Author: Stephen Knight
Date: 2015-09-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Apocalyptic
Description: It Was the End of Days. The world had less than seven hours to prepare. When it hit, the coronal mass ejection from the sun rolled back hundreds of years of technological innovation. Airplanes fell from the skies. Power grids crashed. Even electrical cabling was turned to slag. No internet. No cable TV. No electricity. No modern day conveniences of any kind, from fancy European sedans to smart phones to clean, running water. The entire world is plunged back into the Dark Ages in less than a second, courtesy of the most powerful Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) event in recorded history. Television

CHARGES
by Stephen Knight

©2015 by Stephen Knight

Over five billion years ago, a star was born.

The gigantic nebula composed of gas and dust slowly gained mass then shrank to form a spinning disk where our solar system sits today. As gravity pulled more and more of the gas and slightly heavier matter to the center of the disk, massive pressures were induced. At first, dust particles collided, generating miniature explosions that released energy. By themselves, these explosions were fairly unremarkable. But as the motes met their fiery ends, in ones and twos then in hundreds, the energy of their demise was transformed into heat. As the collisions increased and began to number in the millions, the heat began to mount.

Finally, the gases in the mix—most notably, hydrogen and helium—caught alight. Over the course of thousands of years, the disk began to collapse upon itself. In an explosion of X-rays and gamma rays, the point of nuclear fusion was reached, and the disk grew smaller and smaller. Fusion stabilized, and the newborn star greedily consumed the remnants of the nebula that had sired it, devouring all the hydrogen, helium, and other compounds it contained.

A billion years later, all that remained was a yellow, medium-sized celestial body that illuminated the local firmament with its bright, shining light.

And the star itself gave birth.

Hurling matter outward from its fiery surface, several of these ejections contained atoms, which adhered to the spinning rock formations. These smaller heavenly bodies also collided with each other. Most of these collisions led to nothing more than obliteration, where gigantic asteroids were reduced to a spatter of rubble. But in some cases, larger rocks subsumed the smaller, taking on their mass. They too spun and weaved through the now-illuminated void, and captured by the new star’s gravity, they swung around it, connected to it by gravity’s leash. Many of these survivors became planets. Mercury. Venus. Mars.

Earth.

It was Earth, only Earth, which through providence alone found the favor of its host. As the sun beamed great energy toward it, the planet Earth formed. It developed a stable geology and a hospitable mantle that rode atop a dense core made mostly of nickel and iron. Tectonic changes allowed for gases to rise to the surface, and when reheated by the sun’s rays, those gases formed a thick, protective atmosphere. This atmosphere, a scant fifty miles high, shielded the terrain below from the sun’s full, withering glare.

As the eons slowly clicked by, man was born. Finding his genesis among simple primates, mankind outgrew his simian shackles and, in the fullness of time, managed to obtain some semblance of intelligence. This intelligence was tested routinely by disease, famine, weather, and, on occasion, war.

But while these were matters of great importance to man, the sun never took notice. It merely continued to be the bringer of life, of light, of warmth. Until the sun decided a change was in order.

Building beneath several cooling areas on the sun’s surface, great energies coiled and flexed. Known as “sun spots,” these cooling regions were a normal occurrence in many latitudes of the star’s surface. In fact, they could be so regular that observers on Earth could predict their formations and what they might yield when they finally gave way. On those occasions, great flares could be witnessed through special telescopes, both from the surface of distant Earth or from orbit around her. Many times, these flares, while clinically spectacular, were of little importance. They posed no threat to Earth and, beyond the sporadic disruption of telecommunications, were rarely commented upon. In fact, solar flares, or the more serious coronal mass ejections, had only interrupted Oprah Winfrey’s show once.

But on the seventh day of June, the sun decided to play a different hand.

The gathering of sun spots on the star’s earthward side had lasted longer than usual, and because of this, they held back a huge amount of stellar energy. When they finally lost their hold, the sun ejected a sizeable—though in comparison to its estimated mass, an irrelevant—amount of itself toward Earth, serenely rolling along in its orbit some ninety-three million miles away. This salvo was full of charged particles of iron and other matter, matter that retained its electromagnetic charge even as it cooled. Racing away from the sun’s surface at a speed of seven million miles per hour, the ejecta fanned out, reaching toward Earth like the hand of an angry god.

It would strike the planet like a mace.

1

Tony Vincenzo had just sat down in his office and logged onto his computer to check his e-mail when his assistant burst in. “Hey, boss, have you heard the news?”

Vincenzo didn’t look up. He knew Danny Boyleston was dressed as he always was, in a pair of khaki slacks, white button-down shirt, and navy-blue blazer complete with gold buttons. He even wore topsiders. All he needed was a white nautical captain’s cap, and the young man would be ready for the yacht club.

“Just got here,” Vincenzo said. “What’s up?”

“We’re all going to die!”

Vincenzo snorted. “Well, yeah. That’s what happens. Especially when your ratings suck in sweeps week.”

“No, no, you don’t understand. The sun, it blew up!”

Vincenzo raised his head. Danny was standing right in front of his desk, his blond hair slicked back beneath a handful of styling gel, his blue eyes wide with excitement. A sheen of perspiration on his wide forehead made his skin seem to glow. Danny was one of those hopeful theatre types who was forever going to casting calls for off-off-Broadway shows, and at times, his desire to act caused him to inject drama into the most mundane things. Like first thing on a workday.

Vincenzo jerked a thumb out the window behind him, where morning light streamed into the room. “The sun’s up, Danny. Things look pretty normal to me.”

Danny grunted and hurried over to the LED flat screen mounted on the wall facing the desk. He fumbled with the remote then switched on the TV. He flipped through the channels, studiously bypassing FOX, until he came to CNN. Vincenzo frowned at the set, a little irritated at having his morning routine derailed right off the bat, and by his own assistant, at that.

“—could in fact be a catastrophic event,” a talking head said. He was a silver-haired, distinguished-looking man who Vincenzo would have immediately thought to cast as a professor or a scientist in a show. He read the byline on the screen, right above the relentless news scrawl that tracked from right to left across the bottom—“William Ambleton, Astrophysicist.”

“Catastrophic in what way, sir?” the anchor asked.

“Catastrophic in any number of ways, but most notably, the potential for a substantial electromagnetic pulse,” Ambleton replied. “This would have a significant impact on the national power grid, and since the coronal discharge is quite large and spread across a huge area, it could affect every grid on the globe. Earth will be moving through the discharge for almost twenty-six hours, which will expose every nation to the particle bombardment.”

“So we could lose power for a few days, in some areas?” The anchor was one of those vacuous, pre-pressed individuals who seemed to roll off a factory line somewhere. Vincenzo had long ago labeled such individuals as Male Anchor #1.

Ambleton paused, looking at the well-coiffed man across from him as if he were an idiot. “I’m talking about months, perhaps even years. This has the potential to be a very, very serious event.”

“Danny, what’s this?” Vincenzo asked.

“Just watch!”

“Excuse me. You said years?” the anchor on the TV was asking.

“Are you deaf?”

“No. No, Professor Ambleton, I’m not deaf. I just have a problem taking what you’re saying very seriously. There have been dozens of solar flares over this past year alone, and the damage you’re claiming might be possible hasn’t happened during any of—”

“You’re confusing a solar flare with a mass coronal discharge,” Ambleton said testily. “There’s a big difference. Flares do give off some electromagnetic outbursts, but a corona mass discharge is an order of magnitudes larger. Look, an entire section of the sun’s surface has erupted, and with great force. The size of the eruption is twice the size of Jupiter. That’s twenty-six thousand times larger than Earth. The wave is moving at almost seven million miles per hour, and its leading edge will strike the planet early this evening. This wave could be full of charged particles that will interact with our atmosphere, resulting in a gigantic corona that will be visible to the naked eye, like the aurora borealis. When that happens, the heavier particles will already be penetrating the ionosphere. The radiation level could be substantial enough that the ozone layer won’t be able to hold it back. And those particles will induce a huge grounding current strong enough to burn out power lines and fry every electric appliance on the planet, except for specially shielded systems that are mostly owned by the military. Europe will be spared most of the first effects because it will be on the opposite side of the planet, but North America and a good chunk of Asia will feel it right away. It’ll be like the power failure that happened in August of 2003, only instead of affecting a portion of the United States and lasting only a couple of days, it will affect everyone and could last for almost a decade.”

“A decade?” Male Anchor #1’s tone bordered on derisive. Vincenzo had to agree with him. Either Professor Ambleton was off his rocker, or he was one hell of a fear-monger who’d managed to find an outlet to preach to millions of people. “Dave Solen in Los Angeles, what do you have to say to this? Is Professor Ambleton right?”

A split screen appeared, and another wizened visage graced the television. The new fellow looked rather tan and hearty, not at all like Ambleton, whose bow tie left one with the impression that he was nothing more than a pencil-necked geek. Dave Solen—who, the byline declared, was a senior scientist at JPL, as well as an author—smiled disarmingly at the camera and let out a brief, good-natured chuckle. The man had obviously had some training, and Vincenzo wondered if the Solen was a frustrated actor who had gone into science when his big break never came.

“Well, there’s some truth to what Willie’s saying, but the fact of the matter is, these kinds of mass ejections are incredibly rare, and we don’t know a lot about them. Now, it’s true that this ejection is a big one, but there’s not a remarkable amount of evidence to lend credence to what Professor Ambleton is saying.”

Ambleton responded with a bit of snark in his voice. “In 1989, there was a solar incident that caused substantial damage to the power grid in Quebec, and the visible spectra could be seen as far south as Texas. This discharge is much larger. It can even be seen now as a halo effect around the sun!”

Vincenzo kicked back in his chair and spun around to face the window. Holding up a hand to try to filter out some of the bright light, he looked up at the sun, just barely visible between two nearby skyscrapers. There was definitely something diffusing the sun’s glow. “Huh.” He turned back to the TV.

“The halo doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that a discharge has occurred,” Solen said, still smiling, Self-Assurance Personified. He was one of those white guys who shaved his head but still wore a beard, and Vincenzo was sure that he was one of those men he would probably detest in real life—all light and grace on camera, a raving prima donna off. “We’ve been monitoring the sun spot activity in that region of the sun for months, and we knew that something would happen. We figured it would be a flare, but we at JPL weren’t terribly surprised when a corona mass ejection event occurred.”

Male Anchor #1 asked, “So, Doctor Solen, you’re saying that there’s very little chance, or at least a reduced chance, that this discharge could interrupt the power grid here on Earth?”

“Oh, we’ll see some pretty lights, at least in the northern hemisphere,” Solen said, still wearing his winning smile, his pale eyes twinkling in the studio lights. He looked far too chipper for a guy who had supposedly been rousted out of bed at three in the morning to go in for an interview, so Vincenzo decided the guy had tooted some nose candy to get him going. Surprised, he actually felt the nut job Ambleton was more viewer-friendly. At least the scientist seemed sincere in his conviction that Mother Earth was going to end that night, whereas Solen came across as someone who wanted to sell a few cartons of snake oil.

“No electrical grid is prepared for this,” Ambleton said. “If I’m right, there are only a few hours to prepare. Whatever you need, you’d better get it before seven o’clock eastern time, because after that, you might very well be out of luck.”

“And what would our viewers need to consider obtaining, Professor?” Male Anchor #1 asked. It was obvious that he was smirking away on the inside, but he was still professional enough not to let it overtly show.

“I’m an astrophysicist, not a prepper,” Ambleton said, “but I imagine as much water as possible would be a great start. Suitable shelter for the colder months. Enough prepackaged food to last at least a year, until the game population starts to rebound.”

“Anything else you can think of?” Male Anchor #1 asked.

“A gun,” Ambleton blurted. “In fact, several guns. And as much ammunition as you can manage.”

2

Vincenzo’s office remained abuzz all day with the possibility that the world might end that night. As the hours rolled by, he heard more and more conjecture on the possibility that the seething mass of cosmic gases hurtling toward the planet might indeed be something to worry about. The president of the United States addressed the nation at eleven o’clock that morning, confirming the mass of supercharged ejecta was headed toward the planet, but he added that the science community was still severely divided over the threat it posed. He insisted that the government was standing ready to deal with any and all contingencies and that people should go about their daily lives without making a fuss. Like so many politicians, part of his job was performing, and when it came down to it, the only difference between Washington, DC, and Hollywood was that the folks in DC didn’t dress as well and watered down the booze. Then, the president left without taking any questions.

Acting as his surrogate and to bolster the gravitas of the president’s speech, the administrator of NASA hosted a brief question-and-answer session in which he also tried to dispel the dreadful notion that everyone might be without lights, air-conditioning, and high-speed Internet for a time. The press wasn’t having much of that, and the majority of their questions centered around how much NASA actually knew, what they were sharing with the public, and if any special preparations would be made for the crew of the International Space Station. The administrator said the Russians had already decided against attempting a recovery mission, as there was just no way to get a Soyuz capsule aloft in time to rendezvous with the ISS, remove the two Russians and one Canadian from the station, and return to Earth before the stellar storm hit. Vincenzo saw why the president hadn’t taken any questions. Even though the man was a darling of the press, the fifth column was beating the shit out of his designated spokesman.

Danny had come into his office to watch the broadcast, apparently forgetting all about his job. “What do you think of that?” he asked Vincenzo.

“I think trying to get the head of the agency that blew up a lot of space shuttles to deal with the press probably wasn’t the best choice the White House could have made.”

Danny shot him an odd look. “I thought you were a liberal!”

“I am. I voted for the president. But he’s doing a shittier job this term than in the last one, and he’s running out of excuses. ‘Blame Bush’ has had its day, and just because I’m a liberal Democrat doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” Vincenzo looked at Danny pointedly. “Don’t you have a writer’s meeting to pull together for me?”

Danny blinked. “Gosh, the world might end tonight. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“If the world doesn’t end, then the network still needs programming. Get back to work.” Vincenzo’s smartphone trilled, and he answered it. “Hey, baby. How’re you doing today?”

Danny sighed and left the office.

“I’m all right,” Jessie said.

“Benny make it to school all right?” Vincenzo imagined her sipping a cup of coffee while looking out over the City of Angels spread out in the basin below her. It was just before nine thirty in the morning in Los Angeles, which meant that their son, Benny, was already in school. He heard the muffled beats of a helicopter’s blades over the phone and thought it was probably one of the news choppers reporting in on the latest Sig alert.

“Yeah. No problems. What’s this I hear about the sun?” she asked, and for the first time in months, he heard a trace of emotion in his wife’s voice. Under normal circumstances, that would have made Vincenzo’s heart leap; Jessie had been barely more than a walking husk of a human being after their daughter had passed away in an LA-area hospital’s NICU. Unfortunately, the emotion she chose to display was worry. “There’s some sort of glow around it.”

“They’re saying there was some sort of corona discharge. A part of the sun erupted, and now a bunch of gas is flying toward Earth. It’ll hit tonight, and all the doomsday prophets are telling the world that the end has come.” He tried to sound upbeat and confident, but he wasn’t feeling that way. At all.

“So what will happen?” Jessie asked. “On TV, they’re saying that the entire planet might lose power.”

“Not going to happen.”

“There are already riots in the city. I can see smoke rising into the sky.”

“What?” As he spoke, Vincenzo became aware of the wail of sirens coming from the street below. He turned in his chair and looked out the window. Three NYPD cruisers were threading their way through the late-morning traffic on West Fiftieth Street, heading east. “Riots? Where? In Los Angeles?”

“Yes. I see smoke around East LA and Central, maybe around Westlake. The LAPD’s all over the south part of the city right now.” She paused, and when he heard another helicopter, rotors pounding, he knew she had stepped out onto the back patio. “Lots of helicopters in the air.”

“When did this start?” he asked. He wanted to shout Why did you let Benny go to school?, but that wouldn’t have been very constructive. That Jessie was worried concerned him. Things must look bad from her standpoint; otherwise, she wouldn’t even be mentioning it.

“Half an hour ago. Maybe sooner, but I took a long shower after Benny left for school. They said the riots were starting because people are lining up for food at all the grocery stores. Traffic’s horrible today, especially on the surface streets. Do you think I should get Benny?”

Vincenzo grabbed the remote control and started flipping through the channels, looking for some news about what was happening in Los Angeles. He found a satellite station broadcasting helicopter footage from KTTV. The chopper was near the eastern edge of MacArthur Park, orbiting over the blocks between West Sixth Street and Wilshire Boulevard. The view was of Westlake, a mostly Latino community in central Los Angeles. A Home Depot and a Food 4 Less grocery store were on fire, and Vincenzo glimpsed a cordon of police vehicles amassed around the park, right in the middle of the intersection of West Sixth and Alvarado. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of people in the streets, a mass of turbulent humanity that Vincenzo hadn’t seen since the riots of the early 1990s. Damn! People are seriously panicking over this?

“Tony?”

“I’m here, babe. Sorry, I was tuning in what’s going on over there. It looks… it looks like things are definitely getting out of hand.”

“Should I go get Benny?” Jessie asked again.

“Honey, go inside. I need you to write some things down.”

“Just tell me, should I go pick up Ben?” Jessie snapped.

Vincenzo got up and closed his office door, almost right in Danny’s face. He turned back toward the window and looked down at the street. Traffic was getting worse, and he heard hovering helicopters. While that was a normal occurrence in Los Angeles, hearing a plethora of helicopters pounding away was fairly anomalous for New York City, especially midtown. “Yes, I want you to go get Benny but not yet. Go inside. Get a pen and paper. Let me know when you’re ready.”

His mind was whirling. In New York, he’d mostly been able to ignore the goings-on in the rest of the world, but since Jessie had introduced him to the burgeoning upheaval in Los Angeles, a stab of fear had lanced through his heart. He didn’t give a damn about solar flares or coronal mass ejection, but if Los Angeles was going to fall apart while he was trapped on the other side of the nation, he very much needed to give his wife an action plan.

“I’m inside,” Jessie said. “I’m going to the kitchen. There’s a pad there.”

“Let me know when you’re ready.” Vincenzo kept his eyes rooted to the TV.

On the screen, smoke billowed into the air, keeping the news helicopters at bay. A thick curtain of what looked like gray, curdling milk obscured the tall sign that marked the Westlake Theaters. He wondered how long it would take for the unrest to spread. As the helicopter orbited the area, the camera panned toward the hills in the north, where Vincenzo’s house sat. In the distance, everything appeared normal, but he had no doubt that the supermarkets in Hollywood and Sunset would soon be mob scenes, if they weren’t already. Jessie and Ben would have to stay put.

“I’m ready,” Jessie said finally.

“In the garage, where all the boxes are, you need to find the three that have ‘S.R.’ written on the sides. There’s a year’s worth of food there from Shelf Reliance—”

“I hate that stuff, and so does Benny.”

“Don’t interrupt, Jess. Write it down. There should still be about a month’s worth of water in the storage room off the garage. After you pick up Ben, you need to start adding to it. If you can’t get to a store to buy more, stop at gas stations or 7-Elevens, any place where they might have some. You get that?”

“Yes! I’m going to get Ben now, and—”

“Jessie! Shut the fuck up and listen to me!” Vincenzo bit his cheek to stop himself from shouting at her. Months of apathy and depression, and now she’s starting to panic. Awesome. “I’m sorry. Just listen. Please. Here’s the combination to the gun safe: three spins to the right to twenty-seven, two to the left to five, one to the right to zero. Pull out the shotgun that’s not painted in camouflage. That’s a 20-gauge, you’ll be able to handle it easier.”

“You want me to get a gun?” She hated guns, always had, even when Vincenzo, an occasional small game hunter, had tried to get her interested by taking her to the gun club range a few times.

“I want you to get a specific gun. Don’t use the 12-gauge, the camouflage one. It’s too big, and it’s got too much kick. Get the one with the wooden stock, the one you’ve fired before at the gun club—”

“I remember which one it is, Tony. Why am I getting a gun?”

More sirens wailed in the street outside, and Vincenzo turned away from the TV and looked out the office window. Several trucks from the Emergency Services Unit—the SWAT team of the NYPD—were trying to move up the street, which was swollen with traffic. Pedestrians darted in and out of the slowly moving vehicles.

“Because if things get out of hand, Jessie, you’ll need to protect yourself and Benny until I can get there. Baby, when you get back with Ben, fill the bathtub with water. And the sinks, too. Every container you can put your hands on, fill it with water. Make sure the food is safe, and get the damn shotgun. Take it with you when you go for Ben.”

Jessie let out a nervous laugh, but she sounded frightened. “You want me to take a shotgun with me when I go pick up our son. Am I hearing you right?”

“Jessie, I want you to take a loaded shotgun with you when you pick up Ben. You might need it. There are four boxes of shells on the top shelf of the safe marked 20-gauge. Put five shells in the gun. Remember, in order for it to fire, you need to pump the slide and then flick off the safety with your thumb. The switch is on the top of the shotgun, right next to where your thumb would be when you hold it in a firing position. And remember: never put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot something.”

“I remember this stuff! But why do you think I need to bring a shotgun with me to pick up our son?”

“Because from what I’m seeing on KTTV, there’s a good chance LA is about to fall apart.” The sirens from the street were getting louder. “And New York might be following. There’s lots of police activity outside.”

“Are you going to come home?”

Vincenzo had already thought of that. “If I can get a flight, yes. Listen, Jessie, if things really do go bad, try to hook up with Grant and Lisa. I’ll call them now and let them know you guys will need to link up. Because if this solar flare thing really turns out to be as bad as some people are saying, then we’re probably not going to be able to talk again for a long time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really know, aside from what I’ve heard on the TV. Weeks. Months, maybe.”

“Oh, God.”

“That’s why I want you to write everything down, babe. You’ve got to remember this stuff. After you pick up Ben, you’ve got to get ready to start organizing. Take care of the food and water first then worry about keeping the house secure. And remember, fill up every container we have with water, including the bathtubs! You got all of that?”

“I have it,” Jessie said. “Now what?”

“Now you go pick up our boy. You have the safe combination?”

“Three times to the right to twenty-seven, two times to the left to five, one time to the right to zero. Get the 20-gauge, load it with five shells. I’m not going to take that into the school with me, Tony.”

“No, don’t do that. But keep it in the car. You can cover it with a blanket or something. Just stay sharp, Jess. Go out and look for some more water, some non-perishable food, and gasoline. Maybe another tank or two of propane for the grill, if it looks safe enough. Don’t take any chances. If things don’t feel right, keep driving.”

On the TV, the KTTV news chopper was pulling away. Someone had started shooting at it, and the news ticker said that another helicopter, possibly belonging to the LAPD, had crashed near Culver City. The entire plaza that had housed the Home Depot and Food 4 Less stores was fully involved, a raging inferno that belched tremendous clouds of thick, dark smoke into the bright morning sky.

He heard Jessie sniffle. “Babe, do all that I told you, and you’ll stay safe. I’m going to call Grant then start looking for a flight out of here. If I have to, I’ll hire a private jet, so if American Express calls about a suspicious charge from a charter service or something, tell them it’s legit.”

“All right.” She was crying a little, but she sounded a lot more like the old Jessie, ready for action and with her head in the game. She would protect her remaining child with her life.

“My phone is charged, but I’ll slap it back on the charger when I get back to the condo. You should make sure your phone is charged, too.  I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going to happen, all right?”

“Tony, this solar flare, if it knocks out all the power, what will happen to an airplane?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. I’ll try to find out. But I’m coming back to LA, regardless.”

“If I can’t take any risks, you can’t either,” she said with some real iron in her voice.

“I won’t be stupid about it, I promise.”

“All right, Tony. I love you.”

“I love you too, babe. I’ll try to call again when I know more.”  Vincenzo disconnected and hit the speed dial combination for Grant’s office phone. He got a recorded message: All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later. He tried Grant’s mobile number then his home one but only heard the same message. He dialed Jessie’s phone again but met with the same results.

Oh, shit. We’re out of touch already?

There was a knock at the door, and Danny stuck his head in. “Hey, I’m going to go, all right?”

“Lunch already?” Vincenzo glanced at the clock. It was indeed twenty minutes past twelve.

Danny’s brow furrowed. “No, we’re all going home. You saw the e-mail, right?”

“No.” Vincenzo turned back to his workstation. “What e-mail?”

“We were told to go home. There’s a full emergency in place. The city’s going to shut down. Curfew, too. No one outside after eight.”

“You’re kidding me.” Vincenzo opened his e-mail program. The last email was a high-priority message from Belinda Frazier, the network president, stating that all staff not responsible for continuing operations were free to leave as soon as they were able to do so.

“Not kidding,” Danny said, stepping inside the office. He glanced at the TV. “Wow, where’s that?” he asked, pointing at the screen, which was still displaying the fiery conflagration consuming Westlake.

“Los Angeles,” Vincenzo said. “Riots are breaking out. And someone’s been shooting at helicopters.”

“Same thing here. Someone shot an NYPD pilot, and his helicopter crashed into the East River just south of the Williamsburg Bridge.”

Vincenzo was shocked. “What the hell is happening?”

Danny shook his head. “The city’s panicking, man. It’s everyone for himself.”

###

There were no flights out of the city. Vincenzo worked the Internet to his full advantage, but whenever he found an opening on any carrier, it was booked by the time he tried to submit his credit card. All the sites kept crashing, as well, including voice and data services, like Skype and Yahoo Messenger, which he tried to use to contact Grant or anyone else in California who might be of some assistance to Jessie and Ben. His parents had moved to Fort Lauderdale, and he tried to contact them as well, but to no avail. The news networks were saying that the extreme leading edges of the corona discharge were already caressing Earth, and it was playing havoc with wireless communication systems. All other modes of communication were essentially gridlocked, and that included air travel websites and credit card processing centers. The charter services were either booked solid or plagued by the same problems as the major carriers. There was just too much traffic hitting the sites, and they were crashing.

His shiny Samsung smartphone was of no use. He couldn’t make or receive calls, nor could he surf the web. The e-mails he sent through his office system garnered no responses, and his personal web mail accounts were mostly inaccessible, or they timed out when he tried to send messages. With no other recourse, Vincenzo left the office at two o’clock. On the way out, he noted that the cable channel’s floor was mostly vacant.

The walk home took almost thirty minutes. Harper Cable wasn’t the only employer that had dismissed its workers, and the streets and sidewalks of midtown Manhattan were thoroughly congested. He had a Land Rover parked in the basement of Metropolitan Tower, but if the streets along Central Park’s south side were anything like midtown, he wouldn’t be getting anywhere fast. It also had less than a quarter of a tank of gas left, he remembered. There was virtually no chance of him being able to refuel if he took to the streets, and the possibility he might run out of gas after making it no farther than West Seventieth Street didn’t seem very appealing.

With that sobering thought, Vincenzo marched through the hot, early June afternoon, threading his way through the crowd. Every corner was blocked by an undulating throng of people fighting to get across the intersection. Their progress was slowed even more by the fact that they had to wend their way past the cars and trucks and buses that filled the streets. Arguments broke out between motorists and pedestrians, and one fistfight broke out, despite the four uniformed police officers standing next to a nearby parked cruiser. Outside the Hilton Hotel at the corner of Sixth Avenue and West Fifty-Fifth Street, a filthy bald man with a long beard stood, holding a placard in grimy hands. The sign read:

THE END HAS COME.

CHOOSE TO MEET MY GOD

OR TO MEET YOUR DEVIL

“Choose!” the man bellowed when his washed-out blue eyes found Vincenzo.

Tony tried to put some distance between himself and the obviously crazy man dressed in soiled, ragged clothes, but there was nowhere to go. The crush of the crowd was too strong, and he was carried toward the man against his will.

“Choose!” the man shouted again, looking at Vincenzo directly. “Choose, now! My god or your devil!” He was missing teeth, and the strong stench of urine clung to the placard-bearer like a heavy cloak. “Choose!” The man stepped toward Vincenzo, reaching out with one grubby hand. His fingernails were cracked and caked with weeks’ worth of grime.

Vincenzo caught a whiff of excrement as the man bore down on him, and he suddenly had an idea just what the grunge under the man’s nails might be. He raised his left leg and kicked out, catching the placard evenly and driving the man back into the crowd. “Don’t touch me!” he shouted then pushed on, moving up Sixth Avenue.

The doomsayer cackled behind him. “It’s the devil for you! Burn in hell! Burn in hell, you fucking kid toucher!”

Broken glass crunched beneath Vincenzo’s feet, and he glanced to his left. A small family jewelry store had been vandalized, and the big plate glass windows that had formed the storefront littered the sidewalk in thousands of shards. An alarm was whooping, and he caught a glimpse of a couple of masked figures—and several people in business and casual attire, as well—going through the store and filling bags, pockets, and purses with anything they could get their hands on. A man in a blue suit with gray pinstripes picked up a chair and slammed it against a display case containing Rolex and Tag-Heuer watches. Glass imploded, and the man threw the chair aside and reached in for his winnings.

“Let us through! Let us through!” a female cop screamed, as she and her much bigger but apparently less zealous partner pushed their way into the crowd, heading for the jewelry store.

A siren blared, and Vincenzo saw another police car fighting to merge into the lane nearest the sidewalk, its lights flashing. He pushed onward, passing the cops as they edged toward the jewelry store, hands on the butts of their pistols.

At the next corner, a Sabrett hot dog pushcart was tipped over, spilling its load of water, wieners, and condiments into the street. The yellow and blue umbrella had cracked against a black Cadillac Escalade, scratching a deep gouge in its lustrous paint. Vincenzo slipped in the morass of watery hot dogs and fought to keep his footing. A few feet ahead, a portly man went down, dragging two women with him. They floundered on the cement sidewalk, splattering themselves with a colorful mixture of mustard, ketchup, and relish. Vincenzo almost laughed at the sight, but he was still in the middle of the splash zone, and he didn’t want to take a header into the gruesome goo as he stepped past the thrashing people.

He noticed his shoes were covered with mustard, chili, and rapidly congealing melted cheese. It’s a great day to be back in New York.

###

Back in his condo on the seventy-second floor of Metropolitan Tower, Vincenzo felt trapped and anxious. Several hundred feet above the street, he didn’t feel the twin currents of dread and desperation that sluiced through the city like a hot knife neatly bisecting a stick of warm butter, but he could see the signs of it clearly enough. Helicopters orbited the vast crowds that had formed in Central Park, only a block north of him. More choppers flitted back and forth across midtown, to the south. A fire had started in the towering One57 skyscraper right across the street, and West Fifty-Seventh Street was filling up with fire trucks, which had doubtless had a difficult time making it in. Beyond the park, in Harlem and the Bronx, and even from the tony neighborhoods of the Upper East Side, columns of smoke rose into the blue sky. Vincenzo was amazed at the vista. Even during 9/11 he hadn’t seen the city suffering so horribly and in so many places at once.

He tried Jessie and Grant and his parents from his home phone but got either the same recorded message or just a fast busy signal. The satellite TV was out, so there was no news about what was going on in the rest of the world. Vincenzo ground his teeth in frustration and no small amount of fear. Even if the coronal mass discharge speeding toward Earth turned out to be harmless, he didn’t doubt that mankind would do himself in before morning.

And the sun was still surrounded by that queer nimbus that seemed to slowly roil as if the great orb were being viewed through a cloud of rising steam. He had never seen such a thing in his life. Then, he thought he had—in the series he had produced called Starfield, when one of the effects shots showed a rotating sun called a pulsar trapped inside a nebula. It was eerie to think that what had been conjured up by some geeky computer graphics illustrators could be so closely mirrored by a real-life event.

Vincenzo found his mind had given birth to a perplexing thought, one that still seemed faintly ridiculous, given that he was standing on one of the top floors of one of Manhattan’s most famed residential towers, his skin cooling in the air-conditioned air. What if the doomsday callers are right? What if this is going to be a catastrophic event?

If all electrical power failed and would be gone for many weeks or months or even years—God, he had a hard time getting his head wrapped around that—then the effect on the United States alone would be almost imaginable. Without power, there would be no climate control, so buildings like the Metropolitan would be uninhabitable so close to full-on summer. There would be no pumps to drive water, making that resource a sacred commodity, the new gold of the next era. Automobiles, airplanes, and boats built after 1980 or so would be inoperative, their electronic ignitions destroyed. Refineries, water purification, and food-processing plants would be shut down. The nation’s state-of-the-art communications systems would be useless, and a reborn Pony Express would be the only way to correspond with others not in the immediate area.

And New York City would descend into utter chaos.

He walked to the master bedroom and threw open the doors to the walk-in closet. In the far corner was his hiking gear, or at least the bit of it that he had brought with him. In California, the bag had served double duty, acting as a small cache of emergency supplies should the Big One hit. Vincenzo thought that a bit funny. While he had been scoffing at the possibility that a wave of electrically charged gases might turn out every light on the planet, he’d been certain that a massive earthquake would hit California. In fact, that had been a very minor reason behind his moving back to New York.

While he’d had precious little time to see much of New York State since his return, he had thought he would have a few days to get out and see some upstate sights, like the hiking areas around Bear Mountain. As he pulled the green bag toward him, he was both surprised and crestfallen at its weight. The bag was heavy but not heavy enough. He had packed it with almost everything he might need for short hiking trips, but he had never thought he would need to become Joe Survivalist in less than twelve hours.

He carried the bag back into the bedroom, set it on the unmade bed, and tugged open its many zippers. Unpacking the bag, he laid the contents on the rumpled sheets, thinking that Jessie would have a cow if she saw he wasn’t making the bed. He took a quick inventory: a well-stocked first-aid kit full of bandages, creams, salves, and antiseptics; sixteen bags of Datrex emergency water, stuff that had a shelf life of five years; seven Meals Ready to Eat modeled after the military’s MRE, all different varieties of chicken, which was the only prepackaged meal Vincenzo could stomach—beef dishes and ethnic servings tasted like crap; a small roll of duct tape; two Mylar emergency sleeping bags; a rain poncho; a tiny mess kit; waterproof matches and several Bic lighters; two crank-powered flashlights; two small knives; one Leatherman and one entrenching tool; a forty-ounce Hydro Flask; a black StealthGear appendix-carry holster; and a black case that held a well-oiled Beretta 92F, the first and only pistol he had ever owned. He’d bought it not long after seeing the same weapon put to good use in Lethal Weapon. Even though the gun was almost thirty years old, it was just as functional as it had been the day he’d bought it. Of course, he had only been twenty-one back then, so while the gun was as good as new, he could hardly say the same about himself. Inside the case were three extra magazines and two boxes of 9x19 millimeter Parabellum rounds, 147-grain hollow points, one of the premier man-killing rounds. Vincenzo had always been a liberal but not so much as to believe he would never have need to defend himself or his family in the sunny lands of Southern California. That philosophy extended to New York City, which, no matter how big the NYPD grew or how invasive the local government became, would always remain a tough place. Vincenzo had driven across the country with the pistol in its case, a huge risk should he have been pulled over. And of course, it was pretty much illegal to own a pistol in Manhattan. He had looked into the possibility of getting a permit, but while it was possible to get one in NYC, the process was so long and inconvenient that he’d never gotten around to it. Judging by what was happening outside, he decided he had made the right choice.

He opened the boxes, loaded the magazines, and slapped one into the pistol. He racked back the slide and chambered a round then ejected the mag and topped it off with one more cartridge. He slid it back inside the grip and thumbed on the safety, which also acted as a de-cocking lever. The pistol’s hammer lowered back into its previous position, so all he had to do was thumb off the safety, make one long trigger pull—the pistol was double-action on the first pull, then a much quicker-firing single action for the rest of the shots, until the mag was exhausted—and he could send rounds downrange. He hoped things wouldn’t come to that, but the time for taking chances was long gone.

He put the pistol back in its case and reached for the landline phone on the nightstand. Again, he tried all of Jessie’s phones then Grant then his parents. Nothing. He dialed again from his Samsung smartphone, failed to get through, then attempted to access his e-mail. That wasn’t happening, either. He threw the phone on the bed, shouting in frustration as it bounced off the mattress and landed on the carpeted floor.

He repacked the bag then went into the kitchen to go through the refrigerator. He had several bottles of water there, and in the pantry, he found another case of Têr water. He ripped open the box and pushed several bottles into the refrigerator and the rest into the freezer. It was more than he would likely carry in his pack, but he figured he might as well have cold water for later. Rummaging through the cabinets, he searched for anything not immediately perishable. He found several bags of Ramen noodles, a bag of cookies he’d bought for Ben, and a bag of popcorn. He put the items on the Silestone counter. His gaze lingered over the cookies.

How is my son? Is he all right?

The bag didn’t answer.

3

Vincenzo discovered he could still tune in to WCBS radio on his clock radio, and he cranked the volume up high as he continued to sort through his possessions. New York City was indeed descending in chaos, and the mayor had ordered a curfew set in place. Instead of eight o’clock, as Danny had said, the curfew was set for six. All the grocery stores, convenience marts, and bodegas were pretty much out of everything that was of any use, and even items that weren’t, such as pantyhose. Vincenzo guessed the hosiery was either going to be used in stick-ups or as barter items should the world truly come to an end.

There was little word on Los Angeles, only mention that several neighborhoods were on fire and that the LAPD and LA Sheriff’s Department were working together to clamp down on the paroxysm of violence that shuddered through the entirety of Los Angeles County. Of the Sunset District, which was pretty much where Jessie and Benny were, there was no concrete word. Florida, where his parents lived, was also swept up in some violent turmoil but nothing like NYC. Curiously, the big cities in Texas were still operating in a more-or-less normal condition. Vincenzo guessed that, in the end, an armed society was a polite one, after all.

With nothing else to do, he began cooking. He went through his kitchen and pulled out everything that he felt he could reasonably make in the next couple of hours, in the event the power grid truly failed. He decided on pumpkin cinnamon muffins and cinnamon Danishes, along with two Cornish game hens, one of which he would toss into the freezer for later. At worst, he wouldn’t have to worry about thawing it out; that would happen all by itself.

His smartphone rang, and for a moment, he couldn’t find it. He ran down the hall to the bedroom and snatched the phone off the night stand.

He checked the screen then answered, “Grant!”

“Hey, buddy. Listen, we—”

The line went dead.

“Fuck!” Vincenzo redialed Grant but got another fast busy signal.

He went down his contact list with the same result. Halfway through it, a Service Unavailable window popped up, and it kept appearing every time he tried to make a call. Vincenzo sank to the bed, near tears. All he wanted was to talk with his family. All the vast communications technology he’d held in his hands was, for the moment, worthless. Worry and dread consumed him, and there was no way to get past the almost overwhelming sense of doom weighing him down like a wet cloak.

Like when Sophia had come along.

Their daughter had been born prematurely. She had been only twenty weeks old at delivery, and the doctors said she had less than a twenty percent chance of survival. After six weeks in intensive care under the watchful gaze of a battalion of the best pediatric surgeons and diagnosticians that Vincenzo could buy, little Sophia passed away early one morning. Both Vincenzo and Jessie were there when she took her last breath. Vincenzo had spent the nights reading to her, at first silly little children’s books then richer fare, starting with the first volume of Harry Potter. He had just finished the first one the night before her death and was looking forward to treating her to Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, but that was simply not to be.

The loss had been staggering, but deep down, Vincenzo was also somewhat relieved, which disgusted him. The endless suffering, never-ending worry, and the eternal steeling against what might be the final outcome had taken an incredible toll on him. He had taken every step available to try to avoid that fateful set of circumstances, even bringing in a feng shui expert to analyze the room in a bid to give fate a run for its money. As a hard-core New Yorker, Vincenzo usually had little time to entertain such foolishness, but with his daughter’s life on the line, he had no problem honoring his wife’s almost-frantic appeals.

But Vincenzo found he had no talent to endure suffering. Jessie was dying from the inside out, her usually sharp blue eyes drained and bleary, her normally firm, tanned skin pale and lax around the planes of her face, her blond hair lank and lifeless as she directed every ounce of energy she had toward trying to secure her too-soon child’s survival. Their son, Benny, was in pain as well, even though he was too young to recognize the massive obstacles that lay ahead of his sister. He saw the ruthless toll the episode took on his parents, and it filled him with fear and dread.

One night as Vincenzo was tucking his son into bed, Benny said that God could take him and let little Sophia live. Vincenzo shushed him immediately, but later, when he stopped by his son’s door and listened in the still of the night, he heard Benny crying and praying to God that he let his sister live so both his parents could come home. For weeks, Benny rarely got to see his mom. With the dire situation at the hospital, Jessie’s parents had come up from Palm Springs to take care of the boy. Suffering colored every minute of Vincenzo’s day. He could no longer concentrate on work, and even though Grant had tried to bar him from the office, he went anyway. He needed the respite from all the anguish that surrounded Sophia and her premature arrival.

But worst of all was what Sophia had to go through. She existed in the center of a spiderweb of tubes that delivered oxygen, nutrients, and medications. Her intestines had ruptured, and she was doubtless in great pain, if not from the infection that spread through her lower GI tract then from the three rounds of surgeries that had left her skin puckered and angry looking beneath her tiny diaper. She seemed to fight for every breath, despite the assistance of a ventilator that ran endlessly. And her eyes hadn’t opened. The scans didn’t show any significant brain damage, but one of the neurosurgeons advised the Vincenzos that Sophia’s brain was still forming and that any deviation in its formation could have drastic consequences. Even if she lived, Sophia might be diagnosed with severe autism, a debilitating palsy, or incessant convulsions that would prevent her from living a normal life. And then there were the chances of blindness, deafness, or a host of maladies that could leave her requiring substantial medical care for the rest of her life.

When she had finally passed away that morning, Vincenzo wept, as any father who had lost a child would. He felt a numbing sense of loss, and for months, he was off balance. The bottom of his life had dropped out, and he was scrabbling at slick walls trying to hold it together. And in the midst of all of that, there was the relief, the shameful, revolting relief that all the suffering would one day end once time had done what it was supposed to do.

But Jessie never healed, not fully. The sparkle was gone from her eyes, and her post-Sophia existence was barely a faded monochrome image of what she had once been. She still loved Ben—lavished love on the boy, actually—but for Vincenzo, there was almost nothing left. She had given everything to Sophia, and what little remained went to Benny. Vincenzo felt that she was a phantom in his life. At night, it was almost like lying next to a moldering corpse, and he had awoken many times to find her sitting in one of the two lounge chairs in their bedroom, looking down at the constellation of lights formed by the city of Los Angeles.

When Sophia died, she had taken her mother’s soul with her, too.

And now, Jessie was trapped in Los Angeles with Benny. How would she be able to manage things, when she was dead on the inside?

Pull it together, you pussy. Still holding the phone, he returned to the kitchen and went back to his cooking.

Half an hour later, WCBS went off the air.

###

The sun began to settle in the sky, dipping past the twin towers of the Time Warner Building to the west. Vincenzo looked down at the street, a cup of coffee in his hand, watching the shadows lengthen. It was well past six o’clock, and it seemed few people were actually obeying the curfew. The fire in the great One57 tower had been extinguished, but the building was still fronted by an array of fire trucks and squad cars.

Across the street, a woman pressed against the glass of her condo. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore tight-fitting black jeans and a long-tailed white shirt. When she looked across the street and seemed to notice him. She had a small workout area set up in the next room, and he’d watched her hit the treadmill, her big tits bouncing beneath a sports bra as she trundled away with her attention rooted to a TV that was always tuned to CNBC. He’d wondered more than once what she would be like in the sack. She was similar in appearance to Jessie but with a much harder edge, despite the straw-blond hair and the crystal-clear blue eyes he’d been able to see even across the expanse of the city street. The woman regarded him for a moment, and he thought about waving, but she turned away from the window and disappeared back inside her apartment. He returned to his examination of the street, watching the pedestrian-filled sidewalks surge around the few NYPD cruisers there. The cops stood next to their cars, and even from his vantage point, he could tell they were nervous, islands of blue trapped in a cascading river of panicking humanity.

Overhead, tendrils of light suddenly writhed about in the darkening sky. Vincenzo moved against the thick glass window so he could get a better view. Brilliant green light coruscated across the twilight sky, shimmering with blue highlights and driving from west to east. The lambent glow intensified, growing brighter and brighter and bathing the city with a luminous radiance that seemed to pulse rapidly. With each pulse, more blue light shot through the green. It was eerie, but at the same time, it was beautiful.

The refrigerator squealed as its compressor sped up, then it stopped with a sudden rattle, grinding to an unceremonious halt. Vincenzo looked over his shoulder just as the kitchen lights brightened. They went dark a moment later, and he heard a distant explosion rip through the night, like a transformer blowing. Then, all the lights in the apartment failed, leaving him in a darkness tinged with green and blue.

Vincenzo checked the window. New York City had gone dark. All lights were gone, even those of the vehicles in the street. He could just barely see the people down there, their faces turned upward as they regarded the light show in the sky. In Central Park, beyond the dark One57 Tower, little pinpricks of light blossomed. It took Vincenzo a moment to recognize what they were—people were striking their cigarette lighters. A good time to click your Bic.

Something moved in the sky, and Vincenzo pressed against the glass again. An airliner was gliding through the air, nose down. Even though it was twilight, the plane should have been illuminated, but the aircraft was completely dark, no winking anti-collision lights at all. Worse, it was close enough that he should have been able to hear its engines, but instead, he heard nothing other than a faint whoosh as the jet dove through the air. It flitted past, zooming out over Central Park and descending toward Harlem. Vincenzo watched in horrified fascination as the aircraft grew smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared behind some buildings on the other side of the park.

A moment later, an orange fireball lit up the area to the north. An angry mushroom cloud of black smoke formed, and Vincenzo realized he had just watched a planeload of people die. Farther out, past the darkened residential buildings of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, two more fireballs surged into the air. He knew what they were: more airplanes out of La Guardia, stricken dead either while landing or taking off. More human lives had been wiped off the slate in an instant.

From the street rose a great furor. The crowd had transformed into something ugly, something primal. In the gloom, he couldn’t see exactly what was going on, but the commotion was loud enough to reach his ears almost seven hundred feet in the air. Gunshots rang out, distant and tinny, and he stepped back from the window. Across the street, he could see the ghostly image of the blond-haired woman with the big tits and frozen eyes. She stood at her window and peered down into the street. He couldn’t see her face, so he had no idea whether her eyes were full of fear or just simple annoyance that humanity had started to turn on itself only a few minutes after the lights died.

Vincenzo reached for his Samsung smartphone. It was dead, the screen black. It had been of remarkably little use to him throughout the day, but now he realized the pictures stored on it—of Benny, of Jessie—were lost to him, possibly forever. He cursed himself for not printing them out.

There was more gunfire from below, some of it sustained for several seconds. Vincenzo moved deeper into the apartment. He could hear everything, it seemed, since the mechanicals that brought the building to life had halted in midstream. There were none of the soft, gentle noises that resided in every building: the whisper of the ventilation system, the soft gurgle of water down pipes, the muted rise and fall of elevators. The big condo was full of the sounds of impromptu warfare in the streets.

He began searching for a flashlight. He had a feeling he was in for a very long night.

###

The commotion in the street finally began to ebb at around three in the morning. Despite everything, his Rolex still worked. When he checked out the living room window, all he saw was darkness broken here and there by the beams of flashlights or lanterns. He couldn’t tell exactly who was down there, but judging from their numbers, he thought they might be police or military. Across the street, One57 was a gigantic, dark monolith. A sizeable fire blazed in Central Park, and more raged in other parts of the city. But there were no sirens, no flashing strobes, no passing helicopters.

It was as if the city had been caught in some sort of weird void, where everything he had known had been transformed by the blackness and the writhing spectra in the sky. The aurora that had spread across New York continued to sparkle and shine, mostly green tinged with shoots of blue. Vincenzo no longer thought it looked beautiful. If anything, he viewed the aurora with a mixture of dread and distrust. The pretty light show would bring nothing good to the world.

To console himself, he ate one of the Cornish game hens. It was cold, and there was no way to warm it up, beyond lighting a fire and trying it the medieval way. But the last thing he wanted was to fill up the condo with smoke, so he just picked at the cold, slimy flesh of the small bird until there was nothing left. He chased it down with a still-cool beer from the refrigerator, and as he drank, he wondered when he would next be able to buy a six-pack of Anchor Steam at a convenience store. If he understood everything he had heard on the news, the aurora was actually the visual manifestation of the CMD hitting Earth’s atmosphere. Loaded with charged particles, it had turned the planet into one giant superconductor, frying virtually every electrical circuit in the city. Well, not everything. His wind-up flashlights still worked, as well as his trusty Mag-Lite. But his computer, his phone, his iPad, everything on that order of sophistication was fried. And probably, so were most of the appliances in the condo, though their deaths could have been caused by the sudden failure of the power grid.

With nothing else to do, Vincenzo wandered into the bathroom. When he turned on the tap in the sink, all it emitted was a throaty groan as air traveled through the network of pipes. With a sigh, he wet a toothbrush with a dab of bottled water and set about flossing and brushing his teeth. The sumptuously appointed master bathroom—complete with marble soaking tub and matching floor, walls, and countertops, glassed-in shower, and expensive, high-end toilet with a bidet—was so dark and shadowy without overhead lights that he could barely see his reflection in the huge mirror.

Before he decided what to do next, he needed to see just how bad things were. And that meant leaving the building.

4

Vincenzo’s legs burned, and his feet were sore from the trip down the stairs. His condominium was on the seventy-second floor, and it had been quite a walk. While some of the emergency lights in the stairwell were still operating, most of them had exhausted their batteries overnight. Those that remained provided only the most tepid of glows, and the fluorescent strips that marked the edges of the stairs had long since grown dark. Vincenzo was covered with sweat, and he thanked God that he’d had the foresight to bring down a small pack. At least he had some water with him, though he wished he’d brought along some Tylenol. He truly dreaded the return climb.

“Mister Vincenzo?”

Vincenzo turned to see Geraldo, one of the front desk employees. The short, burly man was dressed in dark slacks and a vest over a rumpled and sweat-stained white dress shirt. He was an affable man, always quick to help, who displayed a genuine earnestness Vincenzo thought had died in New York City a long time ago. Geraldo’s features were drawn and pale, and he looked eons older than his fifty-something years. Though obviously exhausted, he seemed hyper-alert, almost as if he was strung out on too much coffee.

“Geraldo, how’re you doing, man?” Vincenzo asked, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. He had another thought. Metropolitan Tower was a black structure shrouded in glass. In the coming hours, the entire building would turn into an oven. That didn’t make the climb back to his residence any more appealing, and he wondered if he could manage to put it off until closer to nightfall.

“Hanging in there, sir. Hey, you climbed down all those stairs? In the dark?” Geraldo asked.

“You’re not going to tell me the elevators are working, are you?”

Geraldo managed a phantom smile. “No, sir. They’re most definitely not working. Nothing’s working, and no one has any answers.” He glanced at the small day pack. “You thinking of heading out somewhere, sir?”

Vincenzo jerked his thumb toward the lobby exit. “Going to take a walk around, get a feel of the lay of the land. Seems like things have changed a bit since yesterday.” He noticed that one of the lobby doors was a crazed spiderweb of cracks. He frowned. “So, what happened to the door?”

“We had a bit of trouble. After the lights went out, we had to lock up. We only opened up for residents, and last night, someone tried to bust through the doors with a trash can. Scared the hell out of everyone, but he didn’t get in.” He studied the doors. “Not sure what’s going to happen tonight. The cops, they’ve all disappeared. Firemen, too. And there’s no way to call anyone if something goes down, you know?”

Vincenzo looked around the wide lobby. Like the rest of the building, it seemed dark and unwelcoming. “Where’s everyone else? The rest of the guys?”

“Gone, sir. I’m it. Until someone else shows up.”

Vincenzo didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”

“They left as soon as the sun came up. Everyone. Housekeeping, security, doormen, both here and in the corporate tower. As far as I know, I’m the only one left. No contact with the building owners or the management company, so, uh…” Geraldo shrugged. “So I’m all that’s left of Metropolitan Tower’s staff, I guess.”

“Where do you live?”

“The Bronx, sir. But I’m not quite ready to walk home just yet. Though I am getting a little worried about my cat.”

“I’m sure your cat will be all right, Geraldo. Keep the faith, man. How long do you think you’ll be staying?”

Geraldo shook his head. “I don’t know. A bit longer, for sure.”

“Seen any of the other residents?”

“A few. One of the young men—you know Mister Cole, runs all those gyms downtown? Lives on thirty-one?”

“Afraid not.”

Geraldo waved the admission away. “Well, he went out at about five thirty. Came back a half hour later with a busted face. I tried to get him to stay down here so I could see about getting him some help, but he wasn’t having none of that. Went back up to his unit. I hope he’s okay. He could’ve died on his way up.”

“I didn’t trip over any corpses on the way down, so I’d say he made it.”

“Yeah, well, you might want to take it easy out there, sir. Midtown West isn’t what it used to be.”

Vincenzo nodded. He felt the same way, which was why he had his Beretta in a kidney holster, covered by his shirt and the backpack. He wouldn’t be winning any quick-draw contests, but if he needed it, he knew where to find it. For the first time since coming back to New York, he wished he had one of those small profile pistols that were more easily concealed. “Are the doors locked?”

“Yes, sir. They are.”

“Can you let me out? And how will I get back in if you’ve left?”

“I’m not leaving for the next couple of hours, sir. But if you like, I can give you a key to the revolving door, providing you don’t lose it.”

“That would be awesome, Geraldo. And no, I won’t lose it. And if someone takes me down, I’ll tell them it’s to One57. Consider it payback for taking away Metropolitan’s view of the park. How’s that?”

Geraldo smiled. “I like the way you think, Mister Vincenzo. You want to go out the front, or the back?”

“Is Fifty-Sixth Street any better?”

“No, sir. Both the same.”

“The front, then.”

“Hold on one second.” Geraldo ambled back to the lobby desk then returned a few moments later with a single key. He handed it to Vincenzo then led him to the lobby doors facing West Fifty-Seventh Street. After unlocking the undamaged door with another key, he slowly pushed it open.

Acrid smoke drifted into the lobby. Overhead, the long awning was torn in several places, and the red fabric whipped in the warming breeze. Vincenzo stepped outside cautiously, resisting the urge to reach around and shift the backpack to make his pistol more accessible.

“Be careful out there, sir,” Geraldo said. He then pulled the door closed and locked it.

Vincenzo shot him a thumbs-up, even though he didn’t feel particularly enthusiastic about being outside, then turned away from the door. He checked his watch: 6:01 a.m.

West Fifty-Seventh Street was a disaster zone. Trash lay all over the sidewalk: cast-aside water bottles, food packages, newspapers, shattered vodka bottles, and even a man’s shoe, the brown leather scuffed and worn. The black husks of two cars sat outside the Russian Tea Room, the upscale restaurant and exclusive venue next door to the Metropolitan, its own red awning half-burned away, doubtless a victim of the blaze that had consumed the two cars. Vincenzo thought he even saw some blood on the cement.

He turned right and made his way toward Sixth Avenue, his feet making crunching noises as grit snapped and popped beneath his running shoes. The intersection of Sixth and West Fifty-Seventh was full of dead cars.

An old man wandered through the vehicles, wearing a bemused expression. He nodded politely at Vincenzo. “Finally solved the traffic problem around here.” His voice seemed unusually loud in the morning stillness.

“Yeah,” Vincenzo said, crossing the intersection. He headed toward Fifth Avenue, the thoroughfare that served as the official divide between Manhattan’s east and west sides.

“Hey, you don’t want to go over there,” the man said.

Vincenzo stopped. “Why’s that?”

“Some sort of murder scene down there. Lots of mounted police and some detectives.” The old man pointed at a nearby UPS truck, its contents apparently still locked up safe inside. “Hop up on that bumper and take a look. See for yourself.”

As the man drew closer, Vincenzo stepped up on the truck’s bumper and looked eastward, down the length of West Fifty-Seventh Street. The added elevation did wonders, and Vincenzo saw two mounted cops sitting atop their tall horses. More horses were attached to flat carriages Vincenzo had never seen before; they certainly weren’t the ones that were used to haul tourists around Central Park. More uniformed police milled about as well, watching EMS and sanitation workers loading up the wagons. He wasn’t close enough to make out the faces of the people doing the work, but he could clearly see what they were doing in the growing light of dawn. Bodies. They’re already loading up bodies.

A chill ran through him, and he found his thoughts turning to Los Angeles. Jess and Benny, how are they? Are they safe? Did Grant manage to get to them? The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became. He considered walking down to the intersection and asking the cops what was going on, but he didn’t want to get any closer to the grisly work going on down there. Sure, he could make movies where the bodies were piled twenty high, but in real life? No, thanks.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“The world ended last night,” the old man said. He wore oversized wire-rimmed glasses, and his head seemed too large for his body. He pulled a worn-looking green sweater tighter around his narrow shoulders. “And it’s still happening.”

“How so?”

The old man pointed up, and Vincenzo looked. Visible spectra still writhed in the brightening sky.

Earth was still being bombarded by countless charged particles that wreaked havoc with every electrical system on the planet.

“Things aren’t going to get much better anytime soon,” the old man commented.

“Yeah. You might be right about that.”

###

Vincenzo picked his way through the midtown area. Some places were clean and virtually untouched, where civility apparently still reigned. But only a block or two away, there would be substantial signs of distress: shattered shop windows, looted stores, vandalized cars. He saw a group of toughs who had apparently walked down from Harlem overnight making their way back uptown, carrying full backpacks. Two of them pulled a red wagon with two Samsung 3D flat screen televisions in it, and Vincenzo wondered what the hell they were going to do with them. Even if the systems hadn’t been trashed by the electromagnetic pulse, the majority of the city’s power grid was gone. Did they plan on storing the TVs someplace until the power came back?

As the morning matured, more pedestrians appeared, and with them, bicyclists. The cyclists darted down the streets, weaving around the stalled traffic. Several wore backpacks, and a few rode sturdy mountain bikes with saddle bags on them.

Vincenzo waved at one young man as he pedaled toward him. “Where you headed?”

“GWB,” the man said without stopping. He was gone before Vincenzo could ask for news, not that he felt the man had any to impart.

Vincenzo had already spoken to several people, and no one knew anything he didn’t. But the young biker’s answer caused Vincenzo to consider his situation further. The George Washington Bridge was quite a hike from where he currently stood, on Sixth Avenue and West Fiftieth Street. Without realizing it, he had been headed back toward his office, perhaps more out of instinct than design. It would take three hours to get to the bridge, but it was the only open air westward crossing. The Lincoln and Holland tunnels were closer, but he had no desire to march into their dark depths. Plus, they ran under the Hudson River. If there was no power for the pumps there, going below water level might not be wise.

Realizing there was nothing for him in midtown, Vincenzo turned and began walking back up Sixth Avenue. He would head back to the southern edge of Central Park and see what the lay of the land was before pressing on farther.

###

As he drew nearer to Central Park, he heard sounds of civilization, or more specifically, the noises of many citizens. And he heard something he hadn’t realized he’d ever wanted to hear again: an electronically amplified voice. The sound drew him like a magnet, and Vincenzo hurried up Sixth Avenue until he made it to the extra-tony boulevard known as West Fifty-Ninth Street, or Central Park South. The street ran crosswise across the city at the base of Central Park. Real estate there was at its most prime and consistently fetched some of the highest prices in New York City—and in the world. He was joined by dozens of other people who poured out of the condo and co-op buildings on the street, all just as hungry for news as he was. In moments, he was in the nucleus of a jostling crowd. No one was being too pushy, avoiding confrontation for the moment, but he had an uncomfortable flashback to his walk uptown yesterday. The pall of dread was still in the air, but it didn’t seem as desperate as it had earlier. Instead, there was a sense of expectancy. Someone was broadcasting over a loudspeaker, which meant someone had news, and news meant everyone would soon know who was in charge and who would be solving their problems.

A sizeable crowd on Fifty-Ninth Street milled around, facing the park. A full contingent of mounted police were there, the horses stomping and snorting behind blue barricades that blocked off Park Drive North, the road that cut through the vast park. The cops looked over the swelling crowd with nervous eyes. Vincenzo caught glimpses of more police spread throughout the area, many of them in riot gear: clear shields, helmets, small assault rifles, and shotguns. Missing were the police vehicles, a conspicuous absence. Other than some patrol cars that had been sitting in the same place overnight, there was no large concentration of police vans, buses, or trucks. While some might have celebrated, the absence only deepened Vincenzo’s worry. Without speedy transportation, there was no way for the police to respond to crimes in progress, and judging by the areas of distress he had already seen, there was a lot of crime waiting to happen, especially at night.

One of the officers, a senior-looking man in a white shirt, held up a loudspeaker. “Once again, there is a dusk-to-dawn curfew throughout Manhattan and all boroughs of New York City. Anyone out after dusk will be subject to arrest. The NYPD has been instructed by the mayor to show zero tolerance. If you’re out after dark, you’re going to jail. It’s that simple.”

“Tell us what’s happening!” a man shouted over the chorus of boos. “When are the lights coming back on? What about the subways and the cars?”

“There’s no food in the grocery stores, man!” another added.

Similar cries were taken up by the crowd. Many were like Vincenzo, well heeled and probably well-to-do, sweaty from a lack of air-conditioning, expressions of quiet desperation flavored with liberal doses of fear. Others were more blue-collar than blue blood, and they were the confrontational ones, the ones with a lot on the line, probably with more mouths to feed than food in their homes. From that second group, he felt an undercurrent of simmering violence. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since the power failed, and they were already starting to get riled up.

“From what we know,” the officer in the white shirt said, “from what Con Edison has told the mayor’s emergency management people, the lights aren’t going to come on for a while. The power grid has been fried. I mean totally fried, people. It’s going to take months, if not years, to restore it. Everything we’ve heard from the rest of the state and surrounding communities says exactly the same thing. Long Island Power, Connecticut Light and Power, Northeast Utilities, Jersey Central Power and Light, everybody is saying all the infrastructure is history. Same thing for mass transit. The only way you’re going to get around now is by foot, bike, or horse, until things get straightened out.”

“What about the food?” someone shouted.

“Aid stations are being set up throughout the city,” the cop replied. “In fact, one will be positioned right where I’m standing in a couple of hours. It takes time because we have to haul everything on our backs or by horses. If you want to help out with the distribution, see this group of officers behind me.” He pointed at another collection of white-shirted police officers standing in a rough line behind him.

From where he stood, Vincenzo saw the officers didn’t have happy faces. No one wanted to deal with angry New Yorkers, especially when they were asking those pissed-off people to man up and do something for themselves. People often said that in times of crisis, New Yorkers came together, but the vibe he got from the crowd around him was that it was just a hair’s breadth from every man for himself.

“My kids are sick!” a woman yelled.

Vincenzo turned and saw a lady in black jeans and a white top, holding an infant in one of those chest slings. The child’s head lolled against her big breasts. Her hair was already frizzed out from the growing humidity, and her tanned face was a study in anxiety. A slight man with a scruffy beard stood next to her, and he put an arm around her shoulder. Beside him was a girl of about four or five, dressed in red jeans and a wrinkled blue top. Her eyes were hollow and downcast, and she listlessly held her father’s hand. She looked dehydrated, and Vincenzo thought about offering her some water.

Then, he realized the act might make him a target. If he handed the girl water, someone else would want some. If it wanted to, the crowd could take everything he had, and he knew the cops wouldn’t be able to stop them. Jesus, I’m already worried about that?

“Medicine and water and all types of supplies will be made available at the aid stations,” the officer said. “Like I said, it’s taking us time to get them set up, but believe me, the city has a lot of stock to offer you. No one’s going to go without what they need. Bring a list to the aid stations as soon as they’ve been set up, and we’ll get you what you need.”

“I want the goddamn lights and telephones back!” a man hollered. “Last night, the apartment below mine was busted into, and the woman there was raped!”

“The NYPD is going to remain active throughout the day and night,” the officer said, but the crowd booed him loudly, drowning him out despite the loudspeaker. “Listen, the best thing for you to do is to make lists of what you need! Those who work for the city need to go to their job sites, where you’ll be assigned support duties. Police, fire, sanitation, and emergency medical services are all still available to you. Mounted police and bike patrols will be accessible to those who need to report a crime, and all precincts, fire houses, and hospitals are open. Things are moving slowly, but everything is still available. Be patient. Everything is going to be pulled together. The City of New York is responding as quickly as it can—”

More boos rose, along with angry shouts. The line of mounted cops stirred, and the posture of patrolmen in riot gear changed. Face shields came down, and their ranks tightened as they quickly organized themselves. A tremor ran through the crowd, so strong it was almost palpable. Vincenzo’s guts began to tighten, and for an instant, he thought his bowels felt loose as he looked around the crowd that was pressing in on him from all sides. He had heard what he needed to hear: modern transportation, such as cars, airplanes, and trains, was practically a dream. Instant communication with other parts of the nation, so long taken for granted, was ancient history. Electricity, which had first come to Manhattan in 1882 and had formed the heart of not just the city but the entire planet, was no more. No one in any of the fancy condos and co-ops would be able to get their gourmet coffee from Keurig coffeemakers or the Starbucks on the corner. Refrigerators, washers and dryers, even the vast sprawl of the Internet, all had been obliterated by the sun’s daylong tantrum. Things had changed, and the scope of that change was becoming known to the crowd. And it didn’t like it.

Time to go. Vincenzo tried to wend his way through the mass of people, repeating, “Excuse me,” constantly. He had gotten perhaps ten feet before the first roar went up, and he heard the clash of bodies and steel and wood and plastic as the crowd slammed into the police with a roar.

“Don’t do this, people!” the police officer with the megaphone shouted. “Don’t do this!”

Vincenzo continued trying to push his way out of the crowd. He wasn’t alone; others also attempted to move away from the growing sounds of carnage. But even more people surged forward behind him, and he was momentarily caught up in a virtual stampede. He wondered who in their right minds would want to go toward a growing brawl between the people and the police. And he couldn’t figure out had set off the crowd. There was a national emergency at hand, and the well-heeled people of Central Park South had already degenerated into a pack of thugs.

He felt hands tug at his bag, and he slapped away a man who had been trying to reach inside his backpack. For an instant, he and the guy faced each other, jostled by the mob that flowed around them. The man was taller than Vincenzo and at least thirty pounds heavier, with a blond crew cut and a black T-shirt over frayed black jeans. His arms were heavily tattooed, and he had a wispy goatee. He glared at Vincenzo with ice-blue eyes, a curious half-smile on his face, as if he was goading Vincenzo to act: Yeah, I want what’s in your bag. You gonna stop me?

Vincenzo considered pulling his pistol, but the last thing he wanted was to start a gunfight in the middle of a surging, angry mob. So he lashed out with his right fist and bashed the man straight in the face, a panicked, full-power shot that his opponent apparently hadn’t been expecting. The guy went down with a strangled squawk, his hands flying to his nose as blood began to flow. Vincenzo didn’t hang around to see how badly the man was hurt. He pushed back against the people behind him, almost running over the lady with the kids.

“Get out of here,” he snapped to her and her small-shouldered husband.

From the front of the crowd, gunshots rang out. People shrieked, and in an instant, the crowd tried to reverse itself. Vincenzo glanced over his shoulder and saw the mounted cops wading in, slamming their nightsticks into people. The other cops opened up from behind their shields, firing what looked like shotguns into the mob. He hoped they were loaded with beanbag rounds, nonlethal projectiles that could drop a big man in his tracks without killing him.

