I can’t believe I missed that.”

“Missed what?” Samantha demanded.

“So we can defend ourselves. This whole neighborhood’s gonna run out of food!” yelled Charlie.

“Keep it down,” hissed Alex, looking around the yard.

“Sorry. Sorry,” whispered Charlie.

“Let’s limit this discussion to the adults, for obvious reasons. Even if we manage a strong harvest and shoot a moose, I think we need to consider moving everyone into the bigger of the two houses. Possibly right after the last food comes out of the ground. Just to be safe,” said Alex.

“Maybe we should have a community meeting. Try to encourage everyone to raise food, hunt, fish—whatever it takes,” said Linda.

“That’ll draw too much attention to our own food security efforts. I’d prefer nobody had a full picture of what we’re trying to accomplish. We barely have enough seeds for our own gardens.”

“It’ll be hard to hide what we’re doing. We’ll probably have to triple the square footage of our current beds. We barely have a tenth of an acre tilled as it is. Homesteading wisdom dictates anywhere between a half-acre to an acre to feed one person for a year,” said Charlie.

“We only have three-quarters of an acre between the two lots, anyway,” said Ed.

“We’ll keep to ourselves as much as possible,” said Alex.

“What about the community watch idea? I still think we should post people at the entrance to the neighborhood. Probably another group along the lake as well once the ice clears. Our gardening efforts are likely to draw attention from the houses across the water,” said Charlie.

“We’ll have to put some serious thought into that. I like the idea of a shared security arrangement, but we simply can’t extend that sense of community to our food. If security becomes an issue, we can move everyone over to our house earlier and post a sentry team to watch over the gardens here.”

“It’ll be crowded over there,” said Ed.

“You won’t notice the difference. If anything, you’ll have a little more room and a lot more privacy,” said Alex, nodding at the house.

He was right about that. Charlie’s open-concept A-frame cottage appeared to be designed specifically without privacy in mind. The single bedroom loft was open to the family room below. Even a whispered conversation could be overheard from the lower level. The house Alex’s family occupied had more of a traditional layout, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. They could easily fit into the house without a problem. The logistics of feeding and keeping nineteen people busy in a confined space during the winter would be a challenge, but they’d work it out. They always did.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Charlie.

“I hope we can stay together,” Ed said, patting Alex on the shoulder.

Alex’s distant look focused, and a warm grin broke through his ominous façade. It was good to see the old Alex shine through from time to time. He hadn’t been the same since Boston.

“This is one hell of a group. I’d do anything for you guys. I don’t want to leave, but it might not be my decision to make,” said Alex. “We should draw up plans to dig more garden beds.”

They immediately took his cue to change the subject.

Samantha asked, “Do we have enough seeds?”

Another round of silence enveloped the group.

“My dad says we have enough to replicate the gardens in Limerick,” said Alex.

Charlie glanced at the patchy, light brown grass surrounding the driveway.

“We have a lot of digging ahead of us,” said Charlie.

“This is going to kick our asses for the next thirty days,” stated Alex. “The sooner we get started—the better.”

“Shit. I thought gardening was supposed to be relaxing,” said Charlie.

“It is when your life doesn’t depend on it,” said Alex. “Let’s meet over at my house to start figuring out what we need to do.”

After Alex disappeared behind a thick stand of pines lining the dirt road, Ed sighed.

“He doesn’t look convinced that this will work,” said Ed.

“I don’t think he was ever truly convinced,” said Charlie.

“Then why did he stay? Not that I’m suggesting anything was wrong with the decision,” said Samantha.

Charlie knew why Alex had chosen to stay. He couldn’t stop looking out for them. Alex’s contingency plan was a thinly veiled continuation of his selfless leadership. Behind the rugged individualism and harsh pragmatic outlook, Alex’s bond to the group was unbreakable—even if it meant physically leaving them behind.

Chapter 19

Belgrade, Maine

The mud sucked at his boots, drawing his thoughts to the security situation. With the snow gone and the roads passable, they’d have to be vigilant. Winter survivors would be out in force, foraging for food and supplies wherever they might find them. Homes would be the first logical choice. Charlie was right about posting a guard on the waterfront. A pair of binoculars in the wrong hands could put a threat at their doorstep, if they didn’t already have one brewing in their midst.

He glanced at the house to his right. Maybe a neighborhood meeting was in order—to assess the situation. Thinking back to Durham Road during the Jakarta pandemic dampened his enthusiasm for the idea. He didn’t have a good track record with neighborhood meetings. Maybe a door-to-door assessment was a better idea. Keep the neighbors from joining forces and ganging up on them. He hated thinking like this, but wishful philosophy didn’t keep you alive.

The meeting had gone better than he had hoped. Deep down inside, they all knew he was right, even though nobody wanted to acknowledge it. He barely wanted to admit it. Who knew? Maybe they’d pull off a miracle, and the boat wouldn’t be necessary. He sincerely doubted it, but planned to put one hundred percent of his energy behind trying. It was all he could do. The decision was truly out of his hands. Of course, this all depended on the boat.

His arrival in Belfast Harbor had undoubtedly attracted attention from stranded boaters and locals. He’d stripped the boat of anything useful and siphoned most of the diesel, but a thirty-eight-foot sailboat itself could be considered useful in midcoast Maine. The scarcity of fuel would renew interest in sail power, which was why the sails were the first things to come ashore with him. A trip to Belfast was in their very near future. If the boat wasn’t an option…he didn’t want to think about it.

“Captain Fletcher,” someone whispered behind him.

He whirled around, dropping a hand to his holster. Nobody had called him captain since last fall, except for Ken Woods, who stood in front of him on the road with his hands in the air.

“Jesus, Ken. You shouldn’t make a habit of sneaking up on ex-Marines. And please call me Alex,” he said.

“That’s why I waited for you to pass. Hey, once a captain always a captain to a staff sergeant,” said Ken, stepping forward.

“You want me to start calling you staff sergeant?”

“You got me there. That was a long time ago. I got out a few months after the first Gulf War,” said Ken, rubbing his long gray beard.

“My recent tenure as captain lasted about three weeks. I hadn’t worn the uniform since 2004 prior to that,” said Alex.

“Alex it is. Hey, I couldn’t help overhear your conversation—”

“From your house?” asked Alex, wondering where this was going.

“Well, not exactly from my house. I saw you walk by, on the way to your friends. I thought I’d say hi, but by the time I got my boots on, you guys were already talking.”

“So you decided to listen in?”

“I couldn’t help it. It’s a long winter talking to yourself,” said Ken, avoiding eye contact.

“You don’t have anyone else?”

“No. My wife got the cancer three years ago. I’ve been trying to tear myself away from the lake to move near the kids, but…”

Alex nodded, feeling the conflict in Ken’s voice.

“It’s a beautiful lake. Must have been a wonderful place to raise a family,” said Alex.

“It was. Nearly impossible to leave,” he said, barely getting the next words out. “I hope I get to see them again.”

A few moments passed before Alex continued. “Where do your kids live?”

Ken looked up, a fierce pride glowing in his eyes. “Two boys. One’s a family doctor out in Durango. The other runs an outfitting company in Troy, Montana. Taught them to fly-fish on the Kennebec just a few miles from here.”

“During my brief stint as Captain Fletcher, I learned that the EMP bursts’ effects weren’t as pronounced out west. The orbital detonation likely occurred over the southeast. Tennessee or Kentucky would be my guess. Something tells me your boys are fine—and you’ll definitely see them again.”

Ken nodded, tears streaming down his face.

“Why don’t you tell me a little more about your spying escapade?” said Alex, eliciting a brief laugh.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion about the gardens,” Ken said, wiping his face.

“I’m sure you couldn’t,” said Alex, smiling.

“Right. Anyway, you’re going to need a hell of a lot more acreage to feed your crew year round. Nineteen of you? You won’t need an acre per person, but I think you’re looking at quadrupling the acreage. If you work two or three acres properly, you could squeak by with some solid hunting, trapping, and fishing.”

“I think the lake has been cleared out,” said Alex.

“Maybe so, but some of the more isolated stretches of the Kennebec River should be productive throughout the year. We can try the Sebasticook and Sandy River if that fails. Most people don’t have any way to get up to some of the best angling spots.”

“I suppose you could show us where to find these spots?”

“It would be my pleasure. You can also add my property to your acreage count. I have about three-quarters of an acre. I won’t use more than a quarter acre. That should help get you to your magic number, but it sounds like you’re going to need more seeds. I’d give you some, but I barely have enough for myself. I save what I can from last season’s garden and order whatever I need in the spring. I used to keep two seasons’ worth of seeds on hand, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reclaiming them.”

“We can probably work something out in exchange for the use of your land,” said Alex.

“Don’t worry about me. I have more than enough—” Ken paused, a look of discomfort spread across his face.

“Your secret is safe with us,” said Alex. “Especially since you probably know most of our secrets.”

“I really didn’t mean to—”

“I’m just messing with you, Ken. It’s a bad habit of mine,” said Alex, extending a hand. “I’ll take you up on your offer.”

Ken looked relieved. He firmly shook Alex’s hand, a sense of purpose flashing across his face. Alex saw a strong and loyal ally in Ken. A force multiplier in terms of survival, not another mouth to feed. If they could find a few more like him in the neighborhood, they’d have a much better chance at staying on the lake.

“Then we’ll need to get our hands on more seeds. We have two major seed distributors in the Waterville area. One is co-op and gets most of their seeds from outside sources. The other produces their own line of organic seeds.”

“Johnny’s Seeds?”

“Exactly. I think we should pay them a visit,” said Ken.

“I can’t imagine they’ll be selling seeds,” said Alex. “The place is probably wiped out—or ransacked.”

“I don’t think anyone up here would ransack Johnny’s Seeds. They’ve been a local institution for more than forty years. The question is whether they managed to keep the farm up in Albion operational during the fall. That’s when they do most of the work. If they kept it running, they should have a good supply of seeds.”

“I’ll run this by the group and pick you up in about thirty minutes. How far away are their warehouses?” said Alex.

“The seeds are kept in Winslow, about ten miles from here, but it might be worth starting out in Albion, at their research farm. That’s where they test seed germination and determine what they’ll sell. If they’re operational, we’re in business.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Alex.

Chapter 20

Waterville, Maine

Waterville felt a lot closer than it had looked on his map. They had crossed under the Maine Turnpike overpass within fifteen minutes of pulling out of the driveway, transitioning into an uncomfortably urban area lined with strip malls, fast-food chains, and car dealerships. The area still had a rural feel, like the outskirts of most Maine cities, but Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that they were far more exposed in Charlie’s neighborhood than he had originally estimated.

The streets were barren of cars. The only vehicles visible from the road sat in motel parking lots off Kennedy Memorial Drive, likely abandoned several months ago. They passed a large strip-mall parking lot on their right, anchored by a Harrigan’s grocery store and a CVS. Ringing the empty lot, missing or partially shattered windows adorned the businesses.

“Looks like things got ugly in town,” said Alex.

Ken stared at the eerie scene, not moving his head. “I think we should take the long way to Johnny’s Seeds. Driving through downtown Waterville might not be the best idea. We can swing up through Albion and circle back to the Winslow warehouse area if the farm is a bust. We’ll pass over a creek after a few traffic lights. At the intersection after the creek, take a right. That’ll put us back on Route 137, which crosses the Kennebec River south of the city. Nothing but trees and open country down there.”

“Sounds better than what we’re seeing here,” said Alex, turning his head to look into the backseat.

“Stay alert, buddy. Keep an eye out behind us.”

Ryan nodded eagerly, turning his body in the rear passenger seat to make it easier to see through the back windows of the SUV. Alex’s son cradled the same HK416 rifle he had fired at Eli Russell’s militia during the attack on their home in Limerick. Ryan was rarely seen without the rifle, a constant reminder of how things would be vastly different for their children. Barely nineteen years old, his son’s trajectory in life had shifted in the blink of an eye. The traditional path carved from a middle-class life of comfort and ease erased by a cabal of petty Chinese party officials and bitter military generals. The thought of it surfaced Alex’s anger.

He hoped the U.S. had retaliated with more than words and saber rattling. In a dark place within him, Alex wanted to hear that the U.S. had bombed them out of existence. He knew it meant thousands, possibly millions of innocent deaths, but he couldn’t envision any other option, and staring across a deserted parking lot at just one of thousands of abandoned business malls dotting the American landscape—he didn’t care.

Alex drove the SUV through two empty intersections, crossing over a wide, rushing creek. Signs for Route 137 urged him right at a split in the road just past the creek, depositing them on a two-lane, tree-lined road that stretched as far as he could see.

“This is better,” said Alex.

“Yep. Not much down this way. Just keep following the signs for one-thirty-seven. All we’re gonna see is a gas station or two. Maybe a variety store.”

“The less we see, the better,” said Alex.

His hopes for an uneventful trip were dashed a few minutes later when he spotted a police cruiser sitting in the middle of the road in front of the entrance to the bridge. The road widened as they approached the guardrails lining the side of the bridge. The police car barely covered half of the width of the road. As they closed the distance to the cruiser, Ryan leaned through the gap between the front seats, peering ahead with binoculars.

“Winslow Police Department,” said Ryan. “I don’t see a car at the other side of the bridge.”

Alex considered his options. He didn’t feel like dealing with the police, or any authority figures right now—or ever.

“Don’t even think about it, Captain. This is probably just a formality. Checking to see who’s cruising on over from Waterville,” said Ken.

Alex slowed the SUV to give them time to prepare for the encounter.

“Ryan, shove both rifles under the tarp in the cargo compartment and flip the seat up. Keep them low. Stuff your pistol in the cup holder on the driver’s side door and cover it with your hat. Make sure the hat completely covers the pistol and won’t jar loose if you open the door.”

“Got it,” said Ryan, going to work in the backseat.

“Why the cup holder? Shouldn’t he stuff it in the backpack?”

“If they force us out of the vehicle, the pistol will still be somewhat accessible.”

Alex squirmed in the driver’s seat and drew a compact semiautomatic pistol from the concealed holster behind his right hip. He tucked it into one of the center console compartments at the bottom of the dashboard and closed the compartment.

“Why isn’t yours going into the door?” said Ken.

“Because I need immediate access,” said Alex. “If this gets ugly, stay as low as possible.”

“How will I know if it gets ugly?” asked Ken, already shrinking in his seat.

“Watch my dad’s right hand. If it starts to move toward the pistol—things are about to get really ugly,” added Ryan.

“Jesus. Maybe we should turn around and try a bridge farther south,” Ken suggested.

“In my experience, all bridges are bad news. Actually, this doesn’t look so bad. I have a good feeling about this,” said Alex.

“He doesn’t say that very often,” said Ryan, winking at Alex through the rearview mirror.

“That’s reassuring,” Ken stated flatly.

“If they ask us to exit the vehicle, we kindly decline and tell them we’ll stay on this side of the Kennebec. Stick to the story. Windows down,” Alex said, lowering his window.

He stopped the SUV several feet in front of the cruiser and killed the engine, keeping the key inserted in the ignition. Two officers stepped out of the police car and approached them, splitting apart in front of the SUV. Neither kept their hands close to their service pistols, which gave Alex the impression that Ken’s assessment was correct. This would more than likely be a quick check to make sure Alex’s group wasn’t bringing trouble to the other side of the river.

The officer on the driver’s side of the SUV walked up to Alex’s window, while the second officer took a wider approach to the passenger side. The officer on his side didn’t wear a nametag, and his uniform looked worn and dirty. He glanced at the officer’s face, noticing that he looked gaunt, his eyes slightly sunken and red. He looked more exhausted than anything. Probably malnourished like the rest of America.

Alex wondered how he looked to the officer. Too well fed? Would that color the way they were treated? Another quick look confirmed that the patches on the officer’s cold-weather jacket matched up with Winslow Police Department. That had to be a good sign. If the officers were fake, he doubted the imposters would have slipped into the Winslow police station to retrieve seasonally issued gear. Was he being paranoid? No. Alex wasn’t taking any chances. Eli Russell’s men had killed two soldiers at a security checkpoint wearing stolen uniforms.

“Morning, officer,” said Alex, fully intent on letting the officer lead the discussion beyond the opening pleasantries.

“Morning, Mr…?”

“Fletcher. Alex Fletcher. We’re out by Great Pond.”

Shit . Did he really just tell them that?

“Whereabouts on the pond?” asked the officer, putting one of his hands on the car door and leaning over to examine the interior.

“Jamaica Point,” said Ken. “Not right on the point.”

“It’s nice over there. One of our officers has a camp over on Long Pond. What brings you over this way?”

Before Alex could respond, Ken answered, “I’m taking these city slickers up to Benton to fish the Sebasticook. The Belgrade Lakes area was tapped out last fall. Figured we might get lucky with the trout.”

“You’re not from the area?” asked the officer, addressing Alex.

“Scarborough, Maine. Our house was swamped by the tsunami. A good friend of mine owns a camp next to Mr. Woods,” said Alex, nodding his head at Ken. “We stayed with him for the winter.”

“With Mr. Woods?”

“No. With my friend. Mr. Woods—Ken—offered to take us up to the Sebasticook. Said it’s some of the best fly-fishing in the area.”

“There’s some good spots on this side of the Kennebec,” said the officer.

The second police officer approached the window to the cargo compartment and cupped his hands to get a better view inside. Alex felt his face flush. The fishing poles and tackle boxes sat on top of the tarp hiding their rifles. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that something was hidden underneath. Beside the fishing gear, they had loaded a water cooler and a few pairs of fly-fishing waders.

Ken leaned over the center console. “Nothing beats the Sebasticook. Especially up between Benton and Clinton.”

“Well, there’s no disputing that,” said the officer. “Just be careful up there. The folks that pulled through the winter on this side of the river might not take kindly to your presence. Make sure you use public access to the river and avoid private property. It’s been a long winter.”

“Sounds like things got pretty bad in Waterville. We swung south to avoid driving through the downtown area,” said Alex.

“Smart move. I’d say your chances of successfully navigating through the downtown are about fifty-fifty in one of these,” he said, patting the window well. “Anyone lucky enough to end up with a running car has kept the fact pretty quiet. They have a tendency to disappear right out from under you. Be careful where you drive. Things have been civil over here, but a functioning vehicle might be too big of a temptation for some.”

“Thanks, officer,” said Alex, noticing that the second officer had finished his inspection of the cargo area.

“You have a good day, folks,” said the officer next to his window, backing away to give Alex room to drive.

Alex turned the ignition and made sure the second officer remained clear of the SUV while he pulled forward. In the back of his mind, he envisioned the officers drawing their weapons and firing point blank into the vehicle. Fuck! Every situation turned into a worst-case scenario in his mind. Alex knew it was a survival mechanism—an extreme mechanism honed over the two disasters. He wondered if it would ever go away. The Jakarta pandemic had left him in a heightened state of paranoia. The event had catapulted him into the big leagues—a pathological state of distrust.

In keeping with the thought, Alex turned to Ryan once they had cleared the police cruiser and driven onto the bridge.

“Break out the rifles. Sounds like this could turn into the Wild West pretty quick,” said Alex, opening the compartment holding his pistol.

“Good job back there, Ken. You saved me from fumble-mouthing my way into a strip search,” said Alex.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly lying. If we can spare the time, I’ll show you what these rivers can give up. Trout should be swimming. They love the cold water. That’ll last another month, maybe two at most. As the water starts to warm, the trout will hide in the cold-water streams. You can still find them, but the rivers will teem with easier catch. Perch and bluegills. I’m telling ya, if you find the right spot, you can fish the rivers from ice-in to ice-out. Your son will love it. Ever been?” asked Ken, turning in his seat.

“No,” said Ryan, scooting up on the rear passenger bench to hear what Ken had to say.

“Nothing like casting on the water with a cooler full of ice-cold beers.”

“I thought this was about fishing,” said Alex, laughing.

“It’s about both. The beers give you something to do when the fish aren’t biting,” said Ken.

“Sounds like a win-win scenario,” said Alex.

“Never had a bad day fishing.”

“Sounds like fun to me,” said Ryan. “Though we’re missing the beers.”

“I might have smuggled a few out of my secret stash for the occasion,” said Ken.

“You’re kidding, right?” said Alex.

“I never joke about beer or fishing,” said Ken. “We’d have to let them sit in the water for a while.”

“We’ll see about the fishing,” said Alex. “It all depends on what we find at Johnny’s Seeds.”

Chapter 21

Albion, Maine

“The farm should be coming up on the right,” said Ken.

Ryan focused his binoculars on the road ahead. His dad expected to find some form of barricade on the road, to keep people from approaching the farm. A few homes peeked through the trees on the left side, but the road looked clear.

“I’m not seeing a barricade,” said Ryan.

“Keep looking,” said his dad. “If they’re in business, I don’t think they’ll be too keen on letting anyone get too close.”

“Maybe they’re out of business,” said Ryan.

“If anything, they’ll plant the fields,” said Ken. “I expect to find some folks out here. Figured it was better than driving up to the seed warehouse. That’s the obvious place to start. Most folks don’t know about the research farm.”

“I’m willing to bet that has something to do with its location,” Alex replied.

“It’s a little hard to find,” said Ken. “Even for Maine.”

“Hard to find in Maine is a few steps away from fucking invisible,” said Alex.

Ryan chuckled, staring through the binoculars. His dad could be pretty funny, even under the worst circumstances. He’d noticed this with some of the Marines around the house. Jokes and well-timed comical observations seemed to be the norm, often at the expense of fellow Marines. Some of the humor was pretty brutal, but they all shrugged it off like it was normal. It reminded him of the way his high school cross-country team acted on the bus to meets—except about ten times worse. He figured you had to go through some serious shit as a crew to get to the point where your friends could make a joke about screwing your girlfriend or sister. Running several miles a day around a quiet Maine town didn’t qualify. If anyone on his team ever said something that disrespectful about Emily or Chloe, he would have pounded some sense into them.

The telephone line running parallel to the road crossed over the street in front of one of the houses, disappearing into the trees on the other side.

“Dad, I think we’re coming up on—there it is,” he said, spotting a large white sign with black letters reading Johnny’s Selected Seeds. “There’s nothing blocking the entry.”

“I’m surprised,” said Alex, slowing for the turnoff.

As the SUV eased into the gravel driveway, the reason became apparent. A tan-colored Humvee sat in the middle of the car parking lot, next to an olive drab, canvas-backed utility truck with military insignia. The vehicles blocked their approach to a white, one-story building, which Ryan assumed was the research lab. Several plastic-covered greenhouses appeared in the empty fields beyond the building, no doubt protecting thousands of healthy seedlings.

Alex slammed on the brakes when the turret housing an M240 machine gun swiveled in their direction. Two soldiers dressed in Army ACUs started walking toward them with their M-4 rifles slung across their body armor. Neither had his rifle pointed at the SUV, but Ryan had seen his dad quickly transition to a firing position from “sling ready.” Within a fraction of the second, these soldiers could riddle the SUV with .223-caliber projectiles. One of the soldiers lowered the barrel of his rifle when the SUV started to back into the road. Ryan shoved his rifle under the front passenger seat, sliding his jacket off to cover the buttstock protruding into his foot well. His dad’s rifle was still in the cargo compartment.

“Shit. I think we should take our business elsewhere. Keep your rifle really low, Ryan,” said his dad, putting the SUV into reverse.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Captain,” said Ken.

“Fuck. This could get ugly. They’ll confiscate our weapons on sight, and we’ll be lucky if they don’t take the vehicle,” Alex said, putting the SUV in park. “Plus, the circumstances leading to a shortened stint as Captain Fletcher might bite me in the ass here.”

“Let’s not make any assumptions. And maybe I should do all of the talking,” said Ken.

“Good idea. Ryan, can you—” His dad scanned the backseat. “What did you do with the rifle?”

“It’s under Mr. Woods’ seat,” said Ryan.

“I’m covering the barrel with my foot,” said Ken.

“Works for me,” said Alex as the two soldiers approached the driver’s side window. “Looks like we have a sergeant and a specialist.”

“This is a restricted area, sir,” said the sergeant, while the other soldier walked along the driver’s side of the vehicle.

“Sorry. We had no idea. Our seedlings died in the freak snowstorm a few days ago, and we thought Johnny’s might be able to sell us some seeds to replace the ones we lost,” said Ken. “Looks like they’re open for business.”

“They’re open, but not for public business,” said the sergeant.

The younger soldier circled around the back of the SUV, peering inside the cargo compartment.

“Is there any way we can talk with someone working here? I’ve been a customer of theirs for nearly forty years,” pleaded Ken.

“Sorry, gentlemen. Johnny’s is part of the Maine Independence Initiative. They’ve allocated every batch of seeds to farms participating in the Initiative recovery effort,” said the sergeant.

Ryan fidgeted when the specialist peered inside his window, eyes settling on the black backpack next to him. The backpack contained several magazines for the automatic rifle stuffed under the seat. Ryan forced a smile and nodded at the serious-looking soldier.

“You guys going fishing?” asked the specialist.

“We were hoping to drive up to the Sebasticook from here,” said Alex, turning his head to address the soldier at Ryan’s window.

“Better get your fishing done while you can,” said the sergeant. “I’ve heard them talking about plans to fish the rivers on an industrial scale. Won’t be much left to catch if they put that plan into action.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Alex. “The state government?”

Ryan detected an angry tone, which wouldn’t help their situation. He hoped Ken intervened before his dad’s tone became overtly hostile.

“Technically the Maine Independence Initiative,” said the sergeant. “It’s being led by the governor’s office.”

“Independence from what?” asked Alex in an increasingly exasperated tone.

Ken’s hand slowly reached out to touch his shoulder.

“We’ve been cut off from any communications for most of the winter,” explained Ken.

“The state has declared independence from the RRZ. The governor issued a formal declaration several days ago,” said the sergeant.

“Secession from the United States?”

“I didn’t hear the specifics of the declaration, but I’m pretty sure it was aimed specifically at the RRZ, not the U.S. government,” said the sergeant.

“There’s no difference at this point,” Alex said, rubbing his face with his hands before continuing. “What is your chain of command now?”

“It hasn’t changed. We take orders from the governor,” said the sergeant.

“Dad, maybe we should get going. Fishing might take up most of the day,” said Ryan, hoping his dad didn’t take the discussion where he thought it might go.

“Hold on, Ryan,” said his dad. “But your unit was given specific Category Five Response tasking, right? That put you under federal control from the beginning.”

He sounded genuinely curious asking the question, the confrontational tone gone.

“I’ve never heard of this Category Five response,” said the sergeant. “We got our orders from the governor.”

“Your commanding officer never mentioned the battalion’s assignment under the National Recovery Plan? Which battalion are you with?”

“3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment. National Guard,” answered the sergeant. “The battalion CO was on vacation out west when the EMP hit.”

“What about the XO?”

“The XO is presumed dead based on confirmed reports.”

Alex shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath for a moment.

“Did anyone issue new equipment to the battalion after the EMP? Weapons, vehicles, communications gear?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No problem. Ex-military?”

“Marine Corps. Many years ago.”

“Thought you might have served. We’re recruiting ex-military folks for a new battalion. Governor Dague authorized the formation of a second battalion based out of Augusta.”

“I’m getting a little old for that kind of work, but I appreciate the offer.”

“If you change your mind, we’ll have a recruiting station set up in Waterville,” said the sergeant.

“Well, good luck,” Alex said, backing the rest of the way into the road. “Sergeant?” he yelled through Ken’s window.

