Dux Bellorum
Author: Marcus Richardson
Date: 2016-07-07 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Erik Larsson survived the collapse. He helped establish a community of survivors, a beacon of hope they called The Freehold. He watched as marauders, fueled by greed and jealousy destroyed everything he'd worked so hard to salvage. Citizen, soldier, survivor--he has adapted to the new America and survived. But can he survive long enough to make it home? Living on the razor edge of desperation, Erik helps lead his band of survivors north to the long-sought safety of Upstate New York. As Erik, Brin, and Ted hit the long road north, they thought they'd left their troubles behind but soon discover
Publisher: Createspace
Rights: (c) 2016 Marcus Richardson

Contents

Title Page/Copyright

Books by Marcus Richardson

Dedication

Half title

Chapter 1 - Call Me Spike

Chapter 2 - Flight of the Rebels

Chapter 3 - The Hunt

Chapter 4 - The Bridge

Chapter 5 - Killing Spree

Chapter 6 - Time for a New Car

Chapter 7 - Shopping

Chapter 8 - A New Nest

Chapter 9 - New Orders

Chapter 10 - Law and Order

Chapter 11 - Survival

Chapter 12 - Captured

Chapter 13 - Vigilantes

Chapter 14 - Pressure

Chapter 15 - The Road to Dunham

Chapter 16 - Blackmail

Chapter 17 - Jailbreak

Chapter 18 - Welcome to Florida

Chapter 19 - Walk of Shame

Chapter 20 - Philly

Chapter 21 - New Wheels

Chapter 22 - New Target

Chapter 23 - The Fort

Chapter 24 - Friends no More

Chapter 25 - Pit Stop

Chapter 26 - Exodus Baltimore

Chapter 27 - Encounter

Chapter 28 - Chinese Proposal

Chapter 29 - Liberate D.C.

Chapter 30 - All in the Family

Chapter 31 - Run

Chapter 32 - The Pentagon

Chapter 33 - A Fine Speech

Chapter 34 - Rolling South

Chapter 35 - Hidden Injury

Chapter 36 - The Valley

Chapter 37 - Dunham

Chapter 38 - The Fever

Chapter 39 - Deep South

Chapter 40 - Newark

Chapter 41 - Sic Semper Tyrannis

Chapter 42 - Heading Home

Chapter 43 - Setting the Stage

Chapter 44 - The Unarmed Army

Chapter 45 - Propagandist

Chapter 46 - The Professor

Chapter 47 - Disarm

Chapter 48 - The Farm

Chapter 49 - Divide and Conquer

Chapter 50 - Allah's Will

Chapter 51 - Defense

Chapter 52 - Training

Chapter 53 - Gainesville

Chapter 54 - Ambush

Chapter 55 - Fight or Flight

Chapter 56 - Showdown

Chapter 57 - On the Road Again

Chapter 58 - Pennsylvania

Chapter 59 - Reconciliation

Chapter 60 - Death From Above

Chapter 61 - What Have We Done?

Chapter 62 - Ticonderoga

Chapter 63 - Annihilation

Chapter 64 - Welcome Home

Chapter 65 - The Arrival

Chapter 66 - Prisoner of War

Chapter 67 - Offense

Chapter 68 - Mohican

Chapter 69 - The Final Jihad

Chapter 70 - The Truth

Chapter 71 - Slaughter

Chapter 72 - The Prodigal Son

Chapter 73 - Presents

Chapter 74 - Strategy

Chapter 75 - The Walk

Chapter 76 - Endgame

Chapter 77 - Something to Fight For

Chapter 78 - Something to Die For

Chapter 79 - EMP

Chapter 80 - Aftermath

Please Review

Author Contact Info

About the Author

Books by Marcus Richardson

Half title copy

MARCUS  RICHARDSON

© 2016 Marcus Richardson.

All Rights Reserved.

1st Printing, July 2016.

This is a work of fiction.

The people and events in this book have been written

for entertainment purposes only.  Any similarity to living

and/or deceased people is purely coincidental and not intentional.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system without prior written consent by the author.

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Books by Marcus Richardson

The Future History of America

Book I: Alea Jacta Est

Book II: Sic Semper Tyrannis

Book III: Dux Bellorum

The Wildfire Saga

Book I: Apache Dawn

Book II: The Shift

Book III: Firestorm

Other Books in the Wildfire Saga

False Prey (Novella)

The Wildfire Bundle (Books I-III)

For SBF.

Chapter 1

Call Me Spike

GABRIEL EVANS SHOVED HIS hands deeper into his coat.  On loan from the Essex County Sheriff's Department, the quilted winter coat was warm, if small.  He squinted up at the darkening October sky and blinked as early-season snowflakes kissed his face.  He and his men had to find permanent shelter soon if they planned to survive the winter.  A place that would suit their needs and allow him to set up shop unmolested.

He'd led his men through the sleepy little town of Ticonderoga a few hours back.  They hadn't asked for anything, hadn't even done anything, but the people were afraid and standoffish.  No one offered to help or provide food or shelter.

He couldn't blame them, but he wasn't happy either.  Ungrateful is what it was—he'd held his little band together through fear and sheer willpower.  If he hadn't been there to keep everyone moving, the violence visited upon the little town of survivors would have been Biblical.

And how did they repay him?  An hour after they left town, the undersheriff showed up.

Ah well, at least his clothes fit me.  Sort of.  Better than the rags everyone else has.
He stretched his shoulders in the undersized jacket and continued shuffling along the road.  Gabriel's second-in-command knew when the boss was upset and kept the rest of their little army of escaped inmates back down the road.  That was good—Bondo was smarter than he looked. Evans needed to think in peace as he walked.

His first order of business—beyond finding shelter, food, and fire—was finding clothing that actually fit his frame.  He pulled his right hand from the coat and plucked at the duty shirt stretched across his broad chest.  The old undersheriff had been a skinny little prick.  Ten years of hard time doing nothing but lifting weights and fighting every ethnic group imaginable had left Gabriel Evans with a body fit for any professional sport.

That huge body required food though—lots of it.  He pulled the brim of the undersheriff’s campaign hat over his brow to shield his eyes from the blowing snow.  He tromped through the dusting and hoped he would find something—anything—of use around the next bend.  He'd wandered through this Upstate forest long enough.

The weight of the service revolver in its leather holster on his hip was comforting, but he only had one shot left.  The rest had been spent freeing his fellow captives and birthing his army.  As he walked, he risked a backward glance over his shoulder at the ragtag group behind him.  The ones he could trust wore the uniforms of the ill-fated prison guards assigned to their final transfer.

God, what a ragged-ass group.

Why the governor would want to transfer all prisoners from outlying facilities to New  York City was beyond him.  Things must have gotten real bad on the outside, is all Gabriel figured.  There was no way politicians would risk moving so many hardened criminals to one spot if they didn't know something.

Gabriel smiled as he watched his army shuffle along.  They knew something, all right.  They knew we'd break out sooner or later.  They tried to herd us all together.  The smile faded from his face.  Maybe they wanted to get rid of us all in one shot...

Regardless of the why, the bus he'd been on was part of a convoy that crashed on the slick roads leading south out of Upstate. Someone upstairs had been looking out for him when the bus driver hit that patch of black ice and lost control.  A few prisoners died on impact, most were injured and a few wriggled free of their restraints.

Maybe they arranged to have an accident with the bus so the warden could explain to everyone how it was so unfortunate the poor bastards had all perished.  But, look on the bright side, he'd say, there's 27 less mouths for the taxpayers to feed.  Twenty-seven more sick and twisted sons of bitches had gone to meet their maker in hell.

Well, Gabriel Evans had survived.  He choked the first guard that came to check on him—or finish him off—after the accident.  He was pretty sure he'd snapped the man's neck, but it didn't matter—he got his gun just the same and dropped the others with a few well-placed shots.  Out of ammo and on the run, they'd stumbled on Ticonderoga toward the end of the day, exhausted and running on fumes.

Evens knew from the first face he saw they'd get no help in that tiny town.  Some old bitch with a long dirty braid.  Should have hung her scrawny ass with that braid.  The people in town were half-starved, and it was clear from fear on their faces they wouldn't help anyone.  Especially his crew.

You didn’t offer to help, but you called the cops.  Pricks.

Evans tripped over a small rock in the road and caught himself against a tree that leaned in on the side of the road until the pain in his cramped feet subsided.  Fucking boots were two sizes too small.  He stood there for a second, his hand on the cold, rough bark and held his tongue from the string of curses that longed to escape his lips.  If he was going to play the part of the undersheriff, walking around swearing like a sailor would not convince any civilians he was worthy of helping.