Something sharp and acrid assaulted his nostrils, and he realized he had just gotten his first whiff of tear gas. An instant later, grayish smoke began to waft up out of the throng behind him. Vincenzo redoubled his efforts, struggling to push his way through the pack, his heart pounding. Sweat poured down his body. All he saw were fragments of frightened, sweaty faces as men, women, and children screamed in fear and pain. He stumbled, and as he fought to maintain his balance, he was horrified to discover a toddler had fallen in the midst of the crowd. The small boy had already been trampled, and blood flowed from his nose and mouth. Vincenzo reached for the kid, but the crowd slammed into him like a sweaty tidal wave.

“Watch out for the boy!” he screamed as loudly as he could.

But the mass of people were fueled by terror, and Vincenzo had to watch helplessly as dozens of feet pummeled the boy before cutting him off from view. Someone plowed into Vincenzo, knocking him off balance, and he almost fell. By the time he recovered, he had already been carried far away from where he had seen the boy. He was almost on the southern sidewalk of Fifty-Ninth Street, and the child had been closer to the park.

Vincenzo again thought of drawing his pistol. So what’re you going to do, champ? Shoot your way through to the kid?

Realizing there was nothing he could do, he turned back toward midtown and joined the rest of the mob as it broke up and fled, his ears full of screams, gunfire, and the pounding of his own heart.

5

“Mister Vincenzo, what the hell happened out there?” Geraldo asked when he opened the battered glass door. His dark eyes were full of concern and no small dose of fear.

“Nothing good,” Vincenzo said. “I gotta sit down for a sec.”

Geraldo locked the door and, putting a hand on Vincenzo’s shoulder, steered him over to the group of barrel chairs in the lobby. Vincenzo shrugged off his backpack and collapsed into one chair’s dry leather embrace. He reached into the pack and pulled out a bottle of warm water. After twisting off the lid, he drank deeply.

“You all right?” Geraldo asked.

Vincenzo shot him a thumbs-up as he continued drinking, not stopping until he had drained half the bottle. “Just peachy,” he gasped after he had pulled the bottle from his lips.

“What happened? Did I hear gunshots?”

Vincenzo nodded. “You did. Police were making some announcements in Central Park, and the next thing I knew, the entire crowd turned into a mob. They tried to take down the cops, and the cops did what they had to do, I guess.”

Geraldo gaped at him. “Jesus, they actually shot people?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I wasn’t up front. I was more towards the back.” As he spoke, several people ran past outside, casting shadows that flitted across the green granite floor.

“What did the cops say?”

“Basically, that we’re screwed. No power and won’t be for months. They were talking about setting up aid stations throughout the city, but man, I gotta wonder how they’re going to be able to keep those things running. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and the city’s already starting to tear itself apart.”

Geraldo slumped into the chair beside him. “Oh, man.”

Vincenzo nodded and drank some more water. “Oh, man,” he echoed.

“Months? For real, no power for months?”

Vincenzo wished that was all he had on his mind. He couldn’t get the image of the toddler’s broken, bloodied body out of his mind, lying there in the middle of Fifty-Ninth Street. Oh, God. That poor kid…

“Mister Vincenzo?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, months, they said. Maybe years, even. Seems like some of those talking heads on TV were right. The entire world is pretty severely fucked right about now.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sir.”

Vincenzo thought about telling Geraldo about the boy but shoved the notion aside. There was nothing to be gained from that, and the last thing he wanted to do was put the doorman in a position of having to try and administer comfort. “I’m fine.” He looked around the darkened lobby, which was mysteriously cool. “Pretty nice in here.”

“It’ll stay cool for a bit longer,” Geraldo said. “I tell you, sir, your place is probably becoming an oven right about now.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt it. I’d better get up there and crack open some windows.” There were a few windows that could be opened in the condo but not many. Vincenzo wondered if he would be able to get any kind of airflow through the unit at all.

“Maybe you can get some of the other owners to open their doors,” Geraldo suggested. “Get some air flowing along the floor. It’s going to be tough for everyone, I wonder how the older residents are going to be able to handle it.”

“I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know how I’m going to be able to handle it.” He looked at the slight doorman. “When are you leaving, Geraldo?”

“Huh?”

“When are you going home?”

Geraldo stirred uncomfortably. “Well, I don’t know, sir. I haven’t heard from the building super, and—”

“There’s going to be a curfew at dusk. Citywide. You don’t leave soon, you might not be able to make it home before dark.”

“Oh. Thanks for telling me, sir.” Geraldo looked around the lobby, obviously torn between his desire to get home and his instinct to stay at the Metropolitan until he was officially relieved. Outside, Manhattanites were already succumbing to self-centered, selfish acts. In the lobby of the Metropolitan Tower, though, a man from the Bronx was almost having a crisis of faith.

“You have to get home, Geraldo. Come back if you can, but get home and take care of things. We’ll be all right here.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for that, Mister Vincenzo. I’ll be hanging out for a bit longer. Listen, you know the elevators are still out. Are you going to be able to make it all the way to your floor?”

Vincenzo sighed. “Yeah, I’ll be able to make it.” But he knew he would hate every moment of it.

###

The climb through darkness, and in mounting heat and humidity, left Vincenzo exhausted and out of breath. By the time he reached the landing on the seventy-second floor, his clothes were soaked with sweat, and his entire body ached. His thighs burned as if on fire, and he felt light-headed with the sound of his pulsing blood loudly in his ears. The climb had been much more grueling than his earlier descent, and if he’d known how tough it was going to be, he might never have left his condo.

The entire seventy-second floor was essentially a giant sauna. Some residents had already propped open their doors, but the weak breeze flowing through the hallway did little to dispel the heat. Vincenzo entered his condo and immediately likened it to stepping into an oven. He’d failed to lower the shades before leaving that morning, and he would be surprised if it wasn’t at least ninety-five degrees in there. He propped the front door open with a chair from the dining room then went around raising the few small windows that could be opened. The airflow picked up a bit, but it would take some time for the condo to cool, if it did at all. He remained hopeful, even though he wondered if retreating to a black glass tower on a hot summer day was in any way wise. But after what he’d witnessed on the streets below, he had little choice.

Vincenzo made his way to the master bedroom and found it was a bit                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    cooler. That side of the angular building hadn’t been exposed to direct sunlight. He grabbed a bucket, filled it with water from the bathtub, and placed it inside the shower stall. After stripping off his sweaty clothes, he stepped into the shower, bringing the Beretta with him. With the front door hanging open and the city going to hell in a hand basket, there was no way he was going to let the weapon out of his sight. He parked it on one of the ledges inside the stall, grabbed a washcloth, and gave himself a quick rubdown with the tepid water. He decided then that one of the things he would miss most over the coming days and weeks would likely be running water. He dumped the bucket’s remaining contents over his head. The warm water did little to cool him, but at least he felt a bit cleaner.

Momentarily sweat free, he returned to the bedroom and opened his backpack. He stuffed some shirts, socks, and underwear inside then went to the walk-in closet. Fumbling about in the dark, he found a leather messenger bag and tossed it onto the unmade bed. Reaction, by Kenneth Cole. Just the kind of trendy bag that would come in handy in New York City. Vincenzo hoped it would hold up over the coming months. He transferred some of his supplies into the bag—water packets, food, bandages, Tylenol, ammunition—all the things he might need to get to in a hurry while out on the road.

###

The night was riven by violence.

The condo had cooled as the day slowly died, and starting in the late afternoon, Vincenzo heard the echoes of gunshots reverberating throughout the city. He ate some of the food he had prepared the night before and chased it down with some still-cool bottles of Anchor Steam beer. Sitting in the living room, looking out over the southeastern edge of Central Park and the glass façade of the One57 tower across the street, he watched flames dance against the darkening sky. An entire block in Manhattan’s Upper East Side was burning. The power hadn’t been out for even twenty-four hours, and the upper reaches of the city were already being engulfed by a miasma of black smoke. He wondered if the flames had started in Harlem and moved downward, or if some dotty old blueblood had inadvertently set her posh townhouse on fire.

He checked his watch. Self-winding, the Rolex Submariner’s automatic action would keep going for as long as its bearer kept moving. It was ten minutes past eight, and the sun hadn’t yet fully set. But a gloom had descended over West Fifty-Seventh Street, as if someone had held a mirror up to Vincenzo’s heart. Alone in the dwindling heat of his apartment, he couldn’t think about anything but his wife and son, separated from him by the entirety of the continental United States. He’d never thought they would be so far away. In the era of jet travel, Los Angeles was only a little under five hours distant. But without transportation, they were months of travel away, maybe years if he got caught in the winter.

Back in California, he’d always thought the full-on survivalists and preppers were a little bit nuts at best, and dangerous radicals at worst. With disaster upon them, the survivalists were the ones who would rule the coming years. They were prepared, they were ready, and a lot of them had been eager for some massive, catastrophic event like the one that had befallen the world. A good many wouldn’t be nice after suffering through years of ridicule and ostracism. There was probably a lot of schadenfreude out there among the prepper communities at the moment, and Vincenzo couldn’t outright blame them. He wanted to be one of those fringe radicals he and his California friends had always derided and held at a contemptible arm’s length.

Vincenzo knew he had a lot to learn, but the first thing he had to do was get out of the city. The George Washington Bridge, located ten miles to the north, was his escape path. He could walk west on Fifty-Seventh Street to where it intersected the Joe DiMaggio Highway, then he would walk those ten miles northbound. The Joe DiMaggio would turn into the Henry Hudson around West Seventy-Ninth Street. Eventually, he would come to the George Washington, a two-level bridge spanning the Hudson River that connected the island of Manhattan with New Jersey. He had never cared much for Jersey, but he found he was suddenly quite eager to put foot on soil in the Garden State.

Eventually, he would have to leave New York City.

###

He sucked it up for two days, hanging out in the tower while clinging to the hope the lights would come back on. During daylight hours, he struck out for the rumored aid stations and found huge lines, a combative crowd, and far too little in way of supplies. By the second day, three of the distribution points had been bled dry. Signs directed people to additional sites, so Vincenzo walked to the closest one, all the way over on Twelfth Avenue. The area was a mob scene, and the NYPD and other emergency services personnel were having a difficult time maintaining order. It was a powder keg situation, and Vincenzo didn’t stick around. He returned to the Metropolitan and spent a lot of time in the lobby, talking with other residents and Geraldo.

That night, Vincenzo didn’t get much in the way of rest. Not only was there mounting commotion in the streets below, but odd noises seemed to come from the building itself as it cooled—creaks, rumbles, and cracking sounds that finally prompted him to close and lock the door. He stretched out on his bed, his pistol close at hand as he dozed fitfully.

Finally, when he sensed a brightening in the eastern sky, he got up to brush his teeth then went into the kitchen. Through the open windows in the living room, he heard the distant screams of a woman. He felt he should do something, but he had no idea what that might be. The NYPD was on the streets; it was their job to keep the peace. He still felt guilty, but he fumbled in the semidarkness as he set about grabbing some breakfast. He helped himself to some pumpkin spice cupcakes, chased down with two kid-sized containers of orange juice he had bought for Benny. Since the chances of his son visiting New York in the near future were remarkably dismal, Vincenzo elected to drink them. By the time he finished his brief breakfast, the screaming had stopped.

He walked through the condo, checking all the rooms to make sure he wasn’t leaving anything useful behind. He was certain the place would be looted, so anything he didn’t take would likely be lost forever. He found nothing. Everything he needed was already in his backpack and the leather knapsack.

He went back to the bathroom, brushed his teeth again, and took a long piss into the bathroom sink. After gathering his bags, he slipped on his StealthGear holster and seated the Beretta into it. He headed for the stairway on sore legs, Mag-Lite in hand.

###

The walk down the stairs was as dreadful as it had been the day before. The emergency lights were completely exhausted, their batteries drained. The fluorescent tape that marked the boundaries of the steps had likewise lost its effectiveness. With no illumination to recharge the chemicals that made the strips glow in darkness, the applications had been rendered inoperative. As an added discomfort, the stairwell was still warm, full of thick, humid air that couldn’t be dispelled. The vague stink of old urine tickled Vincenzo’s nostrils. Clearly, someone had been using the stairwell as a toilet. He shined his Mag-Lite around, looking for any puddles of piss that might be in his path. The last thing he wanted was to slip and break his ass, especially since medical care would be a long way away. He found nothing, but the stench increased the lower he went. Shit rolls downhill.

By the time he made it to the first floor, his legs were on fire, and his heart was hammering in his chest. He was exhausted, and sweat poured down his body, leaving his shirt soaked and clinging to him like a second skin. The door to the lobby was propped open, allowing dim light to reveal the stairwell landing. Vincenzo heard voices, and he crept toward the doorway. He didn’t know who was out there, and he didn’t want to step into the middle of a robbery or invasion in progress. He slipped his Mag-Lite into the retainer ring on his backpack then reached under his shirt and gripped the butt of the Beretta with his right hand. Just in case.

There were several people in the lobby. Vincenzo recognized some faces but knew no names. He hadn’t been in the building long enough to really have any meet-and-greets beyond a casual nod or smile in the elevator. A few of them turned toward him as he emerged from the stairwell, their faces illuminated by the stark glow of several LED lanterns that had been set up around the lounge area.

“Hello,” a middle-aged woman with clear blue eyes said. Vincenzo recognized her. Her normally perfect blond hair was a stringy, sweaty mop on top of her head.

“Hi, there,” Vincenzo said, easing his hand off the butt of his pistol. “Is Geraldo around?”

The woman shook her head. “Nope. Gone. No one from the building management staff is here, as far as we know.”

“Ah.” It wasn’t much of a response, but that was all he could manage. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The lobby was much cooler than the stairwell, but he was still hot as hell.

“What floor are you from again?” she asked.

“Seventy-two. I’m kind of new.”

“Seventy-two. You’re the guy who bought the Heldermans’ place, right?”

Vincenzo nodded and looked toward the door. The lower pane of glass was still webbed with cracks. He hoped it wasn’t locked, then he remembered he still had the key Geraldo had given him. The street beyond seemed dark and vacant. “Is the curfew lifted?”

“Sun isn’t up yet,” a paunchy man said. He was dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt with enormous sweat stains under the arms. He had several days of stubble on his chin, and his long dark hair was an uncombed mass. “Curfew isn’t lifted until after the sun comes up.”

Vincenzo checked his watch. It was five twenty in the morning.

“It should be up in a few minutes,” the woman said. “I checked my calendar. It has sunrise and sunset times. Today, it’s supposed to be up at five twenty-four a.m.”

Someone had fetched some shopping carts from somewhere, and they stood in one corner. One was empty, while the other had three baseball bats in it.

The woman followed his gaze and motioned toward the carts. “We’re going to the aid stations today. A lot of people need stuff, so we’re going to load up with whatever we can get.”

“What’s with the bats?”

“The aid stations can be pretty rough,” the man in the cargo shorts said. “A lot of people and not enough goods. The city’s coming up short right now, and the NYPD’s spread pretty thin, so we’re going in prepared.”

“A couple of the residents got sent to the hospital yesterday afternoon trying to get water and food from the station on Fifty-Ninth Street,” the woman added. “One of them looked pretty serious. Eric Wallenstein, from sixty-one. You know him?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”

She glanced at his backpack. “You thinking of going out solo? I wouldn’t advise that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to any of the aid stations.”

“Oh? Then where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Los Angeles. My family’s there.”

The people in the lobby exchanged glances. The man in the cargo shorts snorted.

“You realize there’s no transportation, right? LA’s a long walk.”

“I figure about four months,” Vincenzo said.

The blond woman clucked her tongue. “You can’t be serious.”

“Yeah, I am. Next stop for me is the GWB. Then Joisey.”

“That sounds… crazy,” the woman said. “A lot could change in four months.”

Vincenzo shrugged. He already had doubts about the trip, and he certainly didn’t need a stranger adding to it. He jerked his chin toward the door. “Sun’s up. Catch you guys later.”

He walked over and unlocked the door. He handed the key to the man nearest him. “You might need this,” he said, then he stepped out into the brightening morning.

6

The morning was cool with low humidity. The scene hadn’t changed much since the previous day. The street was full of litter, from broken glass to discarded boxes and old newspapers. The tang of smoke hung in the air, along with an unpleasant after note of sewage. Without pumps powering the city’s septic system, sewage control was going to be a problem, a situation that wouldn’t improve with time.

The other folks in the lobby followed him outside. The wheels of one shopping cart squeaked as a man shoved across shards of shattered glass. Vincenzo stepped out from beneath the tower’s frayed awning. Every ground-level shop or dwelling had suffered from vandalism. The only thing that kept the vandals out of Metropolitan Tower was the thickness of the glass. The building had been constructed with an eye toward keeping out undesirables, and so far, that had worked. Vincenzo didn’t figure that would be a lasting condition, however.

“You should come with us,” the blond woman said from behind him. Her voice sounded pale and weak outdoors.

Vincenzo hitched his backpack up on his shoulders and adjusted the set of the pistol beneath his shirt. “You guys take care of yourselves.” He didn’t look back.

He set off down Fifty-Seventh Street, heading west. Glass and other debris crunched beneath his hiking boots, the sound echoing off the faces of the darkened buildings that lined the boulevard. He heard the others pushing off in the opposite direction, headed for Sixth Avenue, while he advanced toward Seventh. He could see figures moving through the gloom, pushing shopping carts or wheelbarrows, hauling wagons, or carrying empty backpacks and duffel bags. Some even had fabric shopping bags from Whole Foods, hoping to fill them at the aid station.

As he drew nearer to the intersection, he saw several NYPD officers standing on the northern corner, regarding the approaching humanity that swelled up from downtown. The officers were clad in full riot gear, and many of them had Heckler & Koch personal defense weapons. He didn’t know if they were fully automatic—in the movies they were, but he had no clue about them in real life—but they had expanded magazines that held more than thirty rounds. A few of them also held mean-looking shotguns. Those guys were ready to shoot it out, and after what he had seen the morning before, he didn’t blame them.

Vincenzo thought about approaching them for more information, but their body language indicated they weren’t open to a casual chat. They kept their eyes on the people emerging from the buildings around them, weapons held low but at the ready. Vincenzo pressed on, crossing the intersection as more and more people began to fill it. He was amazed at the volume of people, and it seemed to increase with every step he took. He had to bob and weave around individuals to get across the street. Things weren’t much better on the sidewalk. More denizens of New York City were emerging from their abodes, clogging the sidewalks and street as they moved toward Seventh Avenue to cut north to Central Park. He felt like a lone salmon swimming upstream. It took twenty minutes to make it to the middle of the next block. By then, the street traffic had thinned a bit, and he was able to get to Broadway without further incident.

A ripple of gunshots sounded in the distance. Vincenzo had no idea where they had come from, but he hitched up his backpack and picked up his pace. The pressure of the Beretta in his waistband provided a small measure of comfort, but he knew if push came to shove, he’d have to move fast to pull it out of the holster. The Pax Wholesome Foods at the corner of West Fifty-Seventh and Broadway had already been thoroughly looted, but a steady stream of people moved in to pick through the destruction. Some of them—mostly men—regarded Vincenzo with dark eyes as he hurried past. He could feel the weight of their collective gaze. He knew they were interested in discovering what might lie inside his backpack.

A young boy stood on the opposite corner, crying for his mother. Two days ago, Vincenzo would have stopped and tried to help the kid. The big city was no place for a boy to wander around by himself. But Vincenzo just kept going, trying to reconcile the conflicting emotions he felt at turning his back on a four-year-old boy clearly in need of assistance. I have to get to my family. I have to get to my family. I have to get to my family.

The mantra was enough to give him the necessary strength to keep moving, to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The heavy gazes from the others in the area added enough charge to stop him from diverting course. He fairly plunged across Broadway, continuing his trek westward, trying to stay alert but at the same time avoiding any eye contact with anyone. He shot a few furtive glances over his shoulder as he headed to Eighth Avenue. No one was following him, but the crowd outside the ransacked store was growing. And then, a scuffle broke out as several men went at each other, drowning out the boy’s plaintive cries. One was a beefy Wall Street type swinging a two-thousand-dollar golf club like a knight in a swordfight. Vincenzo didn’t stick around to see how the guy fared.

Ahead, he could see the looming glass expanse of the Hearst Tower, a forty-six-story building crouched over a six-story stone base. The triangular frame had already lost a great deal of its luster, as several dozen windows had been broken. Smoke oozed from the upper floors. Apparently, Manhattan’s greenest office building had become one of its greatest polluters, thanks to a fire which had apparently broken out. He smelled ash and cooking meat, and he wondered if he might not have found a silver lining in the cloud of doom that had descended over the city: the chances of there being any new issues of Cosmopolitan hitting newsstands seemed very low.

More glass crunched under his boots, and he noticed that some of the shards were still quite large. He slowed down, checking his footing. The last thing he wanted was to slice his foot open on one of those gleaming daggers. There was blood splattered in places. Clearly, others hadn’t been as careful, and they had paid a price for it. A Mister Softee ice cream truck lay angled across the street. Ravaged by looters, the wreck reeked of spoiled milk and melted yogurt that had turned rancid in the heat. Some people were still peering inside the vehicle, despite the fact that whatever was left would likely only give them an award-winning case of botulism.

The Walgreens near the corner of West Fifty-Seventh and Ninth Avenue had been severely looted, but it still attracted a great deal of attention, despite the presence of a dozen NYPD officers at the corner. They watched as people swarmed through the store, some of them sitting astride motor scooters that apparently still operated. There was nothing left to protect—the store had been picked clean. Across the intersection, the Morning Star Restaurant had met a similar fate, as had the bodega next door. The people of Midtown West were like vultures picking away at the corpse of New York City, and the NYPD seemed either powerless or unwilling to do anything about it.

Vincenzo knew he had made the right decision. To remain in New York merely invited death.

###

It took almost an hour and a half to make it to the Joe DiMaggio. The roadway was clogged with cars and trucks that had been rendered inoperable from the electromagnetic pulse event. Bicyclists and pedestrians wended their way through the still river of sheet metal and fiberglass. Vincenzo crossed Twelfth Avenue and moved over the northbound lanes, heading for the Jersey barrier in the middle of the roadway that separated the northbound lanes from the southbound. His feeling was that he would make better time over there and that the sight lines would be less restrictive. All during his journey down West Fifty-Seventh, he had felt bottled up, restrained and vulnerable. In the more open areas that lined the westernmost side of Manhattan Island, he might be a bit safer. Without the shadows cast by the skyscrapers of midtown, the sun’s rays beat down on him directly. The temperature was rising, as was the humidity, especially so close to the Hudson River. Vincenzo lifted his khaki Polo cap and ran a hand over his short hair. His palm came back covered in sweat. He needed to halt his march for a few minutes to drink some water and apply sunscreen.

Hiding in the leeward shadow of a dead tractor-trailer, he started to reach for the Hydro Flask but checked himself. It was still cool to the touch, thanks to its substantial insulation. He had a long day ahead of him, and drinking the cold water now would mean less later. Instead, he reached into his knapsack and pulled out one of the plastic water bottles. Keeping alert, he unscrewed the cap and drained the water quickly, gulping as fast as he could. People moved past on the highway, heading in either direction, but they kept their distance. He rubbed sunscreen across his face, arms, and the back of his neck then took another moment to smear more on his ears and the bridge of his nose. He put the sunscreen back in the knapsack and considered the empty water bottle. Normally, he would have just tossed it. Plastic bottles probably weren’t going to be a rare commodity, at least in the short term, but not having one when he needed it might be troublesome. He placed it in the knapsack as well. Repositioning his backpack once again—his shoulders and lower back were beginning to ache—he pressed on.

He was walking past the rear of the truck when movement to his right caught his eye. Vincenzo stepped back immediately, his hand going for the Beretta, as a tall white man stepped into his path. The guy wore faded jeans, a yellow T-shirt, expensive designer sunglasses, and surprisingly, a multi-colored Rasta cap that either restrained several decades of dreadlocks or held a small immigrant family. Vincenzo realized that he could be flanked by someone who had rolled under the truck trailer, so he ducked down and checked. No one was under there. He straightened as the man came around the trailer, a huge grin on his face.

A white Rastafarian, Vincenzo thought idly. Only in New York.

“Hey, there. How ’bout sharing some of that water?” the man said. “I saw you. You got water in your bag, huh?”

“I don’t think so,” Vincenzo said. “Head for an aid station. They’re all over the city.”

“Yeah, but you’re a bit closer.” Still smiling, the man lifted his shirt, revealing the butt of a black pistol. “Let’s not make it tough now, huh?”

A bolt of fear goaded Vincenzo into action. He charged forward and rammed into the taller man, driving him into the ground. The Rastafarian tried to pull the Glock from his belt, but Vincenzo trapped his arm beneath one knee, pinning it in place. He warded off the Rasta’s clumsy attempts to strike back with his free hand then pummeled the man in the face, slamming his fists into it again and again.

“You fuck!” Vincenzo screamed with each blow, letting loose with left after left while he held the man’s free arm at the wrist with his right. He leaned forward, putting as much weight behind the punches as he could.

The Rasta writhed beneath him, blood pouring from his nose and lips. “Stop, man! Stop!” Vincenzo continued punching and swearing, as the Rasta’s head bounced up and down on his thick cap full of blond dreads. The man went slack, and his eyes rolled up in his head. Vincenzo punched him four more times then stopped, gasping and sweating. The Rastafarian wannabe gurgled a bit but didn’t move.

Vincenzo stayed where he was, trembling in fear. Holy fuck! This guy was going to shoot me!

He realized that was probably an overstatement. More than likely, the man was just flashing the Glock in an attempt to cow Vincenzo into submission. Or maybe he would have killed Vincenzo and taken everything he had.

Vincenzo shifted his position slightly and reached under his left leg. He pulled the man’s hand off the Glock then removed the weapon from his waistband. He looked around, but no one was approaching, though some people had to have noticed the fight going down, even behind the hulk of the trailer. Vincenzo put the gun to the side then rolled the man over. He found another magazine with thirteen nine-millimeter rounds in the Rasta’s back pocket. He shoved it into his knapsack then picked up the Glock. No way in hell was he going to leave an armed man behind him. He patted the man down but found no other weapons. He regarded the Glock for a moment. He’d shot one before, so he knew it was a single-action with only a trigger safety. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger, and it would fire.

He rose on shaking legs as the would-be Rastafarian drew up into a fetal position. Vincenzo gave him a light kick, nothing major—he didn’t have the energy to wind one up, anyway.

The man grunted and brought his hands up to cover his face. His bent sunglasses fell off and clattered to the asphalt beside his head. “Please, man, no more! No more, please!”

“Stay the fuck down, or I’ll kill you.” Vincenzo’s voice was as unsteady as his legs.

“Not going nowhere, man.”

Vincenzo kicked him again, out of spite more than anything else, and the Rasta responded with a satisfying yelp. Vincenzo stepped over him cautiously, Glock in hand, ready to use it if necessary. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he could hear the roar of blood in his ears. He was almost too afraid to move, but he knew he needed to get the hell away from the Rasta before any of the guy’s friends showed up looking for him. Not only that, he’d been extremely lucky. He’d gotten the drop on the bigger man purely by chance. Vincenzo had been in about three fights in his life, including the current one, so he hardly had a wealth of experience to draw upon. Things could have gone sideways very quickly, and it wasn’t as if he’d gotten out of it unscathed. His left hand hurt like hell, but he didn’t take the time to inspect it. He could still wiggle the fingers, so nothing was broken, but his hand would likely be one big bruise before he made it to the GWB.

He backed away from the Rastafarian, who remained on the ground, leaking blood and moaning. Vincenzo kept the Glock in his right hand, trying to look everywhere at once. As soon as he felt it was safe, he turned his back on the Rasta and started running north. His pack slewed from side to side on his back, and he realized he was probably making a scene by running through the dead traffic while holding a pistol. Just the same, he kept it up until he had put a good five hundred feet between him and his fallen opponent.

Chest heaving, he drew to a halt and leaned against a plumbing van. A few people regarded him with cautious eyes. Vincenzo didn’t make eye contact with anyone, just took an inventory of who was where. Anyone could be an enemy, from a street gang to a gaggle of housewives pushing baby strollers, and there was no shortage of either.

The Glock looked a bit old, but it was operational. The pistol used the same ammunition he carried for his Beretta, so at least he now had a backup piece. Glancing back, he saw three people making their way toward the Rastafarian, who was on his feet and leaning against the concrete Jersey barrier, a hand held to his face as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. The three newcomers wore the same kind of knit hat as the one who had accosted him. Vincenzo decided it was time to put some more distance between them, so he turned back around and set off.

7

The farther north he went, the more the city seemed to be destabilizing.

Deeper into the Upper West Side, smoke roiled into the air. Groupings of NYPD officers became more regular, and they seemed to be better armed. The few aid stations he could see from the highway were virtual fortresses surrounded by a sea of blue that enforced order by insisting everyone form neat lines. Anyone who broke from the lines was either arrested or otherwise ejected. That led to more than a few scuffles between the officers and the citizens of New York, who substantially outnumbered the police. But the cops were well armed and well disciplined, and they weren’t above using copious amounts of pepper spray to ensure compliance.

Vincenzo was more than happy to pass by the aid stations and stay on the Henry Hudson Parkway. The sun was high in the sky, and the temperature and humidity were climbing. There was very little shade along his path, so he had no choice but to continue on, sweating all the way. On the parkway, other groups of people also trudged northbound. Everyone kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact with others. Some groups had given up or stopped to rest in the shade of cars and light trucks that had ground to a halt on the parkway. Vincenzo didn’t look at them very closely, but from the corner of his eye he saw the desperation on their faces. Those people, many of them families, wanted to get out of New York City, but they didn’t have the stamina to make it in one continuous hike. Vincenzo wondered how far he could go. His feet and legs were aching, and he had a headache. The heat was sucking away his strength, and the humidity was preventing his sweat from drying, so he had no way to cool down. Already, his shirt was a sodden mess clinging to him like a salty second skin. Every half hour or so, he slathered on more sunscreen as he walked, paying special attention to his ears and the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted was to develop a bad sunburn. He was already miserable enough.

Trekking through West Harlem, he saw the city was continuing to become slowly undone. There was more activity in the streets to the east, including sporadic gunfire, but he heard no sirens, helicopters, or squad cars. He wondered if the NYPD was even in Harlem at all. The neighborhood had changed a lot since the 1970s and 1980s, having undergone a thorough transition from the poster child of urban blight to a renewed, re-gentrified brightness. But old habits died hard, and without the heavy hand of law and order, the neighborhood was apparently reverting to its previous type. Vincenzo found himself ducking a little as he darted from car to car, casting wary glances in all directions. The rest of the folks on the parkway did pretty much the same thing. No one wanted to attract any attention.

He kicked through a field of empty plastic bottles, courtesy of a Coca-Cola delivery truck that had been ransacked, its cargo of carbonated beverages now more valuable than cash money. The storage bays on his side of the vehicle were completely empty. The driver’s door hung open, and the cab was vacant. Someone had even taken a knife to the seats; pale foam padding lay exposed in the bright sunlight. Guess a Pepsi exec decided to get some revenge.

He looked over the guardrail at Riverside Drive, which for the moment paralleled the Henry Hudson. More pedestrians were there, slowly moving northbound. Weaving around them were bicyclists. Vincenzo wished he had a bike. Even some little girl’s pink Schwinn with tassels and a white basket would be preferable to hoofing it through the heat. Toughen up, boy. You’ve got one long walk ahead of you.

He skirted what appeared to be a low-speed accident between two cars, a Mercedes S550 and a BMW SUV. Pricey European sheet metal had been crumpled, and the glass in the BMW’s driver’s door was shattered. As he moved past the dead hulks, he noticed droplets of blood on the glass. Inside the BMW was the outline of a figure slumped behind the wheel. He caught a whiff of something pungent, and he realized then that the driver of the BMW had been dead for a couple of days. The hole in the window looked like one that would have been left by a bullet.

Vincenzo picked up the pace. He didn’t want to spend another night on Manhattan Island.

###

Things at the foot of the George Washington Bridge were much, much worse.

Vincenzo realized things were getting hot in a social sense as he drew nearer to the New York Presbyterian Hospital. The medical center was surrounded by people, many injured or sick and others just hungry and thirsty. The aid station there was already out of supplies, and the staff had vacated it hours ago. Not even the NYPD remained.

As Vincenzo trudged up the exit ramp that would take him to Riverside Drive, he entered a large group of travelers, many equipped just as he was, with backpacks, hats, long-sleeved shirts soaked with sweat, long pants, and hiking boots or athletic shoes. One woman even pushed a stroller with triplets inside. She was escorted by three burly men who gazed at their surroundings from beneath the bills of their Yankee and Mets baseball caps, their eyes hidden behind polarized sunglasses. The oldest of the trio was in his late fifties, and the youngest looked to be in his twenties. He assumed all were armed, though he couldn’t see what weapons they were carrying. The youngest man took over for the woman, pushing the stroller up the ramp’s incline. The woman faded back a little bit, her fair skin already sunburned and her straw-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a baseball cap as well, but her sleeveless top left a lot of skin exposed. She would pay the price for that later.

The older man noticed him looking at the group. “What do you need?” he asked.

Vincenzo shook his head. “Nothing. I’m good.” Those were the first words he had spoken to anyone since his encounter with the Rastafarian earlier in the morning. “Are the babies all right?” he asked.

“We’re good,” the man said.

“You guys headed for the GWB?”

The older man scanned the area for a second. “Why do you ask?”

“That’s where I’m headed. Just thought we could make it a group effort. Sounds like some rough territory’s coming up.” Vincenzo pointed at the hospital, which had sounds of distress emanating from that direction, along with the bitter tang of smoke. The path he and the others traveled was already a well-worn one. Plastic bottles, food wrappers, bags, and even used toilet paper lined the sides of the ramp. Several people sat on the sides of the road, resting as they watched the sweating humanity walk past them.

“We don’t need any help,” the younger man pushing the stroller said.

“Bobby, try not to be a dick,” the woman said, her voice thin and breathy.

“Why would you think we’d be the people you’d want to hook up with?” the older man asked.

“Because at least two of us are armed,” Vincenzo said, “and you’ve got babies. You’re going to move slower, and someone might think you’d make a pretty easy target.”

“We don’t need any help,” the younger man repeated as he leaned forward, moving the stroller up the incline of Exit Fourteen.

Ahead, the towers of the hospital loomed. Vincenzo regarded them nervously. Several panes of glass were already broken, and he wondered who would do that to a hospital in the middle of such a crisis. Maybe for ventilation?

He looked back at the group and found the older man was almost right next to him, a hand under his shirt. The third man had maneuvered his way between Vincenzo and the woman, blocking her from view. His right hand was shoved deep into one pocket on his cargo shorts.

“You have a gun?” the older man said, his voice a deep rumble.

“No,” Vincenzo said. “I actually have two.”

“What do you want with us?” the third man asked. He reached out with his left hand and propelled the woman after the young man pushing the stroller. His wedding ring gleamed in the sunlight.

“I don’t want anything,” Vincenzo said. “I’m a family man. I just wanted to make sure the kids are okay. Looks like they are, so I’ll be on my way. Later.” He stepped away from the older man and lowered his head as he advanced up the ramp, taking long strides despite the aching pain in his legs. His calves complained mightily. He pulled ahead of them quickly.

“Great job, Dad,” the woman said behind him. “The guy was just making sure we were okay.”

Her husband responded in a sharp whisper, but Vincenzo was too far away to hear what he said. Footsteps sounded behind him, and he reached for his Beretta before turning to see that the older man had caught up to him. The guy was sweating profusely beneath his cap, and he smelled of old, sour sweat, the kind of odor that clung to heavy drinkers.

“Hold up, if you would,” he said.

Vincenzo kept walking. “What is it?” He wrapped his fingers around the butt of his pistol, ready to yank it from the holster the second he needed it. He stepped over the legs of a man who was leaning against the ramp wall. The man’s eyes were closed as he gasped for air, his mouth a dark maw in the middle of his scraggly hipster beard. Vincenzo thought the man was about a heartbeat away from heat stroke.

“You want to walk with us, that’s fine,” the older man said. “Sorry, but you’re the first person to ask about the kids. It kind of caught me off guard.”

“Okay. You need to stay on guard all the time now,” Vincenzo said without slowing down. “You’re right to be suspicious. About everyone.”

“Can you hold up a bit? We’ve been at it for hours. We came up from Warren Street. How about you?”

Vincenzo slowed and stepped out of another group’s way. The two men and the woman the older guy was traveling with were fifty feet back. “Fifty-Seventh Street. Not as far as you. You guys must’ve started before curfew ended, right?”

“Yeah, a bit before.” The guy was breathing heavily, and his hand was no longer under his shirt. “You mind if we wait for my family to catch up?”

“Sure, but let’s keep moving. I don’t want to get run over.”

The older man matched his pace but kept looking over his shoulder at the rest of his group. “Sure thing.”

“So you’re the pater familias, I take it?”

The guy snorted. “You a Coen brothers fan?”

“Not really, but my wife, she sure loves O Brother, Where Art Thou. I think I’ve watched it a million times. Speaking of which, we seem to be in a tight spot.”

“You can say that again. I’m Ken Everett.”

“Tony Vincenzo.”

“Good to meet you, Tony. Tough circumstances, though. You from the city?”

“I’m from the area originally. You?”

Ken shook his head. “Rochester. That’s where we’re headed. You going upstate?”

“No, I’ve got a bit of a longer walk than that. Los Angeles.”

Ken gave him an uncertain smile, as if he thought Vincenzo was pulling his leg. “That’s, uh, that’s like three thousand miles from here.”

“No kidding.”

“Why are you going there, if I could ask?”

“My wife and son are there. I’d just moved back to the city to start a new job, and they held back in LA so my boy could finish out the school year.”

Everett grunted. “Well. You take it one day at a time, and you might make it. Think you’ll get there before winter?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I don’t know. I sure hope so.”

Everett’s family caught up with them. Ken waved a hand. “Guys, this is Tony. Tony, this is my daughter, Carla. The fellow next to her is her husband, Mark, and the man pushing the stroller is my youngest, Bobby. The triplets are Eliza, Erica, and Eti, short for Etienne.”

Tony nodded. “Pleased to meet you all.”

The group murmured their greetings, except for the triplets. Vincenzo peeked under the stroller’s hood. The three girls were sleeping, and they didn’t seem to be in any great distress, despite the heat.

“How old are they?” he asked.

“Seven months,” Carla said.

“They been getting enough to eat?” The bottom of the stroller was loaded up with baby formula, and Vincenzo thought he could hear a few cans clinking around inside Bobby’s backpack.

“We’ll feed them again before we get on the bridge,” Mark said. He was a tall, slim man with olive skin and thick razor stubble. His nose was rail thin, as were his lips.

“You a paisan, Mark?” Vincenzo asked.

“Uh, no. I’m Armenian.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Ah. Sorry, just thought I’d ask.”

“Tony here’s headed for Los Angeles, of all places,” Everett said. He was back to scanning the crowd again.

“Wow, that’s going to be some trip,” Bobby said as he pushed the stroller up the ramp.

“Yeah,” Vincenzo said. “But Rochester’s not going to be a cakewalk, either.”

“We have a farm up there,” Carla said. When her husband and brother shot dark looks at her, she waved them away. “Come on. What’s he going to do? Follow us up and help plant seed?”

“Well past the growing season, baby girl,” Everett said. He continued panning the area with what seemed to be a practiced eye.

“Ken, are you ex-military?” Vincenzo asked.

“No, but I was a cop in my youth, before I made it through law school.” He pulled a moist-looking handkerchief from his back pocket and raised his Yankees cap, revealing a bald head that glistened with sweat. He ran the cloth over his scalp, dropped the hat back into place, and shoved the hankie back into his pocket. “Not here, though. Up in Rochester. Spent five years as a patrolman before I managed to get into Columbia Law School back in ’83. Thank God, I saved every penny I earned; I sure as hell needed it.”

“Guess it worked out for you,” Vincenzo said.

“Sure, it did, eventually. Had a huge condo at 101 Warren, two Mercedes Benzes, a fat expense account, and a salary of three million five a year. Look where it got me—flat-footing it up the on-ramp to Riverside Drive.” Ken looked around again. “What about you?”

“TV producer,” Vincenzo said. “Like I said, I just moved back. I was setting up our new place at the Metropolitan Tower. Guess I’m going to be late on the next hundred or so mortgage payments.”

“Attaboy, stick it to the man. I represented a lot of the big banks in the city. Believe me, it’s going to take them a while to come find you.”

Vincenzo shook his head. “I don’t think the apartment’s going to be there for very long. The day after the lights went out, there were already riots.”

“Same thing downtown,” Mark said. “Never thought the people in Tribeca would go nuts so fast, but it’s like once they found out all the espresso machines were never coming back on, it was more than they could take.”

“Espresso does count for a lot in this town,” Vincenzo said.

“So, Tony, what was your plan for getting across?” Ken asked.

“No plan. Just find a way across, and get into New Jersey, which is a first for me, actually wanting to get into Jersey.”

“I don’t think we should take the lower deck,” Ken said. “Might be cooler, but who knows how much light there will be by the time we get there. Don’t know who’s going to be waiting in the dark. You ask me, it seems like a good place to set up some ambushes, deprive the fair citizens of Manhattan and the outer boroughs of their goods as they try and make it out, if you know what I mean.”

Vincenzo nodded. “I get it. So it’ll be the upper deck, then. You have any trouble on the way up?”

Ken shook his head. “Not really. Some skeevy-looking people out scouting the area, but no one really took much interest in us. Carla thinks it’s because of the babies, but I think it’s because they’re looking for easier pickings. Singles, like you.”

“Got jumped by a guy, a white Rasta,” Vincenzo said. “I guess he thought I was the weakling type.”

Everett grunted. “You shoot him?”

“No. Knocked him down and somehow managed to beat the hell out of him. That’s how I got the second gun.” He paused for a moment. “Ken, would you know a service weapon if you saw it?”

Ken frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think the guy might’ve had a piece lifted from the NYPD. It’s a Glock Seventeen.”

“Popular firearm. Standard issue for a lot of the NYPD, but there are some variations out there. Only difference I know of is the cop trigger requires a twelve-pound pull. Doubt I could tell just from looking at it. You really think this guy lifted it from a cop?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”

“Well, if you were able to beat the hell out of a cop killer, then maybe you aren’t such a lightweight, after all.”

“Maybe not, but it sure is hell on the knuckles,” Vincenzo said, rubbing his left hand.

8

A crowd had gathered at the approach to the upper level of the George Washington Bridge. All races and all walks of life were present—wealthy, indigent, white, black, Latin, Asian, and everything in between. People had brought their possessions any way they could: on their backs, in children’s wagons, in shopping carts, and strapped to bicycles. Vincenzo even saw one family with a boy pedaling a Big Wheel and another being pushed on a Kettler trike by his father. The little tricycle’s yellow plastic storage bin was full of Diet Pepsi.

The aid stations at the bridge had been dismantled. Only the remnants of tattered cardboard, shredded plastic bags, and mountains of discarded water bottles were any indication that they might have actually existed. The NYPD was present in substantial force, as were EMS and fire department personnel. Passersby shouted at them, screaming for them to provide the promised water and food. The police and firemen stared back with hard faces, while the EMS treated those who were suffering from heat exhaustion.

An undercurrent of desperation was palpable in the hot, humid air. Vincenzo’s thirst started to manifest with gusto, but he didn’t want to crack open the Hydro Flask just yet. At the same time, he also didn’t want to open a bottle in front of Everett and his family. They might ask him to share, and he didn’t know how he could refuse. The things you have to think about when the electricity stops flowing…

“Okay, this could get a bit rough,” Ken said. “The cops, they’re not asserting themselves. That’s a bad sign.”

“Why is that?” Carla asked. She sounded exhausted. She was drenched in sweat, and she looked pale.

If Everett noticed her condition, he didn’t give any indication. “They’re here, but they’re not doing anything other than standing around. They’re relying on their numbers to keep the peace. That’s not going to hold. People are already pissed off and scared. Can you feel it?”

“Heck, yeah,” Bobby said.

One of the triplets began mewing softly, and a moment later, all three of them were in full-on cry mode. Vincenzo figured the noise of all the people, combined with the oppressive heat and humidity, had finally roused them from their slumber.

“They’re hungry,” Carla said. There was a good deal of lethargy to her movements as she left her husband’s side to go toward the stroller. “I need to feed them.”

“Carla, you okay?” Vincenzo asked.

She looked up at him from beneath her wide-brim hat then smiled. “Just hot, tired, and having to deal with not one, not two, but three cranky babies.”

Bobby stopped the stroller, and Carla raised the flap and looked inside. As she cooed to the babies, Bobby looked around and frowned.

Mark had bent over to check on the girls as well, but he stood up and saw his brother-in-law’s expression. “What?”

“I don’t like this,” Bobby said.

Ken set his jaw. “Gotta say, I don’t like it either.”

A building furor pulsed through the groups of people. The cops and emergency services workers must have sensed the hostility as well, because the officers began closing ranks, hands going to their weapons. Yeah, this isn’t the place to be.

Ken gave voice to his thought. “We really need to get going, guys.”

“Dad, the girls need to eat!” Carla snapped.

“Your dad’s right,” Vincenzo said. “This could go sideways real quick.”

“I. Have. To. Feed them!” Carla shouted.

A hulking black man pushed past Bobby, making the young man stumble. Bobby whirled to face the offender, but the man wasn’t alone. The large guy smiled sweetly at Bobby and adjusted his sunglasses while the rest of crew glared at Everett and his family with cold, predatory glances.

“Mothafuckah, you better watch where you standin’,” the big man said.

“White boy a pussy. Don’t be messin’ wif him,” another of the newcomers said. “I be all out a baby rattles.”

“Sorry about that,” Mark said, cutting off Bobby before he could say anything.

Vincenzo noticed Everett sliding one foot back behind the other and turning his left shoulder toward the group of black men. A fighting stance, Vincenzo realized, as the older man’s right hand stole toward the pistol in the holster at his back. Vincenzo moved into the same position, ready to yank up his shirt and pull the Berretta.

“I ’spect you ’member that I let you off easy,” the big man said, still wearing his humorless grin. Sunlight glittered across the gold grillwork around his teeth.

“We’re just feeding our babies. Is that all right?” Carla shot back.

Oh, you stupid bitch. Vincenzo frantically looked over at the policemen standing two lanes away. A couple had their eyes on the brewing altercation, but the cops had problems of their own. A fairly large group of helpless New Yorkers had descended upon them, shouting at them for not providing water and demanding to know where the next aid station was. Things were getting a little heated over there, and Vincenzo saw flashes of handcuffs and drawn weapons.

The big man’s smile got even bigger as he spun to face Carla. “Whoo, you gonna whip out your white sugar titties, baby? You got some fa all’a us?”

Ken pulled his pistol, a Glock so huge that Vincenzo was surprised the older man had been able to conceal it despite his long shirt. “Get the fuck away from us!” Ken’s booming voice was eaten up by the rising furor surrounding the cops.

Two of the black men reached for weapons of their own.

Vincenzo drew the Berretta from its holster, clicked off the safety, and sighted on one of the armed men. He held the weapon steady, despite the sudden swelling in his bowels. He either had to release a gigantic fart, or he was about to shit himself. He didn’t know which. “Back off!” His voice came out high and girlish, not at all filled with the booming menace of Ken’s.

“Fuck you!” the man in his sights shouted. He was short and wiry with a do-rag on his head and scallop-shaped scars along the right side of his chin and cheekbone. Despite the scars, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a bright orange Under Armour sleeveless T-shirt.

The Beretta’s sights were lined up on the shirt’s insignia, and as Vincenzo’s finger found the trigger. Holy fuck. I’ve got to shoot this guy.

Something sharp and loud roared, and people screamed. For a second, Vincenzo thought he’d fired, but the 92 was still locked on target. He hadn’t pulled the trigger. The man he had drawn on ducked and looked over his shoulder, his small pistol drifting to one side.

Vincenzo held the pistol on him regardless.

Shoot him shoot him shoot him—

An ATV roared through the crowd, followed by two more. Three or four dirt bikes blazed behind them, staying in a single file formation as they let the bigger ATVs open a path through the throng. All the riders were crouched low on their bikes, running full out. As the first ATV barreled toward them, Bobby and Mark grabbed the stroller and shoved it out of the way, right into Vincenzo, knocking his pistol off target. It didn’t matter. The thugs had spun toward the oncoming machines. The rider in the lead was bleeding from a deep gash in his right arm, and crimson droplets had splattered across his jeans.

“Get the rides!” the big black man shouted, pulling a pistol from his pants pocket. He opened up on the first ATV, holding the weapon sideways like those thugs in movies from the early ’90s. That ridiculous stance that might have looked cool, but it didn’t do shit for accuracy. Even though the rider took a hit, jerking sideways on his ATV, people on the other side fell too as bullets tore through them. The rest of the crew opened up, hammering the riders as they rolled up on them.

“Move!” Ken shouted as Carla screamed, running after her kids. “Move!”

Carla lurched into Vincenzo, and he lost his balance and fell. He managed to keep a hold on his pistol as people surged toward him, howling in panic. One of the ATVs banked away at almost forty miles an hour and plowed right through the crowd, its rider barely hanging on and jerking as bullets slapped into him. Vincenzo heard Ken calling his name, and he struggled to his feet just as the first wave of panic-stricken New Yorkers rolled into him like some unstoppable tide, carrying him away as he fought to find his footing. Plastic bottles and discarded bags crunched beneath his heavy boots. From the corner of his eye, he saw the big black man still hammering at the riders, hooting and hollering, consumed by some primal urge to kill and destroy, to use the power of his gun to its utmost. He wished Ken had just killed the guy when he had the chance, wished he had done it himself.

Then, one of the cops went down.

“Shit’s gonna get real.” He pushed off the people around him, trying to make it past the brewing shit storm before he was completely caught up in it, but it was too late.

The NYPD opened up, and unlike the hoods fleeing Harlem, they knew how to do it. The big black man danced and spun like a marionette being manipulated by a drunken puppet master as pistol rounds tore through him. His arms flapped as if he could somehow take flight. But the bullets didn’t stop there. A woman immediately to Vincenzo’s right went down as the left side of her skull exploded. She died without a scream, and for an instant, Vincenzo’s legs were caught up in hers. He stumbled and almost fell again, but he managed to grab onto a man in front of him and used his shoulders to stay on his feet. The man twisted and spun, lashing out at him, but he missed by a mile.

Vincenzo still had the Berretta in his right hand, finger inside the trigger guard. He indexed the weapon immediately as he had been taught in his old firearms class, suddenly mindful of the press of sweating humanity around him. He spotted Ken and his family—they were all alive—and the cop-turned-lawyer met his eyes. Ken called Vincenzo’s name and waved him over, but the current of the mob carried Vincenzo toward the tall cement barrier that separated the lanes leading to the upper deck. He slammed into the front of a dead pickup truck and immediately clambered onto it to stand on its hood.

After holstering his pistol, he waved at Ken. “Everett!”

“Tony, come on!” Ken yelled, his voice barely audible over the screaming crowd and ringing gunfire.

The truck lurched beneath his feet as someone practically vaulted onto it. Vincenzo turned and found himself face-to-face with the black hood he had drawn on. The man was bloodied and battered, and his do-rag was gone, revealing a clean-shaven skull shaped like a melon.

The man smiled. He was missing a tooth. “I know you, mothafuckah.” He leaped at Vincenzo, driving him backward against the top of the cement barrier.

Vincenzo lashed out with his right hand, but his fist just skipped off the smaller man’s sweat-slick skull like a tennis ball bouncing off a windshield. Then, gravity did the rest. Momentum coupled with the weight of his backpack sent Vincenzo right over the edge of the barrier. The black man in the orange Under Armour shirt came with him.

The landing was softened by all the people rushing into the GWB’s lower deck. In a crash of rattling gear and frightened yelps, Vincenzo bounced off people, scattering them across the roadway. The hood’s left hand was wrapped around one of the shoulder straps of Vincenzo’s pack. As they rolled around on the rough asphalt, the man leaned in, trying to bite Vincenzo on the face. Vincenzo reached out to push the man’s head away, and when his left hand closed around the man’s ear, he tore at it savagely. The smaller man shrieked in agony.

Vincenzo maintained his grip, feeling cartilage and tissue pulp in his grasp. He reversed direction, pulling the man across his body, making him yelp again. The guy released his hold on the backpack strap and tried to rake his fingers across Vincenzo’s eyes, but all he did was knock the khaki cap off his head. With his right hand, Vincenzo lashed out and punched the man in the throat. There wasn’t much force behind it due to their close proximity, but a gap opened up between them. Vincenzo pushed the guy away and flailed to his feet. People surged around the two combatants, concentrating only on getting themselves, their families, and their possessions to safety.

The hood must have been in remarkable pain, but he had unrivaled survival instincts. He leaped to his feet, and seeing there was no way he could escape in the crowd before Vincenzo armed himself, he charged. He slammed into Vincenzo, driving him back against the concrete barrier. Vincenzo hit it backpack first, so the initial impact didn’t do much more than rattle him a little bit more. He lashed out with one of his steel-toed boots and stomped on one of the man’s feet. The hood snarled in pain and rage and reached for the pistol in his belt. While the StealthGear holster could keep a weapon secure, it was by design a quick-draw holster. If the hood got his hands on it, it would be relatively easy for him to pull it. Vincenzo lowered one hand and kept the pistol in place by pressing down on its butt, pushing it deeper into the holster. At the same time, he stretched his other arm across the man’s body and wrapped his fingers around the back of the hood’s neck. Twisting, he flung the man face-first into the cement barrier then fell into him. That second part hadn’t been planned—he’d lost his balance executing the move—but it worked in his favor. The weight of his backpack, along with that of his body, sent the hood’s face slamming into the concrete again, with three times the force as the previous time.

The man made a strangled noise as his jaw and nose fractured. Vincenzo backed up then threw himself forward again. The guy only released a soft moan then shuddered as a tremendous spasm coursed through him. The stench of feces suddenly rose from him. Vincenzo stepped back, and the hood collapsed onto his back, convulsing. A wet spot appeared at the crotch of his black jeans. His face was mangled, torn up by the rough concrete. Fragmented teeth hung on his lips, and when his mouth opened, bloodied stumps were in place of his incisors and bicuspids.

The man vomited in a gurgling rush, and just as quickly, began choking on it. His eyes shone wild and bright in the semidarkness of the George Washington’s lower deck. He vomited again, a great gush of brown-orange puree that covered his face and flowed into his eyes. The man continued to convulse, choking on his own fluids.

“You did this to yourself, asshole!” Vincenzo shouted over the screams and gunfire still coming from the upper deck. “You did this to yourself!”

The hood stopped moving. His outstretched arms dropped to the blacktop, and his arched back relaxed. The man was dead.

Vincenzo looked around, found his cap, and snatched it up. While passersby might have spared him a meager glance while racing past, no one seemed unduly interested in the fact that he was standing over a dead man lying in a spreading puddle of piss. They had better things to do, like getting the hell off the George Washington Bridge with their lives.

I just fucking killed a guy. I actually just killed a guy!

Get over it, asshole, a small voice inside him responded. It’s only the first day of a long, long trip.

Vincenzo tightened his bag’s shoulder straps and joined the flow streaming across the Hudson River. There was nothing else to do, and in the end, he was happy he was the one still walking.

9

After three days without power, the Pennsylvania Federal Penitentiary reeked of feces, sweat, urine, and garbage.

Even for a man of Roth’s considerable discipline, it was difficult to endure the deteriorating conditions. The heat and humidity seemed to grow daily, and the lack of running water meant there were more than a few full toilets. The guards and civilian employees had been delivering buckets of water to use to flush the commodes once a day, but that had ended when one of the inmates had tried to escape. He’d been shot dead, but the result was that the prison staff refused to expose themselves to danger on a daily basis just to flush some toilets.

So Roth and the others were subjected to the mounting stench of piss and shit. If the prison staff had thought that would make the convicts compliant, they had failed miserably. Angry shouts and taunts ripped through the cell blocks, as prisoners alternately threatened and pleaded to be given water. Several shouted that they still had rights; others yelled that they would be happy to rip off the warden’s head and shit down his neck.

Then, some of the convicts died from heat exhaustion, right in their racks. As the temperatures inside the cell blocks rose into the nineties, with humidity levels to match, the older or weaker simply expired. Roth lay in his rack, sweating and trying not to puke his guts out from the infernal stench.

Once a day, the prisoners were released from their cells for food in the equally hot and miserable cafeteria. Half the time, the chow was approaching inedible—poorly heated, definitely never refrigerated, and entirely bland. The food inside the penal system was downright lousy in the best of times, but the loss of power hit things like food preparation especially hard. Roth was sure it wouldn’t be long until he and the rest of the prison population were receiving stripped Meals Ready to Eat, which was probably a step in the right direction. Like every other man in the prison, Roth was sufficiently institutionalized to eat the mystery meats they put in front of him, but he would never learn to like it. Something like an MRE could only increase the fun factor, even if the worst entrees were served twelve months past their shelf life.

They would shuffle into the large commissary, take whatever they were given, and get thirty minutes to eat. After that, they got an hour of yard time. Before, being in the yard always made Roth feel a bit weak and helpless. He was at the mercy of the general population, which was random at best, chaotic at worst. Once, he had watched the guards shoot a white man dead as he rammed a shiv into a black man’s neck over drug money. It was wasted effort—the black man died, too. But the guards basically didn’t give a shit, which suited him fine, as Roth didn’t give a shit about them either, and if he ever had the opportunity, he would kill as many of them as he could.

On the afternoon of the eighth day after the lights went out, Roth and fifteen of his block mates were led to the commissary. As was the custom, they allowed the black inmates to enter first. There was no free seating. The protocol was you simply grabbed your meal and sat down in the next available space. The whites, blacks, and Latinos never mixed if they could avoid it. Only the Asians, of whom there were four that Roth knew of, would cross racial lines, and when they did, they chose to sit with the whites. But other than that, it was bad news for the races to mix, especially the blacks and the whites. If one white had to sit at a table of blacks or vice versa, that person was forbidden from speaking. It was the way things were. Roth knew that if he spoke to a black man during a meal, it could mean a severe beating from the other whites or worse. The pecking order had to be maintained.

The new kid, some wild-eyed murderer and drug dealer named Blackie—a funny name, since he was practically an albino—would have to sit with the black crew. Usually a seventy-seven-year-old man called Stewie would volunteer for the duty, but Stewie was one of the guys who had up and died in the heat, so Blackie was nominated. Roth was sure his name would make him popular with his new dining companions.

Meals were prepared by other convicts behind gated windows that allowed for no contact. In years past, Roth had been told that one could barter for extra rice and no meat, or an extra hair-thin sliver of corn bread. But that contact had been closed off. Unless you had a friend who knew you on sight, you got the same tired shit as everyone else did. Like the rest of the convicts, Roth worked for a living. He made forty cents an hour as a groundskeeper, mowing lawns, pulling weeds, shoveling snow, and anything else that needed doing. With that money, he was able to procure foods from the commissary that were preferred alternatives to mystery meat and unspiced fare like rice, mashed potatoes, and the absolutely revolting chicken casserole. But that had ended on day four of the power outage. There was nothing left to buy. Roth had no choice but to suck it up and deal with it.

He took his plate of cold mystery meat—supposedly chicken fried steak, but even rats and roaches wouldn’t eat it—and moved to the table next to the black sheep squadron. As he walked past, one of the black inmates, Rollo, gave him the stink eye. The rotund man with protruding eyes and a severely receding afro hated Roth for reasons that remained a mystery. Roth suspected it was because Roth had an education, a master’s degree in political science. Or perhaps it was because they were both cop killers, but Roth had murdered more law enforcement officers in three years across twelve states than Rollo had managed in a lifetime of murders in the south. Professional rivalry.

“Bitch, yo ass mine,” Rollo hissed.

A prison guard stood at the head of his table, looking down at the black sheep squadron and poor Blackie as they wrestled with the day’s feast. “Knock that shit off, or you’re headed for isolation,” the guard said.

Rollo had just come off a year of separation from the rest of g-pop, so he just stared down at his plate and tried to cut into the chicken fried steak with his plastic knife. Roth ignored the comment. If Rollo came after him, he wouldn’t leave the fight in one piece. Roth knew he didn’t look like much—six foot two and very thin, with a balding head and graying beard—but he didn’t get into the penitentiary system by accident. And he hadn’t gotten there by killing defenseless innocents, like one of his white associates did when he sprayed a school bus with a semiautomatic rifle then boarded it and finished the job with a nine-millimeter handgun. Roth had been incarcerated for killing fourteen armed law officers and severely disabling almost ten more in his spree before the long arm of the law had caught up to him.

Ah, the good times.

When the Ohio State Police managed to corner him, Roth didn’t resist. He became totally compliant and surrendered without issue. Not because he was frightened and didn’t want to die—David Elliott Roth had no issues with death. Death was going to find him one way or the other. He didn’t choose to enter into a gun battle with the state police because he knew that he would have the opportunity to kill again one day, and that was more precious to him than anything. Prison, he believed, was only a temporary condition.

As he sat down with the rest of the men at the second table, he was surprised to find there wasn’t a guard standing over them, watching them eat. He looked around as he tore open several packets of pepper and sprinkled their contents onto his food. Only the black and Latino tables had guards, which left the two tables of whites unmonitored.

“Looks like we finally get some privacy,” muttered Harley, a broad-shouldered biker with a nasty scar rippling up one side of his face. The mark started at his jaw line and finally petered out somewhere inside his bushy right eyebrow. The knotted tissue had made his eyebrow curl up like a question mark lying on its side. His long hair was streaked with gray, and Roth had learned he’d killed two men in a bar fight somewhere in Oklahoma while riding with a biker gang.

“Yeah, wonder what’s up with that,” Toombs said. He was a slow-witted southern boy from Alabama. Unlike Harley, his hair was high and tight, and on someone so pale and bone-thin, it gave him the appearance of being a dirty Q-Tip. “Heard some o’ the staff been leavin’.”

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that, Toombs?” Roth asked.

“I dunno. Just heard it.”

The problem with Toombs was that he heard a lot, and most of that was inside his head. He was bat-shit crazy, but like almost everyone in the lockup, he wasn’t a very nice person. Toombs liked to kill people as much as everyone did, and even though he definitely had a host of mental health issues and would have been better served in a mental institution, he had found his way into the US penal system. But if what the living, breathing Q-Tip beside him had said was true, it sparked a small flame of hope. Fewer guards means more chances to make it over the fence, he thought, as he cut up the chunk of tough mystery meat. He forked some into his mouth and chewed quickly so that he didn’t have to taste it for long.

“What’re you smiling over, Roth?” Harley asked, his voice a low rumble. “It’s like you enjoy the food, dude.”

Roth hadn’t realized he was smiling until Harley mentioned it, but he kept the potential rationale for glee to himself for the time being. To be free… to kill.

###

Despite the power failures, work still had to be attended to. Roth and his cohorts were to mow the yards inside the fence. Another group from the adjacent work camp would attend to the fields outside the wire. They were certified as lower risk than Roth and his fellows, still federal criminals but of a lesser variety: embezzlers, larcenists, and thieves who had managed to cross the punishment zone from state crimes to federal. Roth thought that they had it easy, and he chafed at the gutless wonders outside the wire receiving such light treatment.

The big Bobcat mower had an electric ignition system, but that was of no use anymore. Roth had to use the pull starter to get it going, and that worked just fine. He filled the green mower with gas, checked the oil, then primed the engine. As he was getting ready to start it, Blackie stepped into the utility shed. His face was made shiny by a sheen of sweat.

“Hey, Roth. Heard the niggers talking about stuff at lunch,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Then you shouldn’t believe whatever you heard,” Roth said. “You know they’ll say things that can lead you to trouble.”

“Dunno, man. They said that Pittsburgh is on fire. Some sort of riots going on there. And that a lot of the guards have vanished.”

That got Roth’s attention. He looked through the shed’s open door, where two armed corrections officers stood a few feet away. They were talking to each other while keeping their eyes on another group of prisoners weeding the small flower beds that surrounded the penitentiary. Usually, one guard would keep eyes on Roth as he prepped the Bobcat. After all, he had access to fuel and other chemicals, things that could conceivably be used as weapons. But the guards seemed distracted.

“Tell me more,” Roth said quietly, handing the gas can to Blackie. “Act like you’re filling up the mower.”

Blackie took the can and tilted over the opening in the fuel tank, spilling a little gas in the process. Roth grimaced. That would need to be wiped up before he could start the Bobcat.

“Three guys in their block didn’t show up for work today, and supposedly, the niggers overheard another guard saying he was taking PTO for the next few days,” Blackie said. “So that’s like an entire shift in that wing that’s gone, man.”

Roth considered that. Given that there were guards missing from the commissary, it kind of made sense. That the blacks discussed it in front of the guard standing at their table was a little odd, but meal times were one of the few times they could talk as a group. And though many of them were as dumb as bricks, Roth knew for certain that Rollo was anything but. While the balding black criminal was loathsome, he knew how to work the system, so their conversation had likely been in shorthand.

“How is it they let you hear this?” Roth asked.

“Roly-poly Rollo wants to talk to you, man,” Blackie said. “Asked me to pass it on to you.”

Roth raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? What does he want to ‘talk’ to me about?”

“Hey, Roth! You done in there?” one of the guards shouted as he walked toward the utility shed. “What’s the hold up?”

“Blackie spilled gas on the mower,” Roth said, picking up a rag and wiping off the tank. “He’s a stupid fuck. This is what I get for asking him to do something for once.”

“Hey, I was just tryin’ to help, man!” Blackie said, sounding genuinely hurt.

“Stop fucking around and get to work,” the guard snapped. His uniform had dark sweat patches under the arms.

“On it,” Roth said. When the guard turned back around, Roth asked Blackie, “Where does Rollo expect me to meet him?”

“Yard time,” Blackie said. “Wants you to keep it cool and on the down low. Also wants you to tell the rest of the guys that this is business, nothing else.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

“Roth, move your ass!” the guard yelled. He stepped inside the shed, frowning behind his sunglasses and mustache. “What are you guys talking about in here?”

Blackie looked at Roth with disgust. “He’s just telling me what a stupid fuck I am, like usual,” the younger man said. “All I did was spill a little gas, trying to help him out!”

“Then stop trying to help, and get your ass out here!” the guard ordered. “Roth, move it! Now!”

“Sure thing,” Roth said, keeping his expression as vacant as possible though it was almost impossible for him to overcome the urge to take the guard out, right then and there. He knew how to do it, even though the man was armed. Roth could gain control of the weapon and drill the second guard in the right eye before she could do anything. But he didn’t know exactly where the tower snipers were positioned or who they were covering, and that meant he could be popped the second he stepped out of the shed. He vented some frustration by savagely yanking on the Bobcat’s pull starter. It took three hard tugs, but the green piece of shit’s engine finally sputtered to life.

Soon enough, he thought, glancing up at the guard as he grabbed the big mower’s handles and engaged the drive gear.