“Yeah?”

“What caused the governor to make the declaration now? She resisted the RRZ from the very start.”

The soldier stared at the car quizzically.

Shit. Dad blew it.

“I don’t understand,” said the sergeant, snaking his right hand toward the rifle’s pistol grip.

“We left the Portland area to stay with friends near Waterville because we heard rumors on the HAM radio about disagreements between the state and the RRZ. We didn’t want to get caught in the middle of it. Sounds like something happened?”

The soldier’s hand stopped moving. “Everything was stable until the RRZ sent a convoy of Marines to take the marine terminal in Searsport,” said the sergeant. “No offense to your Marines. They were probably just following orders.”

“They took over the terminal?”

“Not really. They reached a joint security arrangement with my battalion. Governor Dague wasn’t happy. She’s not waiting for the rest of the RRZ’s security forces to show up and secure the rest of the state.”

“Do you know how many soldiers and Marines the RRZ has in southern Maine?”

“Negative. We let the officers and the governor’s people worry about that,” joked the sergeant. “Right?”

The specialist nodded. “We just do what we’re told. Keeps us fed and out of trouble.”

“They have a battalion of Marines and a full brigade of soldiers from the 10th Mountain Division. They’re driving around in the latest generation Strykers and JLTVs, not to mention Black Hawk helicopters and Little Birds,” Alex told them. “I’m extremely worried about the governor’s declaration. If she escalates this, trouble will find all of us. Take care, gentlemen.”

The SUV accelerated down the middle of the two-lane road before the soldiers could respond. Ryan watched the soldiers walk toward the road, half expecting them to step into the road and fire at them. He reached into the foot well and yanked on the rifle butt to loosen it from its hiding place under Ken’s seat.

“Careful with that thing. I don’t want you blowing my foot off,” said Ken. “And what was that about, Captain? You trying to get us detained?”

Alex stared straight ahead.

“Earth to the captain,” said Ken.

“Dad,” added Ryan.

Alex swung his head toward Ryan, a distant, worried look on his face. “Sorry, I was thinking,” he muttered, adding words Ryan couldn’t hear before turning back to the road.

Ken looked back at Ryan, raising an eyebrow. Ryan shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, “It’s okay,” which seemed to ease Mr. Woods’ concerns, because he faced forward. A few moments of silence passed before his dad spoke.

“Two things. 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment never received their Category Five Response plan load out, which means battalion leadership never saw the orders placing them under federal control.”

“All of the other Guard units would have opened their federal orders,” said Ryan. “They would have figured it out eventually.”

“Without specific orders putting them under federal control, they’d have to follow the governor’s orders. They’re the only battalion-sized combat unit stationed in Maine, so I wonder if the other units up here just fell in line with 3rd Battalion.”

“What does it matter?” Ken asked.

“It matters because the governor has control of an entire battalion of soldiers, which has probably emboldened her to make some dangerous decisions. Squaring off against the RRZ is at the top of the list. And now she’s trying to create another battalion? Nothing good will come from that.”

“It’ll probably end up looking like a civil defense group. More symbolic than anything,” said Ken.

“I hope so,” said Alex, glancing at Ryan in the rearview mirror.

He stared at Ryan and briefly shook his head. The topic was closed, and Ryan knew why. Elements of 3rd Battalion, 172nd Regiment never accessed their Cat Five load out. Somewhere near Brewer, Maine, a battalion-sized cache of weapons and equipment was waiting to be discovered.

“Mr. Woods, were you just making that up about the trout fishing?” Ryan asked.

“I never lie about fishing or beer, son,” replied Ken, causing them to laugh.

“What do you think, Dad?”

“About the beer or the fishing?”

“The fishing,” Ryan said, thinking more about the beer.

“Why don’t we find a nice quiet spot on the other side of the Kennebec. One of those smaller streams I was telling you about this morning. Even if we don’t catch anything, we’ll take care of those beers,” said Ken.

“Works for me,” said Alex.

“What about the police on the bridge?” Ryan questioned.

“We’ll tell them we got sent back by the National Guard.”

Ryan felt uneasy about his dad’s sudden shift in focus. He hadn’t said a word about the fact that they hadn’t acquired any additional seeds to expand the gardens. The seeds had been critical to their plan for staying on the lake with the Walkers and Thorntons. He’d overheard his parents arguing about the dangers of making the trip. His dad had been hell-bent on the idea that they needed more seeds to survive, gaining his mom’s reluctant approval. Now the seeds were forgotten, pushed aside by the news of the governor’s declaration and the revelation that a battalion-sized supply cache sat untouched—less than an hour away.

No way. His dad couldn’t possibly be thinking about—

Ryan looked at the rearview mirror and saw his dad watching him. They stared at each other, communicating without speaking for several moments, before his dad winked.

Shit. He was thinking about it.

Chapter 22

Belgrade, Maine

The muffled sound of a vehicle engine carried across the backyard, drawing Kate’s attention away from the task of filling the buckets. She walked to the shore and hopped off the dock onto the matted grass. A quick glimpse of the silver BMW confirmed that Alex had returned. The buckets could wait. She headed for the deck, expecting to catch him inside, but he appeared at the side of the house before she reached the stairs.

“Need some help?” he asked, a serious look indicating she should answer “yes.”

“I don’t need any help, but I’ll gladly take some,” she said, eliciting no grin or change to his solemn façade.

She grabbed his hand and they strolled slowly across the backyard.

“What happened? No seeds?” she said.

“No seeds,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But that’s the least of our problems. I’ll check on the boat tomorrow—see if I can find a few clearly abandoned boats we can provision for anyone else that wants to leave.”

She stopped them. “Alex, you’re scaring me. What’s—”

“Let’s keep walking. I don’t want to alarm my parents or the kids,” said Alex.

“I’ll start walking when you start telling me what’s wrong,” said Kate.

“The governor of Maine essentially seceded from the United States,” he said, pulling her hand.

Kate let herself move forward, wondering how much of his statement was melodrama.

“I’m sure it’s just a symbolic protest,” she said. “It’s not like the state can untangle itself from the RRZ.”

“It’s trying. Johnny’s Seeds no longer sells seeds to the public. They joined the Maine Independence Initiative, which means everything they produce goes to the state—outside of the RRZ.”

“Sounds a little odd, but overall it should benefit the state,” she said.

“Johnny’s Seeds was guarded by soldiers from 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment, a National Guard unit under state control. I’m wondering if Johnny’s participation was voluntary,” said Alex.

“I thought the RRZ controlled all of the National Guard units?” said Kate, starting to understand why her husband looked despondent.

“So did I, until about two hours ago.”

“Where have you guys been for two hours?”

“Fishing and drinking,” Alex said.

“I thought I smelled stale beer,” Kate said, shaking her head. “Where’s Ryan?”

“Over at the Thorntons’,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Chloe.”

“That’s another issue,” she said.

Ryan and Chloe’s relationship had intensified during the fall, to the point where Alex and Kate decided they needed to revisit the topic of sex, focusing on the consequences of an unexpected pregnancy in their new surroundings. They had no confirmation of sexual contact, but the two of them frequently disappeared—last seen holding hands on one of the docks or walking into the forest next to their house. The absolute last thing they needed right now was a pregnancy.

“Don’t remind me. I was hoping it might have cooled off over the winter, but apparently that wasn’t the case,” said Alex. “It’s going to make leaving here extremely complicated.”

“We don’t have to leave,” said Kate.

“The governor is trying to form another battalion. They’re recruiting all over northern and central Maine. This isn’t going to be a Salvation Army battalion,” he said, continuing before she could respond.

“Medina and her RRZ cronies will come down hard on Governor Dague. I wouldn’t count out a military response—at the very least they’ll seize key facilities and assets. They’ve already moved Marines up to Searsport.”

“When did that happen?”

“Recently. Supposedly, that’s what prompted the governor to sign her own death warrant,” said Alex.

“Don’t talk like that,” Kate said, shaking her head. “They’re not going to kill her.”

“No, but she’s skating on thin ice pulling something like this while the National Recovery Plan is still active. The Insurrection Act could be turned around and used against her, especially if an entire National Guard battalion has sided against the federal government. I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up one morning and discover that an additional brigade of 10th Mountain Division soldiers arrived during the night,” said Alex.

“More soldiers might not be a bad thing,” she offered.

“Not if the people up here are perceived as sympathetic with the Maine Independence Initiative. The soldiers wouldn’t be here to usher in a new era of hope and recovery.”

“No need to get shitty,” Kate said, jumping onto the dock, which swayed underneath her.

“Sorry,” Alex said, joining her.

He nestled against her back and put his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him, pressing his forehead against the back of her head.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you more,” said Kate, taking a deep breath and relaxing in his embrace.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, breathing in synch.

“Is there any way we can stay?” she asked.

Alex hesitated to answer. “I don’t see how. We don’t have enough seeds to support this many people, even if everything goes right with the harvest. The lakes have been depleted of most fish. I don’t think the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife will be stocking the lakes this spring.”

“If the state organizes food production, might we be able to fall back on that?” she asked hesitantly.

“It’s wishful thinking at best. I don’t see how they plan on distributing the food in any consistent, wide-reaching way. Most people don’t have cars, and I can’t imagine the state has the gasoline or diesel reserves needed to drive kale and potatoes from town to town on a weekly basis. They’ll have to limit food-distribution efforts to organized hubs—which will quickly draw large refugee populations. It’s a recipe for disaster,” said Alex.

“It’s something,” Kate said. “We have no idea what we’ll find once we set sail. What if the situation is just as wrecked in the Caribbean?”

“We have the desalinator and fishing gear. We’ll be fine, even if the eastern Caribbean turns out to be a bust. South America should be relatively unaffected by whatever hit the United States. We’ll head to French Guiana or the northern coast of Brazil for a major resupply. Argentina will be our ultimate goal.”

“Just like that?” Kate asked.

“Barring any unforeseen weather problems, we could be in Fortaleza within sixty days, which is pushing up against our stored food supplies. We’d need to leave within a week or two to stretch the food to South America,” he said.

“We’ve never sailed out of Casco Bay. I think you’re oversimplifying things,” Kate said, grabbing her bucket and leaving him behind.

“Kate! Think about what we’ve done so far. We can do this,” said Alex, jogging to catch up.

She stopped, staring at the placid lake to find the glimpse of serenity she needed to avoid starting an argument. Not only was he simplifying a forty-seven-hundred-mile open-ocean voyage, he was ignoring the most obvious fact.

“Your parents can’t do it. They won’t do it. Your dad has made that abundantly clear. How are you going to reconcile that, Alex?”

“They’ll come around.”

“No, they won’t, and if your parents stay, so will Ethan and Kevin. Now we’re only removing four people from your Maine starvation scenario.”

“Nice,” he said, frowning at her. “I’m not making this up. In roughly two months, we’re eating off the land for the rest of the year.”

“So, somehow we’re better off throwing ourselves at the mercy of a foreign government as what, boat people? We have no idea what the political climate will be toward Americans. What are we going to pay them with? Will they even let us off our boat? Will their Coast Guard confiscate our weapons? I think you’re romanticizing the other side of the journey, Alex. We won’t be received as tourists. Think immigration issues. Think holding cells. Think about the confiscation of everything we own, followed by a dusty bus ride to the nearest shithole border crossing. That’s the risk at the other end,” she said, stopping at the dock.

“We could try a transatlantic crossing,” he suggested.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Kate stated before jumping onto the floating dock.

“In thirty days or so, you could be sipping espresso in a French café,” said Alex, making the leap.

The dock shifted when he landed, causing Kate to raise her arms for balance.

“Tempting, but sailing through the North Atlantic sounds a lot worse than heading south,” she said.

“Half the time, and I doubt our friends across the pond will deport us,” said Alex. “We can bring our passports.”

“Funny,” she said, lowering her bucket into the water.

“I just got this urge to push you in,” said Alex.

“I can’t even begin to describe how much trouble you’d be in,” Kate said, smiling.

“More trouble than I’m already in?”

“You’re not in any trouble,” she said, lifting the bucket out and setting it next to Alex’s.

She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his scruffy neck. Alex smelled about as ripe as he looked, which had become the new norm in their life. She looked forward to the point when they could comfortably swim in the lake. Sponge bathing with a pot of stove-heated water served their utilitarian hygiene needs well, but did little beyond removing the surface layer of dirt and sweat. She yearned for a long, hot bath. Something she imagined would feel like a religious experience at this point. There was no sense in thinking about it right now.

“I guess there’s no harm in prepping the boat,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “I just need to make sure it’s still a viable option. Examine the water hoses, inspect the engine, maybe run it for a few minutes if the area is clear,” he said.

“You’ll have to bring the batteries out to start the engine,” Kate reminded him.

“I left one on the boat to operate the bilge pump. I’ll bring another in case it’s dead,” said Alex.

“Or stolen.”

“The whole boat could be stolen,” said Alex, rocking her gently.

“Then what?”

“Plan B.”

“Do I want to hear about Plan B?”

“I don’t really have a Plan B—yet.”

Kate didn’t completely believe Alex. He typically had Plans B through F worked out ahead of time. He was holding something back. Something he had seen. She’d have to shake the truth out of her son. Ryan couldn’t keep a secret, especially from his mother.

Chapter 23

Belfast, Maine

Brisk, salty air poured through Alex’s window. Tinged with seaweed and other familiar tidal smells, the onshore breeze reminded him of past sailing seasons. He’d head down to the South Portland waterfront with Ryan after the first warm stretch of April weather and start to tinker with the boat. It always marked the beginning of a long, but rewarding period of repairs and restoration. Sanding and varnishing worn teak, repainting the hull, rigging the sails, and sometimes an unexpected engine or electrical project.

All well worth the hassle when the boat cut through the harbor for the first time, a cold beer nestled into one of the cup holders on the steering pedestal. He looked forward to the possibility of sailing out of here, even if the occasion wouldn’t be celebrated with a can of local microbrew.

Sailing represented a form of freedom to Alex. A self-determination marked by endless possibilities outside of the United States. Staying holed up at the lake felt like a prison sentence, with few prospects in sight. He didn’t want to leave his close friends behind, but he didn’t want to eat them either—which could be a distinct possibility in December of next year if they couldn’t grow enough food. He stifled a laugh.

“What?” asked Charlie.

“Nothing,” Alex replied, watching the harbor appear between the buildings on Miller Street.

He’d chosen to bypass Belfast’s Main Street, noting an unusual amount of pedestrian activity on the streets near the town center. All eyes were drawn to his SUV, which left him with an uneasy feeling. He didn’t need to take the most direct path to the waterfront. He’d left the Katelyn Ann in the center of the mooring field, beyond the farthest marina. He nearly laughed out loud again.

“What?” insisted Charlie from the front passenger seat.

“Really, it’s nothing,” Alex said, craning his head forward for a better view of the harbor.

The number of boats had decreased dramatically. Shit.

“Alex, don’t make me beg. I need the humor,” said Charlie.

“You really don’t want to know,” said Alex.

The view opened as the tree-lined streets gave way to a grassy, open promenade overlooking the harbor. The boats had almost disappeared. Charlie started to say something, but stopped.

“This isn’t right, is it?” said Charlie.

“No. The harbor was crowded with boats in the fall,” said Alex, slowing the SUV.

“Did some of them sink due to the weather? I assume there’s a good reason you pull your boat out of the water in the winter,” said Charlie.

“Not likely. Not that many,” said Alex.

“Maybe we can find another boat,” said Ryan.

Alex glanced at his son in the rearview mirror, catching the top of his face and his olive green hat in the reflection.

“We’ll soon find out,” said Alex, easing the SUV down the hill.

When the SUV cleared the first in a series of dilapidated red buildings flanking the entrance to the marina, Alex noticed activity on the floating dock that extended from the parking lot. A quarter of the boat slips were occupied by a variety of motor- and sail-powered vessels. The Katelyn Ann was tied up to the outermost position at the end of the dock.

“That’s our boat, Dad!” said Ryan.

“Yeah. That’s her all right,” he muttered, biting his lower lip.

He didn’t like what he saw. Men climbed on and off the boats, including the Katelyn Ann , while others milled around on the dock. The assembly of people looked organized. Alex drove the car into the parking lot, turning every head in sight. He parked perpendicular to the waterfront, at the back of the lot. Two men dressed in warm civilian clothes broke off from a small group of armed men seated at an ancient picnic table next to the dock entrance. One of them carried a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. The other gripped a black handheld radio.

“Keep the guns out of sight,” Alex instructed. “Ryan, I want you on the passenger side of the car, with quick access to your rifle. Keep an eye out behind us. We don’t know what kind of operation they might be running here. Charlie, you’re with me.”

“ROE?” asked Ryan.

“Standard. Weapons hold . If we come under attack, switch to weapons tight,” said Alex.

He’d simplified the Rules of Engagement (ROE) for everyone at the lake. His experience in the Marines taught him the simpler the better for ROE involving the use of lethal force. The situations developed quickly, often requiring quick decision-making. Fewer parameters led to swift, appropriate use of force.

HOLD meant fire in self-defense or under direct orders only, regardless of the situation. This was their default ROE and the most appropriate stance in nearly every encounter. TIGHT meant fire at targets recognized as hostile. This represented a nebulous middle ground, but it kept innocents out of the line of fire. Positively identifying hostile targets wasn’t easy in a civilian-on-civilian engagement, but it didn’t require a War College degree. Anyone pointing a weapon in your direction during a firefight was probably hostile. FREE turned the guns on anyone not recognized as friendly. This ROE setting was reserved for the worst-case scenarios, like an assault on their house, where all known friendlies were “inside the line,” and anyone moving in your direction was up to no good.

“What about us?” asked Charlie.

“Keep your hands away from your pistol,” said Alex. “Unless they start shooting at you, of course.”

“Of course,” said Charlie, opening his door.

“I should probably start the conversation,” said Alex.

“And finish it,” added Charlie, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“Smart ass,” said Alex. “Seriously. I don’t want any trouble.”

“They have your boat,” stated Charlie. “As much as I want you to stay in Maine, I’ll help you get your boat back.”

“Let’s just test the waters here. I have an idea if we run into trouble,” said Alex.

They met the two men halfway across the gravel lot. As soon as Alex stepped out of the car, the man with the rifle adjusted his grip on the sling, bringing his hand higher along the nylon strap. Easier to swing it off the shoulder. He didn’t unsling the rifle, which showed some restraint—and common sense. At less than fifty feet, Charlie and Alex, carrying pistols in exposed drop holsters along their upper right thighs, had the upper hand on a bolt-action hunting rifle.

The man with the radio nodded at them. “Can we help you?”

Alex chose his words carefully, hoping to start off on the right foot—an elusive approach for him lately.

“That’s my boat,” said Alex, miserably failing the diplomatic approach.

“Which boat?” asked the man, glancing back toward the dock.

“The sailboat at the far end of the dock. Katelyn Ann . I brought her here last fall from Portland Harbor,” said Alex.

The man adjusted his gray watch cap and grimaced.

“Shit. I don’t…well, there’s no easy way to say this, but that boat now belongs to the state of Maine. Sorry. Every boat out here is needed for fishing. The bigger ones go to Rockland, where they can head out into deeper water.”

Alex stared past him at his boat, watching two men lift heavy marine batteries into the Katelyn Ann’s cockpit. The second man tightened his grip on the rifle sling.

“Maine Independence Initiative?” Alex asked.

“Yeah. We’re repurposing the boats and assembling crews up and down the coast. This is going to put a lot of Mainers back to work,” he said.

“On my boat,” said Alex, shaking his head.

“I think feeding hungry people is more important than cruising around in a sailboat,” said the bearded man holding the rifle.

“I wasn’t planning on sailing around Penobscot Bay sipping mai tais. I brought the boat here for a reason,” Alex stated. “So I could leave.”

“And go where?” asked the leader, shrugging his shoulders.

“Anywhere but here. The last place I want to be caught is between several thousand heavily armed federal soldiers and the Maine Independence Initiative, or whatever you call yourselves.”

“We’re the militia part of this,” said the guy with the rifle.

“Splendid,” said Alex. “So, is there any way I can convince you to let me keep my boat? I can’t imagine you get too many owners showing up. One boat isn’t going to make or break the governor’s fishing initiative.”

“No,” said the leader. “If we bend the rules for you, we have to bend them for everyone.”

“I’m sure the people won’t come out of the woodwork,” said Alex.

“Rules are rules,” he said.

“Spoken like a true pawn in someone else’s game,” Alex said wryly.

“Hey, you’re lucky we don’t exercise our authority to confiscate your vehicle,” said the man with the gun.

“Well, I’ll take that as a sign of the good things to come from the Maine Independence Militia. Enjoy your day, gentlemen. Enjoy my boat,” said Alex. “Ready to head back?” he asked the others.

“Yep,” said Charlie.

When they got back to the car, Alex used a pair of binoculars to scan the area around the dock. He counted six men, including the two they had just confronted. The man with the radio spoke rapidly into his handheld, glancing frequently in their direction. They needed to get moving. Nothing good would come of this encounter. Alex handed the binoculars to Charlie and shifted the SUV into gear.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” he said to Charlie.

“I’m just in shock that you didn’t make more of a fuss about your boat,” said Charlie.

“There was no point in arguing with those jackasses,” said Alex. “Plus, I have a better idea.”

“The Marines in Searsport?” asked Ryan.

“If they’re willing to lend a hand,” said Alex.

“I have a feeling they’ll be up for a little ass kicking,” said Charlie.

Chapter 24

Searsport, Maine

The entrance to the Searsport Marine Terminal looked secure enough to repel a platoon-sized attack. Alex recognized the distinct shape of 1st Battalion’s Matvees behind the razor-wire-topped fence. Alex wondered if the Marines had any influence on the tight arrangement. Eli Russell’s attack on Sanford Airport had redefined the RRZ’s assessment of the security threat in Maine.

A sentry from the portable blast-resistant guard post approached the SUV. The Marine standing in the nearest Matvee turret hunched forward, nestling into the M240 machine gun aimed at his SUV’s front windshield. He hated being on the receiving end of “the gun,” his fate in the hands of a nervous eighteen-year-old.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Charlie, placing his hands on the dashboard.

“Not really, but it’s worth a try,” replied Alex. “You good back there?”

Ryan shifted in his seat. “Good to go, Dad. Everything is tucked away.”

The sentry, an Army specialist dressed in full combat gear, reached Alex’s open window.

“Sorry, sir. No unauthorized vehicles are allowed inside the terminal. I’m going to need you to back into the parking space behind you and head back out the way you came,” said the soldier, peering into the front and back seats.

“My name is Alex Fletcher, and I need to speak with the senior Marine on site. They’ll want to talk to me. Sorry to dump this on you, Specialist. Do you mind if I park and wait?”

The soldier thought about his request for a few seconds, which was a good sign. If he had no intention of passing along the information, he would have shut Alex down immediately.

“Why don’t you back into one of the spaces there,” suggested the soldier, pointing to a small parking lot on the other side of the access road. “I’ll pass your information on to the Marine garrison.”

“Thank you. I know you guys usually have your hands tied with these things, so I really appreciate your help with this.”

The soldier nodded and backed away, waiting for Alex to reposition the SUV. Once he had pulled them into the closest parking space, Alex shut off the engine.

“I don’t think you should have given them your name,” said Charlie. “You might be on their watch list.”

“I doubt it. The RRZ and state governor are at odds right now. The state controls these soldiers,” said Alex.

“Just saying, Captain Fletcher,” said Charlie. “You never know what kind of deals are being made.”

The reinforced section of chain-link fence on the left side of the guard shack jolted to life, squeaking along on its track. A few seconds later, the familiar squat shape of a tan Matvee appeared on the outbound side of the worn road inside the compound.

“Let’s step out of the car for easier identification,” said Alex.

They stopped behind the SUV as the armored vehicle cleared the gate. The Matvee pulled even with the group and screeched to a halt, the passenger-side door springing open. Staff Sergeant Taylor jumped onto the pavement, shaking his head.

“Never thought I’d see you again, sir,” said Taylor, reaching out to shake Alex’s hand.

“They must have been desperate putting you in charge up here,” said Alex, slapping him on the arm.

“Shit. We got a captain up here watching over us, but I had to see this for myself,” said Taylor, stepping in front of Charlie. “Looks like you healed up nicely, Mr. Thornton.”

“I take a licking, keep on ticking,” said Charlie, shaking his hand.

“I see my automatic rifleman seems to have recovered as well,” said Taylor, patting Ryan’s shoulder.

“His fighting days are over,” said Alex guardedly.

“I hope so. I hope all of our fighting days are over,” said Taylor, turning to Alex. “So, what brings the infamous Captain Fletcher out for a visit?”

“Just wanted to say hi,” said Alex.

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyone we know in the Matvee?” asked Alex.

“Negative. The usual suspects are back in Sanford. I got bamboozled into rolling out with Grady’s convoy,” said the staff sergeant.

“Think they’d be up for a ten-minute ride to Belfast?” said Alex. “The Maine Independence Initiative has seized my sailboat for ‘the good of the state.’ I’d really like to convince them, peacefully, to return my property.”

“And you think the arrival of a machine-gun-equipped, blast-resistant, armored vehicle will expedite your peaceful settlement?”

“It couldn’t hurt,” said Alex. “If you’re allowed to go on field trips without a permission slip, that is.”

“Mr. Thornton and your son stay here,” said Taylor.

“I’m going to need them to help me with the boat,” said Alex.

“All right, but they stay in the Matvee,” said Taylor, shaking his head. “I’m gonna get my ass handed to me for this.”

Twelve minutes later, the Matvee burst into the marina parking lot, skidding across the gravel toward the dock entrance. The men clambered to get away from the rickety, weathered picnic table, which collapsed on one end in the rush. Alex hopped out of the rear passenger door, catching up to Taylor as they came around the hood of the vehicle. A short, stocky corporal named Rickson already stood on the driver’s side of the Matvee, his rifle in the patrol ready position—aiming at the ground in front of the group of confused men. Alex glanced at the roof of the vehicle, noting that the turret gunner had the M240 pointed at a forty-five-degree angle over the militiamen’s heads. Taylor walked up to the broken picnic table, leaving Alex behind.

“I believe you have a boat that belongs to this gentleman,” said Taylor, pointing back toward Alex.

The leader of the group stepped forward, keeping the table between them. “Sorry. That boat left about ten minutes ago,” he said with a worried grin.

Alex turned his head toward the dock. Shit. In all of the excitement rolling up on the marina, he hadn’t noticed that his boat was missing.

“They moved the boat. It was at the end of the dock less than thirty minutes ago,” said Alex.

“We got a report that you were headed over the bridge, toward Searsport. You didn’t come from that way, so I figured you were up to some bullshit. Boat’s on the way to Rockland,” said the leader.

Alex walked up to the picnic table, noticing the man’s handheld radio in the gravel next to the crumpled end of the table. Without warning, he lifted his right foot and smashed the plastic radio with the heel of his boot. He slammed his combat boot down several times, until the frame splintered and the radio broke apart into several smaller pieces. The group’s leader stared at the shattered radio with his mouth ajar.

“I should have beat you over the head with it,” said Alex, broadcasting the truth.

He hadn’t smashed the radio for effect to intimidate the group. Alex had replaced the man’s head with the handheld, taking his aggressions out on the inanimate object. He’d thought the long winter had dampened his anger, but it came back with little provocation.

One obstacle after another. One asshole after another.