He looked down at the scuffed boot on his foot and sighed.  Acting like a civilized person would take practice.  He looked ahead through the thin veil of snow and saw what looked like the entrance to a secluded neighborhood.  A slow smile spread across his lips.  He stood there, leaning against the tree and waited for his army to approach.  Bondo, his chief lieutenant and former cellmate stepped forward and braved his wrath.

"What you got, boss?"

Evans closed his eyes and counted to ten.  "Like I told you before, you gotta call me sheriff for this to work.  At least in the beginning."  He didn't bother to look—he knew Bondo was nervous.  Little shit was always nervous.

"Sure—sure, you got it.  Sheriff."

Evans started talking again as the others caught up.  "Listen up, boys.  You’re gonna stay here—I'm heading on down and see if I can speak with the good folks in that house around the bend."

"Looks like we're coming up on some lake or something…" said Gimpy, an older-than-dirt Navy deserter.

"That it does, that it does."  Evans flicked the corner of his hat and watched as the snow cascaded off the brim.  I thought I was taking us south?

He turned and looked at Bondo.  "Think you ladies can keep it under control for a few minutes while I check things out?  You see me wave my arms, you can come down after me."

His scrawny lieutenant made an attempt at standing at attention and nodded.  "I got it, we'll hang out here.  Sheriff."

Evan sighed.  "Not here, you fucking moron.”  He waved one massive arm at the trees that choked the road.  “Get ‘em off the damn road and into the trees or something.  I don't want the first person I find to look up the road and see you assholes standing around.  Won't make anything any easier, will it?"

"Yeah, I guess," muttered Bondo as he scratched his greasy, dome-like forehead.  "Yeah—yeah I guess I see what you mean."

Evans didn't bother to respond, he just walked away.  As he drew closer to the house up ahead, he realized old Gimpy was right.  They were next to some lake.  A big one, from what he could tell through the pines.  As he exited the forest and walked down the hill toward the house, he took a look around and realized what a pretty scene everything made.  He glanced at the rusted mailbox on the side of the road and noted the name: Holden.

He squared his shoulders, trying to look as official as possible and strolled up to the front door of the ranch house.  Situated on a relatively small lot, the yard sloped down to the lake about a half-acre behind the house.  Majestic spruces and what looked like a few oaks lined the edges of the property, giving it a secluded feel.  He imagined it must be quite the vacation spot in the summer.

The house itself was small, but well-maintained.  It looked like everything had been prepped and readied for winter.  As Evans approached the door, he glanced in a large picture window and saw straight through the house.  Out a rear window facing the lake, tilled, snow-kissed earth and the remains of a large garden sat in plain view.

A sincere smile spread across his face as he knocked on the door and waited.  A minute later shuffling sounds from the other side rewarded his patience.  He listened as the deadbolt disengaged, then the door opened a crack.

His smile widened, and he tipped the brow of his wide felt hat at the elderly woman who faced him.

"Howdy ma'am," he said in his best good ol' boy voice.  "My name's Undersheriff Dixon," he said, thankful the man he'd killed for the uniform had a respectable sounding name.  "We're doing a special patrol through the area and unfortunately…well, my cruiser's having some trouble.  Would you mind if I stepped inside to warm up while I radio back to dispatch again?”  He held up the radio.  “This thing’s on the fritz—I can’t tell if they’re hearing me or not.”  He glanced around at the snow-covered yard, looking for witnesses.  “I've been outside for hours now and it's not getting any warmer."

A nervous smile appeared on the old woman's face as she opened the door all the way.  "Why, of course, sheriff! Please, come on in—this is no weather for you to be out walking around.  You'll catch your death of cold," she said, shutting the door behind him.

Evans stepped inside with a grateful nod and stood on the doormat as if he cared he would drip water off of his uniform.  “Oh…uh…”

"Don't mind the snow," said the woman as she turned and waddled toward the kitchen.  "Follow me—it's warmer in here."
As soon as she turned away, the smile vanished from his face.  He'd been locked up for a long time and he was desperate to find himself a woman…but not that desperate.  He grimaced.  Why the hell couldn't she have been a soccer mom?  He followed her, hardly aware of the hollow echo of his boots on the hardwood floor as he fantasized about twenty-something blondes.

She led him into the kitchen, tastefully decorated in a French pattern that reminded him of a cookbook.  Light blue paisley patterns painted all over all the cabinets.  The rest of the kitchen had been painted a creamy white.  Porcelain cats rested on every horizontal surface.  The little figurines watched him with unblinking eyes from cabinets, the top of the fridge, and little custom-built shelves scattered around the kitchen.

Well this is creepy.

He removed the campaign hat and placed it gently on the kitchen counter, blocking a little black cat with big eyes from staring at him.  The old woman moved to the island in the middle and motioned for him to sit.

"Would you like coffee?  I've got a fresh pot on… Alvin went down to check on the boathouse, but he should be back any minute.  He likes his coffee black, but I have some dehydrated cream and a little sugar, if you'd like?"  She stood there by the coffee pot, waiting for his answer.

"Oh, black would be just fine, ma'am—I sure do appreciate it.  Seems a fair bit colder this year, don't it?"  He winced internally.  Don't it?  That didn't sound like what a sheriff would say, at least not north of Virginia.  Fuck—hold it together, Evans.  Just wait until ‘Alvin’ makes his appearance…

"I have to admit—I usually have my deputies make the runs out in this neck of the woods," he said with what he hoped passed for a sheepish manner.

Mrs. Holden turned, coffee pot in one hand, a large mug that proclaimed the owner to be the ‘world's best grandma’ in the other.  She smiled.  "Oh, don’t worry about that, we don't mind.  It's quiet out here—can't say as if I've ever heard of anyone nearby having any trouble with the law, though…"  She poured the coffee and looked back at him.

"I shouldn't think there'd be any real reason for you to have to come out here at all."

Evans took the cup, grateful for the warmth it imparted to his cold hands.  He was suddenly apprehensive about the snake tattoo that peeked out beyond the cuff of his right sleeve.  Mrs. Holden missed it as she turned to replace the coffee pot on the island.  He adjusted his too-small sleeve—no sense in blowing his cover before her husband arrived.

He took a sip of the hot coffee and grinned as he thought of his comrades freezing their asses off up the road.  Serves them right.  Nobody else thought of a plan, nobody else took charge—all the perks should go to the leader.  Evans was damn well going to make sure he remained the leader.

"Thank you.  Thank you very much.  It's been a long walk…"

"Oh?  Where'd your car break down?  Down the road a ways?" she asked over the rim of her mug.

Shit.  Evans had to think fast—he hadn't come up with a proper back story yet.  "I sure do appreciate this."  He took another sip and swallowed.

"Yeah, it crapped out on me down the road a bit—pardon my French.”

She laughed.  “Oh please, my husband swears a blue streak every time he has to weed that garden of his,” she chuckled, shaking her head.

Evans smiled.  “I had to walk past another house before I got to yours—don't recall the name of the good folks that live there… didn't appear to be anybody home so I kept walking."

"Which way?" she asked.

He gestured with his mug.  "Oh, down the road.  Came 'round the bend, by the mountain," he said.  He was thankful at least he'd taken notice of the tree-covered mountain in the distance.

She smiled like someone's grandmother.  "You were down there by the farm,"

"Yes," he blurted, relief washing through his body.  "I passed it and the car just up and died on me.  When I saw there was a house up ahead, I got out and walked.  Turns out nobody was home."

"Mmm hmm," she said over her mug.  "That would be the Larssons.  Eddie and Vi."

Evans arched an eyebrow.  "Can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting them before," he said.  He looked down.  "Only just started when everything fell apart."

"You poor thing."  Mrs. Holden clucked to herself as she got up and moved to a cupboard.  She smiled at him and pulled a package of shortbread cookies out of the well-stocked pantry.  Evans' stomach rumbled and his mouth watered at the sight of all that food.

If that was just one cabinet in the kitchen, what else might the old broad have squirreled away…in a basement, maybe?  His eyes moved to the door next to the fridge.  Down there, I bet.

"Cookie?  I know we're supposed to be rationing...but I must have ten boxes of these things here."  She sat down and leaned over the table, dropping her voice to a whisper. "They're my only vice," she said with a snort.  She pulled one cookie out and handed the package to Evans.