###

Roth, along with Harley and a huge white con named Chester, approached the gang of black prisoners hanging out in their corner of the yard. They came to a halt several feet away, acting as if they were having a conversation amongst themselves. It wasn’t much of a ruse, but it was the best they could come up with; Roth definitely wasn’t going to meet with Rollo alone. It wasn’t that Roth didn’t think he couldn’t handle his fellow inmate in a fight, but he knew Rollo would never try him mano a mano anyway. He’d show up with friends, just as Roth had brought a couple of his own.

After a few minutes, Rollo detached himself from the group and sauntered over to where Roth stood a few feet from his two guys. He asked Roth for a cigarette, a remarkable breach of etiquette. Roth had one last crinkled pack of Winstons, which he never smoked but used to barter with. A single cigarette could get a man a lot of things in the big house. Roth shook one out and handed it over, keeping his face blank and expressionless.

Rollo took it and eyed Harley and Chester for a long moment. “Maybe we can do this without an audience.”

“You don’t want an audience, send someone else,” Roth said.

Rollo considered that. “Heh. Okay.” He turned and looked through the fence behind him. The work camp crew had already finished their work, who were staring back at them. “We gonna make a break,” Rollo said. “World’s gone to shit. No power anywhere. Heard the sun did that shit, man.”

Roth didn’t say anything. He’d heard the same, and he understood the ramifications of a gigantic EMP burst that could have fried the entire world’s power grids.

“Guards, they be leavin’. Staff, they be leavin’. Soon, they’ll just lock us up in our cells, and that be it. We’ll starve. Or die from the goddam heat. They ain’t gonna let us go, and they can’t take care o’ us. So we need to break outta here before they put us in our cages and leave us to rot.”

“So what do you want from me, Rollo?”

“Brothers can’t do it alone. Need some help. You’re a smart fuck; you do the math.”

“So what’s in it for me?” Roth asked.

“You get to kill as many o’ the guards as you want. And after that, we go our own ways. I got people to see on the outside. Not gonna waste a second of it messin’ with you.”

Roth didn’t believe that for a second. But it didn’t matter, not right now. If Rollo and his band were able to get enough action started to make it outside, then the risk was worth it. Besides, while Rollo might make promises he wouldn’t keep, Roth would do no such thing. He’d kill Rollo the second he had a chance.

“So what’s your plan?” Roth asked.

“You good with a gun, right? I hear you’re like some kinda superman with a gun.”

“Yes,” Roth said. “I’m good with firearms.”

“You military or somethin’?”

Roth shook his head. He didn’t see the need to give the guy any more information.

Rollo shrugged his shoulders. “’Kay. Don’t matter. What if I get you a pistol? You any good with that?”

Roth slightly inclined his head toward one of the guard towers. “See that guy up there?”

“Yeah.”

“With a nine-millimeter, I can hit him twice in the right eye from where we’re standing right now, and do it on the move. Then I can turn and take out the second tower. Less than two seconds. But the ground needs to be clear. I can’t work like that with guards coming at me on the ground. Give me enough time to clear the towers, then I can clear the ground. But the towers have to go first.”

“You serious?” Rollo asked. “You’re really that good?”

“I did the same thing in Colorado, with two cops standing above me on high ground. They had me in sight, and were drawing down on me. I took them both out. Less than two seconds,” Roth emphasized. “If I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t put myself in the position where I’d have to try.”

Rollo nodded. “’Kay, man. I feel you. You let us take care of the ground work. You hit the towers. It’s gonna happen out here, obviously. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. You need to keep up with things. Get your boys lined up. We gotta work together to get control of the yard then the rest of the prison long enough for us to get out of here.”

“We gonna spring everyone?”

“You want to take time to do that?”

“No. I don’t.”

“There’s your answer, then. Stay sharp.” Rollo looked down at the cigarette for a moment then flicked it at Roth. “Here. I don’t want your cancer stick.”

“Might as well keep it, Rollo. I’m not going to touch it after you did.”

Rollo’s thick lips curled up into a feral smile. “You got nerve, boy. That’s why I come to you.” He turned away and headed back to his group.

From the corner of his eye, Roth had seen one of the guards in the towers watching the entire exchange, but he and Rollo had kept their faces angled downward as they talked. No lip reading was likely to have occurred, and without power, they didn’t have to worry about electronic surveillance.

“So what was that all about?” Harley asked as Roth sauntered back to them.

“We might be getting out of here,” Roth said.

“No shit?”

“Well, either that, or a lot of us are just going to get killed.”

10

A nice breeze blew through the lower levels of the George Washington Bridge, and Vincenzo was thankful for that. Not only did it help to dry the sweat on his body, it also kept the noxious stench of urine and feces at bay as he and thousands of others threaded their way through the unmoving traffic that had died during the CME event. Garbage was everywhere, a disgusting mix of plastic bags, food containers, plastic bottles, vomit, and human excrement. There were also corpses, many of them stiffening into full-on rigor mortis.

From the expended cartridges that his boots kicked up, he could tell that the violence he had witnessed on the upper deck wasn’t the first the bridge had seen over the past forty-eight hours. He kept his right hand near the butt of his Berretta. He wasn’t going to make any mistakes next time. When trouble came looking for him again, he was going to shoot it right between the eyes, between the testicles, wherever he could. That he had survived two violent altercations in one day was exhilarating in a way. He had never been much of a fighter, even though he had learned the required skills as a younger man. But he hadn’t been tested in such a way in more than twenty years. To find that he could still take some punishment and come out on top—especially while others were trying to kill him—didn’t leave him feeling sickened and shaken as he’d thought it would. It made him feel fortunate and oddly thrilled.

At the same time, he was developing a healthy respect for just how dangerous the new world was. In only a few days, the thin veneer of civilization wasn’t just cracking—it was about to shatter. Fighting his way across the country would eventually become a losing proposition, and his previous tussles had already left him feeling twice his age. Bruises, cuts, scraped knuckles, and a nagging pain in his lower back told him that he had been more lucky than skillful so far.

In other words, paisan, don’t push it.

Taking his own warning to heart, Vincenzo pulled his cap a bit lower and tried to keep from making eye contact with anyone, while at the same time staying mindful of just who was in his immediate vicinity. He saw hipsters from Greenwich Village, gays from Chelsea, stodgy business types from midtown, and foreigners caught in New York on holiday. There were bangers from Harlem, housewives from the Upper East Side towing kids after them, and construction-worker types from one of the outer boroughs. He distinctly heard a Canarsie accent from one group wending their way through the halted river of metal and fiberglass and garbage.

Vincenzo thought that Everett had been wrong. The lower deck of the George Washington Bridge wasn’t any more likely to become a miasma of violence and looting, at least not during the daylight hours. There were too many people who only wanted to get across the river. Anyone who tried anything with less than an automatic weapon was going to get trapped and taken down pretty quickly. From the determined expressions of those around him, he was pretty sure that, on the whole, the evacuees weren’t exactly a chi-chi bunch. There were some definite ass-kickers and skull-crushers in the ranks, and even an organized gang would have to pick its targets carefully. However, he had to step over two corpses, one of them a small child who had obviously been molested in the most violent of ways. There was nothing that could be done. He just gritted his teeth and kept walking.

From what he could see of it, the Hudson River looked beautiful, blue and inviting, despite the occasional powerless vessel that drifted southward on the current. He’d always been told the Hudson was one of the most polluted rivers in the United States, and he had never really considered it at all picturesque. Like any native New Yorker, he thought the Hudson served only one purpose: as a moat, to protect Manhattan from New Jersey. But looking at it through different eyes—eyes which also coveted the shoreline of New Jersey as a safer place than the vast metropolis behind him—Vincenzo could detect a hint of splendor in the great tributary. Two or three centuries ago, when it was younger, cleaner, and perhaps more vital, he had no doubt that it had been a magnificent sight.

As he neared the end of the span, a dark tunnel loomed. Flashlights came on in an attempt to dispel the murk, and Vincenzo felt a thrill of fear. If Everett’s prophecy of violence was to come true, it would be in the tunnel, several hundred feet of subway-tiled walls that were mostly blank and featureless without the illumination provided by the long line of fluorescent lamps that would likely never shine again. That part of the bridge was sloped, as the rightmost northbound lanes of Interstate 95 fed into it, forming a ramp into the dark maw. Because of that, there was less dead traffic inside the tunnel, as those vehicles inside had either been temporarily spared from the effects of the sun’s discharge, or their drivers had elected to coast down its length to the GWB’s lower span.

The crowd slowed as it picked its way up the ramp like some amorphous, multi-celled beast. The darkness in the center of the tunnel was absolute, and Vincenzo could feel the unease roiling through the people around him like spokes radiating from the center of a bicycle wheel. No one wanted to be in the pitch-black belly of the tunnel, and even those with flashlights had to carefully work around the few stalled vehicles. And there were more corpses, as well, already ripening in the summer heat. Flies buzzed, and Vincenzo glimpsed feral shapes skulking about in the gloom. He heard the deep growl of a dog, and he realized that man’s best friend was already feeding on the dead. He pulled his Berretta from its holster and held the weapon at his side. Just in case.

Finally, his thighs and calves burning, he neared the tunnel exit. The light on the other side was harsh and bright, and he missed his sunglasses terribly as he blinked against the glaring brilliance of the sun, which was in its descent toward the western horizon. He pulled the bill of his cap lower until his eyes adjusted. Reluctantly, he holstered his pistol and pulled his shirt down over it. Reaching around, he felt the slightly cool metal of his Hydro Flask. It was a little dented, probably from his fall on the New York side of the GWB, but the metal was still dry.

Vincenzo started to sweat almost immediately upon leaving the tunnel. He and the rest of the people with him were being pushed into a channel choked with stalled traffic. The walls on either side were thirty feet high, and overpasses towered over them. Groups of people had pulled off to the sides, resting from the long transit across the bridge. Some of them weren’t outfitted for the journey, and they regarded those who were with covetous eyes. On one of the bridges that crossed the lower lanes of I-95, New Jersey State Police troopers were watching. As they were silhouetted against the sun, Vincenzo couldn’t read their expressions, but he could see that they had binoculars and rifles. Also, the cement guardrails of the bridge gave them great cover. After what had happened back on the approach to the George Washington, Vincenzo hoped no one was going to start shooting. When the troopers responded, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

Farther on, he crossed under another overpass. Acrid smoke wafted through the air, and when he emerged on the other side of the bridge, he saw a large glass tower fully involved in fire. The building wasn’t nearby, and the breeze drove most of the billowing black clouds of smoke away from the highway, but it was close enough to be a disturbing sight.

What, did you think everything was going to be normal in Fort Lee? Actually, he had hoped that things would be better in Jersey. He’d hoped that once people were in a place where they weren’t right on top of one another that they’d be able to band together and work through problems as opposed to trying to dominate one another. The flaming building laid that faint hope to rest. Jersey was going to be as much of a nut-buster as Manhattan had been, and with nightfall only a few hours away, it might even be worse.

Vincenzo slogged along, feeling the heat rising off the asphalt of I-95. He suddenly found it odd to be walking down what had been one of the busiest interstates in the nation. Only days before, had he been there on foot, he would have been dead, smeared across the lanes by a speeding semi-truck or BMW. But those same vehicles that could have meant his death were no more than curiosities from a bygone era.

He made a mental list of all the items that would have helped him out over the coming days and weeks. Night vision goggles would have been useful, so he could travel at night instead of in the heat of the day, if such devices might have survived the EMP burst. A CamelBak hydration system could have been attached to his backpack so he could drink water without having to stop. An AR-style rifle would have been nice. Not only could such a weapon be used to hold bad guys at bay, it would have been more than suitable for hunting. He could use a couple of knives. And with night closing in, he wished for a lightweight shelter instead of the simple tarp in his bag. A dirt bike would have been handy, even though he had never had much of a love affair with motorcycles. He’d tried to ride three times in the past, and all three times had ended with him on the ground. Then he remembered what had happened to the riders on the ramp to the upper deck of the George, and he figured that maybe a pair of boots were a safer bet.

At any rate, the coulda/woulda/shoulda list was too long to contemplate. Plus, the heat, the various aches and pains, and the budding headache forming inside his skull were enough to convince him to put such thoughts aside. He had a job to do for the next several months, and that job was for him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. And first, he needed to get out of Fort Lee, preferably before sundown. Though not terribly familiar with the area, he knew there was a large park in the city, near a wide creek that he would eventually need to cross, but he wasn’t entirely sure of its location. Or even what it was called. Overpeck? Overbrook?

In the distance, he heard staccato reports of gunfire. The troopers and Fort Lee police officers on the next overpass looked northward for a moment then turned back to their surveillance of the New Yorkers rolling into town. Vincenzo tried to determine if the cops were more nervous than they should have been, but he figured if they were still up there and still attempting to do their jobs, then he probably shouldn’t worry about it.

But are they doing their jobs? he wondered when he recalled the NYPD just standing around and mostly watching while bad shit went down less than an hour ago on the approach to the George Washington Bridge. If things go sideways, are they going to take care of it?

There was no way to know unless something happened, and he had already been through enough for one day. He decided to focus on what was achievable each day. He would get to the park whose name he couldn’t recall, which meant continuing west until he hit the creek or river that ran through Fort Lee. After that, he would find a place with lots of cover to bed down then eat, sleep, and try to make it through the night. Tomorrow would be another day with its own challenges to overcome.

###

He was able to depart the highway by scaling a small retaining wall near the toll booths that separated I-95 from the Columbia University Medical Center. As he followed several people over the wall, he passed a group of young men who were stripping down a stalled Bentley convertible the color of rich emerald. Vincenzo had no idea what they thought they were going to do with their loot. Luxury automotive goods were unlikely to be high on anyone’s shopping list. As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he figured it maybe wasn’t such a bad thing. If those predisposed to crime were still keeping an eye out for material wealth, then one guy and his packs wouldn’t be high on their priority register. While the world had ended, the ratio of stupid people to smart was most likely in his favor. Yeah, because I’m such a fucking rocket scientist …

On the other side of the retaining wall, he trudged through some brush and emerged into a parking lot that belonged to the Oak Tree Shopping Mall, which was in full loot mode. Things were frantic but not particularly violent. Lots of people scurried in and out of stores, carrying whatever they thought they needed. Vincenzo kept his hand near the butt of his Berretta and took great pains to avoid interacting with anyone. He recognized several folks from the highway, and they acted the same.

Down the block, the hospital seemed to be a busy place, which was not unexpected. Vincenzo crossed the parking lot at a fast pace and came out on Main Street. Like everywhere else, there were dead cars and trucks in the street, but the sidewalks had lots of pedestrian traffic. Many people were moving; many more were hovering in tight groups on the street corners. Vincenzo did a quick three-sixty, surveying the neighborhood. While the mall was under attack, things on the street, only a few hundred feet away, seemed stable. He was in a middle-class neighborhood, not some inner-city ghetto. If nothing else, it at least felt safe for the moment.

Vincenzo stepped into the street then turned right. Most of the pedestrians were sticking to the usual walkways, so he wended his way around dead cars, trucks, and buses. Bicyclists zipped past in both directions, and they looked at him out of simple curiosity, as he was one of few pedestrians in the street itself. He pulled a bottle of warm water from his knapsack and chugged it then won a brief internal battle to prevent himself from drinking another. He had to marshal his water. His clothes were soaked with sweat, but he wasn’t about to drop from dehydration just yet.

As he walked, he glanced at the stores on either side of the street: Cindy’s Nails, a VFW post, a bank with a uniformed security guard staring back at him through the still-intact plate-glass windows, and a Vietnamese restaurant open for business with a handwritten sign in the window that read, “$ORRY CA$H ONLY.” The smell of cooking food made Vincenzo’s stomach growl, but he didn’t stop, even though he could have used a good bowl of pho right about then. One foot in front of the other, bro. Keep going.

A group of elderly folks were clustered around a deceased tour bus. Vincenzo altered his course a bit, putting some distance between him and the old people. There was no one less than sixty-five among them, and he wondered how they would fare over the coming days. Society hadn’t given a damn about the elderly when the lights were still on; chances were good they weren’t going to have a better time in the Dark Ages Part II. He felt sorry for them, but he had a job to do. One foot in front of the other.

Ahead, kids splashed through a huge puddle of water that had apparently been born when a car crashed into a fire hydrant. The water had stopped flowing when the pressure had bled off, but some still gurgled from the pipe below the street. While the children played, adults were filling vessels: plastic bottles, turkey basters, whatever they could put their hands on.

Gradually, the downtown area of Fort Lee fell behind, and Vincenzo moved into the suburbs. He saw families with little kids. The fathers and mothers watched him walk past with gazes that were more curious than suspicious. Apparently, violence and looting hadn’t reached their backyards, but he figured the criminals would be making an appearance over the coming nights. No one approached him, and he didn’t do anything to give them reason to. He just stuck to the middle of the street and kept hoofing it.

When he crossed under the overpass for Route 46, he found the on-ramps were full of dead vehicles. Police were congregating near the foot of the ramp. They were on horseback, motor scooters, dirt bikes, and ATVs. They eyed him warily, but he couldn’t avoid walking right up to the group. He drifted off to the right in a bid to slip past.

One of the cops held up a hand. “Where you headed?” He was a sallow-faced man with an award-winning case of five o’clock shadow.

“West,” Vincenzo said, slowing but not stopping.

“How far west?” the cop asked. He stepped in Vincenzo’s path, forcing him to stop. Some other cops drifted closer, and Vincenzo felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him.

“Los Angeles,” Vincenzo said. “My family’s in Los Angeles. That’s where I’m headed.”

The cop smirked and looked at the other police officers. “Hear that?”

“Hella walk, bro,” another said. He sat astride a dirt bike and had an AR-style rifle slung over one shoulder.

“No kidding,” Vincenzo said.

“ID,” the first cop said. “Slowly.”

Vincenzo reached into his right rear pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed his California driver’s license to the cop, who took it and studied it with the intensity of a priest reading the Bible.

“Huh,” the cop said. “Fourteen twenty-two Devlin Drive, Los Angeles, California.”

“Really?” an older cop asked, stepping closer. The first one handed him the license, and the older one whistled. “Man, you really do have a long walk. Where’s this Devlin Drive?”

“The hills,” Vincenzo said.

“So you’re just passing through, then?”

“As quickly as I can.”

“Where you coming from, man?” the first cop asked.

“Manhattan,” Vincenzo said. “I’d just started a new job. My family was supposed to come out next week.”

“So why are you leaving New York? Why not wait for the lights to come back on?”

Because they’re not coming back on, asshole. Vincenzo bit back the sarcastic response. “Because New York’s busting apart at the seams. The city’s becoming a basket case. You could probably tell by all the foot traffic coming across the George.”

“Yeah, we’ve seen it, but the state is handling the response,” the first cop said. “At least, for now. You really think you’re going to be able to make it back to LA on foot, Hollywood?”

“Gotta get to my family. If things get fixed before then, I’ll gladly catch the first airplane or train or bus I can find.”

“Yeah? Well, I think you’re a crazy son of a bitch. You should’ve stayed in New York with the rest of the assholes.”

“Hey, Lenny. Let’s give the guy his license back and let him get on his way,” the older cop said, handing the ID back to the younger one. “As far as we know, his story checks out, and he doesn’t look like he’s interested in getting in any trouble. Are you, guy?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Hell, no. I’ve got a long walk ahead of me, and people I need to see.”

“I say we search him,” the first cop said.

“For what reason?” Vincenzo asked.

“Because we can, you mope.”

Vincenzo eyed the older cop and spread his hands. He hoped the guy had some juice because if they searched him and found two weapons, they would be unlikely to let him go.

The older cop rubbed the white stubble on his chin. “Nah, let’s let him get on his way. Hand back his ID, Lenny.”

“We got no idea who this hump is,” Lenny said. “He’s hiding something. I can see it, and so can you.”

“I’m not hiding shit,” Vincenzo said. “I just want to get on my way. Like I said, I’ve got a very long, very dangerous trip ahead of me.” He turned and pointed at the column of black smoke on the horizon. It had been joined by two more. “You want something to do? Head over that way and start cuffing the looters and arsonists and kid rapers and whoever else might be in Fort Lee. Because they’re headed this way, guys. You’re going to be busy as hell in the next couple of days. Trust me.”

“How do you mean?” the older cop asked.

“New York’s blowing up. Anyone who can is going to be getting the hell out of there once they figure out the mayor and his people can’t do anything for them. It’s going to be a hot summer, which means water’s going to start running out. No one can exactly drink the Hudson and East Rivers, right? Those people are going to be moving out over the next few days, not so many at first, but more and more as time goes on. You’ll be up to your ears in people you won’t know what to do with. Trust me on this. I’ve just seen it up close and personal.”

“Oh, yeah? You some kind of security expert or something?” Lenny asked.

“No. Just a guy trying to get back to his family, Officer.”

“We hear what you’re saying,” the older cop said. “Or at least, I do. And since I’m the senior commander on site, you’re free to go.” He stepped closer, and the kindly expression disappeared like a cockroach under a wallboard. When he spoke again, his voice was low and intense. “But you fuck up, you do anything that brings you back in front of us, and I’ll put two in the back of your head myself. You get me?”

Vincenzo had no doubt the man was telling the truth. “I get you. You guys won’t be seeing me again. Unless I wind up getting killed in your town, and someone brings you my body.”

The older cop smiled thinly. “Come on, Lenny. We’re holding our dicks here. Give the man his ID, and let him get on his way.”

Lenny handed back the license with obvious reluctance. “Get the fuck outta here. This street becomes Fort Lee Road a few hundred yards up, but stay on it. Once you cross into Leonia, you’re not our problem anymore.”

“Leonia?” Vincenzo frowned. “Where’s Leonia?”

“Next town up the road,” the older cop said. “But to get across the Overpeck Creek, you need to stay on Fort Lee Road. Unless you want to get wet, that is. Once you’re over the creek, you’ll be in Teaneck.”

“No, I don’t want to get wet. Thanks for the information.” Vincenzo tucked his license back in his wallet. “You guys have a good night.”

###

Almost three hours later, Vincenzo found the park. Dusk had announced itself almost thirty minutes ago, and as he trudged through the town of Leonia, he had been thinking that he might not make it to the park after all. People were still out and about, but there was a kind of hurry about them. Flashlights cut through the glowing gloom, and through the windows of houses and apartment buildings, he saw the pale glows of candles. In the distance, he heard the rumble of a motorcycle, but it wasn’t headed his way. He knew that his luck was running out. While Leonia didn’t seem to be a hostile place, it surely housed its fair share of unsavory types, people who might be emboldened by the lack of communication among law enforcement. While he’d seen very little signs of looting—a convenience store had been knocked over, but that was about it—he knew it wouldn’t take long for it to start.

The park wasn’t as heavily forested as he’d hoped, but it was definitely preferable to sleeping behind a dumpster in a back alley somewhere. He also found out that he wasn’t the only person to have the idea to crash out in the park. There were already several tents erected, and a few groups of people had big cooking fires blazing. Vincenzo stealthily moved away from them, pushing into a row of brush. In the shadows, he could see people were already there. They looked up at him with tense expressions. He held up his hand in apology and moved on. He found a copse of trees, but a young family had already claimed the spot. The husband reached for a rifle.

“Easy,” Vincenzo said. “Just passing by.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” the man ordered, raising the rifle to his shoulder.

“On it.” Vincenzo spun around and walked away.

He wanted to stay in the general vicinity of Fort Lee Road, as it was the only artery he knew of that would cross the creek.  He hadn’t expected to have the park to himself, but he hadn’t thought it would be a freaking convention, either. As he moved through the center of the park, the crowds grew. Not everyone was well equipped. A social strata seemed to be forming between the haves and have-nots. Those with tents, camping gear, or at least some supplies tended to cluster together, while those without were shunned. The latter group stared at Vincenzo with hungry, desperate eyes. Many were children, and their presence reminded him of Benny. Was Jessie able to take care of him? Had Grant been able to get to them and give them a helping hand? He shook his head.

Not your problem right now. Find a place where these people can’t get to you.

Half an hour later, he smelled water. He slowed as he approached a heavy line of brush. In the distance, he heard the sound of running water. He took that to mean he was close to the creek, and for a moment, he considered finding the creek and filling up some water bottles. But he’d always been told that open water sources were horribly polluted and that illness was certain to follow if he drank from a stream. He had no idea whether that was true or not, but he wasn’t going to put the theory to the test just yet. He probed the line of brush, looking for a way through. He finally found an opening, and he crept forward slowly so as not to surprise anyone. He came out in a small clearing that looked as if it hadn’t seen any activity in quite a while. The grass was tall and weedy. A quick glance at his watch told him it was twenty minutes after eight. He wanted to switch on a flashlight to have a look around, but he didn’t dare.

He shrugged off his knapsack and backpack and plopped down on the ground. His entire body ached, so he stretched a bit, trying to work out some of the kinks. Overhead, stars shone in a sky made suddenly vivid by the lack of light pollution. The astral vista reminded him of trips to the mountain states, where the nights were deep and dark and the stars blazed like brilliant diamonds strewn across the heavens. He never expected to see such a sight in the east, where the illumination of great American mega-cities pretty much ripped the night apart, slashing through the veil of darkness like a murderer’s dagger through a silken blouse.

Vincenzo opened his backpack and removed the cold pack that contained one of the Cornish game hens. The poultry was still cold; the container had done its job. He ate it just like that, tearing through it with hunger-driven zeal. It took less than two minutes for him to consume virtually every scrap of meat on the bird, then he washed it down with a draught from the Hydro Flask. It was good to have something cold to drink, a luxury he lamented would be scarce over the coming weeks. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was a hell of a lot he was going to miss. He put the hen bones back in the cold pack, figuring he could use them to season some soup later, if they didn’t go bad before he had the opportunity. For dessert, he helped himself to one of the pumpkin spice muffins.

He got the bottle of Tylenol from his knapsack and took three, swallowing them with another dose of cold water.  He pulled off his boots and socks and massaged his feet, feeling for blisters. He was fortunate not to find any, but the balls of his feet were definitely hot spots. His calves ached pretty badly, so he wrapped a couple of the ThermaCare air-activated bandages around them. Given the humidity level, the heat against his skin wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was preferable to waking up screaming from charley horses in the middle of the night.

Once he’d repacked everything except the Glock, which he wanted within easy reach, Vincenzo sat and listened to the night. He couldn’t see anything through the brush, no firelight, no nothing. Something stirred in the thicket, but it sounded small and furtive, like an animal foraging. For a moment, he felt dread, not because he feared it would be a predator but because the last thing he wanted was to come face to tail with a skunk. Whatever it was crept away in the opposite direction. He reluctantly put on his boots and got to his feet, feeling his muscles complain. He relieved himself in the bushes, spreading a little human deterrent that he hoped would keep most of the animals away. That important mission completed, he returned to his spot and stretched out, using his backpack as a pillow. He left his boots on, just in case he had to leave in a hurry. He heard distant gunfire, and a few minutes later, some people passed on the other side of the bushes. He couldn’t make out the words, but he clearly heard a woman’s voice and those of a couple of exhausted children. Vincenzo mentally wished them well but didn’t leave his den to investigate.

Minutes later, he was asleep.

11

Vincenzo awoke to the sound of high-pitched, angry buzzing.

Vincenzo slapped himself across the face when it dawned on him that he was being used as a blood buffet for what seemed like thousands of mosquitoes. He sat up, brushing his face and neck, already feeling itching welts forming as he smashed delicate insect bodies against his skin. He had no doubt each blow left a small splash of blood as mosquito guts erupted, spilling their payloads of pilfered circulatory fluid. Damn it. I should’ve put on the bug repellent.

He fumbled through his knapsack until he found the little pump spray bottle of Coleman DEET. He sprayed the stuff on his arms and neck then rubbed some on his face. The chemical burned when it contacted broken skin, especially across his knuckles. Once he was satisfied that he was fully protected, he replaced the bottle’s plastic cap and returned it to the knapsack. He checked his watch. It was just past four in the morning, which meant dawn would be making its appearance within the hour.

Vincenzo sighed. He was still bone tired even though he’d had almost eight hours of sleep, and his muscles ached. He popped more Tylenol, drank a good amount of water from the Hydro Flask, then refilled it with one of the warm plastic bottles. He lamented the fact that the water’s chill was fading. He felt a stab of pain in his abdomen and realized it was from the Berretta pressing into his gut. He’d been so tired that he hadn’t bothered to remove the weapon from the holster. He adjusted the holster, trying to find a more comfortable position. When he had it situated as well as he could, he clambered to his feet. His sore muscles protested, but he had no choice. He stretched out a bit in the middle of his little den, trying to work out the kinks in his legs and, more worrisome, his back.

After brushing his teeth, he used his small entrenching tool to dig a hole so he could void his bowels. He’d had to do the same thing while hunting turkey on occasion, so it wasn’t a new experience for him, but he still found it uncomfortable. The things we miss when the lights go out… like toilets. He buried his mess then used a liberal amount of hand sanitizer. Standing in the tiny glade, he listened to the sounds of the incubating morning. Birds were coming alive in the trees, and small animals rustled through the brush. Mosquitoes still buzzed around him, but the insect repellent made sure they maintained their distance. He heard no signs of human occupation in the immediate area, but that was more wishful thinking than anything else.

He noticed a small glow on the horizon. It wasn’t the coming of dawn but a fire, which wasn’t surprising. With all the downed airliners and other accidents, fire was going to be a big problem in built-up communities. It was like living in the nineteenth century again, where a bucket brigade would be the new tanker truck.

He wanted to check his map, but it was still too dark. He still felt uneasy about using a flashlight. While he wasn’t defenseless, he was likely still more prey than predator at the moment. He needed to avoid attracting attention. But he felt a desire to get underway again, even if it meant stalking through the predawn gloom. He figured he might as well have some breakfast, so he dug out a couple of the Danishes he had baked in New York. They were already going stale. As he chewed, he wondered how far he had come. Twelve miles? Fifteen? Neither number was particularly encouraging. He drained another bottle of water then placed the empty container in his pack.

It was time to get going.

###

Vincenzo emerged from his hide site in the brush and quickly walked back to the road. His feet and legs protested, but they weren’t in charge just yet. He needed to get gone, and soon. The park was dark, but in the slowly brightening morning, he could see lots of people. Those with tents had it better than those in the open. At least the chances of being eaten alive by mosquitoes were reduced. A few people were awake, but they ignored him.

Fort Lee Road was empty of pedestrian traffic. There were still plenty of motionless vehicles, though they were far from abandoned. People had used the dead cars and trucks to sleep in. He figured that was wise, and he took note of that. There would be more than a few times on the road where he would need shelter, and vehicles, especially semi-trucks with sleeper cabs, would come in handy.

He strode as quietly as he could as the eastern horizon slowly brightened. He wanted to be out of there before the rest of the park stirred. From what he had seen the night before, he was one of the more prepared individuals, and that frightened him. His packs and others’ visions of what they might contain would make him a target, and he needed to figure out how to avoid that.

The road narrowed with the westbound lanes merging into one, while the eastbound ones maintained two. When he saw the bridge ahead, he pulled the Glock out of the knapsack and held it in his right hand. He’d already decided that he would use that weapon first and save the Berretta. The Glock didn’t feel quite right because of the stippled grips, but the weapon had a reassuring weight. He wished he’d had the opportunity to test fire it, but there hadn’t been time for that. Whipping it out and firing a couple of rounds over the Hudson while crossing the George Washington Bridge wouldn’t have been welcomed by the rest of the refugees fleeing New York City.

As he mounted the bridge, he found it was surprisingly clear of litter compared to the rest of the road. He figured people had just been tossing their detritus over the side, but if that was the case, it didn’t seem to deter one man who had a fishing line out over the side. Vincenzo kept a lane’s distance between them.

“Morning,” the fisherman said.

Vincenzo didn’t try to hide the pistol in his hand, but he figured the gloominess did that for him. “Hi, there. Any luck?”

“Not yet, but the day’s young. Caught four catfish yesterday.” The older guy wore a bucket hat, big eyeglasses, a vest over a long-sleeved shirt, and cargo shorts.

“Well, hope you can repeat it,” Vincenzo said, walking past.

“Thanks. Have a good day!”

Vincenzo snorted. Not likely, if yesterday was any indication. Unbidden, images of the man he had killed on the GWB came rushing back. He was surprised at the stark emotion that hit him. It hadn’t been a clean, sterile kill, like one delivered from the business end of a firearm. It had been up close and personal, the kind of action Vincenzo had never even dreamed of, much less prepared for. The huge implication of the act—ending a human life, even that of a man trying to do the same to him—was horrifying.

Get over it, you pussy. If nothing else, you know something new about yourself: you’re not going to lie down and die.

He crossed the bridge and headed down the road on the other side, still wrestling with his emotions. It wasn’t easy for him to get past what he’d done, though it hadn’t bothered him much at the time. It had been self-defense, after all. But in the light of a new day, it was like a festering sore that he was prodding despite the pain. Because of his musings, he realized far too late that his awareness of his surroundings had drastically diminished. When he looked up from the road, a man was standing in front of him, pointing a rifle right at his head.

“Hi, there,” the man said. “I see that Glock in your hand. Let’s not get carried away.”

Vincenzo came to an abrupt halt. “I come in peace,” he said stupidly.

“Cool. That makes two of us.” The guy had a huge pack on his back and a wide utility belt with lots of pouches on it. But most interesting were the night vision goggles on his head. The man had obviously been prepared for a catastrophe.

“Ah, are you military?” Vincenzo asked.

“Prior service. You come out from New York?”

“Yeah.” Vincenzo pointed at the night vision goggles. “How do those still work?”

“Had them stored in an electrostatic bag inside an old microwave oven. Mind telling me the situation over in New York City??”

Vincenzo shrugged, keeping the Glock pointed downward. “It’s not too great. Things were unraveling pretty quick when I left yesterday. There are aid stations set up, but the city probably doesn’t have the resources to take care of everyone.”

“Know anything about the Upper East Side? Around Eighty-Seventh Street?”

“Sorry. I came from midtown. Central Park South. But there were a lot of fires burning there, and it didn’t look like a ton of people were working very hard to put them out.”

“Okay. What about the NYPD?”

“They’re not really getting involved,” Vincenzo said. “They tried the day after the lights went out, but the mobs were already forming. When I left yesterday, the police were a lot more passive than they probably should be.”

“Any sign of a military presence? National Guard, anything like that?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “No. Not that I saw. I came up the west side and crossed the GWB, but I didn’t see anything other than the cops. And like I said, they don’t seem to be very interested in the job anymore.”

“As anti-cop as Manhattan is, I can’t blame them. Can you?”

Vincenzo didn’t know how to answer that, so he just shrugged again.

The man lowered his rifle a bit. He turned his head, looking toward the bridge and the creek. He removed the goggles and switched them off. His eyes were dark and had a predatory aura to them. Vincenzo was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to meet the guy when he had his war face on. When he looked back at Vincenzo, he asked, “What’s the situation between here and the George?”

“Wasn’t as unstable as New York yesterday, but that was before ten thousand Manhattanites showed up. I really don’t know. Hey, you’re not heading into the city, are you? Because if you are, my advice is: don’t.”

“No choice. My brother and his family are there. I promised them that if things went bad, I’d come looking for them. Things went bad.”

They sure did. But Vincenzo couldn’t blame the guy, since he was on a similar mission. “Well, if you’re going in, you have to be careful. You have lots a gear, and everyone will probably want a piece of it. And your rifle is illegal there.”

“Yeah, well, it’s illegal here in Jersey, too.”

“Then you’re going to have a problem. Local cops are out in force, and they’re backed by state police. They see you with that thing, they’re probably not going to be very thrilled. And they’re all over the approaches to the bridge.”

“Thanks for the intel, but I’m not headed for the bridge. It’ll either be one of the tunnels or just overwater.”

“Yeah, okay. I guess with those goggles you’ll be able to see anyone before they see you, right?”

“You got it. Where you headed?”

“West.” Vincenzo didn’t elaborate, not wanting to hear someone else tell him he was crazy for trying to walk to Los Angeles.

“Stay out of Philly,” the man said. “I was outside there when the shit hit the fan. I had a vehicle stored near there, and I got as far as ten miles from here before it was taken from me by force. Philly’s a shithole, just like Manhattan, it sounds like. And there are already organized areas of resistance setting up, lots of guys with skills making grabs for everything they can get their hands on.”

“I’m not headed to Philly, but thanks for the information.”

“Teaneck seems to be okay, but I’ve been traveling at night for two days, so I miss most of what goes on in the daytime,” the man said. “Things are going sideways pretty quickly, as people begin to figure out they’re all royally fucked. Keep your eyes open, bro. It’s going to get worse.”

“Yeah. You too.”

The man nodded. “Best of luck. Thanks for the intel. And if you’re going to keep that weapon out in plain sight, make sure you keep it indexed. Last thing you want is to pop a hole in your own foot.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Vincenzo said. “Good luck to you, too.”

The man lowered his rifle, allowing it to hang from around his neck by its sling. He marched toward the brightening sky to the east without another word. Vincenzo watched him recede into the semi-darkness for a moment then swung westbound. He had his own trip to continue.

###

As the sun rose, more people began emerging from wherever they had spent the night. Vincenzo kept up a relatively brisk pace, trying to keep moving but not aggravate his already painful muscles. He avoided any conversation or looking directly at people. That was tough because some of the folks he saw, especially the families, were in bad shape. They turned their hollowed, gaunt faces toward him as he strode past, but he refused to meet their gazes. Doing that would allow them to trap him, force him to become invested in their issues, and he wasn’t having any of that. Some asked him for information, but he just shrugged and kept going on. One man called him an asshole and threatened to kick his ass, and Vincenzo wondered if putting away the Glock when the sun had risen was a good idea. Well, if someone wanted to make good on a threat, there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. All he knew was that he would start shooting.

He passed hotels and apartment buildings where the windows were wide open in a bid to ward off the building heat. The few times he glanced up, he saw sullen, taciturn faces looking down on him.

From one apartment building, a young woman leaned out a window and called, “Hey, walkin’ man! Why don’t you bring that little ass right up here, sugar?”

Vincenzo looked up and saw that she wasn’t wearing a shirt. Her breasts were huge and sagged downward, the nipples pointing at her feet. He snapped his head forward, ignoring her jeering laugh as he high-timed it out of there for a few hundred feet. He didn’t like that the woman had called out to him like that. Not only was the proposition more than a little gross, it attracted attention he hoped to avoid.

He’d checked his printed map a mile or so back while pausing for some water, and he knew that another river or stream lay ahead of him. Assuming he could get across the bridge, his route would have him deviate slightly to the south. He hoped he could make more than the ten or twelve miles he had managed yesterday. While he was tired and his muscles ached, he felt curiously stronger. Maybe it was because each step brought him fractionally closer to California. Or maybe it was because he hadn’t had to walk down seventy-plus flights of stairs just to get the journey started. Either way, Vincenzo thought he was in pretty good shape, considering he’d been shot at, involved in two fistfights, and had to shit in a hole he’d dug in the middle of a public park. He was hyperaware of his feet, however. He truly feared getting blisters, but his hiking boots were well broken in, like a couple of old friends. They wouldn’t let him down so long as he kept them properly laced and ensured his socks didn’t bunch up inside them. All he needed to do was keep one foot moving in front of the other.

As he pressed on down Degraw Avenue, moving away from the fetid metropolis of New York City, he approached the outskirts of a middle-class neighborhood. The houses were mostly neat and clean, with well-tended yards. He actually heard a lawn mower roaring away down one of the side streets.

Wow, that sounds like a waste of gas. He wondered how much fuel oil the nation had in its strategic reserves. But it didn’t matter. The little guys weren’t going to see any of that. It would go to the government and the military, the essential pieces of America that had to keep operating so the nation could—presumably—be reborn and find its way out of the great mess that had befallen it.

Or more likely, it’s going to be used to ensure senators and congressmen can continue getting nice, warm showers. He chuckled. He definitely should have gone into politics instead of entertainment.

Moving through the neighborhood, he saw the community was up and humming. Kids played in front yards or rode bicycles. Men and women walked dogs. While the kids ignored him, the adults looked at him with vacant, flat gazes as if they were measuring him to get an idea of how much trouble he might bring. Ahead, a motorcycle rumbled down a cross street, ridden by a pot-bellied man in a khaki T-shirt and cargo shorts. The guy sat a bit awkwardly, as if it had been a while since he’d been on a bike.

“Hey, where you from?” asked a teenager sitting on one front porch. The red house had three windows facing the street, and each had an air-conditioning unit. The boy had short blond hair and an abundance of freckles across his nose and cheeks, so many that he was probably teased ruthlessly at school. His basketball shorts and sleeveless T-shirt exposed his skinny—and freckled—arms and legs.

“New York,” Vincenzo answered automatically.

“Yeah?” The boy got up and hurried across the front yard. He looked about thirteen. “How is it there, do you know?”

“Yeah, not so great.” Vincenzo kept walking, and he was surprised when the boy came out into the street to walk beside him.

“Do you know if Wall Street is okay?” the boy asked. There was something nervous and fidgety about him.

Vincenzo frowned. “Wall Street? What do you mean?”

“I mean, is the power still on there? My dad, he hasn’t come home yet.” The kid’s eyes were bright blue and full of worry.

Vincenzo slowed a little, even though he didn’t want to. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be home soon. Your mom’s with you, right?”

“No. My mom lives in North Carolina with her new husband.”

Vincenzo stopped and stared at the boy. “Son, are you telling me you’re here alone? All by yourself?”

“Well…” The teen apparently remembered he shouldn’t answer that question, but his hesitation said it for him.

“Look, I can’t help you,” Vincenzo said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know about Wall Street. But your dad’s going to be a while. He’ll have to walk, and his walk is farther than mine was.”

“He was going to get on the PATH train,” the boy said.

Vincenzo heard a metallic springing sound. He looked up the street and saw a man in a wide-brimmed hat trimming hedges with a big pair of shears. The man gazed at them with a neutral expression, the same one the rest of the adults in the community had been giving him.

“Well, look. He’s going to be a while but probably not much longer. Maybe the train lost power in the tunnel or something. Or maybe he’s walking up from, ah, Jersey City right now. It took me an entire day to get out of the city, and I was way north of Wall Street. Trust me, he’s on his way. It’s just going to take a while.” Unless he’s dead.

“Okay,” the boy said. “Thank you.”

“Son, do you have water? Food?”

“Yeah, I have some. I’m all right.”

“Is there someone who can look after you until your dad gets here?”

“I’m fine, mister. Really, I’ll be okay.” The teen turned to go

Vincenzo reached out and touched the kid’s arm. “Hey. Hold on.” He reached into his knapsack and, feeling like a total tool, pulled out a bottle of water and his last pumpkin spice muffin. He handed them to the boy. “Here, you take these. Just in case you want a snack later. Okay?”

The boy regarded the offerings with suspicious eyes. That was a good sign. The kid knew enough to be cautious, despite his eagerness for news.

Vincenzo smiled, even though he was sure that wasn’t as reassuring as he hoped. “Go on. The bottle’s unopened, and the muffin’s only two days old. It’s still good, and you never know when you might get another one.”

The boy reached out and took the stuff. “Thanks, mister.”

“You’re welcome, son. Now go inside, get out of the sun. It’s going to be a hot one.”

The boy nodded again. “Okay. Bye, I guess.” He started back to his house.

“See ya.” Vincenzo stayed where he was for a moment, making sure the boy made it back to his front yard. As he turned to resume his march, he caught the man trimming the hedges watching him.

The man nodded and gave Vincenzo a little smile. “That was decent of you.”

“What’s that?” Vincenzo asked.

“Stopping to talk. Giving Jimmy some water and food. His life hasn’t been all that great since his parents got divorced last year. He was always something of a momma’s boy, which if you knew his father, you’d find understandable.” The man clipped his hedges some more then looked back at Vincenzo. “Where you headed?”

“Los Angeles.”

The man nodded again. “Think you’ll make it?”

“I don’t know, but that’s where my wife and boy are.”

The guy grunted and pushed his hat back on his head, exposing his bald head. He looked to be in his sixties, probably a retiree. “Well, you’d better get going, then. Things are pretty safe around here, so just keep your head down and keep going. Can’t say much about what’s happening on up the road in Hackensack, but you might want to avoid it, if you can. I hear there was a shootout at the Costco on the other side of the river. Between who, I don’t know, but the police aren’t likely to be much help.”

“They’re probably pretty busy.” Vincenzo looked back at the red cape house. The boy was no longer sitting on the front porch.

“Don’t worry about Jimmy,” the man said. “We’ll look after him. I’ll bring him over to my place tonight. He can sleep in my son’s room. Three days ago, I was fixing to turn it into an office for my wife, but I don’t think she’s going to be working on her little graphic arts business any longer. We have other things to worry about right now.”

“I didn’t want to say anything to him, but if his dad hasn’t shown up yet, he’s not going to.”

The old man gave Vincenzo a frank, appraising stare. “I didn’t think so, myself. Are things that bad in the city?”

“In less than two days, they were already rioting in Central Park South. A lot of desperate people are heading this way, and most of them don’t have what they need to survive very long. You might want to pass that on to the rest of your neighbors. The New Yorkers are coming.”

The old guy gave a dry chuckle. “So you’re the new Paul Revere, and the New Yorkers are the new British?”

“They’ll be more like locusts, I think.”

“Well, you’d better be on your way. Best of luck to you.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Same to you. Try to look after the boy for as long as you can.”

“That’ll be done.”

Vincenzo turned and resumed his walk.

12

As Vincenzo approached the intersection of Degraw Avenue and Queen Anne Road, he smelled food cooking. His stomach rumbled in response, even though it was still quite early in the day. More people were stepping into the street, heading toward a white church on the right side of the road. Vincenzo slowed, wary of cutting through the procession, but the townspeople weren’t interested in him. He noticed the streets were cleared of traffic. All the disabled motor vehicles had been pushed to the curbs, save for a pair of big rigs too heavy to move. Their trailers had been opened, and one semi had been hauling a refrigerated trailer with the Stop & Shop logo on the side. Vincenzo had to smile at that. The neighborhood had been given a great gift.

He moved through the crowd, stepping around women pushing strollers and men holding the hands of small children or leading dogs on leashes. He saw more than a few men carrying rifles or pistols. Those stared at him openly, as if evaluating the threat level he posed. Vincenzo smiled tightly and nodded, not meeting their gazes for long.

“Sir, would you like a hot breakfast?”

Vincenzo didn’t think the question was directed at him, so he kept walking. He heard footsteps hurry up behind him, and he turned toward the sound, his right hand straying toward the Berretta under his shirt.

“No trouble here, sir,” a young man said, raising his hands. “We’re having a breakfast over at the church. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could use a bite.” His red hair was neatly combed, and his face had that ruddy, just-shaved look to it.

Vincenzo was a little confused. Gosh, I didn’t realize people were so friendly in Jersey. “Uh, well… I’m not really from here.”

“All are welcome, and it’s all free, of course,” the man said, lowering his hands. “We’re just sharing some of God’s bounty with the neighborhood.”

“God’s bounty?”

The man pointed at the Stop & Shop truck. “We were fortunate, and we’re willing to share.” He stepped to one side and waved at the church across the street. A series of grills had been set up on the front lawn. “All the eggs, pancakes, toast, and bacon a man could want. Coffee, too.”

Well, that does sound pretty good. Vincenzo’s stomach grumbled again as he watched the neighborhood families queue up for some—maybe the last—of the good stuff. “Well, like I said, I’m not from here—”

“No pressure. It’s your choice,” the young man said. He turned his head toward a nearby woman. “Good morning, Francine!”

Vincenzo’s stomach won the war. “Uh, okay.”

“Great. I’m Will, by the way. I’m the church deacon.” The young man held out his hand.

Vincenzo shook it, mindful of the grime on his. Will’s hand was soft and smooth, not the hand of a man who did a lot of hard work. “I’m Tony.”

“Glad to meet you, Tony. Let’s walk over, shall we? We have a lot, but it’s not going to last. Turnout’s going to be fantastic.”

Will led the way to the serving line, which was actually quite orderly despite all the kids. Most of the people who saw them initially frowned upon observing Vincenzo then brightened when they saw Will. Many of them called him by name, and the young deacon cheerfully returned their greetings.

When they got to the end of the line, Will gestured at Vincenzo’s packs. “Do you want to put those down for a while? Take the load off?”

“No, no. Not to sound like an ingrate or anything, but I need everything I’ve got. If something goes missing, that’s going to be a problem for me at some point.”

“Well, I doubt anyone’s going to be helping themselves to your gear. But if you did lose something, couldn’t you just pick up a replacement somewhere down the line? Once the lights come back on?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “Well, yeah. Maybe. If the lights do come on.”

“Trust in God, Tony. Trust in God. Tell me, are you a Baptist?”

“I’m a Catholic, actually. Should I step out of line?”

Will laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “No, no need for that!” he chortled as they stepped forward. The line was moving at a sedate but steady pace. “We don’t discriminate against any religion or order here. We’re all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Lord.”

“Okay. Good to know.” The recurring invocations of the Almighty made him feel a little uncomfortable, mainly because the last time he’d been in a church was for his unborn child’s funeral. Also, his attendance record in the previous two decades hadn’t been anything remotely approaching stellar. He hadn’t gone to church regularly since leaving New York the first time, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be dropping in on any services during his trip home.

“So where are you from, and where are you headed?” Will asked.

“Well, I’m from New York, both originally and recently. And I’m on my way to Los Angeles.”

Will’s eyes widened with surprise. “Seriously?”

Vincenzo shuffled forward a few steps. “Seriously.”

“Wow. I’ll bet you’re even more interested in the power coming back on than the rest of us are. Why are you heading to LA?”

“My family’s there. I moved back here to start a new job, and they were going to follow me out in the next few days. Obviously, that’s not going to happen. Thank God the movers hadn’t arrived yet.”

Will clucked his tongue. “Well, you’ll get on fine. How are things in New York? We’ve had some people walk through here, and they tell us things started to go bad quickly.”

Vincenzo thought of the man he’d killed. “Yeah, it’s not going to get any better. The Big Apple might not be around for much longer. At least, not the city I knew.”

“Sounds like things are going to get worse before they get better, then.”

“You got that right.” Vincenzo scanned the crowd again. He couldn’t believe he had suddenly grown so uncomfortable to being around people. Previously, he had thrived in social settings, initiating deals, sealing deals, making contacts, and just general networking. But he had developed an entirely different outlook. Being around people meant that he was vulnerable, that others could dictate what happened to him and, just as importantly, the meager belongings he possessed. You’re going to have to find a way to deal with it, man.

Most of the people were obviously locals, but some transients were in the pack, folks with backpacks and other gear. A man with a mountain bike towing a trailer rolled up and surveyed the scene from the street. The guy’s eyes were unreadable behind a pair of sunglasses, and his face was cast in shadow from his helmet. All the travelers had the same kind of body language, tense, as if they expected things to go to shit in a heartbeat. Vincenzo felt the same way. There were a lot of people around, and if they had malicious intent, setting up a temporary kitchen was the perfect way to draw people in.

But he didn’t get that vibe from Will. And as he drew nearer to the serving tables, all he saw were hard-working people trying to make the best of difficult circumstances. Vincenzo was flummoxed by that. Didn’t they know what was going to happen? In a matter of days, the neighborhood would be overrun with people fleeing New York and other larger surrounding cities. Resources would be consumed by greedy hordes as mindless as zombies. All they would think about was filling their bellies and providing for their families.

“Will, have you heard any news about the rest of the country?” Vincenzo asked.

“Actually, yes. Well, third-hand news. One of the parishioners has a radio.”

Vincenzo was surprised. “What, you mean like a CB radio? Ham radio?”

Will laughed. “No, nothing that elaborate. Just some windup radio. He’s a bit of a survivalist.” Will shot him a loopy smile, as if to say he knew such a thing sounded crazy. “He had this little radio in a microwave out in his garage. After the effects of the solar flare passed, he brought it out and turned it on. The government was broadcasting messages from the White House. Apparently, FEMA is going into action, and they’re going to mobilize support centers to all the major cities.” He slapped Vincenzo on the shoulder good-naturedly. “See, you left New York too early!”

“What else did they say on the radio?”

“So far, that’s all. The message was prerecorded, and the parishioner keeps the radio in his microwave. He’s afraid another blast from the sun would destroy it. He only brings it out at night. He says there’s less of a chance of something happening to it when it’s nighttime, something about the state being on the other side of the planet, opposite the sun.”

Vincenzo shrugged. He remembered it was night when the lights had gone out, so he didn’t think the time of day would really matter. Whatever charged particles had hit the planet had done their job pretty much right off the bat, as far as he could tell. But if what Will told him was true, then it was interesting that the radio had survived the effects of the corona discharge just from being placed in a microwave. That meant the government might actually have some tricks left up its sleeve.

Great, but you still had to get out of New York.

He was happy to accept a serving of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and hot coffee. Will led him to a small folding table where a petite, fresh-faced young woman in a bright sundress was waiting.

“Tony, meet my wife, Vivian,” Will said. “Vivvy, meet Tony. He’s from New York, and he’s passing through on his way to Los Angeles, of all places.”

“Wow! That sounds like a trip. How are you feeling, Tony? Good to meet you.” She extended her hand.

“Hello.” Vincenzo set his plate down on the table and held up his somewhat grimy hands. “Um, listen, my hands aren’t exactly suitable for shaking—”

Will laughed. “Vivvy’s tougher than she looks, Tony. Take it from me!”

“Well, one second.” Vincenzo pulled his knapsack around and reached inside for the packet of sanitary wipes. He used one to wipe his hands, cleaning off as much of the grime as he could. They wound up still a bit south of spick and span, but he felt they were clean enough to shake a dainty church lady’s hand. “Happy to meet you, ma’am,” he said, shaking hands with her.

“Won’t you have a seat?” Vivian said brightly, indicating one of the folding chairs beside the card table. Her wedding band and the rather large diamond in the matching engagement ring on her left hand sparkled in the sunshine.

“Thank you.” Vincenzo shrugged off his packs—Wow, that feels good—and sat down. Getting off his feet was divine, and for a brief instant, he considered rediscovering religion.

“So how are things in New York?” Vivian asked.

“Not so great, which is one of the reasons I left.”

“Oh? What other reasons did you have?”

“His family, of course,” Will said. “Let’s say grace and eat, all right, sweetie?”

Vivian smiled. “Of course.”

She and Will bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Vincenzo lowered his head as well but kept his eyes open, staring at the meal in front of him. It was absolutely mouthwatering, even if it was somewhat pedestrian. I guess all those weekend breakfasts at Morandi are over with, now.

Will cleared his throat. “Father, we thank thee for the night and for the pleasant morning light. For rest and food and loving care, and all that makes the day so fair. Help us to do the things we should, to be to others kind and good, in all we do, in all we say, to grow more loving every day. Amen.”

“Amen,” Vincenzo and Vivian echoed.

“Okay, let’s dig in!” Will picked up his plastic knife and fork and went at his breakfast.

While Vincenzo had never been a huge egg fan, the scrambled eggs tasted delightful, and the pancakes were heavenly. The bacon and coffee were a godsend, and he couldn’t believe how much he’d missed them over the past several days. Despite the heat of the sun, the humidity, and the flies that buzzed around the table, he found the breakfast to be incredibly enjoyable. Don’t get used to it, he told himself.

“So, Tony, are you actually going to try to walk all the way to Los Angeles?” Vivian asked.

“If there aren’t any planes, trains, or automobiles, then yeah. I’ll have to.”

“But there are some cars still running,” Vivian said. “The police have some.”

“What, you mean like motorcycles and ATVs? I’ve seen some of those. From the way people react, they’re pretty rare.”

“Actually, the police have a couple of classic cars and trucks,” Will said. “The chief has an older pickup from the seventies that still runs, and another officer has an old Bronco. That’s what they’re using now for patrol. And a few folks here in town have cars that still run—older, restored cars they used to bring to auto shows and the like.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Makes sense. Anything without an electronic ignition should be all right.”

“Well, this will all be over soon, if what we hear is true,” Vivian said. “FEMA is going to be setting up in the area over the next few days, and the state is going to be calling up the National Guard. It won’t be long until things are back to normal.”

Vincenzo pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Well, I hope you’re right, but I’m going to go on pretending that things are in the hopper for the long term.”

Vivian pouted, and her bright green eyes flickered in the morning light. “Why would you say that? You need to stay upbeat, Tony!”

“Ah, honey, Tony’s seen some bad things in New York,” Will said. He smiled at Vincenzo. “Vivvy’s a diehard optimist. I don’t doubt what she’s saying, but we haven’t seen what you have.”

Vivian harrumphed. “Well, that’s New York, of course.”

“I’m not the only one who’s left the city,” Vincenzo said. “When I came across the bridge yesterday, there were at least ten thousand people with me. As things get worse, more folks will try to leave. And the predators are out in force. They’ll be following along, taking whatever they want.”

“The police will stop them,” Vivian said.

“And take a look around, Tony,” Will added. “We’re not entirely defenseless. I don’t approve of it personally, but a lot of folks are openly carrying guns right now.”

“I see that,” Vincenzo said, “but I don’t know how much of a difference that’s going to make, especially once the winter season sets in. How many people are really prepared to rough it through a long, cold winter? One percent, maybe? And Jersey is a big gun-control state, right? Just like New York and California and Connecticut. There are a lot fewer weapons here, which means there’s a lot less deterrent. I hear what you’re saying about the police, but what happens if the government really can’t help in the long term? How long before the cops fade away? Not because they want to, but because they have to?”

Vivian clucked her tongue. “So much doom and gloom! Really, Tony, you need to let God take over for a while. He’ll sort everything out.”

Vincenzo picked up his coffee cup. “I sure hope so.”

Will laughed. “Wow, you really are a lapsed Catholic!”

Vincenzo only smiled and went back to his meal. He didn’t want to ruin the day for Will and his wife. They seemed perfectly content to put their heads in the sand and pretend everything was going to be fine. And he was perfectly content to let them think that way. In another few days, Will and Vivian and the rest of the holy rollers might get wise, or they might get a very unwelcome wakeup call from the hordes that would be marching into their idyllic neighborhood. He thought of the young boy down the street, still waiting for his father. Things would be tough for him, especially if his neighbor didn’t step up. So he listened to Will and Vivian chatter away, nodding and making agreeable noises when he had to. But soon after he finished his breakfast and found a bottle of water to wash down some more Tylenol, he was ready to go.

“Folks, thank you immensely for your hospitality, but I have to get back on the road,” he said, standing and reaching for his packs. “I appreciate you making me feel welcome.”

“Do you have to leave so soon?” Vivian said. “We still have lunch and dinner. The church is putting out everything.”

Vincenzo swung into his backpack then draped the knapsack’s strap over his shoulder. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a long trip ahead of me. The sooner I get back to it, the sooner it’ll be over.”

“You think you have a chance of getting to LA before winter sets in?” Will asked. “You’re headed for some tough territory, and just in case the power doesn’t come back on…”

Vincenzo shrugged. “If I can get through the higher elevations before September, I should be okay.”

“We’ll pray for you,” Vivian said, rising with Will.

“And I’ll pray for you guys. Remember, a lot of people are going to be heading this way. Not all of them are going to be nice, and they probably won’t let you know that until the very last second. So keep your guard up.”

Will laughed. “You make it sound like all of Harlem is coming.”

Vincenzo considered that. “And maybe they are. But I want you to remember one thing: a man with starving or sick kids will do anything. Anything. Keep that in mind.” From the corner of his eye, he saw several other travelers getting up and heading back to the street. He would have company on the road, something he didn’t look forward to, but there was no way around it. Everyone was moving while the weather held.

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” Will said.

“Yeah, me too. But don’t count on it.” Vincenzo nodded again. “Thank you. And good luck.”

13

A few miles away, the road changed names again, from Degraw Avenue to East Main Street. The residential neighborhoods were slowly falling behind as he marched into an area a sign proclaimed Oscar E. Olsen Park. More people were milling about, lounging on the grass, and making use of whatever services they could find there. A small presence of state police were on duty, providing security for the small aid station that had been set up to dispense water and give first-aid treatment.

Vincenzo didn’t like being caught in a crowd. It made him tense, waiting for someone to attack him or to try to take his packs. But no one did. He smelled barbeque cooking, and off to his left, kids played softball in a field while a group of parents worked over several grills. Vincenzo wasn’t hungry, but he thought some barbeque might hit the spot. But he would have to leave the road and head over to see if anyone was in a giving mood, and that wasn’t happening.

The steel plank bridge that extended over the Hackensack River was a crowded affair as well, as hundreds of anglers had descended upon the span to try their luck. Some had hauled in eels, perch, and even sizeable striped bass. Vincenzo had never been much of a fisherman, but he had fished in Long Island Sound and, on rare occasions, the Atlantic. He found it encouraging that people were able to land some decent fish, and he wondered if he should look for a small rod. He thought back to the TV commercials he had seen in the early 1980s that featured such a device, something he’d always thought was pretty stupid even back then. The Pocket Fisherman, that’s what it was. Could come in handy now, huh?

As he crossed the bridge, the heat of the sun beat down on him. He was sweating heavily, and the time was about right to take in some more water. It took him roughly five minutes to cross the three-hundred-foot span, and on the way, he noticed more people were picking their way across a railroad bridge several hundred feet to the south. Some boats were in the water, including a few with small outboard engines that puttered along. For an instant, Vincenzo almost allowed himself to be lulled into thinking that, maybe, things weren’t as dire as he thought they were.

Then he noticed the columns of black smoke rising into the air from somewhere around Teterboro. And he remembered the man who wanted to murder him on the GWB. That dispelled any fanciful notions he might have developed of finding a safe place to hunker down and wait for the lights to come back on. It wasn’t going to happen.

He reached a split in the lanes. In the center of a grassy median stood a blue sign that read:

WELCOME TO

HACKENSACK

Established 1693

Vincenzo took cover in the lee of a large building on the left side of the road and crouched to retrieve a bottle of water from his knapsack. He cracked it open and drank slowly. He was a little worried about the water situation. While he had more than enough for the moment, it wasn’t going to last for long as he traveled through the early summer heat. He figured he could make it last another three days, then he’d be up shit creek without a paddle.

He pulled out his map and checked his route. He would need to deviate to the south to Court Street before he resumed walking in a more easterly direction, picking up on Essex Street. He would avoid the more built-up sections of town and roughly parallel what he thought was another residential community. Once he made it to the Interstate 80 overpass, he’d change course once more, again turning south and walking along the eastern edge of the Riverside Cemetery.

People are just dying to get in there, he thought, smiling at his own grim humor. He had no doubt that the mortuary business was about to experience a boom.

“Hey, guy, got a second?”

Vincenzo looked up from his map to see a man with a beard, broad shoulders, and a beer gut well past the incubation stage walking toward him. The guy wore a hefty hiking pack on his back, which pulled his olive-colored Life is Good T-shirt tight across his chest. A slender woman followed, and she also wore a hiking pack. The man had a floppy boonie hat on his head and carried a tall walking stick. The woman had a kerchief wrapped around her skull. Vincenzo cursed himself for not keeping one eye out. As he folded his map and slipped it inside his knapsack, his fingers brushed the lukewarm shape of the Glock. Take it easy, hoss. They look pretty well equipped for a long walk. He rose to his feet. “What’s up, guys?” He thought the man looked familiar and wondered if he had seen him back at the church breakfast.

“We don’t mean any harm,” the man said, slowing and holding up his hands. “I can see you’re armed.”

Vincenzo glanced down. When he had crouched down, his shirt had ridden up, exposing the Beretta. “We’re cool,” he told the man. “What can I do for you guys?”

The woman was standing behind her companion and off to one side. Her thumbs were hooked in the shoulder straps of her pack, and sweat ran down her face in rivulets.

“We saw you at the breakfast,” the man said.

Vincenzo nodded. “Yeah, I think I saw you, too.”

“Listen, we overhead some of the conversation you were having with the church people. We know you’re headed to Los Angeles,” the man said.

“Okay. And?”

“Can we come closer? We don’t have any weapons.” The man lifted the big walking stick. “Well, except for this.”

Vincenzo considered it. “Sure. It’s still a free country, right?”

The man smiled and stepped off the road and onto the grass. He half-turned and beckoned the woman to follow. She seemed hesitant as she watched Vincenzo with nervous eyes. Vincenzo nodded to her then looked back at the man. He remained mindful of the walking stick. Even though the man’s body language didn’t indicate he was looking for trouble, Vincenzo figured it would be pretty dumb to fall into full-on kick-back mode.

The man let out a sigh as he stepped into the shade afforded by the big building to Vincenzo’s back. “It’s good to get out of the sun for a while.”

“It is. So what can I do for you folks?” Vincenzo asked. “Are you headed to LA as well?”

“No, no. Cincinnati. We were going to go hiking in the Catskills, and we’d stopped to visit friends in Englewood when the pulse hit. Fried my Subaru, so we’re on foot. Like you are, I guess.”

“Yeah, my Range Rover’s a very expensive and very large paperweight right now,” Vincenzo said.

“Of course, we wouldn’t have this trouble if someone had let me buy that diesel truck I wanted,” the man said, glancing back at the woman. She rolled her eyes, her lips compressed into a tight line.

Vincenzo had to smile at the age-old sign of marital discord. “So you guys walked down from Englewood? Have any trouble?”

The man shook his head. “No, not really. But it’s coming, which is why we wanted to talk to you. I figure you’re more or less heading in the same direction. Maybe we could travel together?”

Vincenzo studied the couple. “Well. I don’t really know you guys.”

The man smiled broadly beneath his beard. “Well, I can solve that! I’m Rob Ackerman, and this is my wife, Jody.” Rob switched the walking stick from his right hand to his left and leaned toward Vincenzo, hand extended.

Vincenzo reluctantly shook hands, mindful of the fact that his Beretta was set up for a right-handed draw. “Tony Vincenzo. Good to meet you guys.”

“Yeah, it is. Anyway, we figure a group might have an easier time on the road. Not such an easy target,” Rob said.

“Makes sense. My route doesn’t take me very close to Cincinnati, though. I’ll pass south of Columbus, but that’s about as close as I get.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Rob said. “We’ll peel off when we get closer to home plate. Though maybe we’ll find some transportation along the way, so you can keep on going. Like I said, diesels will still work, and so will a lot of older vehicles. Even airplanes, like older Cessnas and Pipers.”

Vincenzo perked up. “You a pilot?”

Rob nodded. “Yes. Well, I should qualify that. I was a pilot, but I haven’t had the opportunity to fly in over five years.” He paused for a few beats. “For the same reason I don’t have a gently used F-250 with a diesel under the hood.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Jody said, sounding exasperated. “Why don’t you just blame everything on me?”

Rob laughed. “That’s in process, babe. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long, long time.”

Vincenzo chuckled. “So, about airplanes. You might not know this, but Teterboro has a pretty big airport. It’s maybe two or three miles south of us.”

“I know it,” Rob said, bobbing his head. “It’s a big general aviation airport. Lots of jets down there, but I was thinking of”—he reached into a pocket on his backpack and pulled out a worn road atlas—“the Essex County airport, right here.” He pointed out the location.

Vincenzo examined the map then nodded. “My planned route takes me right past it. But why there instead of Teterboro?”

Rob gestured at the southern horizon. “Because I’m thinking it’s on fire.”

Vincenzo turned. Sure enough, thick clouds of black, oily smoke roiled in the distance. “Oh, yeah. I hadn’t thought that’s what was burning up. Makes sense, I guess, probably lots of fuel over there.”