He was tired of it. Very little stood between Alex pulling his pistol and firing at the ragtag collection of shitheads assembled in front of him. His son was the only thing holding him back. Ryan had seen enough brutal, pointless violence to last a lifetime. The last thing he needed to witness was his own father joining the insanity. Instead, he kicked the broken radio at the group, causing one of the men to unsling his rifle. The sharp metallic sound of the M240 bolt sliding back and forth snapped through the air.

“Not a good idea, slick,” said Taylor. “We don’t recognize your Maine Independence Militia. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a bunch of fuck-stick locals stealing boats. I want all of your weapons on the ground. Right now. Just let them slide off your shoulders.”

The leader of the group didn’t react until the sound of the first few rifles hitting the hard rock surface jarred him out of his daze.

“Keep your weapons,” he said. “The RRZ doesn’t have any authority in the state anymore. We’ve declared independence from these assholes.”

Taylor raised his rifle and pointed it at the leader. Corporal Rickson followed his lead and assumed a tactical stance, aiming his rifle at the group.

“Since we don’t recognize each other’s authority, let’s go with firepower. I win,” said Taylor. “I want every weapon on the ground. This is for your own safety, and I’m not fucking around.”

“You’re gonna regret this,” said one of the men from the back of the group, dropping his rifle.

The rest of the weapons slid to the rocks, amidst audible, but indecipherable grumbling.

“What else is new,” said Taylor, glancing quickly at Alex. “You need anything else from these yahoos?”

“Just my sailboat,” said Alex.

“It’s gone,” said the leader. “Headed to Rockland.”

“Does the Coast Guard know what you’re up to?” said Alex.

“I have no idea,” said the man.

“Maybe they need to be notified that you’re stealing boats, starting with mine. They have a base in Rockland, and the last time I checked, they hadn’t committed treason against the United States,” said Alex.

“Treason? You’re kidding me, right? These stormtroopers are the ones that declared war on the United States and violated the constitution. Not us. The states aren’t obligated to obey the RRZ,” said the leader.

“Actually, they are. Congress passed the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill, which modified the Insurrection Act and made all of this a happy reality,” said Alex. “Maine’s senators, and most of its representatives, smiled and supported it. You should watch C-SPAN once in a while.”

“None of that matters now. The government doesn’t exist,” said a spindly looking guy in a hunting camouflage-patterned jacket.

“Trust me, it hasn’t gone away,” said Taylor. “Keep pulling shit like this, and you’ll find out exactly what I mean.”

“There’s more of us than you,” persisted the man.

Alex didn’t see this going anywhere productive. If they stayed and argued, he’d be sure to draw his pistol and make the situation worse.

“Fuck it. Keep the sailboat. You’re gonna need it when they shut down Searsport and nothing useful rolls into town,” said Alex. “Ready to get out of here, Staff Sergeant?”

“Ready to roll, sir,” said Taylor, keeping his rifle pointed at the leader’s chest.

“Once we get you out of Searsport, we won’t need the RRZ!” yelled the leader.

“Really? Who do you think directs these ships to the terminal? Governor Dague?” said Alex, shaking his head. “Better play nice, gentlemen. Rumor has it that Portland Harbor will be open for business soon. Want to take a wild guess on how many ships will pull into Searsport once that happens?”

“We’ll see about that,” said the man.

“By the way, I hope they replaced the impeller on the sailboat. I removed it last fall—in case someone stole the boat,” said Alex, checking his watch. “Fifteen minutes out? I bet that engine’s running pretty hot right now. Probably ready to shut down on them, if they haven’t blown a few seals already. Have a nice day, gentlemen.”

“Did you really remove that thing you mentioned?” said Taylor once they got behind the Matvee.

“Yeah. It supplies seawater to the cooling system. If they’re lucky, the diesel will shut down before any major damage occurs. Either way, the engine will require some TLC before it runs again,” said Alex. “Sorry I dragged you guys out here.”

“Are you kidding me? This is the most exciting thing we’ve done since you left,” said Taylor.

“Somehow I highly doubt that,” said Alex. “Seriously. I appreciate the assist.”

“Now what?” asked Taylor.

“Plan B, or C if you ask my wife,” said Alex.

“How is Mrs. Fletcher doing these days?”

“She’s doing well, but she’s not gonna be happy about Plan B.”

“Sounds like my kind of plan,” said Taylor.

Chapter 25

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Colonel Sean Grady sat at his makeshift desk in the battalion TOC, staring out of the hangar bay door at the same scene. Little changed except the sky. Helicopters flew in and out all day. Vehicles drove back and forth across the tarmac. Soldiers milled around the tents on the other side of the runway. It had all gone stale quicker than he imagined in the fall, which in many ways was a good thing. Stale kept his Marines alive, which was why he didn’t look forward to the RRZ’s imminent move.

Relocating the RRZ north to Portland was guaranteed to stir up a hornet’s nest, and the timing couldn’t be worse. The state governor’s declaration of independence from the RRZ had stoked the long-dormant embers of government distrust. Dormant wasn’t the right term. Frozen. The winter had been too damn cold and messy for people to worry about anything but keeping warm and staying fed—neither of which the population did well. When the winter’s survivors emerged from hibernation, Governor Dague didn’t waste a moment directing their anger at the federal government—particularly the RRZ.

Taking this circus north was going to cause a shit storm of protest throughout the state. Medina was planning a rapid, unannounced redeployment, leaving roughly one hundred and forty thousand Mainers on the wrong side of the fence. She was figuratively pulling the rug right out from under them. On top of that, the RRZ would abandon a few hundred thousand refugees barely scraping by in the FEMA camps along the New Hampshire border.

“Not really abandoning them,” Medina had insisted at their last commander’s meeting. They were welcome to relocate farther north and continue to be supported by the RRZ. Of course, the refugees would have to move the camps without help. Medina couldn’t spare the time or manpower to help them, since she wanted to arrive en masse at the Portland Jetport. RRZ officials didn’t want to give Governor Dague enough time to muster an armed protest or send elements of her National Guard battalion to complicate the move.

Dague was playing a dangerous, unpredictable game with her constituents. The RRZ structure was far from ideal, but it represented a real conduit between the federal government and recovery efforts. Materials, supplies, fuel, information—everything needed to jump start the nation flowed through Washington, D.C., and its proxies as defined by the National Recovery Plan. Under RRZ protocols, state governments functioned in a strictly advisory role unless the RRZ Authority decided to expand that function.

Dague had resisted the RRZ’s implementation from the beginning, essentially killing any chance of a mutually beneficial relationship. To Medina’s credit, RRZ leadership tried to integrate the governor’s staff into the decision-making structure, but her attempts were repeatedly rebuffed. Dague wasn’t interested in “helping” the RRZ. On a number of occasions, Maine’s governor very publicly stated, “Maine is better off without the RRZ.” She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Grady’s ROTAC phone buzzed, vibrating the table. He lifted it from a coffee-stained map and checked the digital display, which read “Centurion.” The garrison in Searsport. Things had been quiet up there since he left Captain Williams and twenty-four Marines to ensure the facility’s continued support of the RRZ.

Dague had played along with the establishment of the garrison, only to spin the nature of the agreement in her favor. According to Dague, the Searsport garrison was the first overt step in the RRZ’s “quiet war” against Maine. She declared independence from the RRZ in the same speech. The state would have been better off if Grady had arrested her at the terminal and displaced the National Guard unit. He pressed connect on the phone.

“This is Patriot,” he said.

“Sean, this is Alex Fletcher.”

“Alex!” he said, drawing a few looks from the Marines. “I thought you might have moved on to warmer weather. Good to hear your voice.”

“Well, it’s hard to leave good friends. We decided to stay at the lake and make a go of it,” said Alex.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Grady. “We could use a friend or two up north.”

“That’s what I’ve come to understand. I borrowed Staff Sergeant Taylor to help me with a Maine Independence Initiative problem,” said Alex.

“Shit. Please tell me it didn’t go sideways,” said Grady.

“The biggest fallout will be some hurt egos,” said Alex.

“Shattered egos can lead to big problems, Alex.”

“We didn’t push it too far. The state confiscated my sailboat, which I was about to use to get out of here.”

“You’re leaving?” said Grady.

“That’s only part of it. Food is getting a little scarce up here. I added eight mouths to the equation by staying, which burned through our supplies faster than I anticipated. I don’t think we can plant enough food for seventeen people, and the way things are shaking out up here, it doesn’t look like we’ll be able to take food from King Dague’s land. They’re co-opting everything up here. I figured I’d make it a little easier for everyone by leaving.”

“I have a feeling they’re way better off with you around. We all are,” said Grady, pausing. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to make a little trade,” said Alex.

“I can run some supplies up your way, Alex. I know you don’t want to ask, but I’d be more than happy to help out,” said Grady.

“And I would have given you the information I have regardless, though I’ll take you up on your offer. I might not have to if my suspicions are correct,” said Alex.

“Information. Sounds interesting. What does the infamous Captain Fletcher know that we don’t?”

“Let me ask you this. What does the RRZ know about 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment?” said Alex.

“I know the battalion aligned itself with the state,” said Grady, testing the extent of Alex’s knowledge.

“Because the commanding officer and executive officer are MIA?”

“Sounds like you’ve done a little digging,” said Grady.

“So you already know?”

“I met the new battalion commander in Searsport,” said Grady. “I got the impression he didn’t understand the full national picture.”

“Interesting,” said Alex.

“Why do you say that?”

“Did you notice their equipment?”

“Yeah, the Adaptive Combat Rifle mystery has been solved. I’m just glad their Cat Five load out didn’t include heavy vehicle-mounted weapons,” said Grady.

“I don’t think they received their Category Five load out,” said Alex.

“No. I saw new rifles,” said Grady.

“They’ve had those for a few years. I saw the ACRs in a news segment on one of the local channels,” said Alex. “Sean, they didn’t get a Category Five load out. I talked to a few soldiers from the battalion. They’d never heard the words ‘Cat Five.’ One of them was a sergeant. Every Marine in your battalion knows about the Category Five equipment.”

Grady thought about this for a moment. Jesus. If Alex was right, Governor Dague might be sitting on enough vehicles and weapons to equip another battalion. At the very least, she could upgrade her current National Guard battalion, which could embolden her.

“This isn’t good,” said Grady. “The last thing Governor Dague needs is a shiny new battalion to play with.”

“Are you sure the RRZ doesn’t already know this? The biometric security system on each of the CONEX boxes delivered to Sanford Airport was registered to your fingerprints. I find it hard to believe that they can’t monitor access,” said Alex.

Hard to believe, indeed.

“The boxes sent to Sanford were processed after the event. My biometric information and the override code that I gave you were uploaded immediately prior to the boxes being shipped from a central facility somewhere in the Midwest. The Category Five gear at Fort Devens was accessed by the codes in my secure Cat Five pod. Only I had the combination to the pod. We’re talking several reinforced warehouses filled with vehicles, weapons, ammunition, supplies—everything needed for thirty days of sustained operations. The warehouses were located in a secure, stand-alone facility within Fort Devens.”

“How could Dague not know about this? National Guard units across the state accessed load outs, all of them reporting for duty to the RRZ authority,” said Alex.

Alex was too perceptive for an impromptu conversation.

“3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry is Maine’s only battalion-sized, combat-deployable unit. The vast majority of National Guard units in the state are service and support groups like the transportation detachment and the engineering company assigned to Sanford Airport. Aside from new communications equipment, computers and repair items, they had all of the gear they needed to accomplish their assigned RRZ tasks. To Dague and her staff, nothing would have looked out of place with the other National Guard units. Hell, even I didn’t put it together. I figured they picked up new rifles, and that was the extent of it. Why would they need new vehicles and heavy gear when a brigade from the 10th Mountain Division was doing most of the security work in the state? Bad assumption.”

“I bet she knows that 3rd Battalion doesn’t belong to her,” said Alex.

“Oh, I guarantee she does. I imagine it became very clear when every unit in Maine gave her the one-finger salute—except for 3rd Battalion. Once she figured out that the CO and XO were MIA, I’m sure she took every necessary step to insulate 3rd Battalion from the rest of the units. The new commanding officer probably has no idea that she played him.”

“She sounds like a clever one,” said Alex.

“Very clever—and very dangerous. I don’t think she understands the stakes. Medina has been extremely patient with her,” said Grady.

“Well, if you happen to secure 3rd Battalion’s load out, I could use any rations you find,” said Alex.

Grady laughed. “Sounds like an even trade to me. I could do one better and establish a Forward Operating Base at your position on the lake. You’re close to Waterville, and it looks like you have easy access to the interstate and roads heading into western Maine. The RRZ wants to establish a remote presence north of Portland.”

“Why? Are you guys headed north?” Alex asked.

Alex’s question caught him off guard, though it was a logical deduction based on Grady’s suggestion to put an FOB near Waterville—in retrospect.

“None of the Marines beyond the officers on my headquarters staff know we’re moving. Play along and say something like ‘just kidding.’”

“I’m out of earshot,” said Alex. “When is this happening?”

“I don’t have the date, but I do know that when it happens, it’ll go fast. Medina wants us out of here within two days of making the general announcement. She doesn’t want to give Governor Dague enough time to coordinate a response.”

Alex remained silent. Grady knew the wheels inside Fletcher’s head were spinning, trying to calculate the overall impact of the move on his situation.

“This is a bad idea,” said Alex. “She’ll have trouble coming at her from two sides.”

“That was our assessment of the situation. The refugees will move north, pushing against the residents of southern Maine.

“You’ll have your hands full trying to police the relocation of FEMA camps in York County.”

“The refugees will be on their own, aside from supplies provided by the RRZ,” said Grady. “Medina even plans to stop patrolling and administering the camps, to free soldiers for other northern garrisons.”

“Like the one you want to put near my house?” said Alex.

“That one would be much smaller,” said Grady.

“I think I’ll take a pass on the FOB, Sean,” said Alex. “I can’t afford to paint a bull’s-eye on my family again.”

“Understood,” said Grady. “Just trying to help my old company commander.”

“Old is the operative term. I appreciate the offer, but we should be fine with whatever rations you can spare from the load out—if that’s still on the table. I’d like to keep my life as uncomplicated as possible for now,” said Alex.

Grady was relieved to hear that Alex wasn’t interested in the FOB.

“There’s only one catch in getting you the supplies, Alex,” said Grady. “And it’s a big one.”

“Always a catch.”

“It’s not my doing. I would gladly deliver what you need, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to get my hands on the supplies. Medina won’t assign my battalion to secure the load out. She’ll task Colonel Martin’s 4th Brigade Combat Team with that. They’ll put every helicopter at their disposal into an air assault on the facility and call it good. I won’t be involved in any way. The only way I can guarantee you the supplies is with an FOB,” said Grady.

“I can’t do that, Sean. Even if I were to consider the idea, which I’m not, I can’t take the risk of Medina pulling the FOB away when shit gets crazy up here, and it will get crazy if she doesn’t figure out a way to work with the state government.”

“There’s one other possibility, but it falls well outside of the uncomplicated zone,” said Grady.

“I’m listening,” said Alex.

“I don’t think Kate will like this option,” said Grady.

“You’re killing me, Sean. What are we talking about?”

“All right. Let’s say I got my hands on the codes to open the warehouses, and I passed them on to you…”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” said Alex. “I’m not exactly working with SEAL Team Six here.”

“Your crew can hold its own,” said Grady, remembering Staff Sergeant Taylor’s after-action report detailing the attack on Alex’s house in Limerick. “More than hold its own.”

“I don’t know. We’re looking at too many unknown variables,” said Alex.

“I’m just throwing it out there for you. The warehouses are probably in an obscure, out-of-the-way location for security reasons. Beyond the stares and glares you’d get for driving a vehicle, you might be looking at an easy mission. Once you get inside the facility, it’s just a matter of locating the right warehouse. Everything is stacked for quick access. You load up as much food as possible and lock up on the way out. Nobody will notice a few missing pallets of B-rats or MREs.”

“You make it sound so easy,” said Alex. “Like nobody else has thought of this.”

“You can recon the area and decide if it’s a go.”

“I don’t have enough gas to be driving back and forth between reconnaissance trips.”

“Staff Sergeant Taylor can top you off and give you extra cans of gas,” said Grady. “He’ll give you a ROTAC, too. Sanitized, of course.”

“How many sanitized radios does the battalion have at this point?” said Alex.

“As many as we can get away with creating,” said Grady, hoping Alex didn’t press him on why.

“I see,” Alex replied. “I’ll take the fuel and the radio, but I need to run this by Kate and the others.”

Grady sensed a shift in Alex’s tone. He’d gone flat, possibly putting together the pieces that didn’t fit.

“Sounds like a plan, Alex,” said Grady. “I’ll work on acquiring the codes and location.”

“I can’t wait,” said Alex. “And, Sean?”

Here it comes. No way this got past him.

“Yeah?” said Grady.

“Can you do me a favor and let Harrison Campbell know what’s about to happen?” Alex asked. “He knows where to find me if he’s interested in getting ahead of the storm.”

Or heading straight into it.

“I’ll send someone to give him a heads-up. You sure you want more mouths to feed?” asked Grady.

“If Harrison Campbell decides to join us, our situation would drastically improve,” said Alex. “I’ll be in touch shortly.”

“Sounds good, Alex. Stay safe,” said Grady, disconnecting the call.

He leaned back in his folding chair, staring at the RRZ Authority compound on the other side of the airport. Alex’s call had been sheer providence. Medina’s recent actions didn’t add up, and Grady suspected there was more to the impending RRZ relocation than the military commanders had been told. He selected a preset call sign on his “sanitized” ROTAC and pressed send. Colonel Richard Martin, 4th Brigade Combat Team’s commanding officer, answered immediately.

“What’s up, Sean?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve found an untraceable way to verify our problem,” said Grady.

“A reliable way?”

“As reliable as it gets. A good friend,” said Grady.

“He may not be your friend when this is over.”

“He’ll understand,” said Grady. “Either way, he should be insulated from the fallout.”

“If this is what we think—nobody will be insulated.”

“Let’s hope he finds what he’s looking for,” said Grady.

Chapter 26

Belgrade, Maine

Alex slumped into the couch facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the deck and the lake. He looked weary, but not from physical work. Mentally exasperated might be a more accurate description. Within the span of three days, he’d seen one plan after another crumble beneath them.

Kate sensed a big decision hinging on this conversation, which jaded her perception of his state of mind. Conflicted?

The boat wasn’t an option, which meant they were staying. But Alex seemed unsettled. She could see it on his face. He was about to propose something that wouldn’t sit well with any of them, especially her. She glanced at Alex’s father, imperceptibly raising an eyebrow. He returned the gesture with a similarly subtle tightening of his lips. Amy Fletcher caught their exchange and shook her head.

“What’s going on?” demanded Alex’s mom. “Why all the secret looks?”

“Nana’s on a tear this morning,” said Ryan, setting a glass of water on the coffee table and sitting next to Kate.

“Never mind, young man,” said Amy Fletcher. “Your father looks like he’s seen a ghost, and your mom is twitching her eyes at your grandpa. Something’s up.”

Kate was glad Amy jumped in. Alex might have sat there for ten minutes, grimacing and winding up for what he had to say. Alex’s mother leaned forward in the leather armchair next to the flagstone fireplace and raised her palms. “Well?”

“Well what, Mom?” Alex said testily. “Is it possible for you to settle down a little?”

“No, it’s not. I’m hungry and cranky. Lunch is simmering, and I’d like to eat.”

Alex rolled his eyes, and Kate almost laughed. Alex and his mom had been at each other since they reduced the food rations. Neither one of them had responded well to the cutback, which had provided plenty of comical moments in the house. Kate and Tim had shared hundreds of “looks” over the past month, as the two of them bickered about every possible mundane facet of living.

“All right, you two,” said Tim. “What are we looking at, Alex?”

Alex weighed his thoughts and started, “There might be an easy way to solve our food problem.”

“Nothing easy is worth having,” said Tim.

“I think it’s ‘nothing worth having comes easy,’” Amy corrected.

“I was just saying,” said Tim, shaking his head.

“Well, you have to get it right if you’re going to say it,” said Amy.

“I’m living with the Bickertons,” muttered Alex, causing Ryan to laugh.

“Anyway. What is this supposedly easy way to solve the food issue?” said Kate. “Before the three of you kill each other—over food.”

“It involves a trip to the Bangor area,” said Alex, grimacing.

“That sounds risky,” said Kate.

“We’d be on the interstate for most of the trip,” Alex explained, “which is probably the safest way to travel.”

“Most of the trip,” stated Tim.

“Most of it. The rest will be spent on local roads, presumably well outside of Bangor city limits, searching for a storage facility.”

Ryan shifted uncomfortably on the couch next to Kate, avoiding eye contact. Alex was omitting way more than he was including in his description of the trip.

“Just a storage facility?” Kate asked.

“Doesn’t sound too bad. How far away from the interstate?” said Tim.

“I don’t know yet, Dad—and it’s not any old storage facility. Something a little different,” said Alex, meeting Kate’s eyes. “And a lot bigger.”

“What are we talking about?” she asked.

“A battalion-sized Category Five load-out depot. Probably twenty to thirty warehouses of gear and supplies. Untouched. There’s enough food in a depot like that to feed five to six hundred soldiers for thirty days,” said Alex.

Tim Fletcher whistled. Kate had to admit, it sounded like a tempting prospect. With the SUV, Jeep, and trailer, they could load up enough food to last another winter. Possibly more. They might even consider two trips. Two years of food security. It sounded too good to be true.

“Untouched?” said Kate. “How is that possible?”

“A crazy set of circumstances,” said Alex. “One of the soldiers we ran into yesterday said something odd. It led me to believe that the battalion based out of Bangor hadn’t been issued their category five equipment,” said Alex, explaining the rest of his conversation with Lieutenant Colonel Grady.

Kate processed the story, analyzing the variables and identifying potential risks or flaws in their logic. Overall, it seemed like a relatively low-risk venture, as long as Alex approached the facility with caution. Still, a few aspects of the mission didn’t add up.

“Why doesn’t Grady send someone to check it out?” asked Kate.

“This is the only way it stays a secret long enough for us to take what we need,” said Alex.

“Doesn’t he have a few vehicles without tracking devices?” she said.

“Yeah, but, I don’t know, honey. This has to be easier than trying to sneak an armored vehicle two hundred miles through Maine. We’ll do this carefully. If anything seems out of place, we bolt,” said Alex.

“Assuming it’s not too late,” said Kate.

“I can’t imagine we’ll run into a problem. If the facility is being used, we’ll know before we get too close. My biggest concern is attracting the wrong kind of attention from locals,” said Alex.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Ryan said.

Kate shared a quick look with Alex.

“Nothing we want to handle,” said Alex. “The name of the game is avoidance, Mr. Ryan.”

“I was just saying,” said his son.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that,” said Kate.

Before Ryan could respond, Alex shook his head and pointed at their son. “Ryan’s coming,” said Alex. “We need two people per vehicle.”

“Take your new neighbor friend,” Kate suggested, “or your dad.”

“Hey, why did I get listed behind the neighbor?” Tim groused.

“I’m going, Mom,” said Ryan. “Dad and I are a team. It’s already decided.”

Kate shook her head. “I don’t want the two of you out there.”

“Why not?” Ryan persisted.

Kate didn’t want to answer.

“She doesn’t want to lose both of you,” said Amy. “I know where she’s coming from.”

“We’ll be fine, Mom. Seriously, it’s a one-hour drive each way. I’ll keep Dad out of trouble.”

“I need Ryan, Kate. He’s far more observant than either Charlie or Ed, and we won’t take any unnecessary chances. I promise.”

“You were about to say that he’s better in a gunfight,” said Kate.

“Firefight,” Ryan corrected.

“Same thing,” she said, glaring at her son.

“I’m a lot more careful with him around,” said Alex. “Plus I feel safer.”

“You better not let anything happen to my boy.”

Tim chuckled. “I have a feeling Ryan is the one keeping tabs on his dad.”

Kate appreciated their attempts to lighten the conversation, but she wasn’t in the mood for the distraction. Her analytical mind wasn’t finished with the scenario. “We have enough gas for this?” she asked.

“Staff Sergeant Taylor filled up the SUV and gave us twenty additional gallons. Waterville to Bangor is fifty-five miles. Depending on the exact location of the storage site, we could be looking at a one hundred to one hundred and twenty mile round trip,” Alex told her. “We’ll be in good shape, even if the mission is a bust. Taylor sends his best, by the way.”

“How did he get stuck in Searsport?”

“Luck of the draw,” said Alex. “Plus he’s one of the best staff NCOs in the battalion.”

“Why can’t they make the trip? Never mind. Tracking devices. Big brother again.”

Big brother. Huh. She started to form a thought; then Amy stood up from her seat.

“What else?” asked Amy. “I’m starving.”

“What are you cooking up?” Tim asked.

“Everyone’s favorite. Savory stroganoff and barbeque beans with natural bacon flavor.”

“Yeah, everyone’s favorite,” Alex repeated flatly.

Kate stifled a laugh. “I sure as hell hope you find something other than freeze-dried food in one of those warehouses.”

“Careful what you wish for,” said Alex. “We’re looking at B-rations and MREs. After about twenty days of those, you’ll be begging for savory stroganoff.”

They all laughed, except for Kate. Something bugged her about the whole deal, though it did seem to be pretty straightforward. Not a lot of “moving parts,” as Alex would say.

“When will you leave?” she asked.

“As soon as Grady sends me the location and the codes to access the facility.”

“I don’t like the fact that he’s doing this on the sly. Something doesn’t add up.”

“It’s funny you say that,” said Alex. “I kind of had the same feeling when I was talking to him.”

“Maybe you need to trust your instincts.”

“My instincts say we have to take the chance,” said Alex. “Otherwise, we’ll have to think seriously about taking Grady up on his offer to station Marines here. We know that’s not a good option.”

“If this trip doesn’t pan out, we’ll have to consider it.”

Chapter 27

Belgrade, Maine

Alex and Ryan looked ready for a small war—in stark contrast to Ed’s interpretation of their “road trip” north. He’d anticipated the rifles, but not the full military load out. Tactical vests, thigh holsters, dozens of extra magazines, night vision. Not at all what he expected. Certainly not what he had been led to believe, or he wouldn’t have been so quick to approve of the trip. He gave the trailer hitch coupler lever a tug to make sure it was secure before stepping away from the Jeep.

“Did I miss the war declaration?” Ed asked wryly, shrugging his shoulders.

“You’re still funny,” said Alex, smiling as he patted the hand guard of his rifle. “Just a precaution. I really don’t expect a problem, but I’m not taking any chances. Not with something this important.”

Ed shook his head, breaking a grin. “Charlie’s gonna throw a fit. I told him civilian clothes and a stripped-down rifle. This could add an hour to our departure.”

“Mr. Walker, is Chloe inside?” Ryan inquired.

“She’s out back, but I don’t want…I think you might scare her looking like that,” said Ed. “Can it wait until we get back?”

Ryan’s eyes darted between the house and Ed. “Sure, Mr. Walker. Sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

He looked genuinely apologetic and extremely disappointed.

“No worries, Ryan. I didn’t expect your dad to show up dressed like a Navy SEAL,” said Ed, winking.

The front door of his cottage slammed with a sharp crack, announcing Charlie’s arrival. Without looking in Charlie’s direction, he patted Alex’s shoulder.

“Don’t antagonize him, please,” said Ed, getting the words in before Charlie started his diatribe.