He pulled three cookies out and put the package on the counter, barely resisting the urge to grab a fistful.  With a nod of thanks, he popped in one whole cookie and chewed, closing his eyes as the delicious flavor of butter and sugar exploded in his mouth.  He hadn't had something so sweet in nearly a decade.  Prison fare wasn't much to be desired.

"Thank you, so much," he mumbled.

She waved off his thanks with a dismissive hand.  "Oh, never mind that.  The least I can do for an officer of the law is to provide him with a cup of coffee and a cookie or two on a cold day."  She turned and looked wistfully out the window at the falling snow.  The tiny flakes which had graced his walk in from the woods had transformed into large, wet globs.

"Looks like we're getting a few inches out of this one," she observed casually.

Evans cleared his throat.  "So, are the Larssons—is that what you said their name was?"

She turned back to face him and nodded.  "Oh, yes.  Edgar and Victoria Larsson."  She smiled.  "Eddie and Vi."

Evans nodded as he munched on his second cookie.  "I take it they're not home?  Did they leave for someplace warm, I hope?" he said with his own smile.

She chuckled and took a second cookie from the package, pinched between her fingertips like it was delicate treasure.  "Oh good heavens, no.  They spent every summer up here while their kids were growing up then moved in permanently some time ago.  We miss their little ones so dearly now.  They used to always run between our yard and the Colonel's…"

Colonel? That's interesting.  Must be the house on the other side of the Larsson place.  Have to take care of him.  Can't afford some ex-hero fucking things up.

Mrs. Holden prattled on.  "…retired now, like the rest of us," she said with a rueful laugh.  "But why we spend our remaining years up here around this frozen lake instead of down on some beach in Florida I'll never know."

Evans glanced out the window at the snow as she laughed at her own wit.  "So they haven't left then?  Must be in town?  What about the Colonel?"

She laughed.  "I don't know if he was a real colonel, mind.  Everyone's just called him that since…well, forever.  He could be a private for all I know."  She looked thoughtful for a moment, took a nibble at her cookie and then spoke again, "No, they haven't left.  We all just finished bringing in the last of our crops a few days ago."  She winked at him.

"Between you and me, they had the bigger haul, but don't let Alvin know I said that.  Alvin, Eddie, and the Colonel have some geriatric rivalry going on as to who can grow the most during the year.  Us wives used to laugh at them," she said and took a sip of coffee.  "Now that the whole world  has gone crazy, I suppose we'll all be more thankful we have that much extra food put away for the winter."  She shook her head sadly.

Before she could say anything else, Evans spoke up: "That's probably a smart thing to be doing right around now.  I'm driving around to take a head count and make sure everybody's set up for the winter.  Governor's orders.  The state wants to marshal its resources and I'm looking to see who will be in the most need…"

Oh, that was good!  Have to remember that…

She nodded wisely.  "That is an excellent idea—probably the smartest thing I've ever heard come out of the governor's office!" she laughed again.  "If Vi didn't answer the door, that means she's in town and he's probably down by their boathouse.  Eddie loves to tinker with that sailboat of his.  My Alvin, now, he can putter around with the best of them—but he prefers the garden," she said with a wave of her hand. "For things mechanical, he'd just as soon take it to a professional."  She looked around as if making sure no one was listening and leaned in across the small table.

"Personally, I think that's best for everyone."  She leaned back, chuckling as if she had just delivered one of the funniest jokes known to man and reached for another cookie.  "Now, don't you be telling Alvin I've been into these," she said with a wink.

Evans flashed a smile and finished his last cookie.  He looked at the structure of her face and her fair hair—despite being mostly white, it looked like it'd been brushed to a polished shine.  For someone who looked in her late 70s, he had to admit she didn't look half-bad.  He idly wondered what she would've looked like as a teenager…

"Is it as bad out there as we've heard?" she asked quietly.

He cleared his throat and put the coffee mug on the table.  Time to look grim and official.  He tapped his finger on the rim of the cup, trying to appear lost in thought.  He swallowed.  It was a new kind of fun, stringing her along like this.  "We heard about all the riots down near New York—boy am I glad I took a position up here, where folks are still civilized," he said.

She crossed herself.  "And that is the Gospel truth.  You couldn't pay me enough money to live in The City."

He turned and looked out the kitchen window and could just barely make out the dim shape of the Larsson house.  It looked to be damn near a quarter-mile away.  No wonder she had such sympathy for me, he thought.  That would be a long, cold walk.  A gust of wind carried a wall of snow past the window and everything on the other side of the Holden property vanished into whiteness.

He heard a door open someone stomped their feet, muttering about snow in October.  "Helen!  Hope you got the coffee going, it's colder than a well-diggers ass in January out there," said a male voice.

Evans glanced at Mrs. Holden, who blushed and smiled.  "Alvin," she called out, "come into the kitchen dear, we have company."

Evans stood as he heard more muttering and footsteps approached the kitchen.  A man who appeared to be in his early 70s, slouched from too much time in front of a keyboard, stepped into the kitchen and shook the snow off of his jacket.  His froze when he saw Evans standing next to his wife.

Now it's time for business.  Evans assessed the situation quickly.  Immediately to his right, stood Mrs. Holden, a wisp of a thing.  To his left, about six feet away stood the equally old Alvin Holden.

As he extended his right hand, he casually slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and his fingers slid around the comfortable shape of the iron crampon he'd picked up after his escape.  He had killed his third hooker with a rail tie—drove the spike straight through her forehead with a sledgehammer.  That was the one that got him sent away for life.  Once there, his murder weapon became his name.

Alvin didn't shake hands.  His eyes narrowed and flicked from Evans to his wife and back.  "Who the hell are you?"

"Alvin Holden!"  His wife hissed.  "This is Undersheriff Dixon.  His car broke down while he was doing rounds in our area—"

"I don't know what you told my wife, but you need to leave my house," said Alvin.  The tone of his voice sounded threatening, but the frailty of his body counteracted it nicely.  His eyes said he knew it, too.

Spike smiled.

“I’ll ask you one more time to leave,” growled Mr. Holden.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Mrs. Holden looked confused.  “Alvin!  Why are you acting like this?”  She clutched her robe across her chest and Evans let her move closer to her husband.

Alvin reached an arm around her.  "I've known Tom for years—he's old Sam Dixon's son."  He jerked his chin at Evans.  "He's not Tom Dixon."

“Who are you?” Mrs. Holden whispered, her voice tremulous.

Evans smiled.  He pulled his hand from his coat and gripped the crampon like a dagger.  The gasp that escaped Mrs. Holden’s lips sent a thrill through his body.  It felt good to be back in the saddle.

“Call me Spike.”

Chapter 2

Flight of the Rebels

MALCOLM ABDUL RASHID STOOD next to the bullet-riddled Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser and raised his binoculars. Fully half of his rebellion lay before him, stretching south in a solid tide of humanity. A tide of defeat. The long faces and sweaty bodies, all piled into every make and model of vehicle they could find. Many of them dangerously overloaded, they careened wildly around abandoned cars on I-95.

How many have I lost to simple traffic accidents since we left New York? Hundreds? Thousands?

He lowered the binoculars and closed his eyes in prayer at the stupidity of the loss. Those were good people, brothers and sisters in arms. They will be missed. And I will lose many more before this exodus is over.

He turned and glanced south as the unending flow of cars and trucks honked as they passed him. Cheers and shouts and waves greeted him from smiling faces as they continued to stream past. He knew it was a morale booster for the troops to see him standing by the road watching over them as they marched south, but it felt ridiculous.

He felt exposed. Any second now one of Stapleton's helicopters could pop up over the horizon and send a missile right down his throat ending everything.

He raised the binoculars and looked at the leading half of his army as they marched toward Trenton, still some 23 long miles away.

Malcolm glanced at his watch. By now Samir and Yossef should be setting up the first outpost on the outskirts of Philadelphia. The local chapter had assured him they'd set up plenty of roadblocks and booby traps along the major arteries.  Stapleton and his army would have to slow down when they approached the City of Brotherly Love.

Malcolm frowned. He will pursue me to the ends of the earth—the man will never give up.

Watching all the smiling faces and waving arms as his people filed past, Malcolm had a sudden unnerving thought. He'd heard the rumors Stapleton had placed a bounty on his head—$17 million for information leading to his capture or arrest. Another $30 million for bringing him in alive.

How many of those in front of me would jump at $30 million and end the suffering, end the fighting by handing me over?

Malcolm turned and looked at the sea of faces. Suddenly he felt very exposed.