“Well, there was,” Rob said. “Anyway, I’m not certain I can get us a plane wherever we go. But it’s a thought.”

“Not a bad one.”

“So, what do you think, Tony?” Rob asked. “Should we team up?”

Vincenzo looked from Rob to Jody and back again. They seemed like nice enough people, but trusting other folks probably wasn’t that great of an idea. And just because they said they didn’t have weapons didn’t mean anything. Even if they didn’t have any guns on them, they very likely had knives, which meant he might wake up one night with one of them conducting a tonsillectomy on him from the outside in.

“So, no weapons, huh?” he asked. “Not even a little folding pocketknife?”

“We have knives,” Rob said. “But the last thing I want to do is get into a knife fight with someone. I don’t have those kinds of skills.”

“All right. Anything else I should know about?”

Rob hesitated, and Jody stared at his profile. Something was wrong.

Vincenzo took a step to one side, his right hand drifting toward the Beretta. “What’s up, guys?” he asked.

“Jody’s pregnant,” Rob blurted. “We really need to get back to Ohio. In a couple of months, she’s going to start to show, and that could lead to some unwanted attention.”

That wasn’t what Vincenzo had been expecting. He raised an eyebrow. “What, you think roving OB/GYNs are going to descend on her?”

If Rob thought the comment was even remotely humorous, it didn’t show. “A pregnant lady looks like a target,” he said, his voice cold and flat. “I don’t want her out on the road for any longer than absolutely necessary, and it’s another reason I was hoping to be able to join up with you. We’ll watch your back, so long as you help me watch hers.”

Vincenzo sensed the desperation in the man’s words, even if it was absent from his voice. And there was a cast of fear in Jody’s eyes that she tried hard to suppress.

Vincenzo sighed and pulled his shirt down over his pistol. He glanced at his watch. It was just past twelve thirty. “All right. I’ll help you guys out. I’ve already had two people try to kill me for my stuff, so you’ll have to pardon me when I tell you to lead. I’ll be right behind you.”

Jody shook her head at Rob. “I don’t like the idea of a guy with a gun behind us.”

Rob regarded Vincenzo speculatively. “Me either,” he said, “but that’s probably the price we’ll have to pay.”

“I’m not looking to start anything,” Vincenzo said, “but that’s my only offer. Feel free to walk on if you don’t like it.”

Rob nodded. “I think we can deal with that. Just so you know we’re friends.”

Vincenzo shook his head. “No, we’re not. We’re allies.”

14

With Rob and Jody in the lead, Vincenzo was a bit more comfortable. At least he could keep an eye out for anyone who might be looking to move on him from behind without having to worry about not having a pair of eyes facing forward. He felt that the Ackermans weren’t out to cause any mischief, especially if what Rob had said was true. Pushing a pregnant woman into danger would take a lot of guts, and he didn’t get that kind of heartless vibe from the big man. And there was a legitimate pall of fear around Jody that made Vincenzo think she had something more to protect than just herself and her husband. He was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, but he did keep his eyes on them, just in case. And he kept a good fifteen feet between them, as well. Not that one of them couldn’t turn and close that distance before he could draw a weapon, but the gap should give them pause if trouble was on their minds. He didn’t figure he was dealing with a pair of Navy SEALs. They were just a couple of hikers who needed to get home, a story Vincenzo was all too familiar with.

They made it to Essex Street. The neighborhood had been built with an emphasis on business and retail, but there were plenty of houses and apartment buildings thrown into the mix. Several shops and bodegas had signs in Spanish. And the stores, especially the drugstores and small food markets, seemed to be well guarded. Uniformed police were there in some small number, but Vincenzo also spotted the outline of many a pistol beneath loose-fitting T-shirts of civilians. The men—almost all were men, though Vincenzo did see one middle-aged Asian woman standing watch inside her Vietnamese grocery store—seemed neutral enough, but their eyes were sharp. They were alert for any trouble, and Vincenzo didn’t blame them when they gave the motley trio schlepping backpacks a second glance.

As they walked past a vacant McDonald’s, Vincenzo regarded the restaurant with a heavy heart. He’d always had a fondness for the Golden Arches, and knowing they might never shine again was a sudden, heavy disappointment. No more Big Macs for you! he thought, channeling the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld.

“Hey, look,” Rob said, pointing off to the left at a delicatessen that seemed to be doing a little bit of business. An A-frame sign out front read OPEN CASH ONLY in big red letters on a stark white background. “Maybe we should check it out.”

“I don’t know,” Jody said, regarding the broad-shouldered Latin men standing outside the store.

From the way they carried themselves, the men were probably hired muscle. They scanned the people entering the deli with strong gazes, as if trying to determine friend or foe. They practically stared holes through an approaching black man, even though there was nothing outwardly wrong with the guy. In fact, other than some graying stubble on his cheeks, he seemed pretty well off.

The black guy stopped in front of the biggest guard. “What, a black man’s money isn’t green enough for you?”

The big guard sighed. “Sure. Sure,” he said, waving the man to the door. “Just gotta be careful, you know.”

“Don’t worry. Al Sharpton isn’t taking my calls, so no one’s going to be picketing the place,” the black man said with sudden humor.

The big guard snorted, and his white teeth flashed. The smile disappeared as a group of teens, a mix of blacks and Latinos, rolled up on bicycles, laughing and guffawing. The big guard nodded at his buddies, and they drifted toward the front door as the black man stepped inside. The guards stood in front of it, faces immobile.

“Qué es lo que está pa’ sopa?”
asked one of the youths, a squat, flat-faced boy with a Yankees baseball cap reversed on his head. “You ain’t gonna let us in, mano?”

“Not all at once,” the big guard said.

“Oh, and why’s that?” a tall, reedy black kid asked.

The big guard ignored him and kept his eyes rooted on the first kid. “Because I know what you about, Julio.” He nodded toward the street. “Them bikes, they even yours?”

“Course!” Julio said, puffing out his chest a bit.

The other men grinned and shook their heads. The big guard noticed Rob, Jody, and Vincenzo rolling up, and he held a hand up to Julio. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll deal with you in a second.”

“You guys are open?” Rob asked, as he mounted the sidewalk. He glanced at the teens with a neutral expression, and they looked back with insolent smirks, despite the fact that Rob was easily as big as the tall Latino presiding over the guard detail.

When they saw Jody, one of the Latin kids nudged another with a big smile. “Que buena estas,” he said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

The guard silenced the teens with a brutal glare then turned back to Rob. “We are,” he said, studying first Rob then Vincenzo. He favored Jody with a small smile. “But like the sign says, cash only. No power, no credit, no ATM.”

“That’s fine,” Rob said.

“Hey, hermano, what about us?” Julio asked. “We got cash.”

“You wait your turn,” the guard said.

“But we was here first! You going to let white people in ahead of your own people?”

“We’ll have to talk ’bout you even getting in at all,” the guard said. He jerked a thumb toward Rob. “Them first then I’ll think of letting in some of you… with an escort.” He twisted his wrist until his thumb was pointing at one of the men behind him. “And José is inside already, just in case someone decides to try to do something with the register.”

“Damn!” Julio threw his hands in the air. “I just want to get a Coke, man!”

“Then you’ll have one.” The guard turned back to Vincenzo’s group. “Quick rules, ’cause I see you’re not from around here. Prices are set, no bartering. Get in and get out as quick as you can, no loitering. Try to steal something, you deal with us, and we’re not the police.”

“No one’s going to steal anything,” Vincenzo said.

“Yo, little one has balls,” the tall black kid said, snickering.

A few people came out of the deli, carrying plastic bags full of goods. The teens watched them with hooded eyes.

The guard waved Vincenzo toward the door. “Go ahead.”

The interior of the deli was hot, but as soon as they stepped inside, Vincenzo noticed a lot of activity near the refrigeration section. It took him a moment to figure out why: the refrigerators and freezers were still working.

“Babe, you see that?” Jody asked Rob, pointing down the aisle to the row of glass doors along the rear wall.

“We still have refrigeration, folks,” said the burly Hispanic man behind the cash register. His bald head shined in the muted light coming in through the windows. So did the nickel-plated 1911 .45 caliber pistol in his shoulder harness.

“How’d you manage that?” Vincenzo asked.

“Generator,” the man said. “Installed it after Super Storm Sandy. Finally getting to run it now.”

Once the man mentioned it, Vincenzo became aware of the hum of a generator somewhere behind the building. “You have ice?”

“For about the next sixty seconds. It’s a hot item, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

Vincenzo grabbed a hand basket from the stack beside the door and made a beeline for the refrigerators with Rob and Jody in tow. Several people were already there, helping themselves to whatever they needed. Vincenzo spotted a bag of ice and grabbed it. There were only four or five left. He also tossed in several energy drinks and some bottles of water.

“You going to be able to use all that ice, Tony?” Rob asked.

“No. You want some? I’ll split the booty with you.”

Rob smiled. “Awesome! I’ve got a cooler in my pack.”

Vincenzo walked through the deli, picking up bread, peanut butter, toilet paper, another package of pre-moistened towelettes, and various other items. By the time he made it to the front counter, his hand basket was full. He wondered how he’d manage all the extra weight, but he figured a lot of it wouldn’t last for long, especially not the liquids.

“Get what you needed?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Heck, yeah. Unless you guys have some MREs?”

The man shook his head with a grave smile. “That stuff, I never stocked. In retrospect, a bad decision.” He waved toward the deli counter, where a display case was still half-stocked with meats and cheeses. “You want anything from the deli? It’s not gonna last for much longer and no chance of restock.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Yeah. Pastrami on rye. Lots of spicy mustard with kraut.”

“Lourdes!” the man shouted.

A young woman drifted out from the back, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She carried a flashlight in one hand and looked annoyed. “I’m right here, Dad.”

“One pastrami on rye with the works.” The man turned back to Vincenzo. “Anything else?”

“I’m good. Actually, add a Pepsi to the tab.”

The man pressed some keys on his cash register, which must’ve been drawing power from the generator as well. “Ninety-three twenty-seven.”

Vincenzo frowned. “Really?”

“It’s the new economy, pal,” the man said as he began placing the purchases in plastic bags. “Demand is high. Just be glad you’re not Edgar there”— He pointed toward the black man who had entered before Vincenzo—“I’ll own one of his kids before he gets out of here.” The guy was headed for the register with two hand baskets full of food and a case of cold Corona under one arm.

Vincenzo pulled out his wallet and counted out five twenties. He took his change, pocketed it, and picked up the plastic bags. As he headed back to the coolers for his soda, he saw the man behind the register watching him in the dome mirrors. Vincenzo grabbed a cold bottle of Pepsi then strolled over to the deli to wait for his order. Rob and Jody brought their purchases to the register. Their tab was a little over a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Ah, we don’t have that much,” Rob said.

“Then how much you got?” the owner asked.

Rob pulled out a battered canvas wallet and opened it with the tearing sound of parting Velcro. “Uh, eighty-two dollars.”

The man began separating items out of the pile. Most of what he removed were liquids and other cold items that would likely enable him to upcharge customers as the day wore on.

“Here, I’ll make up the difference,” Vincenzo said. He went over and tossed more money on the counter. The man behind the register accepted the cash and handed Vincenzo the change.

“Thanks a million, Tony,” Rob said sheepishly.

“That’s really nice of you,” Jody added.

“Not a problem,” Vincenzo responded.

“Hey, maybe you can help me out, too?” the black man with the beer said. He smiled broadly to show he was only joking.

“Okay, but it’ll cost you the beer.”

The man’s smile disappeared with drama. “How about some nice sticky buns, instead?”

They both laughed, and Vincenzo returned to the deli counter to get his sandwich.

The girl handed it to him with a strained smile. “There you go. Pickle’s in the bag. You need extra mustard, napkins, salt and pepper?”

“No extra nothing, Lourdes. I told you that already!” the owner snapped.

Lourdes rolled her dark eyes and shrugged at Vincenzo.

Vincenzo smiled and thanked her then moved back to where Rob and Jody were waiting for the owner to finish bagging their purchases. He looked out the front windows and saw the local teen toughs outside, staring at the storefront. They were no longer engaging the guards. They seemed to be merely waiting.

“Those little pricks still outside?” the owner asked.

“They still are,” the black man said, craning his neck to look.

The man shook his head. “Lourdes!”

The young woman had been on her way to the back room. “Dad, what?”

“Show these people out the back door. That little runt Julio and his band of pendejos are up to something, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt on my property.”

“That mean me too, José?” the black man asked.

“Yes, Edgar. That means you, too.”

“I don’t remember you ever being this nice before,” Edgar said.

“I’m always nice, so long as you remember it’s cash and carry.”

Lourdes stepped around the counter and looked out the windows. “Yeah, they’re definitely up to somethin’. Looks like they helped themselves to some bikes from the Pelletiers’ place. You want me to get Ricky?” In the better light near the windows, Vincenzo saw she wore heavy eye shadow. Though only five foot four, she seemed to be the tough tomboy type.

“You folks armed?” the owner asked. He looked at Rob, who in turn looked at Vincenzo.

“You think it’s going to get that bad?” Vincenzo asked.

The man shrugged. “Not in front of my place but a block or so away? Who am I to say?”

Vincenzo looked out at the seven or eight teens sitting astride their bikes. There was something predatory about them. “Yeah, okay. Listen, you mind if we pack our stuff before we take off?”

“No lights in back, so you’ll have to do it out here. Don’t get in anyone’s way, and be quick about it. We only let in a few people at a time,” the man said. He waved Edgar forward. “Come on, Edgar. Let’s get this done.”

Vincenzo shrugged off his packs and set them on the floor. “Rob, you want to get that cooler out?”

“Sure thing.” Rob pulled off his pack.

Vincenzo drained some of the water in his Hydro Flask then dumped some ice inside it before handing the bag to Rob. The big man dropped some water bottles into the little cooler then filled it with the ice. He repacked it with the rest of the goods he and Jody had selected then sealed up his pack. Vincenzo did the same with his purchases.

“You guys are costing me some business here,” José said. “There’s only so many hours in a day, you know.”

“Done,” Rob said, pulling on his pack.

“That offer to duck out the back still good?” Vincenzo asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Lourdes will show you the way. You go along too, Edgar.”

“Believe I will,” Edgar said. “You planning on spending the night in here, José? Be a shame if those boys managed to bust in after you closed up.”

“I hope they do. I’ve got a shotgun in the back,” José said. “All right, folks. Thanks for your business. Happy travels to wherever you’re headed.”

“Thanks much,” Vincenzo said. “Good luck to you too, man.”

“Let’s go.” Lourdes motioned for them to follow her behind the deli counter. She picked up a flashlight and headed for the dark doorway that led to the back of the delicatessen. Vincenzo walked behind her, followed by Rob and Jody. Edgar brought up the rear.

Lourdes switched on the flashlight and pointed it at the gray metal fire door on the back wall. “You guys watch out for Julio and his crew,” she said as she fiddled with the dead bolt. “They’re a bunch of lowlifes. Always boosting shit and somehow getting away with it. Don’t expect the cops to help you. They’ve got their hands full already. Writing up a bunch of juvie cases isn’t worth their time, unless someone gets shot.”

“Someone might,” Vincenzo said.

Lourdes turned toward him, her face poorly lit by the flashlight which was still pointed at the door. “Pop Julio twice in the face for me,” she said then pushed the door open.

Bright sunlight flooded into the room, making Vincenzo squint. He thought then he should have picked up some sunglasses, but it was too late. He stepped into the parking lot behind the deli and immediately moved to his left, giving Rob, Jody, and Edgar room to exit. The lot was empty, but he heard people on the nearby side street. It took Vincenzo a moment to get his bearings, but he figured out that Essex Street was behind them. They would need to cut left through the parking lot to get to it.

“Thanks again,” he said to Lourdes as she started to pull the door closed.

“No problem. Stay safe.” The metal fire door clanged shut.

“So which way do we go?” Jody asked. She sounded nervous.

Vincenzo pointed to the left. “That way. Let’s hustle. Those guys will eventually figure out we’re not going to come out the way we went in.”

“You all take care to avoid the hospital,” Edgar said. “It’s a couple of blocks down, if you’re heading down Essex. Lots of activity there, and wherever there’s a hospital, there’s lots of desperate people.” He nodded toward the building they had just exited. “I live right across the street, in the same apartment building as Julio. I’ll give you guys a few minutes, then I’m going to make a break for it. I don’t seriously think they’re going to give me any trouble, but if they see me, they’ll probably start wondering where you all went.”

“Much obliged,” Vincenzo said. He was already sweating anew in the humidity. At least the air in the deli had been dry, if not particularly cool. He looked at Rob and Jody. “Can you guys jog for a bit?”

“Try to keep up with me,” Jody said with a smile.

“She’s the jogger of the family,” Rob said.

“And he’s the Xbox driver,” Jody added.

Vincenzo smiled. “Okay. Let’s kick off.” He nodded to Edgar. “Take care, sir.”

“You too, young people. You too.”

Vincenzo led them across the parking lot and through the thin screen of trees on the other side. They entered another parking lot for a medical building. Jody kept up with him easily, her long legs covering a lot of ground with each stride. Rob was doing fine, bringing up the rear and keeping an eye out behind them. Good. He knows how to play rear guard.

A Rite-Aid pharmacy was in the next parking lot, and it was mobbed by people waiting to get in. There were several police officers there, but they didn’t seem to have control of the situation. People were getting angry, waiting for their prescriptions and sundries. The cops ignored Vincenzo and his new friends as they crossed the parking lot, but several of those waiting in the queue that wrapped around the building stared at them openly.

“Should we just take that road ahead of us?” Jody asked.

“Yeah, let’s do that for now,” Vincenzo said.

They headed out of the parking lot and down Kaplan Avenue, which paralleled Essex. The street was hilly, so they slowed as they walked past the neat houses constructed out of brick or covered with vinyl siding. People sat on their porches or stoops and silently watched them move through the neighborhood. As they made it to the top of the hill, Vincenzo heard a commotion in the near distance. He glanced to his left and saw the hulking hospital on the next street. It sounded like a big congregation had gathered there, and he was glad to have avoided it.

“Looks like we might’ve dodged a bullet,” Rob said, and he sounded a little out of breath. “No sign of our boy Julio and his pals.”

Vincenzo glanced back. All he saw were people looking back at him from the relative safety of their own houses. That was fine by him.

“So what’s the plan?” Jody asked. Unlike Rob, she didn’t sound winded at all.

“We’ll stick to this street until we clear the hospital then head back over to Essex,” Vincenzo said.

“Maybe we should just stick to the residential streets,” Rob suggested. “Seems a bit safer.”

The big man was probably right, as long as no one in the neighborhood took issue with their presence. So far, that didn’t seem to be much of a problem. They kept walking up Kaplan Avenue, sticking to the middle of the street. Mature trees lined the road, and their wide canopies helped to ward off the bright sunshine. Vincenzo removed his cap and ran his hand over his head. His hair was soaked with sweat, and so was his ball cap. He regarded it with a bit of disgust for a moment then put it back on his head. It had cooled off in the few moments he’d removed it, and while it felt clammy going back on, it also felt kind of good.

They crossed the intersection of Kaplan and South Summit, and the road began to dip. That made walking easier. Vincenzo’s stomach growled, and he remembered his sandwich and the ideally still-cold soda in his pack. He spotted an unoccupied bus stop across South Summit Avenue and pointed it out to Rob and Jody.

“Let’s head over there for a bit and have some chow,” he said. “You guys bought stuff for lunch, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rob said. “I can definitely eat.”

“Aren’t we still kind of close to the hospital?” Jody asked.

“We seem to be okay for the moment,” Vincenzo said, “but if you guys want to press on, we can do that, too.”

“I think we’re good right now, babe,” Rob said.

“Sorry, since when did your opinion ever matter?” Jody said. But there was humor in her voice. Vincenzo smiled. Yeah, he’s got his hands full with this one.

They moved across the street, veering around a car that had been abandoned. The bus stop was covered, its Plexiglas windows marred from years of being exposed to the elements. Someone had sprayed graffiti on the pitched roof, symbols that were completely meaningless to Vincenzo. The small bench was just big enough for the three of them. Vincenzo dropped his backpack and sat down on it heavily. Rob crashed down onto the opposite side of the bench with a loud sigh. As he leaned his walking stick against the side of the bus stop, Jody squeezed in between them.

“So what’s for lunch?” she asked Rob.

“Twinkies, of course,” he said, opening his backpack.

“Are you kidding me?” she said.

“Yes. I picked up some packages of roast beef, turkey, and ham, which should stay fresh, thanks to Tony’s donated ice. Thanks for that, man. It means a lot.”

Vincenzo waved away the appreciation as he opened his knapsack and pulled out his sandwich and Pepsi. It was still cold. He saw the butt of the Glock and considered handing it off to Rob, but he still didn’t know the man and his wife from Adam. Not yet, boss. Besides, you might have a tough time getting it back.

Rob made turkey sandwiches for himself and his wife. Vincenzo merrily made headway on his pastrami. The Swiss cheese was no longer gooey, but it was still faintly warm, and the pickle was a nice addition. The Pepsi tasted heavenly. He considered sharing it with his travel companions, but selfishness won out.

“Damn, Tony,” Rob said as Vincenzo polished off his meal. “I was going to ask for some of that, but I was afraid you would started shooting.”

“And what would you have done then? Shot back with your mouth?” Jody asked, nudging her husband.

“No one’s going to do any shooting here.” Vincenzo took another hit from his soda. “But since we’re on the topic, either of you know guns?”

“No,” Jody said. “Those aren’t exactly on my résumé.”

“I do,” Rob said. “What’re you carrying, Tony? Can I ask?”

“Beretta 92. First pistol I ever bought and I’ve had it for years and years. Pretty solid, if you ask me.”

Rob nodded. “Yeah. I like .45s, though. Sig makes a sweet one, the P220, and they came out with a striker-fired version that’s single-action a couple of years ago. Your Beretta, it’s double-action on the first shot, right?”

“Yep. You know it?”

“I’ve fired a few. Don’t really care much for the grip,” Rob said.

“You get used to it.”

“Yeah.” Rob opened a bottle of water. “I guess I’d get used to anything pretty quick, right about now. But hey, at least I’ve got Wonderboy, here.” He patted his walking stick.

“‘Wonderboy’?”

“Yeah. You know, like the bat in The Natural,” Rob said.

Jody rolled her eyes. “He loves anything baseball.”

“Hell, yes. You a Yankees fan, Tony?”

“Of course. I was born in New York. You?”

“Hate ’em, of course,” Rob said with a big smile. “But New York does have a hell of a team, the Dodgers. Oh wait, they went to LA. You follow them, too?”

“Of course. Have to, since I spent most of the last decade out there. They’re first in the western division, right now. Or they were, anyway.”

“Oh, God.” Jody buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what’s worse, morning sickness or listening to men talk about baseball.”

Vincenzo laughed. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m more of an NFL kind of guy.”

Jody whimpered. “Yeah. That makes it all better.”

“Bengals all the way, baby!” Rob pumped his fist. “Damn, I hope those boys play ball this season. If not, I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

“Gathering a lot of firewood might be a good first step,” Jody said.

“Yeah, you guys are up there in the snow belt,” Vincenzo said. “You given any thought as to what you’ll do during the winter?”

“Not yet,” Rob said. “We haven’t even gotten through the summer. But if things don’t get squared away by then, it’s going to be one tough time. I guess you won’t have to worry about it, so long as you make it back to Los Angeles, huh?”

“We still need heat, even in southern California,” Vincenzo said. “But no snow, at least, not normally. So I’ll have that going for me.” Sudden movement on Essex caught his eye—two youths on bicycles. Then four or five more appeared, pedaling like gangbusters and weaving around disabled vehicles. Vincenzo recognized Julio in the lead as the kid bolted into a Shell gas station at the end of the block.

“Well, time to book,” Vincenzo said, rising to his feet and snatching up his bag.

Rob and Jody looked down the street and saw the toughs as the rest of the pack rolled into the gas station.

Rob grabbed his walking stick. “Crap, is that them? Think they followed us?”

“I think they’re just looking for easy pickings.” Vincenzo paused long enough to polish off his soda then tossed the bottle and sandwich wrapper in the dun-colored garbage can next to the bus stop. “Let’s get out of here before they see us and decide we’re it.”

They left the bus stop and turned right onto Kaplan Avenue. The furor from the hospital was still rumbling in the distance—Vincenzo had no idea what was going on over there and no desire to find out—but overall, the neighborhood was quiet. A moment later, they heard the sound of shattering glass and hooting hollers coming from the gas station.

“Sounds like they might have found what they were looking for,” Jody said.

“Not counting on that. You guys go on up ahead. And, Rob?”

“Yeah?” Rob hitched his pack up on his back and fiddled with the strap around his thick waist.

Vincenzo reached into his knapsack and pulled out the Glock. He handed it to the bigger man, who took it with a surprised look. “Try not to shoot your balls off,” Vincenzo said.

“Damn, man. Thanks!” Rob’s grin was almost a yard long. He inspected the pistol quickly. “Glock 17. Should be a decent weapon.”

“Rob, do you seriously know how to handle that?” Jody asked.

“Well, yeah, but let’s hope I don’t have to prove it.”

“Just keep it out of sight, and be careful,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t know a lot about that Glock, but it only has a trigger safety, so be damn smart about where you carry it.”

“Okay. Shit, do you have a holster? I don’t want to just stick it in my waistband. I’m used to guns that either have a manual safety or can be decocked.”

“Sorry, man. I got nothing for you.”

Rob ejected the magazine and shoved it into his pocket. He then racked back the slide. The cartridge in the chamber flew out and landed on the ground. He picked it up and tried to put the cartridge back in the magazine, but it was already topped off. With a heavy sigh, he dropped the bullet into one of the cargo pockets on his shorts and reinserted the mag back into the pistol. He stuffed the Glock back in his waistband and pulled his shirt down over it. “Well, that’ll have to do. I sure hope I don’t short-stroke it when the time comes to use it.”

“You guys take the lead,” Vincenzo said. “I’ll watch the back door.”

Rob took off, and Jody followed. Vincenzo checked behind them every so often. He also looked at the houses. Other than a few people sitting or standing on their property and watching them hurry past, no one said or did anything. They came to another intersection with a DEAD END sign on the opposite corner.

Rob indicated they had to turn right. “That’ll take us back to Essex. It’s either that, or go down to the end and try to cross through someone’s property.”

“Let’s not do that,” Vincenzo said. “No one’s going to want strangers in their backyard.”

“But is it safe to go back to the main street?” Jody asked.

Vincenzo shrugged. “Safety’s probably a thing of the past. But we have someplace to get to, so let’s make the best of it. All right?”

Rob nodded. “Fine by me.”

Jody didn’t seem enthused by the prospect. “Maybe we should just detour,” she said, pointing to the left. The street sign read Rowland Avenue.

“We can’t detour around everything,” Rob said with some irritation in his tone.

“Excuse me for not wanting to walk into anything we might not be able to walk out of, Rob,” Jody snapped.

“Guys, let’s head up to Essex and check it out,” Vincenzo said. “If we go down this way, we’re moving away from where we want to go. We need to start making some time, and I guarantee you, if anyone rolls up on us, I’ll make sure we’re the only ones left standing.”

Jody eyed him. “Have you ever shot anyone before?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I might have to before my trip is over.”

“That’s not very comforting. Were you a military guy or a police officer or something before?” she asked.

Vincenzo only shook his head. He was pretty sure admitting he was a TV producer wouldn’t dampen her fear.

“If we’re going to do something, let’s do it and not stand here on the corner,” Rob said.

Vincenzo motioned toward Essex Street. “After you.”

Rob grunted and set off, his walking stick clunking against the pavement. Jody followed him up the sidewalk, while Vincenzo stepped into the street. He checked behind them, saw nothing of import, then faced forward and scanned the upcoming intersection with Essex Street. There were no pedestrians and, of course, no moving vehicles. A stripped-down police cruiser sat in the middle of the intersection, apparently killed by the CMD . The vehicle looked as though it had been picked clean then basically destroyed. Okay, so I guess the cops don’t get high marks from the community.

They crossed over to the parking lot of a nail salon. Opposite the street sat a quiet and empty dentist’s office. One window had been shattered, and judging by the lack of glass on the outside, it had been done by someone going in. Vincenzo suspected the intruders had been looking for drugs, though he didn’t know what kind of medications someone would want from a dentist. Then he remembered a dentist’s office seemed as likely as a pharmacy to have some oxycodone lying around.

A row of apartment houses faced across the street had a lot of black and Latino faces hanging around outside. With expressionless eyes, they watched Vincenzo’s group cross the parking lot and mount the sidewalk. He wondered how long it would be until they turned into predators. The lights had only been out for a few days, so some veneer of civility still remained. He figured it wouldn’t take very much longer for that facade to begin to crack, especially when desperation began to take hold. Despite the two pistols, his little band was very vulnerable. While Rob looked formidable with his big walking stick and tree-trunk legs and arms, in a few more days it would take a lot more than looking like a badass to keep the goblins at bay.

Gunshots rang out.

As Vincenzo spun around, he saw Julio and his merry band of ne’er-do-wells running to hop on their bikes. They started pedaling away like mad. Another gunshot sounded, and one of the teens crashed to the street, rolling and writhing. He began to scream a moment later, his voice high and shrill.

“Oh my God,” Jody gasped.

“That kid just got gut shot,” Rob said.

An older man emerged from the Shell gas station the kids had been trying to loot. He held a wicked-looking shotgun. Shouting in Spanish, he raised the weapon to fire again at the flock of boys retreating on their bikes. A startled oooh went through the crowd standing in front of the apartment block.

“Yeah, what do you say we get the hell out of here,” Vincenzo said, pushing Rob and Jody ahead of him. “Come on. Let’s not stop and stare.”

They broke into a fast jog and kept it up for three blocks, finally winding down near a Chase Bank. An armed security officer stared at them from the bank’s lobby, his eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses. Set back from the street was a Home Depot, which seemed to still be open. Several men were gathered near the open entrance. On the opposite side of the street, a car wash sat vacant and idle. Now there’s a business that’s going to take it hard. A lot like, say, cable television.

“Well, that was exciting,” Rob said, breathing heavily. Sweat glistened in his beard. “You know, all this running around is really starting to get old.”

“You can hike, but you can’t run?” Vincenzo was breathing hard, too, and he didn’t have nearly as much weight on his back as Rob did.

“Hey, you want to trade packs, guy?” Rob asked.

Vincenzo shook his head. “Not on your life, guy.”

“I can’t believe that man shot that boy,” Jody said. She had a vague, shell-shocked look in her eyes.

Vincenzo was certain his eyes had looked the same when the riot broke out in Central Park South, right along billionaire row. There was no need for the people of New York to react the way they did, but they felt they were getting the short shrift, and they just exploded. It had been terrifying for him then, and he knew that Jody—and perhaps Rob, though the man hid it well—felt the same kind of creeping panic circling around them. It was inescapable, like a great white shark cruising just beneath the water’s surface as it tried to decide if a lone swimmer was worth its time. If it hit, it would hit, and there was no way to stop it.

“They were trying to rob his place,” Rob said. “No cops, no one pitching in to stop it, he did what he had to do.”

“They were robbing a gas station, not someone’s house!” Jody said.

“Welcome to the new normal,” Vincenzo said. “The world’s changed. This is how it’s going to be for a while.”

Jody frowned. “And how long do you figure a while is going to be?”

Vincenzo sighed. “Until late winter, I guess.”

“What is it about then that’s going to change things?”

Vincenzo gave her a direct stare. “Because that’s when a lot of people will die, Jody.”

15

The walk to Essex County Airport took over seven hours. Progress was slow because Vincenzo and the Ackermans needed to maintain a degree of stealth, even while going through residential neighborhoods. While no overt danger presented itself, they weren’t willing to place a bet on chance. As they progressed through the suburbs surrounding Hackensack, they saw more and more people out walking, just as they were. They avoided others, not wanting to become entangled in any drama, but Vincenzo examined them discreetly. Many looked tired and haggard, but he saw no signs of major injury or trauma, which told him that things were likely still relatively safe outside of major cities. That raised his spirits a bit, but not by much.

The heat and humidity served to sap their strength, and Jody had to stop and rest often. Vincenzo didn’t complain; he could use the breaks, as well. They were drinking a lot of water, which was good, but at that rate, it wouldn’t take more than a few days to exhaust their supply. They had to cut back on their consumption, but there wasn’t much of a chance of that happening. For Jody, it was impossible. She was pregnant, and denying her incubating infant water and nutrition just wasn’t going to happen. And the humid heat was making them sweat like crazy. Vincenzo had read once that the human body could only digest a gallon of water an hour, but it could sweat two gallons in that same span of time. God, that wasn’t a very practical design. Just in case you’re listening.

By the time they made it to the airport fence, the sun was already on the horizon. Passaic Avenue was full of motionless traffic, and several people moved around the vehicles. Across from the airport, a sign outside a Petlovers Outlet proudly declared the business had AKC puppies for sale. The building was set back from the street, so Vincenzo couldn’t hear any barking, and he wondered how the pups were faring in the heat and if anyone was still taking care of them.

Down the street was a delicatessen named the Skylite Deli. It was dark and lifeless, and as they walked past it, Vincenzo saw a handwritten sign that read CLOSED INDEFINITELY, SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

Rob pointed at the building with his walking stick. “Think we should check it out?”

“Don’t think it’s going to be of much use,” Vincenzo said. He gestured at the empty bags and packages on the street. “At this point, it’s probably been picked over pretty well.”

“Yeah,” Rob said listlessly. He turned and looked back at the airport. “Well, it’s only a wrought-iron fence. If we can’t get in through the entrance, we won’t have much problem climbing over.” He pointed at a fire hydrant a foot or so away from the black barrier surrounding the airfield. “Could use that as a step up.”

“You want to do that or keep walking to the gate?” Vincenzo asked.

“The gate,” Jody said. “Please. I’m not sure I can even climb up the fire hydrant.”

“Heh, look who’s getting run down,” Rob said. “Guess you should have played more Xbox, huh?”

“Maybe you should get pregnant,” Jody shot back.

“Ouch.”

“Keep cool, crew,” Vincenzo said. “We’re all worn out. I agree with Jody. Let’s try the gate first.”

“Thank you,” Jody said.

“Free of charge.”

When they resumed walking, Rob kept casting glances toward the airfield, which was silent and motionless. Apparently, no one had any interest in airplanes at the moment. As far as Vincenzo was concerned, the fewer people around, the better. Though full-on night was still well over an hour away, he still feared that was going to be a problem.

“Rob, can you fly at night?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, but that was back when the lights were still on,” Rob said. “Flying at night is risky business, and I only have VFR certification.”

“Okay. I’ll assume that’s important.”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. VFR is the lowest rating. It means visual flight rules. Flying at night is a lot different than flying in the daytime. You can roll inverted and never know it unless you have a good eye on the instruments.”

“So that means...?”

“It means we’re spending the night,” Jody said. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to leave before the sun goes down. Right, babe?”

“Well, first thing we need to do is find a plane,” Rob said, peering at the airfield. “I see lots of Cirruses, Cessnas, Beeches. Most of them are newer. We won’t be able to get anywhere in those.”

“So you’re looking for something like a biplane? A Piper Cub?” Vincenzo asked with a mirthless snort.

“Yeah. Yeah, exactly,” Rob said.

“Okay. I’m not sure I know what to look for, so I’ll just follow your lead.” Vincenzo knew that those were small planes—very small planes—and he wondered how the hell one of those could get to Ohio.

“Well, let’s not get our hopes up just yet,” Rob said. “We still have to get inside, then we have to find a plane that’ll do the job.”

Office buildings lined the drive that led to the airport, but the front gate was open. A few vehicles were in the parking lot, likely as dead as every other vehicle they’d seen during their travels. Rob walked up to the main entrance and pulled on the glass door’s handle. It was locked. He pounded on the glass and peered inside, but there was no response. The airport was vacant, which seemed logical enough. If the airfield was full of dead planes, then there was no need to have anyone onsite.

“So what now?” Vincenzo asked.

Rob looked at the gate that separated the airfield from the parking lot. “I guess we go shopping.”

The entry gate was locked via a card system. The card reader was useless, even if they had a card for it. It wasn’t that difficult for Vincenzo to climb over the six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence, and once he was on the other side, he found a lever that unlocked the gate.

Rob pulled it aside and waved Jody in with a flourish. “No climbing necessary, m’lady,” he said.

Vincenzo and Jody followed Rob down the apron toward a slew of parked airplanes.

“Some of these look like they’re from the seventies,” Vincenzo said, pointing at an old Cessna with faded paint and an equally faded interior.

“They are, but if I need a key to start them, that’s no good,” Rob said. “We need something that’s a bit easier.”

“Define ‘easier,’” Jody said.

“I’ll know it when I find it.”

Rob discounted several right off the bat. Sleek low-wings like a Cirrus or a Cessna TTx were scratched off the list, despite their rather comfortable-looking interiors. Some of the more battered trainers were removed as well. Even though a couple of them didn’t seem to need keys to unlock the ignitions, Rob said he wouldn’t want to take a training aircraft on a long-range flight. By the time they had walked the airfield, only three candidates had made the short list.

“Looks like all of these are two-seaters,” Vincenzo said after they had identified the last of the potential planes.

“Yeah,” Rob said. He tried to keep a noncommittal tone to his voice, but Vincenzo saw through it.

“So someone’s going to get left behind,” Vincenzo said.

Jody and Rob exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Well, let’s not get that far ahead of ourselves just yet,” Rob said. “We don’t know if any of them will fly, right?”

Vincenzo nodded. “True.”

“So we’ll go through all the steps tomorrow, when there’s more light. Lots of things to inspect, and I need to be able to see what I’m doing. There’s no need to get worked up over anything just yet. For all we know, we’ll be back on the road tomorrow morning.”

“Okay.”

###

They camped out in the airfield in a flat area some distance from the runway. The neighborhood that surrounded them was mostly dark and quiet, save for where dim candlelight seeped out from the windows of a few houses. Distant cracks of gunfire punctuated the night. None were at all close, but the noise made Vincenzo uneasy.

“Maybe we should sit watches,” Rob suggested as they ate.

Vincenzo nodded then realized Rob and Jody probably couldn’t see him in the dark. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he said.

Vincenzo checked his watch. It was just after nine-thirty, and the western horizon still held a pale trace of twilight. Dawn would arrive in less than eight hours, and that was fine with him. He didn’t feel comfortable sleeping out in the open. He had considered breaking into one of the empty office buildings, but he feared running afoul of whatever law might still be operating in the area.

“How do we do it?” Jody asked in a tired voice.

“You guys get some sleep,” Vincenzo said. “I’ll sit up for three hours. If I can’t make it, I’ll wake up Rob. Rob, you take the next three hours then wake up your wife. I’m sorry, Jody, but there’s only three of us, and we’ll need you to take a turn. Is that all right?”

“Sure,” Jody said. “I’m willing to do my part.”

“Babe, you need your sleep,” Rob said.

“And so do you. You’re going to try and fly an airplane tomorrow. It won’t do me and the baby any good if you fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Then it’s settled,” Vincenzo said. “Thanks, Jody. I’ll go dig a latrine while you guys finish up here. We’ll probably be needing it.”

“I, uh, could use it right about now,” Jody said.

Vincenzo snorted. “Okay. I’ll be quick about it. You might want to bring a blanket or something to cover up with. Just in case someone comes walking up.”

“Wow, a guy who’s still worried about female modesty at the end of the world,” Jody said. “Maybe I married the wrong guy.”

“Hey, now,” Rob protested in a good-natured tone. He started to stand. “Let me help you with digging that hole, Tony.”

“I’m good, brother. You just sit and take it easy. Like Jody said, you’re flying tomorrow, so you get the VIP treatment.”

“Ah. Okay. Thanks,” Rob said in a heavier voice.

Tony knew why Rob was more sober. The chances of all three of them taking wing tomorrow were extremely low, and there wasn’t any doubt about who was going to be left behind. Deal with it. Suck it up, be a man, and deal with it.

“I’ll be right back,” Vincenzo said, grabbing his entrenching tool. He’d only used it twice before, once while on an overnight turkey hunt, and earlier that morning. He figured it would become one of his most trusted implements over the coming weeks, provided he didn’t break it. He found a spongy patch of earth a hundred feet from the runway and quickly dug a trench.

He returned to the makeshift campsite. “Okay, let me show you guys where it is. Probably better not to use any flashlights or anything, so easy does it. The ground is pretty flat and level, but watch your step.”

Rob and Jody got up and followed him back to the trench.

“It’s not terribly deep,” Jody said, casting about with her foot to feel out the trench’s dimensions.

“Well, it’s not like we’re going to be building an outhouse,” Rob said.

“Yeah, I get that,” Jody replied.

“It’ll be perfectly sanitary,” Vincenzo said. “I’ll fill it back in tomorrow before we leave. Anyway, I’m going to head back. Feel free to break it in.”

“I forgot to bring my sleeping bag,” she said.

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll stay here with you,” Rob told her.

“Okay, but you’ll be sorry. Hey, what’s going on over there?”

Vincenzo tensed, his right hand reaching for the butt of his pistol. “What?”

“Over there. To the east,” Jody said, and Vincenzo had a vague impression she was pointing past him in the darkness. He turned and saw a pale yellow glow on the eastern horizon.

“Fire,” Rob said. “Big one, too.”

“Where’s it coming from?” Jody asked.

“New York,” Vincenzo said. “It’s fucking New York. They’re not wasting a lot of time, are they? They’re burning down the entire city.”

“Why would they do that?” Rob asked.

“Anger. Fear. Accident.” Vincenzo shrugged. “Who knows? It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Rob, you have the Glock?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. I’ll see you guys back at the camp.” Vincenzo trudged back to the small campsite, his eyes on the eastern horizon.

He knew in his heart that New York was ablaze and that it was a maelstrom from which the city would likely need decades to recover. It made his heart feel heavy, not because he knew for certain that all his possessions would be forever lost, but because he would never step foot in that great metropolis ever again. As far as he was concerned, New York City was as inviting to him as a graveyard on a cold, overcast night.

###

“Dude, you awake?” Rob asked.

Vincenzo had been on the border of consciousness, and he crossed the threshold in an instant. The sky was brightening, and he could see Jody sitting up on her sleeping bag.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said.

“Morning.” Vincenzo ran a hand over the growing stubble on his chin. His skin felt sticky and oily. A hot shower would have been just what the doctor ordered, but that wasn’t likely to happen for the next couple of years.

Rob squatted beside him, his boonie hat already on his head. He smiled broadly. “Ready to check out some airplanes?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Let’s eat first then get to it,” Rob said.

“Sounds good.”

They ate a quick, cold breakfast, and Vincenzo was happy to discover the water in his Hydro Flask was still cold. There were even a few chunks of ice still in it. He drank half of it then refilled it with warm water before repacking his bag. He got up and headed to the latrine to do some business. Of course, Rob and Jody had already used it, and they hadn’t covered up their mess, so he took care of that first. He didn’t have to deliver any packages, but he had to “piss like a racehorse,” as Grant would have put it. He covered up the entire trench when he was done, presuming that no one would have to use it before they departed. When he returned to the campsite, Rob and Jody were finishing up repacking their bags.

“Ready?” Vincenzo asked

“Yep,” Rob said. He got to his feet but waved for Jody to stay where she was. “You keep off your feet for a bit longer, babe. I’ve got this.”

“You sure?” Jody looked a little relieved at the suggestion. Vincenzo didn’t blame her. His feet hurt like hell.

“I’m sure. Just stay where you are, and keep your eyes open.” He pointed at the row of airplanes in front of the hangars. “We’ll be right over there.”

“Okay,” she said. “What do you want me to do if someone comes over?”

“Get our attention as subtly as possible,” Vincenzo said. “Especially if they’re cops.”

Jody looked puzzled. “Why would cops be any different than anyone else?”

Vincenzo smiled and glanced at Rob. “Because we’re about to steal an airplane?”

Jody nodded slowly. “Oh. Yeah.”

Rob barked a laugh. “Come on. Let’s go check over our candidates.”

Vincenzo followed him over to the flight line, but he couldn’t really do anything helpful as Rob inspected the three airplanes. One of them, an old Cessna 185, had an oil leak that Rob couldn’t easily get to, so he ruled that one out. The metal Navion looked as if it hadn’t been flown in years, and there were wasp nests inside the engine cowling. Rob discontinued his inspection almost right away upon discovering that. The last plane, a yellow Cub, was well used but apparently very well maintained. Rob walked around the aircraft, checking all the moving surfaces on the wings, elevator, and rudder. He even got down on the ground and checked its underside. Inside the airplane, he found a small flight bag that included a long plastic tube with a pointed tip. Rob used the device to draw fuel from three sumps on the Piper, and he inspected the tube’s contents critically.

“What’s that? Gas?” Vincenzo asked.

“Yep, and there’s no water in it. Whoever owns this plane must fill it up after each flight. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Great, the guy who really cares about his airplane has a freaking two-seater.

Rob looked at Vincenzo, as if reading his thoughts. “Well, this is our bird. But as you can see, it only has two seats and a tiny engine. Three can’t go on this flight, Tony.”

“I’d figured as much.” Vincenzo tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“I might be able to come back for you after I drop off Jody. But it would take at least two days, and that’s assuming I can get enough fuel in Cincinnati to make the trip back. And if nothing happens on either leg. Weather, mechanical failure, that stuff.”

“You willing to do that?” Vincenzo asked.

Rob went quiet then shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. Jody’s pregnant. Even if we make it home, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to come back. And if something happens along the way, I’ll be in a tough spot. Or if you’re with me, then we’ll both be kind of fucked.”

Vincenzo nodded.

“Listen, none of the four-seaters we have access to will work,” Rob said. “If one of them could be started, I’d bring you with us in a heartbeat, man. Seriously.”

“I don’t doubt that. I believe you, brother. It’s just a shame, I was hoping for a bit of a break here.”

“I know.” Rob sighed and looked back at the Cub. “Well, if it means anything, you’re going to inherit some of our stuff. With two of us in this thing, there’s not going to be a lot of room for additional payload. So you’ll have some extra supplies, and believe me, my pack is much nicer than yours.”

“Thanks. So what do we do now?”

“Let me finish up here. Bring Jody over, and we’ll start separating what we can take and what we have to leave. You’re welcome to anything that we can’t bring with us, and I encourage you to take it all, if you can.”

Vincenzo looked at the bright yellow plane. “So you don’t need a key for this one?”

“Nope. I’ll hand-prop it.”

Vincenzo raised an eyebrow. “Really? You mean you’re going to turn the propeller, like in the old days?”

Rob jerked his thumb toward the Cub. “Man, this thing is from the old days! It’s from the forties, at least! Just what we’re looking for, too, presuming the magnetos weren’t fried out by the pulse. Should be good, though. We’ll have to wait until we try to start her up.”

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Not long. Less than an hour.”

Vincenzo checked his watch and nodded. “I’ll go get Jody.”

“Thanks, man.”

Vincenzo walked back to where Jody was waiting with an expression of regret. He figured that she and Rob had already discussed who would be leaving and who would be staying behind.

“Rob’s found a plane that’ll get you guys out of here,” he told her. “We should gather your stuff together and get over there.”

“Rob said there’s no way you can come with us,” Jody said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about that, Tony. You seem to be an upright kind of guy.”

Vincenzo bent over and picked up Rob’s pack. “Yeah, well, you didn’t know me before. Trust me, being a nice guy isn’t exactly encoded in my DNA.”

“Does the past matter anymore?”

“I don’t know.” He nodded toward her pack. “Let’s get a move on, Mom. You have some traveling to do.”

The sun was peaking over the horizon, and smoke hung over the east like a pall of dense pollution. If the fire was in New York, it would burn for weeks. And the flames would drive everyone out of the city, which meant the longer Vincenzo lingered, the greater the chance of him being swept up in a tide of trouble.

It took Rob less than half an hour to preflight the plane. As he had suspected, the tanks were full. The instruments looked quite rudimentary to Vincenzo with just a few antiquated-looking gauges, no displays like he’d seen while walking pass the cockpits of passenger jets. He looked away from the instrument panel to the brightening sky. The day would be sunny and warm.

“Weather seems good,” Rob said. “Though I sure would like a report before going wheels up.”

“Don’t think that’s going to happen,” Vincenzo replied.

Rob nodded. “Okay. Let’s see if we can’t get this bitch started. Tony, can you come over here? I’m going to pull the prop through a couple of compression strokes to pull some fuel into the engine, then I’ll want you to switch on the magnetos to make it happen for real.”

“Okay,” Vincenzo said. “Is it safe?”

“Well, the compression strokes will be,” Rob said with a big grin. “But if I don’t step back fast enough when she starts up, then my new name’ll be No Arms Charlie.”

“Oh, God,” Jody said.

Rob held up a hand. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve done this quite a few times in the past. It’s no different now than when I did it before. It’s still tied down, plus this thing has a parking brake, and it’s set solid. It’s not going anywhere, believe me. It’s going to be all good, unless we can’t get it started. Okay?”

Jody nodded but still looked a bit sick. “Okay.”

Rob walked to the front of the plane and put both hands on one of the two propeller blades, about halfway down its length. He pulled the prop downward, and the pistons cycled once beneath the Cub’s short cowling. Rob repeated the process three times then took a step back. His face was already covered with a slight sheen of sweat. “Okay, Tony. Hit the switch. Move it to the Both position.”

Vincenzo reached inside the cockpit and turned the magneto switch to the indicated position. Something emitted an audible click from behind the instrument panel. He nodded to Rob. “Done,” he said. “Try not to step back with a couple of stumps.”

“Ha ha, funny guy.” Rob stepped forward again, put his hands on the prop, and yanked downward. The engine coughed, clattered, then spun up as Rob stepped back.

The Cub started right up, hitting Vincenzo with a torrent of air that immediately dried his sweat and made his shirt ripple across his body. Rob hooted and clapped his hands then ran around to join Vincenzo at the side of the plane. He reached inside and turned the magneto switch. The engine died with a reluctant sputter, as if disappointed.

“Yes, baby!” Rob hooted. He ducked beneath the wing and swept Jody up into his arms. “We are so out of here!”

Jody hugged him back, smiling. She kissed his hairy cheek then her expression of joy faded a bit when she looked over his big shoulder at Vincenzo standing beneath the wing of the plane. “Sorry, Tony,” she said.

Rob straightened and looked back at him as well. “Uh... yeah, guy. I’m sorry, too.”

Vincenzo waved the comments away. “Never mind, guys. I’m good. Let’s get you out of here.” He jerked a thumb toward the neighborhood outside the fence. “For all we know, the plane’s owner lives right down the street, and he’s probably going to wonder what the hell the racket was.”

Rob looked momentarily stricken. “Yeah... yeah, let’s do this. Come on, babe. Let’s break out the stuff and repack.”

The pair went through their backpacks, pulling out gear and resorting it. While they worked, Vincenzo stood watch, scanning the airfield and the neighborhood beyond. He saw no activity. Either the Cub’s brief run hadn’t been that interesting, or the community was still asleep. He walked around the airplane, trying to get three hundred and sixty degrees of coverage. So far, everything was good.

Rob loaded Jody in the front of the Cub then tossed her smaller bag in the back. He carried his larger pack away from the plane and set it down on the tarmac. “This is yours,” he told Vincenzo. “We took only what we can carry—water, some perishables, and sleeping gear in case we come up short and need to spend some more time on the road. You have everything else. Got to tell you, it’s going to be heavy.”

“I’ll take care of that over time,” Vincenzo said, smiling even though he didn’t feel like it.

“I’ll try to come back for you,” Rob said. “You can spare a couple of days, right? Hang out and wait.”

Vincenzo shook his head. “No. I’m good. You guys had better get out of here. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Maybe I’ll get lucky down the road. Who knows? But you guys need to get going. Last thing you need is to deal with a thunderstorm or something as you start flying across the Midwest.”

Rob nodded. “Okay. One last thing—the Glock.”

“I don’t need it. You keep it.” Vincenzo bent over his own pack and pulled out the extra magazines he’d taken off the Rastafarian. “Here. You might need these.”

Rob grinned as he accepted the magazines. “Dude, that’s fantastic. You ever make it to Cincinnati, you have to stop by Forty-One Mohawk Street. That’s where we’ll be.”

“Maybe one day.”

Rob shook his hand then pulled him in for a man hug. Vincenzo wrinkled his nose at the stink, even though he probably smelled just as bad.

Rob slapped his back. “Bro, you’re the best. Thanks for everything. The food, the gun, the ammo... damn, it sucks having to leave you here.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Vincenzo said, backing away so he could take in some fresh air. “You guys have a safe trip. Can you make it all the way, do you think?”

“Not a chance. We’ll have to land and refuel, but that shouldn’t be a big problem. I don’t think Avgas is going to be very tough to find right now. No one’s using it. We’ll be fine, plenty of airports on the way. I used to fly a lot west of here, so I know where to go.” Rob nodded toward the plane. “Help me start it again, bro?”

“You got it.”

Vincenzo got on the mag switch as Rob hand-propped the plane again. It started on the first spin. Rob climbed into the back of the plane to sit in the rear seat.

Vincenzo leaned in the front and gave Jody a peck on the cheek. He yelled, “Good luck!” over the roar of the engine. He then shot Rob a thumbs-up as he backpedaled away from the plane, to where the two backpacks sat.

Rob returned the gesture then advanced the throttle. The little yellow plane taxied away and turned left, angling toward the runway. As it rolled along, Vincenzo picked up Rob’s hiking pack. The big guy hadn’t been kidding; the thing was definitely heavy. He swung into it, then picked up his own pack and held it by one of the straps as he started walking back toward the airport exit.

At the end of the parking lot, he turned and watched the little Piper Cub roar down the runway. It hopped up into the air and climbed out, its engine buzzing. As it passed over him, its wings rocked in a final farewell before banking away and heading for the west.

Adios, muchachos. Faced with no alternative, Vincenzo resumed his journey.

16

Today was the day.

Roth could feel the expectation in the air as he set about going through the daily routine. Without power, the routine was pretty simple: wake up, try not to choke to death on the stench until the guards popped the cells, then go to work, have a meal, yard time, then back to the sweltering cell. He certainly did miss hot showers, and he was growing to hate the feel of his prison uniform scraping across his sticky, sweaty skin. He itched all over, but he didn’t scratch himself. The last thing he wanted to do was invoke a skin infection or do something that might give rise to a case of hives.

He had briefed the rest of the boys on Rollo’s dream of a jailbreak. They had pretty much accepted it at face value, though big Chester didn’t want to have anything to do with the blacks. Roth didn’t know the huge man very well, but given the plethora of tattoos of iron crosses and swastikas Chester sported, he suspected Chester was a plank holder in organizations like Stormfront and the Aryan Brotherhood. But that didn’t matter. All Roth needed was a firearm and then targets to shoot. He didn’t necessarily need to kill every guard in the prison. He just needed to kill enough to make his escape.

The fences worried him, though. Even if Rollo was somehow magically able to get him a pistol, getting past the rows of fences would be difficult. While they could be climbed over, even Roth wasn’t good enough to shoot people dead while trying to scale a twenty-foot fence topped with razor wire. He would be sniper bait in a second.

Deal with that when it comes. You have a lot to get through before you have to worry about the fence.

During the meal, there were only two guards in the room. They looked nervous and didn’t stand over the tables but near the door. Both had shotguns, which Roth thought was a remarkable rarity. He also thought that if anything was going to happen, it needed to happen soon. From the expressions on the guards’ faces, the prisoners wouldn’t be allowed out of their cages ever again.

After the meal, Blackie approached him in the greenhouse. His pale skin was covered with sweat, his light-colored hair lank and greasy with accumulated perspiration. “Got something for you,” he said as he drew close.

Roth was alert. He didn’t like people getting near him, even those who were nominal allies. So the second he saw the shiv in Blackie’s hand, he took a step back and raised his hands into a defensive posture. Roth had been involved in two knife fights before, and he had avoided being cut both times due to his speed, training, and outright ferocity. It wouldn’t take much to break one of Blackie’s thin wrists and gain control of the shiv.

“Take it easy,” Blackie said, stopping short. “This is for you.” He turned the shiv around and handed the weapon to Roth handle first.

Roth took it and turned away from the greenhouse’s open door so he could inspect the weapon quickly. It was a simple sharpened blade covered by a liberal patina of rust, with a black duct tape handle. Roth touched the blade and found it sharp enough to part skin and tissue easily. He tore a piece of cardboard from an opened case of motor oil and wrapped it around the shiv then dropped the blade into his pocket. Not exactly a pistol but better than nothing.

###

It was another warm day out on the yard. Roth hung with the rest of the guys, feeling uncharacteristic butterflies in his stomach as he waited for something to happen. Rollo had looked at him only once and favored him with a curt nod so subtle that Roth wondered if he had imagined it.

Roth took a quick count of the guards keeping watch. Both towers were occupied, and four other guards were inside the pen, watching the convicts through the wire mesh. If something were to go down, they would establish control over the situation, first with tear gas and nonlethal rounds, then with warning shots from the guard towers. If those failed to invoke compliance, then the next rounds would be fatal ones.

“Feels like things’re gonna get hot,” Harley said.

“Well, yeah, it’s gotta be in the eighties at least, with high humidity,” Toombs said.

Harley glared at the skinny man. “I wasn’t talkin’ about the weather, you idiot.”

Toombs shrugged. “Oh.”

“Harley’s right,” Roth said. “Everyone needs to stay on their toes.”

“How do you think it’s going to go down?” Harley asked.

“Only way is to start a fight,” Roth said, “unless Rollo has something else planned.”

“The niggers gonna start a fight with us?” Chester asked. He cracked his knuckles loudly. Sweat made his tattooed skin glisten despite the breeze.

“If they do, try not to kill any of them,” Roth said. “Fight defensively. Wait for the guards to respond. They’ll have to come in, and when they do, we’ll go after them.”

“They have guns, boss,” Blackie said.

Roth fingered the shiv in his pocket. “And if everything goes well, so will I.”

Harley grunted. “Well, if they’re going to do something, they’d better start it soon. We’re runnin’ out of opportunities.”

A flock of crows descended and alighted on the strands of razor wire stretching across the tops of the tall fences. Roth gazed up at them. The black birds regarded the prisoners below with emotionless, obsidian eyes.

As if on cue, a peculiar energy resonated through the yard. Not far away from Roth and his group, a crew of Latinos converged on the blacks. The blacks met them with a charge of their own. The crows cawed as if urging the combatants on.

“Shit’s going down!” Chester said.

“Let’s get in there,” Roth said. “Not too close. Watch out for the tear gas.” He hurried across the yard, the others close behind.

The guards were already responding, blowing whistles and giving voice commands to stop. All were ignored.

As they drew closer, Roth could see some of the combatants were really going at it, throwing real punches that drew real blood. Several blacks clustered around one Latino man who was clearly in the process of dying. Apparently, Rollo was interested in getting a little payback in the middle of the escape attempt. The reedy black man sank a shiv into the Latino again and again, his eyes wide, his lips pulled back in a feral grin.

Canisters bounced across the yard, but the breeze carried the tear gas away. None of the prisoners paid any attention to it. When the nonlethal projectiles starting whizzing through the crowds, Roth stepped closer to the rest of the guys. It was preferable that one of them take a beanbag round to the back. And sure enough, a white guy yelped and crashed to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Nonlethal rounds weren’t designed to kill, but they sure hurt a hell of a lot, and they could even break bones in certain circumstances.

“Roth, what are we doin’?” Harley yelled.

“Wait for the guards to come in the yard,” Roth said.

A rifle cracked, and dirt exploded into the air as one of the guards in the tower fired the warning shot. The prisoners all heard it and knew the guards meant business. Playtime was over. The next rounds would be deadly, and no one wanted to wind up dead. The convicts fell to the ground amid the roiling clouds of tear gas, Roth and his crew among them. As he stretched out on the warm grass that he had cut not so very long ago, he reached into his pocket and shook the shiv out of its makeshift cardboard sheath.

Covered by the gunners in the towers, the officers stormed into the yard. There were only six of them, not enough to play patsy and wait for the prisoners to be compliant. They had weapons drawn and gas masks on. The weapons were a concern, because no matter what Rollo had promised about keeping the ground clear, Roth had no doubt that some people were going to die that day. He turned his head, looking away from the guards, and saw Rollo spread out on the ground thirty feet away. There was blood in his thinning afro, and his eyes were wide and bright.

“You up, Roth,” Rollo said. “You up.”

The guards didn’t move into the crowd but stayed along the edges, commanding the convicts to rise group by group and head back to the main building. When they ordered the whites to rise, Roth stayed on the ground.

Harley nudged his foot. “Dude, time to rise and shine.”

Roth didn’t move. He kept the shiv hidden under his body.

“Get up!” one of the guards yelled from behind his mask.

“Looks like he’s hurt, boss,” Blackie said helpfully.

The guard stepped toward Roth and kicked him in the leg. “I said get up!”

With a roar, the blacks hopped to their feet and charged, fifty or more in a single rush. The guards in the towers opened up, sending actual bullets through the sprinting bodies. The guard standing over Roth pivoted, bringing his pistol to bear on the tide of convicts streaming toward him.

Roth waited for him to fire his first shot then grabbed the man’s leg and yanked it out from under him. As the guard fell, he turned his pistol toward Roth, but Roth had been anticipating that. With his left hand, he slapped the firearm down, pressing it into the grass, while his right hand, clenching the shiv, arced over the guard. He buried the point in the back of the man’s neck and gave a brutal twist, rocking the rusty blade back and forth, severing bone and tissue and, most importantly, the top of the spinal cord. The guard made a hitching, mewling sound then went limp.

Roth spun away from the man, leaving the shiv where it was and picking up the pistol instead. The weapon’s weight felt right in his hand, a Glock 17 without any special adornments, just plain and functional. Roth rolled to his feet as the remaining blacks rushed into the fray, slamming into the guards, who fired back, sending bullets tearing through flesh and bone. Roth narrowly missed getting shot as a bullet snapped past his right ear, but he ignored it, turning his gaze to the nearest guard tower.

A guard stood at the railing, aiming his rifle into the writhing mass of prisoners and corrections officers below. Roth raised the pistol and fired twice, striking the tower guard in the face and neck. The man fell back against the wall and slumped to the metal deck.

Roth turned to the second tower, which was farther away and probably the bigger threat. The sniper there was mowing down the crowd, panning his Mini 14 rifle back and forth like some sort of magic wand, obviously looking for the shooter of his buddy. Roth hunched over, trying to make the task a little harder. At the same time, the wind changed, and a pall of tear gas moved toward his position. Roth cursed the luck. Not even he could shoot straight with a snoot full of tear gas, so he stepped out of the crowd and raised the pistol. The guard in the tower snapped his rifle around. It was a race to see who could shoot first.

Roth drilled the man three times. The third round hit the guard’s left hand and traveled through it, splintering the Ruger’s wooden forestock as the man slumped backward, blood pouring from his mouth.

“Shoot the others, you white fuck!” one of the black convicts screamed as a guard gunned him down.

Roth pivoted and began firing. He had intended for one shot to kill each guard, but the press of bodies was thick, so he just fired through anyone who got in his way. He wasn’t shocked or saddened when one of those was poor Blackie, his pale eyes wide with fright. Blackie died soundlessly as Roth fired right through his body, killing the guard on the other side in the process.

Seconds later, it was over. The guards were dead. So were several dozen convicts, but that didn’t matter to Roth. For the first time in years, he felt that surge of exultation, that soaring, prideful glee that murdering men and women in uniform created inside him. It felt as if his heart was four times too big for his chest, and he had trouble catching his breath. It was ten times the euphoria he’d felt even when basking at the apex of intense sexual pleasure.

Still a demon with a firearm. Still have the knack for killing cops.

###

After the shootout, there was still the problem of getting out of the prison. Plus, there were more guards inside the fortified walls. But the prisoners were armed, having seized the weapons from the fallen guards. Roth had found five magazines of nine-millimeter. It felt good to be armed again, substantially armed, even though what he really fancied were lying on the ramparts of the towers—the Ruger Mini 14s. But getting to them was going to be problematic.

Harley came up with the idea to use the prison transit bus. They knew it still ran, since the guards had still been using it.

Making their way over the fences that separated the yard from the motor pool took time. Many men got slashed trying to navigate the razor wire until someone finally managed to loosen one of the mounts, relieving the tension enough for the prisoners to crawl under the wire. When Roth’s turn came, he was sweating heavily. He wasn’t worried as much about getting cut, though that was a concern, as he was worried that the rest of the guards might choose that moment to counter-attack, when he was nothing more than a sitting duck clinging to the fence like an oversized mosquito holding onto a sheer drape after feeding so much that it was too fat to fly.

As he pulled himself onto the top of the fence and felt the sharp edges of razors gently kissing the fabric of his prison uniform, Roth thought he might lose his grip and fall. But he managed to haul himself over and, keeping a firm grip on the fence, spun around so that he could find purchase with his feet. He scampered down the other side, and when the soles of his shoes finally touched the ground, he ran to the nearest wall and flattened his body against it. The next prisoner managed to get hung up in the razor wire and, while trying to release himself, lost his grip. He fell to the cement on the other side of the fence. Roth heard bones break. The man wailed and writhed on the hard surface. No one bothered to help him. It was every man for himself.

The keys to the bus were kept inside a lockbox in a locked office. While that might have stymied the convicts under ordinary circumstances, two blasts from a shotgun ripped off the door and peppered the room with a mass of shrapnel.

One shot made short work of the lockbox, and Rollo seized the keys, his eyes practically bulging out of his head. “Come on, fuckahs! Let’s go!”

The prisoners who had made it over the fence joined him as he ran toward the bus. Roth motioned for Harley and the others to follow. Rollo unlocked the vehicle and pulled open the door. He was about to jump into the driver’s seat when Roth stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Let Harley drive,” Roth said. “He was a bus driver back in the world.”

Rollo hesitated, looking at Roth with suspicion. “That so?” he asked Harley.

“Yeah,” Harley said. “That’s so.” He cradled one of the liberated shotguns.

Rollo looked back at Roth. “You did your part,” he said. “You really do know how to use a gun, man. But like I said before, we’re done. You ain’t gettin’ on this bus. You and your white trash can walk.”

As he spoke, Rollo’s crew drew nearer. They had weapons too, but they hadn’t bothered to do the math. There were currently more whites in the group, and the lion’s share of the weapons belonged to them.

“That’s too bad,” Roth said then shot Rollo between the eyes.

Harley fired the shotgun at almost point-blank range. The blast took down a hulking black guy from California named Leeks and two more Roth didn’t know. Roth pivoted, firing at each black man who had a weapon. His rounds landed with incredible precision, a product of countless hours of range time and training, as well as an extraordinarily successful multi-state murder spree.

Most of the blacks who didn’t have weapons fled, but a few remained. They were the outcasts, physically weaker than the usual convict, but Roth knew they had skills. He considered taking them out, but he needed to conserve his ammunition.

“Are you coming with us?” he asked them. He focused his attention on a young, very dark-skinned kid who showed no fear even though he was all of twenty years old, at most. “You, there... what’s your name? Tyrone, right?”

“That’s me,” the kid said.

“You with us, Tyrone?”