“What the hell? Why do I look like I’m going to church, and the Fletchers are dressed for prolonged combat operations?” said Charlie, jogging up to them.

“We took a vote and decided to suit up the most capable in the group,” said Alex.

“What?” Charlie stomped.

“Alex,” Ed warned. “Don’t.”

“Just kidding, my friend. I made a last minute decision to enhance the group’s security posture,” said Alex, checking his watch. “We have time if you want to bump it up a few notches.”

“I told you,” said Charlie, pointing at Ed. “Be back in a few minutes.”

“Before you go, let’s take a quick look at the map. I just got the coordinates and access codes from Grady. Looks even easier than I originally thought,” said Alex. “Closer at least. Grab your map, Ed.”

Alex pulled a folded map out of one of the pouches on his vest and expanded it on the hood of the Jeep. When everyone was situated around the map, he pointed to an area northwest of Bangor International Airport. A pencil mark was visible near the end of a road that appeared to stop at the western boundary of the airport.

“Mark this on your map, Ed,” said Alex.

Ed reached into the front seat and grabbed his map, refolding it so the airport was centered in the middle of the compact map area. He laid it on top of Alex’s and copied the location with a pen from his pocket. Alex watched him with a pained look.

“What?” said Ed.

“Using a pen on a map—ughh,” said Alex.

“Marine Corps no-no? Sorry, I didn’t have a chance to run to Staples to buy office supplies,” said Ed, finishing his sacred transgression against the map. “Runway Road looks like a dead end.”

“It’d be easy to box us in there,” said Charlie.

“Yeah. We’ll have to make an assessment when we turn off New Boston Road. It’s a quarter of a mile from the turnoff to the point where Grady said we should find the first gate leading to the facility on the left side of the road,” said Alex, shifting his finger to an area north of the road. “The storage depot is up here somewhere.”

“You sure you want to do this during daylight hours?” said Charlie.

“I don’t want to be dicking around in the dark—especially on unfamiliar ground. We’ll push our arrival as close to sunset as possible, so we don’t have to use our lights going in. I presume we’ll be coming out of there after dark. Is everyone good with that?”

Nobody had a problem with the plan, which didn’t surprise Ed. The drive from the interstate to the storage site looked easy enough. Maybe five to six miles tops, depending on which interstate exit they used. Keeping the lights off on the way in was important. Few things would draw more attention than a pair of headlights, and the last thing they wanted to do was attract any local attention. Alex had no idea how long it might take them to locate the food once they reached the warehouse depot. If people from one of the nearby neighborhoods decided to investigate, they’d have an audience on their hands at the facility. The less distance between the interstate and the storage site, the better.

“Which exit do you anticipate taking?” asked Ed.

“Probably the Cold Brook Road exit. I don’t want to jump off the interstate any sooner than necessary. The exit before Cold Brook will require us to snake through a handful of rural roads to find Route 2,” said Alex.

“I was just going to say that we should keep this as simple as possible,” said Ed.

Alex nodded. “I agree. It’s a fairly straight shot to New Boston Road from Cold Brook. Three turns in total. Easy deal if we get separated.”

“We don’t separate,” said Ed, wondering why he would say something like that.

“Not on purpose, but we need to consider every possibility. If we find ourselves separated and unable to communicate via radio, I say we get on the interstate and head south to the Hampden Road exit. Go a little past the exit and pull to the side of the interstate,” said Alex.

“What if one of us is forced to take Route 2 past that exit?”

“Then you keep going and head home,” Alex replied. “Whoever makes it to the exit waits an hour and returns to base.”

“This group doesn’t separate,” said Ed. “Under any circumstances.”

Alex shook his head.

“Now what?” said Ed. “Did I violate another sacred Marine Corps rule?”

Alex grinned. “No. You just reminded that I almost forgot the most important rule. Never leave a Marine behind, or in this case, never leave a friend behind. We stay together no matter what.”

Chapter 28

Hermon, Maine

Interstate 95 had been empty…and not in a two o’clock in the morning, sparse traffic kind of way. They’d seen nothing. Not a single car, stopped or moving, on either side of the four-lane highway for fifty-three miles. It was the loneliest feeling Alex could recall—ever. For the first time since waking up on his sailboat to a bizarre purplish-red glowing sky, he felt pangs of hopelessness.

The rapidly approaching green sign read Exit 180 Cold Brook Rd. Hermon. Hampden. They were less than fifteen minutes from the moment of truth. Alex glanced at his watch. 7:08 PM. They were cutting it close. Sunset was in thirty-four minutes.

“Radio Charlie and let him know this is the exit,” said Alex.

Ryan grabbed the radio from the center console while Alex scanned the off-ramp ahead. They had heard reports over the HAM radio that some of the towns along the turnpike had erected barricades to dissuade travelers from exiting. Of course, they’d heard this during the late fall, when they could still power the radio with the deep cycle batteries they had brought from the Limerick compound.

He doubted any of these blockades were still active at this point. There was nobody on the road to stop. Winter had effectively sealed everyone in place—permanently. For most civilians, where you stood today was most likely where you’d stand a year from now. Maybe longer.

“They’re good, Dad,” said Ryan.

Alex eased the car onto the ramp, glancing in his rearview mirror to confirm that Ed followed. The turn tightened after the shallow exit drive, bringing them several hundred feet away from the interstate and eventually winding left to reveal distant stop signs flanking the road. They arrived at Cold Brook Road, searching for signs of activity. Like the highway, the town of Hampden, Maine, appeared dormant.

“Looks clear,” said Ryan, staring south with binoculars.

“Fucking ghost town,” muttered Alex, staring at the empty gas station and variety store across the street. “Make sure they stay really close.” He accelerated north onto Cold Brook Road.

When they crossed over the turnpike, Alex glanced out of the driver’s side window at the empty highway. Ahead of them, a sprawling complex of oversized gas stations and long, one-story garages appeared, surrounded by dozens of what he assumed were abandoned semitrailers. As they cruised past the once popular truck stop, Alex scanned for signs of recent activity. He noticed a few of the red gas tank covers next to one of the stations sat overturned on the asphalt, a clear indication that the underground tanks had been pumped dry.

Smart. Without electricity, the station wouldn’t be able to pump the gas without an independent generator. Depending on when they were last filled before the event, the tanks represented a sizable cache of different fuels—from diesel to premium-unleaded gasoline. Most stations held up to 40,000 gallons of fuel, but an interstate stop like this might hold twice as much, the difference represented by the diesel fuel greedily consumed by semitrailers. He wondered who had arrived to pump the fuel. The state? Someone like Eli Russell?

He kept the cars moving north toward Route 2, passing a tall, dark gray silo set amidst a sea of one-story warehouses, local businesses, and empty parking lots. The area looked untouched by time, which was mostly true. Few people had likely visited this road since winter arrived.

By the time they reached Route 2, the businesses had given way to modest homes set back from the road. In another month or two, thick foliage from the trees and bushes would obscure most of the houses from the two-lane road.

“Mr. Thornton says it’s creepy up here,” said Ryan.

“He isn’t joking,” said Alex, keeping conversation to a minimum so his son could concentrate.

Just above the horizon, the sun was a deep red globe surrounded by fiery orange clouds when they turned onto New Boston Road. The north-south orientation of the pine-tree-lined road yielded a deep canopy of shadows. If they had arrived fifteen minutes later, he might have reconsidered their headlights ban. Alex impatiently watched the digital odometer measure the mile and a half to Runway Road. He also counted about twenty driveways before they reached their final turn, surprised to find so many homes on a crumbling road near one of the business ends of the airport.

He slowed at a stop sign next to a red, two-story barn, looking in each direction along Runway Road before turning right. They were on the final stretch. Alex’s stomach tightened as the car accelerated past several widely spaced mobile homes situated parallel to the road. The road deteriorated once they passed the last trailer home, bits of asphalt rattling around the SUV’s wheel wells. Tall pine trees flanked the road, followed on the right side by a string of worn electrical poles. Someone had decided to run electricity beyond the last cluster of houses on Runway Road.

Using the same trick his son had used at Johnny’s Seeds, he watched for the point where the electrical lines crossed the road, figuring it would lead them to the storage site turnoff. Less than a minute later, despite the growing darkness, he spotted the lines.

“I bet that’s it,” he said, slowing the SUV.

The overhead lines approached, and he knew they were in the right place. The trees opened on the left side of the road, revealing a wide asphalt reinforced turnoff leading into the forest. The turnoff was clearly designed to accommodate large, multi-axle vehicles coming in or out of the hidden storage. Alex turned the SUV and pointed at the sturdy road penetrating the forest, activating his high beams. Roughly a hundred feet down the road, a chain-link cantilever gate shined in the darkness.

“This is it,” he said, shutting off the lights.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that Ed had brought the Jeep to a stop at the edge of the turnoff, hopefully keeping an eye on the road they had just travelled.

“I’m going to reposition Ed and Charlie. They’ll watch the entrance while we recon the site.”

“Got it,” said Ryan, reaching between the front seats and lifting his rifle out of the rear passenger foot well. “Mind if I check out the gate?”

“That’s fine. Bring the NVGs and scan as far forward as possible, but don’t go past the gate,” said Alex. “And watch yourself. We have no idea what we’re going to find here.”

“Yep,” said Ryan, getting out of the car.

Alex turned the car off and opened the door, standing outside for several moments, listening. Beyond the low rumble of the Jeep’s engine, all he detected was the light rustle of the pines in the breeze. He signaled for Ed to stop the Jeep’s engine. Moments later, the sound of the pine boughs intensified, no longer masked by the Jeep’s idling engine. He closed his eyes and listened. Absolutely nothing.

Ryan appeared on the other side of the SUV’s hood, strapping a pair of NVGs over a backward-facing, olive green ball cap. He looked calm, but serious. The past nine months had prematurely stripped away the child, leaving an undeveloped adult behind. The transition had been too quick. Ryan filled the void by embracing the warrior culture, the only thing he knew since the event. The result had been chilling, more for Alex than Kate, because he recognized the façade Ryan wore, day in and day out.

He’d seen it on the faces of the young Marines in Iraq, who had been completely unprepared for what they’d seen on the road to Baghdad. A disaffected mask of calm confidence and bravado. It wasn’t a bad thing. They’d all worn the mask at one point or another. None of them had been prepared for the horrors they’d experienced, just like his son couldn’t have known that he’d wake up in Boston one morning to a changed world. Ryan had responded better than Alex expected; he would have been a good Marine officer. He wore the mask better than most.

“Careful, and use your radio headset,” said Alex.

Ryan nodded enthusiastically, removing a wired earpiece from one of the pouches on his vest. Alex did the same, testing his radio. When they were on the same channel, Ryan walked down the access road, his rifle in the patrol carry position. Alex jogged over to the Jeep.

“Where’s Ryan going?” Ed asked, glancing nervously around at the trees.

“There’s a gate about a hundred feet down the road,” said Alex. “He’s going to check it out.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“He’s not going any farther than the gate,” said Alex.

He glanced across the front seat at Charlie, who was watching the road behind them with binoculars.

“How does it look back there?” Alex asked him.

“Looks clear. We didn’t see a soul on the way in,” said Charlie. “It’s almost like they evacuated this part of the state.”

“Looks can be deceiving. I’m sure there are plenty of folks around,” said Alex. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“I’m almost wondering if we can’t make two trips.”

“The thought crossed my mind,” said Alex. “We have enough gas, though it would pretty much exhaust our supply. Let’s see how the first trip goes before we start making plans for a second.”

“I just want to get the hell out of here,” said Ed. “Can we move this along?”

“Not a bad idea. I was thinking you should park facing the way we came, so you could keep an eye on the road while we make our way down to the site,” said Alex. “Just in case we attracted any unwanted attention on the drive in.”

“Are you planning on driving the rest of the way in?” asked Charlie, eyes still peering through the binoculars.

“I think we should be fine driving down. There’s nothing out here. We’ll talk on our primary channel,” said Alex, tapping the handheld radio clipped to his vest. “You still have the piece of paper with the gate codes?”

“No, Alex. The paper flew out of my hands while we were speeding up the turnpike. I didn’t want to say anything,” said Charlie.

Ed chuckled.

“Sorry. Old habit, I guess,” said Alex, pausing for a second. “Not that I couldn’t picture you losing the codes.”

“Nice,” mumbled Charlie.

“Don’t worry, Alex. We got this covered,” said Ed. “I’m keeping a close eye on Scarface here.”

“Scarface? Where did that come from?” said Charlie.

“Oh boy,” mumbled Alex.

“I distinctly remember you yelling, ‘Say hello to my little friend,’ when Eli Russell’s crew was rushing the cottage,” said Ed.

Charlie shook his head. “I don’t think I said that.”

“My wife heard you say it,” said Ed. “Pretty much everyone heard you say it.”

“I highly doubt I’d say something like that,” insisted Charlie. “I haven’t seen that movie in years.”

“Just like the good ole days,” said Alex. “I miss this.”

“How about I put him in your car for the drive back?” said Ed.

“Hey!” Charlie protested. “I have feelings too.”

Ed laughed. “We’ll be waiting for your call.”

Chapter 29

Bangor, Maine

Alex walked ahead of the creeping SUV, approaching the gate with a small notepad in his left hand. His other hand swept a powerful LED flashlight beam back and forth, searching for anything out of place. Several feet in front of the gate, he stopped in front of a black box mounted to the side of a thick metal pole. After checking for obvious booby traps, he lifted the latches on the box and opened the weather-sealed cover, revealing an illuminated keypad. Holding the notebook next to the keypad, he pressed the fifteen-digit code—followed by the # sign. The gate rumbled on its track, retracting into the forest on the right side of the road.

He wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or a bad one. Anything connected to the grid’s power distribution system would be vulnerable to the massive energy surge created by the electromagnetic pulse, so Alex assumed the gate was connected to an independent battery pack, something sizable and long lasting. Unfortunately, he wasn’t familiar enough with the Category Five storage facilities to be sure. For all he knew, on-demand generators at the storage site powered the gates. He didn’t care either way, as long as the site was still abandoned.

“The first gate is open. We’re heading through. Any new developments out front?” Alex asked, stepping through the gate opening.

“Negative,” said Charlie. “It’s dark and quiet.”

“Perfect. Let’s hope it stays that way,” said Alex, waving Ryan forward. “I don’t know how far this road goes into the forest. Hopefully not too far. It’s even darker in here.”

“We’re ready if you need us,” said Charlie.

“Sounds good. Fingers crossed, guys,” said Alex.

“And toes,” Charlie added.

Alex crossed behind the SUV and jumped in the front passenger seat, sticking his rifle through the open window. Ryan kept his head forward, watching the road in front of them through the NVGs.

“Anything?” asked Alex.

“Has to be a turn up there somewhere. I’ve got a wall of trees across the road in the distance,” said Ryan.

“That’s kind of what I figured,” said Alex. “Last thing they need is someone staring down the road at a bunch of warehouses.”

“Just like our property in Limerick,” said Ryan.

“Yeah,” said Alex, remembering the nearly perfect sanctuary they were forced to leave. He adjusted his rifle, pushing the vertical fore grip against the side mirror and bracing the adjustable stock in his shoulder. “Take it slow. Fifteen miles per hour. Call out anything you see.”

The SUV eased forward, its tires crackling over frequent pinecones and small branches. Every sound hit Alex’s ears like a gunshot, causing him to reconsider his plan to approach the storage site perimeter by vehicle. He dismissed the thoughts as paranoia, the crunching sounds reinforcing his assessment that the road hadn’t been used in months.

Alex peered into the thickening darkness ahead of the vehicle, unable to distinguish the road from the forest less than a hundred feet away.

“Definitely a left turn coming up,” said Ryan.

“Got it,” said Alex. “Do you need any IR illumination?”

“No. Looks like a gradual turn. Maybe two hundred feet away,” said Ryan.

Alex activated his radio. “Coming up on a left turn. I’m guessing about a thousand feet from the gate. I’ll throw a chemlight onto the road to mark the turn, just in case I need you to approach without lights.”

“Roger,” said Charlie. “Standing by.”

Alex removed a chemlight from one of the pouches on his vest and waited for the turn. He spotted the turn in the last vestiges of dark blue light and cracked the green chemlight, holding it outside of the SUV so it wouldn’t obscure Ryan’s windshield view. When he felt the vehicle turn, Alex dropped the glow stick, leaving the marker behind.

“Can you see the chemlight?” Alex asked.

“Affirmative. Green chemlight on the road,” Charlie replied. “Looks like a straight shot all the way to the turn. We could see your brake lights the whole way.”

“Yeah. No surprises so far,” said Alex, staring ahead as the SUV straightened out of the turn.

“I have a tall fence line coming up in maybe five hundred feet. I’m pretty sure there’s a gate, but it’s still a little hazy. No lights at all coming from beyond the gate,” said Ryan.

“Good. Take us about a hundred feet out from the fence. I’ll recon the site on foot, from the forest,” said Alex, switching over to his headset.

“We have another gate coming up,” said Alex. “The site looks dark.”

“Copy,” said Charlie.

Alex asked Ryan, “Still nothing past the fence?”

“Totally dark,” said Ryan. “And definitely a second gate. I can see a keypad box on the left side.”

Alex could detect the empty space between the opaque pines flanking the road, but little beyond that. The early night sky was unwilling to lend any illumination to the scene beyond the windshield. The SUV slowed, coming to a halt in the murkiness.

“We’re about a hundred feet out,” said Ryan.

“Shut her down for now,” said Alex. “And I’ll need the NVGs.”

Ryan stopped the engine, pulling the keys out of the ignition. Alex opened the door and checked his gear while Ryan unstrapped the night-vision goggles.

“I’ll stick pretty close to the road until I get closer to the gate,” said Alex. “I want you in the woods—listening.”

“We could use another pair of NVGs,” said Ryan.

“We’ll make sure to grab a few once we get inside,” said Alex. “Among other things.”

“I thought we had a strict shopping list?”

“If we find something we need in the same warehouse, we’re taking it,” said Alex.

“What about a Humvee?” Ryan asked, handing over the NVGs.

“I’m pretty sure they can GPS track high-end items like that, though we might consider borrowing one to transport more food.”

Alex tightened the NVGs over his black watch cap and adjusted the straps until the goggles aligned with his eyes when flipped down.

“Stay out of sight, and stay on your radio,” he instructed.

“Be careful, Dad.”

Alex walked in front of the SUV and watched his son melt into the pine trees next to him.

“Charlie, I’m approaching the gate on foot. Get ready to move out,” said Alex.

“We’re ready. Still quiet up here,” said Charlie.

“Roger. I’ll be in touch shortly.”

Alex walked briskly along the right shoulder of the road, studying the scene beyond the fence. The single-lane road formed a boulevard between two rows of warehouses. From this distance, he could see warehouses lining each side of the road. The green image faded after he counted six similarly sized structures on each side. As he closed the gap to the fence, another series of warehouses materialized in the green murk. He also noticed a twenty-foot clearing between the fence and the forest on the left side of the road. Although he couldn’t see it, Alex assumed the same clear space existed on the right side of the road, forming a twenty-foot buffer around the perimeter of the fence.

The buffer made sense from a security standpoint. It prevented intruders from reaching the fence unobserved, and it sometimes signaled the presence of an electrified fence. He couldn’t imagine any way in which the facility could power an electric fence without an outside electricity source, but he’d keep it in mind on the approach.

Alex pushed through the stiff pine boughs next to the road and broke into the untamed forest, immediately regretting the decision. Branches scraped his legs and arms, snagging his rifle and knocking his night-vision goggles askew. This wasn’t going to work. Whoever built the facility must have planted additional pines in the forest surrounding the site. He’d never seen a more tightly packed pine forest. It was nearly impassible, and any advantage he might gain from trying to observe the facility from a concealed position would be eliminated by the noise he’d make breaking through the branches. He backed out of the trees and kneeled next to the road.

“Everything all right up there?” Ryan called.

“Affirmative,” said Alex. “The forest is too thick for a quiet approach. I’ll wake up half of the state moving ten feet.”

“I was about to call you about that,” said Ryan.

“I’ll approach along the road. Seems quiet enough. I’m seeing several warehouses past the fence.”

Charlie responded, “Sounds like we’re in business.”

“Give me a few minutes to make sure we’re alone,” said Alex, focusing on the fence.

He passed the keypad on the other side of the road and crouched at the edge of the gap, listening for the telltale hum of an electric fence. Nothing. The fence looked fairly standard for a security perimeter. Chain link, eight to ten feet tall, topped with razor wire. Staring down the long length of the fence to the right of the gate, the tall, matted grass separating the trees from the fence looked undisturbed. If the fence had been electrified at one point, he would expect to see a few lumps, big or small, on the ground outside of the fence.

Turning his attention to the facility, he saw the entry road split left after the front gate, connecting to an additional boulevard of structures. He counted nine warehouse fronts on each side of the center thoroughfare. Eighteen on each road, assuming the number was the same on the unobserved row. Thirty-six in total. He sure as shit hoped the food was in one of the first warehouses, or they were in for a long night.

“I’m looking at the entire facility. We have two interior roads lined with nine massive warehouses on each side. Night vision isn’t registering any light sources inside the complex,” said Alex.

“We could be here all night searching thirty-six warehouses,” said Ed.

“We’ll have to split up and search,” said Alex. “I’m going to open the perimeter gate. Ed, bring the Jeep and trailer down. I think we’re good to go.”

“Copy that. We’re on our way. Is it all right to use lights?” said Charlie.

“Wait until you reach the turn,” said Alex. “See you in a few minutes. Ryan, bring up the BMW.”

Alex crossed the street and flipped his night-vision goggles up. Using a small flashlight to read his notebook, he entered the same code on the keypad. The fence gate sprang to life, retracting along its metal track. He tensed, half expecting klaxon alarms to sound and bright lights to flood the perimeter. Instead, the small city of two-story-high, corrugated warehouses stood dark and silent against the thin clanging of the gate. The SUV pulled next to him.

“Go ahead and hit the lights,” said Alex.

A moment later, the center boulevard was awash in the SUV’s high beams, exposing a sterile concourse flanked by gray buildings. The vast sea of faded asphalt looked pristine. Untouched. He could barely believe places like this existed, waiting for a “Category Five” disaster. The whole concept still seemed wild, almost unfathomable—until last August.

“Holy shit,” mumbled Ryan. “We should just move everyone here. Tell Colonel Grady we’ll keep an eye on it for him.”

“I’d be lying if I told you the thought didn’t just cross my mind,” said Alex, gawking at the buildings.

It could work, if Governor Dague didn’t stumble upon the codes to open the former 3rd Battalion commanding officer’s secure pod.

What are the chances of that, if she hasn’t already figured it out?

Even if she searched the commanding officer’s house and found the document-sized safe, only the battalion’s commanding officer knew the code. He might have been required to transfer the pod and sealed codes to the unit’s executive officer prior to leaving the state on vacation. Alex had no idea what type of protocol was in play here, and it didn’t matter. Even the slightest risk of discovery wasn’t worth taking. They would stick to the plan. He hopped on the SUV’s driver’s side running board and gripped the roof rack.

“Pull between the first pair of warehouses,” said Alex. “Time to go shopping.”

Alex jumped to the pavement when Ryan stopped the vehicle between two towering storage bay doors. Beams of light struck the face of the warehouse next to the SUV, grabbing Alex’s attention. Two headlights appeared on the access road. Probably the Jeep. Alex didn’t like probably .

“Charlie, did you just make the turn?” Alex signaled for Ryan to stay in the SUV.

“That’s us,” said Charlie. “Did you think someone got through us?”

“Just being cautious.”

“Or a little paranoid. We’re in the clear, man…holy smokes that’s a big place,” said Charlie.

“You’re only seeing half of it,” said Alex. “Pull up behind us until we figure out the best way to proceed. We’re going to take a look in one of the warehouses. Get a feel for the general layout.”

“Can’t wait to go shopping,” said Charlie. “Looks like thirty Costcos put together.”

“This is better than Costco,” said Alex. “More like Cabela’s, for Special Forces.”

“I hope so. We need some more night vision.”

“See you in a minute,” said Alex, turning to Ryan. “I want you wearing your helmet.”

“Dad, I don’t need the helmet out here,” Ryan protested.

“Just do me a favor and wear it. I’d wear one too if we had extras,” said Alex. “Never know what’s out there.”

“All right,” said Ryan, killing the engine and reaching behind the seat for the ballistic helmet.

Alex and Ryan jogged to the warehouse on the passenger side of the SUV and approached the smaller entrance to the right of the massive rolling steel door. A covered keypad greeted them where the doorknob should be. Alex pulled the crumpled notepad out of one of his cargo pockets and flipped on the flashlight, punching a new fifteen-digit code into the keypad. He paused before hitting the # key.

“Stay at the door and watch our six when I go inside,” said Alex, pressing the final key.

The door clicked, opening inward several inches. Alex pushed the door gently, illuminating a sliver of the pitch-black warehouse with his flashlight. A short buzz sounded inside the building, causing Alex to douse the flashlight and raise his rifle. He aimed through the dark two-foot crack, waiting for more input. A hollow, jolting sound echoed from the interior, immediately followed by the steady, industrial hum of a generator. Bright lights replaced the darkness beyond the partially closed door, clunking as they activated row by row, back to front.

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” said Alex.

“What does that even mean?” asked Ryan.

“I have no idea,” said Alex, pushing the door open.

He couldn’t see it at first. Alex took several steps into the well-lit warehouse, his mind simply refusing to acknowledge the obvious. He squinted like it was an optical illusion until it finally registered.

There’s nothing here. Oh, fuck!

“Turn the car around. I want it facing the gate,” said Alex.

Ryan aimed his rifle in the direction of the other warehouses on the road. “What’s going on?”

“It’s empty. I’m checking the one on the other side. If it’s empty, we’re getting the fuck out of here.”

Alex sprinted past the SUV, ignoring Charlie, who was yelling something from the approaching Jeep. He punched the code into the keypad and kicked the door after it opened, directing his flashlight inside. A bare concrete floor and rows of empty industrial-sized shelves stared back at him.

Motherfucker.

Grady had used them. He was back on the asphalt before the warehouse’s generator started, running toward Ed’s Jeep.

“Get in the SUV now!” he said. “We have to leave.”

“What are you talking about!” yelled Ed, pounding the hood of the Jeep.

“The warehouses are empty, and Grady fucking knew it. He just needed us to confirm it,” said Alex, mumbling the rest. “I knew there was something wrong with this. Fuck.”

“I don’t see why we’re leaving the—” started Ed.

“If they can see that we opened the gates or the warehouses, we need to get as far away from here as possible. Right now! In one vehicle! We don’t have time to fuck with the trailer. Let’s go!” he said, pushing Charlie toward the SUV.

Ryan completed a three-point turn between the buildings, stopping in front of them.

“Ed, you drive!” yelled Alex. “Charlie behind the driver. Ryan behind me.”

“Why am I driving?” asked Ed.

“You want to shoot instead?” said Alex.

“Come on! I think you’re overreacting here,” said Ed, pulling the front door open for Ryan.

“If I’m overreacting, we can come back and get the Jeep. Right now, we’re getting the fuck out of here—together. Trust me on this,” said Alex, walking behind the SUV.

He freed his rifle from the sling ready position and smashed its buttstock into the taillight housing, hitting the plastic cover repeatedly until he was certain that the bulbs were shattered. Pieces of red and white plastic trickled onto the pavement at his feet.

“What the fuck are you doing?” yelled Ed.