Climbing back inside the car he shut the door on the outside world and tried to slip down behind the front seat.  He very much wished Yossef, his massive bodyguard—loyal to the core—was with him.

Why did I send him with Samir?

It was a silly question of course. Samir was loyal, to a point. Samir was a man possessed by fear. If that fear overcame his courage, Malcolm had no doubt Samir would flee to the army and beg for mercy.

Yossef, his mountain, was the exact opposite. The man did not and likely had never known fear. He was loyal to Malcolm and no other save Allah—he would die loyal to Malcolm. He was Malcolm's chief enforcer. If anyone could keep Samir on the path of righteousness through this trying time, it was Yossef.

Yossef had the strength of a rock and the intelligence of one as well. Samir had to be the brains in Philadelphia while Yossef provided the muscle. There was no other way to do it. Malcolm could not oversee the successful withdraw his troops and the preparations in Philadelphia at the same time.

So much to do, so little time. A saying of the Man that could not be more apt in his present situation.

"Where you want me to go?" asked the driver.

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak when his radio chirped.

"Malcolm."

Finally.  He keyed the transmit button on his radio.  "Yes?"

"The prisoner has arrived."

Malcolm closed his eyes. At least something was going right. The female pilot captured by the Russians in New York City was now in his possession. The foolish invaders had left her behind, but she was far too valuable a prize for Malcolm to do the same.

As long as the Americans knew he held her captive, no harm would come to him. At least, that was his initial plan. As the day wore on and his people grew more and more exhausted and strung out along I-95 as Stapleton gained on him—Malcolm questioned the value of using her as his own personal shield. Why waste her on one man when she could protect an entire army?

That was why he'd sent her south to Samir and Yossef. He held her out as a tantalizing fruit for President Jones. If he could rally some home guard troops around Washington and give Malcolm's people time to catch their breath on their long trip to Florida, he would receive the colonel as a reward.  What Jones did with her was not Malcolm's problem.

He looked at the flow of humanity around his vehicle. It was like a river, unending, unstoppable. Like Stapleton.

Who knows what that madman might do if he catches e on the march?

Malcolm did not intend to find out. He wanted to be in Florida, fighting the Russians and rallying besieged locals to his cause. Word that an uprising against the Russians led by citizens was encouraging. If he could only reach central Florida in time to capitalize on this development and join forces, he was confident the invaders would not stand a chance.

He glanced at his car’s view mirror, at the pillars of smoke and fire that roared into the sky over New York, signaling the wake of his army. During the transition, he found it exceedingly difficult to control the more free-spirited members of his confederation—much more so than when they’d been holed up in the city. The rearguard seemed to delight in causing as much destruction as possible—looting and burning as they went.

No wonder Stapleton wants to wipe us out. Malcolm made a mental note to instill harsher discipline on his forces at the next opportunity.

He picked up the radio and pressed the transmit button. "You have done well, Samir. Please express my thanks and gratitude to your men. If Allah wills it, we shall be with you by dawn."

"When do you want me to transfer her?"

"As soon as it is safe. I want her on the other side of Philadelphia before I arrive. We need to get her to President Jones as fast as possible. Have you been able to contact his representative?"

"I have—they want to do the trade tomorrow.  He says he has food and supplies for 100 men."

Malcolm laughed bitterly. A hundred? That is but a drop of rain in the face of a man dying of thirst.  "Thank them for whatever they can provide. I will see you soon."

"Go with Allah," Samir responded.

"You too, my brother."

Malcolm dropped radio on the dashboard. He'd been up for more than 24 hours now, overseeing the final escape from New York. All he wanted to do was close his eyes.

"Malcolm?" asked the driver.  "Where you want me to…?"

Malcolm sighed, his eyes closed, head already against the seat.  "Take us to Philadelphia."

Chapter 3

The Hunt

BRIGADIER GENERAL JOSEPH "FIGHTING Joe" Stapleton stared south through his binoculars out the commander's hatch on his Stryker.  Malcolm was on the run. Most of his fighters had packed up in the middle of the night and disappeared. The resistance had fallen. New York had been liberated.

He'd received orders from Daniel Jones to cease hostilities as a truce had been negotiated between the United States and the rebels.  There was no doubt about it now.  Jones claimed to be the president—successor to Suthby.

Stapleton grunted.  He half-expected someone else to call on the secure sat phone every hour announcing they were the new president, too.  Anyone could claim they were the president. No one in Congress or from the Pentagon had confirmed this Jones character.

Claiming the title of Commander-in-Chief wasn't good enough for Stapleton. Not only did he not recognize Jones' legitimacy, but his standing orders—given to him by President Reed—were to seek out and destroy the rebellion at all costs. Those orders were the ones Stapleton intended to follow to the letter.

To implement Reed's orders, he dispatched his forward elements south toward Trenton. His Strykers were faster than his armored cav could hope to be on asphalt.  They raced south using every intact tunnel and bridge that remained connected to the mainland.

Malcolm's retreat has been so swift and silent that not all of Stapleton's forces had amassed on Manhattan yet. The bulk of his army was still stationed on the mainland taking up defensive positions west of Manhattan. Stapleton could swing his forces straight south toward Philadelphia.

Stapleton chewed his unlit cigar. If his Strykers could catch Malcolm at Trenton, he could end this thing on day one.

He lowered his binoculars and slapped the roof of his vehicle. The driver understood and the big beast lurched forward. Stapleton continued standing in the commander's hatch to get an unobstructed view as they drove south.  He wasn't concerned by snipers, much to the chagrin of his staff.

Malcolm's forces vanished almost to a man.  Only a single instance of insurgent action had been recorded since Stapleton had accepted the surrender of the last of Kristanoff's Russians.

Stapleton shook his head as he clenched his jaw on the cigar. The rebels fled south like some kind of giant horde of barbarians. Russians had taken control of the Florida peninsula. There were also rumors—spreading like wildfire—of the Chinese invasion of California.

What the hell is going on?

The radio embedded in his helmet broke squelch. "Command Actual, Viper 3, Actual."

"Actual here, go ahead."

"The last of my vehicles has cleared Manhattan. The tunnel's clear. Proceeding south with all haste."

Stapleton grinned. "Outstanding. Go hunt those slippery bastards down. We'll be right behind you. Actual out."

The radio broke squelch again. "Command Actual, Lighthouse."

Lighthouse? That was his command staff. "Actual. Send it Lighthouse."

"We just received a cat-five."

A secured-sat phone category five transmission could mean only one thing.  Nella's calling me.

"Actual copies all." Stapleton ducked down inside the Stryker. "Driver! Pull over. I need to set up the secure satcom."

When the eight-wheeled vehicle had parked, Stapleton swiveled his chair to face the bank of screens depicting the locations of his divisional assets.  He picked up the secure comms sat phone and keyed Nella’s callsign, Roosevelt Actual.  The phone chirped.

"Nella."

"Isn't it a little soon to be hearing from you, Admiral?" asked Stapleton.  He pulled the cigar stub from his mouth and examined it.

Admiral Nella grunted.  "I got word the rebels are making a bee line for Philly—"

"I know.  My scouts are on the trail.  We'll catch them in Trenton."

"Good.  I've got a flight of F-35s headed south to Oceana.  They can provide eyes in the sky and relay intel back to both of us.  This will be our first look.  I'm sending the codes to you now."

Stapleton watched his tactical displays shift as the incoming unit transfer codes appeared on his screen and waited for his authorization.

"Got 'em."  He hit the proper keys and a small screen to his left displayed a map of New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania with a cluster of blue triangles and heading markers.

"We need to stop them before they make it to Washington and link up with that imbecile in the White House.  I still can't believe he brokered that peace treaty."

It was Stapleton's turn to grunt.  He held his tongue as another Stryker rumbled past, the noise deafening as it entered through the open commander's hatch.  Once the vehicle had lumbered past and taken the  background noise with it, he spoke: "I have my armored scouts moving to intercept them at Trenton. We're going to head them off before they reach Philadelphia.  The trail is pretty wide—trash, burned cars, looted homes.  The civilian population along the 95 corridor is scared shitless."

After a slight pause on the other end of the secured line, Nella replied with a question.  "Are you sure it's them?"

Stapleton thought about it for a moment.  "Hundred percent?  No.  All this could have happened while I was busy taking care of Chicago.  But my money's on the rebels.  They destroy and bring everything down with them.  It's their calling card—they're like locusts."

"And the Russians?"