“Got nothin’ else to do. No family. What’s the plan?”

Roth bent over and pulled the bus keys from Rollo’s dead hand. The thin black man lay on the ground, thick lips parted, eyes knocked askew by the bullet that had passed right between them. Flies buzzed around the body, brought in by the smell of blood and the stench from Rollo’s bowels emptying into his pants.  Roth handed the keys to Harley, who climbed in behind the wheel of the bus. The diesel engine caught and fired up, cackling away as a cloud of black smoke emerged from its tail pipe.

“We’ve got a nation to take,” Roth said. “Want to be a founding father?”

Tyrone smiled thinly. “You kiddin’ me, right?”

Roth shook his head. “I don’t do standup, boy. You and your pals in, or are you walking?”

Tyrone looked around at the five or six black men interspersed amongst the whites, Asians, and Latinos that were joining the group. No one said anything, so he cut his eyes back to Roth and nodded. “Yeah. We wich you.”

###

They used the bus to ram through the gates, which parted without causing any real damage other than scratching paint and gashing fenders. Harley pulled the vehicle around to the first guard tower. While the prisoners waited, Roth exited and climbed into the tower, where he retrieved the Mini 14 and all the ammunition he could find. He knew the weapon well. He’d used one just like it in the past.

“Together again, old friend,” he told the rifle as he slung it over his shoulder. “We’ve got work to do.”

17

Vincenzo stuck with Route 46 for the next several days, passing through small towns and cities. He avoided most of the people he encountered, and they returned the favor. His new hiking pack, which had started out quite heavy, was getting lighter and lighter by the day. He replenished his water whenever and wherever he could, but that was becoming more problematic. Water was a resource for which demand was already surging, especially as the summer heat continued to increase. The folks he saw seemed to have a quiet desperation about them that could give rise to violence at any time. As he tracked through shuttered business areas and more active residential neighborhoods, he felt the mounting discontent as if it was a palpable thing.

While children still played—with each other, as opposed to with smart phones or tablets or other electronic doodads—they were hovered over by parents who were suddenly more protective than ever. And a lot of those parents watched Vincenzo with suspicious eyes. As the hours of putting one foot in front of the other turned into days of the same, Vincenzo also realized he was seeing more evidence of people arming themselves. And for good reason—there were signs of violence, even in the residential neighborhoods, where garbage was beginning to pile up and meals were cooked over open fires in backyards. Sightings of police were becoming rarer, though when he did see them, they were less interested in a single traveler than those farther east had been. But where the police presence was missing, bands of citizens had sprouted up in their place. Sometimes, they formed checkpoints at the entrances to neighborhoods, and Vincenzo skirted those whenever he came across one. He didn’t want any trouble, but he also didn’t want to run the risk of the truly desperate helping themselves to what little he had.

He began to regret letting the Ackermans take the Glock. A backup piece would have been a handy thing.

In the evenings, he veered off the road and bedded down in wooded areas. Every night, he heard the distant reports of gunfire, usually just intermittent shots, but twice he heard what appeared to be protracted battles. Getting a good night’s sleep was a luxury he no longer had, since he was constantly awakened by voices or the passage of other travelers moving through the night. There were more people on the roads than he’d expected, but it made some sense to travel at night and avoid the oppressive heat of the day. He wondered if there was a chance he could find a pair of night vision goggles. Such things were likely as valuable as water, so the opportunity to come into possession of a pair was probably so low that it didn’t even register on the scale of probability.

On the fifth day after his separation from the Ackermans, the skies were full of murky, gray clouds. While the clouds helped block the heat of the sun, the humidity was still high, which meant Vincenzo had another sweaty day ahead of him. After a meager breakfast capped off with another dose of Tylenol and the last of the water in his Hydro Flask, he cleaned up his campsite and refilled the vessel with one of the bottles of water in his pack.

He took Route 612, which doglegged to the south. As he walked past a large mall, he heard the sound of machinery. Curious, he slowed and looked down the street. He was surprised to see several large Army trucks parked along the curb. They were much bigger in person than on TV. Uniformed men and women moved through the area inside a set of orange traffic cones that had been set up along with metal barriers. Civilians stood in neat queues, as if waiting for something. Vincenzo figured it was the National Guard handing out supplies. The thought of getting to stock up was tantalizing.

Then he saw several Guardsman pull a man out of the line and take him to one of the vehicles, apparently against the civilian’s will. There was a brief scuffle, but Vincenzo was too far away to hear what was going on. He presumed the man was a criminal or had done something to attract the ire of the soldier. Then, the Guardsman pulled off the man’s backpack and started going through it. It wasn’t just a search; the soldier was itemizing everything, separating the stuff by purpose and function.

Yeah, let’s not go down there. He resumed his trek, but he was filled with nagging worry that he had made a mistake. Maybe there was a legitimate reason for the soldier’s actions. Perhaps the man had done something that made them pull him out of the line. The military had operational vehicles, so perhaps they could assist him in getting to California.

Figure it out later. For now, just concentrate on getting out of Jersey.

A light sprinkle began to fall. He felt a few drops hit him, pinpricks of cool against the exposed skin on his arms and face. Then the rain intensified, building with force and volume until the street was soaked and slick. Thunder boomed, loud and forceful, the voice of God shouting in his ear. Vincenzo started to look for shelter, then he decided there was nothing wrong with getting a little wet. The temperature was dropping, and he could make better time without the heat of the day bearing down on him like some nagging mother-in-law that would just never shut up. So he removed his cap and let the rain hit him. Raising his face toward the torrent, he tried to scrub away some of the sweat and grime. It was the first shower he’d taken since leaving New York.

It was glorious.

###

The rain lasted most of the day, and as Vincenzo had thought, he made better time in the lower temperature. He took some time out to spread out his poncho and catch some of the rainwater. After an hour or so, he was able to refill one of the water bottles and top off the Hydro Flask—one less thing to worry about. Also, there were fewer people about, since most had probably sought shelter. Though thoroughly soaked, Vincenzo was actually enjoying the journey somewhat. No one was watching him, and those who did weren’t motivated to contact him. For his part, he kept his head down and just kept going. Route 612 became NJ 57, a two-lane road that ran through a semi-urban portion of New Jersey he’d never seen before and, God willing, never would again. Tall trees lined the boulevard, and their shade would have been welcome if the sun was shining. To his right were open agricultural fields. To his left was a New Jersey State Police barracks, which seemed deserted. Down the road, an actual Army tank sat in front of a slab-sided, two-story brick building. That worried him, and he considered cutting across one of the fields and disappearing into the trees beyond. But he was the only person on the road, aside from a couple sleeping in a pickup truck that looked brand new. They didn’t stir as he stalked past, and he paid attention to them just long enough to determine they weren’t a threat.

The building with the tank in front was a National Guard headquarters. Lights were on inside the office, and Vincenzo could hear generators purring somewhere behind the hulking structure. The tank was an old one and probably just a display, given the amount of bird shit spattered across it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it hadn’t moved in years.

But there was definitely activity in the building itself, and immediately outside, two armed sentries in uniform watched him as he walked past. He looked directly at them and gave a curt nod. One of the Guardsmen nodded back, and that was it.

Vincenzo made camp just outside of Philipsburg, the last town in New Jersey that stood between him and Pennsylvania. So far, he had made good time. In a matter of days, he had walked from Midtown New York City all the way across New Jersey. Of course, he’d also had to kill a man and face more violence inside one week than he’d previously seen over the course of his life, so every silver lining came with a lot of cloud.

One of the items the Ackermans had bequeathed him was a tarp, and he was able to spread that over the carpet of wet leaves and lay his sleeping bag on top of it. He wrapped the remainder of the tarp around him in a bid to keep the rainwater falling off the branches overhead off his sleeping bag. It would be a bit muggy inside, but that was preferable to being wet throughout the night.

For a moment, he considered leaving the clothes on—they’d eventually dry, but the stink and clammy wetness would ensure he wouldn’t get much in the way of rest. He decided that sleep was more important, especially given the numerous aches and pains that made their presence known. He changed into some dry clothes and stuffed his wet ones inside a plastic bag. Better wash and dry that stuff before it starts to grow mold.

After wrapping his calves in ThermaCare bandages, he took more Tylenol, along with some vitamin C caplets, in a bid to ward off any illness that might be lurking around the corner. The last thing he wanted was to be sidelined by a severe cold.

When he awoke the next morning, the rain had mostly stopped, but the sky remained sullen and gray, making the pre-dawn gloom even murkier than usual. Vincenzo ate a couple of the breakfast bars the Ackermans had left him and chased them down with his last energy drink. He still had several bottles of water, all of his water pouches, and the Hydro Flask, so he was good for another couple of days. Just the same, he was glad that he’d taken the time to capture some rainwater—there was no telling when he’d have that opportunity again. If nature didn’t keep lending a helping hand, then he’d have to filter and boil water from a creek or river, and he wasn’t sure that would ever be a good idea, especially in an environment as polluted as the eastern half of America.

Once again, as he packed up his camp, Vincenzo found himself wishing he hadn’t spent so much time ridiculing survivalists. Knock it off. What next? Am I going to wish I’d voted Republican instead of Democrat?

He took off down New Jersey 57 again, heading in a southwesterly direction. The two-lane highway was still wet. To his right, fields of unharvested corn waved in the gentle breeze that whispered from the east. Lights moved amongst the stalks, and he realized that workers were tending to the fields. He wondered how the harvest would be, if it happened at all. The previous day’s rain notwithstanding, without irrigation, the crop would certainly be a small one.

As he approached Philipsburg, the landscape went from semi-rural to more suburban. Walking past shuttered elementary schools and shops and gas stations, Vincenzo felt like the last man on the planet. Beyond the farm workers he’d seen, there was no one else on the road. There were fewer disabled automobiles on the street, and he wondered whether that was just from circumstance or if someone had actually tried to clear the streets of dead cars and trucks. The only sounds he heard beyond the tweets of birds in the trees were his own footfalls and the occasional clunk of the walking stick making contact with the asphalt. Despite the impression that he was alone, Vincenzo remained alert. It wouldn’t be long until the community woke up, and then anything could happen.

Farther down the road, a tractor-trailer hauling a load of gravel had slammed into stalled traffic in an intersection, but the shattered glass had been swept up and most of the wreckage pulled off into a nearby strip mall parking lot. Yet the windows in several stores had been shattered, and wet garbage lay scattered across the lot. A mound of plastic trash bags sat at the corner of the lot, and Vincenzo caught a whiff of the sunbaked waste they contained, even though the pile was several hundred feet away. He passed a car dealership stocked with vehicles that likely would never run again, closed restaurants—some of which showed signs of looting. In a tractor supply company, a man stood behind a locked chain link fence with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Behind him, several pieces of heavy construction equipment—bulldozers, payloaders, and dump trucks—sat idle. But there were tire tracks in the mud at the end of the parking lot, and they seemed fresh.

Vincenzo tipped his cap as he walked past. “Morning.”

“Morning,” the guy replied, but there was nothing welcoming in his voice.

“Those tractors, they still run?”

“Why do you ask? Is it any of your business?” the man asked, his voice a threatening rumble even though he was a good fifty feet away.

Vincenzo pointed at the tire tracks. “Just trying to get a gauge on how bad things are. If some vehicles still run, then maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

“Older diesels still run, those without fancy electronic ignitions. So do old cars and trucks and a lot of motorbikes.”

“So do old airplanes.”

The man didn’t seem impressed by the information. “That so?”

Vincenzo nodded and kept on walking without thanking the man for his time. Fuck him. He passed the darkened Key Diner and was heartened to see its windows intact. A group of bicyclists were in the parking lot. They regarded him warily as they got their bikes ready. All of them wore backpacks, and a couple even had small trailers behind their wheels.

Vincenzo shot them a thumbs-up. “Looks like you guys have the right idea,” he said, not breaking stride.

“Where you headed?” one of them asked.

“Los Angeles. You guys?”

“Different places. No one headed to Cali, though.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Take care on the road, guys. Things are getting rough.”

“Where did you come from?” another biker asked.

“New York City. Don’t go there. Stay away from it. In fact”—Vincenzo turned and walked backwards a couple of steps—“avoid all the large cities wherever you can. Too many people, too much desperation.”

“Thanks for that,” the first biker said. “Have a safe trip.”

Vincenzo nodded and faced forward again. He felt okay, not as many aches and pains as in previous days. The fact that it was cool—in the high sixties, maybe the low seventies—helped. The rising sun was still obscured by heavy clouds, but it didn’t look as if rain was going to pour down again anytime soon. Just in case it did, he kept his poncho at the ready. He didn’t want to be lugging wet clothes for the next few days, so the plastic liner would come in handy. He wished he’d worn it the day before, but sometimes, stupid is as stupid does.

He heard wheels on asphalt, and a moment later the seven bikers cruised past him. Vincenzo raised his walking stick in salute.

One looked over his shoulder and nodded his helmeted head at him. “Safe journey,” he said.

“You too, bro.”

The bikers pedaled on, weaving around the few dead autos in the street. In minutes, they were gone.

###

The road widened to three lanes, changing from NJ-57 to US-22. The designations meant nothing to him, just marks on his map. The map was holding up very well. It was still dry, though he really didn’t have to refer to it very often. All he needed to do was get through Philipsburg, cross the Delaware River, and kiss New Jersey goodbye.

The sky was still cloudy and uninviting, but at least it held back the sun’s rays for the time being. More people appeared on the road, coming out of buildings and parking lots and dead motor vehicles. No one paid him any mind, and no one got too close. It seemed that everyone had learned their lessons since the lights went out, and trouble was nothing anyone wanted to invite. Vincenzo did switch the big walking stick from his right hand to his left, just in case he needed to get to the Beretta in a hurry. It still struck him as odd, having to consider such a thing, but he knew he needed to get in that mindset and stay there. Safety was something he wouldn’t be sure of until he walked up the driveway of his house in the Hollywood Hills, and even then it was far from guaranteed.

Phillipsburg was a fairly unremarkable town, though some old world charm appeared the closer he got to the Delaware River. Midcentury buildings and older emerged amidst the monstrosities of strip malls and glass-faced office buildings. Many were ornate, and they spoke of a time that existed long before Vincenzo had been born, a time of his parents and grandparents. US-22 sheared off to the right, and he continued straight down Morris Street, ambling through another residential neighborhood full of closely spaced houses with front porches that overlooked the street. The residents watched the progression of humanity marching past with more curiosity than distrust. It was a refreshing change of pace, but he was certain it wouldn’t last. Eventually, one of the travelers would do something inappropriate, either an outright crime or something as bizarre as taking a dump while squatting over a storm drain, and that would turn the tide.

Morris ended at the intersection with Main Street, across from a set of railroad tracks. Vincenzo tracked left onto Main, passing weathered buildings and mountains of stinking garbage. He was surprised to find an amazing amount of activity occurring. There were people everywhere, and they seemed to be in good spirits. He tried to stay on the outskirts of the group, as did many of his fellow travelers, but it soon proved impossible. The road narrowed to two lanes again, and the sidewalks were full of tables with goods being hawked. It was a trading bazaar, of all things. Local police kept a watchful eye over things.

Vincenzo took a moment to examine some of the tables. At one, a woman was selling blue jeans and T-shirts. At another, a family had freeze-dried food. A third, quite busy one displayed an array of liquor bottles, and the men who presided over it were armed.  In the parking lot of a gas station, a haze of greasy smoke rose into the air as several people cooked hamburgers and hot dogs. Vincenzo’s stomach growled, so he headed that way. A sign in the grill area read CASH OR TRADE.

“Hey, what’ll you take for a burger?” Vincenzo asked as he approached the exchange table.

“Ten dollars for a burger and a soda,” one of the women said. She had long gray hair that was tied back in a ponytail, and her face was a mass of creases and lines. “We only have Coke and Diet Coke, and it’s warm. And for trade, we’re looking for seeds, vitamins, ammunition, or batteries.”

Ten bucks for a burger and warm soda? “How good is the meat?” he asked.

“It was frozen solid until yesterday. Thermometer says the temperature is still forty-two degrees. It’s still good, but it’s not going to last. Where you from?”

“New York.”

“Things bad there?”

He nodded. “They were going to hell, which is why I left.”

“You see any sign the government is pulling its act together?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “New Jersey National Guard seems to be active. I walked past a headquarters building that was lit up and guarded, and I saw them a few miles back doing something in a town, but I didn’t get close enough to see what.”

“Where you headed?”

“West.”

“How far west?”

Vincenzo smiled. “To the Pacific.”

The creases in the woman’s face deepened as she frowned. She bent over the table and looked him up and down. “Well, you might make it. You don’t seem that bad off. You walking past Fort Indiantown Gap?”

“It’s on the way.”

“Heard from some fella yesterday that the Army or the Guard or whoever is pulling together some major relief station there. FEMA is involved, too. You might want to check it out.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“So what’ll it be, cash or trade?”

“Cash,” Vincenzo said, and he pulled out a ten dollar bill. It was damp, either from rain or sweat, but that didn’t stop the woman from accepting it.

She handed him an orange ticket like the old ones they used at movie theaters when he was a kid. “Go stand in that line there and give this ticket to Molly, the girl with the brown hair and white apron,” the woman said, pointing at a queue near the grills. “She’ll take care of you. Have a good trip.” She turned to the person standing behind him, an obvious sign of dismissal.

Vincenzo joined the line at the grills and tendered his ticket when his turn came. The girl there took the ticket and gave him a greasy hamburger and a warm can of Coca-Cola. She hadn’t inquired whether he wanted diet or regular, but he didn’t give a damn. The burger wasn’t huge, and there was nothing on it, other than a layer of grease and some carbon from the fire. The bread was a little hard, well on its way toward becoming stale.

Vincenzo stepped out of line, the can of Coke tucked under one arm so he could keep a grip on his walking stick. He stopped under the wide awning of the gas station on the corner and wolfed down the burger. It was just as greasy as it looked, but it tasted fine despite the hardening bun. It was gone in four bites, which meant each mouthful cost him two dollars and fifty cents. Guess Reagan would be proud to see it only took the end of the world to give rise to supply-side economics.

He tossed the greasy paper plate into an overflowing trash can between two dormant gas pumps and popped open the Coke. It was just as warm as the can had suggested, but it was wet and still carbonated. As he drank, he looked around. Theo’s Drive In was on the far corner, and he suspected that was where the meat had come from. Across the street were two other dining establishments: the Union Square Grill and a slightly upscale restaurant called Sweet Basil, which had picnic tables out front filled with patrons eating burgers and swigging warm soda. Down the street was the bridge he would cross, taking him out of Jersey and into Pennsylvania, one state closer to home. He put the can of Coke on top of one of the gas pumps and pulled out his map again. Across the bridge, the street became Northampton, and it would take him through the town of Easton, Pennsylvania. A couple of miles to the west, he would turn left on Butler Street.

All good to me, he thought as he replaced the map in his knapsack. He polished off the Coke, belched, and place the empty can atop the heap of trash mounding out of the garbage can. Hitching up the straps of his hiking pack, he joined the wave of humanity streaming across the bridge. There were just as many people coming into Jersey as leaving it. He wondered why people would want to come into New Jersey but didn’t give voice to the question. After all, there was no reason to start a fight.

18

Vincenzo wound through the working-class communities of Easton, Pennsylvania. The trash-lined streets probably hadn’t been all that safe at night when the lights were on, and they were likely a lot less so since the electricity was permanently off. There was no police presence about, which was not a great surprise. All the businesses were shuttered, save for Louie’s Bar, which was apparently still doing great commerce, judging by the amount of drunken locals out front. They jeered at Vincenzo as he drifted toward the opposite side of the street, but they didn’t come after him. Several of them had firearms, and he kept the walking stick in his left hand, sweating in nervous fear as he hurried past. The men cackled as he picked up the pace.

“Run for the hills, you little pussy!” shouted a man with a huge beer gut spilling out from beneath his green T-shirt. He held a bottle of Johnny Walker Black in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was missing some teeth beneath his bushy mustache. “Hurry, before I make you my bitch!”

Vincenzo pressed on without comment. Two hours later, he was walking through the town of Wilson, which was a little further up the economic chart. Instead of row houses, the homes were colonials, bungalows, or capes on separate plots of land. Residents stood out on their lawns or porches, watching their kids play. Vincenzo was momentarily surrounded by some toddlers who encircled him with their Big Wheels and tricycles, all peppering him with questions about where he was going and why he was carrying such a big stick. He humored the kids while stepping around them, amazed that they were so open with a stranger. A man and a woman called the kids off, watching him with sharp eyes. Vincenzo tipped his cap to them and continued on, waving goodbye to the children.

“Hey, don’t go!” called on girl astride a trike. She wore a pink dress, a helmet, and kneepads. Something that looked suspiciously like chocolate was spread across her lips. “Stay and play with us!”

“Can’t, sweetie,” Vincenzo said. “I have to get back to my own family. You guys stay where your parents can see you, okay?”

“Why don’t you bring your family here? Then we can all play together!” the girl countered.

Vincenzo laughed. “I’d like to, but they’re pretty far away.”

“Raquel, come back,” a woman called.

“Aw, Mom!”

“Listen to your mother,” Vincenzo told her. “She knows what’s best, okay?”

The girl pouted. “Okay.”

Vincenzo smiled and walked on, his walking stick hitting the pavement with metronomic regularity, underscoring each step he took. He trod past Monocacy Park, where he considered making camp, but he still had several hours of daylight left, and the park seemed to be full of people.

In the outskirts of Allentown, the city was trying to reorganize under the guidance of the local and state police, with help from the fire department and public works. There were running trucks, all diesel, along with several buses. Vincenzo overcame his desire to remain anonymous and approached a group of firemen. He inquired about the buses and asked if there was a chance he could get a ride. The senior fireman told him he had to prove state residency or be in substantial need to benefit from any services.

“I’m from California, on my way home to Los Angeles. Does that qualify as substantial need?” he asked.

The fireman snorted. “Well, yeah, but we can’t help you there. If you keep walking west and find your way to Fort Indiantown Gap, the government has an aid camp set up. They might be able to get you squared away.”

“How far from here is that?”

The fireman considered it. “By walking? I don’t know, man. A day? Two days? Sorry, never walked it. You’d make better time if you get on the interstate, though.” The fireman wore a blue uniform and a baseball cap, and he was sweating heavily. Even though it was late in the day and cloud cover remained, it was still hot and humid. His chin was adorned with more than a few salt-and-pepper whiskers.

“Yeah, but you’d better be careful if you do,” said a younger fireman sitting astride a ATV with knobby tires. Its small bed was laden with cases of water.

“Why’s that?” Vincenzo asked.

“Highwaymen are making a comeback,” the older fireman said, scratching his stubbly chin. “Not a lot of law enforcement on long stretches of the interstate. But you make it to the Gap, you won’t have to worry about security. It’s a National Guard training center, lots of guys in uniform there, plus FEMA and both state and federal government. Heard FEMA started moving in a few days ago. You might be able to get yourself a hot and a cot for a while.”

Vincenzo nodded. “Thanks for the info.” He gestured at the water. “That for public consumption?”

“It’s for us and for anyone who’s approaching heat exhaustion,” the younger fireman said.

“Fair enough,” Vincenzo replied.

“You said you’re headed to California?” the older fireman asked.

“Sure am.”

“Figure you’ll be able to cross the Rockies before winter sets in?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I hope so. Don’t plan on crossing the Rockies, anyway, more like the Sierra Nevadas. I’m heading for Los Angeles.”

“That’s, like, twenty-five hundred miles from here,” the younger fireman said. He looked around at the other firefighters in his group, and they all shook their heads in bemused amazement.

“Yeah, it is,” Vincenzo said.

“Timmy, toss the man a bottle,” the older fireman said. “If he’s really on his way to California, he’s going to need it. You think you’ll be able to make it, if they don’t get the lights back on?”

“No other choice, man. My family’s alone out there.”

The younger fireman pulled a bottle of water out of one of the cases on the back of the ATV and handed it to the older man, who relayed it to Vincenzo.

Vincenzo accepted it with a nod. “Thanks. Anything I can do for you guys?”

“There is something,” the older fireman said. “My daughter lives in Tustin. You know where that is?”

“Sure. Orange County.”

“You do me a solid, and I’ll advance you one. If you make it before the lights come on, let her know her mom and me are doing okay. She’s twenty-three. Went out there to try and get into the movies. We haven’t heard from her since a few weeks before the event, so if you can somehow manage it, track her down and let her know we were fine when you saw us. Okay?”

“Sure, I can try and help you out. I can’t promise you I’ll make it, but if I do, I’ll relay the message,” Vincenzo said. “Just tell me where to find her.”

The older fireman reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. From a pocket on his sleeve he removed a pen. He turned and, using the cases of water on the back of the ATV as a desk, scribbled something across the back of the card. When he was finished, he handed the card to Vincenzo. “Her name and address.”

On the back of the card was the name Erica Guardino accompanied by an address in Tustin, California. He flipped the card over. The name on the front was Captain Gregory Guardino, Allentown Fire Department.

Vincenzo tucked the card in his shirt pocket. “I’ll do it. Thanks for the water and info.” He hitched up his hiking pack and firmed up his grip on the walking stick.

The older fireman held up his hand. “Hold on a second, cowboy. I said I’d pay the favor forward, and I wasn’t talking about giving you a bottle of water and the tip about the Gap.” He turned back to the younger fireman on the ATV. “Timmy, give the man a ride to the stationhouse. He can bunk there tonight. Let him take a shower and square away his gear, and he can take off from there tomorrow.”

The younger fireman looked a little put out. “Seriously? We’re going to let a stranger into the stationhouse?”

“If this is going to cause some heartburn, then thanks for the offer, but I’ll be on my way,” Vincenzo said. “The water’s enough, and I’ll do what I can to get a message to your daughter. But it’s going to be two or three months before she gets it.”

“Then at least let me offer you a shower,” Guardino said. “We have a generator at the stationhouse we crank up a couple of times a day. We’re about to come off shift, so you can hang with us, have a shower, and head off. Or you’re welcome to stay. You’ve only got maybe two hours before it gets dark. And tomorrow, I can run you into the sixth ward when I head for the firehouse.”

“Damn, boss, you’re being a bit generous,” the younger fireman said.

“And if your kid was out there on the other side of the country and someone was willing to pass her a message, you wouldn’t want to show some gratitude?” Guardino asked.

The younger guy just shrugged. A couple of cops wandered over and gave Vincenzo the once-over, then they seemed to forget about him.

“Listen, guys, I don’t want to cause any problems here,” Vincenzo said. “A shower sounds great but not if it’s going to cause a major morale issue.”

“Hey, I’m good with it if it’s what the captain wants,” the younger fireman said. He dismounted and started unloading the cases of water. “I’ll leave these here with you, Cap. Be back in ten.”

“Thanks, Lonnie,” Guardino said. “Explain it to the rest of the guys for me, in case they have some questions.”

“Ten-four.” Lonnie climbed back onto the ATV. “Come on, guy. Today’s your lucky day.”

Vincenzo hopped on behind him, and Lonnie kick-started the ATV into life. He threaded the rugged vehicle through the stream of people marching into Allentown and crossed the intersection. Once he made it to the other side, he accelerated south down Irving Street.

###

The fire station was across a large park that seemed mostly empty. Vincenzo considered it as a place to hole up for the night, as his presence at the fire station might cause more friction than he was interested in enduring. But when the ATV stopped in front of the clean brick firehouse, he decided maybe he could withstand a little bit of heat as long as he had the senior man’s backing.

“Place looks great,” Vincenzo said as he dismounted.

“Yeah, I never knew it was going to be turned into a Holiday Inn Express,” Lonnie said.

Vincenzo pointed across the street. “I’ll hang out in the park tonight. I’m not interested in making trouble for you guys. I know Captain Guardino’s trying to butter me up to contact his kid, but you guys shouldn’t have to suffer for it.”

Lonnie waved a hand and got off the ATV. “If it’s what he wants, it’s what he wants. Don’t sweat it. You have a sleeping bag with you, so no one’s going to be put out by giving up their bunk. Don’t be expecting air conditioning, though. We don’t have the generator juice to run it. Come on. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the guys, and you can have a shower. Maybe wash some clothes if you need to.”

“Damn, that sounds great,” Vincenzo said, thinking of the wet, and possibly moldering, clothes in his pack.

“As long as we have the power to run the water pumps, you’re good to go,” Lonnie said, walking toward the station.

Vincenzo hiked up his pack and followed. Lonnie unlocked the front door and stepped through, holding it half-open for Vincenzo. Lonnie locked the door behind them.

A fireman sitting behind a desk asked, “Hey, who’s this? You know we aren’t supposed to have any civilians in here!”

“Hey, Jescoe. Cap offered him a shower and a place to sleep,” Lonnie said. “He’s going to check on his daughter in California.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jescoe was older than Lonnie and severely bulked up, a true metal pumper. He regarded Vincenzo with small, dark, porcine eyes that didn’t reflect a lot of human warmth. “We supposed to give him a blow job, too?”

“I just do what I’m told,” Lonnie said. “If the guy’s going to help out the cap, then let the captain repay him however he wants. No skin off your ass. Right?”

“No skin off my ass? What if the water runs out? What if a pipe bursts because this guy’s taking a shower? What if the water heater fails? That’s not skin off my ass?”

“However you want to look at it, Jescoe. You work for the same guy I do. When he comes in, bitch to him, not to me.” Lonnie waved Vincenzo deeper into the station. “Come on, guy. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Tony Vincenzo.”

“Yeah, how ya doin’? I’m Lonnie, and this lug here is Jescoe. Say hello to Mr. Tony Vincenzo, Jescoe.”

Jescoe scowled. “Fuck both of you.”

“That’s how he says hello,” Lonnie said. “He’s a public relations expert. That’s why the department keeps him around. Follow me.”

Lonnie led him upstairs to the communal shower area. There were three toilet stalls and three showers behind closed vinyl curtains. The white-tiled room was illuminated by a single wire-mesh window that allowed the light of day to filter inside.

“Generator’s going to be on in about”—Lonnie checked his watch—“a little over six minutes. You’ll have to wait until then before you can shower because the water pump won’t run without it. When it does come on, turn on the water, get wet, turn off the water, soap up, then rinse. Don’t stand in there for twenty minutes taking a Hollywood shower. In the meantime, if you want to use the facilities, go right ahead. There’s a bucket of water beside each toilet. Use it to flush.” He pushed open one of the toilet stall doors and pointed out the blue plastic bucket beside the commode.

“Damn, this is better than any Holiday Inn Express I’ve ever stayed at,” Vincenzo said.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too cozy. Jescoe’s probably going to bitch to the captain about this, so you’d better get ready to vamanos as soon as you can. If you have laundry, we’ll spot you on that, but once it’s out and dry, you might be shown the door. Guardino’s a great guy and all, but if the rest of the guys are bent out of shape by you being here, then he’ll do what he has to do.”

“That’s no problem.”

“All right. There are twelve guys rotating in and out, and two are here right now. I’ll find Harry and let him know you’re around. Captain and I should be back in an hour or so. Any questions?”

“No. Tell all the guys I really appreciate this, though. If there are any hard feelings, pass them on, and I’ll be gone.”

“There are, but you’re good for now. Later, guy.”

###

The rest of the firemen didn’t seem as put out as Jescoe was, but Vincenzo got the impression the rest of the team thought the big firefighter was a prick anyway. He had his shower but kept the Beretta on the floor just outside the stall with the curtain parted slightly so he could keep an eye on it. He scrubbed furiously, eroding the mantle of dried sweat that covered him and washing the grime out of his hair. He would be in need of a haircut in the near future.

The firefighters allowed him to wash his musty clothes in their washing machine, along with a load of their uniforms. They were pretty nonchalant about it, but Vincenzo could tell they were going through the motions. There was a definite sense of urgency lurking behind the calm, collected masks they wore. If he hadn’t already spent days on the road looking at people with the same kind of feigned indifference to what was going on, he might have missed it. But the firefighters were nervous, even scared. Vincenzo couldn’t blame them. The community was depending on them to help out, and the firemen were used to conveniences like radios, running vehicles, and functioning public utilities to help them do their jobs. Most of that was gone. They were back in the pre-industrial age, and they had to learn to forget a great deal of their training. Firefighting, life-saving, and emergency response were going to be much riskier.

Captain Guardino returned to the firehouse and found Vincenzo in the laundry room. “Well, you look better,” the captain said.

“And I feel a lot better,” Vincenzo replied. “Thanks for all the hospitality you’ve shown me. Your guys have been great. I really appreciate it. You have no idea what a hot shower feels like. I figured I’d never have one again.” He turned and pointed at the running washing machine behind him. “And that’s practically black magic.”

Guardino smiled. “Yeah, we’re fortunate to have it. And five thousand gallons of diesel fuel for the generator. Once that’s gone, though, we’re going to have some trouble. We have the fuel in the tanker and ladder truck, but that’s about it.”

“Do they still run? Your trucks?”

Guardino shook his head. “Electrical harnesses are fried. We’re looking into getting them replaced, but other stations have priority. We’re not in the most heavily populated area, so we’re basically left with two ATVs. If a fire breaks out, we’ll have to piss on it then start spitting for good measure.” He shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. Anyway, we’re going to sit down for dinner. We still have some grub left that we need to get through before we start in on the boxed goods. You want to join us?”

“I don’t know, Captain. That might not be very well received. Your guys are going to get a little bent with all this favoritism.”

“Hey, their families come here and shower and eat, too. They’re not getting nothing for something, trust me. Toss the clothes in the dryer when they’re done washing then come down for some chow. We’d all like to hear what’s going on out there.”

“Well, if you say it’s okay, but I’m starting to feel like a bit of a freeloader.”

Once the laundry was in the dryer, Vincenzo went down and discovered that two platters of frozen lasagna had been made. The kitchen cabinetry was fire-engine red, which he found to be appropriate under the circumstances. Four firemen sat at the table, including Guardino and Lonnie; the others were out at checkpoints. A pair of axes leaned against one wall, and Vincenzo looked at them curiously.

“We keep them handy at night in case there’s trouble,” Lonnie said, noticing Vincenzo’s interest. “And they’re not too bad to have on hand during the day, too.”

“We had cops out front for the first week after the event,” Guardino said. “There was a bit of trouble. Lots of citizens came to the stationhouse for aid we couldn’t give. There was a bit of a riot about to occur, so the cops had guys assigned to us. But now that things are heating up in other parts of the city, we’re kind of on our own.”

“You guys don’t have any firearms?” Vincenzo asked.

The fireman all looked at each other, as if uncomfortable with the question.

“Well, we’re not exactly authorized for that kind of equipment,” Guardino said.

“So that means no one knows you have anything,” Vincenzo said with a smile. “Your secret is safe with me, guys.”

“We do have the ability to take additional protective measures,” Guardino said, “though we really hope we don’t have to do that. We’re about saving lives, not taking them.”

“I understand.”

“You see any trouble out on the road?” Lonnie asked.

“A bit.”

“You mind giving us a rundown on what you’ve seen so far?” Guardino doled out a large helping of lasagna, serving each of the men like a father carving up a turkey for his family.

Vincenzo told them about his nights in New York and his decision to flee. He described the run-ins he’d had, including the death of the black man who had attacked him on the George Washington Bridge. That story raised some eyebrows.

“Pardon me for saying so, Tony, but you don’t exactly look like the killing machine type,” Lonnie said.

“I’m not. I just got lucky.”

He went on to tell them about the Ackermans and their plane flight to Cincinnati. That was a point of interest since none of them had seen a plane or helicopter in the air since the event, not even military aircraft. Vincenzo had no explanation for that, as his experience with airplanes beyond flying in an airliner began and ended with assisting Rob with prop-starting the Piper Cub.

“But it does seem likely air travel is still possible,” Vincenzo said. “At least on a small scale. Not so sure we’re talking jets and the like, but older propeller planes can definitely still fly. And I’d guess the skies are a lot less crowded now, so even without air traffic control, people should still be able to fly from point A to point B.”

“That’s encouraging to hear,” Guardino said. He held out his hand. “You know what, I don’t need you anymore. Give me my card back.” When Vincenzo raised an eyebrow, Guardino laughed. “Just kidding, man. How do you like the lasagna, huh? It’s the best frozen chow city money could buy.”

“It’s great. Really, it is.” While Vincenzo was certain his mother’s homemade lasagna wouldn’t be threatened, the slab of cheese and pasta before him was definitely flavorful and filling. After so many days on the road, eating previously frozen lasagna in a firehouse was like walking into a five-star Italian restaurant and having a five-course meal.

“You see any sign of the government getting in on the act?” one of the firemen asked.

“No, not really. I saw some National Guard in Jersey, but that was just a couple of days ago. I didn’t see anything like it in New York, that’s for sure. The city tried to set up aid stations, but they were picked clean on the first day. Then there were riots. I saw dead bodies on the first day everything went to hell.” Vincenzo considered what he’d just said then shook his head. “It unraveled really, really fast.”

“It’s because gutless liberals don’t have what it takes to work,” one of the firemen said. “Fucking pansies need everything handed to them on a silver platter. Heaven forbid some of the special snowflakes out there have to do something for themselves for once, or maybe show some backbone and suck it up when things hit bottom.”

“I’m sure there are just as many conservatives helping themselves to whatever they can get,” Vincenzo said.

The fireman snorted. “And I’ll bet you soup to nuts that conservatives are better prepared for this kind of situation than the lefties any day of the week.”

“You may be right about that. I don’t know any different.” Thank God these guys don’t know my voting record.

“Yeah, well, politics aren’t really all that important anymore,” Guardino said. He refilled his tall glass with iced tea. The ice tinkled as he stirred, a sound Vincenzo didn’t think he’d be hearing again so soon. “America’s going to pull through this just fine. It’s going to take a lot of work, but we’ll get it done. We know what we need to do. We just have to get organized and get it done.”

“Yeah, first we need to lay about ten million miles of new electric cabling, then we can get back to work. Right?” Lonnie asked.

“Didn’t say it was going to be easy, Lonnie,” Guardino said. “But if airplanes can still fly, and if the diesel generators and trucks and the like can still run, then we’ve got an edge. But we have a hell of a lot of work to do before winter.”

“Is there any plan in place for Allentown?” Vincenzo asked.

“There’s a natural gas power plant in Bethlehem that they’re hoping to get operational in a month or so,” Guardino said, “so at least there will be some power available. I’ve heard line crews are out all over the state, and the Guard is backing up the state police in providing security. Here in Allentown, we have some power generation capability, but it’s all offline right now. Mostly from garbage incineration, believe it or not.” He smiled. “Well, at least there’s enough fuel lying around to bring it all back online when the time comes.”

“How long will it take to rewire the city?” Vincenzo asked. “Or is that a stupid question?”

“Weeks and weeks, if not months,” Guardino said. “According to the briefings I’ve been in on with the local office for emergency management, there’s some cable stock that wasn’t fried by the event, but most of it’s been turned into slag. It needs to be repaired or something, though I don’t know how they’re going to be able to do that. And I don’t know how they’d be able to get replacement stock any time soon.”

“So there hasn’t been any official word from the government?” Vincenzo asked.

“Sure there has, the same prerecorded bullshit message that’s been playing every hour on the hour over the emergency broadcast system, most of which went down for the count, too,” Lonnie said. “The president says the government is activating all federal resources and that citizens should contact their local governments for up-to-date location of FEMA assistance centers, stuff like that.”

“And this Army base, Fort Indiantown Gap, has something like that going on?” Vincenzo asked.

Guardino nodded as he chewed a mouthful of lasagna. “Yeah, and it’s right off the highway. Easy to get to, but it’s got to be a popular place by now.”

Vincenzo tried to recall his route. He knew there were stretches where he’d have to mount the interstates, and he thought that Indiantown Gap on the way. If he was right, then he wouldn’t have to deviate from his path to stop by and check things out. “What about these highwaymen you guys mentioned?”

“More speculation than anything else right now,” Lonnie said. “We heard it from the cops, who heard it from the staties. Most of the info is second- or thirdhand, but it’s probably not entirely unreliable, if you get what I mean.”

“I do.”

Guardino sipped some tea and looked across the table at Vincenzo. “You armed, Tony?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because you just can’t be too prepared these days. Even an old lady could gun down a young buck if the opportunity was there and the payoff was right. Keep that in the back of your mind. Don’t trust anyone.”

“I don’t,” Vincenzo said. He smiled. “But I trust you guys.”

The firemen laughed.

###

Vincenzo’s quarters for the night were in a fire department pickup truck that wouldn’t start. He spread his sleeping bag out in the truck’s bed after brushing his teeth in the pale glow of secondary lights powered by the generator. The three-bay garage was tepidly illuminated as well, but there was more than enough light to see by, and he got himself squared away quickly. Guardino had told him that the generator would be powered down by ten o’clock and wouldn’t come on again until eight the next morning. The guys would leave before then, and if Vincenzo wanted to take another shower, he was out of luck.

It was humid and a bit stuffy in the garage, but he didn’t mind. No one was going to be able to break through the metal doors without him knowing it, and the firehouse seemed quite secure compared to camping outdoors. If sleeping in the truck was roughing it, then he could do it all week long.

He ensured his pack and pistol were close at hand then stripped down to his underwear. He was asleep within three minutes.

19

“Up and at ’em, Sleeping Beauty.”

Vincenzo automatically reached for the Beretta. He raised his head above the truck’s side and saw the fire station captain stepping back, hands held in the air.

“Whoa there, Hoss. I come in peace,” Guardino said.

Vincenzo relaxed. “Sorry. I was in a really deep sleep. What time is it?”

“Five thirty. We’re making some breakfast on the Coleman stove. Pre-mixed pancakes and some bacon, if there’s any left. You in?”

Vincenzo nodded. “I’m in.”

“All right. Change out of your Underoos and get packed up. We’ll be rolling out of here at six thirty.” With that, the captain turned and walked back into the lounge.

Vincenzo pulled his clothes on and checked his hiking pack. It hadn’t been tampered with during the night, but he hadn’t expected that it would have been. He slid the Beretta back into its holster and tucked it under his T-shirt after rolling up his sleeping bag and stowing it. Finally, he slipped on his boots and laced them up. Popping his cap onto his head, Vincenzo was ready to take another few steps toward California.

Breakfast was rudimentary but still light years ahead of what he usually had. Hot pancakes, margarine, maple syrup, and coffee—lots and lots of coffee. Vincenzo felt as if he were eating the firemen out of house and home and all because he’d won Guardino’s favor by promising to attempt to contact his daughter. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Everyone in the firehouse hoped that some remarkable recoveries would be made in the short term and the gulfs between families could be sewn shut, or at least reduced. Vincenzo doubted that was in the cards, but he wouldn’t be bitter if it actually came to pass.

“All right, let’s get moving,” Guardino said after breakfast. “I have a meeting at a fire station in the sixth ward, and I’m supposed to pick up a few cases of MREs that are being transferred to us.”

“Ready when you are,” Vincenzo said, getting up to follow him out.

Guardino and Vincenzo mounted the ATV while another fireman pulled on a chain that raised one of the garage bay doors. It looked as though the day was going to be bright and sunny, which caused Vincenzo to groan inwardly. Sunlight meant heat, which would be accompanied by humidity.

Guardino drove the ATV like a kid riding an Enduro dirt bike, whipping through the streets at a high rate of speed. The wind blast almost ripped the cap right off Vincenzo’s head, but he managed to grab it before it flew away. He was glad he’d lashed his hiking pack and walking stick to the ATV’s bed with bungee cords.

“Hey, where’s the fire, Captain?” he asked.

“Fire, my ass. You realize how many people would want to steal this thing?” Guardino said. “You think Allentown is full of God-fearing Amish and people who stand around farting potpourri? We’re in crime central, and it doesn’t get any better once we cross over into the next ward.”

“You’ve had trouble before? Someone try to jack your ATV?”

“Not yet, but I’ve seen the looks,” Guardino said. “Summer’s just starting, and when things get really hot and there’s no relief in sight, people are going to get stir crazy.”

“Now you tell me!”

Guardino laughed. “You’ll be long gone before things go all the way to hell, Tony. The rest of us ain’t so lucky.”

“You going to stick it out?”

“I’ll be the last man standing,” Guardino said. “Got nothing else to do, nowhere else to go.”

“Keep the ATV. It might come in handy.”

“Already on my mind, pal. Already on my mind.”

They raced across a bridge over the Lehigh River, and on the other side, the terrain became decidedly more urban. To their left was what looked like a garbage dump, and it certainly smelled like one. Tractors were already at work, piling the mountains of trash higher and deeper. Farther on, there was a factory of some sort. The sign indicated it was a structural steel company. A billboard proclaimed that tonight’s Cash 5 jackpot was nothing—the sign was electronic, and with no power, there was no award amount available.

Guardino saw Vincenzo looking at it and snorted. “With my luck, I probably have the winning ticket in my pocket,” he said. “Well, at least I’ll have something to light a fire with when the weather turns cold.”

They ripped through the streets, maneuvering around stalled cars and clumps of garbage bags or people standing around and watching the ATV. The little vehicle’s engine noise certainly attracted a lot of attention, and Vincenzo could see why Guardino was nervous. It wouldn’t take a lot for someone to try to jack him over, though during one banking turn, something shifted beneath Vincenzo’s feet. He looked down and saw a black composite stock sticking out from under the seat. Guardino had brought the shotgun he hadn’t wanted to admit to last night.

“Hey, you never know when some twelve gauge might come in handy,” the fireman said.

“Damn straight.”

The trip ended when Guardino pulled into the driveway of another fire station. The building had apparently been under construction when the event hit, for one third of the driveway was missing with only flattened earth and sand inside a boxed frame. Three firemen stepped out of the station as soon as the ATV came to a halt.

Guardino cut the engine and set the parking brake. “Okay, end of the line for me. You know where you are? The road we took is Route 1022. You said that’s the road you were planning on traveling down, right?”

“That’s it. How far are we from your station?”

“About five miles.” Guardino pointed down the street. “You’ll be going right through the middle of Allentown. Not all of it’s going to be pretty. We have a fairly high population of poor here, lots of Latinos, lots of blacks. A bunch of them have a gang mentality about them. You any good with your gun?”

“I’m not Dirty Harry, but I know how to use it.”

“Don’t be afraid to if you have to. Blast the living shit out of anyone who gets in your way. Anyway, about ten miles out, you’ll come across the interchange with Interstate 78. You’ll be pretty far outside the city by then, out where the farm lands start. The Gap is right off 78, maybe two days out. You make it there, check in with the Guard and see what’s going on. Mention us over here in Allentown. We could use a security presence, not to mention ten of everything else they might have.”

“You think the highway’s safe?”

Guardino snorted as the three firemen walked over to the ATV. “Tony, you make it through Allentown, you’ll be able to take on anything you might find on the interstate. Trust me.”

“Hey, who’s this?” one of the newcomers asked, looking at Vincenzo with concerned eyes.

“Just a pal who I gave a lift,” Guardino said. “Don’t worry about him. He’s hoofing it from here. You got my daughter’s address, Tony?”

Vincenzo patted his shirt pocket. “Right here, Captain. Don’t worry about that. If I make it, I’ll look her up for you.”

“Good man.” Guardino extended his hand, and Vincenzo shook it. “Thanks for the help. I appreciate it. My wife would say the same, but she’s at her mother’s house in Bethlehem with her sister and her kids. Maybe one day you can meet her. She makes a mean Hungarian goulash.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Vincenzo said. He dismounted and nodded to the three firemen standing as he reached back for his walking stick. “You guys all stay safe.”

“Same to you, Tony. Same to you,” Guardino said.

###

The trip through Allentown wasn’t as bad as Guardino had warned it might be. The city wasn’t in great shape, and there were definite signs of looting—every liquor store had been broken into, save for those with barred windows and doors—but those were mostly islands of distress on an otherwise unremarkable sea. For the most part, the people of Allentown seemed to be holding things together... at least during the day. The criminals, predators, and lowlifes would hold reign during the dark hours, when they could pretty much do as they pleased.

As Vincenzo walked through town, people tried to delay him, asking him questions about where he’d been, where he was going, and what life was like outside of Allentown. He answered on the move, never stopping. He always carried the walking stick in his left hand, his right never far from the pistol concealed beneath his T-shirt. The day was hot and humid, and the urban landscape offered little in the way of shade. Whenever possible, he would seek a few minutes of rest beneath the canopy of a tree or in the shadow of a building. He would drink then relieve himself as far out of sight of others as he could. He had one particularly frightening moment when he was peeing behind a fetid dumpster in an alley only to find a homeless man was watching him from amidst the stinking garbage pile.

“Stay safe,” the man said. “Lie down in garbage.”

Vincenzo finished pissing, zipped up, and got the hell out of there.

He walked past a Chevrolet dealership that had suffered at the hands of vandals. Most of the cars and trucks in the lot had been defaced or damage, tires slashed, windshields shattered. A Walgreens drug store across the street had been looted, all its windows gone, the glass lying in the parking lot like a scattering of diamonds glistening in the sunlight. Farther down the street was a bicycle shop, and Vincenzo paused to look inside. The windows were gone there as well, and the interior smelled like urine and feces. There were bike parts but no bikes.

A few miles down, the urban features began to erode, replaced by more suburban attributes: low-lying office buildings, individual shops instead of strip malls, apartment buildings, and row houses. Trees lined the street, and shade was suddenly plentiful beneath their widespread canopies of leaves. There were fewer abandoned cars in the middle of the street, but each street corner had garbage bags stacked ten high. Flies buzzed about, and Vincenzo detected the rank odor of untreated sewage. He wondered about infection.

Children still played in the street, though they looked dirty and a bit worse for wear. Parents and other residents sat in tight groups on lawns. No one interacted with him other than to say hello, including the children. That suited him just fine. Vincenzo acknowledged the greetings.

The neighborhood changed again, transitioning from apartments and row houses to more stately two-story brick and wood homes. Lawns were turning brown or being slowly overrun by weeds. Some homeowners were actively fighting it, kneeling in the afternoon sun to pull weeds. One enterprising individual was actually digging up his lawn in preparation for planting crops.

The gray-haired man noticed Vincenzo and stood up. He wore a large pistol in a holster on his hip. “Excuse me. Have you heard anything about Atlanta? Any news from there at all?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “No, afraid not. I’m coming from New York.”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you.” With that, he turned back to his work.

The houses became larger, and fewer people were evident. The stink of piling garbage and human waste became less omnipresent. Every now and then, a field or vacant lot would appear. Some had evidence that they’d been used as camping grounds, while others seemed pristine and untouched. Vincenzo stopped beneath a tree and sucked cold water from his Hydro Flask. He’d refrigerated some of his water at the firehouse, and it was still cold in the high-tech vessel. The travel cooler the Ackermans had given him was full of ice, which kept a couple of bottles of water and some perishable food cool. It wouldn’t last for long, but it was probably enough to get him to Fort Indiantown Gap.

He walked past a strip mall with a Ruby Tuesday and a Five Guys burger shop. There was some activity in the parking lot, what seemed to be citizens and some uniformed police overseeing another trading bazaar. Vincenzo inspected it from the road, trying to determine if it was worth his time to stop and take a look. Why, you got something to trade? He walked past the activity without stopping.

By two o’clock, the majority of Allentown and its surrounding suburbs were behind him. He passed some outlying malls where not a lot was happening, and there weren’t a huge amount of people milling about. When he came to some highway overpasses, he took a knee beneath a tree and pulled out his map. He could take Route 22 to Interstate 78, which was the most convenient approach. Alternatively, he would have to get on Interstate 476 and travel north for a mile or so before turning west. He was still nervous about being on a highway, but if there was a chance that substantial aid could be had at the National Guard base Guardino had mentioned, then he had to accept the risk. The interstate would present the fastest, most direct route. Also maybe the one that could present the most trouble.

He headed for Route 22. There was still plenty of sunlight left, and he felt pretty good, all things considered. His feet and legs didn’t hurt as much as when he’d first started his journey. His body was getting stronger, but he was losing weight. His clothes didn’t fit him as well, and he had to tighten his belt to keep his pants from sagging. Pretty soon, he might start looking like an urban thugster with his pants hanging half off his ass.

The incline for the on-ramp was steep enough to make his thighs ache a bit, so he paused at the crest to take a look around. There was plenty of dead traffic baking away in the sun and more than a few indications that foot traffic had been high in the previous days. But for the moment, no other travelers were in sight. He turned west.

###

Two hours later, he came upon a pile of wreckage that spanned both westbound lanes. A tractor trailer had slammed into halted traffic and jackknifed before rolling over and tearing away a great chunk of the concrete barrier that separated the travel lanes. The truck had been full of mattresses, and they lay scattered across the roadway. Some had been torn open, exposing their inner springs and foam cushioning. Others were virtually immaculate, still in their plastic shipping sleeves. Vincenzo could have stretched out and taken a nap right then and there, but something smelled rotten.

Reaching beneath his shirt and gripping the butt of the pistol, he walked around the shattered cab of the truck. A car had been practically annihilated by the impact. It was nothing more than a flattened mass of metal and shattered fiberglass, and the shadows of long-dried liquids discolored the asphalt. At first, Vincenzo thought the stink of death came from inside that, or one of the other vehicles that had been caught up in the collision. A Nissan had been catapulted tail-first into the concrete barrier. Its windshield faced him, and through the cracked glass, he saw a man slumped over the steering wheel, his face hidden by the pale ribbon of an air bag.

When Vincenzo rounded the last set of crushed cars, he found he had been mistaken about the source of the stench. Black birds exploded into the sky with angry caws, causing him to stumble backward and let out a startled yelp. The reek of death suddenly intensified as the birds took flight and disappeared into the trees along the side of the highway. Three women lay on the road in various stages of undress. One had apparently been strangled with her own nylons and sodomized with a bottle that remained where her attacker had left it. Her flabby thighs were blotched with spots of decay, the flesh torn by the birds. Another woman, likely younger due to the size of the body, was face down in a dried puddle of blood, her bare buttocks likewise savaged by carrion birds and any other animal that might have been hungry. The third was definitely a child, and her body had been hacked at with a sharp knife. The only blood visible was on the thighs, so the cutting might have happened after she was already dead.

Vincenzo’s stomach roiled, and he lurched away from the scene with a cry. He broke into a sprint, winding his way around stalled cars and trucks, his feet kicking up garbage and refuse. He was dimly aware of the flock of crows flapping their way back to the corpses, their wings tearing at the air as they raced each other to the feeding trough. Vincenzo kept running until his lungs burned and his legs began to cramp, the sweat pouring off him. When he couldn’t go any farther, he stopped and leaned against a dirty white panel van that had been pulled off to the side of the road. Its doors were open, and it looked as if travelers had been using it as a place to sleep. He slid until he sat on its rear bumper, facing the direction he had come from. The jackknifed truck was almost a fifth of a mile away, and he couldn’t see the corpses at all.

Damn, haven’t run that far since high school. Bile burned the back of his throat, and he spit into the dust on the side of the road. With trembling hands, he reached for the Hydro Flask. The walking stick fell and clattered to the road. He ignored it and opened the flask, pausing for a moment to make sure he was under control before he drank. His stomach felt fluttery, but his throat was raw and dry. He didn’t feel great, but he didn’t feel as though he was going to vomit all over his boots, either. He took a pull of cool water, a small one at first, then followed it with a larger one, washing away the burning acid.

“Fuck me,” he said, gasping. “Fucking goddamn this shit to hell.”

It happened over a week ago, probably even longer. They were caught on the highway during the event. A mother, maybe, and her daughters. And someone or a group caught them in the open, raped them, killed them, and dumped their bodies at the accident site. He wondered if it was possible the women had been traveling with the dead man in the Nissan. Had an entire family been wiped out? But there were no occupants in the other cars, as far as he could tell.

He knew he was only a half mile or so from the forty-seven mile marker. If he could find a policeman or a soldier and tell them where they could find the bodies. Maybe the murderer or murderers could be caught and tried.

You’re kidding yourself, paisan, a small voice told him. No one’s going to give a shit about three dead women on a country highway, not anymore. People are running out of water, food, everything. The world’s a different place, and people are going to start taking care of themselves and their own, and that’s it. You’d better just stick to getting yourself to where you need to be. Don’t go making any trouble.

He shook his head. Fuck, when did I suddenly become a guy who stopped caring?

Sorry? You actually think you care about other people, fuckface? the voice responded. You? The guy who just couldn’t wait to stop thinking about your dead kid?

Vincenzo snorted as he put away the Hydro Flask. He bent over to reclaim his walking stick. The muscles in his legs were twitching uncomfortably, telling him he’d probably pushed them too hard by running with so much weight on his back. He checked his watch. It was almost six o’clock. The sun was much lower in the sky, but he still had a couple of hours of daylight left. He would press on for another hour then start looking for a camp site.

Somewhere far from the highway.

###

Vincenzo crossed an open field to a stand of tall trees about six hundred yards from the highway. There were no trails leading through the grass, so he felt it was reasonably safe to presume no one was already there, but just the same, he approached the trees with as much caution as he could muster. His Rolex told him it was just after seven, and the trees were in a fair amount of shadow thanks to the slight rise to their west. He reached their boundary and almost immediately stepped right into a thorn bush, catching a barb right in the balls. He yelped and backtracked until he found a way around the thorny bushes.

He found a good spot to make camp, shielded by heavy thorn bushes on one side and trees on the other with some brush filling in the gaps between them. In the fading light, he spread out the tarp then his sleeping bag. He pulled out his map and checked his route. Even though he was on the interstate, he was basically paralleling his previously plotted path, which meant heading to Fort Indiantown Gap wasn’t really taking him out of his way. If Guardino was right, he should be able to make it to the National Guard base by the next evening. Vincenzo wasn’t certain a lot of good would come from it, but if the government was offering aid, then he’d be better served by checking it out than ignoring it. The government—whatever parts of it were still functioning—stood a better chance of getting him to California faster than his boots ever could.

He ate a small meal and refilled his Hydro Flask with one of the bottled waters from the hiking cooler. The cooler was full of melting ice, which while disappointing, at least gave him another water source. He took some Tylenol then brushed his teeth and dug a small cat hole for his waste.

It was full-on dusk by the time he stretched out on the sleeping bag. He could see patches of sky overhead, a shadowy blue populated with high-altitude cirrus clouds. He thought about the Ackermans again, and he hoped they’d made it to Cincinnati. He decided that, once things were finally back to normal, he would definitely make a trip to Ohio to see how they were doing.

He was just drifting off when he heard screams. At first, he thought they were the product of a dream, but they sounded again: a man and a woman, both screaming, followed by a burst of rough laughter from several different male voices. What the fuck?  Vincenzo sat up and drew the Beretta.

The man screamed again, and his screeching intensified in pitch and frequency before dying off into a gurgle. Then the woman’s cries started up, accompanied by men’s jeering voices. He couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded as though they were shouting some sort of encouragement.

Vincenzo looked down at the pistol in his hand. His thumb rested on the safety, and his index finger stretched out along the cool metal of its frame, right above the trigger guard. Don’t get involved.

The woman’s shrieks continued, and the men laughed and cheered. In the distance, he heard dogs barking.

Don’t get involved.

After an hour or so, the woman’s hoarse screams trailed off into muted gasps and whimpering. Vincenzo caught a whiff of cooking food, but the darkness was complete. He could see nothing, not even his own hand when he held it up in front of his face. Voices muttered, and in counterpoint to the woman’s moaning cries, they sounded cheerful and boisterous. Congratulatory. There was laughter, a lot of it. The woman continued moaning and sobbing.

Don’t get involved.

Her cries ended sometime during the night, and the men grew quiet as well.

Vincenzo finally slept, the Beretta in his hand.

20

Vincenzo awoke before dawn. In the inky pre-dawn gloom, he relieved himself in the cat hole then covered up his mess. After hitting his hands with a dose of sanitizer gel, he made a light breakfast and chased it down with Tylenol and water. He could no longer smell cooking food, but he knew he wasn’t alone. There were predators on the interstate, and he didn’t know what to do about them. He crouched in the darkness, listening. He heard nothing, but he had no doubt they were still there, camped out on the road. He figured his best bet was to push off before they roused themselves, and put some distance between them.

He packed up his camp and holstered the Beretta. After hoisting the hiking pack onto his shoulders, he picked up the walking stick and pushed his way through the brush that surrounded his campsite. He stuck to the treeline for as long as he could, but as he mounted the hillock to the west, it began to peter out. There was a trailer park there, so he pulled his binoculars from his knapsack. The park had been surrounded by dead cars and trucks, making a crude and probably ineffective wall. Several men and women moved about in the gloom, many carrying long guns. He also spotted some dogs, which explained the barking he’d heard the night before. Vincenzo observed the trailer park for a few minutes, trying to figure out the best way past. Making contact was out of the question. If the residents had heard the screams last night, then they would probably shoot first and ask questions later if he emerged from the trees and walked up on them. And he couldn’t blame them. If someone headed his way after that, he’d likely open up on them himself.

Vincenzo backtracked a hundred yards or so until he felt he could leave the treeline and not be seen. Danger wasn’t far enough away for him to be complacent, so he drew the Beretta and clicked off the safety. The eastern horizon was still brightening, and the sun was perhaps half an hour from rising; still, there was more than enough light to see by. And enough light to be seen by.

He marched through the tall grass that separated him from the interstate. All was quiet on that stilled artery. Abandoned vehicles loomed in the murk, but there was no movement and no sound other than that made by a few waking birds and his own footfalls as he pressed through the grass that was damp with dew.

He made it to the interstate and knelt on the shoulder of the eastbound lanes, taking a moment to survey the territory. All seemed quiet, so he mounted the interstate, drifting toward the concrete barrier that separated the travel lanes. He didn’t know exactly where the predators he had heard last night were, but he suspected they were behind him. The screaming had come from the east, and he was headed west. He would eventually come within sight of the trailer park, as it overlooked the interstate, but if he hurried, he hoped to be past it before the sun came up.

It was difficult to move quickly and maintain any degree of stealth. Vincenzo darted from vehicle to vehicle, using them as cover. There weren’t a lot of cars along that stretch of highway, so he had to hustle across several open gaps. He hugged the concrete barrier then eventually crossed over it, putting it between him and the upcoming trailer park. At the same time, he kept checking behind him for any signs of pursuit.

As he neared the trailer park, the open spaces became more numerous. He had to expose himself for extended periods of time as he jogged from one car to another, the sweat pouring off his body as the eastern horizon continued to brighten. His attention was mostly fixed on the trailer park. When he came abreast of it, he could see the barrier of cars.

And looming above those, the silhouettes of several humans.

And the rifles they pointed at him.

Vincenzo ran to the next car and flattened himself against it, heart hammering. Cautiously, he peered around it, gasping for air from his run and the fright that coursed through him like an electric shock. His eyes burned as perspiration ran into them, and he paused to swipe at them. He had spotted scopes on some of the rifles, and he was deep into hunting territory, so several of the people sighting down on him were likely experienced shots. The Acura SUV he crouched behind wasn’t going to give him much protection against a real hunting round like a .308 or .30-06. And even a hundred boxes of nine-millimeter weren’t going to help him. A pistol was no match against several attackers armed with high-powered, precision weaponry.

One of the people crouched behind the wall of cars stood up straight. He waved his left hand over his head, holding his rifle in the other. Vincenzo stared, unsure of what to do. Was the man trying to get his attention?

The man stopped waving, pointed directly at Vincenzo then motioned to the west. He followed that by pointing to the east and holding up four fingers. Vincenzo thought the man might be telling him to keep going, but he had no idea what the four fingers meant.

Down the highway, he heard the distinctive sound of a bottle rolling across the asphalt. He crouched lower and looked back to the east. After a moment, he saw four heavily armed men walking around an immobile truck. Three of them paused to give the truck the once-over, peering inside before pulling open its doors. The fourth man stood security, his rifle—a nasty-looking weapon with military styling—held at the ready. They all wore jeans or camouflage hunting gear, hiking boots or athletic shoes, and sported heavy beards. The man standing watch was totally bald, his scalp gleaming slightly in the brightening morning. Vincenzo realized that they were the men he had heard the night before. They didn’t know he was ahead of them, but it wouldn’t be long before they found him. Oh, fuck.

He looked up toward the trailer park. The man who had stood up gestured to the west once again, then crouched, and shouldered his rifle. The situation was clear. The people guarding the trailer park were setting up an ambush, and Vincenzo had to boogie unless he wanted to join the party. What are you waiting for? Someone to take you by the hand and lead you away? Move your stupid ass!

Vincenzo duck-walked to the front of the Acura. He peered over its hood at the trailer park. Someone at the end of the firing line up there waved him on sharply then dropped back behind a pickup truck. Vincenzo crossed in front of the Acura, keeping its sleek bulk between him and the men behind him. He holstered the Beretta and, keeping low, darted forward, running through cast-off plastic bags and discarded Dixie cups, sending garbage scattering in his wake. His footfalls sounded as loud as thunder in his ears, along with his ragged gasping.

“Yo!” someone shouted behind him.

Realizing they had seen him, Vincenzo straightened and broke into a sprint, driving toward another halted car. He stumbled over an abandoned suitcase, and at the same time, he heard a sharp crack. A neat hole appeared in the windshield of the car he was running toward.

He cried out as he dove down and tumbled across the asphalt. The walking stick clattered to the ground as he lost his grip on it, and there was a flash of pain in his knee as it scraped across the hard roadway. He floundered onto his right side, struggling to pull the Beretta from its holster. Crack! Vincenzo was pelted by fragments of cement as the bullet buried itself in the barrier behind him.

“Shit!” Vincenzo grunted, wrestling to draw the pistol while still lying on his side. It came free suddenly, and he pointed it downrange, where the bald man was lining up for another shot. He was well over three hundred feet away, but Vincenzo started firing anyway, the Beretta jerking in his hand. He’d never practiced shooting while lying on his side, and it showed. His rounds impacted well short of the bald guy, who grinned as he sighted on Vincenzo’s helpless figure. A bearded man hurried over to join the fray.

The bald man’s head suddenly exploded as a fusillade of gunfire rang out from the hillside. The corpse twitched as it fell to the road. The bearded one looked around, obviously confused by the sudden attack. Vincenzo sighted on the guy and fired, aiming for the chest. The man went down with a cry, clutching his leg.

Hey, that counts, he thought distantly.

The gunfire continued, with larger caliber weapons raining down on the highway to the east. The bearded man jerked and shuddered as he attracted more precise gunfire from the hillside. Vincenzo struggled to his feet and hobbled toward the cover of a car, wondering just how badly his knee was injured. While painful, his mobility didn’t seem to be compromised. He put the car between him and the gunfight and crouched low, peering through the dirty windshield. The bald man was spread-eagled on his back, and the bearded one was curled up on his left side. Neither moved.

Vincenzo could hear bullets ripping through cars on the highway. A few puffs of dust erupted on the hillside from seemingly random defensive shots thrown up by the gunmen on the road. He couldn’t see the shooters, but he thought they were still in the vicinity of the truck. The gunfire raged constantly for several minutes before it began to abate, eventually trickling off into nothing more than a smattering of single shots before dying completely. Vincenzo remained where he was, pistol at the ready. He heard dogs barking up the hill and crows cawing from the trees, but that was all.