“Smashing the brake lights!”

He aimed the buttstock at the aerodynamic fin above the lift gate’s window. He hit the thick plastic fin, which resisted the rifle strike. His next blow skimmed off the fin and spider cracked the window below it.

“Press the brake pad!” yelled Alex.

Light from the fin’s imbedded taillight enveloped him in a red aura. He hit the plastic piece three times, until the light failed, turning the buttstock’s attention to the entire rear window. A few solid blows broke through the safety glass, covering the road in hundreds of small, opaque pieces.

“Let’s go!” he said to Ed, who stood next to the open driver’s door, mumbling obscenities.

Ed climbed in and slammed the door. Alex slid into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt, verifying that all of the doors had been shut.

“Your job is to get us to the interstate,” he said, patting Ed on the shoulder. “Windows down and rifles out. I have a bad feeling about this ride.”

When they reached the perimeter fence, Alex held his breath, exhaling when the gate started moving along the track. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if the gate had remained in place, locking them inside. As Ed edged the SUV up to the painfully slow gate, Alex swiped the ROTAC from the center console.

Chapter 30

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Lieutenant Colonel Grady sat in the troop compartment of a UH-60M Black Hawk helicopter at the far western edge of the main tarmac, alternating glances between his ROTAC and the RRZ authority compound framed by the compartment door window. Staff Sergeant Jackson sat directly across from him in the main troop compartment, which held six more combat-loaded Marines.

His Black Hawk sat at the end of a staggered line of six helicopters waiting mission approval to fly north. Orders that would originate from Grady when Fletcher called with final verification that the storage facility was empty. Of course, Alex might not call at all. If the warehouses were empty, as they suspected, Alex would immediately know that he’d been conned into visiting the storage complex. He might smash the ROTAC and speed off, knowing damn well that Grady needed the information.

Anything was possible with Alex, which was why the commanding officer of a Marine infantry battalion was watching his phone like a giddy teenage boy after a text to his high school crush.

Come on, Alex.

A voice materialized in his headset. “Colonel, we’ll have to shut down and top off if we don’t launch in five minutes,” said the pilot. “I can go cold now to save fuel. In ready launch I can have us in the air within two minutes.”

“Negative. Should be any minute now,” said Grady.

Damn . Maybe he’d played the schedule too tightly. He’d received a text message from Alex when they were a mile from the interstate exit, which put the verification phone call a minimum of ten minutes out. He figured Alex would be careful approaching the site, so he added another ten to fifteen minutes to the timeline. They’d started the helicopters when the text message arrived, waiting ten minutes before loading the Marines. Ten minutes would give all of the RRZ folks enough time to hear the helicopters and ask their questions about the unscheduled flight operation.

Tower controllers, pilots, and ground personnel in the hangars had been briefed to say it was scheduled engine maintenance; thirty minutes to run live diagnostics. The Marines entered the tarmac from a gate on the western fence line, using the closest hangar to mask their approach to the helicopters. With the port-side troop compartment doors closed, RRZ security officers or observers within the walled compound couldn’t see inside the helicopters. If they could, they would undoubtedly raise further questions.

Grady peered through his window at the row of dark, open hangars facing the RRZ compound. Armored vehicles lingered in the shadows, waiting for the order to speed across a recently cleared section of eastern tarmac toward the main RRZ compound gate. Additional vehicles hid behind the cluster of tents between the primary runway and auxiliary taxiway. In undisclosed locations, snipers sighted-in on the visible security officers, ready to take them out if they fired on the approaching soldiers. When the order was passed, a reinforced company of infantry soldiers would descend on the compound, with the ultimate goal of detaining Medina and her staff. All of this hinged on a phone call from Alex Fletcher, which was ten minutes overdue.

Almost on cue, his ROTAC vibrated, dragging his eyes from the menacing hangars.

“Grady,” he answered, knowing he was about to take an earful.

“That’s all you can manage?” Alex snapped.

“Alex, I don’t have time to explain what’s going on. I just need to know if the warehouses were empty,” said Grady. “We can sort out the rest later.”

“The rest?” said Alex, and the line went quiet.

“Alex?” said Grady.

“The first two were empty. We didn’t stick around to check the rest,” said Alex.

Grady turned to the second lieutenant seated next to him and nodded emphatically. The young officer passed the confirmation order over the mission’s primary VHF frequency, instantly telling designated units that Operation Quick Switch had entered the final execution phase.

“Where are you now?” said Grady.

“Driving as fast as fucking possible to get out of here,” said Alex. “Who has the equipment? I get the impression it’s not Governor Dague’s people.”

The helicopter jolted as the landing gear left the tarmac. Through the window next to Grady, the murky tarmac drifted away, dark silhouettes racing across the airfield toward the RRZ compound, and flashes erupted from the main gate. The Black Hawk tilted forward and gained speed, quickly leaving behind the scene below.

“Hello?” Alex prompted.

“We just launched an assault on the RRZ compound. I’m in a Black Hawk headed to Augusta to secure Governor Dague,” said Grady. “It’s a little hectic over here.”

“Sorry if this is a bad time for you, Sean, but I’m a little worried about making hard contact on my way out of here. What am I looking at?”

“Paramilitary types. Government sponsored, so most likely professional security contractors,” said Grady.

“Most likely? Wait a minute, you don’t fucking know ?”

“We’ve received reports of similar groups being used in other trouble spots. We think they arrived a month or so ago,” said Grady.

“How did they get here?” said Alex.

“We’re not one hundred percent sure. RRZ compound security was augmented about a month ago with personnel and vehicles from a C-17 Globemaster. 4th Brigade’s Prophet system picked up encrypted UHF signals from the west at the same time. The signals changed position rapidly, heading north. We think additional aircraft delivered the rest of the group. Possibly by parachute,” said Grady.

“How many?”

“Four to five hundred would be consistent with reports from other military commanders,” said Grady.

“Five hundred? That’s a small army, Sean.”

Grady heard him talking in the background of the phone call.

“Sean, if we’re caught, our families will be in serious danger. I can’t believe you did this to us!”

“Alex, it was the only way to get eyes on the warehouse without tipping off the RRZ,” Grady explained. “Medina was on the cusp of launching something big against the state, and she didn’t trust the military.”

“Yeah, well, I kind of understand where she’s coming from,” said Alex.

“I wouldn’t leave your ass totally hanging in the breeze, Alex. Two of my sanitized Matvees will arrive in your neighborhood within five minutes. I have a squad of Marines watching over your families. Two of my helicopters will continue to your position to provide support. They’ve been armed with hellfire missiles in case you run into any armored vehicles,” said Grady. “I’m sorry it had to go down like this, but I knew you wouldn’t agree to check out the site if I leveled with you.”

“I can’t eat an apology, Sean. If we pull through this intact, I better be looking at enough MREs to build a floating dock across the lake.”

“I’ll personally deliver them, Alex. Get your ass south on the turnpike and run like the devil. Two Black Hawks will contact you when they hit Waterville in roughly thirty minutes.”

“Shit. We have company,” said Alex, followed by frantic yelling on the line.

“Alex? You there? Alex!”

The call disconnected. Thirty minutes might be too long. Grady pressed the transmit button on his headset.

“Contact Hellfire zero-five and zero-six. Tell them to proceed north at maximum speed. Troops in contact,” said Grady.

Chapter 31

Main Operating Base “Sanford”

Regional Recovery Zone 1

Bethany Medina stood in front of a row of glowing computer monitors, speaking rapidly into her ROTAC.

“I just received a call from Homeland telling me that 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment’s Category Five storage site has been accessed.”

“With the codes?” asked Jerold Berkoff.

She wanted to call him ‘Jerkoff’ so bad she had to pause.

“Yes, Berkoff. I didn’t say breached . I said accessed .”

No wonder none of this was working. The RRZ had thrown one incompetent idiot after another in her lap.

“I don’t have any personnel at the site, ma’am,” said Berkoff. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“How about telling me ‘I’ll get someone out there right away to check it out,’” said Medina. “I need to know who’s out there.”

“Copy that. I have a team close to the site,” said Berkoff. “What are my rules of engagement?”

“I want to know who sent them—how they got the codes. Detain and interrogate using any and all means at your disposal. Time is critical,” said Medina. “And, Berkoff?”

“Yeah?”

“Put all of your teams on ready alert. We may have to execute the plan tonight.”

“Do you want me to pre-stage any of the teams closer to their targets?” he asked.

Medina considered the question carefully. Putting unfamiliar military-grade vehicles on the streets, even for a short time, might draw the wrong kind of attention from Dague’s expansive network of observers. On the flip side, the storage-site intrusion represented a significant, immediate problem. She had to assume that the perpetrators knew exactly what they were looking for—a battalion-sized weapons and equipment load out. When they found the warehouses empty, all bets were off, especially if Colonel Martin or Lieutenant Colonel Grady were behind this.

That was the worst-case scenario. She’d have to move fast to remove Dague and the state government before the military could formulate a response to the missing cache of gear. The best-case scenario involved Governor Dague somehow uncovering the codes and finding the warehouses empty. She’d probably blame the RRZ and somehow overreact, giving Medina a good reason to take action with the Counter-Insurrection Battalion.

The muted crackle of sporadic gunfire reached her ears, drawing her attention to the communication center’s door.

“Ma’am, do you want me to pre-stage any of the teams?” Berkoff repeated.

The gunfire grew more consistent.

“Negative. Just send the team to investigate,” she said, ending the call.

Voices and rustling chairs filled the hallway as staccato bursts of heavy-caliber machine-gun fire sounded. She started to wonder if the airport was under militia attack again, but dismissed the thought before it wasted any mental space. She didn’t believe in coincidences. Less than five minutes ago, someone had accessed a hidden top-secret weapons cache site in northern Maine. A site she had emptied a month ago. No. This wasn’t a coincidence.

Medina opened the door and poked her head into the hallway. Ian McEyre, her chief of staff, ran down the hallway toward her, dodging panicked staff members. Past him, at the end of the hallway, Eric Bines, the RRZ compound’s security chief, spoke with three heavily armed men wearing black body armor.

“We’re under attack by our own soldiers!” yelled Ian. “Six helicopters just took off, headed north.”

A window shattered in one of the nearby offices, followed by screaming.

“Gather the staff in the communications center. Hurry!” Medina said, passing Ian.

In the aftermath of the militia attack last fall, the room housing the RRZ’s encrypted communications equipment had been reinforced with Kevlar shielding and sandbags. Located in the center of the building, it doubled as the headquarters building’s “safe room.”

“Eric!” she yelled, picking up her pace.

Her security chief patted one of the heavily armed men on the arm, sending them through the stairwell door behind him.

“Eric! Tell your men to stand down!” she said. “There’s no point.”

Eric Bines spoke into his handheld radio before rushing to meet her. The gun battle outside intensified, the sounds spilling through the broken window in the office next to them.

“Ma’am, I’m under strict Homeland orders to defend this installation against any and all attacks,” said Bines.

“This is different, Eric. If the military turned on us, it’s over,” Medina stated. “There’s nothing we can do but wait for D.C. to fix this.”

Bullets passed through the wall ten feet away, filling the hallway with drywall dust. Medina crouched next to Bines, who aimed at the stairwell door with his MP-9 submachine gun. His radio crackled with frantic reports.

“I have to go,” he said, through the door.

Medina shook her head, unwilling to process the man’s death wish. If he wanted to die a pointless death, that was his problem. She had a duty to protect her people, and that was exactly what she intended to do. Ian emerged from one of the rooms, hustling two men toward the communications center several doors away.

“Ian, I need you to enter my security override code into the automated keycard system and reboot the external doors,” said Medina.

“That’ll lock out the security team,” Ian reminded her.

“Just do it. Right now. They’ll get us all killed if they use the building as their Alamo.”

Ian sprinted down the hallway, pushing several people out of his way to reach the communications room, which housed their surveillance and security equipment. A group of administrative personnel burst out of the stairwell door, yelling and pushing their way into the hallway. Medina backed against the outer wall and waited for them to pass.

“Is the first floor clear?” she yelled to the last of the group.

One of the women stopped long enough to nod. “I saw a few security officers guarding each door, but that’s it.”

“Get inside the comms center,” said Medina, staring at her ROTAC. She took a deep breath and selected Colonel Martin’s call sign. “Colonel Martin”—she heard heavy gunfire in the background—“I tried to order Mr. Bines to surrender, but I’m afraid he’s hell-bent on defending the compound to the last man. I’ve disabled the key card readers at all external doors, so they can’t retreat into the building. I’d like to keep my staff alive.”

“They’re putting up one hell of a fight,” said Martin. “Get all of your people into the safe room and wait for my call. I expect this to be over in five minutes.”

“Most of the staff is already there. I’m told we have security officers guarding the ground-floor doors, from the inside.”

“All right. We’ll do everything we can to keep the gunfire away from your safe room. Make sure your people are lying down. The Kevlar only goes up to shoulder height,” said Martin.

“Colonel Martin?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I didn’t do enough to work with Governor Dague from the beginning,” Medina admitted. “I knew better.”

“This isn’t your fault. The blame for this lies about seven thousand miles west of here, in the People’s Republic of China. Don’t ever forget that. You were dealt a tough hand, and you played the cards the best you could. Not every RRZ made this much progress,” Martin assured her. “Launching a paramilitary coup against the state government would have erased that legacy and catapulted the state into bloody civil war. It’s already happened in three recovery areas. You’ve done well.”

“Funny. That’s not the picture Homeland painted,” Medina countered.

“Of course not. I listen to the same rosy reports, but I also get the real story from the military commanders on the ground in the areas that have collapsed,” said Martin, the sound of gunfire on his end of the call escalating.

Automatic fire erupted near the building, sounding closer than before. Through the stairwell door, Medina heard yells and more gunshots.

“They’re falling back to your building,” said Martin. “You better get to the safe room and lock it. Do not let any of the security team inside.”

Medina ran for the communications center door, a full-scale battle echoing through the hallway. She reached the room at a dead sprint, frantically grabbing for the door handle.

“Barricade the door!” she screamed, slamming it shut and scanning her microchipped badge over the electronic reader installed in the wall.

She punched a quick code in the keypad, and the card reader glowed red. She had locked the door from the inside. Only Ian McEyre or Eric Bines possessed badges that could override her lockout. If Bines survived the battle outside and made it back to the communications center, only a stack of furniture would keep him out.

While members of her staff moved desks in front of the door, she watched the surveillance screens, focusing on the camera views aimed at the entrances. The green night-vision images showed several security officers huddled around each door, firing at unseen targets, while one of them repeatedly swiped his badge over the card reader. One by one they started to fall as bullets visibly splintered the siding around the door and struck the ground near the crouched men.

She recognized Bines on one of the screens. Helmetless, he crouched behind a failing wall of body armor and rifles, holding his phone. Medina’s ROTAC chirped. She checked the orange digital display and shook her head. Bines had sealed his fate when he refused to accept the reality of their situation. Seconds later, his unprotected head snapped back, a dark green stain hitting the door behind him. The rest of the team tried to run for the northwest corner of the building, only to be stopped halfway, their deaths marked by a sudden crescendo of gunfire heard through the communication center walls.

A group of soldiers quickly surrounded the main entrance door, peeling away moments later. The camera feed disappeared, followed by an explosion that shook the safe room. Screams punctuated the approaching sound of gunfire inside the building.

“Get on the ground!” she yelled as bullet holes peppered the top of the wall next to the door.

She saw the card reader blink red several times, followed by frantic banging on the door.

“Governor, open the door! They’ve breached the building!” said a muffled voice beyond the reinforced entry.

“You need to surrender!” she yelled back. “They’ll kill all of you if you don’t surrender!”

“Open the door! They’re here!”

A long burst of automatic fire exploded in the hallway, penetrating the door.

Medina crouched next to the computer displays, finding the security camera feed above the entrance. Two men in black body armor fired in different directions while a third pulled a critically wounded officer across the hallway, leaving a thick blood trail. More automatic fire thundered in the hallway, splintering the door and ripping into the security team. The rate of fire increased for several seconds, suddenly ceasing. She held her breath as 10th Mountain Division soldiers crowded the door.

“Governor Medina?” she heard.

None of the men on the display aimed rifles at the door.

“I’m here!” she yelled, approaching the door.

“My name is Captain Royer. We have instructions to secure the communications center. I need you to open the door so we can get this sorted out. Nobody will get hurt. You have my promise. Colonel Martin is on his way up.”

“What’s going to happen to us?” she yelled.

“Nothing, ma’am,” said the Army officer.

“Nothing, as in we just go back to our jobs?” she said, knowing that wasn’t what the captain had in mind.

“We’ll search for weapons first. After that, I presume you’ll be temporarily detained with your staff. I need you to open the door now, ma’am,” said Captain Royer.

“I need to speak with Colonel Martin,” she said, watching the screen.

The officer pressed a transmitter button on his vest and spoke. A moment later her ROTAC chirped. She answered it with a question.

“Colonel, what’s going to happen to us?”

“That’s up to you, ma’am. Lieutenant Colonel Grady is on his way to Augusta. We’re bringing Governor Dague here until the threat from the Counter Insurgency Battalion has been defused,” said Martin.

“I’ll do everything I can to help with that,” said Medina. “Unfortunately, getting the CIB deployed wasn’t a simple phone call. It attracted a lot of attention.”

“We won’t give Homeland or the White House any reason to escalate the situation, as long as you and Dague can function in a hybrid leadership role,” said Martin.

“I don’t understand,” said Medina.

“The RRZ concept is here to stay, and nobody is more qualified to run the RRZ than your staff. Governor Dague agrees that she’s not equipped to do your job,” said Martin.

“Then why has she put up so much resistance?”

“The New England RRZ governance structure had several permutations, based on the type of Category Five catastrophe we faced. None of the permutations included a tsunami wiping out the seaports from Connecticut to Portland, so Homeland decided to follow the New England RRZ protocol created for a nuclear strike against Boston,” said Martin. “It placed the entire RRZ infrastructure burden on Maine, which caused an unusual amount of friction.”

“That’s an understatement,” Medina said. “I think D.C. underestimated the independent spirit of the Maine population.”

“That too,” said Martin. “So, the job’s still yours if you want it.”

“What about Governor Dague?”

“That’s for you and the state governor to figure out. Dague will arrive here in less than an hour.”

“That doesn’t give me a lot of time,” said Medina.

“No, but it sounds like you’ve already given a lot of thought to how you could have better approached the situation last fall.”

“I used to sit in the annual training meetings, shaking my head at some of the protocol recommendations,” said Medina. “Like I said, I knew better.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think they picked the right person for the job. Especially for one of the nation’s critical RRZ’s.”

“Do you want to know a secret?” Medina asked, swiping her badge on the card reader.

“Always,” said Martin.

Medina punched her code, waiting for the reader’s lights to turn green before opening the door to face Colonel Martin.

“I was never trained for this job,” she said. “The real governor and his chief of staff never showed up at Andrews Air Force Base.”

“I’m beginning to suspect that might have been a blessing in disguise,” said Martin, extending his hand. “I assume you’ll stick around?”

She shook his hand. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Chapter 32

Bangor, Maine

Alex jammed the ROTAC into the center console, pounding the dashboard with his other hand. He muttered a few choice words about Grady.

“What’s going on?” asked Ed, slowing for the second gate.

The chain-link fence hummed on its track, taking an eternity to open.

“There’s a military coup underway in Sanford,” said Alex, hitting the side of his door impatiently.

“Jesus,” hissed Ed, edging the SUV closer to the gate.

“Who cleaned out the warehouses?” Charlie asked. “If it was the military, we shouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

“It wasn’t the military,” said Ed. “Was it?”

“No,” Alex answered. “Medina called in some kind of paramilitary group to deal with the state government. They’ve been in possession of this stuff for nearly a month.”

The gate had barely cleared Ed’s side of the SUV when he gunned the engine, propelling them toward Runway Road.

Charlie asked, “Does he think they’re out here?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m guessing they’ll have a group nearby. The sooner we get to the turnpike, the better,” said Alex, watching the road ahead of them through night-vision goggles. “Can you see the road?”

“Barely,” grunted Ed. “Shouldn’t I be the one wearing the NVGs?”

“Normally, yes,” admitted Alex. “But I’m going to need them to spot any unwelcome roadside companions. You should be able to see it better once we get out of these trees.”

“I hope so. I’m just driving in a straight line right now.”

“You’re right on track,” said Alex, taking hold of the wheel. “I’ll guide us onto Runway Road.”

Ed accelerated after the turn, comfortable with the twilight scene unfolding at forty miles per hour. Alex kept his limited field of view through the NVGs focused forward, scanning the distance for anything that didn’t belong on the road, especially vehicles. A brisk wind churned through the windows, chafing his face and chilling the cabin. They rode in darkness and silence two-thirds of the way to New Boston Road.

“Anything?” asked Ryan.

“Looks good so far,” said Alex. “How are you doing, Ed?”

“I can see the road well enough to keep us out of a ditch. I’ll need help with the turns.”

“I see the barn coming up on the left. That’s our turn onto New Boston. Can you see it?”

“Kind of. It’s silhouetted against the horizon.”

Alex lifted the NVGs to check the ambient light guiding Ed’s journey. He was concerned about his friend’s ultimate ability to navigate the roads if they came under attack. Alex’s attention would be more focused on coordinating a defense than guiding Ed to the interstate. One wrong turn or missed intersection could put them deeper into unfamiliar territory. His eyes took a few moments to adjust before he could make an assessment.

The deep orange glow of scattered clouds had all but vanished, replaced by a thick cerulean blue ribbon above the trees. He could see the two-story barn against the deep blue horizon, but only because he knew what he was looking for. Ed would need his help if they ran into trouble. Alex lowered the goggles, spotting something in the distance on the other side of the intersection.

“Faster, Ed. I’m seeing something farther down Runway Road,” said Alex.

“Past the intersection?”

“Yeah. We need to beat them to the turn,” said Alex, feeling the SUV respond to the accelerator.

“Faster. I’ll let you know when to slow for the turn,” said Alex.

“I’m pushing fifty-five,” said Ed.

Alex squinted at the green image. The horizon light washed out the distance view, affecting the long-range clarity of the picture. Something was in the middle of the road, growing larger. Had to be a vehicle. It looked like they’d beat it to the intersection.

“Start to slow down,” said Alex. “Can you see the barn?”

“I got it,” said Ed, decelerating the SUV.

“Take the turn as fast as you can.”

“Right,” mumbled Ed.

Alex wondered if the other vehicle would slow. He couldn’t tell what it was doing at this distance, without magnified optics. The night-vision image sharpened, unveiling a substantial vehicle with a figure leaning out of the passenger side window. A bright green laser appeared, extending from the passenger to the hood of their SUV. Without hesitating, he grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it left.

Ed tightened his grip on the wheel and countered Alex’s move, keeping them from crashing off the road. Instead of careening wildly into a telephone pole or mailbox, the SUV instantly shifted lanes as red-hot tracers passed down the left side of the vehicle. Ignoring the screams and chaos in the SUV’s cabin, Alex raised his rifle and fired an extended burst through the windshield at the oncoming vehicle.

The bullets created a tight pattern of holes in the safety glass, surrounded by compounded spider cracks that partially obscured his view of the approaching intersection. The green laser went wild, indicating his bullets had the desired effect. With the barn rapidly approaching, he shifted his rifle into the passenger side window, triggering the infrared laser attached to the HK416’s hand guard.

“Contact, right side!” he yelled, feeling the SUV speed into the turn instead of slowing.

As the car turned, the threat crystallized. A staggered column of two pickup trucks was less than fifty feet from the intersection, one with bullet holes peppered across its windshield. Now he understood why Ed had gunned the engine. The trucks would barely miss slamming into them. Alex aligned the green laser with the windshield of the lead vehicle and pressed the trigger, firing a short burst. Ryan unleashed a fully automatic barrage of bullets.

The lead vehicle swerved left in a cascade of sparks as their bullets struck the metal chassis and windshield. The pickup truck slammed into a utility pole ten feet from the intersection, abruptly stopping and ejecting two passengers through the bullet-riddled windshield. The second truck barreled forward, gunfire exploding behind its windshield. Sharp cracks followed by hollow metallic pops broke through the sound of the SUV’s screeching tires, and their vehicle fishtailed onto New Boston Road.

The SUV straightened and accelerated, Ed desperately trying to put some distance between their car and the team sent to kill them. Alex reloaded and twisted in his seat, seeing that Ryan and Charlie had already braced their rifles against the rear seats’ headrests, aiming through the shattered rear window. Ryan reloaded while Charlie fired single shots through his night-vision scope at the pursuing truck.

A blinding light caused Alex to squeeze his eyes shut, followed by a staccato rhythm of snaps and metal thunks. He flipped up his NVGs to see two brilliant headlights bearing down on them.

“Damn it!” yelled Charlie, firing wildly at the truck.

A few ricochets zipped through the SUV cabin; one striking the windshield in front of Ed.

“What the fuck is happening back there?” asked Ed, slinking as low as possible in his seat.

“It’s under control,” said Ryan, firing a long burst at the truck and knocking out the passenger-side headlight.

The pickup swerved briefly, but resumed the chase, accelerating toward them at ramming speed.

“Doesn’t sound like it!” yelled Ed.

Another fusillade of bullets struck the SUV, ripping through the cabin. Alex’s headrest crumpled when a round snapped one of the posts holding it in position. Another projectile hit the top corner of Ed’s seat, passing through the fabric and smashing the digital dashboard display. Ryan and Charlie ducked below the tops of their seats, riding out the barrage. Anticipating a possible problem, they had secured a single layer of sandbags, reinforced by sheet metal, behind the back row of seats. The barrier prevented bullets from penetrating the backs of the seats, but did nothing about the bullets flying through the top half of the SUV’s interior.

Before either of them rose to fire, the pickup truck slammed into the back of the SUV, pushing them forward. Alex was unexpectedly thrown against the seatbelt, momentarily stunned by the blow. Ed gunned the engine, breaking them free of the metal battering ram. Another salvo of bullets hit the SUV, striking from a high angle and drilling through the rear cargo compartment roof.

“Son of a bitch!” Charlie cried out.

Alex turned his head to see a bloody hand illuminated in the pickup’s single high beam.

Enough of this shit.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned in his seat, leaning against the passenger-side dashboard. Keeping the rifle barrel clear of his son’s head, he aimed through the mini-reflex sight mounted to his ACOG scope and switched to semiautomatic.

“All guns fire in three, two—”

“Wait! I’m not ready!” said Ed.

“Fire!” screamed Alex, pressing the trigger.

He fired repeatedly above the glaring headlight, hoping to hit the windshield. Ryan’s muzzle blast filled the rear compartment, illuminating their cabin as he emptied a thirty-round magazine at the truck. Alex kept firing until his rifle clicked empty. By the time Charlie started to fire again, the pickup truck had disappeared.

“Where is it?” yelled Charlie.

“Veered off the road,” said Alex.

“I think it rolled to a stop,” said Ryan. “It was too dark to tell for sure.”

“But you think it stopped?” asked Alex.

“I’m pretty sure. It definitely slowed down.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Ed, rising a few inches in his seat.

“Jesus Christ is right. He’s the only reason none of us took one to the head,” said Charlie.

“I think you deflected one with your hand,” answered Alex.

“Yeah, it’s a little fucked up,” said Charlie, holding his bloodied hand between the front headrests. “Look at this thing.”

Ed turned his head, hitting the mangled hand with his right cheek.