Stapleton clenched his jaw.  "There will be stragglers scattered all over New England by the time we're finished.  It'll take time to hunt them all down.   I don't have the manpower.  We're throwing everything south at the rebels.  What few Russians are left behind will either be taken care of by the locals or whatever NG units I run into."

"What about the naval assets?"

Nella paused.  "Their surface fleet is resting on the bottom of the Sound."

"Their subs?"

The answer was immediate.  "That's a different matter.  We lost contact with Hampton over night.  We knew there were at least seven Russian fast attack boats in the area and we took out three in the first engagement…"

That wasn't good news at all.  The Russians were down, but not out.  "Have you been able to contact any other carriers?"

"Negative.  That's why I'm relocating my command to Oceana.  I'll know more after I arrive."

"What's your ETA?" Stapleton asked.

"Sunset.  I'll be on a prop transport.  The fighters will get there first and provide CAP.  I'll have to bring some Marines to secure the facility.  The rest of my command will follow overnight.  We'll be in a good position to supplement your forces for the push into Washington."

"If I can delay the rebels outside Philly, we can hit them from the north and south at the same time," mused Stapleton.  "I like it.  Keep me informed."

"You too.  Good hunting.  Roosevelt Actual out."

Stapleton replaced the sat phone in its cradle.  He wedged the cigar stub back between his teeth and thought for a moment as another Stryker roared past in the endless parade of vehicles streaming out of New York.

Stapleton let his mind shift into neutral he pondered what the fates had in store for him. Would it be seen as treason or rescue when the next generation wrote the history books?  Taking on open rebellion against the United States—and destroying most of Chicago in the process—was one thing.  Toppling said government from the top down was quite another.

Stapleton clenched his jaw.  The hell with history.  The government was being run by the assistant to the late director of FEMA for Christ's sake.  Jones called himself president and had been recognized by the Hague but that meant squat to him.

Stapleton clenched a fist.  Screw the U.N., screw Jones, and screw the rebellion.  The country was in deep shit and it was left to him and Nella—until they could link up with the Pentagon and other surviving units—to do something about it.

"Driver!" he barked.  "Get us back in the column!  I want eyes on the rebellion's ass before they reach Trenton."

"Yes, sir!" was the immediate response.  The command Stryker lurched forward and joined the procession of tan and green troop transports, tanks, and Bradley fighting vehicles headed south.

Chapter 4

The Bridge

ERIK LARSSON GRIPPED THE M-ATV's steering wheel and sat in silence as a cold October rain drummed on the roof of the armored vehicle.  They had been sitting there in the dark for over 45 minutes, waiting for Ted's return.  The marine wanted to scout ahead and see if there would be any problems at the border.  Since it was a bridge, he wanted to make sure there were no surprises.

He glanced at Brin as she slept in the passenger seat, her head tucked against a folded blanket.  They had come close to losing everything in Gainesville.  The college town had seen a lot of troop movement before they'd arrived and when one more M-ATV showed up, chaos ensued.  People swarmed them, begging for food and when supplies didn't appear, the violence started.  More than one divot and ding on the M-ATV's armor came from frustrated civilians taking potshots at the big truck.

They'd even gone so far as to try to erect a barricade on the way out of town to trap Erik and his group.  Only Ted's quick thinking and lead foot kept them from being stopped and robbed, or worse.

Erik wanted no more surprises after the disaster.  They'd kept a low profile since, stopping for supplies or fuel only at night.  Florida's cities had largely succumbed to total anarchy in the months since the collapse.  Erik and Ted had known this—they'd heard reports while working with the Guard—but seeing it first hand was something else.

They followed I-75 north toward Georgia rather than risk the ruins of Jacksonville.  From the first days of the collapse, word had spread that Jacksonville was owned by the gangs.

Erik looked at Brin and smiled as she slept.  She'd had been quiet for most of the trip, but she'd immediately spoken up when it came time to make decisions based on what was best for the children.  No matter what, she'd argued, if the kids starved to death, there would be no point in any of them going any further.

He sighed and focused on the rain cascading down the windshield.  He didn't envy Ted at all, slinking around out there in the mud.  It was just the kind of rain he found most irritating—not nearly cold enough for snow, but too cold to be enjoyable.

Erik wished they had more containers to set on the roof and capture the precious water.  So far they had survived on stale buckets of water they'd filled whenever they stopped to hunt for supplies.

Now they were within spitting distance of Georgia.  The border lay just around the bend where State Highway 31 crossed the Withlacoochee River.  Erik stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.  The last thing he wanted to do was wake Brin in the middle of the night for no good reason.

So far, she had done most of the night watches, claiming to have been unable to sleep.  After what she endured at the prison camp—after what Erik assumed she endured—he and Ted had agreed to keep watch during the day.

Erik stared at the rain.  They were nearly into Georgia.  One state down, seven to go.

He couldn't help but shake the feeling once they made it safely to his parents' place in Upstate New York, everything would be right with the world.  They could forget about the riots in the cities and the diseases making the rounds in urban centers.  They could forget about shortages of food and water—his father had been growing vegetable gardens for as long as Erik could remember and the lake was an incredible source of fresh water.  There were plenty of animals in the forest to hunt, not to mention all the fish in the lake…

If only they could cross the next thousand miles in safety.  He turned and glanced in the back.  The barely noticeable light from outside illuminated the sleeping forms of Lindsay and Teddy.

Erik looked back out the windshield and sighed.  How long would it take Ted to determine if the way forward was safe?  He didn't like being parked, surrounded by trees in an area he didn't know.  He squinted at the pine trees closest to the M-ATV.  There could be anyone out there, watching them right now.

Erik suddenly relaxed.  There could be anyone out there, true.  But they weren't sitting in a minivan, either.  They were four feet off the ground in an armored vehicle designed to withstand improvised explosive devices and mines on the battlefield, weighing nearly 20,000 pounds.  Erik smiled.

It also had a turret-mounted M2 .50-caliber machine gun.  They had two canisters of ammo which would not, admittedly, last long in a protracted firefight.  However, Ted assured him with short controlled bursts they could persuade all but the most determined of enemies from attacking their vehicle.

Erik thought he saw movement between two trees about 15 feet in front of the vehicle.  Adrenaline rushed through his system and suddenly all his senses came to life in stark contrast to the mind-numbing sound of the rain.  He slowly pulled his M4 into his lap.

He waited, listening to the rain, and waited for whoever it was to emerge on the other side of a slim pine tree.  So close to the border…things will get easier the further we get from Orlando.  They have to.

They'd been driving at night for what seemed like a week.  It was a slow, making short trips up I-75—and tedious—but doing so ensured they had met little resistance outside of Gainesville.  They'd seen groups of armed people roaming the area they traveled but didn't bother to check if they were friend or foe.  Yet they’d seen no other military units since leaving Orlando.

It was like the entire army had dispersed into the swamps and vanished.

As they'd approached Gainesville, the smoke reminded them all too much of Orlando.  The devastation was not nearly as complete though since the Russians never made it so far north.  Riots and fires started in protest at the onset of the collapse had done enough to make Gainesville uninhabitable for a long time that much was certain.

Erik slowly relaxed as he realized whatever he'd seen must've been a figment of his imagination.  He lowered the rifle gently to the floor and leaned it against the dash.  Brin mumbled in her sleep.

The right suicide door suddenly opened and Erik cursed as he fumbled for the rifle, knocking it to the floor.  The clatter woke Brin as Ted climbed into the back and shut the door, blocking out the rain’s noise.

"Holy crap, you scared the shit out of me," Erik hissed.

"Hey, try to keep it down…" Brin mumbled, without opening her eyes.

Erik reached out and patted her on the shoulder, then winced as she flinched.  "Sorry…"

He frowned as she snuggled into the blanket that cushioned her head and shied away from his touch.  It was the third time she'd done that.  Granted, it usually happened when she was asleep or trying to sleep, but it left Erik feeling guilty.  She seemed to grow more distant each day—every time she flinched at his touch, it made things a little worse.

"There's definitely a roadblock up there across the bridge," Ted announced.  He crouched behind the driver's seat—Erik heard the water drip off of his poncho.

"What are we looking at?" whispered Erik.

"I got as close as I could to the riverbank.  It's an exposed two-lane bridge that crosses the Withlacoochee.  There's no getting around it—they'll see us at least a quarter mile off."

"Any buildings or anything?" asked Erik, staring out the windshield.

"There's some kind of visitor's center or something on the other side.  Looks like a small house, but I spotted official-looking signs by the road.  I counted four cars parked—two more had dome lights turn on as somebody got in or out."