Finally, there was movement from the trailer park. Several men and women moved past the defensive perimeter of cars and began making their way down the hill, bringing two German shepherds and one rambunctious yellow Labrador with them. The dogs were leashed, but they strained forward, practically towing their handlers behind them.

“Hey, guy,” someone called from the other side of the concrete barrier.

Vincenzo froze then rose enough to peek over the car. A bearded man with short red hair and arms covered with tattoos regarded him. He held a black Mossberg shotgun, and it was pointed directly at Vincenzo.

The man lowered the weapon’s barrel. “Take it easy. Just wanted to thank you for the assist. You made it easy for us to take those guys out.” He inclined his head toward the site of the gun battle that had just concluded. “You get hit?”

“No. No, I’m good.”

The man nodded. “You can stand up now. They’re all down. We’ve been waiting for a while to catch ’em out in the open.”

Vincenzo stood, though he stayed behind the car. The rest of the people from the trailer park were already crossing over the divider, and the dogs barked excitedly.

The man gestured at the Beretta in Vincenzo’s hand. “If you don’t mind, why don’t you put that thing away. Just to be on the safe side.”

Vincenzo engaged the safety and slowly slid the pistol back into its holster. “Anyone still alive down there?”

“Doubt it. They took a lot of heat. Stay cool, though. I’ll let you know when you’re free to go.”

“You said you’ve been waiting for these guys?”

The man nodded. “Yeah. They’ve been hanging out here for the past couple of days, but they left us alone. Then they start jacking hikers like you. We didn’t get involved until they started killing and raping two days ago, and last night was the final straw. They hacked a guy to death then raped his woman and cut off her head.”

Vincenzo thought back to the three dead women he had seen farther down the highway. “I think they’ve been at it for a while,” he said.

The man nodded again. “No doubt.”

One of the other people whistled and shot the tattooed man a thumbs-up. The guy returned the gesture and turned back to Vincenzo. “Okay. You’re free to go. Pick up your walking stick and get to wherever you’re going.”

“Fort Indiantown Gap,” Vincenzo said. “You heard anything about it?”

“Yeah, I heard it’s a fucking cesspool now that FEMA’s moved in. Big relief camp there, but you’re living under the law of the Man, if you know what I mean.”

“I... I don’t. Sorry.”

“You like sucking on the government tit, then go for it. That’s where it is right now, at least until they run out of supplies. Heard that it’s nothing more than a big prison, really. You can get in, but they take everything you have, especially weapons.  The government doesn’t want people being able to defend themselves, so they’re retroactively suspending the Second Amendment. Won’t be long until the first goes down for the count, too, and then we’re all in. Probably be flying the United Nations flag pretty soon, you know what I mean?”

Vincenzo didn’t have a clue, but he nodded anyway. “So there’s no help down there? No transportation, things like that?”

The man snorted. “Sure, you just have to give over everything you have in exchange for a little cot and three cold meals a day. You know the government. It just takes and takes and takes. Possessions are the new tax revenue, now that cash isn’t worth shit.”

A woman with enormous breasts barely contained by a black Harley Davidson T-shirt approached, the yellow Lab beside her. Her face had a worn-out cast to it, and her eyes were hidden behind oversized sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun had just barely peeked above the eastern horizon. Her faded blue jeans looked painted on, and she wore biker boots. Her brown hair was streaked with bolts of bottle-blond. “What’re you carrying?” she asked Vincenzo.

“Sorry?”

“He’s got himself a Beretta,” Tattooed man said.

“Hold out your hand,” the woman said.

Vincenzo thrust out his hand, and the woman dropped a battered box of Winchester nine-millimeter rounds in it. It felt half full. She then passed him a large hunting knife in a blood-stained leather sheath.

“We did most of the heavy lifting, so that’s all you get,” she said. “We’re keeping the rest of their gear.”

“Okay,” Vincenzo said, surprised they had given him anything. “Thanks.”

“You can top off your mag before you go,” the man said.

Vincenzo’s hands shook as he tried to feed the rounds into the pistol magazine, which made the operation take longer than it should have, but he eventually charged the magazine and slapped it back into the pistol.

“Thanks for the help,” the man said as the woman and dog walked back to the rest of the group. “Don’t forget your walking stick. It’s a nice one.”

“Thanks,” Vincenzo repeated.

The man nodded and set off to join the others. Vincenzo limped over and picked up his walking stick. He then returned to the car and rolled up his pant leg to check out his knee. It was just a scrape, but he rubbed some sanitizer on it anyway, just in case.

He looked over his shoulder and watched as the people from the trailer park removed everything from the dead gunmen: backpacks, weapons, even their clothes. They tossed the bullet-riddled bodies into the ditch on the other side of the interstate. One man with a huge beer belly and a flowing white beard carried a gas can, and he began pouring the contents over the corpses.

Vincenzo adjusted the straps of his hiking pack and resumed his journey. When he had gone a few hundred feet, he stopped, leaned over the concrete divider, and puked his breakfast all over the shoulder on the other side.

21

Six days after Roth and the rest of the cons had broken out of the prison, their number had grown. Just having a running vehicle was enough to get things started. People were drawn to Roth and his crew, despite the guns and the murderous attitudes of some. Those who had something to offer were taken in; those who didn’t were either robbed and killed or just killed. Women were raped, and the ones who were fancied by several of the men were kept for longer-term entertainment. Children were released, even though some of the men would have liked to have had them around, but Roth forbade that. Like most convicts, he didn’t have much use for child molesters. He had to shoot one of the guys for disobeying that edict, and he had made sure everyone was around to see it. In the country he intended to build over the coming years, pedophiles wouldn’t have much of a chance. If there was a subhuman group he hated more than cops, it was kid-touchers. Deep down, Roth thought that was kind of funny, that a soulless killing machine like him had a hidden moral touchstone. He’d never been abused as a boy, nor had his toad of a brother. They had actually been brought up pretty well. But Roth had been born with a demon that dominated him, and killing cops was the only thing that kept it sated.

But hurting kids was a lot different from killing cops. Roth liked the sport of the kill, the thrill of the hunt. Killing children was something that terrorists and degenerates did. Preying on the helpless was no fun, even though it was sometimes necessary. Taking down other predators, now that was entertainment.

After he’d made his example of the pedophile in their ranks, the rest of the guys figured out that wasn’t going to play, especially since Roth took three hours to do his grisly work with a blade that was less than two inches long. But the new recruits were an unknown quantity, and while Roth had instructed them to leave any kids alone, he couldn’t be sure his orders would be followed. He would have to watch the men like a hawk to ensure no bad apples ruined the entire batch, because once that forbidden fruit was tasted, there would be no going back.

By the time their number had grown to twenty-six, Roth decided they needed additional wheels. The bus was getting crowded, and he wanted some separation between himself and the rest of the troops. They invaded a farm house well south of the prison, killed its occupants, then helped themselves to the remarkably well-stocked larder. Afterward, Roth found a 1977 Ford F-250 in the barn. Some time and effort had been put into restoring the vehicle to showroom condition. It had premium seating, a rebuilt 460 cubic-inch V8 engine, and a nice lift kit. The high-tech radio and navigation system was garbage, courtesy of the pulse event, but that didn’t bother Roth one bit. He tossed the collection of Rihanna, Beyoncé, and Ludacris CDs into the garbage. One great thing about the event was that it had essentially nullified urban music, something that pleased Roth to no end.

Roth and his crew continued west, pushing across the state of Pennsylvania. A plethora of small towns awaited them, and they cut through them like a scythe through wheat, plundering and pillaging. Whenever they found a law enforcement presence, Roth went to work with the Mini 14 from a distance, then with his pistol, and finally, his blade. He went through clothes at a phenomenal rate, soaking them through with blood as he resumed his war against anyone in a uniform. They collected more weapons and more vehicles: ATVs, dirt bikes, and diesel trucks.

By the time they had slashed their way to within ten miles of Monroeville, a satellite suburb of Pittsburgh, Roth had almost two hundred troops and forty vehicles. Towns fell before them, most only offering token resistance that was never well coordinated and never strong enough to stand up to a veritable army of hardened convicts.

It had been his initial plan to roll up to Pittsburgh and see what was going on. However, when they found a small unit of National Guard troops stationed in Monroeville, that gave Roth pause. While he would love to kill soldiers instead of just policemen, he knew that soldiers—even weekend warriors like the Pennsylvania Army National Guard—could inflict a remarkable amount of damage on his force.

Stretched out in a grassy field atop some high terrain that overlooked the Pennsylvania Turnpike, he saw what appeared to be at least a company-sized force equipped with five-ton trucks and Humvees. Some of the vehicles had crew-served weapons on them, big machineguns with long barrels. While Roth would have dearly loved to obtain that kind of firepower, he hadn’t been fortunate enough to happen across any. And he knew that even half-assed Guardsmen could deny him access to Monroeville with such weapons. They were obviously guarding the turnpike entrance, and someone had spent a good amount of time clearing the roadway of disabled motor vehicles. Clearly, the Guard was expecting more company, and they’d been busy making sure they could accommodate them.

A camp had been set up around what looked like a shopping mall. Roth examined it through the pair of binoculars he’d liberated from a cop several towns back. He saw armed troops on foot patrol and several large trailers with FEMA emblazoned on them. The state had set up a refugee center. Roth wondered how long it would last.

“Looks like the feds are setting up,” Harley said as he peered through his own pair of binoculars.

“Yes. We can’t take them,” Roth said. “We don’t have enough men or enough weapons. We’ll have to save this one for another day.”

Harley grunted. “Thought you liked killing uniforms.”

Roth clenched his teeth. “I do. But this would be suicide. Do you see those vehicles on the turnpike? The Humvees?”

“The Hummers with the guns on them? Yeah, I see them.”

“Those are fifty-caliber machine guns, and there are even some Mark Nineteen grenade launchers. One fifty-caliber could kill every man we have, and while we’re still hundreds of yards away. We might be able to take down some of them, but they’d have their way with us. Plus, they know how to fight while maneuvering. We don’t.”

“Okay,” Harley said. “So no Pittsburgh, then?”

“We’ll move on. We’ll head south and avoid Pittsburgh for the time being. Then, we’ll go west. There are plenty of other towns to take on, and if we stay away from the major highways, we should be able to avoid most military.”

“We’ll have to face them one day,” Harley said. “They won’t just disappear.”

“No, they won’t. But as time drags on and they start to lose control, they’ll start falling apart. Some of them will wind up joining with us, and that’s when we can think about hitting the larger cities.” Roth lowered the binoculars. “Maybe by the time we get to Ohio, we’ll have enough mass to be able to do what we want.”

“Do we really need to get into a large city?” Harley asked. “Do we want that kind of a headache?”

“Not right now. But eventually, we’ll need to. That’s where the people are, my friend, and if we’re going to reinvent the nation, then we’ll need them on our side. Or under our heels. Whichever way works for us.”

“You’re the boss. You got my vote.”

“It’s not a democracy, Harley. You’re either with me, or you’re dead.”

“And I like breathin’. I’ve made my choice. I’m with you in this, Roth. Got nowhere else to go, anyway.”

Roth kept his face expressionless, but inwardly, he was more than pleased. That was what he wanted, to be surrounded by the desperate, the unwanted, the wayward. He wanted those with skills who needed someone like him to channel their prowess toward more useful endeavors. Like so many of his fellow countrymen, Roth had grown to loathe what the United States had become, a shadow of its former great self, a greatness that had been forged by men like him in past eras, men who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted.

Even if it meant thousands more had to die.

That made Roth smile a little bit, though he hid it from Harley.

22

Outside the town of Fredericksburg, Vincenzo came across an unusual migration: several horse-drawn carriages carrying a load of Amish. The men all held shotguns or old hunting rifles, and their wagons were loaded with women, children, and household possessions. Vincenzo thought the procession looked like an Amish moving company.

“Hi, there,” he said as the first wagon approached.

“Hello,” said the old man holding the reins connected to the bridle of the single black horse hauling the wagon. The animal looked hot and uncomfortable.

“Where you guys headed?” Vincenzo asked.

“To my cousin’s home,” the older man said as the carriage drew abreast of Vincenzo.

“Do you know anything about Indiantown Gap?”

The old man glared, his blue eyes full of fury and scorn. His lips compressed into a tight line beneath his beard. “The Army, they took our land in the name of the government. They took everything, our crops, our orchards, our water. We’re lucky to have what you see here.” The old man kept the wagon moving past Vincenzo.

A man sitting in the next wagon said, “Go get yourself a spot in a hot metal trailer, if you want to go to Fort Indiantown Gap. Go be a slave for your stupid president and his politicians. Give them everything you have, and they’ll take even more.”

Vincenzo watched the small caravan plod past. He wondered what that was all about, but the Amish didn’t seem to want to stay and talk about it. Sweating in the afternoon sun, he took a long drink from the Hydro Flask.

He kept going.

###

Vincenzo made it to the outskirts of Fort Indiantown Gap by five thirty. As he walked down the highway, signs began to appear, informing travelers that the National Guard Training Center was open to refugees seeking short- and long-term aid. They stated that individuals in need should contact the personnel manning the checkpoint on I-78 and announce their desire to come into the camp.

The signs didn’t mention anything about property confiscation, as the Amish had insisted the government had done to them. In fact, there were no meaningful details of any kind. Vincenzo decided that was neither good nor bad, since whatever in-processing had to be done was unlikely to be simple, especially where the military was involved. Like most people in the entertainment business, he had a very confused opinion about the military. He had respect for their service, of course, but he also had a general sense that anyone who would put on a uniform every day and do stuff people told them to do just because they could was an idiot. Basically, he and a lot of his crowd believed that only the dregs of society would enlist in the Army. He wasn’t sure he actually knew anyone who had served in the military. Then again, he didn’t really know anyone who had voted for George W. Bush, and the man had been a two-term president, so that probably didn’t mean a lot.

He slowed when he saw the checkpoint, which turned out be nothing more than a series of trucks and several tents that had been raised in the grassy median where I-78 joined I-81. The highway opened up to three lanes in each direction, and there were plenty of stalled cars and trucks everywhere. Garbage was strewn across the interstate, and intermixed with it were shiny shell casings and patches of dried blood. The Guard must have seen a bit of action in the days since the event had occurred. The evidence of violence made Vincenzo uneasy, but he reminded himself that he had shot a man earlier that day.

Perhaps a dozen soldiers were there, backed up by uniformed Pennsylvania State Police in rumpled gray uniforms. He watched the policemen interview a pair of travelers, writing down information on a clipboard. After a moment, one of the police nodded to the Guardsmen, and two of them came forward and took the couple’s hiking gear. The soldiers emptied their bags and began separating items into plastic bins in the back of one of the trucks. They didn’t label the gear in any way, which meant it was being confiscated. There took a weapon too, though he was too far away to see what it was other than some sort of rifle.

The male half of the couple seemed a bit distressed, but he didn’t protest. Once their goods were separated and their empty hiking packs tossed into one of the trucks, the pair was led toward one of the tents. The man went into one, the woman into another. Vincenzo figured it was for some sort of examination.

Okay, Tony. What are you going to do? He decided he would at least check it out. He headed toward the checkpoint, his walking stick clanking on the cement as he wound his way through the dead traffic. The police and Guardsmen watched him approach, and once he was inside of twenty yards, one of the police held up a hand.

“Good afternoon, sir. Are you armed?”

Vincenzo stopped. “Why do you ask?”

The policeman pointed at him. “Because I see the outline of a pistol beneath your shirt, sir.”

Vincenzo looked down. The butt of his Beretta was clearly outlined through his sweat-drenched T-shirt. “Well, I guess I am.”

“Before you come any closer, sir, you need to remove your weapon and unload it. You should also be aware that you’re under sniper surveillance and that any aggressive action on your part will be met with direct action.”

Vincenzo looked around. The area was fairly heavily forested, and there were many places a sniper—or snipers—could be concealed. “I’m not going to do anything when I’m outgunned and outnumbered. You can count on that.”

“Sorry, sir. We don’t count on anything other than you disarming yourself. If you want to continue coming forward, you need to clear your weapon.”

“Tell me what’s going on here.”

“The federal government, in conjunction with the National Guard and the state of Pennsylvania, have set up a support center in Fort Indiantown Gap. The Federal Emergency Management Administration is providing goods and essential services at the direction of the president. Basic amenities are provided free of charge, as well as emergency family, medical, and dental care. The facility is secured by the National Guard, so your protection is guaranteed.” The policeman nodded toward Vincenzo again. “But before you can take advantage of these offerings, you need to disarm yourself.”

“That includes the big stick you’re carrying,” the other policeman said.

“What happens to my gun and my gear?” Vincenzo asked.

“The supplies we have on site aren’t unlimited, sir,” the first policeman said. “In order to participate, you’ll have to surrender your possessions. Any goods that can be used to further support displaced persons will be directed to where they can do the most good. This includes things such as water, food, and medical supplies, excepting prescription medication that is for your use only.”

“So you’re going to confiscate all of my stuff?”

“We’ll be redistributing whatever might be useful and ensuring it gets to those who are in a greater state of need, sir.”

“And what about my pistol?”

“Your pistol will be confiscated, sir. Firearms are not allowed on the property.”

“If I choose to leave, will I get it back?”

The policeman took a moment to respond. “All personal property will be either returned or replaced with an equivalent item, sir.”

Vincenzo grunted. The momentary hesitation told him that the cop was either lying or didn’t exactly believe what he was saying himself.

“What about transportation? I need to get all the way to Los Angeles. Can the government help with that?”

The two cops exchanged looks. “Uh, Los Angeles? No, sir, I don’t think we can help you out with that at this level. The national transportation system has been severely compromised. We have some local assets that can provide limited transportation but nothing headed outside of the state.”

“All right. Is there a chance I could get transportation to the state line? Anywhere headed west?”

“I can’t answer that for you, sir. You’d have to come in and try to make those arrangements with either FEMA or the National Guard.”

“Which means I’d need to hand over all my stuff.”

The policeman nodded. “Yes, sir. You would need to comply with all of our requests in order to proceed past this point.”

Vincenzo cocked his head. “So you’d actually impound my personal property, just to allow me to take advantage of some of the facilities my tax dollars helped pay for?”

Before the policeman could reply, one of the Guardsman snapped, “You don’t get something for nothing, buddy. No free lunch here. You either sacrifice something for the common good, or enjoy your walk back to California. You’ll have to find a different route, though, because we own this stretch of the highway, and you’re not passing through unless you do as you’re told.”

“I met some Amish who told me the Guard had taken their land and possessions, homes, stuff like that. That true?”

“We’re exercising the government’s eminent domain rights where we need to. It was approved last week, part of the emergency powers declaration mandated by Washington. Don’t like it? We’re not interested.”

There was still plenty of daylight left, and Vincenzo was tired of standing in the afternoon sunlight. No one was being particularly helpful, and nothing he had heard seemed to be enough to give up what little he had. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a lot of difference between what Fort Indiantown Gap offered versus what the highwaymen lurking in the area would do to him if they ever caught him.

“Thanks,” Vincenzo said then turned left and walked across the median toward the other side of the highway.

He marched through the grass and stepped over the short guardrail that separated the travel lanes from the median. He didn’t break stride as he mounted the highway and crossed the three lanes then merged into the line of trees on the other side of the far shoulder.

###

The detour took Vincenzo down some back country roads. Farm houses and corn fields made up the majority of the landscape. In front of one two-story house, a man was pushing a manual mower across the front lawn. A younger man and two smaller boys were tending to the flower beds, while a middle-aged woman watched from the shade of the wrap-around porch. A shotgun leaned against the railing beside her. A series of handwritten signs were set up on the property line: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

Vincenzo nodded to the woman as he walked past, and she inclined her head, but her face remained blank. The street was clean and not apparently all that well-traveled, making it look like a still frame of life before the event. He actually started to enjoy the walk. In the distance, he heard the sound of a running engine. It was most likely a generator, which told him that for some people, the event didn’t matter a whole lot. Life went on, and for the first time in decades, farmers were probably going to be some of the most important people on the planet.

Farming... another skill you don’t have, paisan.

Occasionally, he saw another person or family tending to their home or their fields. No one approached him, but a few waved, and Vincenzo returned the greetings in kind. He made sure to keep the front of his T-shirt over the Beretta. He didn’t want people to know he was armed, though he got the impression that the folks around there wouldn’t freak out over it.

A few miles down the road, he heard another droning noise that was definitely a vehicle engine. A minute later, a red and white tractor lumbered around the curve ahead, rolling toward him on oversized tires at a speed of about twenty miles an hour. A thin-faced man sat inside the enclosed cabin, the windows rolled down. He regarded Vincenzo through the bird-shit-streaked glass, and Vincenzo waved.

The driver stopped beside him. The engine rattled as it idled in the warm early evening. He leaned out of the window. “Hey, there. You come from the Gap?”

“Sort of. I didn’t like their offer.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Give them everything I had, and maybe they’d help me out.”

The narrow-faced man pursed his lips. “Huh. Sorry to hear about that. The Gap’s been a pretty good neighbor over the years. But I guess they have to be careful. Lots of bad folks are out there along the good ones, so they have to do what they need to do. They actually said they would take your stuff?”

“Basically. I met some Amish who said they’d taken their land. Orchards, stuff like that.”

The man nodded. “That was probably Carl Danchekker. His family tends to a pretty sizeable apple orchard, and they’re right between the Gap and the game preserve. Wow, that’s not something I’m happy to hear about. How long ago was this?”

“Just today, maybe around two o’clock,” Vincenzo said. “Hey, is Route 22 down this road?”

“Yep. Only about a fifth of a mile away.”

“And how about...” Vincenzo struggled to remember the name of the road he wanted. “Ah, Johnson Road?”

“Jonestown Road, you must mean. About a half mile away. Cross over 22 and head down Yingst Road. It’ll take you right to Jonestown. You know someone in the area?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Nope. Just traveling through. Things secure around here?”

“So long as you stay off the major highways, things seem to be all right. Can’t say it’s any more or less safe than before the event, but if you keep your nose clean, you’ll be all right. Most people around here aren’t looking for trouble, but if it comes calling, they’ll take care of it mighty quick. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I got you. I’m not the kind of guy to cause any aggravation.”

The man nodded. “Well, all right, then. Too bad we didn’t meet earlier. I could’ve given you a ride down to 22, but I’m on my way back home now. Sorry, I don’t really have an unlimited supply of diesel.”

Vincenzo smiled. “Hey, it’s no problem. Thanks for the chat.”

###

Vincenzo made it to Jonestown Road without incident. Squinting against the brightness of the setting sun, he pulled his cap down low on his brow. He smelled cooking food from some houses, and his stomach grumbled, but he kept on walking. There were other people out on the road, a couple of fellow travelers and some locals. One couple with a young boy nodded as they passed him, walking a large white dog that strained against the leash to get to Vincenzo. The dog was big enough to bite his head off, so Vincenzo just nodded back and kept his distance.

After another few miles, his knee began to complain, along with his feet. He’d probably walked almost twenty miles that day. It was almost eight o’clock, and there was still plenty of light, but he was seriously flagging. There weren’t many stands of trees in the area, as it had become mostly farmland again. Much of that land was fenced off, and Vincenzo didn’t want to trespass. He doubted that would be looked on very kindly. A bit down the street, a thin line of trees stood on a patch of land diagonally across from a volunteer fire station. He didn’t see any signs of activity inside. The trees were most likely on private property, but there was no driveway and no sign of a residence. Continuing to walk was pretty much out of the question, so Vincenzo walked into the trees.

There was a fairly wide space on the other side between another row of trees, and beyond that next row lay a bean field. He shrugged off his pack near a broad bush. While the cover wasn’t perfect, the trees offered enough concealment to prevent him from being easily seen from the road. He wasn’t planning on lighting any fires, so it should be sufficient.

He used his entrenching tool to dig another cat hole then spread out his sleeping bag. The ground was dry enough that he didn’t need to use the tarp, but he had it available just in case a surprise storm popped up. The skies were clear, and the cloud banks on the horizon were sparse. The sunset was going to be gorgeous.

He fixed a meal consisting of a can of tuna fish with a squeeze bag of mayonnaise mixed in, all courtesy of the Ackermans. He ate quickly then wiped out the can with a napkin then rinsed it with a little water. He’d read somewhere that cans could be valuable resources on the road.

Gravel crunched on the other side of the screen of trees. The Beretta was in his hand immediately, and a surge of adrenaline lit up his veins as images of the day’s earlier gunfight sprang to mind. Through gaps in the branches, he caught glimpses of movement on the street as someone slowly walked past. Dry-mouthed and sweating, Vincenzo sat completely still for several minutes after the person left the area. Once he felt safe enough to move, he slid the pistol back into its holster and took a drink from the Hydra Flask.

The events of the day played out in his mind as if he were watching a show at a drive-in from a block away. It didn’t seem real, but it had all happened. A man had shot at him, trying to kill him. He had fired back with the same intent, and he had actually succeeded. He had been involved in a gunfight, and almost two weeks ago, he had killed a man with his bare hands. The nation was sliding into the abyss, and the man he had helped put in the office of the president was apparently giving the government the thumbs-up to strip people of their possessions, even food and weapons necessary for survival.

It was crazy, and it wasn’t getting any better. Crazy was the new normal.

He stretched on out his sleeping bag, the Beretta close by. He stared at the sky as it slowly darkened beneath twilight’s inexorable advance. A half moon hovered above the horizon. California seemed just as far away, and he feared for Jessie and Ben. They were surrounded by millions more people in the Los Angeles basin than he was in the backwaters of Pennsylvania.

Despite the dread such a thought engendered, Vincenzo fell into a deep sleep as the stars began to come out overhead.

23

As Vincenzo tracked toward Harrisburg, leaving the farmland behind, he entered the residential suburbs that surrounded the river city. Several neighborhoods had organized and taken matters of security into their own hands. Roadblocks were set up, preventing any unauthorized visits. At first, Vincenzo avoided them by trekking down different streets, but he soon found that too many communities had come to the same conclusion: the only way to survive was to stem the flow of travelers.

Vincenzo finally had to turn south, away from his intended route. That left him frustrated and concerned. His supplies were diminishing, especially the water. He had two bottles left, and then he would be digging into his Datrex. While that was why he had it, the bags were also the last supply he had. Finding a new water source was going to be a primary directive soon, and with the summer heat intensifying, that would be one of the more difficult things to manage.

However, avoiding Harrisburg turned out to be a possible blessing. Plumes of black, oily smoke rose on the horizon, and he wondered if the riverside city was on fire, much as New York had been. Whether the fire had been started by accident or from lawlessness, he had no idea. All he knew was that he probably wasn’t going to want to head in that direction. He would need to find another river crossing.

His map wasn’t sufficiently detailed to provide a lot of specifics with regards to alternate routes. Rob Ackerman had taken his more substantial maps with him, and Vincenzo hadn’t even thought to ask him if he really needed them, since he would be flying into known territory while Vincenzo was virtually traveling by the seat of his pants.

He kept wandering southward, avoiding another community that had buttoned itself up off Spring Garden Drive. The residents manning the only access point had rifles, and they didn’t seem very open to giving him directions. Vincenzo traveled west on that road until he came to an intersection, then he turned south again on Lumber Street. There, the homes were much smaller ranch-style dwellings, and the neighborhood had a more blue-collar feel to it. Vincenzo stuck to the center of the street, Wonderboy gripped in his left hand, leaving his right free to draw the Beretta if needed. Residents watched him from darkened doorways and open garages. Many of them were armed, and while no one challenged him, no one set out the welcome mat, either.

A Doberman growled at him from behind a chain-link fence surrounding a single-story house with blue linoleum siding, and Vincenzo watched it warily. Garbage was strewn about the street, not from neglect but from piles of garbage bags that had been torn open by raccoons or skunks. He smelled smoke in the air, and when he passed another house, he saw a burly man in a wifebeater and checkered shorts burning something in his backyard. The man wore a nickel-plated, long-barreled revolver in a shoulder harness, and his long hair was an unruly mass on his head. He glowered at Vincenzo as he threw some garbage onto the fire. Black smoke puffed up.

“Keep walking,” the man barked. “Don’t stop here.”

Vincenzo tipped his hat and did just that.

In the late afternoon, he came to a highway overpass that cut through the neighborhood. More garbage was piled up there, either thrown off the highway or deposited by the residents in a bid to distance themselves from the stench of rotting detritus. Vincenzo didn’t see anyone around, but he couldn’t be sure. So before he stepped inside, he pulled the Beretta from its holster.

It was only fractionally cooler beneath the overpass, and it stank of rotting garbage, urine, and... body odor.

Something rustled ahead. Vincenzo stopped and raised his pistol as a shape emerged from the gloom. A skinny old man with a long, filthy gray beard looked at Vincenzo with wild eyes. He was dressed in frayed cargo pants and a ripped T-shirt.

“Don’t shoot!” the old man cried. “Don’t shoot! I ain’t got nothin’! You can have the bridge!” Without waiting for a response, he took off running for the far side of the overpass, blubbering incoherently.

“Huh. Okay, thanks,” Vincenzo muttered.

Vincenzo kicked through the detritus that lined the floor of the overpass. He paused for a moment before emerging into the daylight on the other side, just to ensure the old man wasn’t lying in wait. He walked out after making sure it was safe enough to do so.

At the end of Lumber Street, he turned right onto Second Street. He was back in mixed-use territory again, where residences were interspersed with commercial interests. A burned-out police cruiser sat in the middle of the intersection near a ravaged strip mall. Dozens of people were picking through the mall. They mostly ignored Vincenzo, and he did nothing to attract unwanted attention. Just put one foot in front of the other.

The overpasses of Interstate 76 loomed ahead. According to his map, the interstate crossed the Susquehanna River. Even though he was still close to whatever was happening in Harrisburg, he needed to find his way across the river, and swimming was probably out of the question. He saw people moving across the overpass, heading in the same direction he needed to go.

Well, looks like you won’t be alone.

He trudged up the grassy bank that led to the interstate.

###

It was hotter than hell by the time he made to the Susquehanna in the late afternoon. The air was still and full of energy-sapping humidity as he lumbered across the slow-moving river. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the bridge, but several other travelers hiked in front of and behind him, moving across its span. Glancing over the blue guardrail, he saw small boats in the river below, and there was even an island whose treetops almost reached the bridge. On the other side of the span, columns of smoke rose into the air from Harrisburg to the north.

It was getting late, and he needed to find a place to rest for the night before getting back on his route. He saw a prodigious amount of trees across the river, and he hoped that he’d be able to find a suitable place to make camp. The problem was that the other people crossing the bridge were making their own camps on the other side as well. Vincenzo didn’t want to settle down for the night amidst a big group of fellow refugees, so he pressed on through the town of Camp Hill, then even farther, into the small city of Mechanicsburg.

As the sun settled below the horizon, lighting up the sky with hues of amber, he came across a cemetery. It looked fairly deserted, which given the late hour seemed appropriate. Who visited Grandma’s grave in the middle of the night? A relatively thick copse of trees stood along the graveyard’s far border, and he headed that way.

He went through the usual rituals: shrugging off his pack, digging a cat hole, spreading out his sleeping gear, eating a quick dinner, and brushing his teeth. He replenished the Hydra Flask with a couple of packets of Datrex water then stretched out on his sleeping bag. The night was warm and humid, and mosquitoes buzzed about, so he applied some insect repellent to hold them at bay. He fell asleep almost instantly.

He awoke sometime in the night to the sounds of a gun battle being waged somewhere in the distance. He lay there listening to it, wondering what was going on and why. His legs and feet ached, but he refrained from taking any Tylenol. That was another finite resource he’d have to marshal. He was surprised to hear a sudden ripple of full-automatic gunfire. It was surreal, hearing such things happening in America.

But then and again, ’Merica is the land of the gun, right?

He laughed, because despite his political leanings, he’d never been a huge fan of gun control. One didn’t have to be a right-winger to understand the value of the Second Amendment, and it had come in right handy for him so far. Also, chances were good that anyone who had automatic weapons were with the government, and he wasn’t at all interested in getting on the bad side of the feds.

But who are they using them against?
Americans. But why?

As he pondered that, the gunfire trickled into a sporadic set of distant pops that sounded more and more irregularly.

Vincenzo fell asleep again.

###

The next morning, Vincenzo got up before dawn, packed up his campsite, saw to some personal needs, had a small breakfast, and set off into the gloom. As he walked through the cemetery, he saw that others had taken refuge inside its borders. He picked his way around tombstones and sleeping people and turned west on the road.

He came across the site of the battle he’d heard in the night. A little over a mile from where he had slept was a Navy installation. Lights burned there, powered by God knew how many backup generators. Several bodies lay in the street, and some men in uniform walked around them as if checking to ensure the dead were just that. Vincenzo stopped when he saw the carnage. He had no idea what had happened, but he knew better than to try to walk past the installation in the pre-dawn hours.

He crossed the two-lane highway he was on and pushed deeper into the residential neighborhood to the south. Navigating his way through the semi-darkness by the seat of his pants, he went first south then westward. From a low-lying brick house, a dog barked, but no one came out to investigate. Vincenzo hurried on, and a mile later, he cut north again, resuming his route. The Naval facility was directly behind him, but he saw no signs of activity. He was apparently outside the Navy’s scope of interest, which suited him just fine. He hurried through Mechanicsburg, stopping only when necessary to avoid other people. Patchy clouds scudded past overhead, their features revealed as the sun gradually rose.

Mechanicsburg might have been a pretty town before the event, the kind of place where people nodded and said hello as they passed each other on the street. It was fading as time wore on. Like so many other communities he had seen, the sudden cessation of public utilities were taking their toll. Garbage was piled up, and the stench of human excrement was everywhere. Those people who ventured outdoors did so only with a purpose. There was no time for small talk, and many viewed Vincenzo with suspicion and scarcely contained hostility.

Vincenzo kept his head down and continued through the downtown area, plodding down Main Street as fast as he could. The walking stick was in his left hand, and he remained mindful of his sweat-stained T-shirt, ensuring it stayed pulled down to cover the pistol. He heard someone weeping in one of the apartments that overlooked the street, a mournful, solitary sound. It made Vincenzo walk even a little bit faster, his aching muscles be damned.

Two hours later, he breathed a sigh of relief when farmland began to reappear. He had a tense moment when he crossed beneath the I-76 overpass and found several people sheltering there, apparently waiting out the heat of the day. Two teenage boys approached him, one holding a baseball bat, the other a worn-looking machete.

“Drop the stick and give us your bag, man!” the one with the machete shouted. “Don’t make me cut you to pieces!”

Vincenzo drew the Beretta. “Don’t make me shoot you dead.”

“No, no, don’t!” cried a middle-aged man lying along the side of the street. He looked sick as hell. “Please, they’re doing it for me.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Vincenzo said. “If anyone comes anywhere near me, I’ll shoot them.” He looked at the two young men in his path. “Now, you boys need to move aside. Sorry about your father, but maybe someone can help you in Mechanicsburg.”

“We came from there,” the boy with the bat said. “They wouldn’t help us.”

“Our dad’s sick,” the other one added. “He needs insulin.”

“I’m not a pharmacy. Sorry,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t have anything that might help with diabetes. Now you have to let me by, or you’re going to wind up dead.”

“Please,” the old man whispered. A blank-faced woman sat next to him, her pale eyes vacant and unmoved by the drama playing out in front of her. “Please, boys, let him go.”

“I’d listen to him,” Vincenzo told the boys.

The younger boy lowered the machete. Even though he had been the most aggressive of the pair, he was only about fourteen. He looked as though he was about to cry. The one with the bat was closer to sixteen, and he didn’t appear to be anywhere near tears. Instead, he charged toward Vincenzo with the bat held high.

The Beretta sounded like a cannon when Vincenzo fired. He’d meant to hit the boy dead in the chest, but at the last moment, he inched the pistol to the right. The bullet zipped benignly between the two young men, but the sound and the muzzle flash had the desired effect. The boy with the bat stopped short, and the other one dropped the machete with a cry.

“That’s the only warning you get!” Vincenzo shouted, his ears ringing and the smell of burnt powder strong in his nostrils. “I’m not going to waste the next one. You keep fucking with me, people are going to wind up dead!”

The younger boy grabbed the older one, wrapping his arms around him. They struggled, but the younger one looked at Vincenzo. “Go! Go!” he yelled.

Vincenzo bolted past them, his boots stomping on the pavement as he ran for the far side of the overpass. He was dimly aware of the stricken man calling out to his boys in a weak voice.

He surged out into the daylight then slowed and glanced back. The family was still huddled together. He took a moment to catch his breath then flipped on the Beretta’s safety and slipped the weapon into its holster. Tucking his walking stick under his arm, he took off his sweat-soaked cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He put his cap back on and resumed his walk, casting glances over his shoulder every now and then as he moved on down the road.

###

CARLISLE, PA UNDER MARTIAL LAW

RESIDENTS SHOW ID AT CHECKPOINTS

ALL OTHER PERSONS FORBIDDEN

USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED

Razor-wire fences and armed guards, a few of them in police and military uniforms but most in just street clothes, controlled every road leading into the city. And they had vehicles, as well, older cars and trucks that had either been repaired or had survived the event, and a few of those were military Humvees and trucks. Vincenzo knew from his map that there was an Army installation somewhere in the city limits, which explained the military presence. What he didn’t get was why the entire city was closed.

Is that even legal? Fort Indiantown Gap, he could understand. That was a military reservation. But denying access to an entire city seemed pretty extreme.

He watched from a vantage point on the far side of a car dealership parking lot as the troops and guards milled around beneath the I-81 overpass, using it cover from the sun. A handful of travelers walked up to the checkpoint. One was admitted, but the rest were turned back. One couple went back the way they had come, while another climbed up the embankment to Interstate 81, which appeared to be permissible. They paralleled the interstate for a few feet then disappeared behind a row of trees.

The guards didn’t try to confiscate anyone’s possessions, but that didn’t make him feel all rosy about things. The signs pretty much explained everything. Access through Carlisle wasn’t happening, and his mapped route ran right through the city. He’d have to find another way.

He knelt and pulled his maps out of the knapsack. His choices were to track north or south. It seemed likely that Carlisle was blocked off at the interstates, which meant that as long as he stayed outside of the I-81 and I-76 boundaries, he might be okay. He was closer to the southern end of what he presumed would be the area of control around Carlisle, and there weren’t any rivers or anything to cross. He figured it would be mostly farmland.

So south it is. Another detour, another delay. Fantastic.

###

It took six hours for him to make it past Carlisle. Most of that time was spent wending his way through fields, down country roads, and across vacant business parking lots. He avoided residential areas where he could and crossed private property only when there was no other choice and no one was around to interfere. He saw a band of farmers on horseback patrolling one gigantic corn field while others tended to the land. Taking a chance, he waved at them, ensuring they saw him as he approached. The horsemen stopped and waited for him to approach. They had rifles, but no one pointed one at him.

“Afternoon,” one man said. He wore a straw cowboy hat and actually had a bandana tied around his neck. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but Vincenzo could see enough of the skin around the lenses to tell the man was a weathered sort. He looked to be in his sixties, but the toll of working the land might have made him look older than his years.

Vincenzo stopped about twenty feet away. “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you guys. I just want some directions, if that’s all right.”

“Directions are easy,” the man said. “Anything else might be asking a bit much, though. Where you coming from?”

“New York City.”

The man let out a low whistle. “Mighty long walk. Where you headed?”

“Los Angeles.”

The man snorted. “Seriously?”

Vincenzo nodded.

“Well, then. My directions are ‘Go west, young man, and turn left at the Pacific Ocean.’”

“Yeah, I have that part down. I was actually wondering if there’s a shortcut around here. I’m trying to get back to Route 641, but Carlisle is apparently closed down.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, we know all about it. After what happened to Harrisburg, people around here are a bit nervous with all the strangers coming in. Not sure they can just close down a city that way, but at the moment, it’s not our problem. Anyone with you, or are you traveling alone?”

“Just me.”

“Okay.” The man’s horse stamped one of its hooves, kicking up dust. “You got somethin’ to write with?”

Vincenzo reached into his knapsack. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the other men swing his rifle into his hands. Vincenzo eased a ballpoint pen from his bag. He held it up for them to see.

The older man nodded. “Okay, here’s what you need to do. See that trail right there?” He pointed off to his right.

Vincenzo looked and saw a dirt trail going through the field. “Yeah.”

“Take that trail all the way across the field. Once you get to the trees, go left until you see another trail. Take that to the next road. That’ll be Holly Pike. Turn right and head north on Holly Pike until you get to Marsh Drive, on your left. Stay on Marsh until you get to Walnut Bottom Road. Turn left onto Walnut then right onto Sprint. Stay on Sprint until you make it to Allen, then turn right on Allen. That’ll take you to 641, which is called Newville here.”

Vincenzo wrote all of it down on the back of his map. He read the instructions back.

“You’re good to go. Now, do yourself a favor. Don’t stay on my property any longer than you have to. I don’t want you camping out here. Just walk through and get out. We don’t want any trouble, and we won’t take any. You get what I’m saying?”

Vincenzo nodded. “I get you.”

The older man waved his free hand. “Then you’re good to go. Charlie, you go riding ahead of him and tell the folks at the house not to worry about this man. He has our permission to cross.”

“Yes, sir,” the youngest one said. He pulled on his horse’s reins, and the animal responded obediently.

Vincenzo watched him go for a moment then looked up at the older man. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure thing. Did the event hit New York hard?”

“New York was on fire when I left. I’m not sure if it’s there anymore. But one thing’s for sure, you boys are going to have a lot of company in the next couple of weeks, and people are going to be desperate come winter.”

The old man nodded. “We know. We’re ready. When it comes time, we’ll do what we have to do. Of course, you’ll hopefully be long gone by then. And I’d recommend you get to it. You have a couple of hours of walking ahead of you before you get back to 641.”

Vincenzo waved farewell to the farmer and his crew. He headed off toward the trail, returning his map and pen to his knapsack.

###

Vincenzo walked for almost seven hours. The farmer’s directions had been pretty accurate. The area was mostly semi-rural farm land until he made it to Walnut Bottom Road, then it became a little more industrial. Sprint Drive was also where a local hospital—Carlisle Regional Medical Center—was located. It was a busy place, and quite a few Army troops were guarding it. He considered trying to pass through their area of control but thought better of it. Instead, he crossed a bank parking lot, went through a thin screen of trees, then rejoined the road well past the medical campus.

Late afternoon, he found his way back to Route 641. The roadway was clear of soldiers, but several other travelers were present. Vincenzo took shelter beneath a halted tractor-trailer to drink some water and eat one of his MREs.

It was twilight before he made it to the next town, Newburg. The elevation was increasing, and the Appalachians lay before him. He felt like hell, and he didn’t know how he was going to be able to tackle any substantial inclines, but he figured if he stuck to a road, he’d be better off. The real heights were still a day or more away, so he had some time to consider any alternate routes. At the moment, all he wanted to do was get some sleep. His legs and feet were killing him. His pants were sagging even more than they had earlier in the day, so he pulled them up and cinched his belt a little tighter. At the beginning of his journey, he had weighed maybe a hundred seventy pounds. He guessed he’d lost about ten of that. Even his boots felt a bit looser, which worried him a little bit. The last thing he needed was an outbreak of blisters.

Finding a campsite was difficult. He was surrounded by fields, and the closest trees were perhaps a quarter of a mile away, down Covered Bridge Road. The road appeared deserted, so he headed down it, paralleling yet another field. He saw a farmhouse out in the expanse, its windows illuminated by pale light. Either a generator was in action, or the place was full of candles.

Night was well on the way when he made it into the trees. He found a narrow pathway more by luck than by sight and followed it for a few hundred feet, before stepping off into the dark brush. He considered switching on his flashlight—something he hadn’t really done since leaving New York—but he didn’t want to give away his position. So he eased in amongst the trees, wincing as twigs and rotting branches snapped beneath his feet. Something smelled a little funky, and he wondered if he might be entering a bear’s den. A bear attack would be the cherry on the cake of his day, but he was counting on not being that unlucky just yet.

He found a small clearing and spread out his sleeping bag. He drank some water, slathered on some bug repellent, then stretched out on his makeshift bed. The darkness was almost absolute. All he heard were insects trilling to each other and the light breeze rustling the leaves overhead.

No gunshots. Who would’ve thought?

He passed out almost before the thought finished forming in his head.

24

When Vincenzo woke up, an ant-covered face was staring at him from about ten feet away. With a strangled shout, he sat up and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He scooted back into the brush on his ass, keeping the weapon trained on the person.

The face didn’t move, but the ants crawled across the pale flesh. The man was lying half on his side, his mouth open, revealing a swollen, blackened tongue. Insects crawled in and out of his orifices. They even ambled across the man’s milky, dry eyes. One arm was stretched upward, as if he had died reading for the tree canopies.

Well, now you know why it smells a little funky here. The man looked to be in his late fifties. He was dressed for outdoor travel—cargo pants like Vincenzo’s and a thin Henley shirt. The butt of a pistol stuck out from the sturdy belt, and the crotch of his pants had a stain. The man had soiled himself before he died, and it looked as if his death hadn’t been all that long ago, perhaps a day. The body was still in rigor mortis, which explained why his arm was reaching for the heavens. Vincenzo felt an itching sensation and realized ants were crawling on him as well. Swearing under his breath, he practically vaulted to his feet, slapping and swiping at the insects. Fortunately, the repellent prevented many from paying him a visit, so the task didn’t take long.

If he hadn’t been so exhausted, or if the light had been better, he would have seen the corpse before bedding down. He wondered what the hell a guy was doing out in the middle of the woods and, more importantly, what had killed him. He looked around, hoping to put that piece of the puzzle in place. There were no signs of a struggle, though he did spot a set of tire tracks on the trail he had walked up last night.

Following the tracks with his eyes, he saw that they led to a big utility vehicle, three quarters of which was hidden beneath a camouflage net. Moving closer, he realized the camouflage netting was still wrapped around two of the corpse’s fingers. It was as if the man had dropped dead while either preparing to leave or setting up for a stay. Vincenzo holstered his Beretta and knelt beside the man. Dude, did you drop from a heart attack?

He could see no evidence of foul play, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, not even a bump on the guy’s noggin. The funky smell definitely came from the corpse, even though it hadn’t been dead long enough to start rotting. Vincenzo figured the source of the odor was contained inside the man’s pants.

Vincenzo stood and went over to the vehicle. It was an old Blazer, of the very early 1970s variety. Despite it all, he found himself smiling. His first vehicle as a kid had been a 1978 K-5 Blazer, Cheyenne package, which had promptly been stolen four days after he’d bought it for six thousand dollars from a used car lot in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The camouflaged one was older but in much better shape than his rust bucket had been. He pulled off the netting, taking care not to tear it along the mirrors and the radio antenna sticking out of the front right fender like a lightning rod. The vehicle was entirely black, and when he touched the hood, the paint felt rough—a flat matte finish, tough and durable, as though the vehicle was being prepped for restoration. A lift kit held the body well above the big knobby tires. He reached for the driver’s door and was relieved when it opened easily. There was no interior light, but the keys were in the ignition. He climbed in and turned the key to the Accessories position. The idiot lights in the dashboard lit up.

“Oh, wow,” he whispered then turned the key back to the off position. It still has power!

He noticed a rifle lying across the passenger seat. He picked it up and pulled it into his arms. A Springfield—a newer M1A, with a composite stock. A ten-round magazine was loaded in the well, and a shoulder strap hung from the mounts on the bottom. Vincenzo had fired a similar weapon—one of his hunting buddies had owned one. He pulled back the bolt, and there, gleaming faintly in the dim light, was a cartridge. The weapon was ready to go. Vincenzo eased the bolt back into place and stood the rifle in the passenger side foot well.

He checked the back of the vehicle. It was full of camping gear, several cases of water, and food—more food than Vincenzo had seen in days. He slumped in the driver’s seat and clutched the steering wheel with shaking hands. Thank you, God. Thank you. Thank you.

He climbed out and rolled up the netting then opened the upper half of the rear hatch and tossed it inside. He gathered his own gear and placed it behind the front passenger seat.

Next, he returned to the body and picked up the pistol, a Springfield .45 caliber, XDm series. He removed the man’s heavy belt, wrinkling his nose at the stench. The belt had a neat little surprise—a thin blade concealed inside the buckle.

He fished out the man’s wallet and opened it gingerly. The picture on the driver’s license more or less matched that of the corpse, minus the ants. His name was Walter Scott, from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. In life, he had apparently been a sour sort of individual, since he had favored the camera with a challenging glare. His dark eyes were clear but a bit hostile, and Vincenzo had no doubt that Mr. Scott was a tough customer when push came to shove. He and Mr. Scott were the same height, which might come in handy, as there were spare clothes in the back of the Blazer.

What to do about the body?
Are you going to help yourself to the man’s possessions and not even bother to give him a burial?

Vincenzo considered that for a few minutes before deciding that burying the man was out of the question. He just didn’t have the time, and there was always the chance that someone else might arrive. He wound up dragging the body away from the Blazer and covering it with leaves and brush. After that, he practically bathed his hands with sanitizer.

“I’ll find your people and let them know where you are,” he told the corpse. “That’s a promise. And I’ll return your stuff to them, too.”

He climbed back into the truck and turned the key. The Blazer started right away, which gave him immeasurable relief. The fuel tank was just below full, and the odometer read 69,735 miles, damn low for a vehicle that was more than forty years old. Punching the clutch, he dropped the vehicle into reverse. He stalled it out on the first try and had to restart it. After playing with the clutch, he managed to get it rolling back up the trail. The Blazer bounced a bit on its stiff, heavy-duty suspension as the big tires rolled over ruts and rock before the truck made it to the road. Using the mirrors as well as sticking his head out the window, he pulled onto Covered Bridge Road. Once there, Vincenzo kept rolling and turned the truck until the brush-guard-protected grille was pointed in the direction of Route 641. He set the parking brake then hopped out to do a quick walk-around.

From the door frame, he thought the original paint job had been green. The tires were properly inflated, and there were heavy-duty bumpers on both ends. Mounted on the brush guard were additional lights, old-school KC halogens. He popped the hood and saw that Mr. Scott had apparently paid a lot of attention to the Chevy’s rebuilt 350 cubic-inch engine. It was normally aspirated—no fuel injection and nothing too difficult to maintain, at least in warmer weather. He slammed the hood closed and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

In the better light, he studied the dashboard. It was a stock machine, more or less rebuilt to the factory-new condition. He laughed when he saw the air conditioning switch, and he turned it on. Cool air blasted from the vents, and he was pretty sure that Mr. Scott had added that aftermarket. The windows were of the roll-up variety. The interior was all black vinyl, two bucket seats up front, a bench seat in the back. Inside the center console was a road atlas, ammunition for the pistol and rifle, some spare magazines, several packs of Winstons cigarettes, and a pack of heat-softened cinnamon-flavored Dentyne. Vincenzo popped a piece of the gum in his mouth, released the parking brake, and put the Blazer in gear.

###

He roared through the town of Newburg without stopping, carefully weaving around the dead cars and trucks. It was still quite early, but the sun was up, and some people came out of their houses to watch him roll down the highway. One young boy ran out and jumped around, waving and hollering. Vincenzo waved back and gave a quick toot of the horn. What emerged was a full early 1970s honk, music from an era long forgotten, when men were men and cars and trucks were gas-guzzling fire-breathers.

On the other side of the town, whenever he saw a long stretch with no vehicles blocking the road, he kicked the Blazer up to seventy-five. He slowed only to maneuver around stalled traffic and, once, another Amish covered wagon. He waved at the man and woman sitting inside the black carriage, but they only stared back, perhaps irritated that some form of technology with more than one horsepower still existed. The black horse pulling the wagon didn’t seem to mind, aside from flicking its ears in his direction.

Vincenzo’s stomach rumbled, and he decided it was safe enough to pull over. He brought the Blazer to a halt on the downward slope of a hill. Just in case it wouldn’t start by turning the ignition, he could get a rolling shot at starting it by popping the clutch. He set the parking brake, switched off the ignition, and stepped outside.

The fields to his right looked to be cared for, whereas the ones to the left were growing wild. He didn’t see a farm house, but a narrow road cut through the tended fields. He pulled out the rifle and carried it to the rear of the Blazer. The weapon was obviously well-cared for, though Vincenzo could see it had been used. It was a working man’s weapon, not some monkey’s tacticool range queen. He shouldered the rifle and looked down its length. As far as he could tell, the sights were in good shape, though he’d have to actually fire it to be sure.

He slung the weapon then opened the Blazer’s split tail gate. He went through the supplies there, helping himself to a bottle of water as he worked. There were cans of beef stew, corned beef, and Spam, along with a multitude of vacuum-sealed dry goods. He found a neatly packed four-person tent. The spikes were dirty, so it had been used relatively recently. A cooler still half full of ice, contained sodas, water, and even several cans of Budweiser. Vincenzo laughed at that, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He opened a can of beef stew and ate it cold, using a plastic spoon from his own pack. He then popped a can of Bud and guzzled it. He belched loudly. He couldn’t remember a time when beer had tasted so good. He drained the can in less than two minutes and was surprised to feel a pleasant buzz. Now, now. No time for a DUI stop.

He took a quick piss in the ditch then returned to the truck and pulled out the road atlas. Mr. Scott had already used a grease pencil to plot a route to Fredenburg, Minnesota, a town northwest of Duluth. Vincenzo felt a pang of guilt. Mr. Scott’s possessions were so helpful, Vincenzo thought that he should have treated the body with a bit more kindness. Well, that’s how it goes.

The next town ahead was Roxbury, and it was probably smaller than Newburg. Vincenzo decided he would speed through that one without stopping as well. The next town of any substantial size was Mountain Green, which was just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The presence of the highway likely meant more people. Beyond that were the Appalachians. He didn’t know what he’d find there, but the first order of business would be protecting the Blazer.

Fuel would eventually be a problem. There was a five-gallon gas can in the back, but it was empty. Vincenzo figured that out when he found a Flo & Go siphon wrapped up in a towel. Transferring fuel from dead vehicles at five gallons a pop would take a while, given that the Blazer had at least a thirty-gallon tank. But he figured if he kept topping it off every so often, then he’d be good to go.

Vincenzo knew how to operate both of Mr. Scott’s firearms, but he needed some practical experience. He stood the two empty cans on a nearby fence. He used the Springfield XDm first and managed to take down one can at about twenty yards with his third shot. The .45 felt good in his hand, not as snappy as the Beretta, though the sound was something that he’d have to get used to. The second can went down with the first shot from the M1A, and he had backed up to well over seventy yards for that. The rifle was dialed in perfectly, and while it had some kick, he was confident that he could put it to use if necessary.

After his impromptu target practice, he figured it was time to leave. Someone might come looking, and he didn’t want to be found. He hopped back in the Blazer.

25

Vincenzo sped through the few towns he came across without stopping, despite the attempts of some people to convince him to do just that. One individual even shot at him, but the guy had a shotgun, and by the time he’d pulled the trigger, Vincenzo was rolling out of range. He pulled over a few minutes later and checked out the Blazer, heart hammering in his chest, M1A at the ready. There was nothing, not even scratched primer or chipped glass. Well, at least I know for sure how badly people are going to want it.

He had traveled over one hundred miles since finding the Blazer, which while encouraging enough on the surface, was a bit dismal when he considered it at length. His route avoided the interstate, and a good number of the roads he took weren’t the most direct. Plus, there were more travelers out on the road, headed in both directions. A lot of them looked at the Blazer as it sped past with expressions that ranged from shocked to outraged.

As the gas gauge dropped to below the half-full mark, he realized the Blazer’s previous owner hadn’t just restored the engine but had dropped in a small block V-8 with a great deal more horsepower. Vincenzo had been pushing the truck, so his lead foot was probably more to blame. At any rate, he needed to think about taking on some fuel. His original plan had been to find a place to hole up and get fuel under the cover of night. Even though there were more travelers on the road, there were still wide expanses where not a person was to be seen. And while obtaining fuel at night could be less risky, it also meant he had to work without any light and without practicing first.

When he happened upon a late-model F-150 on the side of the road and no one in sight, he pulled in front of the disabled pickup and killed the Blazer’s engine. He slung the M1A and hustled around to the back to pull out the gas can and siphon. Beside the abandoned pickup, he unscrewed the fuel cap and let it hang on the plastic dongle while he set up the siphon. After inserting the hose into the fuel tank, he placed the nozzle of the handle with the squeeze pump into the gas can, and pumped the lever. It was almost like filling up at a gas station. Aided by gravity, the fuel flowed out of the F-150’s tank and into the gas can. When the can was almost full, he stopped the flow then carried the gas can back to the Blazer. He screwed a separate black plastic nozzle onto the can then stuck that into the truck’s fuel fill. The gasoline poured into the Blazer’s tank with a loud chugging noise. Once the gas can was empty, Vincenzo returned to the F-150 for another load. He took care to ensure the siphon’s hose wasn’t near the bottom of the Ford’s tank in case water condensation had formed.

He was in the process of transferring the second can of gas into the Blazer when he heard the noise of an engine. He looked up and saw an ancient Dodge pickup rumbling toward him. He quickly put down the gas can and slung the M1A into his hands as the truck began to slow. The driver stuck his hand out the window and waved it slowly from side to side. Don’t shoot, he seemed to be saying.

Vincenzo held his position, sweating in the late afternoon sun as the old Dodge slowly crept forward.

“We just want to pass by,” said the driver, an overweight man in his late thirties with several days of stubble on his face. The back of the truck was full of possessions held in place by a series of bungee cords. In the cab with him was an equally overweight woman and a chubby girl who looked to be about twelve. Their eyes were as wide as saucers as they stared at Vincenzo.

“So go,” Vincenzo said. “Don’t stop.”

The Dodge crept forward.

“Don’t go into Washington,” the driver said. “There’s some kind of big raiding party hitting the town hard. They killed all the cops and the civilian patrol, and they’re taking everything they can get their hands on.”

“Washington?” Vincenzo frowned. That was the next town on his route.

“Yeah, don’t go there. Really, man, don’t do it. Hey, you know anything about Van Voorhis?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Never even heard of it.”

“All right, man. Take care of yourself, and keep your head down. It’s kind of tough up ahead, you might want to turn around and take Mitchell Road down to Lagonda if you’re going west. Stay south of the airport. A bunch of people from Pittsburgh took over that place. It’s basically a ghetto now.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Vincenzo said. “You need to keep your eyes out, too. Had some trouble on the other side of Eighty-Four. People are looking to take what you have. You armed?”

“Got a shotgun,” the driver said.

“That’ll have to do. Don’t stop until you get to where you’re going.”

“Thanks, man. Later.” The driver stepped on the accelerator, and the old beige-and-rust pickup accelerated away with a puff of greasy black exhaust.

Once the Dodge disappeared behind the next rise, Vincenzo emptied the gas can into the Blazer then went back for one more. As he was pumping the can full, he heard a burst of gunfire in the distance. There was a flash on the western horizon, then an orange and yellow fireball rose into the air. A muted thump came a second later.

“Okay, Tony, that’s enough gas for now,” he muttered. He didn’t know what had blown up and didn’t care to find out.

He packed up the siphon and emptied its hose into the gas can. He transferred the couple of gallons he’d removed from the F-150 into the Blazer, screwed on the gas cap, and put everything away. Back in the driver’s seat, he cranked the engine and nursed the vehicle into a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, heading back the way he had come.

He caught up with the laboring Dodge pickup and passed it at sixty miles an hour; the Dodge was making maybe forty. Vincenzo tooted his horn, and the Dodge responded with a rusty-sounding blat that reminded him of a baby’s fart. He found Mitchell Road and turned right. The street was basically wide enough for one and a half cars. The narrowness made him a bit nervous, since it was a prime place for an ambush.

He rode for about a mile, passing a couple of houses that seemed quiet and empty. When he got to a stretch where no residences were visible, he stopped and set the parking brake. He paged through the atlas, looking for his approximate location.

Lagonda Road was almost ten miles from where he sat, and that was by taking a series of twisting country roads that led him well south, past Interstate 70, where he would then begin to parallel Interstate 79. It was only when he made it down to Lone Pine Road that he would cut westerly, following a serpentine trail that would take him within a half mile of the airport he had been warned about. Another couple of miles west-northwest would take him back to US 40. The new route was about a twenty-mile detour. Crap.

Ahead, a family of deer stepped out into the road, their heads turning toward the idling Blazer. Vincenzo ignored them and focused on memorizing the directions.

When he put the Blazer in gear and released the parking brake, the deer bolted across the road and bounded into the trees on the other side. By the time he pulled abreast of their point of entry, they had disappeared into the undergrowth.

###

Getting to Lone Pine Road took much longer than he had planned, courtesy of a series of trees that had been cut down and used to block off one of the roads he needed. He had to backtrack almost four miles and re-plot his course. The only viable option—he did not consider mounting one of the interstates as viable—was to tack southeasterly before turning west, which added another seven miles to his trip. He averaged fifty miles an hour where he could, but the road was twisty enough that he had to slow to negotiate the curves. That was one bad thing about having a lifted truck. They tended to suck when attempting to take a curve at high speed.

Lone Pine was more populated. Once, a couple of families paused their roadside game of badminton to turn and gawk at him. One of the kids waved, and Vincenzo slowed and raised his hand in response. A shirtless young man pointed toward one of the houses, and when Vincenzo looked in that direction, he saw a late-1970s Dodge Ramcharger sitting in the driveway, its chrome grille pointed at the road. It was in great shape, better than the Blazer. Vincenzo shot the young man a thumbs-up before accelerating away.

Lone Pine Road dead-ended into Route 19, and the sign at the juncture told him that Washington lay to the right and Amity was six miles to the left. The overpass of I-79 was a few hundred feet away, and Vincenzo examined it critically. No one was near, but he could see people walking along the interstate a few hundred yards to the north.

He cranked the wheel to the left and accelerated onto Route 19, bolting beneath the two overpasses and kicking up a storm of garbage in his wake. Farther up, a service station was on the left and, to the right, in a big cutout in the road, were four or five trailers. As he charged past them, several people ran toward the road, waving their arms frantically. Vincenzo veered left, giving as much berth as possible. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a man holding his hands in the air, as if wondering why the hell Vincenzo hadn’t stopped.

Sorry, guy, he thought as he accelerated to fifty miles per hour.

Half a mile down, he turned off US 19 onto Vankirk Ridge Road, which was lined by decent-sized houses on half-acre plots of land. The people there seemed to care about the way their community looked. There weren’t piles of garbage stacked everywhere, and any cars that might have died on the road had been cleared. Families were out working their lawns, grilling food, or just playing in the summer heat. Despite the pastoral scenery, Vincenzo didn’t linger. Mindful of young children that might bolt out in front of him, he cruised at around thirty-five miles per hour. A beagle tried to chase the Blazer down, but it gave up after a few yards.

He stopped along one deserted stretch of roadway and reviewed his course. He was back on his original track, which meant that he would be going through a series of turns to make it to Lagonda Road. He drained the contents of his water bottle then set off again.

Vankirk transitioned to Banetown Road, and he coaxed a little more speed out of the Blazer when he encountered a clear straightaway. His next turn, a left, was onto Scenic Drive, which curved away to the north slightly before easing back to the west. He entered another community of neat homes. He made another left onto Cove Road. Light strobed off water, and he saw a reservoir through the trees to his right. At least the people there had a source of water, so they were pretty well off for the moment.

A mile down the road, he turned right onto Lagonda. Even though he was still in mostly farmland, houses appeared with more regularity. Many were well off the road, hidden behind screens of trees, but quite a few were close. People stopped what they were doing and stared as the Blazer tore through the neighborhood. Vincenzo pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and concentrated on not missing his next turn coming up.

Lagonda ended at Park Avenue/Route 18, but as he drew close to the intersection, he saw people. A lot of people. They were mostly heading south but several turned toward the Blazer as Vincenzo rounded a gentle curve. He stood on the brakes, and he was surprised to see some of the people actually starting to run away. Over the rumble of the truck’s engine and the hiss of cool air pouring out of its vents, he heard distant gunfire.

The guy driving the Dodge had told him that the Washington County Airport, which was a couple of miles north, had been converted into some kind of haphazard refugee center. Whatever action was rolling through Washington had apparently spilled over, and people were fleeing the violence on foot.

Vincenzo cut the wheel and drove through a patch of lawn then across a school parking lot. He headed around the back of the brown brick building and came out the far side. There were still plenty of people around, and they seemed taken aback by the black truck’s sudden appearance, as if unsure whether the driver was friend or foe. Vincenzo didn’t hang around to give them time to figure it out. He revved the engine, and the rebuilt V-8 responded with a throaty roar. He swerved around groups of people, sending them diving out of the way as he accelerated, heading south once again.

“Goddamn, but this is getting fucked up!” he shouted as he wrenched the wheel from side to side, frightened that he might run over someone but not about to stop for fear of being mobbed.

A lot of the people had firearms. He saw more than a few pointed in his direction, but no one pulled a trigger. Apparently, as long as he was headed away from them, they weren’t willing to shoot. Not yet, at least.

The crowds thinned a few hundred yards down the road then pretty much disappeared. A golf course appeared to his right. Vincenzo drove past it at a good clip then slowed and pulled off onto the grass. Letting the engine idle, he consulted the atlas again. Less than a quarter of a mile ahead was another road that tracked westward, paralleling the golf course. He decided that one would work.

A few minutes later, he was booming down another rural road, blasting past houses and farms. The road became SR 3014, and he took that to South Bridge Road, which according to the atlas, more or less angled toward Route 40. His eyes felt scratchy, and he was getting tired. He’d been driving for hours, and much of his time traveling had been stressful. It was more difficult to remain incognito in the Blazer. Before, fellow travelers might have been interested to know what was in his hiking pack, but since he was mobile, they all coveted the truck. Vincenzo didn’t blame them, but he wasn’t about to hand it over without a fight.

At just past six-thirty in the evening, there was still plenty of sunlight left, but he would eventually need to find a place to park and conceal the truck. He had no idea where he might be able to do that, but he had to stay alert for any opportunities.

Ahead, more highway overpasses loomed. He knew they were for Interstate 70, that great artery that crossed almost the entire United States, reaching as far west as Utah. The desire to hop onto the freeway and take it for as far as he could go was almost overwhelming, but then he saw black smoke billowing from a fire on the far side of the westbound travel lanes, just beyond the span of the overpass. He couldn’t be sure, but it must have been an entire tractor-trailer on fire. The amount of smoke was impressive as it roiled high into the hazy, humid sky.

Okay, maybe no interstate. He blasted through the shadowy darkness beneath the overpasses at sixty miles per hour, sending the people there diving for cover. Someone hurled a rock that bounced off the right front fender before catapulting over the windshield. It didn’t touch the glass, though, and Vincenzo didn’t slow.

Just before reaching the intersection of South Bridge Road and US 40, he spotted a wide trail that disappeared into the forest on his right. He brought the Blazer to a halt right before the trail’s mouth. The trail seemed to disappear into deep shadow, and he couldn’t see much detail. He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. It looked inviting, and it was close enough to his plotted path of travel to make for a quick getaway the next morning.

And he was so damned tired...