“Careful!” howled Charlie. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Well, don’t stick your fucking hand in my face. What did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect you to ram my hand with your head,” countered Charlie.

“All right! Cut it out!” yelled Alex. “Reload your rifles.”

He lowered the night-vision goggles and scanned the darkness around the vehicle. Nothing ahead or behind them. New Boston Road was a straight shot to Route 2. No crossroads, just houses. They needed to get to Route 2 before any more paramilitaries responded. The absence of crossroads on New Boston Road could work against them.

“Ryan, can you wrap Charlie’s hand so he can still use it?”

“Got it,” said Ryan, digging around for the medical kit.

“I don’t think that was the last of the shooting for tonight,” said Alex, checking the road again.

“Faster?” Ed asked.

“Faster,” said Alex, pulling a roadmap out of the glove box.

He wanted to check on alternate routes to the turnpike in case they ran into another hostile team.

Chapter 33

Dexter, Maine

Jerold Berkoff pinched the bridge of his nose and tried the call again. His ROTAC display flashed “attempting to connect.” He’d give it ten seconds before reaching out to Medina. The team dispatched to check on the storage site had been located in an empty house less than five minutes away. They should have reported by now, unless something bigger was in play. Medina had certainly hinted at the possibility.

Putting all of his units on “ready alert” meant one of two things: Either the state government had discovered the facility or the military units attached to the RRZ were sniffing around where they didn’t belong. Both scenarios threatened to kill the element of surprise he needed, which was critical to his battalion’s success. He had too many groups going in too many directions to fight against an alerted enemy. Pre-staging key assault units made more sense given the circumstances.

“Damnit,” he hissed, seeing no change to the ROTAC display. “McKenzie?” he said, causing a stir in the brightly lit trailer.

A bearded man wearing tan cargo pants, a MultiCam combat shirt, and a black and white checkered shemagh spun his stool to face Berkoff.

“Sir?” asked the contractor.

Berkoff considered issuing the order without Medina’s permission, but killed the thought. He wanted this operation to go as smoothly as possible, and pissing off an RRZ administrator wouldn’t contribute to that plan. As much as he enjoyed commanding a Counter Insurgency Battalion, Berkoff wanted a more stable position, preferably in a comfortable position within one of the RRZs. If he overstepped his authority here, regardless of the outcome, he could cross New England North off his list, along with the rest of the RRZs on the East Coast. Medina struck him as a petty, spiteful bitch.

“Nothing. I was just getting ahead of myself,” he said, dialing Medina’s code instead.

The governor took longer than he expected to answer, especially given the circumstances.

“Anything?” she asked in greeting.

“Not yet, ma’am,” he said. “The team sent to investigate hasn’t reported.”

“How far out are they?”

“They should have arrived a few minutes ago,” said Berkoff.

“A few minutes ago? All right,” she said, pausing for a moment. “Order your team to pull back and stay out of sight. Homeland just confirmed that our mystery guest never opened any of the warehouses. They entered the codes to get through the two gates and apparently departed. We’re thinking this might have been someone involved in building the site. Maybe someone with an override code, but not the warehouse codes. The two code sequences are separate. Homeland is checking the construction contract information. Probably two companies involved. One to build the fence, and the other to build the warehouses.”

“The keycard system looked the same. Whoever installed one likely installed the other,” said Berkoff.

“They’re trying to get to the bottom of this.”

Jesus. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this out. The same crew installed all of the security devices.

“Why wouldn’t they open the warehouses?” he pressed.

“I don’t know, Berkoff,” said Medina. “I’m getting my information from Homeland, and they’re telling me the warehouses weren’t breached. Pull your team back so they don’t tip our hand in this.”

What? Tip what hand?

Medina wasn’t making a lot of sense. If they were dealing with a curious local builder, what would it matter if his team appeared? It would probably keep them from coming back. If Medina was wrong about her assumption and this was one of Dague’s military units, they needed to know right away. She wasn’t thinking this through.

“Ma’am, I think we should at least figure out who we’re dealing with here,” he said.

“Not without more information from Homeland,” she said. “I don’t want your team spotted. Call them back immediately.”

“I can’t reach them, ma’am,” said Berkoff.

“What do you mean?” said Medina. “Can’t or won’t?”

“I’ve been trying to reach them for the past few minutes. They should have reported by now. I’m about to send another team out to check on them.”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea to saturate the area with your people. It’ll draw attention to the site. If locals find the storage facility, they might report it to the Maine Independence Initiative.”

Now she wasn’t making any sense at all. His ROTAC buzzed, indicating a second call. He checked the display. Finally! Berkoff was about to tell Medina that the team had made contact, when he reconsidered. He let the call go unanswered, knowing the team would immediately call the communications center.

“Berkoff?”

“Sorry, ma’am. I was just thinking of a way to handle this without drawing attention,” he said, stalling for time.

“Homeland thinks this was a false alarm, and I agree. Cancel my order to put the battalion in ready alert status.”

McKenzie swiped one of the ROTAC handhelds off the desk in front of a row of open laptops, putting the phone to his ear.

“Don’t you think we should…maybe we should wait…until we know more?” he said, distracted by McKenzie.

“I’d rather the battalion was not primed for an attack that won’t happen for a few days,” she said.

Berkoff barely heard what she said, covering the mouthpiece with his other hand as McKenzie swiveled to face him.

“Caretaker Three-Two reports heavy contact with a single vehicle leaving Site Zulu. Two KIA and two WIA. No survivors in Caretaker Three-One,” said McKenzie.

Berkoff put an index finger to his lips and answered Medina. “I agree, ma’am. I’ll keep trying to reach the team. If I don’t hear from them in ten minutes, I’ll call back for further orders.”

“Very well. I’ll let you know if Homeland uncovers anything else.”

Berkoff lowered the ROTAC to the desk in front of him and looked up at the waiting faces.

McKenzie tilted his head, giving him a “what the fuck?” look.

“Where is Three-Two right now?” Berkoff asked.

“In a field off New Boston Road, about a mile from Runway,” McKenzie answered. “Their targets are out of sight. Last seen heading south on New Boston, toward Route 2.”

“Shit. Six KIA?”

McKenzie nodded.

“What hit them?”

“Three to four hostiles in a late model SUV running without lights. Automatic weapons, IR lasers, night-vision goggles, helmets,” McKenzie rattled off. “They knew what they were doing. Military for sure, possibly Special Forces. Don’t they have a company of Rangers down in Sanford?”

“Yeah,” muttered Berkoff, thinking through his options.

Medina was full of shit. She was either compromised or utterly clueless. Why else would she completely reverse her decision at such a critical moment? He’d have to take matters into his own hands until he figured out what was going on with Medina.

“Move all sections into echelon alpha pre-stage positions, and send a team to recover Three-Two. I want to be able to move on our primary targets within two hours,” said Berkoff.

“That’s a tight time frame,” said McKenzie. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for the RRZ to get more clarification?”

“Let’s get the ball rolling. Something doesn’t add up here, and I’m not going to take the fall if Medina is full of shit. Ultimately, we answer to Homeland,” he said, picking up the ROTAC and scrolling through his contacts list. “And McKenzie?”

“Sir?”

“I want that hostile SUV taken out,” said Berkoff. “I don’t care what it takes.”

***

Bethany Medina handed the ROTAC to Colonel Martin and shook her head.

“He didn’t buy it?” asked Martin.

“I don’t think so. He changed his tune too quickly,” she said. “My guess is he’ll follow my original order to move all units to their final pre-staging positions.”

“Primary targets?”

“Major elements of 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment, along with all critical state government administration sites.”

“Time frame?”

“Two to three hours if he goes for a fully coordinated, simultaneous attack. Less if he learns the truth about what happened here. He’s probably on the phone to Homeland right now, so I’d expect sooner than later.”

“Shit,” said Martin. “Looks like we’re going to war.”

“With Homeland?”

“Just Berkoff,” said Martin. “If we do this right.”

“We?”

“I need you to stall Homeland when they call,” said Martin.

“For how long?”

“Long enough for us to put Berkoff out of commission. After that, it won’t matter what Homeland knows.”

“I think you’re underestimating what Homeland—” She paused before continuing, “—what the federal government will do when they learn the truth about what happened here.”

“I’ve already spoken with 10th Mountain Division’s commanding general about that very issue. He’s prepared to deploy the division’s ready brigade to Maine in support of our mission. Unless Homeland has a Counter Insurgency Division up their sleeve, I’m not worried.”

She shook her head. “You’ve thought this through.”

“The decision was a long time in the making, ma’am, and I’m not the only military leader that feels the same way. If we work together, we’ll get through this with minimal disruption of the RRZ.”

“What do you need from me?” asked Medina.

“Stall Homeland and identify Berkoff’s pre-staging areas. We have a rapid response battalion ready to head north. Depending on the distance, we might be able to hit Berkoff’s units in their pre-staging areas, or en route to their targets.”

“I can’t do that to him,” she said. “He’s here because of me.”

“Negative, ma’am,” said Martin. “He’s here because Homeland sent him based on your assessment of the internal security situation within the RRZ. It was Homeland’s choice to send a paramilitary group instead of providing you with the resources to negotiate a settlement with Governor Dague. You’re doing exactly what needs to be done to keep the RRZ running smoothly. If Berkoff won’t stand down, we have to take him out.”

“We’re not giving him a chance to stand down,” said Medina.

“If I thought for a second he would load his battalion on the next flight of C-17s that arrived at Bangor International, I would try to talk to him. I don’t see that happening. Do you?”

The colonel was right. Like Eric Bines, the RRZ Authority compound’s security chief, Berkoff would follow Homeland’s orders to unseat the state government, even if it meant “disappearing” and waiting for another opportunity. Martin needed to engage and destroy Berkoff’s force now, or risk a protracted, low-intensity conflict against a well-armed and adequately trained group of contract soldiers. The result could undermine the progress everyone had worked hard to achieve.

“Berkoff’s digital overlays are on the laptop in my office,” she said, effectively signing Berkoff’s death warrant.

Chapter 34

Plymouth, Maine

Icy wind whistled through the holes in the windshield, bathing Alex in a stream of subfreezing air. The SUV jolted, and a particle of safety glass from one of the spider cracks rattled against his night-vision goggles. He leaned as far over the center console as possible, resting his head against Ed’s arm. It was the only way he could see through the windshield from his seat. The bullet holes created by his rifle were concentrated in an area the size of a volleyball, but the cracks obscured most of the passenger-side view.

He’d briefly considered knocking the entire windshield out, but just as quickly realized a missing windshield would cause more problems than it might solve. He’d have a clear view of the road, at the cost of dealing with a sixty-mile-per-hour wind, along with hundreds of loose fragments. He could deal with this arrangement for another thirty minutes.

A grouping of signs appeared in the distance.

“We’re coming up on an exit,” said Alex.

A dim red light bathed his peripheral vision for several seconds before vanishing. He didn’t bother trying to see through the windshield while Ryan examined the map. The light reflected off the glass, obscuring his view.

“This should be exit 161,” said Ryan. “Puts us on Route 7.”

“I think we should get off this highway,” said Ed. “Do you have to lean on my arm that much?”

“It’s the only way I can see,” said Alex. “Ryan, how far until Newport?”

“Four miles, maybe a little more.”

“I want to get past Newport before we get off the interstate. It’s not a big town, but it’s big enough to hold trouble. After that, we’ll look for a way to get onto Route 2. Take the back way home,” said Alex. “Still looking clear behind us?”

“You’ll know if it isn’t,” said Charlie.

“We’ll have helicopter support in less than ten minutes,” said Alex, squinting through the goggles.

Something didn’t look right, but it was impossible to tell from this distance.

“Slow down a little,” Alex instructed Ed.

An overpass materialized in the green image, followed by a clearer picture of the southbound lane. Alex studied the scene for anything out of place. He’d experienced the same feeling of dread approaching the previous two exits.

“Everything okay?” asked Ed, slowing the SUV further.

Alex gave it a few more seconds before making a final determination. He didn’t see anything out of place.

“Yeah,” Alex said. “The exits make me nervous.”

“You think? That’s why I want to get off the highway. Anything could come barreling down one of those on-ramps. We’re too exposed out here,” said Ed.

“I know, but I feel safer here than on some constricted back road,” said Alex.

“I don’t feel safe on either,” said Ed.

“I said safer,” added Alex. “We won’t be safe until we’ve made contact with those helos.”

They drove under the concrete overpass, their silver SUV a shadowy phantom in the weak light of a late third-quarter moon. Ed brought the vehicle’s speed back to sixty miles per hour, which was as fast as his friend would drive without lights. Alex didn’t blame Ed. Without night vision, the gray strip ahead of them barely extended the length of a semi-trailer. Alex had to announce the slightest curves, which was another reason he couldn’t take his eyes off the road for a second.

“Shallow left curve starting in about ten seconds,” said Alex.

“Got it,” said Ed, easing his foot off the accelerator.

The SUV stayed in the middle of the two-lane interstate for most of the curve, drifting slowly right.

“You’re drifting to the right. Just barely,” said Alex, immediately feeling Ed’s arm muscles tighten.

The vehicle eased back into the middle of the road, settling into a straight section of highway a few seconds later.

“You’re good. It’s a straight shot from—” Alex saw more signs ahead. “Ryan, is there another exit right after 161?”

His view through the windshield disappeared as Ryan checked the map.

“Shit. Sorry, Dad. Exit 159. Doesn’t seem to lead to any major roads,” said Ryan, dousing the light.

Alex could see part of the overpass. How had Ryan missed this? It must have been separated by a centimeter on the map. Before he could continue to mentally chastise his son, a row of vehicles appeared on the road.

“Stop the car!” said Alex, lowering his window. “Windows down. We have—fuck!—Humvees blocking the highway. Turn us around!”

The SUV screeched to a halt on the asphalt, the acrid smell of burnt rubber filling the car as Ed executed the quickest three-point turn he’d ever witnessed. Alex unfastened his seatbelt and leaned out of the window, searching the tree-lined median for a way to cross into the northbound lanes. When the SUV gained momentum, he spotted a sizable gap in the trees.

“Follow my laser,” he said, triggering the visible red laser pointer attached to his rifle.

He aimed the light, which appeared green in his goggles, toward the middle of the gap. The car tugged right, slowing as it hit the roughly paved shoulder.

“You got it?” said Alex.

“I got it, but I can’t see what I’m driving into!” yelled Ed.

“It’s a slight dip. You might want to put us into four-wheel—”

The SUV’s nose dropped, the front tires crunching into the hard ground spanning the median.

“—drive,” Alex continued, relieved when the SUV lurched forward again.

“They’re shooting at us!” screamed Charlie as bright flashes streaked past the back of the SUV.

“Gun it, Ed!” said Alex, watching tracer flashes ricochet through the trees to their right and skip off the highway behind them.

The SUV careened into the northbound lanes, skidding to a momentary stop before accelerating away from the overpass. Alex turned in his seat to see dozens of tracers punch through the thick pines and sail harmlessly behind them. He didn’t see any vehicles blocking the northbound side near the overpass, so they were temporarily in the clear.

“Hit the lights and drive as fast as this thing will go,” said Alex.

“Are you sure the lights are a good idea?” asked Ed, jamming the accelerator.

“It’s more important to gain some distance. We need to get to the last exit before they can put those guns to use against us. If we can get off the highway, we should be able to hide on the back roads until our air support arrives,” said Alex, checking his watch. “Which means we need to stay alive another seven minutes.”

Alex slid into his seat as the SUV picked up speed and the wind outside of the window became unbearable. Ed activated the headlights, switching to high beams and illuminating the empty highway. The lights didn’t matter at this point. Not on the highway. Alex flipped his NVGs out of the way.

“How we looking back there?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Clear so far,” said Charlie, his face buried in his riflescope. “If they get behind us, we’re screwed.”

“We’ll be off the highway before they get into effective range,” said Alex.

“I’m worried about the place between effective and maximum range,” said Charlie. “You know, the place where you can still hit shit.”

“Ed, be ready to jump the median again,” said Alex. “Just in case.”

“Shit,” muttered Ed.

A few seconds passed before Charlie yelled, “They’re coming! Three Humvees.”

Alex stuck his head out of the passenger window and scanned ahead for signs of the upcoming exit. Beyond the headlights’ aura, he saw what might be a white U-turn sign coming up on the left.

“How far back are they?”

“Hell if I know,” Charlie replied. “You left the range finder behind.”

Alex muttered a curse. “I’m looking for a ballpark figure, Charlie.”

“Looks farther back from where we broke through.”

Ed looked at him and shook his head with an annoyed look. Alex met Ed’s glance and raised his eyebrows, silently mouthing, “Charlie.” Alex did the math. A quick dashboard check told him Ed had pushed the SUV to ninety-three miles per hour. They had at least twenty miles per hour on the Humvees, maybe more depending on the weight of the armor kit installed on the government vehicles. They had a speed and distance advantage on the interstate, but Charlie was right. If they hit a long, flat stretch, the turret-mounted M240s could reach out and touch them in a very bad way. He remembered they had a long, shallow curve coming up, which gave him an idea.

“Forget the U-turn. We should fall out of their line of sight when we hit that long curve,” said Alex. “Charlie, let me know when we break their line of sight. We’ll look for an opening in the trees. If we can cross over without them seeing, it’ll buy us more time.”

“We’re going too fast to spot openings,” Ed pointed out.

“We’ll slow down once they can’t see us,” said Alex. “Kill the lights before we turn, and I’ll do the laser trick. Good to go?”

“I guess.”

Alex patted Ed’s shoulder. “I feel like we have the band back together.”

“I preferred retirement,” said Ed, pushing the SUV to one hundred miles per hour.

Alex braved the wind for a few seconds, feeling it tug on his night-vision straps. They couldn’t afford to lose the NVGs, especially if they needed to maneuver on the back roads. He steadied them with his right hand and stared ahead, watching the U-turn sign fly down the left side of the SUV, followed by a paved break through the median.

“I lost them!” said Charlie. “They can’t see us.”

Alex scoured the farthest reaches of the SUV’s headlights, looking for a sign of a break in the trees. He spotted what looked like a gap, but it snapped past them a few seconds later. They were moving too fast.

“Count to ten and slow us to sixty!” he yelled over the rushing air.

The signs for the exit appeared as distant green dots by the time Ed reached seven. Still too far—and they were out of the curve.

“Kill the lights and slow down. We need to get across now!” said Alex, craning his head farther to find an opening.

As the SUV slowed, he found what they needed. Alex flipped his NVGs into place.

“Slow down! There’s something coming up!” he yelled, pulling his rifle through the window and kneeling on the seat.

The SUV decelerated, and he triggered the laser, guiding Ed to the gap in the median.

“I see it,” said Ed.

Alex braced himself for the drop off, but Ed eased them off the road at a shallow angle, slicing through the gap. They emerged from the trees heading north in the southbound lanes, less than fifty feet in front of two oncoming vehicles.

Instinctively, he dropped into his seat as the two dark cars buzzed past them. Ed never saw the cars appear, which probably saved their lives.

“What the fuck was that?” yelled Charlie moments before the sound of screeching tires filled the cabin.

Alex twisted in his seat in time to see one of the cars skid sideways down the middle of the highway. Before he could respond to Charlie’s question, the truck’s right-side tires dug into the asphalt and flipped the vehicle. He watched it tumble down the interstate, throwing off sparks until it vanished on the far side of the road. The second car had disappeared altogether, as far as Alex could tell. He felt instantly nauseous.

“Woo-hoo, fuckers!” screamed Charlie. “You see that shit?”

The SUV’s sudden acceleration pinned him to the seat. He took a moment to fasten his seatbelt before getting his head back in the fight.

“Holy shit,” whispered Alex.

“What the hell just happened?” asked Ed.

“You don’t want to know,” said Alex, still not sure himself.

“We just played chicken and won! That’s what happened!” said Charlie, slapping Ed on the shoulder.

“Watch your sectors,” said Alex. “We’re a long way from safe.”

“What’s up with you, man?” said Charlie. “We just cheated death!”

“I know,” he muttered, his hands trembling.

Ed croaked, “Now what?”

Alex leaned his head out of the window, scanning ahead.

“I see the overpass for the exit. We’ll drive up the on-ramp. No lights,” he said.

“Let me know when,” said Ed.

“Yeah,” said Alex, still dazed by their run-in with death.

If they had emerged a second later, they’d be dead from a head-on collision. A second earlier, and they’d be in a running gunfight—with the same result. Less than thirty seconds later, they hit the on-ramp.

“Stop us at the top,” said Alex. “Facing north.”

“Left turn or right turn?” said Ed.

“Left,” replied Alex. “Anything, Charlie?”

“Nothing. They must have missed the commotion.”

“The other car disappeared. I figured it burst through the trees. No way they missed that,” said Alex.

“There were two cars?” asked Ed.

“Yeah, we cut right through the middle of them,” said Alex.

“Jesus. I’m glad I didn’t see any of it.”

“Hold on, Alex. I have something happening back there,” said Charlie. “One vehicle just cut through the median. Heading south. That’s odd.”

“They’re probably backtracking. They have no idea which direction we took,” Alex said. “That still leaves two on the other side.”

“I say we head north on Route 7 and disappear until the helicopters show up,” said Ed.

“Sounds good to me,” said Alex.

“Alex,” said Charlie, “the southbound Humvee just stopped.”

Tracers flashed past Alex’s window, causing Ed to jerk the wheel left. The SUV swerved off the road and scraped a jagged wall of ledge running along the ramp. Alex heard and felt one of the tires blow out, the car leaning to the left. Ed pulled them off the rocks and gunned the engine, speeding the damaged SUV toward the top of the ramp. Streaks of light flew overhead, visible through the moon roof.

“They don’t have a shot!” said Charlie. “The ramp curves around the rock wall you hit. They can’t hit us right now.”

Ed stopped the vehicle.

“What are you doing?” Alex roared.

“They’ll be able to hit us at the top of the ramp,” said Ed. “It curves back.”

“We can’t stay here,” said Alex. “Get us onto Route 7.”

Ed shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Ed, we can’t stay here. They’ll drive right up on us. Please get us moving,” demanded Alex.

The SUV pitched forward, the engine whining as the RPMs climbed.

“Use your lights. They already know we’re here,” said Alex.

The vehicle gained speed as they approached the top of the winding ramp. Alex watched the interstate through his window, trying to anticipate his enemy’s next move. They had fired from the outer limit of their effective range, which meant focusing gunfire at the top of the ramp would not be the best option. If Alex were in command of the group, he’d keep one gun stationary, focused on the ramp, and send the other vehicle up the highway. The nose of a Humvee appeared on the highway.

“Get us through, Ed,” said Alex.

The SUV raced toward Route 7, chased by an erratic stream of tracers. The bright green flashes struck the rock wall and ricocheted in every direction, bouncing off the road behind them. By the time the gunners adjusted their fire to compensate for the SUV’s speed, the vehicle flew past a stop sign, taking a hard left turn. A second set of tracers seared through the SUV’s rear compartment, puncturing the thin metal chassis.

Several red-hot tracer fragments bounced through the cabin, hissing and crackling as they dug into the leather seats and fabric lining of the roof. One of the tracers imbedded in Alex’s headrest, igniting the material. Alex ignored the fire, calmly urging Ed to move them out of the kill zone at the top of the ramp. Each tracer represented five 7.62mm steel-jacketed projectiles, which had mercifully passed through both sides of the cargo compartment without deflecting. If the burst had struck the SUV five feet forward along the left side, the result would have been catastrophic. The SUV shot forward, Ed flooring the accelerator to get them to safety.

Seconds later, the rear driver’s side wheel exploded, pulling the vehicle to the left. Ed wrestled with the wheel to keep them on the road, slowing the SUV to thirty miles per hour. A low-grade rumble reverberated through the chassis, the rough asphalt road grinding through the flattened tires. With their speed and maneuverability advantage eliminated, they’d have to come up with a different plan to survive the next several minutes. Trying to evade Humvees on shitty back roads with two flat tires wasn’t going to work. Alex scanned the roadside, looking for turnoffs or businesses. If they could get off the road unobserved, they might be able to hide long enough for the helicopters to arrive.

A long chain-link fence on the left side of the road led to an open gate. Beyond the gate, a row of large open-bed stake trucks led to a one-story building with six closed garage bays. A sign supported by two posts labeled the facility as a Maine Highway Department Public Works Depot. The jagged tops of a distant tree line rose above the building. He had an idea.

“Follow the laser,” said Alex, unbuckling his seatbelt.

He directed the rifle-mounted laser at the entrance, guiding the SUV into a slow turn into the compound. The driver’s side tires dug into the packed gravel surface beyond the fence, slowing them considerably.

“Can you see the outline of the building in front of us?”

“Barely.”

“Head toward the far right side. I think this is one of those public works places where they store sand and salt for the winter. We’ll go all the way to the back and hide near the trees. If they follow us in, we’ll head into the forest on foot,” said Alex.

“On foot?” Ed echoed.

“It’ll buy us plenty of time for Grady’s team to get here,” said Alex, pointing the laser at a tight opening between the trucks and the public works garage.

“Hey, Alex?”

“Yeah, Charlie?” said Alex, focusing on the laser.

“We should count on them following us,” said Charlie. “We’re kicking up dust.”

Alex turned his head to look behind the SUV. A light green plume followed them. Shit. There was no way they would miss that.

“Looks like we’re on foot, then,” said Alex.

“Damn it, Alex,” muttered Ed. “We should have kept going.”

“It doesn’t matter. Let me off just past the garage and head as far back as possible. Get into the woods and keep moving away from the facility,” said Alex, stuffing the ROTAC in one of his cargo pockets.

“Where are you going, Dad?” Ryan asked.

“I’ll distract them and head west into the forest. It should buy us enough time.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No,” said Alex. “I need you with Charlie and Ed. I’ll fire a few bursts at them from behind and hide.”

“Dad, we’ll be more effective together.”

“This isn’t up for debate, Ryan. I can’t afford the distraction.”

“I can fight, Dad,” Ryan protested.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. I won’t be able to do what I need to do with you nearby.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“I don’t really care,” said Alex.

Ed stopped the SUV on the far side of the building. A hangar-like structure sat fifty feet beyond the garage. To the left of the structure, a tapered mound of dirt rose to the height of the roof.

“I’ll go with you, Alex,” said Charlie. “Just like the good ole days. Ryan, you go with Mr. Walker. You need to keep that man alive if you plan on marrying his daughter.”

“Oh my God,” huffed Ryan, followed by a brief round of laughter.

“Keep going until I call you on the radio,” said Alex, patting the handheld attached to his vest. “Let’s go, Charlie.”

“Dad?” Ryan said through the open car window. “Don’t do anything crazy. Mom will be pissed if I don’t bring you back. She made me promise.”

“Is that so?” He smiled. “Looks like your mother was playing both sides on this one. I made the same promise.”

Alex patted his helmet through the window. “No bullshit heroics. Straight into the forest and keep going. This will all be over in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” repeated Ryan.

Alex pounded the side of the door. “Use your lights to find the way.”

The SUV sped away, its headlights transforming the public works pit into daylight in his night-vision goggles.

“What’s the plan, boss?” asked Charlie.

Alex scanned the tree line beyond the second building, making a quick calculation.

“I think that pile of dirt has a commanding view of the rest of the compound,” said Alex, lasing the dark conical shape. “We’ll wait for them to pass and climb high enough to engage when they dismount to investigate the SUV. Then we’ll get the hell into the forest and disappear until the helicopters show.”