Erik sucked air in between his teeth.  "Six cars…there could be a lot of people…"

Brin stirred next to them.  "Maybe we should go back?" she asked quietly.  "Find another way north?"

Ted shook his head.  "We'll eat up too much gas.  As it is, we’re going to have to find some pretty quick when we get across the border."

Erik nodded.  "Agreed.  So that leaves one option: we go forward."

Ted sighed and pushed the hood of the poncho back across his head, his hair soaked with sweat.  "I'm not a big fan of that option, either, but I don't think we have much of a choice."  Ted took a deep breath.  He pointed to the windshield.

"Two things concern me:  First, I saw at least four people standing behind the barricade on the far side of the bridge.  Looks like they got a couple cars parked together with some branches or a tree limb or something in front of it.  That's the least of my concerns."

"That seems like a pretty big concern," said Brin.

"Normally, I'd agree.  But we gotta remember, this thing we're driving is a real pig."

Erik rolled his neck.  "Hey, you think 20,000 pounds exceeds the weight limit on that bridge?"

Ted shrugged.  "I honestly don't know, it's only two-lanes, but it's big… How much does the average semi weigh?"

"No idea…" muttered Erik.

"How deep is the river?" asked Brin.

Ted tapped his fingers against the dashboard.  "I don't know.  That thing could easily be ten or fifteen feet deep I guess, judging on how wide it is."

"Do we wait for dawn and try to find a place to ford?" asked Erik.

Ted scratched his chin, making a sound like sandpaper.  "I don't know," he sighed.  "Part of me says we floor it and get across right now.  It's dark, it's raining, the guys on guard duty have been there at least as long as I was watching them.  They've got to be cold, tired, and wet.  This could be the perfect time to make our run—"

"And if the bridge collapses?" asked Brin.

"Then we swim for it."

Erik stared out the windshield.  He didn't like the idea of storming across the bridge just to have it collapse under them any more than the others, but the urge to get north—to safety—grew stronger every day.  "We all swore to let nothing stop us."

"I remember," said Ted in little more than a whisper.  "I didn't want to push it…"

"This thing is basically a tank with wheels.  Maybe it's time we use it?" asked Erik.

Brin shifted her focus from Erik to the children in the back.  Her seatbelt snapped with a click that seemed loud in the darkness.  "Let's do it."

Erik looked over his shoulder at Ted and arched an eyebrow.  Ted shrugged.  "Better now than in the day when there could be reinforcements."

Erik reached for the ignition button.  His hand froze in the air just a few inches away.  "You think we should try to talk to them first?  See if they'll just let us go through?"

Ted sighed again and looked down.  "A few months ago I would've said yes, without a doubt.  Now?  After all the shit we've been through at the apartment and now with the Russians…I don't think so."

Erik clenched his jaw.  "They're probably just a bunch of people—like we were back at the Freehold—trying to stem the tide of looters and rebels pouring out of Florida…"

"This is one of the only roads around," said Brin.

"Maybe they have those covered to?  Maybe instead of hunkering down and hiding, like we did, these people are just taking a more active approach to keeping the riffraff out…"

"It all depends on how they define riffraff," said Brin jerking her chin towards the windshield.  She turned and looked at Erik, the soft light from outside gave the barest hint of illumination to her face.  Erik cringed inwardly at how stern she looked—another side effect of her experience at the prison camp.  He couldn't remember seeing her smile since he'd rescued her.

Is she mad because I hesitated and she's the one who killed Stepanovich?

"We're not getting any further north just sitting here…" mumbled Ted.

Erik turned away from Brin and gripped the steering wheel.  "You're right.  The time for talking and asking questions is over.  We are going north come hell or high water.  There's high water out there right now, so let's see we can't bring a little hell."

"Now that's the spirit!" Ted moved back between them so he could secure his children.

Erik punched the ignition button and felt the vehicle rumble to life with a throaty roar.  He shifted into drive and they crept forward on pine needles until they found the road again.  Erik paused and looked both ways.  Other than rain and trees, there was nothing in either direction.  The road was deserted—just like all the others they'd been driving.

He turned the M-ATV north and accelerated.  They had to go around one more bend and then it was a straight shot to the bridge.

As they approached the final turn, Ted woke his children and quickly explained what was about to happen.  Without warning, Brin reached out and put a hand on Erik's shoulder.  He turned and looked at her in time to see her smile.  It wasn't much, but it meant the world to him and suddenly he was filled with energy and optimism.  For a brief second there in the darkness his wife, the Brin he fell in love with and married, was back.

Erik turned and faced the windshield again.  Somewhere up ahead there was a group of men determined to keep him from reaching his goal of getting his wife, Ted, and the kids to safety.  That made them enemies.  He didn't care about the situation, he didn't care about the reasoning.  They stood between him and his objective.

End of story.

The road straightened out again and lights appeared as glowing orbs in the watery distance.  "Those lights are on the far side of the river," Ted warned.  "They're just behind the roadblock.  Idiots set up some portable floodlights—they probably can't see across the bridge without night vision now."

A loud ping startled everyone in the M-ATV.  "Someone shot at us!"  Brin said.

"Looks like somebody has night vision after all…" said Ted.  "Drop the hammer, man.  They know were coming.  May as well hit the lights.  It might scare them a little," he chuckled.

Erik turned on the headlights and the road illuminated before them.  Abandoned cars lined either side—muzzle flashes popped all around them.

"That's a lot more than four cars!" Erik shouted over the noise.

"What do we do?" asked Brin, placing one foot on the dashboard as if it would prevent her from getting shot.

Ted chuckled.  "Nothing!  Ignore them—whatever they got, I guarantee you it ain't enough to put a hole in this thing."

Erik clenched his jaw and pushed his foot to the floor.  The big Caterpillar diesel engine under the hood roared in response and sped up on the straightaway.  The bridge itself looked to be about 30 or 40 yards long.  Erik was relieved to see stout concrete railing paralleling the road.  Hopefully the whole thing was made of reinforced concrete.

The M-ATV rumbled forward picking up speed as bullets bounced off its armor.  Erik tightened his grip on the stirred wheel.  "Almost there," he announced.

"Steady as she goes," advised Ted from the back seat.  "Everybody brace for impact—when we hit those cars up there, just try to stay loose.  Erik, keep your hands tight on the wheel, she'll do the rest…"

"You sound like you've done this before," said Erik as they approached the bridge.

Ted laughed.  "Once or twice…"

"Everybody hang on!" Erik called out.  The sound of the oversized armored tires on the asphalt changed to a distinctive rumble pattern as they hit the bridge.  Erik ignored the speed limit posted for crossing the bridge.  He flicked his eyes to the dash and saw they were doing 52.  He grinned and tensed—the bridge seemed to hold.

They were halfway across the bridge when the men behind the barricade opened fire.  Erik heard more than saw the bullets strike the ballistic-hardened windshield.  His confidence grew the closer he got, as more bullets struck the vehicle and bounced harmlessly off into the night.  The rain, pouring down in buckets, now sounded louder than bullets hitting the M-ATV's armored hull.

"Here we go!" yelled Ted.  "Hang on!"

Erik kept his jaw clenched tight as they smashed into the barricade.  There was a tremendous crash, then his vision was obscured by leaves and branches that flew up in front of the windshield.  A split second later, the M-ATV careened into the cars parked across the road, the impact like nothing Erik had ever felt before.  The vehicle shuddered by did not stop and everyone was thrown forward in their harnesses.

When Erik's vision cleared, he saw the speedometer had dropped to 35 after all, but the big truck was gaining speed again.  They heard metal scrape the sides as they barreled through the makeshift barricade followed by screams and shouts as more gunfire targeted their ride.

The children screamed and Ted tried to soothe them, but Erik laughed.  It was exhilarating.  They had completely destroyed the barricade.  Once free of the wreckage, the M-ATV picked up speed again.  The road before them was a tunnel of light, surrounded by blurred trees on either side.

Neatly packed rows of cars—many of them riddled with bullet holes—lined the north side of the road as they passed the visitor's center.

"Looks like they've got a pretty good racket here," said Ted from the back seat.  "They must have stopped anybody who came through here…"

"That's a lot of cars.  What happened to all the people?"

"Well," answered Ted, "they might have confiscated the vehicles in exchange for safe passage…"  His voice wasn't as confident as his words.