He cranked the wheel to the right and eased the Blazer up the trail. The truck jounced as it rolled up the incline, its big tires effortlessly going right over ruts and rocks. The tree canopies soon interlocked, shrouding the trail in deep shadow, and Vincenzo removed his sunglasses so he could see. He realized he was on a fire trail. A couple of hundred feet off the road was a turnaround area big enough for him to horse the Blazer through a three-point turn so that it was more or less pointed back at the road. He decided that wasn’t good enough, so he backed it deeper into the brush, crushing bushes and scrub. Finally satisfied that he had hidden the vehicle as well as he was able, he switched off the engine and sat inside the cool cabin, listening to hot metal tick and ping as it cooled. He sighed then released his lap belt and grabbed the M1A.

He pushed open the driver’s door and stepped down to the forest floor. The trail was a combination of rock and sandy soil, and in the pale light that penetrated the leaves overhead, he couldn’t detect any sign that might tell someone a vehicle had recently been through the area. Slinging the rifle, he walked up the trail and found that it opened up to a field about thirty yards away.

He stuck to the trees and surveilled the space for a few minutes. It was a little smaller than a football field, and the tall grass had been growing unmolested for some time. On the far side stood a thick forest of tall trees, and above those, smoke curled into the air. He thought he heard the distant reports of rifle fire.

He turned and walked back to the Blazer. He intended to spend some time camouflaging the vehicle before treating himself to another helping of Dinty Moore’s best.

26

Sounds of violence erupted throughout the night, as if some fantastic bloodletting was taking place miles away.

Vincenzo lay on his sleeping bag beside the Blazer, the M1A on his right and the Beretta in its holster on his opposite hip. Sleep came intermittently. As soon as he dropped off, it seemed that a spasm of violence, the rustling of some animal slipping through the brush, or even the wind through the treetops above would rouse him again. He wondered if he was far enough away from Washington after all. While he’d put miles between himself and the town, those fleeing the bloodshed might continue their migration during the night, which could lead them to his little corner of the woods. He hoped the forest might slow them down, but not everyone was going to take the roads.

Could’ve driven a little longer, I guess. But he wasn’t about to travel at night, not when he wouldn’t be able to see anything. And turning on the Blazer’s rather impressive array of lights would serve only to advertise his position.

He awoke later than normal the next morning, for dawn was already well on its way. He sat up and checked the immediate area. There was no one about, and he seemed safe for the time being. Some gunfire still rattled far away, but it was erratic. Whatever fight had been going down had either ended, or there was no one left to shoot at.

He had a hasty breakfast of cereal and canned milk, which didn’t taste as terrible as he remembered. The Blazer’s former owner apparently loved canned goods, and that was fine. Food in cans generally tasted better than stuff in bags, though there was plenty of that, as well. At some point he would have to inventory everything and start consuming by expiration dates, but that would have to wait until later.

After breakfast, he took care of his personal needs and used some of the water to take a quick sponge bath. It didn’t come even close to matching the shower he’d had at the fire station, but it would have to do.

After that, he removed the camouflage netting, shook it do dislodge any bugs that might have taken up residence in it during the night, and packed up the Blazer. Back in the cab, he checked the atlas. He was a couple of miles southwest of Washington and maybe four miles from the West Virginia border. Vincenzo had never set foot in West Virginia, and he wasn’t eager to do so. He came from people who pretty much viewed West Virginia as the land of flat-headed Neanderthals, and if that was indeed the case, then the time since the event likely hadn’t improved anything. Yet, he had no choice. He had to keep moving. He thumbed through the atlas, trying to figure out how long he’d be in West Virginia before crossing over into Ohio. It wouldn’t be for long, maybe an hour if he was able to keep away from any obstructions or other distractions. After that, his route would take him through Columbus. He would detour around that, and maybe drift farther south. The Ackermans were in Cincinnati. He was curious if they’d made it home.

A sound caught his attention, and he dropped the atlas in favor of the rifle. At first, he couldn’t identify it. The noise was completely alien to his ears, but he immediately knew it wasn’t a sound that belonged in the wilderness. He listened intently, then he heard it again.

The whimpering of a child.

He stepped out of the Blazer and gently eased the door closed. Holding the rifle, he moved back to the trail, careful to make as little noise as possible. The whimpering was coming from the direction of the field. Vincenzo cautiously made his way toward it, sticking close to the trees.

The sun was just over the horizon, bathing the field in a golden glow. There was a hint of haze in the air, which meant the coming day would be another humid boiler. A hawk was already riding the building thermals, surveying the territory below for any prey.

A man with a sagging backpack hurried across the field. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a worn denim shirt with rolled up sleeves, and he didn’t appear to be armed. Two children ran with him, holding his hands. On his right was a young girl with wispy blond hair. She wore mud-stained corduroy pants, a floral top, and a pink Dora the Explorer backpack. The other child, a boy, was older. He had on blue shorts, sneakers, and a red T-shirt with the number forty-four emblazoned across the chest. The hair sticking out from beneath his rust-colored Ralph Lauren cap was slightly darker than the girl’s. His backpack was bright orange and covered spikes like a dinosaur’s back. The boy dragged his feet, and the man chided him gently. The boy held a plastic hanger in his free hand, which he whipped and whirled. He studied the hanger with rapt attention, his face going through several expressions. He whimpered but not as if he were hurt.

Don’t get involved.

The man looked up, and for an instant, Vincenzo was afraid he’d been spotted, but then he realized the guy had spotted the trail. If they took that path, they would pass within feet of where Vincenzo stood. Vincenzo took a step backward, intending to fade back into the trees, but a branch snapped under his foot.

The man skidded to a halt. He looked at the trees with something akin to panic, and when his gaze locked onto Vincenzo, his mouth fell open. “Please…”

“Why are we stopping, Daddy?” the girl asked.

Her brother said something, but Tony couldn’t make out the words. Oddly, the kid continued to be mesmerized by the hanger he was flipping in his hands.

A gunshot rang out, and the man stumbled. A spray of blood exploding from his chest. The girl gave a little squeak as her father toppled face-first into the grass. The boy looked away from his hanger for a moment, an expression of muted shock playing across his face, then he went back to hanger-gazing.

“Daddy! Daddy!” the little girl shrieked, falling down beside the man. “Daddy, get up!”

Vincenzo raised the M1A, heart pounding. He scanned the area, trying to spot the shooter. Don’t get involved! Don’t get involved!

Engines revved, and a moment later, two ATVs and a mud-splattered Harley rolled onto the scene. The men astride the machines looked hard and rough, with beards and shaggy hair. The one on the Harley was older. His long gray hair was neat by post-apocalypse standards, and his trimmed beard had a jagged scar running through it. He wore a Harley T-shirt and faded jeans, and had a military rifle slung across his back and a big revolver in an armpit holster. The other men were younger, with long dirty beards, longer hair, prodigious tattoos, and filthy clothes. One of them looked as if he had been splattered with blood that had dried hours ago.

“Damn, old man, that was a hell of a shot with that Dirty Harry piece you got!” one of the young men said as he braked his ATV to a halt and jumped off.

The blood-splattered one did the same. He swept the area with his pale gaze as he pulled the pump-action shotgun on his back into his hands. If he saw Vincenzo, he gave no indication.

The Harley guy seemed more interest in finding a stone or something to lean his bike’s kickstand on. “Practice makes perfect.” His voice was a deep rumble that matched that of the idling bike. He finally found what he was looking for, and he switched off the Harley and climbed off. While his companions closed on the fallen man, he regarded his muddy ride and shook his head. “Damn, I’ll never take this thing off-road again,” he said.

“So get yourself a new one,” the first man said. He leered at the girl, who was sobbing beside her father. “Hey, little girl! Your new uncle has a piece of candy for you. Want to suck it?” he asked, while unzipping his pants.

Vincenzo felt sick to his stomach. Don’t get involved!

The blood-splattered one looked at the boy, who seemed oblivious to everything but the plastic implement he was waving around. The man laughed and pointed. “Check it out, Harley. This one’s a fucking retard or something.”

Harley regarded the boy for a moment. “Yeah, okay. Let him alone, Dees.”

The girl shrieked as the youngest man grabbed her. He rubbed her small body against his front as she kicked and struggled. One of her kicks managed to catch him right in the crotch, but he only laughed. “Yeah, that’s the spirit!” he shouted. “Fight back. It’s better when you fight back!”

“Hey!” Harley snapped. “You know the rules. Roth doesn’t want anyone touching kids!”

“Oh, fuck that,” Dees said. “We just killed a bunch of kids last night!” He walked over and ripped the hanger out of boy’s hand. Ignoring the kid’s grasping fingers, Dees threw the plastic into the weeds. The boy wailed and began slapping himself across the face with enough force to make his skin turn red. His cap flew off his head, and the field was filled with the sounds of shrieking children.

This isn’t going to end very well, Vincenzo thought.

Don’t get involved! the small voice in the back of his mind implored. Wait for them to leave then get the hell out of here!

“I want both of you to leave these kids alone!” Harley snarled.

“No can do, old man,” said the ATV rider with the little girl. He threw her to the ground then dropped his pants, exposing his erect penis. “Maybe when I’m done, I’ll let you have a little.”

“You fucking piece of—” Harley went for the revolver in the holster beneath his left arm. As he did, he twisted slightly, and his eyes widened.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

Vincenzo raised the M1A just as the old biker opened his mouth to shout a warning. Vincenzo’s first shot caught Harley in the mouth, blasting through his lips and shattering most of his teeth. The biker fell backward, crashing into his bike. For an instant, the motorcycle teetered on its wheels. Harley fell to the ground, and his namesake lost the battle with gravity and landed on top of him.

The taller man standing over the boy jumped back and fired a shotgun blast into the woods. He shot blindly and well to the right of Vincenzo’s position. Vincenzo returned fire, hitting the man first in the gut then again in the sternum as he stumbled backward.

The third man’s cock deflated like a balloon when the air was released. He let go of his pants and reached for his rifle, but his loose jeans slowed him. His fingertips might have just brushed the weapon when Vincenzo fired again, drilling him with three shots that tore through his back. The man released a shrill scream that faded into a blood-choked gurgle as he thrashed weakly in the tall grass.

Okay, that was definitely you getting involved. Vincenzo broke cover and ran toward the father lying in the grass. When the kids saw him coming, and they both scurried over to their father’s side. The boy stood above the stricken man, flapping his arms as if he could somehow take flight. The girl knelt beside her father, screaming for him to wake up.

Vincenzo reached them and took a knee beside the man. “Take it easy,” he told the girl. “I’m one of the good guys.”

You? One of the good guys? The little voice in the back of his mind tittered. That’s rich.

Vincenzo saw a small hole in the man’s backpack. Fearing the worst, he slung his rifle and gently rolled the guy over. He was still conscious. But

The man’s eyelids fluttered, then he looked up at Vincenzo. “Kids.” A little blood appeared on his lips. The bloodstained shirt told Vincenzo that the guy wasn’t going to last very long.

“They’re here. They’re fine,” Vincenzo said. “I took out the other guys.”

“Charity Point, Missouri,” the man gasped. “Their mom—Felix. Remember Felix.”

“Their mom’s name is Felix?” Vincenzo asked.

“Daddy!” the girl howled. “Daddy!”

“Charity Point, Missouri,” the man said, pronouncing each word carefully. “Felix. It’s Felix.”

“Charity Point, Missouri, and some chick named Felix. Yeah, I got it,” Vincenzo said.

The man’s chest made a wet sound as he breathed, and Vincenzo realized the biker’s shot had left him with a sucking chest wound. He tried to think. How did you treat a sucking chest wound? Plastic sheeting, right? He had the tarp back in the Blazer, and he could cut a piece of it with one of the knives. And there was surgical tape in the first-aid kit—

“Oh, my babies,” the man said in a mournful, blood-choked whisper. The light went out in his eyes. There was no death rattle, nothing as dramatic as that. He was just gone, like a lamp that had been switched off. And even though he’d just met a horrible end, his last thoughts had been about his kids.

“Daddy.” The voice was soft and barely audible above the girl’s cries. The boy knelt beside Vincenzo and reached out with one grubby hand. He touched the man’s blood-flecked lips gently, his fingertips barely making contact. “Daddy.”

Vincenzo got to his feet, and the boy moved closer to the man, kneeling in the blood without a care as he continued stroking the dead man’s lips.

“Daddy,” he said again.

The girl shook as she sobbed, her face buried in the man’s neck.

“I’m sorry, kids,” Vincenzo said, bending over to close the father’s eyes.

“Man... you’re so fuckin’ dead.”

Vincenzo whirled around. The would-be child-rapist lay on his stomach, his pale buttocks pointing toward the sky. The guy looked at Vincenzo with glazed eyes.

“You think you’re going to kill me, fucker?” Vincenzo walked over, a fiery rage building up deep inside him. “You think you’re going to even be an inconvenience to me?” He unslung the M1A and put the tip of the barrel within an inch of the man’s right eye.

“Roth’s gonna chase you,” the man muttered. “Chase you down. Take a long time...  killing you. You’re gonna fucking scream... like a little girl. You’re... fucking history, dude.”

With a choked cry, Vincenzo straightened and kicked the man in the face with his heavy boot, putting as much strength into the strike as he could. He was certain the kick had shattered the man’s jaw, but the guy didn’t make a sound. Vincenzo kicked him again and again, releasing days of pent-up frustration and fear by slamming his boot into the limp body. When he finally finished, the child-rapist was dead, and the acrid stink of urine filled the air.

“Well, I finally kicked the piss out of someone,” Vincenzo said with a nervous laugh.

He heard revving engines and spun to face toward the trees on the other side of the field. There was a trail out there somewhere. There had to be. Otherwise, the old guy couldn’t have gotten a Harley Davidson all the way up the hillside. And from the sound of it, friends of the trio of butchers he’d just gunned down were probably looking for them. It was time to go.

Vincenzo turned back to the two grieving kids. The boy was still touching his father’s lips, and the girl was still sobbing hysterically. For a moment, he considered running back to the Blazer and leaving them. They weren’t his responsibility. He had people of his own to get to, and his family needed him just as much as those kids needed someone. He had days and days of traveling ahead of him, and he had to get back on the road.

Sure, just abandon two little kids. No problem, right, paisan? They’d just be an inconvenience, like your little girl was before she finally gave up the ghost in the hospital.

The thought shocked him to the core. Next, an acute sense of self-loathing overcame him. That he’d even thought of abandoning two helpless kids was detestable. The characters in the bullshit TV shows he produced had more empathy, and they weren’t even flesh and blood, just figments of some creative committee’s imagination, designed to manipulate viewers into feeling something.

He slung the rifle and walked back over to the children. “Kids, I’m sorry, but we have to go.” He rolled their father over so he could pull off his backpack.

“Leave him alone!” the girl screamed. “He’s our daddy. Leave him alone!”

Vincenzo reached out and caught her face between his hands. “Sweetie, listen to me. Your father is dead. I have to take you with me now, before more bad men show up.”

“We can’t leave Daddy! He has to come with us!”

“He’s dead, sweetie. He’s not going anywhere, and we have to leave. Right now.”

The boy got up and ran away, flapping his arms.

“Hey, come back!” Vincenzo yelled.

The boy stopped a short distance away. He stood there for a moment then knelt in the grass. When he stood up, he had the dirty plastic hanger in his hand. He focused on it, slinging it around in his hand. If he was even aware of his blood-covered knees, he gave no indication.

Vincenzo got the dad’s bag over his shoulder then grabbed the little girl’s hand. Her sunglasses were nearby, and he picked them up and handed them to her. Tugging her back to the tree line, he called for the boy to follow them, but the kid remained fixated on the spinning hanger.

“What’s his name?” Vincenzo asked the girl as she tried to pull away from him. “That boy, what’s his name?”

“Daniel!” the girl shouted. “Daniel!”

“Daniel! Come here!” Vincenzo barked.

The boy looked up and regarded Vincenzo with emotionless eyes. After a few seconds, he took a few steps toward them, so Vincenzo continued hurrying into the woods. The boy followed him to the trail, and Vincenzo called the kid’s name again when he hesitated.

“Daddy... don’t leave my daddy,” the little girl wailed. Her cries were softer, and Vincenzo figured the gravity of the situation was finally becoming plain to her. He pulled her into his arms and carried her to the Blazer.

“It’s going to be all right,” Vincenzo told her. “I’m one of the good guys. I’m going to get you and your brother out of here, all right? Just stay calm.”

“Daddy...”

“Later, honey. Later.” Vincenzo opened the passenger door and pushed her into the backseat. “Stay right there. Don’t touch anything, I’ll be right back. I have to go get your brother.”

He tossed the man’s backpack onto the floor behind the driver’s seat then sprinted back up the trail. He found the boy standing there, his face contorted into an odd expression as he gave the hanger his full attention. Vincenzo scooped him up. Daniel stiffened and let out one plaintive yell, but he didn’t resist. Carrying the kid was like toting a big piece of firewood: hard, unmoving, but portable. On the way back, he stopped long enough to grab the boy’s cap. Back at the Blazer, he tucked the boy in beside his sister then hurried around the vehicle and slid in behind the steering wheel.

“Okay, we’re going to leave now. I’m Tony. I’m going to help you guys. I need you to put on your seat belts, okay?”

“Daddy,” Daniel said, his voice soft and beautiful. He looked up from the hanger and met Vincenzo’s eyes. An instant later, the hanger seemed to call to him again, and he gave it his full attention.

“Guys, put on your seat belts,” Vincenzo repeated.

The girl was still blubbering, but she grabbed the seat belt. She struggled to fasten it, so Vincenzo reached back and did it for her, then he did the same for Daniel. Once they were both secure, he buckled his own belt then cranked up the Blazer.

“I want my Daddy,” the girl said, but with more pain than panic in her voice.

“Later, honey,” Vincenzo said. “Hang on, now. This might be rough.”

He pulled out of the trees, hearing bits and pieces of debris sliding off the fiberglass top as the tires bit into the trail. The Blazer swayed as it rolled down the rough track. As he neared the trail’s exit, he saw something metallic gleaming in the sunlight down on the road. It was an ATV, and the man sitting astride it looked up as the Blazer rolled down. He reached for his hip, where a pistol was holstered.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Vincenzo shouted, nailing the accelerator.

The Blazer’s engine roared as the black beast surged out into the street. Its heavy bumper rammed into the ATV. The rider flew in one direction while the off-road vehicle went in another. The ATV slammed into a yellow classic pickup truck parked on the other side of the road. It hit with enough force to rip the clip off the truck’s front, demolishing the radiator and tearing the plastic windshield wash reservoir off its bracket. The white plastic tub tumbled through the air, leaking blue fluid. The men who had been standing beside the truck leaped out of the way, but one of them was taken out by the ATV as it ricocheted off the front of the truck.

Vincenzo cranked the wheel hard to the right and stomped on the accelerator again. The Blazer’s big wheels chirped on the pavement as he worked the three-speed shifter, speeding away from the obliterated truck and the confused men around it. By the time he made it to US 40, he was going far too fast to make the turn, so he just drove across the intersection, surging up the road on the other side. He heard gunfire, but nothing hit the Blazer. He weaved from side to side to make a tougher target. Stuff rocked from side to side in the Blazer’s cargo area behind the backseat. The girl started crying again.

“Are you guys hurt?” Vincenzo shouted. He checked the rearview mirror, but he couldn’t see out the back since some of the gear had shifted. The side mirror on the passenger side had been knocked askew. He saw no signs of pursuit in the driver’s side mirror, but he didn’t slow down. Houses were on either side of the street, a collection of motley capes and country-style houses with peeling paint and cars in the front yard that left Vincenzo wondering if he was already in West Virginia.

The road forked, and he tacked to the left, catching the name of the street as he whipped past the sign: Constitution Boulevard. Two men sat in plastic lawn chairs near the corner across from a white brick American Legion post. One held up his hands as if asking Vincenzo to slow down. He did but only slightly. A glance at the speedometer told him he was doing fifty-three miles per hour. He looked into the side-view mirror and still saw no signs of pursuit.

“Guys, answer me. Are you all right?” Vincenzo asked again.

“Puzzle,” Daniel said softly.

“What?”

“Puzzle, please,” the boy responded.

“Little girl, what’s your name?” Vincenzo asked.

“Gabby,” the girl said.

“Gabby, I’m Tony.”

“You told me that already. Will Daddy be okay?”

“Sure,” Vincenzo said.

“Puzzle!” Daniel repeated.

“Will Daddy meet us somewhere?” Gabby asked.

“You know it. He just needed me to take you guys with me, since I have the truck. He was going to talk to the rest of the men that were following you.” Vincenzo thought that was quite the ad lib. “Gabby, why is Daniel saying ‘puzzle’?”

“He dropped his hanger,” she said. “Everything’s a puzzle to him.”

Vincenzo grunted. “I think it’s like that for everyone these days.”

“He’s oddistic,” Gabby said.

“‘Oddistic’? What’s that?”

“Mommy and Daddy say he’s special.”

Autistic. The kid’s fucking Rain Man at the end of the world, and everything’s a puzzle to him. Outstanding. I don’t have time for this shit.

“Those men are bad,” Gabby said. “They hurt everyone. Will they hurt Daddy?”

“No, they’ll leave him alone. Gabby, are you and Daniel all right? Are you hurt?”

“No. We’re okay.”

“All right. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“Puzzle!” Daniel shouted.

Vincenzo jumped so badly that the Blazer swerved toward the left shoulder. If there had been oncoming traffic, that would have been a tough spot to be in. But traffic of the moving variety was becoming harder to find lately. Unless it’s the bad guys, of course.

The road meandered into a curve to the left, leading to a narrow bridge over a creek. On the other side was a small town… and several armed men. One of them waved for him to stop, and Vincenzo braked to a halt well before he reached them. The man shot him a thumbs-up then had a quick discussion with the others. No one was pointing any weapons at the Blazer, and that suited Vincenzo just fine. He put the vehicle in reverse and started to back up, but the first man started waving again and shaking his head. After moving his hands in a “stay put” gesture, the man pointed at himself then at Vincenzo. He was coming over the bridge.

“Are we staying here?” Gabby asked.

“Yeah, for a second.”

“Puzzle!” Daniel shouted again. “I want puzzle!”

“Okay. Okay.” Vincenzo looked around the seat and spotted the hanger on the floor, just out of Daniel’s reach. He picked it up and handed it to the boy. Daniel calmed down immediately when he wrapped his fingers around it.

“Oh, look! A horsie!” Gabby said, pointing out the windshield.

Vincenzo faced forward and saw the man who had done all the gesturing was astride a brown-and-white spotted horse. He wore a cowboy-style hat and a uniform. A badge on his left breast glinted in the sunlight.

And even more awesomeness. I’m sitting in a dead man’s truck, with another dead man’s kids. What’s going to happen if he asks for license and registration? Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do. “Lawman’s comin’,” he muttered.

“Is he a cowboy?” Gabby asked.

“Maybe. You guys stay here, all right?” He thought about the .45 tucked between the driver’s seat and center console. “Don’t touch anything.” Vincenzo slowly opened the door and pulled the rifle across the driver’s seat as he crawled out of the Blazer.

The horse click-clacked toward him. The man was in his seventies, at least, and whipcord thin. He had a white mustache, and pale eyes gleamed in his tan face. He reminded Vincenzo of the actor Richard Farnsworth.

The man nodded toward the idling Blazer. “Never did get too many of these up this way, even before the event.” His voice was hoarse, likely from too many cigarettes. “I’m Jeremiah Foster, county sheriff’s office. And who might you be?”

“Tony Vincenzo.”

“Where from and where to, Mr. Vincenzo? I see you have children with you.”

“From New York, heading to California.”

“Quite a hike, but it looks like you have the wheels for it.” Foster leaned forward in the saddle. “Nice M1 on the front seat. Thinking of using it?”

“Not unless there’s a reason to.” Vincenzo nodded toward the bridge. “Can I pass through, please?”

“We’ll talk about that. You have any idea what’s happening in Washington?”

“Seems like some sort of marauders or something came in and sacked the town. I’m trying to avoid them. They’re not the kind of people you want to run into.”

Foster cocked his head. “Any idea how many?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “I’ve seen maybe a dozen or so. They have vehicles. And they’re killers. I guess they take whatever they need through raiding, and they don’t seem to be too particular about who gets hurt. Including kids.” He gestured at Gabby, who was peering at them from between the seats. “One of them tried to rape her.”

Foster’s brows went up beneath his hat. “And what happened to that guy?”

Vincenzo patted the stock of the M1. “This.”

The old man nodded. “I see. Well, I’m going to guess the local police weren’t of much help.”

“They’re either dead, run off, or threw in with the bad guys.”

“Are they headed our way?” Foster asked.

“I think so. Eventually, maybe. And if not them, then a few thousand refugees from Pittsburgh. I figure either one is going to be bad. So how about it. Can we pass through? If not, I’m turning around and looking for another route.”

Foster peered down at Vincenzo then glanced at the kids in the truck. “You can pass through, but you can’t stop. Not much to look at, anyway. Just a few dozen folks and their families. When you get to the second intersection, turn right. That’ll take you up and around and drop you off on US 40 about six miles down, in Claysville. You planning on taking that cross country?”

“I was.”

Foster nodded. “Seems like a safer bet than the interstates, right now, though probably not without risk. You thinking of hopping on I-70 for a stretch? You might make some time.”

“Don’t know. I’ll have to check it out, first.”

“You know anything else about these marauders that might be coming our way?”

Vincenzo tried to recall what the dying guy had said. “I was told that Roth was going to kill me. I guess he’s their leader or something.”

“You know anything about this man Roth?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Not a damn thing. Hey, do you have any fuel I can lift from you? This thing, she’s mighty thirsty.”

“Not me. But when you get across the bridge, ask that fat fella in the yellow fishing hat. His name’s Sylvester, and he’ll probably sell you some. He runs the only gas station in town. But I’ll tell you, he’s going to gouge you. Sylvester’s the greediest sumbitch I think I’ve ever met.”

“You from here, Sheriff?”

Foster nodded. “Born and bred in Taylorville. Sounds like I might die in it too, but that was always part of the plan.” He sighed. “It’ll be a shame to go before I see eighty, though.”

27

Roth walked around in the field, taking in the scene. The path the man had taken through the grass was clear, but there were three separate tracks through the greenery, not just one. Those were closely followed by the vehicles: Harley’s bike and the two ATVs ridden by men whose names Roth couldn’t recall. They were just fodder for the army. Their loss didn’t faze him in the slightest. It was what they were made for; otherwise, they wouldn’t have come under his control.

But Harley... that was a loss he felt personally. It wasn’t that he had great kinship with the dead biker, though the man had been one of the few people Roth had been friendly with in prison. Harley had spent decades in the penal system, and he knew how things worked. He knew how to motivate, oversee, and get things done. People trusted Harley as if he were a favorite uncle, even though he was mean enough to kill anyone who got in his way. When he saw something he wanted, he simply took it, and if someone stood between him and the item he coveted, he took the person out. There was no mystery to Harley. He was bright enough to know when it was time to let others do the work for him and savvy enough to understand that he sometimes had to do things by himself. He had advised Roth faithfully over the past couple of weeks since leaving the prison, and his advice had been solid and sound. Roth had over two thousand people in his employ, and a large share of the credit went to Harley.

But Harley was dead, his body half-hidden beneath his Road King.

He had obviously been gunned down while reaching for his revolver, since it was still clutched in his right hand. He had fired one shot from it, and from the looks of it, that bullet had struck the unknown man lying in the grass several feet away. The other two were fairly far apart. The taller one had been shot twice, and the third—who was inexplicably half-naked—had been hit three times. Something more had happened to him besides the shooting because his blood was smeared across a few feet of grass. He had been attacked, either after he was dead or when he lay dying. From the amount of blood, Roth rather suspected it was the latter. The man had most likely done something to call that treatment down upon him, and Roth wondered what it might have been.

From what Roth could tell, someone had ambushed Harley and company from the woods. They had found several expended cartridges—.308 Winchester, perfect man-killing rounds—in the brush. He told one of his guys to stand in the same approximate place as the gunman had, and he saw the shooter had been only partially concealed. A careful examination of the trees would have revealed his position. That was the problem with driving people like cattle; it made the warriors complacent. Clearly, Harley had fallen victim to that and paid a steep price for his lack of attention to detail.

A smaller path through the grass told him that one person—a child, perhaps?—had joined the shooter and walked a meandering course to the rocky trail that led into the woods on the hillside. A larger path indicated that the shooter had led another person to the same trail. Further investigation down the trail revealed rugged tread marks, evidence that a vehicle had been parked there.

But he didn’t learn anything new, only confirmed the reports from the people at the other side of the trail. One of them had been killed, and another was so severely wounded that she would probably die from her injuries after her ATV had been struck. He’d already been told that the black SUV that had come bolting down the trail was an older one, bigger than a vintage Bronco, which meant it was either a Chevy or an International. The vehicle was driven by a man wearing a baseball cap, and at least one child had been spotted in the backseat. The man had sped across US 40 and up the winding road opposite. Roth wondered if the guy was a local, since he had foregone the wider and more direct highway at the intersection. The man would have been dozens of miles away before Roth had even arrived on scene.

“Two things: it was either an opportunistic killing, or the guy was lying in wait.” Clarissa didn’t look at him. Her green eyes were locked on Harley’s corpse.

He hadn’t invited her to speak, but he could forgive the transgression at the moment. She had been a homicide detective in Pittsburgh. Caught up in the orgy of violence Roth’s people had cut across the state, she had joined them willingly. Clarissa Yarborough was damaged goods, a police officer who had seen society swing too far to the left and had watched her beloved Pittsburgh become a town corrupted by union officials and spineless professional politicians. She had even married one of those pathetic creatures, a district attorney. She had left him months ago, right after quitting her job after almost ten years on the force.

She had soon become one of Roth’s concubines, but she willingly submitted to him. Roth appreciated that. He knew full well that in the dom/sub relationship, the submissive held the real power and that she had ceded it to him by choice, not just to save her life, but because she craved the type of leadership a man like him could provide. He could sew up the fraying fabric of society in the way that only a true apex predator could—through savagery, oppression, and when it suited him, guile.

“So which is it?” Roth asked.

Clarissa poked around the area where the shooter had engaged. “Opportunity,” she said finally. “I think he was seen, probably by Harley, who got one shot. The others were moving, so they got multiple shots, some of them pretty sloppy. But they all hit. No other cartridges lying around. And the one without the pants did something that really set him off. No idea what, but I know the guy was a pedophile. After they killed the father, he might have tried to do something to one of the kids.”

Roth considered that. “I don’t think Harley would have allowed that.”

Clarissa looked back at the old biker’s body. “He wasn’t turned this way, but he must’ve looked over here. It’s the only way he could have been shot through the mouth.”

“So our shooter fired out of self-defense, then took the kids. He’s a family man, someone with some morals left. Probably a backwoods country boy,” Roth mused.

“He didn’t go down the highway. Maybe he’s heading home.”

“Yes.” Roth nodded. “Let’s go find him.”

Clarissa tilted her head. “May I ask why?”

Roth fixed her with a hot gaze, and she looked away. He humored her by answering anyway. “He shot Harley. Anyone else, I would have chalked it up to the way things work out. But I liked Harley. I want to find the bastard. Clear enough?”

“Yes, sir,” she said immediately, her voice small. “Who will you send after him?”

“Hey, I’ll go,” Toombs said. He was walking toward them, and for once, his stupid face had a hard set to it. The Q-Tip was pissed.

“I’ll see to it myself,” Roth said.

Toombs’s face fell. “I can do it, if you want.”

“I’ll do it,” Roth repeated. “You’re welcome to come along, Toombs.”

Toombs brightened immediately. Roth didn’t really need him, but the man was just too stupid to leave to his own devices. Harley had been good at minding Toombs. Roth would have to find another babysitter for him.

“Okay, ready when you are,” Toombs said. His buck teeth glistened in the sunlight.

“Gather some men. Fifteen or twenty should be good enough. We’ll move as a group.” Roth looked back at Clarissa speculatively. “You’re coming, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

28

Vincenzo tracked north and west on the back country roads, sticking to them a bit longer than he had been instructed so as to avoid the town of Claysville. He didn’t want to interact with anyone, not after what he’d gone through, and the safest way to keep from getting into another gunfight was to stay away from people entirely.

After an hour, he pulled off on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere between two overgrown fields. He looked out over the gently rolling knolls and grassy fields where wild flowers swayed in the light breeze. The gas gauge showed the tank was less than half full. He would have to get some more gasoline soon, preferably before he made it back to US 40. That might be a tall order. He hadn’t seen many vehicles since passing through the town of Taylorville, so it might have to wait until he found an area that was more heavily populated.

Gabby was asleep, lying on her side on the backseat despite the seatbelt around her waist. Daniel was still awake and playing with his hanger, and he showed no sign of flagging. He glanced up at Vincenzo before refocusing his attention on the plastic implement. Vincenzo held out a bottle of water.

Daniel reached out and took it. He couldn’t get it open, and he looked back at Vincenzo with his curiously vacant eyes. “Help me,” he said.

Vincenzo smiled then opened the bottle for him.

The boy drank half of the water then held out the bottle. “All done,” he said.

Vincenzo smiled again and took the bottle. The boy went back to his hanger, and Vincenzo returned to studying the atlas.

He was skittish of going through any towns or cities, but at the same time, he didn’t want to waste a lot of time on detours. He decided to stick to the north of US 40 then dogleg south past Claysville. Hopefully, he would be able to take on gas before then, but if not, there would certainly be opportunities on the main road.

Now, about the kids. The father had said Charity Point, Missouri, and the name Felix. He flipped through the atlas until he found Missouri then searched the index for a town named Charity Point. He frowned. There was no such town. His planned route did cut right through the Show Me State, though, so there was still some opportunity to unravel that riddle. He figured they could probably be there in three days, maybe less. It all depended on what lay in wait for them between the backwaters of Pennsylvania and the towns and burgs of Missouri.

The backpack he’d taken off the man was still sitting in the passenger-side foot well. He opened it. He found some camping supplies, spare clothes—all worn and not exactly clean—several boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese, a couple of bottles of water, Kool-Aid mix, plastic bowls, a half-empty plastic container of baby wipes with five or six blue packets of refills, and several odd-looking articles of clothing. They were bright orange and had a polyester shell; inside the shell was soft white cloth with some sort of moisture wicking element. They had button snaps on the outside, and he pulled one out of the bundle and examined it closely. After a moment, he realized they were diapers. Also inside the backpack was a re-sealable plastic bag. He surmised it contained soiled underclothes, and he wasn’t about to open it to verify.

“Party, please,” Daniel said.

“You want a party? Well, I think you deserve one.”

“Party now, please.”

“Sh. Don’t wake up your sister.” Vincenzo opened the outer pockets of the backpack. He found the man’s wallet and flipped it open. The Pennsylvania driver’s license showed the name Michael Tolson and an address in Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania. In the license photo, the man looked hale and hearty, his eyes bright and intelligent and his dark hair neatly combed.

“Party, please,” Daniel repeated.

“We’ll have a party for you in a bit, little guy.”

Other than credit cards, seventy dollars in cash, and some family photos—he took note of the fair-haired woman holding the kids in some of the pictures—there wasn’t anything related to Missouri, or Felix for that matter. He returned the wallet to the backpack.

He suddenly got a whiff of something foul.

Oh, no. He turned back and saw that Daniel was no longer interested in the hanger. The boy’s face was red with effort as he emptied his bowels into his pants.

Cursing under his breath, Vincenzo shut off the Blazer and grabbed the baby wipes and a diaper. Daniel looked unhappy, and his body was tense when Vincenzo pulled him out of the vehicle. There was definitely a load in his shorts. I don’t have time for this!

He carried Daniel to the front of the truck and put the wipes and diaper on the hood. Gingerly, he removed the boy’s shorts.

“Party,” Daniel said unhappily.

“Does party mean potty?” Vincenzo asked.

“Pawty,” Daniel said.

Yep, he meant potty. Vincenzo removed the diaper and tried to fling the smelly contents into the grass at the shoulder of the road. Some of it was embedded into the fabric because Daniel had been sitting while shitting. Vincenzo tossed the disgusting cloth aside and concentrated on wiping down Daniel’s rear end. Daniel bent forward, placing his hands on the Blazer’s slightly dented bumper. He didn’t say anything while Vincenzo wiped him down and muttered curses. It was a mess, and he used more baby wipes than he would have liked. When the kid was clean enough, Vincenzo pulled on the fresh diaper and, with fingers that weren’t exactly nimble enough for the job, managed to button it up. He inspected Daniel’s shorts for any wet spots from leakage, found none, and slipped them back on. After that, he returned the boy to the backseat, strapped him in, and handed him his hanger.

He tried to wipe out the diaper as well as he could, but it would need to be washed. He pulled the plastic bag out of the dead man’s backpack and opened it. Sure enough, the two other diapers in there were mighty ripe. Vincenzo pushed the new one inside, then sealed the bag and returned it to the backpack.

After a liberal application of hand sanitizer, he climbed in behind the Blazer’s steering wheel. It was time to get going.

###

It was midafternoon by the time they made it to US 40. Easing out onto the thoroughfare from Cunningham Road, he saw no vehicles or pedestrians, so he turned right, heading westward. The gas tank showed a quarter of a tank. Running out of gas would be a major problem, especially with two little kids in tow. He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw that both of them were sound asleep. After all the trauma they’d been through, he couldn’t blame them. He was feeling mighty fatigued himself.

When US 40 drew close to Interstate 70, Vincenzo stopped the Blazer. A wide field separated the two thoroughfares, and while US 40 was devoid of any dead traffic, the same could not be said for the interstate. There were cars and trucks interspersed along the highway, many with their doors open. They’d been looted or used as shelter during the nights. He prepared for the switchover by putting the Blazer into four-wheel drive. He drove forward for a few feet, making sure the hubs were locked, then turned into the field. The ground was dry and relatively smooth, so the four-wheel drive was probably overkill, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Where are we going?” Gabby asked.

“We need gasoline, so I’m going to get some from the cars on the highway,” he told her. “I need you and Daniel to stay in the truck, and don’t touch anything. Okay?”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Gabby said. “And I’m hungry.”

“Party, please,” Daniel added.

“Okay, we’ll go for a quick pee, then I want you guys to wait for me in the truck. After I get enough gas, we’ll pull back onto the road and have something to eat. Okay?”

“But I want to eat now,” Gabby whined.

Vincenzo controlled the surge of irritation that coursed through him. Take it easy. She’s just a kid. And she just watched her father get killed a few hours ago. “I need you to wait just a little longer, sweetie,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Let’s go potty first, then we’ll do what we have to do, all right?”

“All right,” she said, but she still wore a pouty expression.

“Party, please,” Daniel repeated.

“Hang in there, big guy.”

Vincenzo stopped the truck about twenty feet from the overgrown brush that separated the interstate from the field. After grabbing a roll of toilet paper, he led the children to a nearby copse of trees. With no prompting, Daniel dropped his pants and urinated on a bush.

Gabby walked over to a tree and looked back at Vincenzo with sad eyes. “Don’t watch me.”

“I won’t, honey. Do what you have to do. I’ll stay with Daniel.” He handed over the toilet paper. “You can wipe yourself, right?”

“Yes. I’m not a baby.” she said, taking the roll.

Vincenzo smiled and turned back to Daniel. He helped pull up the boy’s diaper—it was still clean, thank God—then his shorts. Daniel took off at a run, hurtling through the field with a happy yip. A white butterfly took flight in front of him, and he chased it around the field, shrieking with joy.

“Hey, keep it down!” Vincenzo whispered harshly. He was worried that someone might hear the boy’s cries. He couldn’t see much through the screen of brush that separated the field from the interstate, but he didn’t sense any movement on the other side. But he had the M1A slung over his shoulder, and the Beretta was in its holster at his waist. If anyone came to investigate the noise, he was pretty much ready for them.

When he started running back toward US 40, Vincenzo chased him down and tried to grab him, but the boy evaded him. He had tons of energy, so it took a lot of effort to finally catch him. When he did, Daniel’s response was violent.

“No!” Daniel turned and scratched at Vincenzo’s face with both hands. His expression was one of pure anger.

Vincenzo snapped his head back to avoid being slashed by the boy’s nails. “Hey, knock it off!” He wrapped his arms around the boy, pinning the kid’s arms against his sides.

Daniel tried to bite him then, and for a moment, the two of them wrestled. The boy wailed and struggled, but Vincenzo was able to overpower him. He carried the boy back to the Blazer, shoved him into the backseat, and buckled him in. Daniel whined and thrashed, but the seatbelt held him in place.

“Christ, kid! Calm down!” Vincenzo tried to hand him the hanger, but Daniel just knocked it away. Next, Vincenzo offered him some water, but he wasn’t having any of that either.

“What do you want?” Vincenzo asked.

The kid just kept freaking out. Vincenzo turned and saw Gabby wandering through the trees as if exploring. He called her name, exasperated.

“I’m done!” Gabby said proudly, holding up the roll of toilet paper.

“Come back!” Vincenzo ordered.

She trotted over and climbed into the truck. Vincenzo helped her with the seatbelt.

“Are we leaving now?” she asked. “I’m hungry.”

“I know, I know. No, we’re not leaving yet. I still need to get gas. What’s wrong with Daniel?”

“I dunno. He’s oddistic.”

“Yeah. I got that.” He reached around the center console, pulled out the Springfield .45, and placed it in the small of his back. “Listen, I’m going to go for a little bit. The two of you sit here and don’t touch anything. I’ll be back to start the truck and run the air conditioning after I get some fuel, okay?”

“Okay,” Gabby said, a little surly.

“Chock it!” Daniel demanded.

“He wants chocolate milk,” Gabby said.

Vincenzo sighed. “I don’t think I have any. Anyway, I’ll be right back.”

After grabbing the gas can and siphon from the back, he picked his way to the highway, pushing through the overgrowth. There was no guard rail, so he just walked out onto the highway after checking in both directions. No one was about, but there was litter everywhere. Plenty of people had passed through.

The first car he stopped at, a silver Cadillac CTS, had been thoroughly picked over. The leather seats were trashed, the GPS display was shattered, the glove box was empty, and someone had taken a shit in the center console. Vincenzo knelt and tapped the fuel tank. There was still some juice in it. He cracked open the fuel door and found the Caddy had a cap-less refueling system, so he just pushed the hose in and began pumping gas out of the tank. While the gas can filled, he kept a lookout. Farther down the highway, he saw a white Toyota and a blue Nissan pickup truck. They would be his next targets, since they were closer than the cars to the west. He didn’t want to get too far away from the Blazer.

He returned to the truck with the full gas can. Sweating and wheezing, he transferred the fuel into the Blazer’s tank then hopped inside the cab. It was already quite hot, so he fired up the engine and switched on the air conditioning.

“I’m hungry,” Gabby whined.

“Chock it, I want chock it!” Daniel demanded.

“Keep calm, guys,” Vincenzo said. “We’ll get you straightened out. Let’s get it a bit cooler in here, and then I’ll have to leave to get more gas.”

A few minutes later, he shut down the Blazer and set off again. There was still more gas to be had from the Caddy, so he filled the gas can from its tank again. He lugged the can back to the Blazer, poured it in, then sat inside for a couple of minutes to cool off. He found a package of Santa Cruz oatmeal cookies in the back—Thanks, Mr. Scott!—and doled out two each to the kids. He paused long enough to eat one then chased it down with some warm water. He gave Gabby another bottle of water and told her to share it with her brother, then he set off again.

The Nissan was almost empty, and he pulled maybe a quart of fuel from that. The Toyota was virtually full, but he had to pry open the fuel door with his knife. When he returned to the Blazer. He found Gabby and Daniel were both crying hysterically.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Vincenzo asked, looking around frantically.

“We miss Daddy!” cried Gabby, tears pouring down her face.

“Daddy please,” Daniel said, through a hitching sob.

“Aw, I’m sorry, guys. Don’t cry. We’ll be going soon, okay?” Vincenzo started the Blazer and gave the kids more cookies before getting back out and transferring the fuel.

After a couple of minutes, he went back to the highway. He got another can of gas from the Toyota, and by that time, he saw people walking around the bend several hundred yards to the east. It would take a good eight to ten minutes for them to reach his position, so he wasn’t unduly concerned, but he still didn’t want to be seen. When the gas can was full, Vincenzo wrapped the siphon in the towel, capped the gas can, and hurried back to the Blazer. The kids were still whiny, so he filled up the tank, put the gas can and siphon in the back, and hopped behind the wheel.

“Okay, let’s head out,” he said, turning the key. The Blazer rumbled to life, and cool air blasted out of the vents.

He looked back and saw that Daniel and Gabby were each holding pages from the atlas. Daniel tore another one out of the book and waved it in the air.

“Shit! Give me that!” Vincenzo snatched the atlas away from Daniel.

“You said a bad word,” Gabby told him solemnly.

“Give me the pages!” Vincenzo snapped, ripping them out of her hands.

She whimpered, her eyes filling with tears. Daniel fought him for the pages, shrieking and crying. Vincenzo pulled them free, but not before Daniel had managed to tear one. Vincenzo threw the pages on the seat then put the Blazer in gear.

“I need this thing!” he shouted. “Don’t touch it, ever again!”

“We’re sorry,” Gabby wailed. “Please don’t be mad at me, Tony! Daniel did it! He always does that to books!”

“Chock it!” Daniel screamed, kicking the back of Vincenzo’s seat. “I want chock it!”

Vincenzo slapped the steering wheel as he rolled back onto US 40. With a curse, he stopped the truck and got out to unlock the wheel hubs. He climbed back inside the cab and reversed up the road a few yards to ensure they had disengaged. Once he was satisfied they were clear, he accelerated forward.

“Please don’t be mad,” Gabby whimpered. “I just want my daddy.”

“I want chock it,” Daniel added.

“Relax, guys. Just... relax,” Vincenzo told them.

“You, too,” Gabby suggested.

Vincenzo looked at her in the rear view mirror and smiled. “Okay. Me, too.”

29

With such a small force, it had taken the better part of an hour to overcome the meager defenses surrounding Taylorville. Of particular vexation to Roth was the uniformed sheriff on horseback. Roth had tried to kill him, but the man was an exceptional marksman. The lawman killed two of Roth’s people before they had even realized he was hidden in the trees off to the right of the bridge. Roth realized that if there had been someone behind them, they would have driven right into a trap, sandwiched between two elements of fighters, with the lawman off in the woods, picking them off one by one.

But that hadn’t happened, and Roth’s people were able to retreat a hundred yards and attack again from a distance. They killed most of the people holding the bridge quickly, but the sheriff managed to slip away. Roth searched for any sign the man had been hurt, but there was no blood trail.

Taking the remainder of the town was relatively easy. Most of the residents were elderly, so Roth simply dispatched them after some quick interrogation. The new world was no place for the weak or infirm, so he did them a favor by killing them quickly and painlessly before they spent a harsh winter starving to death.

One old man wearing a greasy John Deere baseball cap and a mechanic uniform had given him some information. Stenciled on a dirty white oval patch on his left breast was the name SYLVESTER.

“You looking for the guy with the kids?” Sylvester asked.

“Yes,” Roth said.

“Saw him. He came through here before.”

“What was he driving?”

“Old Blazer. Vintage, early 1970s. Black. Good shape. Had two kids, a boy and a girl.” Sylvester cleared his throat. “I sold him five gallons of gas for a hundred dollars. He wanted more, but I told him it would be another hundred. He said he’d find more out on the highway, so he passed up a bird in the hand for two in the bush.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“California. Crazy bastard. Who the hell would want to go out there? I mean, it’s all fruits and—”

Roth waved the man to silence. “Did he say how he was going to get there?”

“Planned on taking Route 40, mostly. He had a big atlas, but I didn’t really get a look at it. But that’s what he said.” Sylvester looked around nervously. “Anyone want a Dr. Pepper? Got some in my station in a cooler, nice and cold.”

Roth ignored the offer. “What else do you know about this man? Describe him to me.”

“Kind of short. Maybe five-foot-eight. A little skinny. Dark hair, some whiskers. Looks like a wop. You know, kinda Mediterranean or something like that.”

“Mediterranean?”

“Well, yeah, like I said. A wop. You know, an Italian. Around here, it’s mostly Dutch and German folks, some Amish, people like that. None too many wops.”

“I guess pizza isn’t a usual presence on your menu.”

Sylvester looked puzzled. “Well, sure it is. I mean, I love pizza.”

“Tell me more about the man. Do you know his name?”

“Tony. That’s all I know.”

“And the children?”

“I don’t know their names.”

Roth sighed. “Describe them, please.”

“Light hair. White. Little girl was really whiny. Boy was older. He played with a hanger or something the entire time. I think he’s a retard.” Sylvester shrugged, making a little circle gesture near his temple. “They just looked like kids to me. I didn’t pay them no mind.”

“You said you have a station. A gas station, I presume?”

Sylvester turned and pointed at the gas station down the street. “Right there.” A weathered Texaco sign stood at the end of the parking lot. The station looked like a postcard from the 1960s.

“You still have gasoline?”

“Sure, a couple hundred gallons left. Tough to get to without power, but I have a manual siphon system set up. I can hook you up, if you want some. Just let me know.”

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.” Roth shot the old man between the eyes and watched him fall to the street at Clarissa’s feet. If she was surprised by the sudden violence, it didn’t show.

“Let’s help ourselves to some fuel,” Roth said. “I want two of you to go back and contact Chester. Tell him to roll a few dozen troops our way. We’ll need to push ahead and start scouring Route 40 for our man, Tony, and his two young charges.”

“You want me to go, boss?” Toombs asked.

Roth shook his head. “Go to the gas station and see to the gas. My truck needs to be filled.” He nodded toward the pristine Ford pickup sitting behind him.

“Sure thing. You want me to fill it for you?”

“Please,” Roth said. “But don’t get any gas on the paint.”

“No problem! You want a Dr. Pepper, too?”

Roth tried hard not to roll his eyes. If the man in the Blazer thought he had problems with a retarded kid on his hands, he had nothing on Roth. Toombs was virtually a living cartoon character, but he was loyal, and Roth preferred loyalty to intelligence at the moment. Toombs would run right into machine gun fire if Roth asked him to, and the time might come when he might actually do just that.

“No thank you, Toombs. But knock yourself out if you want one.”

“Thanks!” Toombs seemed genuinely grateful. “So we’re going to follow this Tony dude and hunt him down?”

“For as long as it interests me, yes. But he happens to be following a very rich path, as well.”

“What about Pittsburgh? We still gonna try and take that?”

Roth had been considering that. There was a heavy National Guard presence surrounding Pittsburgh. A former Guardsman who had joined Roth’s ranks had said that the governor of the state was a native of the city, and he had enlisted the Guard to protect it at all costs. Roth would have thought Philadelphia would have been a more prestigious city to preserve, but apparently, politicians did what suited them, not the people or state they represented. So blue-collar Pittsburgh was getting all the brotherly love.

The Guardsman had also informed Roth that his two-thousand-man force wouldn’t last a day against the military arrayed there. The Guard had invested a lot of time and effort into devising defenses in depth, and they had armored vehicles. They were also working to restore more of the damaged equipment they had around the state, trying to make them operational again. One key component they were looking at was helicopters. While more advanced systems like Black Hawks and Apaches were not likely to be flying for months, older Hueys could be returned to active service as soon as their electrical harnesses were replaced. Roth had no doubt that when that happened the Guard would begin asserting itself throughout the state, which meant he and his troops had to leave.

Moving west was a suitable option. Ohio was a rich state, and there would be plenty of plunder to be had and lost souls to join his cause.

“Yes, we’re going to leave Pittsburgh for the time being. I’m thinking Columbus, perhaps.”

30

The crossing between Pennsylvania and West Virginia was empty and devoid of any type of security. Vincenzo made it to the next state without incident, blowing past some tract housing and a low-slung building called the State Line Grocery. A Miller Lite truck sat in the parking lot, its storage bays open and empty. Several men milled around the truck, and Vincenzo had the distinct impression they were surrounded by hundreds of empty beer cans.

Welcome to West Virginia.

The men turned and watched the black beast rocket past as sixty miles per hour. One raised a can of beer in salute.

Both of the kids were conked out again. He had discovered that Daniel had a strong preference for macaroni and cheese, and there were two containers of Yoo-Hoo in his spiky orange backpack.

Vincenzo had given him one, but the kid began slapping himself. Vincenzo grabbed Daniel’s small wrists and held them tightly until the rage passed. After that, the boy ate his mac and cheese without further complaint. Gabby was less finicky. She wanted a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, but she did ask him to cut off the crusts. He did as she requested then tried to feed the crusts to Daniel. The boy ate half of one then proclaimed, “All done,” and handed them back. Vincenzo had eaten the remaining crusts himself.

With the kids asleep, Vincenzo had some time to himself. He knew he had a severe case of the shakes awaiting him once they pulled off for the night. The things he had gone through in the past hours—a gunfight with three armed men, taking on two kids he didn’t want and likely couldn’t care for, crashing through a hasty barricade set up by more armed individuals who shot at him—were more than he had ever wanted to experience. He had always considered himself to be a solid sort, but recent events had left him convinced he was only steps away from melting into a whimpering pussy.

You want to see Jessie and Ben again, champ? that little voice inside him said. Then suck it up. And at least tell yourself the truth. You’re not a “solid sort” at all. You’re a fucking beta male who made millions packaging up other people’s work and selling it with your name all over it.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” he muttered.

Don’t worry, champ, the little voice said with a snicker. If there’s a way for that to happen, you’ll find it at the rate you’re going.

The scenery wasn’t much different from the sights in western Pennsylvania, though the homes had taken on a decidedly run-down appearance. Even though he was still in farm country, it seemed every other dwelling was a rundown, ramshackle hovel. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see outhouses with half-moons carved in their wooden doors. There was remarkably little traffic, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. With over three quarters of a tank of fuel, he didn’t plan on stopping again until it was time to sleep.

Passing through the one-horse town of Valley Grove, he saw another operational vehicle. A man sat astride a green and yellow riding lawn mower. He wore a greasy baseball cap, a light-blue T-shirt, jeans, and hardy boots. He nodded curtly as the Blazer sped past, and Vincenzo automatically waved back.

Okay, that was different. But hey, at least the guy has a set of wheels.

The downtown area consisted of a mostly windowless diner and a row of twenty or so houses, all on the right side of the street. There were some people about, and they looked up as the Blazer roared down the road. Some waved, but others cast hard looks at the vehicle. Vincenzo pressed down on the accelerator a little harder, and Valley Grove became a memory.

He drove over a small bridge, and on the other side, a ponderously fat black woman lounged outside a weathered bungalow-style home. She sat on a severely distressed lawn chair beneath a gigantic pink umbrella. She raised her hand and wriggled her fat fingers at him as if she were a dainty young lady trying to catch the attention of a gentleman she fancied. Her huge bosom was second in size only to the breadth of her thighs, which her bright-green shift did little to conceal.

Farther down the street was a bar called the Eagle’s Den. Men and women sat outside on stools and chairs. Several of them got to their feet as the Blazer approached, and one man started waving his arms almost frantically. Vincenzo floored it and drifted to the left, giving them a wide berth. As he ripped past, a younger man actually tried to run into the street and block his path. He flipped Vincenzo the bird and pulled a hand gun from the small of his back. The other men rushed over and apparently calmed him down, as he did not shoot.

###

Crossing over into Ohio was a little more stressful as Vincenzo had to wind through the small city of Wheeling. There was ample foot and bicycle traffic, and the appearance of the Blazer brought no shortage of admirers. He had to trundle through the crowds at some intersections, and there were plenty of armed folks in the vicinity. Both kids were awake, and Gabby stared out her window with big eyes. A pall of smoke hung in the air, but from cooking as opposed to looting. A uniformed policeman manning a street corner held up one finger. Vincenzo braked and cranked down his window.

The cop approached with a smile. “Thanks for taking the time to talk. Where you headed?”

“Passing through to Ohio,” Vincenzo said.

“Is that your final destination?” Behind him, other people moseyed over to eye the Blazer.

“Listen, Officer, I don’t want to be rude, but I have young kids with me, and I don’t want to stop,” Vincenzo said.

“Oh? Why’s that?” the cop asked, stepping closer.

“Because people have tried to kill us to take my vehicle, and I’m not really inclined to let that happen.” As he spoke, Vincenzo reached for the Bi-Tone .45. Instead of a mechanical safety like his Beretta, the Springfield had a grip and trigger safety. As soon as the weapon was in his hand and his finger was on the trigger, it was ready to shoot. He placed the barrel on the door arm rest. It was loaded with Hornady Critical Duty jacketed hollow points, which would definitely give an attacker pause. What Vincenzo didn’t know was if the ammunition would pass through the door and strike someone on the other side. “That’s close enough to talk,” he said. “Any closer, and I’m going to think you have something else on your mind.”

The policeman stopped and put his right hand on his service weapon. “Hey, let’s not have any mistakes here. I just want to know how things are outside the city, friend. I see you have children, and I’m not going to try to take your vehicle from you.”

“That’s fine. Do us both a favor, and don’t break leather. Please.” Vincenzo nodded toward the man’s weapon.

The cop didn’t take his hand off the butt of his weapon, but he did maintain a diplomatic tone. “No one’s going to try to take your possessions, friend. I know these are desperate times, but that’s not how we do business here. Like I said, I just wanted to get an idea of what’s going on in the territory you’ve passed through. That’s all.”

“Sorry, Officer. All I can tell you is that things suck badly from New York to West Virginia. I’d really like to be on my way now.”

“May I see both your hands, please?”

“You may not, but I’ll be happy to show you my tail lights. I only want to pass through to Ohio, and I’ve had more than a little bit of trouble just getting this far. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not doing anything other than leaving now. Your move.”

“You’ll be able to pass through. People might be interested in your ride. They might want you to give them a lift. Are you willing to do that?”

“I’m not. Sorry.”

“You know, you’ve got a pair of brass ones, mister,” the policeman said. “Things are going to hell. People need help. We all have to pitch in and do what we can.”

Vincenzo thought about pointing at Daniel and Gabby and telling him he was doing just that, but he decided against it. “Every time I try to help, I wind up in trouble,” he said. “I’ve got someplace to be and people to take care of. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”

He took his foot off the brake, but then several people jumped in front of the Blazer, blocking its path.

A heavyset man with long graying hair pounded on the hood. “I need a ride! Give me a ride out of here!”

Vincenzo looked at the cop. “See what I mean?”

“Maybe you should open your heart a little to these people,” the cop said.

“Maybe I should just open up the throttle instead. I already told you my story, and I’m not the kind of guy to run over people unless I have need to do so. You can defuse this situation if you want, or you can stand there and count the bodies after I’m gone. Your call.”

A young hipster wearing a turtleneck of all things tried to pull open the passenger door. It was locked, but Vincenzo raised the Springfield and held its sights right on the man’s forehead. The guy’s eyes bugged out, then he ducked and scampered away.

“I got kids in here!” Vincenzo shouted. He glared at the cop. “Do something, you useless fuck!” He punctuated the statement with a press on the accelerator, and the engine roared in response.

The crowd parted, and the cop waved him on. “Go on, get out of here, you lousy bastard!”

Vincenzo nailed it, and the truck’s rear tires chirped as it took off. He leaned on the horn as the Blazer barreled up the street, giving as fair a warning as he could.

###

The crossing into Ohio was a little more sedate. The mounting traffic funneling onto Interstate 70 forced him to travel more slowly. Abandoned vehicles disrupted the flow of traffic, along with copious amounts of pedestrians. Vincenzo found himself moving down a line of bicyclists, motorcyclists, and ATV riders, along with the occasional older vehicle that still ran. Their progress would halt periodically, and he nervously kept the .45 on his lap. During one traffic jam, a young, extremely tanned man with long blond hair jumped out of the Jeep CJ5 ahead of him and hustled back to where Vincenzo sat behind the wheel. Gabby was whining again in the back seat, and Daniel was fixated on the gyrating hanger in his hand. The blond-haired guy stopped a few feet away from Vincenzo’s window and motioned for him to lower it. Vincenzo cautiously cranked it down an inch.

“Hey, man, sorry to bother you. You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke, would you?”

Vincenzo started to tell him he didn’t smoke, then he remembered the packs of Winstons in the center console. “I can help you out.” He popped open the console and shook out a pair of cigarettes. He stuck them out the window.

The guy’s smile grew to a grin almost a yard wide. “Dude, you’re the best! What do I owe you?” he asked, taking the cigarettes.

“Just your good will.”

“You wanna travel together?” the kid asked. “Me and my guys, we’re headed for Lansing.”

“Not going that way, but thanks for the offer.”

“Okay, sure. You want anything at all?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “We’re good, man. Thanks.” He nodded to the traffic ahead, which was starting to move again. “Better hop back in your ride.”

“All right. Thanks again, man!” The blond ran back to the Jeep then held up a hand as he rooted around in the back for a moment. He pulled out a box and sprinted back to the Blazer. He stopped next to the driver’s door, still grinning, and held up a box of Entenmann’s doughnuts. “I saw you have kids, man. I thought they might like a taste of the old world! They’re still good. We have, like, six boxes of these things.”

Vincenzo smiled and cranked down the window. “Cigarettes and doughnuts? You guys don’t want to live for long, huh?”

“Hey, we’ll be fine.” The young man passed over the doughnuts. “Besides, the kids might love ’em.”

“Doughnuts!” Gabby exclaimed, as if on cue.

The man laughed. “See?”

Vincenzo accepted the box then handed over a pack of Winstons. “On the house.”

The guy’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously? These are going to be huge trading items, man. You sure you want to give them up?”

“Have a few more. And hey”—Vincenzo held up the box of doughnuts—“it looks like they are good for trading, huh?”

“You’re the best, man!” The young man returned to his Jeep.

Gabby strained against her seat belt, trying to get a look at the box on the passenger seat. “Can I have doughnut?”

“Doughnut,” Daniel added.

Vincenzo sighed tiredly. “In a little while. Let me get us across the bridge, and we’ll start looking for a place to spend the night.”

###

US 40 and Interstate 70 merged again, and Vincenzo bolted down the thoroughfare as fast as he could reasonably go, leaving a wake of trash swirling behind the Blazer. It was close to dusk, and he needed to find a place to pull over and make camp. Daniel was restless, and Gabby seemed withdrawn.

“Party please,” Daniel said softly.

“Okay. One second, pal.”

It wasn’t at all safe to camp right off the highway, so Vincenzo started looking for an exit. Between some trees, he caught a glimpse of a road paralleling the highway. Another hundred yards farther, he saw it again, peeking out between a break in the bushes that ran along the side of the road. He braked and eased the Blazer off the highway, hoping there wasn’t a ditch or something on the other side. The ground was dry and firm beneath the Blazer’s big tires. A short wire fence separated the road from the wider highway, but he didn’t let it deter him. He just pushed the Blazer’s big bumper right into it, gave the truck a bit of gas, and smashed it flat. He heard it scraping along the bottom of the vehicle, but nothing got hung up.

“Where are we going?” Gabby asked listlessly.

“Looking for a place to stay for the night, sweetie.”

Gabby sniffed. “I miss my daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Vincenzo turned left onto the country road. It deviated north from the highway, which he was happy to leave behind. The countryside was much flatter than it had been in Pennsylvania, though not without hills and dales. He spied a plot of land with a vague trail cutting across it and heading into a thick clump of trees. There was no one about, so he brought the Blazer to a halt.

“Kids, stay right here,” he said, unfastening his seat belt and reaching for the M1A.

“Party, please,” Daniel said. “I want doughnut.”

“Just a little longer, pal,” Vincenzo said as he set the parking brake. He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

The evening was humid, but he heard no gunfire, no voices, and no indications of violence or mayhem. He didn’t really know where he was, other than somewhere in eastern Ohio about a hundred miles from Columbus. He wasn’t surprised there weren’t sounds of discord so far out in the sticks, especially since he was a few miles north of the highway. He eyed the path through the field. It hadn’t been used in a while, but it wasn’t completely overgrown, so the Blazer shouldn’t leave much of a track.

Let’s do it. He hopped back in the Blazer and edged it onto the trail.

###

He pulled off the trail a few dozen yards into the trees and jockeyed the Blazer around so the front grille was pointing back the way they had come. It was dark inside the small forest but not so much that they couldn’t see easily enough.

“Okay, this is Motel Six for the night,” Vincenzo said.

Despite the repeated bids to wait, Daniel had peed his diaper. Vincenzo was annoyed with the boy’s lack of toilet skills, but there wasn’t much he could do about it other than wipe him down and change him, which he did. He was happy the diaper hadn’t leaked—that could have been a major bummer, as the kid only had three sets of clothes in his little backpack. Also, Daniel couldn’t seem to execute the simplest forms of self-help, aside from drinking from a can or bottle and eating with his fingers. Vincenzo wasn’t geared to be a full-time caregiver, especially at the end of the world.

Which is a shame, because you were so good at it when everything was normal, the snarky little voice in the back of his mind said.

“Doughnut, please,” Daniel said after Vincenzo was finished changing him.

“After dinner,” Vincenzo snapped.

Daniel’s eyes clouded, and Vincenzo regretted his harsh tone. He patted the boy’s shoulder and said, “Sorry, champ. Eat some dinner first, then we’ll have one doughnut. Okay?”

“Doughnut.”

“Soon. Soon.”

Gabby was lethargic and withdrawn. Vincenzo led her around a tree so she could relieve herself. She didn’t want him to be able to see her, but she didn’t want him too far away, either. So Vincenzo gave her with the toilet paper and stood a dozen feet away on the other side of the tree, watching Daniel climb between the front seats of the Blazer. For once, the boy didn’t have the hanger in his hands.

Gabby appeared beside him, holding the toilet paper. “All done.”

Vincenzo took the roll from her and put it under one arm while reaching into his pocket for the bottle of hand sanitizer. “Hold out your hands.” She did as instructed, and Vincenzo squeezed a liberal amount of gel on them. “Rub those together, please.”

“I know what to do,” Gabby said, an indignant tone in her voice.

“Okay. Come on.”

When they got back to the truck, he was annoyed to find that Daniel had torn open the box of doughnuts. Powdered sugar was all over the front seats and center console, not to mention Daniel’s clothes. He looked up at Vincenzo peering in through the open passenger door.

“Doughnut,” Daniel said.

“Uh-oh, you’re in trouble,” Gabby said. “You’re not supposed to eat doughnuts at night.”

Vincenzo took a couple of deep breaths then reached in and pulled Daniel out of the truck. The boy stiffened at the contact, whimpering slightly. Vincenzo brushed off as much of the sugar from the boy’s clothes as he could, then he tried wiping up the inside of the Blazer. With just his bare hands, it was a futile task. He grabbed Daniel’s baby wipes and used one to clean as much of the seats and center console as possible.

“Well, that’s all we need is to have a bunch of ants march in.” Vincenzo checked the box of doughnuts. Daniel had eaten two, and the third in his hand was half gone. “Okay, guys. Let’s have some dinner. Daniel, do you want macaroni and cheese?”

“I want doughnut!” Daniel replied.

“Can I have a doughnut, too?” Gabby asked. “Daniel’s not supposed to have them at night, but I can.” She smiled sweetly.

Vincenzo rolled his eyes. “You can have one doughnut... after dinner. Daniel won’t have any more.”

“But he had three already!” Gabby protested.

“And you can eat three, one tonight, two tomorrow. Then you’ll be even. Half a box of doughnuts in one day is a pretty good deal, right?”