“What if they don’t?”

Alex checked his watch. Three minutes.

“They’ll be here,” said Alex. “Let’s hop in the back of one of these trucks.”

They sprinted to the back of a large utility pickup parked behind the garage and climbed into the bed. The light from their SUV disappeared, returning the public works compound to a dark green hue. Alex poked his head over the top of the truck bed, checking the avenues of approach.

The Humvees had two options to reach the back of the facility, one on each side of the garage. They would pass through without lights, giving Alex little warning to duck his head below the top of the bed.

“We’ll have to stay low and listen. Once they pass by, we’ll hop out and start climbing,” said Alex.

They didn’t have to wait long. The approaching sounds of crackling gravel filled the air, joined by the familiar, low rumble of diesel engines. Alex pressed flat against the gritty metal bed as the Humvees passed slowly down the left side of the pickup. When the sounds started to fade, he took a quick peek to confirm that the Humvees had disappeared behind the mound of dirt. He pressed the transmit button on his handheld.

“Ed, this is Alex. You there?”

“We’re about two hundred feet into the forest. It’s slow going.”

“Humvees just passed our position,” said Alex. “Whatever you do, don’t stop moving. We’ll draw them away.”

“Got it,” said Ed.

Alex reached into his cargo pocket to check the ROTAC screen. No calls. They were cutting it close. He considered calling Grady to get the Black Hawks’ net call sign, but knew it didn’t matter. The helicopters would get there when they got there. It was up to them to stay alive long enough to hear the sweet sound of the rotor blades.

“Ready?” he said, patting Charlie’s shoulder.

“Fuck yeah.”

They climbed out of the bed, pausing behind the truck to check for dismounted paramilitaries. It was clear.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking off for the back of the dirt pile.

Alex started climbing the mountain of dirt, quickly discovering that it was tightly packed sand. All the better to stop bullets, not that they would stick around long once the rounds started flying. He struggled for several seconds to reach a point near the top of the pile, finding himself with a clear view of the two Humvees. Charlie grunted below him, taking a few moments to reach the same height on the opposite side of the mound.

Alex took a second to analyze the scene. The Humvees were parked parallel to the back fence, next to the SUV. The turrets faced the forest; the gunners were likely scanning the trees beyond the chain-link barrier with telescopic night-vision sights. The doors on the military vehicles opened simultaneously, disgorging heavily armed figures. They needed to act immediately.

“I want you to concentrate on the turret gunners,” said Alex.

“They’re protected by turret armor,” said Charlie.

“Not so much when they’re facing us,” said Alex, pressing and holding the trigger for a long burst.

Sparks exploded across the leftmost Humvee as dark figures scrambled for cover. One of the men dropped to his knees, reaching for the open door frame next to him. Charlie’s rifle barked repeatedly, knocking the man to the ground while Alex unleashed a fusillade against the second vehicle. Bullets ricocheted off the Humvee’s armor and windows, causing the men hiding behind the vehicle to duck. One of the contractors kneeling behind the hood of the leftmost Humvee pointed at the dirt pile, yelling to the rest of his team. The man’s head snapped backward.

“I think they’re on to us!” yelled Charlie.

“Take a few shots at the turret gunners,” said Alex, noticing that the turrets had almost completely traversed in their direction. “We’re out of here after that!”

A snap passed by Alex’s head, followed by a hiss. Their secret was out. Alex triggered his IR laser and pointed it at the rightmost turret. The armored protection kit provided three-hundred-and-sixty-degree coverage, but left the gunner partially exposed toward the front. He fired two quick bursts at the top edge of the forward armor, hoping to place a bullet through the exposed opening.

When the M240 didn’t answer his gunfire with a torrent of 7.62mm bullets, he knew he had either hit the gunner or scared him out of the turret. As long as the machine gun remained temporarily quiet, he didn’t care what had transpired. Alex emptied the rest of his magazine at the men huddled near the Humvee and took cover behind the mound. Charlie was still firing.

“Slide down the back of the hill!” said Alex, grabbing the back of his vest and pulling. “We need to get out of here right now!”

Bullets snapped past the edge of the mound as they slid down the sand to the bottom of the mound’s wide base. Based on the layout of the compound, Alex decided against running across the facility toward the western fence line. He couldn’t guarantee a zero sight-line journey. The eastern side, which was closest to the mound, would be obscured from the Humvees by a mobile office trailer and several public works vehicles.

Once on the ground, they ran diagonally toward the fence, keeping the gigantic mound of sand between them and the shooters. Alex watched the entrance beyond the garage, expecting to see the third Humvee barrel into the compound at any second. They reached the fence unobserved, and Alex put his hands together to give Charlie a lift over the fence.

He heaved Charlie’s heavily loaded frame as high up the eight-foot fence as possible, turning his attention to the mountain of sand. Tracers flew past the pile, indicating that the 240s were back in the fight. He watched as the trajectory of the tracers changed, shifting right. Shit. The Humvees were on the move. Alex slung his rifle over his back and started climbing the fence.

“Get up and over, man. They’re coming,” hissed Alex.

He reached the top as Charlie dropped to the other side. Swinging his right leg over, Alex pulled himself over the top and dropped, crashing to the ground next to his friend. A sharp, deep-seated pain shot up his left arm, which was trapped underneath him. He rolled onto his back, crying out when the arm shifted. Charlie kneeled next to him.

“I think I broke my arm,” said Alex.

Charlie reached across his body, accidentally grabbing Alex’s arm. The contact sent a shockwave of pain through his arm, which Alex muffled with a grunt.

“Sorry, Alex,” said Charlie, pausing momentarily. “What do you see on my hand?”

A slick, dark green stain covered the palm of Charlie’s hand. “Blood.”

“You probably don’t want to—”

Alex craned his neck to examine the useless appendage, seeing the forearm bent at an odd angle in the long sleeve of his jacket. Compound fracture. He dropped his head against the forest scrub.

“—look at your arm,” finished Charlie.

“Get me up. We need to get clear of the fence,” said Alex, extending his good hand to Charlie.

Alex was on his feet running, already a hundred feet into the forest, when he heard the diesel engines. Through the thick tangle of dead bushes and low pine boughs behind him, he watched two dark shapes creep past the fence. He patted Charlie on the shoulder, about to congratulate his friend, when the high-pitched squeal of the Humvees’ brakes pierced the night.

“Get behind a thick tree, and get down!” he yelled as one of the Humvee’s backed into sight.

A long string of tracers stitched through the trees, passing overhead. Alex nestled into the spongy forest floor, pulling his legs into a fetal position behind him. He groaned from the pain of pressing his arm into the ground, but he needed every square inch of his body blocked by the tree, and he needed his good arm free to operate his rifle. A second stream of tracers stitched through the base of the trees, bullets striking low against the trunk in front of him. The ground between Alex and Charlie exploded from the hail of bullets.

Alex risked a glance toward the fence, seeing that the Humvee had been repositioned to point at the fence. The second Humvee was out of sight, likely depositing mercenaries farther down the fence line. Within minutes, they’d have to contend with a flanking maneuver. He didn’t see any way out of this.

“Any ideas?” he yelled to Charlie.

Charlie shook his head as tracers passed between them. “You always come up with the plan!”

“Watch your right flank! The second Humvee kept going!”

Keeping his body hidden from the M240’s fusillade, Charlie turned onto his left side and aimed his rifle toward their right flank. A concentrated burst of gunfire hit Charlie’s tree, tracers slicing inches from his prone figure. A metallic crack was followed by a string of curses as Charlie quickly pulled his gun behind the tree.

“Son of a bitch! They broke my rifle!” he said.

“Does it still shoot?”

Charlie leaned around the tree and fired several times at the Humvee.

“Yep!”

“Then it ain’t broke!” said Alex, pressing his rifle’s vertical hand-guard grip against the tree and firing a wild burst toward the fence.

His gunfire was met by a furious volley of well-placed bullets, one ricocheting off his ACOG scope and grazing his right cheek.

“Fuck!” yelled Alex, pulling his rifle back.

He turned on his back and lifted his neck to examine the forest behind them. Streaks of light sailed through the darkness, striking trees and spinning through the pine boughs. The ground appeared flat. There was no way they could make a run for it without being torn apart by the Humvee’s machine gun. Their only choice was to hold in place and hope the helicopters showed up within the next minute or two. He didn’t anticipate surviving longer than that. Long beams of light reached out from their right flank, probing the trees and ground around them.

“Stay as low as you can!” said Alex. “They’re using IR beams on our right flank.”

“Fuck that,” said Charlie, shifting his aim to the right.

A quick blast from his rifle was followed by a distant scream. The beams of light disappeared. The problem with IR beams was that they worked both ways if your adversary had night-vision equipment. Bullets hissed over Alex as the flankers fired in the general vicinity of the M204’s tracers’ general hit pattern. Alex hit his radio transmit button.

“Ed, where are you?”

Static filled his headset for a few seconds.

“We’re headed south as fast as we can move,” said Ed. “What’s going on at the compound? Sounds like they’re still there.”

“We’re pinned down about a hundred feet from the fence. No way we can move. They’ve got a group flanking us through the trees. We need those helicopters,” said Alex.

“We can hear them,” said Ed. “That’s why we’re busting ass to get out of here.”

“The helicopters?”

“Yeah! They’re close. Can’t you hear them?”

Alex dug through his right cargo pocket for the ROTAC phone, seeing a deep orange glow through the open pocket flap. He flipped the NVGs up and read the illuminated display. Missed call-Hellfire 05. Time 20:05

“Two minutes ago,” he muttered, selecting “Hellfire 05” and pressing SEND.

Chapter 35

Plymouth, Maine

The helicopter banked left, giving Staff Sergeant Dan Hurley a temporary reprieve from the endless treetops. The interstate edged into view through the gunner’s station window, snaking south through the pines. They had followed the highway since Augusta, tracing its meandering path for nearly forty-five miles until they spotted two “still warm” vehicles crashed near one of the exits.

The helicopter’s FLIR (Forward Looking InfraRed) pod had spotted the heat signatures nearly a mile out, prompting the pilot to call their ground contact. No answer. They hovered above the wrecks long enough to confirm that neither vehicle matched the description they were given by the Marines. The pilots continued north on the highway until one of the Marines reported seeing a stream of tracers fly into the air to the southwest.

“Gunners, I still have no contact with our guy on the ground. Do not engage unless you identify a target that is firing at one of the helicopters. We have multiple friendlies on the ground,” he heard through the headset mounted into his helmet.

Two lines of tracers arched over the distant treetops, the scene drifting out of Hurley’s view as the helicopter continued its sharp turn. The pilot steadied the utility helicopter on a new bearing, headed southwest. They’d be above the ground battle in less than ten seconds at this speed.

“All stations. I have contact with the ground. Troops in contact. We’re going in hot. Port side, stand by to engage targets marked by laser. Friendlies will be marked by a ground flare. Be advised. A second group of friendlies is on foot several hundred feet south of the compound,” said the pilot.

“Port-side gun station, solid copy,” he said, listening to the Marines confirm the pilot’s order.

In his peripheral vision, the Marines crowded the port-side cargo door, readying their weapons. He felt the helicopter shift left, flying a straight course for several seconds before banking hard right and slowing. Barrel flashes and tracers appeared below the dense pine canopy at the helicopter’s eleven o’clock. Hurley swung the GAU-2/A 7.62mm Minigun toward the battle, revving its six barrels without feeding the ammunition. The electrically driven, air-cooled gun could fire up to fifty 7.62mm rounds per second at a sustained rate, utterly devastating anything in its sights. He found the flare burning brightly under a barrage of tracers. Now all he needed was a target.

A bright green laser answered his prayers, pointing at the source of the tracers—a Humvee partially obscured by the lead edge of the trees near the compound’s eastern fence line. He triggered his gun’s IR laser, matching its point of aim with the helicopter’s. When the two aligned, Hurley depressed the spade trigger for a full second.

A continuous stream of low-intensity tracers belched from the minigun, ripping through the trees and blanketing the Humvee in sparks. The 7.62mm bullets couldn’t penetrate the Humvee’s primary armor, but that wasn’t his intention. Hurley’s mission was to turn the less protected turret into a charnel house, ensuring that nobody in his or her right mind would climb behind the M240 machine mounted inside. To drive home that point, he fired a longer burst at the Humvee, focusing the stream of tracers at the top of the Humvee.

“Targeting hostile foot mobiles one hundred feet south of friendlies,” said the copilot, who was operating the FLIR.

The helicopter’s target designation laser shifted left, penetrating the trees a hundred feet north of the friendlies. Flashes appeared in the general vicinity of the laser, followed by the hollow ding of bullets striking the helicopter’s aluminum hull.

“Copy. Circle the target saturation area,” said Hurley.

The laser drew a shaky, oval pattern over the flashes. Hurley waited for the flare to drift a few degrees right of his line of fire to minimize the possibility of skipping rounds into the friendlies. He held the trigger down for three seconds, blanketing the circled area with more than one hundred and fifty projectiles.

“FLIR registers good hits on foot mobiles,” said the copilot. “Coming off target. Zero-Six lining up for a pass.”

The helicopter’s laser disappeared as they broke out of the trees and flew over open ground. He caught a glimpse of trucks and a few structures before trees filled his gun-station window. The helicopter banked left, giving him a view of Hellfire Zero-Six’s gun run. Minigun tracer fire showered a different Humvee, causing a secondary explosion on the ground. The Marines hollered, cheering the gunner on. A few shorter bursts from the gun were directed at the forest in front of the first Humvee, presumably striking a second group of foot mobiles.

“We’re coming in for a hover above friendly ground unit. Zero-Six will land in front of the garage and disembark Patriot elements. Watch for a third hostile vehicle possibly entering the compound from the north,” said the pilot.

The crew acknowledged the pilot as they flew over the compound and approached the flare from a southerly direction.

Chapter 36

Plymouth, Maine

Alex lifted his head a few inches off the ground after he was certain the second helicopter was finished. Dozens of tracers and bullet ricochets from the friendly miniguns had ripped into nearby tree trunks and branches. He wasn’t complaining, but he wasn’t taking any chances either. His flare continued to burn brightly on the ground between them, whitewashing his view through the NVGs. He pushed the goggles off his face, squinting at Charlie’s red, glowing form.

“You okay?” whispered Alex.

“Aside from the 7.62 millimeter haircut?” said Charlie, who remained face planted into the ground. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Check the right flank, in case something survived,” said Alex.

“Nothing survived that,” said Charlie, rolling onto his side to scan the trees through his riflescope.

“One of the helicopters is going to hover directly above and keep us safe while a squad of Marines secures the area,” said Alex.

“Does that mean I can just lay here for a while?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much all I plan to do for now,” said Alex.

The deep, rhythmic thumping grew louder, preceded by a growing wind that rustled the pine boughs and swept a fine layer of dirt from the compound through the trees. As the dark shape of Hellfire Zero-Five moved into position above, a maelstrom of pebbles, sticks and dried pine needles pelted them, causing Alex to bury his face in his arms. A quick burst of minigun fire sent a line of red tracers toward an unseen target, presumably the second Humvee.

Small-arms fire erupted in the compound, punctuated by the buzz-saw sound of the minigun above them. Spent casings tumbled through the branches, jingling as they struck the ground next to Alex. Either the third Humvee had showed up, or a few survivors had decided to fire at the offloading helicopter. Alex’s ROTAC buzzed as the crackle of gunfire thinned. He didn’t recognize the call sign.

“Alex Fletcher,” he answered.

“This is Sergeant Keeler. I’m moving my squad toward the fence, due west of your position. We’ll clear the vehicle and cut a hole in the fence. Have you out of there in a few minutes.”

“Copy, Sergeant. You know where to find us. Any sign of the third Humvee?”

“Negative,” said Keeler. “I have a few AT-4s waiting for it to make an appearance.”

“I hope you get to use them,” replied Alex, switching to his handheld radio. “Ed, this is Alex. Can you hear me?”

“Barely. Are you guys okay?”

“I broke my arm, but that seems to be the extent of it. We’re just waiting for a squad of Marines to sweep the area. Where are you now?”

“Somewhere south of the SUV. We stopped moving when the helicopters started firing. Do you want us to head back?”

He could barely hear Ed over the incessant noise and rotor wash of the helicopter above him.

“Did anyone follow you into the woods?” said Alex.

“I don’t know. We’ve been hauling ass since we got over the fence. We can’t see a damn thing.”

“Just stay where you are. Lay low and listen for any sounds.”

“I hear helicopters and gunfire,” said Ed. “That’s about it.”

“Do what you can until we get this sorted out,” said Alex. “How’s Ryan?”

“I think he’s enjoying this way too much,” said Ed. “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. See you in a few.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“It is if you’re trying to stay alive,” said Ed.

Alex laid his head on a thick root protruding from the bottom of the tree trunk and watched the red flare sputter against the ground. All he wanted was a stretcher and a helicopter ride home. He highly doubted either was in his immediate future, unless the paramilitaries had disabled the SUV before chasing them. Over the drone of the helicopter rotors, he heard the sharp metallic snap of bolt cutters breaching the chain-link fence. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, waiting for the Marines to surround his position.

“They’re here,” said Charlie.

“Mr. Fletcher?” yelled a voice in front of them.

A figure in full combat kit appeared at the outer fringe of the flare’s light, aiming a rifle at Alex.

“Yes. Alex Fletcher and Charlie Thornton. We’re on the ground with the flare between us.”

“Can you bury the flare for me?” said the Marine. “I need to positively ID one of you.”

Alex grabbed the flare with his right hand and jammed it into the soft forest floor, burying it as far as possible to give the Marine a chance to use night vision to identify them from a distance.

“Confirmed! I have Alex Fletcher on the right. Mr. Thornton on the left,” said the Marine, rushing forward. “Hasty one-eighty facing east.”

As the Marine rifle squad sprinted into positions around them, Alex rose to his knees to greet the squad leader.

“Sergeant Keeler, good to see you again,” said Alex.

“The pleasure is all mine, gentlemen,” said Keeler. “If you don’t mind, Hellfire Zero-Six would like to get airborne ASAP.”

Alex struggled to get off his knees.

“Need a hand, partner?” said Charlie, pushing himself off the ground with his good hand.

“I don’t know who’s helping who here,” said Alex.

Sergeant Keeler heaved Alex to his feet by his vest, swiftly grasping Charlie’s good hand and swinging him into an upright position.

“We need to move,” said Keeler, striding ahead of them.

Alex flipped his NVGs in place and followed the sergeant to the helicopter, pulling Charlie through the darkness. Once inside the Black Hawk, Alex slipped a pair of crew headphones over his NVG harness and spoke with the pilot.

“Thanks for the rescue. We were about a minute from the end when you guys showed up. Drinks are on me,” said Alex, feeling the helicopter lift off the ground.

He dropped into an empty, forward-facing seat between two Marines.

“You’re lucky we can’t take you up on that offer,” said the pilot.

“One of these days,” said Alex. “Hey, did Zero-Five mention picking up two additional friendlies? My son and another friend are on foot, south of the facility.”

“Zero-Five has located them using infrared. Tell them to proceed due south. They’re less than a hundred meters from the interstate,” answered the pilot. “Zero-Five will pick them up in the southbound lanes.”

“Roger. I’m calling them now,” said Alex, pressing the transmit button on his handheld.

“Ed, this is Alex. I need you to continue south another hundred meters, three hundred feet or so. You’re almost to the turnpike,” said Alex.

He could barely hear Ed’s reply.

“Say again, Ed. I didn’t catch what you said.”

“—not us,” said Ed.

“Not us? Did you say not us?”

“Some—else,” said Ed. “Been trying—contact.”

“Stay put. We’ll fix this,” said Alex, keying the helicopter headphones.

“Pilot, my guy on the ground is telling me that’s not them. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I think he’s whispering. Can you have Zero-Five do another sweep with their FLIR?”

“Stand by,” said the pilot.

Alex felt the helicopter bank sharply, increasing speed as it came out of the turn.

Charlie yelled across the troop compartment, “What’s going on?”

“I think there’s another team tracking Ed and Ryan!” he said, the implication hitting him hard.

Neither Ed nor Ryan had night-vision gear. They didn’t have a way to fight in the dark. His earphones crackled.

“Mr. Fletcher, Zero-Five has two sets of infrared signatures. They’re less than ten meters apart. One group is headed right for the other. Too close for guns,” said the pilot.

Alex shook his head, muttering, “No. No. No.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Ed and Ryan were supposed to be out of danger. Where the hell did more of these contractors come from? Why were they between the highway and his son? He needed to come up with something. Without night vision, his son and Ed stood no chance against seasoned military contractors. Night vision. That was it.

“Is this helicopter equipped with infrared countermeasures? A flare dispenser?”

“Affirmative,” said the pilot.

“Tell Zero-Five to light up the sky above the heat signatures,” said Alex.

Chapter 37

Plymouth, Maine

Ryan lay prone, his rifle canted sideways to keep it as low as possible. A twig snapped, barely audible over the distant thunder of helicopter rotors. The men were close, most likely directly in front of them, but he couldn’t be sure. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the blackness betrayed no movement. He let his peripheral vision do the work, remembering what his dad said about the motion sensitivity of his eyes’ photoreceptors. Still nothing.

A muted crunch drew his attention to the left, in front of Mr. Walker. He had to do something. The men searching nearby were bound to catch a glimpse of them soon. Without night vision, the earliest warning would be a hail of bullets tearing through flesh and bone. Ryan had no intention of dying on his stomach while hoping for a miracle.

He’d take the initiative, throwing the mercenaries off balance. It was their only chance of survival. Unfortunately, he couldn’t warn Mr. Walker. The men were too close to whisper. Sliding his thumb along the rifle hand guard, he located the pressure switch for the flashlight attachment. The powerful LED light would render their adversaries’ NVGs temporarily useless, giving him a second or two to fire, unless they were using generation four night-vision gear. If that was the case, he might get one of them before they shot him in the head. Shit. He couldn’t just lay here and wait to be shot. The light was worth a try. He took his right hand off the rifle’s pistol grip and planted it into the soft, moist forest floor, tensing his muscles for a solid boost.

His dad’s voice came over the earbud planted in his left ear.

“Ed, Ryan, listen closely. You have two targets due south of your position, less than twenty feet away. One of the helicopters is headed in your direction right now, but they can’t fire without hitting you. They will fly directly overhead and drop several high-intensity flares. Once the flares ignite, you should be able to see your targets. Don’t hesitate. Just start shooting. Click your radio transmit button twice if you copy. Ed first. Then Ryan.”

Ryan eased his hand to the remote transmit button on the shoulder of his vest and waited for two breaks in the static before pressing it twice. A hand gently patted him on the shoulder as the sound of helicopter rotors deepened.

This is it.

He found the trigger again, stretching his thumb around the pistol grip to verify that the safety was disabled. He knew the rifle was set to automatic fire, but he had to check. There was no room for error. Especially now. When his stomach started to vibrate from the booming sound of the approaching Black Hawk, he took some of the slack out of the trigger.

Any time now.

A high-pitched engine whine mixed with the rotors as the helicopter thundered overhead, turning night into day. Ryan fired a long burst into the two body-armor-clad figures appearing less than fifteen feet away, sweeping the point of aim of his rifle across their twitching bodies. With Ed’s rifle barking rapidly next to him, he switched to short, successive bursts until the two men dropped out of sight, leaving a fine red mist drifting in the flares’ dancing illumination.

Ryan twisted onto his side and withdrew a fresh rifle magazine from one of his vest pouches, reloading and listening for movement in front of them. As the earsplitting din of the helicopter faded, he rose behind the tree next to him and fired into each body’s legs, not detecting a reaction. The men were dead.

The magnesium flares launched by the helicopter crashed through the canopy, igniting anything they touched on the way down. Ryan crouched as a flare swept through the pine boughs above them, setting fire to the tree before bouncing off a thick branch. The pyrotechnic device landed on one of the dead mercenaries, burning intensely for a few moments before suddenly fizzling. His face went cold when the flare died.

“I think they’re about as dead as they can be. Let’s go,” whispered Mr. Walker, squatting next to him, “before the forest burns down around us.”

They took off running, using the yellow-orange flickering light of the flaming trees to guide their way.

“Ed, Ryan, what’s your status?” said his dad.

Ryan waited for Mr. Walker to answer. That was the protocol they had established between them. Only one of them answered radio calls to avoid confusion.

“Go ahead, Ryan. I think your dad would rather hear from you,” said Mr. Walker.

“Dad, we’re fine. Heading south toward the highway. I think they started a forest fire.”

“Good to hear your voice, buddy. Move as fast as you can to the highway. We think the third Humvee dropped off the team you encountered. The pilots are eager to get out of here,” said Alex. “And thank you for keeping my guy safe, Ed.”

“I’m pretty sure it was the other way around,” said Mr. Walker, patting Ryan on the back again.

He liked hearing Chloe’s dad talk about him like that. Mr. Walker hadn’t been a big fan of his for obvious reasons. Ryan stuck to avoiding him and, in turn, evading Chloe. He felt bad about doing that to her, but Mr. Walker’s stares and pointed comments made him feel uncomfortable. His mom did a decent enough job explaining why the Walkers might want to put the brakes on their relationship, but it still hurt to be away from her. Maybe things would change between them. He hoped so. He also hoped all of this meant they could stay in Maine.

They reached the edge of the trees, pointlessly scanning the starlit sky for the helicopter. They heard it approach before they saw it, a dark mass descending in front of them. Four shadowy figures hopped to the pavement and ran in their direction, shining lights in their faces. Ryan turned his head and squinted, hearing one of them report “confirmed” into his helmet microphone. The lights disappeared, leaving them flash blind.

“Mr. Fletcher, Mr. Walker. Please follow me,” said the Marine, grabbing his hand and pulling him through the powerful rotor wash toward the waiting helicopter.

Just outside the helicopter, one of the Marines took his rifle and cleared it, handing it back and keeping the magazine. Hands grabbed his vest and pulled him inside, where he was directed to empty harness seats and told to hang on. He searched through the darkness for his dad, seeing nothing but night-vision-equipped helmets and balaclava-covered faces.

“Where’s my dad?” he yelled.

The last Marine to jump into the helicopter answered, “Your dad and Mr. Thornton are in the other helicopter. They’re both injured, so we’re assessing whether they need to be transported to a medical facility. My orders are to take you to your house in Belgrade. Your dad has been notified that you’re safe.”

“Okay,” he yelled, turning his head to find Mr. Walker. “Mr. Walker?”

“Right behind you,” a voice called out. “And I think you can call me Ed at this point.”

Ryan really liked the sound of that.

Chapter 38

Belgrade, Maine

Kate heard the helicopters before the deck’s side stairs announced Staff Sergeant Evans’ presence, the wood creaking from the added weight of his combat gear. She’d been outside listening since the Marines had passed word of the harrowing rescue. She let go of the deck rail and turned to the house. A diesel engine revved in the distance.

“Ma’am, they’re less than a minute out. The helicopters will touch down just south of here on Jamaica Road. One of my vehicles is heading out to meet them,” said Evans, standing in front of a two-story wall of wide, angled windows.

The soft glow of candles illuminated the great room behind the wall of windows facing the lake, turning the Marine into a dark silhouette.

“Can your medic treat them here?” she asked, walking toward the house.