"Not this one," said Erik through clenched teeth.  He eased up on the gas pedal when they went around the first bend in the road and the roadblock disappeared from sight.  Erik heard Ted rustling around the back.  He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw him stand up in the turret.

"What are you doing?  We made it."

Ted dropped behind him and shouted over the roar of the wind as it whistled through the armored turret, spraying everyone with a fine mist.  "I guarantee you, we're not free and clear yet—they have enough vehicles, they're gonna send somebody after us.  I'm just going to convince them to leave us alone."  Ted clapped Erik on the shoulder and stood back up into the turret.

"Just keep going!" urged Brin.

Ted screamed down into the vehicle over the noise of the wind.  "We got two cars behind us!  Kids, cover your ears, daddy's going loud!"

Without further warning, Ted let loose with a brief salvo that sounded like a canon inside the vehicle.  Erik gritted his teeth but kept their speed constant.  A glance out his tiny side window showed one set of headlights wink out in the side mirror just before the trailing car exploded into a bright orange fireball.  The brief explosion illuminated a pickup as it swerved around the flaming wreckage and parked sideways across the road.

Ted dropped inside the vehicle and sealed up the turret.  He shook the water off his poncho and pulled the hood back, his face split in a smile.  "Well, that was fun!"

Erik glanced at Brin.  "Welcome to Georgia."

Chapter 5

Killing Spree

GABRIEL EVANS STEPPED OUT the Holdens’ back door, wiping his bloody hands on a kitchen rag. After a good scrub, he absently tossed the rag to the ground and continued walking. His boots crunched through the snow.  His dark eyes were immediately drawn to the lake. They had a helluva view.

He paused at the crest of the slope leading down to the lake and took a deep breath.  The cold, clear mountain air seared through his lungs.  The world always looked so clear and sharp…after.

Evans sighed, feeling relaxed for the first time since he escaped the clutches of the New York penal system.  He looked toward the neighboring house, what was her name? Larsson. Right.

A short hedgerow of bushes and small trees mostly obscured his view of the house itself.  A thin tendril of smoke rose above the snow-kissed pine canopy. Someone was home.

He looked at the snow-covered garden and the boat shed further down the lake path. The late Alvin Holden's boot prints hadn’t been covered by the fresh snow yet.  The serenity he felt vanished—he had work to do.  Evans turned on his heel and marched back inside.

Without scraping his boots, he trudged mud and snow through the house on his way back to the front door. He paused in the kitchen, grabbing a handful of Helen Holden's cookies and stuffed his mouth. He closed his eyes. She was right; they were delicious.  He slipped the rest of the pack under his coat and took one longing look at the pantry.

I’ll be back for you.

His eyes fell on another porcelain cat.  He smashed it on the floor.  Creepy ass old lady.

Stepping out the front door, he tugged on the undersheriff's jacket, making sure he was back in character in case anyone was watching. He looked up and saw Bondo staring at him through a break in the trees across the street.  Evans glanced left and right.  No activity, no line of sight for people in any houses nearby to see him.  He nodded at Bondo and jerked a thumb toward a copse of trees by the road.

Meet me there.

He forced his way through the front yard and stood behind the clump of scraggly pines, waiting for Bondo to join him.  Eventually the diminutive lackey worked his way down the road after several hasty glances over his shoulder.

Evans narrowed his eyes.  You're nervous.  Why?

"So what's the plan, Spike?"

He closed his eyes. Through clenched teeth, he said "I told you to call me sheriff." Evans turned and opened his eyes, leveling a glare at his forgetful sidekick. He clenched his fists knuckles cracking like snapping twigs.  "Do I need to beat that into you so you can remember it?"

The smaller man shrank back in fear. "N-n-no…" he stammered. "I got it. Promise."  He crossed himself.  "Scout's honor.  Won't happen again."

"It better not," Evans spat, glancing down the street. "Stupid shit like that could blow our cover. We haven't found shelter yet, remember?"

"What about that place?" Bondo asked, pointing at the Holden residence.

Evans shook his head. "I mean we haven't found shelter for everyone else. That can be my place, sure, but I'm not squeezing all you assholes in there. Too small. We need to spread out." He turned and glanced north at the next closest house. A large white shape through the trees caught his attention.

He squinted through the light snow. "What is that? A boat?"

Bondo stared with his beady little eyes.  "Yeah, looks like a sailboat, Spi—ah, sheriff."

Sailboat? Evans thought for a moment. The extra mobility a boat offered in a lake community might be a real asset. He glanced down at his twitchy sidekick. Not to mention it could be a nice way to escape if things went tits-up.

The men he'd brought with him could be counted on for one thing and one thing only—violence. He ruled them with an iron fist through force of will and physical presence.  They could all go screaming straight to hell for all he cared.  They were idiots—but they were useful idiots.  Evans felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

For now.

He kept his eyes glued to the sailboat.  "Run back and see if anybody knows how to sail. I'm gonna go check out that house. Meet me over there.  And be discreet."

“What?”

Evans pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Be careful—we don’t know which of these houses are occupied.”

"But what if there's somebody home?"

“Jesus, is there an echo in here?” he asked to the sky.  His hand slipped into the undersheriff’s coat and gripped the reassuring steel of the crampon. "I'll handle it. Just get over there."

He left the copse of trees and headed for the targeted house, ignoring the final protest of his chicken-shit lieutenant. He refused to look over his shoulder—the little bastard should be moving and if he wasn't, Evans would snap his neck.

It took him longer than he expected and his feet were half frozen in his too-small boots, but he made it to the side of the house. Judging from the amount of snow on the driveway, the unused front walk, and the darkened windows, he figured the house to be abandoned.

If it’s not abandoned, then no one’s been home for a few days, at least...

He approached one of the windows on the south side of the house, cupped his hands and put his face up to the glass. The room on the other side of the window was decorated like the Holden place.  It was a grandmother's house, and it was empty.

He took a step back from the window and lowered his hands as a morbid thought crossed his mind: what if some old lady who lived there had died during the collapse and her body had been rotting in there the entire time?

A shiver went down his spine. Gabriel Evans could kill a man for looking sideways at him—rape and murder were his specialty, his trade, his craft. But coming across a decomposing body…

That's just creepy.

He shuffled away from the window and moved to the rear of the house to investigate the boat. At the back of the house, he found more of the same—a snow-covered porch and walkways yet no footprints in sight. A small, tiny vegetable garden lay half-buried under the snow, nestled as it was under the overhang of a large tree.

With no other houses in sight, he made his own path to the lake and stood on the rocky shore staring at the white sailboat, tied to a rotted dock behind the house. He’d never been on a boat, so he had no idea what shape it was in, but it looked pretty clean to him. It was sporting about an inch of snow on every horizontal surface, but the mast looked straight.  There was a big lump right in the middle the ship which he assumed to be the folded sail.

He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and saw Bondo accompanied by a mangy old man.

"Hey Sp—sheriff. Gimpy here used to run a charter business down in the keys."

The old man laughed. "I was a smuggler, you pansy."  He glared at Evans without fear.  "I got pirate blood in my veins,” he joked as he leaned around Evans’ bulk.

"Now that's a beauty—thirty-eight footer by the looks of her. Clean lines…"  Gimpy stepped forward and crunched down, getting a better angle.  "Oh shit yeah.  She'll run like a scalded cat before the wind.  Someone took good care of ‘er.  You don’t see these anymore.  A 1963 Yarmouth."

Evans watched as the old man's eyes lit up the more he studied the boat. He definitely sounded like a sailor, rattling on about jibs and lines. "I don’t know what that means.”

Gimpy blinked, his mouth open.  “Well…ah…”

Evans held up hand.  “Save it—I don’t really care.  Go check it out."

The three of them made their way down to the rickety docks and carefully climbed aboard the sailboat. Evans was quickly approaching the point where he didn't care if anyone spotted them or not. As far as he could see along the shore,  only one more house had been built to the north. He glanced south toward the Holden and Larsson houses, next to the abode of the mysterious Colonel.  The point of land just a little farther south obscured anything else.

Gimpy found a hatch and jimmied the lock, dusted the snow off the teak decking and disappeared below with a cackle. Through the snow drifting down Evans couldn't see any further up the shoreline, but there had to be more houses.  Prime real estate like that screamed ‘build here’.

Bondo whistled. "Would you look at that?"

Evans turned and followed Bondo's gaze across the lake. A massive three-story house, the side facing the lake almost completely made of glass, dominated the shoreline. Someone had serious money over there.