Gabby pouted while Daniel finished his doughnut. When he reached for the box, Vincenzo snatched it up and put it on the Blazer’s roof, well out of the boy’s reach.

“Doughnut!” Daniel demanded.

Vincenzo glared at him. “No. We’re eating dinner now. Do you want macaroni and cheese?”

“I want a hot dog,” Gabby said.

“Hot dog!” Daniel echoed.

“Both of you, come with me.” Vincenzo led them to the rear of the Blazer and showed them the array of canned goods. He pulled out the tent and dropped it to the loamy ground, exposing more prepackaged foods. “This is what we have,” he said. “Choose something.”

“I like basketti,” Gabby said, pointing inside the Blazer.

Vincenzo frowned, not sure what she was talking about, then he saw a couple of cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs. Damn, that does look good. Looks like ol’ Walter Scott knew how to pack for the good life. “You mean this?” Vincenzo pulled out one of the cans and showed it to her.

“Yes, but I want it hot,” Gabby said.

“Okay. We can manage that. Does Daniel like this, too?”

“Doughnut!” Daniel shouted.

“He eats it sometimes,” Gabby said, a little surly.

Vincenzo smiled. It was clear the little girl didn’t want to share her “basketti.”

“Okay. Let’s see what we can do.”

Vincenzo pulled out the camp stove and a bottle of Coleman propane and carried them a few feet from the vehicle to a flat spot on the ground. He slipped the canister inside and flicked on the starter. One of the stove’s two burners snapped on instantly with a small hiss. Thinking that was righteously awesome, he found a pot and dumped the can of spaghetti and meatballs into it. Vincenzo selected a can of beef stew for himself and put it in another pan on the second burner. While the food simmered, he dug the appropriate trenches for waste. He wondered how they would sleep. He couldn’t easily sleep in the Blazer, but the kids could.

“Gabby, do you guys like to sleep outside?” he asked.

“Yes. We sleep with daddy.” She sniffed suddenly. “Where is he?”

“He’ll meet us later, honey. So you guys like to sleep? How did you do it before?”

“Daddy has a sleeping bag, and he would spread it out. We would sleep with him under our blankets. Sometimes, when it was really buggy, daddy would put spray on us. It was really smelly. Can I have some water?”

“Wahder, please,” Daniel said. He was staring up at the roofline of the Blazer, trying to find the box of doughnuts.

“Sure thing.” Vincenzo opened two bottles of water and gave them to the kids. Using a wooden spoon, he stirred the spaghetti, then he rummaged in the truck for some bowls and plastic utensils. Twice, he caught Daniel trying to scale the Blazer’s big bumper in a bid to reach the box of doughnuts, and the boy made angry noises when Vincenzo put an end to his larcenous ways. When the spaghetti and meatballs were warm enough, Vincenzo handed them each a bowl and had them sit on the tailgate where he could watch them while they ate.

Gabby ate her portion immediately, while Daniel just picked at his at first. Finally, though, he gave in and ate all of Chef Boyardee’s finest. Vincenzo had to use a couple of wipes to clean the boy’s face and hands. He wasn’t the most proficient eater, and he tended to ignore the plastic fork in lieu of his hands.

Vincenzo wolfed down his meal and chased it down with a still-cool can of beer. It hit the spot, and he released a satisfied belch and gave the deceased Walter Scott a mental toast.

As twilight arrived, he disconnected the propane and packed up the stove. He washed out the dirty dishes with some water then placed all the garbage in the cargo area. Fearful the smells might lure in foraging wildlife, he decided he would dispose of the empty cans and soiled wipes tomorrow.

“Party, please,” Daniel said.

Vincenzo took him to one of the cat holes and removed the boy’s pants and diaper, happy to see both were still clean. He helped the boy squat over the hole to do his business.

“All done,” Daniel said.

Vincenzo wiped the boy’s rear end with baby wipes then used some toilet paper to make the area dry. He dressed Daniel again then applied a liberal dose of hand sanitizer to both their hands. Daniel sniffed at his hands for a couple of minutes.

“You guys want to sleep outside, or in the truck?” Vincenzo asked.

“Where are you going to sleep?” Gabby asked.

“Outside.”

“Can we sleep with you, Tony?”

“Sure.”

31

“Sleep” wasn’t what Vincenzo remembered it as being.

The kids had blankets inside their father’s backpack, and Gabby took hers and draped it over her after allowing Vincenzo to apply some insect repellant.

“It’s not as smelly as the spray daddy uses,” she declared. She fell asleep almost immediately. Vincenzo knew it was a coping mechanism. She’d seen her father dying in a bloody froth before her very eyes and narrowly escaped the clutches of a pedophile, and sleep was the only way she could shut that stuff out. Vincenzo was worried about her, but time was what she needed. And the more she slept, the less she would have to worry about.

Daniel was a different story. He fidgeted and murmured. He kept touching Vincenzo’s lips with his fingers. As the night deepened, Vincenzo gave up trying to stop him and suffered through the contact. He’d tried putting his arm around the kid, but that didn’t help. In fact, Daniel didn’t seem to want Vincenzo to initiate any kind of contact at all. It was frustrating, and Vincenzo wrestled with his own emotions as the boy persistently touched him. Finally though, whatever biofeedback the contact elicited seemed to work, and the boy’s breathing became deep and regular.

Before dozing off, Vincenzo checked to ensure the M1A was tucked in next to him. The Beretta was still in its holster at his waist. Sleeping with loaded weapons was uncomfortable enough, but having them so close to young hands made him nervous. But he would be more nervous if he needed a weapon and didn’t one close at hand.

He was jolted awake by Daniel’s wailing. The boy was sitting up, and tears poured down his face in an endless stream as he slapped the sides of his head with both hands. Vincenzo had no idea what was going on. He looked around, but the darkness was complete. All he heard were the trillings of nighttime insects and the wind rustling the leaves overhead. And Daniel’s ceaseless crying.

“Easy, guy!” Vincenzo said, grabbing the boy’s wrists.

Daniel struggled, his cries increasing. Vincenzo pulled the boy toward him, wrapping him up in a hug. Daniel kicked and thrashed.

“Daniel, stop it,” Gabby said sleepily.

“Daddy please,” Daniel said. “Daddy please.”

So he knows his dad is gone. Guess he’s not so mentally isolated after all. “Ssh. Daddy will be here.”

“Daddy please,” Daniel repeated. “Momma please.”

“Easy, guy. Easy, now.”

It went on like that for almost an hour. Daniel thrashed and moaned and cried out and asked for his parents, and Vincenzo just held him and tried to comfort him as best as he could. At the same time, he felt a building hostility inside him, a cold anger directed at the boy and, to a lesser extent, his sister. I’m not cut out for this, not now.

Still the paragon of compassion, eh paisan? the snarky little voice sneered.

Go fuck yourself.

Eventually, Daniel wound down. His tight body slowly relaxed, and his breathing became deep and regular. Before fading out, he reached out and touched Vincenzo’s lips. “Daddy,” he whispered before drifting off to sleep.

No, kid. I’m not your fucking father. Vincenzo sighed, turned away from the boy, and stared into the darkness for a long while before he too fell back to sleep.

###

Both kids were still sleeping when the sky began to brighten. Vincenzo got up quietly and checked the area. The Blazer was unmolested, even though he’d forgotten to camouflage it. That was a mistake. He’d need to ensure that was done before hitting the sleeping bag next time. He eased the tailgate open and tried to figure out what the kids would eat for breakfast. He remembered the doughnuts and reached up for them. The box was gone. He looked back at the kids, thinking Daniel had taken them, but the box was nowhere to be seen. Scanning the area, he spotted it inside some brush. A raccoon or some other animal had scarfed down the baked delights, leaving barely any crumbs behind.

That’s just fucking great. Outstanding. You idiot, you knew the kids were looking forward to those things!

There were bags of cereal and canned milk inside the Blazer, as well as oatmeal and even a plastic bag of Pepperidge Farms mini bagels. He examined the bagels through the bag. There was no mold growing on them. Good. Maybe that would do the trick.

He took out his toothbrush and floss and cleaned his teeth vigorously, something he had also neglected to do the night before. He spat into a bush then felt his bowels rumble uncomfortably. He grabbed the toilet paper and entrenching tool and quick-walked over to the hole. Unbuckling his belt, he removed the Beretta from its holster and laid it on the ground beside him as he squatted. He let loose a cavernous fart then ejected the remains of yesterday’s meals into the earth.

“Ew! I see it coming out!”

Vincenzo’s sphincter slammed shut fast enough to break the sound barrier. Gabby stood off to one side, her face screwed up with an expression of disgust.

“Get back to the truck!”

“That’s really gross!” Gabby said.

“Get. Back. To the. Truck. Now!”

She made a retching sound and ran back.

“Damn kid,” Vincenzo whispered.

“Daniel! Where are you?” Gabby called a moment later.

Vincenzo groaned. Oh, fuck me.

He finished in record time, cleaned himself, then hastily scooped dirt over his mess. He charged back to the truck, entrenching tool under one arm, as he squirted hand sanitizer into his palm. He looked around and didn’t see either Daniel or Gabby in the pre-dawn gloom.

“Kids!” he called, trying to keep his voice low. He shut the tailgate and reached for the Beretta. He had only an empty holster. He’d left the pistol back at the latrine site. With a curse, he blundered through the brush to reclaim it then returned to the truck. At least he still had the rifle slung; otherwise, he would have forgotten that, too.

“Kids!” he yelled.

“I can’t find Daniel,” Gabby said, trotting around the other side of the Blazer.

Vincenzo unlocked the driver’s door, pulled the .45 from between the seats, then pushed her inside. “Stay in here with the doors locked. If anyone shows up who isn’t me, honk the horn. If Daniel shows up, honk the horn. You understand?”

“Yes,” Gabby said, nodding seriously. “Daniel likes to run away.”

“Thanks for telling me that now,” Vincenzo said, pressing down on the door lock.

“He doesn’t come when you call him!” Gabby shouted. “He’s a very bad boy!”

“No kidding,” Vincenzo muttered.

Heading across the trail, he found a slight furrow in the brush. He stopped and listened but didn’t hear anything.

“Daniel? Daniel! Do you want a doughnut?”

To his right, he heard something stir.

“Doughnut, please,” Daniel said.

Vincenzo snorted and pushed through a set of chest-high bushes. “Well, how about a bagel, instead?”

He found Daniel standing in a small clearing on the other side of the brush, one hand flitting before his face. When Vincenzo saw the woman in camouflage kneeling beside Daniel and holding the boy’s other hand, he stopped dead cold and started to raise the rifle.

“Let’s take it easy there, champ,” muttered someone behind him. “You lower that rifle right now, or I’ll put two in the back of your head.”

Vincenzo froze then turned his head slightly toward the voice while keeping his eyes on the woman. Beyond her, another shape rose up from the ground, a man in a camouflaged outfit covered with tattered cloth. He knew from working on a military shoot once several years ago that it was called a ghillie suit.

“We know you have a couple of pistols,” the woman said. “Please just stay right where you are, okay? We’re the good guys here.”

Another man in a ghillie suit appeared next to Vincenzo. The guy reached out and took the M1A then lifted up Vincenzo’s shirt and pulled the Beretta from its holster and the Springfield from the small of his back. He was an older guy with bushy gray eyebrows and clear blue eyes that glittered behind the sheer camo veil that covered his face.

“Almost forgot this, didn’t you?” he said, holding up the Beretta with a smile. “I had me quite a quiet chuckle while watching you go back for it.”

“Doughnut, please,” Daniel said.

“I just came for the kid,” Vincenzo said.

“We know,” the woman responded. “We’ve been watching you all night.”

Vincenzo frowned. “What?”

“We have hide sites all over the area, so we can observe traffic that comes through here,” the older man said. As he spoke, another guy drifted up on Vincenzo’s left. He held an AR-15-type rifle trained on Vincenzo’s chest.

“All right. Well, whatever you guys want to do. So if you don’t mind, I’ll take the boy and my belongings, and we’ll get back on the road,” Vincenzo said.

“Well, see, it just doesn’t work that way,” the older man said. “See, you know where we are.”

Vincenzo blinked. “Man, I don’t even know who you are, and as soon as we’re back on the road, you’ll never see us again. I couldn’t tell anyone where to find you, other than somewhere off US 40 in eastern Ohio.”

“Don’t mess with the man, Terrell,” the woman said. She got to her feet and let go of Daniel’s hand. “Okay, little guy. Go to your dad.”

Daniel stood there and looked at his fluttering hands. He glanced up at Vincenzo. “Doughnut, please.”

“Better break the news to the little man,” the older guy, Terrell, said. “We watched the ’coon take down that box of doughnuts. A waste, that was.”

The woman looked from Daniel to Vincenzo. Something flickered in her clear hazel eyes. “Your son’s autistic?”

“He’s not my son,” Vincenzo said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Vincenzo nodded. “Their dad... well, there’s a group of people moving through Pennsylvania. They caught up to this family, and the father isn’t here any longer,” he said, trying to speak around what had happened but still give the people an idea of what had gone down.

“So you took the man’s kids?” Terrell asked.

“What, did you expect me to leave them with those guys?” Vincenzo shot back.

Terrell snorted and looked around at the rest of his crew. “Heh, guy’s got some gumption. Surrounded by people with rifles pointed at him, and he wants some repartee.” He sobered and turned back to Vincenzo. “No, actually, you shouldn’t have left them with whoever you came across. What happened to them?”

Vincenzo nodded to the M1A slung over the man’s shoulder. “I got lucky because they didn’t know I was there. Once they took down the man, they exposed themselves. When they went for the kids, I hit them.” Of course, it hadn’t happened exactly like that, but Vincenzo wasn’t about to tell them he’d had every intention of slipping away unnoticed before the biker guy had spotted him.

“So you don’t know these kids?” the woman asked incredulously.

“No. But I guess they’re my—what?—charges, I guess,” Vincenzo replied.

“And where are you thinking of taking them, Mr. Good Samaritan?” Terrell asked.

“Missouri. Charity Point, Missouri.”

Terrell took a step back and cocked his head. He turned and looked at the woman, and at that point, Vincenzo knew she was the ringleader. Vincenzo looked her as well, and she regarded him with cool, speculative eyes. He noticed for the first time that, aside from having spent some time in the woods, she was clean. And beautiful, with smoky dark looks and tanned, unlined skin.

“We need to bring them in,” she said.

“Wait a minute, Missy. Forrest won’t like that. You know the SOP. We don’t bring anyone in,” Terrell said. He jerked a thumb at Vincenzo. “Even if they know about Charity Point.”

“You guys know about Charity Point?” Vincenzo asked. And if you do, can you please fill me in?

“You let me worry about Forrest, Terry,” the woman said. “We should bring them in. Rich, you and Winger stay out here, all right? Terrell and I will take them to the compound, then we’ll send the next team out to relieve you.”

“Sure thing, Miss,” the man standing behind her said, his rifle still trained on Vincenzo.

The guy to Vincenzo’s left nodded, but his rifle also stayed on its target.

Terrell spoke with an exasperated tone in his voice. “Missy, Forrest is going to shit a thousand bricks over this.”

The woman peered at Terrell, an odd undercurrent of emotion emanating from her. “I said I’ll handle it, Terry. Go get the Scout. I’ll ride with...”

When she glanced at Vincenzo, he said, “Tony Vincenzo.”

She gave him a curt nod. “I’ll ride with Tony, and we’ll follow you. Then you’ll drive the relief crew back. Understood?”

Terrell let out a long sigh and threw up his hands. “Sure. Why not,” he said, as if what she’d suggested was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I mean, the world’s just one big happy place, right? Any moment now, we’re all going to gather up, hold hands, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and drink a Coke.”

The woman favored him with a razor-thin smile then looked at Vincenzo. “You can take him now,” she said, touching Daniel lightly on his head.

“My weapons?” Vincenzo asked.

She shook her head. “One step at a time, Mr. Vincenzo. One step at a time.”

###

The woman sat in the passenger seat, holding a Glock in her lap. The barrel was pointed more or less in Vincenzo’s direction. As the Blazer climbed the slight slope, a camouflage-mottled International Harvester Scout pulled out from behind a clump of trees. The woman instructed Vincenzo to follow the Scout, but not too closely. Its tail lights had been disabled, and if there was a need to stop suddenly, no one wanted a collision.

They turned down another back-country road then stopped at the entrance to a long driveway. Two men in paramilitary gear slid open the gate, which was topped with concertina wire, then pulled aside several traffic spikes, metal strips that had jagged metal blades sticking out that would puncture vehicle tires. Vincenzo frowned as he followed the Scout through the opening. “You expecting a lot of vehicle traffic?”

“We’re just prepared for a wide range of eventualities,” the woman told him.

“You have a name?”

“Melissa. Missy. You heard them call me that back at the hide site.” She glanced back at the kids. Daniel cooed to himself and played with his hanger, while Gabby sat quietly, a vague expression of unease on her young face.

“Who are you guys?” Vincenzo asked. “Why are you hiding out in the woods, watching people?”

“For security. The world’s gone to hell. We have observation posts across the area. There’s going to be a mass migration soon, and we’ll need to make sure we know who’s coming and going.”

A squat, two story building came into view. It was made mostly of concrete, and the windows were narrow vertical slits of tinted glass. A fence surrounded the building, and men were positioned on the roof. All trees had been cleared for hundreds of yards, and the brush had been cut down to the ground. Even the grass was extra short. Armed men patrolling the perimeter. The gate was opened, and the Scout paused before passing through, most likely so Terrell inform the guard they had guests.

But hopefully not for long. “Listen, Missy. I’m really eager to get back on the road.”

“I know. I don’t think we’ll hold you for very long, but I want you and Forrest to talk a bit. You might have some useful information for us, and he might want you to pass on some messages to the folks at Charity Point.” Missy’s voice was direct but essentially conversational. At the same time, she kept the pistol pointed at him. The duality of the situation left Vincenzo feeling nervous and distressed, but he was powerless to change it.

The guard waved the Blazer in after the Scout, and Vincenzo followed the vehicle until it stopped then parked beside it. Two men with rifles strode toward them.

Vincenzo looked at Missy. “Okay. What now?”

She opened her door. “You get out. I’ll help you with the kids.”

“Where are we?” Gabby asked, staring at the men outside the Blazer.

Missy flipped the passenger seat forward and smiled as she slipped her pistol into the Kydex holster at her hip. She had a nice smile, and it seemed genuine enough. The woman had some poise to her, despite the austerity of the current setting. “You’re with friends, sweetie,” she said. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. No need to be scared. All right?”

“All right,” Gabby said uncertainly.

Missy leaned in and unlocked the girl’s lap belt then helped her climb out of the truck.

Vincenzo slid the driver’s seat forward and unfastened Daniel’s seat belt. The boy looked at him with eyes that were both vacant and intelligent, the hanger forgotten for the moment.

“How are you doing, sidekick?” Vincenzo asked him. “Want to get out and stretch your legs for a little bit?”

Daniel seemed to consider that for a long moment, then he whispered, “Yeth.” Daniel stood up and backed toward him.

Vincenzo grabbed the boy around the waist and set him on the ground. “Do you want to leave the hanger?”

“No. No,” Daniel said instantly.

“Let him keep it,” Missy said, leading Gabby around the front of the Blazer. “He needs it to stim on, and it’ll keep him occupied for a while.”

“What? Stim?”

Missy regarded him with frank eyes. “Autistic kids get stimulation from a variety of inputs. Touch, taste, motion. Daniel seems to get most of his input from repetitive motion. It helps calm him down. It’s also a bit of a rabbit hole, though, in that too much of it isn’t healthy for him. But it’s not like he’s going to be getting a lot of behavioral therapy anytime soon, so stimming is probably the best thing for him right now.”

“Wow. Sounds like you know a bit about this.”

“My son was autistic,” Missy said.

Vincenzo held out his hand to Daniel, and the boy slipped the fingers of his free hand into Vincenzo’s. “Was?” Vincenzo asked, looking back at her.

“My son and husband were killed in a traffic accident seven months ago, coming back from visiting my in-laws in Columbus.” Her voice was so even that she could have been discussing the weather, but the hardness in her eyes cautioned him against inquiring further.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You can leave the vehicle unlocked,” Terrell said, coming around the front of the old Scout. He no longer wore the hat and veil get-up. His face was thin and angular with a chin dotted with white razor stubble. His skin looked a bit on the ruddy side, and Vincenzo figured the old man was a bit of a hard drinker, or he had been before the lights went out.

“Going to help yourself to my stuff?” Vincenzo asked.

“Nope, but I’m going to check out what you have. You can count on that. But if we want to help ourselves, we’ll certainly do that. At the end of the day, you don’t really have much of a say in how we do our business. Right, Mr. Vincenzo?”

“I guess not.”

“Follow me,” Missy said, gently tugging Gabby toward the building.

“Bagel,” Daniel said. “I want bagel, please.”

Vincenzo looked from Missy to Terrell. “He hasn’t eaten breakfast yet. She hasn’t, either,” he said, nodding toward Gabby. “There’s a bag of mini-bagels in the back.”

Terrell smiled down at Daniel. “I’ll bring them to you directly, young sir.” His teeth were exceedingly white, either caps or dentures. Vincenzo figured it was the latter, as Terrell didn’t seem to be the kind to spend a lot of money on cosmetics.

“Bagel, please,” Daniel repeated.

“Gotta say, the boy’s polite,” Terrell said, walking to the back of the Blazer. “Is this unlocked?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Terrell opened up the top half of the tail gate and rooted around in the back. He pulled out the bag of bagels and tossed them to Vincenzo. Vincenzo tried to catch it one handed but missed.

Terrell barked a laugh. “It’s a bag of bagels, not a hand grenade.”

Vincenzo bent over and picked up the bag. Daniel reached for it immediately, but Vincenzo held it away from him and pulled the boy toward the building after Missy and Gabby.

“Bagel, please,” Daniel said a little louder.

“In a second, pal. In a second.”

Missy led them up three steps to a gray metal door. She pulled it open, and they stepped into a small room with another metal door. She rapped on the second door and stepped back. After a moment, that door opened.

A big man with dark features and a black beard practically filled the doorway. He wore a camouflage baseball cap, which he pushed back on his head as he looked at Vincenzo and the kids. He then gave Missy a hard look. “Melissa, what the hell is going on here?”

“This man is taking these kids to Charity Point, Forrest.”

Forrest rubbed his chin then nodded. “Okay. Come on in.”

32

Forrest took them on a short tour. He explained that the concrete building was a prepper compound that he and his family had built for the small town they came from, which was located a mile away. After the event, people had slowly been moving in. The bottom floor was pretty much all warehouse: supplies, vehicles, weapons, and a bank of generators inside a soundproofed room. The setup upstairs was elaborate. There was enough room for fifty people, with schoolrooms—“There are kids here!” Gabby said happily—dining rooms, and food-preparation areas. The place also had lights and air conditioning. Vincenzo was impressed.

“Bagel, please,” Daniel reminded him.

Forrest turned when he heard the boy’s light voice. “Better give that young man his daily bread.” He led them into a small conference room. “He can eat in here. Missy, maybe you can get the kids a couple of bottles of water.”

“Sure,” she said, and if she was at all put out at being demoted to secretary, she didn’t allow it to show. She turned and disappeared down a hallway.

Forrest crooked his finger at Vincenzo. “Come in and have a seat.”

Vincenzo ushered the kids into the room, which was surprisingly corporate looking with a long conference table flanked by rolling chairs. Topographical maps of Ohio and the surrounding states hung on the walls. Vincenzo got Daniel into a chair and opened the bag of bagels. He handed one to Daniel, and the boy immediately handed it back and looked up at Vincenzo expectantly.

“What, you don’t want this?” Vincenzo asked.

“Silly, he needs you to pull it apart,” Gabby said as she climbed into a chair beside her brother. “Mine too, please!”

Vincenzo smiled. “Okay.” He pulled two bagels apart and handed the first two halves to Daniel and the second pair to Gabby.

Forrest watched the kids eat for a moment, a half smile on his face. He looked up at Vincenzo, and the smile disappeared. “You have ID?” he asked.

Vincenzo reached into his back pocket and brought out his wallet. He started to pull out his driver’s license, but Forrest held out one big hand.

“I’ll take the entire wallet.”

Vincenzo handed it over.

Forrest laid the wallet on the table then nodded to a chair. “Have a seat.”

Vincenzo sat down next to Daniel, a little nervous but not as much as when people had been pointing guns at him. Forrest flipped through the wallet, frowning at the license, then slowing to peer at the small selection of photographs in the plastic liners.

“Your family?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Forrest nodded. He pulled out the credit cards and examined them. He snorted and shook his head. “Platinum Amex, Visa, Mastercard, Chase Premier Platinum. You’re just loaded up with the plastic, aren’t you? All pretty useless now, right?”

“I guess.”

Forrest slipped some business cards out of the side pocket. He scowled. “Your license says your home address is Devlin Drive, Los Angeles. Business cards say New York City. Which is it?”

“Both. I’m from Los Angeles, but I work—well, maybe it’s just worked, now—in New York City.”

“Tony Vincenzo.” Forrest looked thoughtful. “Tony Vincenzo... how is it that name’s familiar to me?”

“You watch TV?”

Forrest snapped his fingers. “Oh, hell yes. Starfield and Badge of Honor. That’s where I know you from, right?”

Vincenzo nodded. “You probably saw my name in the credits.”

“Starfield was good, man, but Badge of Honor was the best. I’m a former Ohio state cop, and take it from me, it was the best cop show on the air.”

Vincenzo inclined his head. “Glad you liked it, but it got cancelled two years ago. Had a decent eight-season run, though.”

“Yeah, I was bummed about that. Such a shame.” Forrest began putting all the cards back inside. “So, listen. My name’s Forrest Marko. You met my sister, Melissa. Together with our church, we put this place together. This used to be a depot for construction equipment. Our father owned it, and he did a lot of roadwork for the state as an independent contractor. After I retired from the state police, I took out a loan and added a floor, reinforced the walls, and basically started hardening this place to serve as a fallback point in case things went to shit.”

“You said a bad word,” Gabby told him around a mouthful of bagel.

“Yes, I did,” Forrest said, “and I apologize very much for that, young lady. Please forgive me, all right?”

“Okay,” Gabby said.

Forrest looked back at Vincenzo uneasily. “I’ve always had a bad mouth. Always gets me in trouble with the church. My dad used to swear up a storm, and I guess it rubbed off on me. Had a devil of a time breaking the habit, and being on the police force didn’t exactly help.”

“It’s fine by me, man.”

The door opened, and Missy came in with three bottles of water. They looked cold. She put one in front of Vincenzo then opened the other two and handed them to the kids. “Here, guys,” she said brightly. She favored Daniel with a fair amount of attention, stroking his head as he wolfed down his bagel. “Such lovely hair.”

The door opened again, and Terrell entered. He carried two wallets and what looked like the registration for the Blazer. Without so much as a glance at Vincenzo, he went directly to Forrest and handed the stuff over to him. “Some conversation starters,” Terrell said.

Forrest took the items and flipped through them. He regarded the wallet that belonged to the kids’ father with some confusion, but the wallet and registration that said “Walter Scott” caught his attention. He showed them to Missy, who reviewed the materials with expressionless eyes.

“What else is in his truck?” Forrest asked.

“A little bit of everything. This guy, or maybe that guy”—Terrell pointed at Scott’s wallet—“was ready for things to happen.”

“Who are these people, Mr. Vincenzo?” Missy asked.

“I’ll be happy to tell you everything, but it might be better to excuse the kids,” Vincenzo said. “You know how I wound up with them, but I don’t think they need to hear the details.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Missy said. “Terry, do me a favor and ask Mrs. Koontz to come in and mind them for a while. They could probably use a bath and a decent hot breakfast.”

“Daniel and me like bafs,” Gabby said, “but not showers.”

“Daniel still wears a diaper,” Vincenzo said. “He seems to be only partially potty trained.”

“Party, please,” Daniel said as if on cue.

“He means potty,” Gabby translated.

“Okay, I’m on that,” Terrell said, turning toward the door.

“Terry, you done with the truck?” Forrest asked.

“Pretty much.”

“Come back for the meeting. Send the relief team down to the southern OP. Have Mel drive them down in the Scout and bring back the other guys. Send a radio down with them, too. I think it’s safe to take a couple out of the safe. But leave the rest of them in there, just in case.”

“You got it.”

Terrell left the room. Forrest passed Vincenzo’s wallet to Missy. She reviewed its contents quickly then handed it back to him.

“He produced a couple of TV shows I watched,” Forrest said. “You remember Starfield, right?”

“Yeah.” She looked up at Vincenzo. “That was yours?”

“It was.”

“Nice. So you’re one of the one percent, I guess?”

At first, Vincenzo didn’t know how to respond to that. “I... I guess.”

“Must be, with addresses on both coasts,” Forrest said. “You have your own jet? I saw a card for Netjets in your wallet.”

“I didn’t own a jet,” Vincenzo said. “That’s just a club membership for private business aircraft.”

“You have a mega-yacht?” Forrest asked, a little contempt creeping into his voice. “Maybe hang out at Cannes, and fu—” He cast a glance at the kids. “Uh, pal around with European fashion models?”

“I had a boat once, but it wasn’t a mega-yacht,” Vincenzo said, neglecting to add that it had been a forty-three-foot vessel that had cost in excess of a million dollars. “I got rid of it when my wife was pregnant.”

Forrest smirked. “Oh, made a sacrifice, did you?”

Vincenzo was saved from responding by the door opening again. Terrell led a matronly woman in, and she ushered the children out, promising to tend to them. On the way out, Daniel turned and looked at Vincenzo with a vague anxiety on his face.

Vincenzo tried to give the boy a reassuring smiled. “See you in a little while, sidekick.”

After closing the door again, Terrell pulled out a chair and slumped into it. “Okay, let’s get to it.”

“So, Tony,” Forrest said, “it seems a guy named Walter Scott owns that Blazer. You know him?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. Did it have all that gear in it when you, uh, acquired it?”

“It did.”

“Hmm. So Mr. Walter Scott was apparently a bit of a brother prepper. We’re all familiar with that kind of mentality, and I think we can all agree that a prepper who’s gone through all the trouble to prepare himself for the big one doesn’t just hand off his stuff to some television producer, even one as, uh, accomplished as you might be.”

“He’s a TV producer?” Terrell looked impressed. “Neat. I guess that explains all the money in his backpack.”

“Was,” Forrest corrected. “I’m pretty sure he’s out of work.”

“The cash is mine,” Vincenzo said. “And no, Scott didn’t give me his Blazer.”

“Did you kill him?” Missy asked.

Vincenzo snorted. “I found the guy dead out in the woods in Pennsylvania. Heart attack or something. Don’t know exactly what killed him, but he’d been dead for more than a few hours before I found him.”

“Seems kind of, what? Providential, I guess,” Forrest said. “That’s a word that Pastor Bart uses a lot in his sermons when he’s talking about how good fortune and luck are the workings of God. Providence. You religious, Mr. Vincenzo?”

“I’m Catholic,” Vincenzo said.

“Heh, he worships Mary,” Terrell said with a sneer.

“Mary isn’t God,” Vincenzo said. “She’s just considered to be in the company of saints. She’s respected, not worshipped.”

“Yeah, we’re New Testament folks here,” Forrest said. “Sorry, not a lot of love for the old version. So you found Walter Scott dead as a doornail and helped yourself to his vehicle and provisions, huh?”

“I kept his papers and identification so that I could return the goods to his family,” Vincenzo said. “My family’s in California. I need to get to them. Mr. Scott’s passing helped make that a little easier, and when I can identify his people, I’ll do more than make them whole again.”

Missy picked up the wallet belonging to the slain Michael Tolson. “And this man?”

“That’s Daniel and Gabby’s father. They were walking toward my campsite, but they didn’t know I was there. They were attacked by three men, one on a Harley and two on ATVs. The one on the Harley shot the father, and the other two were about to rape the kids when I got involved.”

“Why didn’t you shoot them before they killed the kids’ dad?” Forrest asked.

“Didn’t see them until after the guy had already been shot.”

“We knew this guy,” Forrest said. “Or actually, we knew of him.”

Vincenzo was confused. “Sorry? You knew Tolson?”

“We’ll get to that. Tony, maybe you should just tell us your story,” Missy said. “I guess you started out from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Then start there. Start the night of the event, I guess.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and leaned back in her chair, her hazel eyes locked on him like heat-seeking missiles.

Forrest leaned forward on his elbows. Terrell lounged back in his chair, appearing not to be terribly interested, but Vincenzo thought he was probably a very dangerous man.

“Okay. I will.”

###

It took an hour for him to get everything out. He detailed his walk across the bridge, his fight with the black man, and his separation from the family from TriBeCa. He told them about the Ackermans and the men at the firehouse and Captain Guardino and pointed to his card in his wallet as proof of the encounter. He told them of the heat and humidity and the dangers of the road, and of the gunfight below the trailer park. He spent a great deal of time detailing his finding the Blazer and the deceased Mr. Scott, then he recounted his encounter with the three men, taking on the kids, and his escape from the other men at the end of the trail. He mentioned that even though he had been warned to avoid Washington, Pennsylvania, he had misjudged just how far south the marauders had come. He described his arcing transit through the backwoods of Pennsylvania until he made it to West Virginia, then he talked about his trip across the bridge into Ohio. He ended his tale with meeting Missy, Terrell, and the others in the woods.

“So you don’t actually know anything about Charity Point?” Forrest asked.

Vincenzo shook his head. “No. Other than that the kid’s mother and some guy named Felix is there. But I am curious about how you guys know Michael Tolson?”

“It’s not really him we know about,” Missy said. “It’s his wife, Dolores Tolson. She’s one of the wheels that put together Charity Point. She’s a medical doctor and a respected name in the prepper community.”

“Um... okay. So you’re saying she’s a VIP, and I happen to have her kids?”

Missy nodded. “Basically, yes.”

“And Charity Point is”—Vincenzo waved his hand around the room—“like this?”

Forrest snorted. “Charity Point is nothing like this. It’s a converted nuclear missile silo bought with money from the Charity Point Church down in Missouri. Big evangelical church, very wealthy. Dolores Tolson is from there, I hear. That’s why she was still plugged into it, but her practice and her husband’s practice were in Pittsburgh.”

Vincenzo raised his brows. “So a bunch of church-goers bought a nuclear missile silo?”

“The silo is just the nucleus of the community they have down there,” Forrest said. “Think of what we have here and multiply it by fifty. There’s basically an entire town built up around the silo. Took ten years to build—might not even be finished, yet. The location was a full-on secret for a while, but eventually, word got out. I imagine they’re doing more than just putting up wire fences and razor wire, though. Those people were talking about building reinforced walls and stuff.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Sixty million or so, I’d say,” Forrest replied. “But if they’d had to build an underground structure like the silo, it would have been double that.”

“So who’s Felix?”

Forrest exchanged glances with Terrell and Missy. “I’ll ask around about that, but I don’t think anyone knows who he is. Or if he’s even a he.”

“Okay,” Vincenzo said. “So, uh... any other questions for me?”

Forrest sighed and looked at Missy and Terrell again. “Guys?”

“I don’t like the fact that he’s driving around in someone else’s truck, eating someone else’s grub, and using someone else’s weapons,” Terrell said. “That just isn’t right.”

“It’s not our business,” Missy said. “The story sounds right. And if he wasn’t serious about it, why carry a dead man’s ID and registration? No one’s going to be able to run a plate number or VIN to see who owns the truck. He could’ve tossed it all, and no one would have been any wiser.”

“It stinks.” Terrell glared at Vincenzo. “I’ll bet you’re one of those United Nations lovers, right, Vincenzo? One of those one world government people?”

Vincenzo looked at Forrest then at Missy. “What’s he talking about?”

“The United Nations has it in for the US,” Forrest said. “We all know it. There’s a chance the EMP event could just be a ruse, setting us up for an invasion by foreign forces. Can’t prove that, but it’s possible.”

Vincenzo didn’t know what to make of that. “Seriously?”

Forrest nodded. “For all we know, our own government could be in on it.”

“Damn straight,” Terrell added. “Those fat, entitled cats in Washington could finally get their way. Come in, take all our wealth and possessions, and especially our guns, then we’d all be in a pretty tough spot.”

“Maybe we have a more immediate problem,” Missy said evenly. “Tony, what about these raiders you mentioned were working over Washington?”

“I only saw a few of them, but they look like tough hombres. I don’t know what their overall plan is, but sack, pillage, and rape seems to be their preferred method of attack.”

“How many of them are there?”

Vincenzo shrugged. “How much does it take to overrun a small city and then a refugee camp on an airport? A few hundred? A few thousand?”

Forrest stroked his chin. “Yeah. That could be a big problem. We have a few dozen people here, and we’re well armed, but standing up against a militarized force could be kind of tough.”

“You’re a bit off the beaten path,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t know what these guys are after, but it doesn’t seem very likely they’d be interested in coming up this way.”

“Could be right.” Forrest took off his cap and ran a hand through his mop of dark hair. “But we’d better keep an eye on the interstate. If they’re big enough, they won’t have any problems using that to travel. No one will mess with them unless they encounter a military unit.”

“Is there any National Guard in Ohio?” Vincenzo asked.

Terrell made a dismissive noise. “Weekend warriors won’t do a damn thing for anyone. They’re just like the government, taking it all for themselves.”

Vincenzo checked his watch. His stomach was grumbling. It was twelve minutes after noon. It’s been more than six hours already? “Listen, if we’re done here, I’d like to get the kids and get back on the road. If you guys can give me an idea of where this Charity Point place is, I’d appreciate it.”

“Not exactly sure, but the Charity Point Church was outside of Kansas City,” Forrest said. “Lots of old bases out there.”

“I know where it is,” Terrell said. “Pettis County, outside of Kansas City a dozen or so miles. Off High Point Road.”

Missy turned to him. “How do you know that?”

“The base was advertised on the internet,” the old man said. “Once the word started going around the community about the Charity Point scoring a major deal, that property started rolling off the sites. I looked into it a little bit on the side, and some folks in the community agree.”

“High Point Road, Missouri,” Vincenzo said. “Okay. That’ll do. I appreciate the information. It’s a damn sight better than what I had before.”

Terrell grunted. “I’m doing it because of those kids, not because of you. They need to be with their family, not riding around with some thief.”

“You guys should stay the night,” Missy said.

Forrest scowled. “Melissa—”

“It’s the Christian thing to do, Forrest,” she snapped. “The kids just lost their father. Give them some time to rest.”

“You mean give you some time to feel useful again?” Forrest asked. “Give you someone to play mother to? Hell, Missy, why don’t we just keep them here?”

Yeah, that’d be great! Vincenzo thought, his spirits practically leaping at the notion. Shame hit him a moment later. Yeah, right. Just desert the kids.

Why not, champ? the little niggling voice asked. With you, the way your luck has been, they won’t last another couple of days.

“They’d be safer here than out on the road,” Missy said. Her shoulders slumped. “But they also need to be with their own mother. I know what she must be going through. She probably doesn’t know where they are. She doesn’t even know she’s a widow.”

Forrest frowned sadly and reached across the table to put his big hand on her shoulder. Even Terrell looked downtrodden at the sudden change in the woman’s mood, and he regarded her with heartbreak in his eyes.

Forrest patted her arm. “You can look after them for a while, but it’s up to Mr. Vincenzo here for how long.” He looked down the table at Vincenzo. “You could stay here for the night. Get cleaned up. Get some clothes washed. Clean your weapons. Get a good night’s sleep. We have enough people to provide protection. And it might be good for the kids, too.”

Vincenzo didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t been expecting the meeting with the confrontational survivalists to suddenly swerve into The Guiding Light territory, and the change in tack left him wondering just what the hell what was the right thing to do. Then, Missy looked at him with mournful hazel eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Vincenzo sighed inwardly and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

33

Along with fuel, Taylorville had yielded some food stores and two functional vehicles that Roth added to his fleet of rolling stock. The old Packard sedan and 1970s-vintage armored truck had been parked behind Sylvester’s gas station. Roth was excited to have his first armored vehicle.

The assault on Washington had produced even more, along with another hundred or so shiftless persons who joined the cause. Roth’s army was growing by leaps and bounds. With every conquest, not only did they obtain more goods—food, weapons, ammunition, vehicles, people—but more experience, more cunning, and more lethality. Defenders fell before them like bowling pins, and those in uniform found themselves almost always the direct recipient of Roth’s type of lethal care.

Roth knew it wouldn’t be long before they would be able to attack an actual city and help themselves to whatever bounty might lie inside its borders. But at the same time, he also knew that cities would soon empty out once critical supplies ran low, or when law and order could no longer be established. He felt the larger cities would self-destruct sooner rather than later. He’d heard from some of those in his ranks that New York and Philadelphia had already met such a fate, expiring in orgies of violence within days after the event. While the demise of those metropolises didn’t bother him in the slightest, the competition for scarce resources would not be welcome.

That essentially meant his force would have to kill anyone and everyone who opposed them.

Such is life, he thought, not bothered by the circumstance in the slightest.

He knew that, eventually, he would have to go solo. There was no chance that his army, no matter how bloodthirsty, rapacious, and capable it was, could ever hope to build a new society inside the hollowed-out shell of the United States. Someday, those who found their balance after the event would come together, either community by community or state by state, and start pooling their resources to work toward a common goal. Once that happened, forces like Roth’s would either be hunted down and eradicated or forced to join one of those restored cooperatives. Roth wasn’t cut out to be a small cog in a big machine, or even a big cog in a small machine. He was good at only one thing: being the point of the spear. He had been that before, and he was that now, though being the point at the head of an army was a lot more time-consuming than he had hoped. While he had a mind for details—one did not become a sophisticated and successful serial killer by chance—maintaining the mindset to continually juggle action and reconstitution was a bit much.

That was one of the reasons he missed Harley. Harley had been quite good at those things, though one wouldn’t have known that by looking at him. But the old biker had been around for a long time, and he had spent more than a little time out in the world before joining Club Fed Med. While there were more than a few folks with intelligence in his force, most weren’t uniters through anything other than violence. And while violence was a great catalyst for change, its efficacy eventually wore off. Both the perpetrators and victims grew weary of it. Backbones eroded, and misplaced morality and guilt flourished. Roth didn’t want to be around when any of that happened.

However, his convoy of vehicles took to US 40 like a long trail of locusts, overcoming any obstacles in its path. The snowplows up front shoved dead vehicles out of the way so the rest of the force could pass. Since the event had happened during the evening, there had been few cars on the road, so their progress was good.

They stopped near the small city of Wheeling, West Virginia. Roth sent scouts in to survey the town, while the main force broke up and moved to different areas off US 40. If there was a heavy military presence in the city, he didn’t want to provide them with a fat target. He gave strict orders for his troops to behave, even if approached. If fighting began too early, they would lose the element of surprise. Roth would kill his own before allowing that to happen, and all who served him knew that would be the penalty.

When the scouts reported back, Roth was underwhelmed. While Wheeling had the requisite amount of desperation flowing through its streets and a relatively small police presence, law and order still prevailed. If there were any major supply depots, their locations weren’t easily divined. And there were enough people present that even Roth’s force might be in for some dedicated fighting if they tried to overstay their welcome. He considered all of those things and weighed the value against the potential cost. Roth had no illusions. His was not the most cohesive of armies, and the only thing holding it together was the opportunity to conduct wanton violence. While he wasn’t terribly worried about losing troops, a major defeat could cause his force to break up.

And would that be such a bad thing?
In the end, I’ll be solo, one way or the other. Why not now, instead of later?

He decided they would fight through the small city, take what they could, and press on into Ohio. The plan took some coordination, but since there were only a few suitable lanes of approach, it wasn’t a long and drawn out affair. The army attacked at dawn, overwhelming the police presence on Interstate 70, then used the highway as a jump-off point for raids deeper into the city. As Roth had suspected, the people weren’t completely disorganized, and West Virginia was hardly a gun-free state. Many civilians were well-armed and competent, and there were periods of intense fighting. Also, the police were still a dedicated lot. They did their best, but Roth had been waiting for them. He shot ten himself without even having to leave the convoy of vehicles, and he added five more to the kill chart when he led a raiding party down Sixteenth Street. His army spent the day in and around Wheeling, doing what it did best: killing, maiming, raping, robbing, and plundering. A tremendous food cache was discovered, and it took two hours to overwhelm its defenders. With the new rations, Roth would be able to keep his army fed for more than a month. That was a welcome find, as it gave his force the ability to operate longer between raids without having to worry about bellies being filled.

By the time the convoy slipped across the river and into Ohio, Roth had lost forty-three soldiers. He had killed fifteen police officers and a smattering of other combatants, but he estimated the rest of the force had racked up well over a two hundred kills.

It was a good day.

34

Vincenzo was happy to accept his first shower in over a week. The thing wasn’t a very elaborate affair, just an overhead bag in a shower stall. The water was cold, and he had to get wet, switch off the drip to lather up, then turn it back on just long enough to rinse. An added bonus: he was able to shave, and scraping away two weeks’ worth of beard made him feel like a different man.

The kids were bathed as well, in an actual tub with heated water. According to Mrs. Koontz, the matronly woman minding the kids, Daniel had been fussy and combative, but she managed to get him clean.

“The young boy has diaper rash,” she told Vincenzo. “Don’t you have some ointment you could put on him after diaper changes?”

“Uh, no,” Vincenzo said.

The woman harrumphed. “Well, perhaps you could trade for some, since you’ll be traveling with him.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll try to do that.” But he wondered if trading for ointment was really that high of a priority. He didn’t recall Daniel complaining, but Vincenzo figured he needed to be a little more vigilant since the boy was mostly nonverbal.

“Missy or Terrell can help you with that,” Mrs. Koontz said. “Really, you need to follow through on it. The boy needs to be taken care of until you can get him to his mother. And by the way, Terrell told me you have no booster seats in your truck. You might want to remedy that, as well.”

The look the she gave him made Vincenzo feel as though he were being lectured by a very stern nun. Just like Sister Mary at Saint Francis in the good old days.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, attempting to sound agreeable just in case the older woman had a ruler she might slap across his knuckles. “So, uh, where are the kids?”

“Eating lunch, of course. They’re very hungry,” Mrs. Koontz said.

“Lunch does sound pretty good right about now,” Vincenzo said.

She sniffed and pointed down the hallway. “The children are down there. You brought food, so feel free to have some. And I might recommend you take the time to do some laundry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vincenzo said.

Mrs. Koontz left with another sniff, heading in the opposite direction. Vincenzo ambled down the hall and found a small dining area. Both of the kids were there, as were Missy and Forrest. Missy seemed engrossed in Daniel, who appeared mostly oblivious to her presence. Gabby was engaged in an animated conversation with Forrest, but she looked up when Vincenzo walked in.

“Hi, Tony!” she fairly shouted.

“Hi, Gabby. Hi, Daniel,” Vincenzo responded. “What are you guys eating?”

“I got a salami san’widge,” Gabby said. “Daniel has more macaroni.”

“A salami sandwich? Where did you get that?” Vincenzo asked.

“From Mister Forrest! He made it with mustard and potato chips!”

Vincenzo looked over at Forrest. The big man smiled thinly.

“Well, I always liked potato chips on my sandwiches,” he said.

Vincenzo smiled. “Hey, man, nothing wrong with that. Listen, Mrs. Koontz advised me that I need to get some ointment for Daniel. I guess I’m having some trouble keeping him clean out in the world, and he’s developing some diaper rash. Could I trade you something for it?”

“And car seats,” Missy added, looking up from Daniel.

Vincenzo nodded. “Yeah, and car seats.”

“Well, those you might be able to pick up on the road,” Forrest said. “Check in the abandoned vehicles you come across. We have some here, but it wasn’t exactly an item we stocked up on, and as you might have noticed, we do have kids here.”

“There are kids here,” Gabby said. “I saw them.”

“You sure did, little girl,” Forrest said, and in that instant, Vincenzo saw that the burly survivalist who feared an attack by the United Nations was just another big lug who loved kids. “Anyway, yeah, we have what you need. We can arrange a trade.”

“Thanks,” Vincenzo said. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll head down to the truck and grab some chow. What do I owe you for the salami and chip sandwich?”

“Oh, that’s on the house,” Forrest said. “We’re good.”

“Well, thanks.”

Vincenzo ate a warm meal and watched as Gabby and Daniel were introduced to a small group of their peers. Gabby immediately set about playing with them, whereas Daniel maintained his distance, both physically and emotionally. He seemed totally uninterested in other kids, focusing only on his hanger or flipping through the pages of a book. Whenever any of the other kids tried to get him involved in a game, Daniel ignored them. But Vincenzo could see the boy was getting stressed. His free-form vocalizations became more strident, and he flipped the hangar with more urgency.

Missy walked over to stand beside Vincenzo. “Looks like he’s starting to destabilize,” she said.

“Yeah. Maybe I should take him for a walk,” Vincenzo said.

“I can do that, if you don’t mind.”

Vincenzo looked at her. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “Of course.” She kept her face blank, but Vincenzo could see the undercurrent of some strong emotion in her eyes.

“If you think you can handle him, sure,” Vincenzo said. “I guess I’ll stay here with Gabby.”

“She’ll be fine if you want to come with me,” Missy said.

Gabby was decisively engaged with her new playmates, and Mrs. Koontz had returned to oversee their activities. So Vincenzo went with Missy and Daniel for a walk around the inside perimeter of the compound. Daniel seemed happier outside. After a few minutes, he ran ahead, his attention divided between the hanger in his right hand and the greenery on the other side of the tall fence. Armed men and women regarded him with cool eyes. Missy waved to them, and they always waved back.

“Looks like he prefers it out here,” Vincenzo said, watching Daniel dart and bob in front of them, as if he were playing an imaginary game of tag.

“He probably does,” Missy said. “Autistic kids can get stressed in social situations. Too much sensory input hitting them all at once.” She glanced over at him. “You know anything about autism, Tony?”

Vincenzo shook his head. “Aside from what I saw in Rain Man, not really.”

“You need to get him to his people as soon as you can. Whatever’s happening out there is going to get a lot worse before it gets any better.”

“Yeah, the UN thing,” Vincenzo said.

Missy looked at him sharply. “Don’t think Forrest is an idiot because he loves the country and thinks it’s being driven into the ground to appease external interests. He’s not wrong, you know. Maybe a little too convinced that it’s all happening as we speak, but he’s not wrong.”

Vincenzo raised his hands. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything.”

“It’s okay. I understand it’s a little odd to people who aren’t like us.”

“You think the UN is going to take over the country, too?”

Missy shrugged. “I don’t know. I do know our government is ruining the country, though. We were a diminished nation even before the event.”

Daniel became suddenly fascinated with his fluttering fingers. Then he took off in a staggering run again.

She pointed at him. “He needs a lot of therapy. A lot of care. Are you ready to take care of him, Tony? What if something goes wrong on the way to Charity Point? What if you lose your vehicle?”

Vincenzo considered her questions. “I don’t know,” he said after a long moment. “Are you suggesting I leave him and his sister here with you guys?”

Missy shook her head sadly. “Forrest won’t allow it. We’ve already had that discussion. He’s sympathetic, but he knows we’re in for the long haul. We have what we have for who we have to provide for. He agrees that turning away the needy, especially children, isn’t very Christian, but he’s being pragmatic.”

“Pragmatic,” Vincenzo repeated. “Okay.”

“It sounds harsh, but he’s not that way as a person. He cares. More than anything, he cares. But this is going to go on for years, and we always knew that if we had to start up this place, then it was going to be for us, no one else.”

“It’s a vicious world out there, Missy. And it’s getting worse by the day. The government can’t seem to get a handle on things, and it’s been more than just a couple of days.”

“I know that. We know that. Things are going to get a lot worse, especially as we get closer to winter. But Forrest is the leader, and he’s been doing right by us. Everyone knows we’ll have to make some tough calls, but we didn’t invest so much in this place to let it be overrun by those who didn’t think to prepare.” Missy gave him a sideways look. “You’re lucky I was out there at the OP. If Terrell had been the watch commander, he would have let you guys go, and if you’d found him, he would have taken everything you had.”

Vincenzo grunted. He figured Terrell was that kind of man, and hearing Missy confirm it was oddly validating, in a way. “I guess luck is part of it. At least I’ll be able to score some ointment for Daniel’s little butt. Don’t think I’m not thankful for the generosity you’ve shown us, though.  I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and there was a heavy gravity in her voice that resonated with Vincenzo.

They watched Daniel cavort across the ground, chirping in a sing-song voice and having a one-sided conversation that only he would ever understand.

“I had a daughter,” Vincenzo blurted. “She was born prematurely. She died, and my wife kind of died with her. She was never the same after that. Everything was different. She treated me differently, treats our son differently. That’s why I need to get back to Los Angeles. She’s not ready for this, and my boy is going to suffer along with her.” Vincenzo stopped walking. “So that’s why I’d like you to ask Forrest about watching over the kids again. I’m not ready to take care of them. I have someplace I need to be. And to be truthful, taking care of people is not something I’ve ever been very good at. I’ve met my quota on that, and while Daniel and Gabby are beautiful kids, they’re holding me up.”

“I’ll speak to him again,” Missy said. “But I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be. You’re stuck with them, Tony. And if you don’t take them with you, Forrest and Terry and the others won’t take kindly to that. You might forfeit everything you have. That truck. That gear. Everything has a cost, and everyone has to pay sometime.”

Vincenzo sighed. “Ask him again. If the answer’s no, then we’re out of your hair. I’ll get the kids to their mother, but it seems like it’s something I’ll need to do sooner rather than later.”

###

An hour later, Tony was leaning over the Blazer’s engine to check the oil when Forrest approached. Gabby and Daniel were in a play area with a couple of other children, under the watchful gaze of the hawkish Mrs. Koontz. There was an air of hostility around the big man, and when he stopped next to Vincenzo, he practically towered over him, even though Vincenzo was standing on the Blazer’s big bumper.

“You got some nerve, guy,” Forrest said.

“How so?”

“Sending Missy to ask that the kids be allowed to stay. You just want to palm them off on us while you roll away in another man’s ride, with another man’s supplies, so you can go off and do whatever you want to do.”

Vincenzo straightened. “It’s not what I want to do, guy. It’s what I have to do.”

Forrest moved closer, looming over Vincenzo like an angry, dangerous god. “What you have to do is get those kids to Charity.” He stabbed Vincenzo in the chest with one finger. “You picked ’em up. They’re your responsibility, not mine. Not ours. Yours.”

“And what happens if I get taken out? What happens if those marauders catch us on the road? I know what happens to me, Forrest, but what about them?” Vincenzo spread his arms, no easy feat while perched on the Blazer’s front bumper. “I know how to hunt turkeys, but aside from that, I’ve got no skills, man.”

“You say you managed to kill a few people in a standup,” Forrest said.

“Yeah, and that was by luck and because I shot first.”

Forrest stepped back a bit, his expression cloudy. He regarded Vincenzo with suspicious eyes then motioned toward the Blazer. “You almost finished up here?”

Vincenzo replaced the dipstick and wiped his hands on a rag. “Yeah.” He hopped down off the bumper.

“Then come with me. I want to show you something.”

Forrest led him to a training area complete with shooting range behind the concrete building. He showed Vincenzo how to shoot the M1A and his pistols and how to purify water with bleach. He explained the basics of camouflage and showed him some hand-to-hand combat techniques. He showed Vincenzo how to use a knife to kill a man, how to fight off someone who was going for his pistols, how to break an opponent’s fingers and wrists and collarbones. None of it was easy, and by the time darkness fell, Vincenzo felt beat up and battered. Forrest was hardly a gentle teacher when it came to the hard arts of combat.

Forrest finally slapped him on the back, signaling the instruction was at an end. “There. Now you’re a little more ready for the road. You remember this stuff, you’ll be all right. Remember, be smart and avoid contact wherever possible, but if it comes looking for you, be aggressive and act first. You won’t get much in the way of second chances, especially as time goes on.”

“Thanks for the tips,” Vincenzo said.

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you. I did it for the kids.”

“I know,” Vincenzo said, already thinking about having a nice bowl of milk and Tylenol. “Thanks anyway.”

Forrest grunted and looked back at the squat concrete building in the growing gloom. “Come on. Let’s get back. It’s dinnertime. You guys can bunk with us tonight, but after that, you’re on your own.”

###

The kids seemed happy to see Vincenzo when he got back to the building, as if they’d had their fill of consorting with strangers. Gabby clung to him like a second skin, and even Daniel stuck close by, softly babbling to himself as he favored Vincenzo with a sweet smile. Vincenzo patted him on the head then ushered both kids to the dining area. They ate food he brought in from the Blazer. Daniel had more macaroni and cheese, while Gabby had a can of soup. The rest of the folks in the survivalist camp made small talk with him and the kids, but Vincenzo could tell they’d worn out their welcome, except with Missy. She watched the kids, especially Daniel, with sad eyes. Vincenzo wondered how long she could survive in a world where pain was going to be her constant companion. Then, he remember how Jessie had been wasting away in Los Angeles, and he realized there was nothing that could be done for Missy. She would either get through the coming months of darkness, or she wouldn’t.

After eating, Vincenzo went out to rearrange the gear in the back of the truck. Even though the preppers hadn’t helped themselves to anything, Terrell’s search had been thorough, and the supplies were haphazardly tossed around in there. It took Vincenzo an hour to organize and repack everything, and by then, it was full-on dark.

The sleeping quarters on the second story were full, so Vincenzo spread their sleeping bags in a corner on the ground floor. He helped the kids brush their teeth and get ready for bed. Gabby was easy, since she had the routine down cold even at her young age. Daniel kept turning his head away from the toothbrush. Missy tried to help, but surprisingly, Daniel was even less open to her than to Vincenzo. Vincenzo finally grabbed the boy’s chin and held his face in place. Daniel became a little more compliant, though he still whined throughout the process. He smacked his lips when Vincenzo finished.

“See, that wasn’t so bad. Was it?” Vincenzo asked him.

Daniel made a raspberry and waved his hands in front of his face. “Pawty, please.”

Vincenzo took him to the small restroom and sat him on the toilet. That was a struggle, as well. While Daniel had no problem standing in front of a toilet to pee, sitting down on one was apparently a different matter. He kept trying to get up and leave, and he squawked and cried when Vincenzo refused to let him. It took the better part of an hour, but eventually Daniel did what he had to do. Once the boy was finished, Vincenzo wiped him clean then washed his hands and face. The kids changed into some pajamas that had been laundered by the preppers, free of charge. Gabby was able to dress herself, but Vincenzo had to take care of Daniel. He put on a fresh diaper and helped him step into his pajamas, then pulled the top over his head. Vincenzo found himself getting angry at this point. The boy just wasn’t able to do anything on his own.

Suck it up and get him to his mother, guy, he told himself. Just get through the next couple of days.

At one point, Gabby became a bit weepy. She asked Vincenzo how he thought her father was doing. Vincenzo said her dad was just fine and that she see him when they got to her mother. He had no problem telling the lie. It was certainly preferable to passing on that her father’s cold corpse was probably feeding thousands of bugs and birds and raccoons back in Pennsylvania.

They got into their sleeping bags and got comfortable. There was an armed guard on the floor with them, and more patrolled the grounds outside. When the generator was cut off for the night, Daniel reached out and touched Vincenzo’s lips in the darkness. Vincenzo tried to dissuade him from that, but there was no stopping the boy. Daniel apparently needed the contact in order to wind down for the day. Gabby was already asleep, her breathing deep and heavy. After a few minutes of rustling about, Daniel slipped into sleep as well.

Vincenzo lay on his back and listened to the sounds of the building as it cooled in the night, his thoughts on the trip before him, and of his family.

Sleep took its sweet time in finding him.

35

Vincenzo awoke hours later to the sounds of people running through the concrete building. At first, he thought he was dreaming, so he just lay there between the two kids, blinking in the semi-darkness.

A shape crouched over him. “Tony?” Missy whispered.

Vincenzo rubbed his eyes then got up, glad he had slept in his clothes. Missy led him a few feet away, where several men were in the midst of arming themselves. A grim-faced Terrell was among them, but Vincenzo didn’t see Forrest.

“What’s up?” Vincenzo asked.

“The OP to the south was overrun,” Missy said, her voice tight. “The same place where we found you and the kids. Some force rolled up on them and took out all but one of the guys. He’s hunkered down, keeping them in sight, and it looks like they’re heading up here.”

Vincenzo swallowed as a bolt of fear cut through his sleepy torpor. “Okay. Now what?”

“You need to take the kids and get out,” Missy said. “Forrest says the sooner you get gone, the better. Once things get hot and those bastards make it up here, you might be out of chances.”

“Well, are you sure they’ll make it here?” Vincenzo glanced at his watch. It was two minutes past five in the morning.

“Tony, if I didn’t think they were, we wouldn’t be talking. From what I know, it’s a big force. Forrest is heading out now to check on it. If I were you, I wouldn’t wait around to see what he has to say when he makes contact. If they’re big enough, they could put up a perimeter around the entire building.”

Vincenzo didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Yeah, okay. Let me get the kids, and then we’re gone.”

###

“But I don’t want to go,” Gabby whined, tears spilling from her eyes.

Vincenzo could barely hear her over Daniel’s howling. Both kids had been extremely upset to be roused from perhaps the first comfortable, deep sleep they’d had since the event. Vincenzo was sympathetic, but there was nothing else to do. He rolled up their sleeping bags and tossed them into the back of the Blazer.

Missy stuck around long enough to help him get the kids buckled into the backseat. “You need to get some car seats,” she told Vincenzo. “Remember that. You’ve got to protect these kids.”

“I know, I know,” Vincenzo said. “Listen, is there any chance that you can ask Terrell about this missile silo? He said it was on High Point Road, but is there anything more specific?”

“What, you mean like an address? No, Tony. The Air Force didn’t really publish street addresses and driving directions to their nuclear missile silos. But all that said, High Point Road near Kansas City in Pettis County, Missouri, sounds pretty solid. Even a limousine liberal like you should be able to find that, right?”

“Sure, no problem,” Vincenzo said through clenched teeth. That was one thing about the preppers that grated on him, the whole conservative, holy-roller attitude they sent in his direction.

Somewhere not too far away, a ferocious volley of gunfire broke out. Vincenzo and Missy spun in that direction and listened. It went on for several seconds, vicious and intense.

Missy pulled the AR-style rifle slung over her shoulder into her hands. “Sounds like they’ve got more than their fair share of automatic weapons.”

The radio on her hip chirped, and Forrest’s voice came out of its small speaker. “Home plate, you’ve got about two hundred goblins headed for the fence. We’re not able to slow them down, and we’re falling back! Over.”

The radio call was acknowledged by Terrell. Missy looked up at Vincenzo with wide, fearful eyes then she turned back to the kids. Gabby was quiet, while Daniel cooed, sounding nervous but not yet in the meltdown stage.

“Gabby, take care of your brother,” Missy said. “You’re going to be all right. Listen to what Tony says, okay?”

“I want my mommy and daddy,” Gabby whispered. More tears were building up in her eyes.

“You’ll be with them soon. Tony’s going to take you there. Be strong, okay?”

Gabby sniffed and nodded. “Okay.”

“I hope you have the time to find your way back to the Lord. His strength will help you through everything,” Missy said.

A blast of full automatic gunfire rippled through the air to the south.

Will He save you from being shot and raped, Missy? Vincenzo thought.

Missy leaned in, kissed Daniel on the top of his head, and cupped his cheek with one hand. He regarded her for a long moment then gave her a small smile. Missy smiled back, and when she straightened, there were tears in her eyes as well. “He’s helpless,” she told Vincenzo. “Protect him. Both of them.”

“I will,” Vincenzo said.

A muted explosion tore through the air, deep and resonant. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Vincenzo pulled the M1A off his shoulder and laid it across the front passenger seat. “Is there another way out of this place?”

“We have another gate in the back. You’ll have to cut across a trail to the north, but it’ll take you to a road. If you turn left, you’ll find your way back to Route 40. That’ll take you toward Columbus. If you go right, you’ll head north to 22, but that takes you down to 40, eventually.”

Vincenzo nodded. He’d already researched the route, and Route 40 was what he wanted. “I know. All right, we’re on our way. Best of luck to you guys, Missy.”

She nodded and, after another long look at Daniel, backed away from the Blazer. Vincenzo thought she looked like a woman who knew she was walking right into the jaws of death, but she put on a strong face for the kids. He swung into the Blazer and started it. Vincenzo dropped the engine into gear and, after one final wave to Missy, pulled away from the concrete building.

Did I lead the bad guys here? he wondered as he drove around to the back of the  property. No one had been following him, at least as far as he had been able to tell. And the preppers had found him and the kids, not the other way around.

The people manning the back gate waved for him to halt while they opened the exit, then they motioned him through. They looked hard-faced but nervous, and Vincenzo couldn’t blame them.

“Enjoy your day. Hope you appreciated our hospitality,” one of them snapped as Vincenzo pulled the Blazer through the opening.

Without responding, Vincenzo goosed the accelerator and sent the Blazer bumping down the trail outside the fence.

“Chock it, I want chock it,” Daniel said.

“In a bit, pal. In a bit.”

The Blazer bumped its way down the trail, which eventually led them to a back country road. Vincenzo turned right, away from the direction of US 40. He didn’t know how big the marauder force was, but it was certainly of a good size if it had passed through Wheeling. It was obvious to him that they were following the same route he was, so he wanted to add some separation. If they were going to attack Forrest’s group of preppers, they would be held up for at least a couple of hours. By then, Vincenzo would be long gone.

He drove through the brightening morning, and for once, the kids were quiet in the back seat. In that moment, Vincenzo thought it was almost like they were a family, setting out on an early morning road trip.

Even if it was a road trip through Hell, where fathers were shot dead for what they carried on their backs and their little kids raped by two-legged monsters that Vincenzo had never really prepared himself to meet.

Not too late to leave them on the side of the road, paisan, the snarky little voice inside him said. Go on, do yourself a favor. Save yourself the trouble. Boot them out of the truck, and keep heading west. They’re not your people. Get rid of them. They’ll only slow you down. Get in the way. Get you killed.

Vincenzo sighed. Please fuck off and die, he urged the voice.

Sure thing, paisan. Just as soon as you do. We’re in this together, buddy-boy.

Vincenzo gripped the steering wheel tightly as he fought to keep the dark thoughts at bay. There was something seductive about that little voice, that definitely id-driven little voice that counseled nothing but smooth sailing and the easy path. And he was surprised at how receptive he was to it. For an instant—and only an instant—he actually contemplated doing its bidding. Stopping the Blazer, getting out, hauling out the kids, and driving away. If he could figure out a way to do that and still live with himself, then that’s what he would do.

Instead, Vincenzo continued driving. In a truck that wasn’t his, carrying along two kids that didn’t belong to him. He would deliver the kids to their mother, and then he would find his way across the remaining expanse of the United States to find his own family. There was no other option right now.

He would do it all, or die trying.

The Blazer rolled down the road, trailing fallen leaves in its wake.

Stephen Knight is the author of the zombie apocalypse best seller The Gathering Dead and the science fiction adventure novel Earthfall. Knight lives in the New York City area. He can be found on the web at:

http://knightslanding.wordpress.com
https://www.facebook.com/stephen.knight.376695

Find more of his fiction at:

http://www.amazon.com/Stephen-Knight/e/B004SVKJH6/