“He’ll thoroughly clean the wounds and do what he can to keep Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Thornton comfortable. Their injuries are painful, but not life threatening. We’re working on a plan to deliver a medical team from Augusta to set your husband’s arm and do a real stitch job on Mr. Thornton’s hand. They might be preoccupied until the morning, or longer,” said Evans.

“All hell breaking loose tonight?” said Kate.

“We’ll be fine here,” said Evans, opening the sliding door.

“Your colonel doesn’t think so, or I wouldn’t have a squad of Marines at my house,” Kate pointed out.

“It’s just a precaution,” said Evans. “And a bit of a fig leaf.”

“I think you mean olive branch? Offering a fig leaf is what you do to cover up an embarrassment.”

“Whatever the saying is,” said the Marine. “He really needed their help.”

“He should have asked. A few pallets of field rations and MREs isn’t adequate compensation for a dead husband and son,” Kate remarked, eyeing the stack of olive drab containers stacked in the hallway leading to the front door.

Evans looked down as she stepped through the door.

“I know, ma’am. I’m really sorry,” he whispered.

The dry heat from the wood-burning stove warmed her face like a sunny day. The flickering light of several widely spaced candles illuminated the great room and eat-in kitchen. Her daughter, Emily, and the rest of the teenage girls sat on the floor in front of a wide, U-shaped sectional couch, playing cards. Samantha, Linda, and Alex’s mother sat on the leather sections behind them, looking to her for word. Tim Fletcher placed a glass on the kitchen counter and turned to face her.

“They’re on their way. I can hear the helicopters,” said Kate, catapulting the room into a frenzy.

As the extended family rushed toward the front door, Kate looked at Evans.

“Luckily for you, all this group cares about is getting their people back in one piece,” said Kate. “You might want to have your medic put something strong in my husband’s IV bag. He’s the one you need to worry about.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Evans said, looking even more contrite than before.

They waited in the wide front yard, keeping their distance from the armored vehicle parked squarely in the middle of the trampled grass. The silent mass of steel stood vigil over the house, anchoring a dozen Marines spread in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree perimeter throughout the property. An impenetrable row of evenly cut arborvitaes stretched across the front edge of the grass, creating a privacy screen from the dirt road connecting the lot to the rest of the neighborhood. The trees were somewhat pointless, since the house was located at the far northern end of the access road. You’d have to be hopelessly lost, or terminally nosy, to travel to the end of the road.

Staff Sergeant Evans stood at the edge of the compact trees, watching the road through a handheld night-vision scope. She was relieved to have the Marines guarding the house, even if their arrival had been one hell of a surprise. The house exploded in panic when the battery-powered wireless motion detectors installed a hundred feet down the road registered movement. Linda led everyone into the trees north of the backyard while Tim manned one of the protected firing positions they had constructed on the second floor of the house facing the road.

When he reported two military vehicles pulling up to the property, they assumed the worst. The mission to Bangor had failed, leading the paramilitaries to their doorstep. The sudden arrival of two Matvees less than an hour after Alex’s departure was hard to interpret any other way. They all breathed a sigh of relief when Tim reported that the “Marines had landed.”

The good vibes ended when Staff Sergeant Evans, unable to adequately explain the need for his presence in Belgrade, confessed that their husbands and her son were headed into an uncertain situation. Kate interpreted “uncertain” to mean dangerous, which turned out to be an understatement. A military coup was underway in the state, and her husband was driving into the middle of it. They waited in sheer silence for word from the helicopters sent north toward Bangor.

Evans had understood the gravity of their situation. He had a ten-year-old son and six-year-old daughter waiting with his wife in the Military Dependents Camp at Fort Devens. His family’s safety was completely dependent on the commanders calling the shots at the base. He was as helpless as Kate and the rest of them. She felt bad for heaping the blame on Evans. He’d drawn the short straw tonight. If anyone in Alex’s group had been killed, the Marines would have witnessed a hostile environment unlike any combat zone they had ever seen. The thought brought a quiver to her lip. She didn’t want to think about what could have happened. Kate was just glad they were safe.

“They just made the turn,” said Evans.

The group edged forward in the darkness. Evans cracked a green chemlight and tossed it to the ground between the trees and family, casting a faint glow over them. Kate squeezed Emily’s hand, and her daughter squeezed back. The sound of heavy tires grinding against the uneven dirt road penetrated the trees, followed by the deep hum of a powerful diesel engine. The Matvee rumbled past the evergreens, squeaking to a halt several feet beyond Evans. The passenger-side doors opened, disgorging two Marines, who rushed to the back of the troop compartment. The rear hatch swung to the right, exposing the road to a dark red light.

Ryan jumped to the ground, turning to help Ed. They reached up to help Alex slide out of the back, onto his feet. Her husband’s left arm was wrapped in a compression splint that ended at his wrist. Alex grimaced when he hit the ground, sucking air between his teeth. Ryan pulled the good arm over his shoulder and backed out of Charlie’s way.

“I got this!” yelled Charlie. “Jesus Christ, I feel like I’ve been admitted to a nursing home.”

Charlie’s feet hit the ground unevenly, his sizable frame wobbling on impact. He stumbled backward, unconsciously extending his bandaged hand to catch the back of the Matvee. When his hand smacked into the armored hatch, Charlie screamed loud enough to wake the entire lake. Ed quickly grabbed him before he crashed to the ground.

“Told you I had it,” he grumbled, sparking laughter from everyone.

When the four of them finally stood upright behind the Matvee, one of the Marines inside the vehicle started clapping. They all joined in a round of applause and whistles for the returning crew, before the families rushed forward to swarm them.

Emily ran ahead of Kate, throwing her arms around Alex’s uninjured side. He winced before kissing the top of her head and squeezing her tight with his good arm.

Kate hugged Ryan tightly, ignoring the rifle magazines and combat gear fastened to his body armor. She wept silently, tears streaming down her face. Kate could barely wrap her arms around her son, but she kept him locked in place until he protested. She didn’t want to let her son go. The relief she felt holding his living, breathing form caused her to feel weak, almost fragile. She couldn’t go through this again. Not with either of them.

“You’re not going anywhere, ever again,” she said, sniffling.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Ryan said, trying to squirm out of her bear hug. “It wasn’t a big deal. Dad had it under control.”

“It sounded like a big deal,” she said, easing up on him.

“Everything was more or less fine. This is just from falling off a fence,” said Alex, nodding at his splinted arm.

“Save it. I got the full story from Staff Sergeant Evans,” said Kate.

“Yeah, he fell off the fence dodging machine-gun bullets!” yelled Charlie. “You should have seen it! And they say I’m the klutz. Whheeeee, he went sailing!”

“I thought we agreed to play down certain aspects of our trip,” said Alex, letting go of Emily to hold Kate.

“Fuck that, man. We just survived against all odds. I thought we were gone for sure until those helicopters showed up!”

“Maybe I didn’t get the full story,” she said. “Ryan, I expect a full report from you, since I’m obviously not going to get it from your—”

“He’s gone to find Chloe,” said Alex, nibbling her bottom lip.

She tilted her head for a more passionate kiss. Despite the fact that he smelled like a combination of gun propellant, musty pine needles, and blood, she couldn’t get enough. He responded to her not-so-subtle advance and returned the deeper kiss. She broke it off, conscious that their daughter was holding on to them.

“Later,” she whispered in his ear, opening their family cluster to bring Emily closer.

“Dad, do you think things will go back to normal now?” asked Emily.

“I think it’ll get better, sweetie,” said Alex, meeting her eyes with doubt.

A distant boom punctuated the night, causing Alex to look toward Staff Sergeant Evans. The Marine cracked a second green chemlight, holding it in front of him. Three successive explosions followed the first.

“Welcome back, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get everyone inside,” said Evans, motioning for them to follow him across the yard.

When the families were clear of the road, the Matvee turned around and raced away.

“How long will they be here?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know,” said Alex, pausing as several muted detonations echoed across the lake. “Probably depends on how long that lasts.”

“I hope they stay,” said Emily, speaking for all of them.

Chapter 39

Belgrade, Maine

Alex’s arm throbbed inside the plaster short-arm cast lying across his lap. He stared at the lake through the spacious windows, still slightly dazed from four days of taking pain medications. Dark, hazy thoughts dominated his mental horizon. While grateful to be alive, sharing stolen time with his family, he couldn’t stop focusing on the long-term cost of the trip. His arm would be useless for most, if not all of the summer. Charlie’s hand was out of commission for more than a month.

The combination of injuries represented a significant setback to their gardening project, which was barely a feasible endeavor with all hands participating. Alex knew logically that it wasn’t the end of the world. They’d be fine. Grady had promised him food and supplies, which he had no reason to doubt. Emotionally, his outlook dimmed at the thought of sitting around idle, reliant on outside assistance. He’d planned so carefully over the past five years to specifically avoid this situation.

Maybe he was just angry at having the rug ripped out from under him after spending so much time believing that he was ready for anything. Who was he kidding? Ninety-nine percent of the population had it far worse than the Fletchers, even now. Alex had to remember that. He hadn’t failed on any level. If anything, he’d succeeded in the face of insurmountable odds, with a little help along the way. A lot of help, but that was how it worked. No man was an island. No family was an island. However that saying went. Words to live and die by.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Kate, appearing next to the couch with a steaming mug of coffee.

“Just staring out into space. Feeling sorry for myself,” he said. “Is that for me?”

“It wasn’t, but anything to lift your spirits,” she said, walking around the leather sectional to put the mug on the glass coffee table in front of him. “Ken is going to help us plot the garden beds. He knows a few others in the neighborhood that might be able to help.”

“More mouths to feed,” he mumbled, reaching for the coffee mug.

“Alex,” she started.

“Sorry. We need all the help we can get, not to mention that the neighbors are here to stay. I’m still dusting the cobwebs off that record. It’s just hard going from our compound in Limerick to coexisting in a community of strangers.”

“We’ll make it work somehow.”

Alex wasn’t sure how, but as long as the military subsidized their food, they’d figure it out eventually.

“Alex!” yelled his dad, the front door slamming behind him.

“On the couch,” he called, shaking his head and winking at Kate.

“I know where you are. It’s where you always are,” said Tim, rushing into the room.

“I might have broken an arm, Dad,” said Alex.

“Didn’t realize you walked on your hands,” said Tim, shifting the rifle sling on his shoulder. “Someone’s here to see you.”

The house started to vibrate almost imperceptibly.

“Who?” asked Alex, pushing off the couch to stand up.

“Lieutenant Colonel Grady,” said Tim. “We’ve got a Matvee and four of those big-ass armored trucks idling in front of Charlie’s house.”

“Grady came up?” said Alex, kissing Kate on the cheek as he hurried around the couch. “This should be interesting. Three MTVRs? That’s a lot of carrying capacity.”

“I don’t know what the hell they’re called. Back in my day they were called five-tons, and they had a canvas cover over the back. Barely protected us from the rain, let alone an RPG.”

Alex patted his dad on the shoulder. “Times were tougher back then, Dad.”

“Why does that sound like you’re patronizing me?” Tim followed him down the slate-tiled hallway to the front door.

“I have no idea,” said Alex, smiling at his dad.

Sean Grady stood at the far end of the front yard, talking with Ryan. The two of them nodded and grinned like they’d known each other for years. The Marine shook his son’s hand, holding onto his shoulder. A classic man-hug. Ryan took off down the compacted dirt road, disappearing behind the row of pines.

“Are you supposed to be wearing your helmet?” asked Alex.

The fury he’d promised to rain on Grady never materialized, along with the best intentions to endlessly lecture the officer that once served as a platoon commander under him. Sean’s smile, the familiar scar, the way he genuinely embraced Ryan—he let the anger go. Just like that, it was gone, leaving Alex feeling lighter.

“Alex, I want to—”

“Apology accepted,” Alex cut in. “You don’t need to mention it again.”

“Alex, I don’t expect—”

“Seriously, Sean. I think this is my new mantra. Let it go.”

“Is your son feeling all right?” Grady asked Alex’s dad.

“That’s the first logical thing he’s said since the fall, so I’d say he’s doing just fine,” said Tim, patting Alex on the back. “I’ll head on down to the convoy to see what’s in those armored trucks. If you can even fit anything in there. In my day—”

“We know. Marines walked everywhere, with twice the gear and no body armor,” said Alex.

“You see that, Colonel? No respect for his elders,” said Tim, shrugging his shoulders, and they all had a good laugh.

“We’ll be right there, Dad,” said Alex.

“Take your time,” said Tim, heading down the road toward the armored vehicles.

“Grab a cup of coffee? Fresh brewed with a new batch of grinds,” said Alex. “Looks nice enough to sit out on the deck.

“I’ll take you up on that,” said Grady. “But I need to push off in about fifteen minutes. I’m headed up over to Searsport next. I need to collect some personal gear.”

“How many did Staff Sergeant Taylor lose?” asked Alex, aware that a fierce battle had been fought over the terminal the first night of the military coup.

“Five. The National Guard garrison took the brunt of the casualties. Eighteen out of the forty-two soldiers assigned to guard the terminal. They threw at least fifty Homeland mercs against the facility, supported by heavy weapons and several up-armored Humvees. Hit the place hard.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“They fought all night. We couldn’t use the helicopters because the mercs breached the northern gate and took up positions near the fuel farm. We ferried half of the Sanford-based Ranger company up to Searsport to conduct a predawn attack. Finally cleared them out,” Grady told him.

“What about the rest of the state? We heard some explosions. Sounded like they came from Waterville.”

“A National Guard garrison was attacked on the outskirts of the city, but the same helicopters that brought you home managed to intercede. Homeland spread the battalion too thin. Searsport was the biggest attack, outside of the coordinated raid on the governor’s mansion and state government in Augusta. Colonel Martin’s Stryker battalion met them in force outside of the state capital. There wasn’t much left of the Homeland force after that. We hit them all over the state with Medina’s intelligence.”

“And how is our former RRZ administrator?”

“Helping us keep the peace. Homeland doesn’t want word spreading about this. As far as we know, it’s been swept under the rug,” said Grady. “They barely have the support of the military at this point. A few of the RRZs have been torn apart by these mercenary battalions, right under the noses of some very disgruntled and confused military commanders. The New England RRZ has a chance of surviving now, which is more important to D.C. right now than a petty control battle between two bureaucrats,” said Grady.

“You’re not a big fan of Dague or Medina?”

“What choice do we have?” said Grady. “The military can’t be put in charge. The last vestige of trust in the government would be eradicated if the military took over. Those two will figure it out. They don’t have a choice at this point.”

Alex showed Grady to the kitchen, where Kate was pouring an extra mug of coffee.

“Kate, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Grady said. “Feel free to slap me as many times as you’d like.”

Kate eyed him warily, shaking her head. “A slap? I’ve been practicing a frontal kick, aimed low, for the past few days.”

“Point taken,” he said, looking to Alex.

“Don’t look at me,” said Alex.

She handed Grady the mug she just poured, the Marine hesitant to take her offer.

“I’ve decided it would be in nobody’s best interest to assault you—today,” she said. “Plus it sounds like my husband has found it in his heart to forgive you.”

“I’m truly sorry,” he said.

“I know,” Kate said, her face softening. “I live with a man who still wakes up in a cold sweat, blaming himself for every Marine killed or injured under his command. I know it’s not something you take lightly, and that it stays with you forever. But my son and husband are not part of your battalion. You had no right to send them up their without the full picture.”

Grady swallowed hard.

“Never again,” she said, pointing at him.

“Never again,” Grady agreed.

“All right. I’ll let the two of you catch up. I hear you brought four trucks with you?” she said, trying to smile.

“It’s the least I could do to thank everyone,” said Grady. “In addition to enough food to last your whole crew at least two years, we grabbed some gear from the Limerick compound. Solar panels, the whole system, along with the batteries, ham radio, personal effects. Nobody has gone near the place since we left.”

Kate’s eyes watered, her stern look melting.

“Thank you, Sean,” she said, having trouble forming the words. “You don’t know what this means to us.”

“I should have brought this up to you a lot earlier,” said Grady.

“It means a lot. We’re truly grateful for everything you’ve done. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you hadn’t helped Alex in Boston,” she said.

“Friends help friends,” said Sean.

“Then I should be glad some things haven’t changed,” she said, extending her hand. “Square?”

“Unless you need something,” said Grady, shaking her hand. “I mean it. It’ll be easier for us to get around the state now.”

“I’d give you a hug, but I’m done hugging rifle magazines and body armor. I’ll let the two of you catch up,” she said.

“See you in a few minutes,” said Alex, giving her a kiss.

Alex and Grady stepped onto the deck, basking in the warmth.

“Not a bad place up here,” said Grady. “Now I can see why they call Maine vacationland. I never understood why people flocked to the southern coast. Same with Cape Cod. The last thing I want to deal with on vacation are crowds of people. This is nice.”

“I never understood why people wanted to vacation in the summer. I know the kids are out of school, but for shit’s sake, why go from one warm place to another?”

“I never understood ski vacations either,” said Grady.

“Don’t even get me started. Going from cold to cold makes no sense either,” Alex replied.

“I wonder how long it will be before any of us takes a vacation again,” said Grady.

“I was on my way to warmer climates, maybe Europe, until my boat was taken by the state,” said Alex.

“You don’t want to go to Europe,” Grady said gravely. “Things are falling apart quickly. The Russians have swept through half of their former satellite states, stopping at the Polish and Romanian borders. There’s nothing in place to stop them if they want to drive further.”

“I was thinking Argentina or Brazil,” said Alex.

“Not a bad idea, though it’s only a matter of time before the economic ripple effect starts to tear things apart down there. Mexico is essentially a no-man’s-land, along with most of Central America. The Caribbean islands are folding one by one as the supplies from South America slow.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to sell me on staying in the U.S.”

“Frankly, it’s starting to look more and more like the best bet,” said Grady.

“I was hoping to subsist on more than MREs and B-rations for the rest of my life,” said Alex.

“I was going to surprise you on the walk back, but I might as well break the news over the best cup of coffee I’ve had since last August. Harrison Campbell gave me a small cooler filled with heirloom seeds. Said he thought your garden might need a boost. Sounds like he was right,” said Grady.

“He really did that?”

“He was adamant about it,” said Grady. “Made me wait while he put it together.”

“The RRZ relocation thing was bullshit, right? You still went out to visit him?”

“Medina did plan on moving the RRZ once the state government was neutralized. I knew that wasn’t going to happen, but I promised you I’d talk to Harrison. He was touched by your generosity, and very happy to learn that the RRZ security zone wasn’t moving north.”

“I bet he was,” said Alex.

“Well, I better get moving,” said Grady. “I’ll leave one MTVR, with a squad of volunteers to help you dig up the garden beds. Harrison led me to believe that you might need some help with that as well.”

“Harrison must have been worried all winter about us,” said Alex, leading him into the house.

“We were all worried about you. Like it or not, you’re somewhat of a celebrity back at the MOB. Even more so now. I’d never say this around Kate, but if you’re interested in a job with the RRZ, I’ll make it happen. Just say the word,” said Grady.

“I think I’m done with all of that, Sean,” said Alex. “I just want to start over and enjoy what I still have.”

“I don’t blame you, Alex,” said Grady, cracking a smile. “You have more than most up here. “If you change your mind, you know how to get in touch.”

Alex swiped the ROTAC from the kitchen table on the way past, stopping to hand it to Grady.

“I’ll drive down and let you know personally,” said Alex. “Maybe after everything settles.”

Grady accepted the ROTAC, nodding. “Hopefully, I’ll be back with my family by then.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Alex, clinking Grady’s coffee mug.

****

If you enjoyed The Alex Fletcher Books , I have NO DOUBT that you will love my new FRACTURED STATE series. Set in the year 2035, FRACTURED STATE follows Nathan Fisher, the unwitting target of a black ops conspiracy, in a cat and mouse chase across a frighteningly recognizable, high-tech, dystopian southwest United States. ORDER NOW FROM AMAZON .

OR

Check out HOT ZONE , book one in the ZULU VIRUS CHRONICLES, an action-packed, conspiracy/survival thriller series.

For VIP access to exclusive sneak peeks at my upcoming work, new release updates and deeply discounted books, CLICK HERE TO JOIN MY NEWSLETTER.

CLICK HERE TO LEAVE A REVIEW for Dispatches . Even a short, one line review can make all of the difference. Thank you!

Work by Steven Konkoly

The Black Flagged Series—Black Ops/Political /Conspiracy/Action thrillers

“Daniel Petrovich, the most lethal operative created by the Department of Defense’s Black Flag Program, protects a secret buried in the deepest vaults of the Pentagon. A secret that is about to unravel his life.”

ALPHA: A Black Ops Thriller (Book 1)

REDUX: A Black Ops Thriller (Book 2)

APEX: A Black Ops Thriller (Book 3)

VEKTOR: A Black Ops Thriller (Book 4)

OMEGA: A Black Ops Thriller (Book 5)

COVENANT: A Black Ops Thriller (Book 4.5) — Novella

The Alex Fletcher Books—Suspense/Action/Adventure/Conspiracy thrillers

“Alex Fletcher, Iraq War veteran, has read the signs for years. With his family and home prepared to endure an extended disaster, Alex thinks he's ready for anything.  He's not even close.

The Jakarta Pandemic (Book 1)

The Perseid Collapse (Book 2)

Event Horizon (Book 3)

Point of Crisis (Book 4)

Dispatches (Book 5)

The Zulu Virus Chronicles—Bioweapons/Conspiracy/Action thrillers

“Something sinister has arrived in America’s heartland. Within 24 hours, complete strangers, from different walks of life will be forced to join together to survive the living nightmare that has been unleashed.”

Hot Zone (Book 1)

Kill Box (Book 2)

Fire Storm (Book 3)

Fractured State Series—Near-future Black ops/Conspiracy/Action thrillers

“2035. A sinister conspiracy unravels. A state on the verge of secession. A man on the run with his family.”

Fractured State (Book 1)

Rogue State (Book 2)

Dedication

To my family for their tireless support and love.

Acknowledgments

To the usual suspects. You know exactly who you are. Thank you!

About the Author

Steven graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1993, receiving a bachelor of science in English literature. He served the next eight years on active duty, traveling the world as a naval officer assigned to various Navy and Marine Corps units. His extensive journey spanned the globe, including a two-year tour of duty in Japan and travel to more than twenty countries throughout Asia and the Middle East.

From enforcing United Nations sanctions against Iraq as a maritime boarding officer in the Arabian Gulf, to directing aircraft bombing runs and naval gunfire strikes as a Forward Air Controller (FAC) assigned to a specialized Marine Corps unit, Steven’s “in-house” experience with a wide range of regular and elite military units brings a unique authenticity to his thrillers.

He lives with his family in central Indiana, where he still wakes up at “zero dark thirty” to write for most of the day. When “off duty,” he spends as much time as possible outdoors or travelling with his family—and dog.

Steven is the bestselling author of nearly twenty novels. His canon of work includes the popular Black Flagged Series, a gritty, no-holds barred covert operations and espionage saga; The Alex Fletcher Books, an action-adventure thriller epic chronicling the events surrounding an inconceivable attack on the United States; The Fractured State series, a near future, dystopian thriller trilogy set in the drought ravaged southwest; and THE RESCUE, a heart-pumping thriller of betrayal, revenge, and conspiracy.

He is an active member of the International Thriller Writers (ITW) and Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) organizations.

You can contact Steven directly by email (stevekonkoly@striblingmedia.com) or through his blog: StevenKonkoly.com .

Acronyms and Terminology Used in The Alex Fletcher Books

ACOG – Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight. A telescopic scope commonly issued to troops in the field.

ACU – Army Combat Uniform

AFES – Automated Fire Extinguishing System

AFV Stryker – Armored Fighting Vehicle used by U.S. Army

AN/VRC-110 – Vehicle based VHF/UHF capable radio system used by U.S. Marine Corps.

AR-10 – 7.62mm NATO/.308 caliber, military style rifle

AR-15 – 5.56mm/.223 caliber military style rifle

BCT – Brigade Combat Team, U.S. Army

Black Hawk – UH-60, Medium Lift, Utility Helicopter

CISA – Critical Infrastructure Skills Assembly

CQB – Close Quarters Battle, urban combat

CH-47 Chinook – Twin engine, tandem rotor, heavy lift helicopter

CIC – Combat Information Center

CONEX – Intermodal Shipping Container. Large metal crates typically seen stacked on merchant ships or in shipping yards.

C-130 – Propeller driven, heavy lift fixed wind aircraft capable of short landings and takeoffs.

C-17B Globemaster – Heavy Lift, fixed wing aircraft

C2BMC – Command, Control, Battle Management and Communications

DRASH – Deployable, Rapid Assembly Shelter

DTCS – Distributed Tactical Communication System (satellite based network)

EMP – Electromagnetic Pulse

ETA – Estimated Time of Arrival

FEMA – Federal Emergency Management Agency

FOB – Forward Operating Base

GPS – Global Positioning System, satellite based

GPNVG-18 – Panoramic night vision goggles, wide field of vision.

HAM radio – Term used to describe the Amateur Radio network

HBMD – Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense

HESCO – Rapidly deployable earth filled defensive barrier

HK416 – 5.56mm Assault rifle/carbine designed by Hechler & Koch.

Humvee – Nickname for High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle (HMMWV).

IED – Improvised Explosive Device

KIA – Killed in Action

L-ATV – Light Combat Tactical All Terrain Vehicle

LP/OP – Listening Post/Observation Post

MARPAT – Marine Pattern, digital camouflage used by U.S. Marine Corps

M-ATV – Medium Combat Tactical All Terrain Vehicle. MRAP

Medevac – Medical Evacuation

MOB – Main Operating Base

MP – Military Police

MP-7 – Personal Defense Weapon designed by Heckler and Koch, submachine gun firing armor penetrating ammunition

MRAP – Mine Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle

MRE – Meals Ready to Eat, self-contained field rations used by U.S. military

MR556SD – 5.56mm assault rifle/carbine with integrated suppressor.

MTV M1078 – Medium Tactical Vehicle used by U.S. Army, 5 ton capacity

MTVR Mk23 – Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement used by U.S. Marine Corps, 7 ton capacity

M1919A6 – .30 caliber, belt fed medium machine gun fielded during WWII and the Korean War. Fully automatic.

M240G – Modern 7.62mm, belt fed medium machine gun used by U.S Army and U.S. Marine Corps

M27 IAR – Heavier barrel version of the HK416 used by U.S. Marine Corps. Replaced the M249 belt fed machine gun. Issued to one member of each fire team.

M320 – Rifle-mounted, detachable 40mm grenade launcher.

NCO – Non-Commissioned Officer (Corporal and Sergeant)

NEO – Near Earth Object (asteroid or meteorite)

NVD – Night Vision Device (used interchangeable with NVG)

NVG – Night Vision Goggles

PRC-153 ISR – Intra-squad radio. Motorola style radio (usually strapped to tactical vest) for squad communication.

ROTAC – Tactical Satellite Radio

RTB – Return to Base

Satphone – Satellite Phone

SNCO – Staff Non-Commissioned Officer (Staff Sergeant E-6 and above)

SUV – Sport Utility Vehicle

Two-Forty – M240 machine gun. See M240G

UH-60 Black Hawk – Medium Lift, Utility Helicopter

YCRB – York County Readiness Brigade. Harrison Campbell’s group.

Go back to Contents

Table of Contents

The Jakarta Pandemic

The Perseid Collapse

Event Horizon

Point of Crisis

Dispatches

Work by Steven Konkoly

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Acronyms and Terminology Used in The Alex Fletcher Books