He clenched a fist. Now that would make an excellent base camp. Whoever owned that probably had tons of food stocked up, too. Rich people always did crazy shit like that. He squatted next to the boat's sail and peered inside the darkened cabin.

"You think you can get this thing across the lake?"

The old man hooted from the interior. "No problem at all! She's in real good shape. Got all kinds of charts—everything you need’s down here, even some GPS gear and shit. Battery’s probably dead, but I think I can hook 'em up to the engine and get her runnin' once we get some power."

"No—we're not using the engine."

"Not using…? Why?" The old man looked around him and tossed down one of the navigation charts on a little desk—not much more than a plank of wood sticking out of the hull. "Unless we got a good stiff breeze, this thing's not gonna be very fast…"

Evans smiled. "I don't care about speed—I'm looking for stealth." He glanced over the hatch toward the mansion across the lake.  He could see it in his mind’s eye: standing behind the wheel, the ship silently plowing its way across the lake in the middle of the night, loaded for bear with the roughest, meanest of his crew. They could beach just below the house, slip up in there and kill anyone inside, take whatever they want and be back across the lake to start ferrying his men. They'd be like a bunch of modern-day pirates.

No…Vikings.

He peered back into the cabin. "So, Gimpy…what do you know about Vikings?"

Evans struck in the middle of the night. According to the cheap Casio watch he'd taken off the undersheriff's corpse, it was 2 AM. Perfect. He signaled Bondo.

"It's time. Take your men over to the neighbor’s house. Kill anyone inside and lock it down as fast as you can. Keep the curtains closed and for fuck's sake don't turn on any lights until I get back.  Think you can handle that?"

A few of the raiders chuckled.  Bondo glared at them, then nodded.  "Yeah."

Evans frowned, far from certain.  "Split your crew between that house and this house. I don't think anyone's in this one, but be ready."

"You got it, Spike." The man paled once when Evans looked at him. "I mean sheriff."

Dammit. Actually hoped you would work out. He pulled the crampon from his pocket and held the eyes of the man who had called him Spike. Quick as a snake, he drove the metal bar straight up under Bondo's chin and sunk it deep. He watched as the little man's eyes rolled up into his head before he let the body collapse to the ground, quivering and leaking blood on the snow. Evans turned the rest. "Who am I?"

"You're the sheriff," they said in unison.

"Good. Get going."  He pointed to the biggest man in the group. "You're in charge."

With the first group dispatched, he turned to his hand-picked crew for the sailboat. They all sported clubs or ax handles, even a shovel—whatever weapons they could find in the boat sheds. It wouldn't matter, his men were tired, cold and hungry. They were ready to rip into anyone who stood in their way.

Halfway across the lake, Gimpy tapped his shoulder. He had ordered strict silence to get across the lake so he was happy someone had remembered not to speak.  Evans turned.  The old man grinned from behind the sailboat's steering wheel and pointed off to the side.

A faint glow rippled off the surface of the water, perhaps a half a mile across a wide bay. It was too cloudy for him to get a good view, but there was definitely something over there. Something darker than the surrounding darkness.  It looked like a long low building along the water. Whatever it was, someone had a light on.

Interesting.

Evans turned back to the front of the boat.  He'd worry about that later. They were approaching the shoreline. He took a good look at the massive house. It grew taller and taller above him as they approached the shore—an imposing sight. As they came ashore, Evans hopped over the side and splashed into the ice-cold water, ignoring his feet.

"Okay, boys, let's have some fun."

Chapter 6

Time for a New Car

ERIK LOOKED OUT THE small triangular window of ballistic-hardened glass.  The Georgia landscape had been reduced to a gray blur in the first few moments of the day.  He rubbed his eyes, wishing once more they could just find a place to stop and sleep for a while, free from fear.  It'd been another long night.

Somewhere well north of the border, they'd rumbled into a small town, hoping to find supplies.  Before they could even find a spot to park, people came out of the woodwork, on the attack.  In their haste to leave, Ted had driven the M-ATV through a number of cars.  As tough as it was, their vehicle was not a tank, and the damage was starting to take its toll.

When it'd been Erik's shift behind the wheel, he noticed the big vehicle constantly pulled to the right.  As a result, he spent hours fighting the steering and when his shift was up, he collapsed into the passenger seat in an exhausted heap.

Brin had done likewise, yet somehow managed to have enough stamina and energy to look after the kids during the firefight as well.

"I'm starting to get the idea that we've got a big target painted on our asses," muttered Ted as he struggled with the steering wheel.

Erik grimaced at the sound of the transmission grinding while they traversed another pockmarked road outside Dunham, Georgia.  It was the third town in the county where the road had been intentionally damaged to slow traffic.  It was smart—that's what worried Erik.  Someone was organizing the county, someone with brains.

He looked down at the map in his lap and fought the vibrations of the M-ATV to keep it steady.  "No matter where we go, people swarm us," he muttered squinting in the dim light.  "I don't understand it."

"I've seen it before, I just hoped to never see it stateside.  Things have gotten so bad that when people see a military vehicle, they think relief is on the way.  Remember the aftermath of Joyce?  Same thing with Katrina—even as far back as Andrew.  Desperate people see the military as offering hope, help, and safety."  He shook his head.  "This time, it couldn't be further from the truth.  Anybody they’re seeing now are probably fleeing the Russians following the fall of Orlando."

"Then why the hell," Erik began a little too loud.  He checked himself and glanced over his shoulder at Brin, hovering over the sleeping children.  She shot him a warning look and turned back to the kids.

Erik lowered his voice.  "Why the hell are they shooting at us?"

Ted shrugged one shoulder while he cursed under his breath.  The big vehicle slammed into a rather large pothole.  The M-ATV didn’t stop, but it slowed down considerably.  "Problem is, when they realize you're not bringing food and water, they get pissed off.  If they've got guns…"  He sighed.  "And when they realize the only soldiers they see are running away from the Russians…"

Erik rubbed his face, trying to wipe the fatigue out of his eyes.  The constant jostling of the M-ATV threatened to make him expel his last meal all over the dashboard.  "God, can't we just drive over one of those fields over there?  Isn't this thing designed for off-road?"

"It is, and we can, but those are somebody's crops…" Ted observed.  "We need to start looking for any food we can find in this next town—without fighting.  Not trampling somebody's only source of food would be a good way to do it."

Erik bit off his reply and stared out the tiny window.  He forced himself to think as he was jostled in his seat.  He bounced against the door and cursed.  This fucking thing is like a weight hanging around our neck now that we're clear of the Russians.  He sat up straighter.

"What if we got rid of the matvee?"

Ted took his eyes off the road for a moment, "Get rid of it?  Are you kidding me?"

Erik braced himself against the door as one of the M-ATV’s tires rolled into a deep crater.  It felt like the top-heavy vehicle was about to roll.  Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the vehicle righted itself and climbed up out of the hole.  Erik closed his eyes to fight the nausea.

"I'm just saying," he said tightly, "maybe people wouldn't shoot at us so much if we just had a regular truck or something, you know?"

"Yeah…maybe…" mused Ted.  "But if they did shoot at us, we may as well be driving a cardboard box.  My kids—all of us—are a lot safer in this thing."

Erik looked at Ted.  "Yeah, but for how long?  How long will it be before somebody gets enough people to block us and pry this thing open like a can of sardines?  How long will it be before somebody is smart enough to do something to disable this thing?"

Ted sat in silence for a moment as they traversed a clear spot in the road.  "You might be right…" he muttered.  "This thing doesn't have the greatest gas mileage in the world, either…"

"A minivan would be a lot more comfortable for the children," said Brin quietly from the back.

Erik turned his head, hoping to catch a smile from her, but she’d already turned back to the children, gently stroking Teddy's forehead as he slept.

Erik sighed and sat back in his seat staring at the roof.  "We can't go on like this much longer."

"I know," said Ted and Brin at the same time.

Erik closed his eyes.  He needed alone time with Brin.  He needed time to talk to her.  He needed time away from the smell of unwashed bodies, the cries of the children, the close confines of the M-ATV.  He needed open sky and the smell of trees and grass and dirt.  He needed peace.  He needed Brin.

I just wish there was a way I could get through to her.

He stared out the tiny window.  His wife had changed so much since the Russians had taken them to that godforsaken prison camp.  He clenched his fists.  Whatever they did to her in that place…it made her angry at him.  She flinched when he touched her—even by accident.  She snapped at him.  She didn't talk to him.  It was like the Russians had already killed his wife.

Lost in his thoughts, Erik abruptly realized the M-ATV had rolled to a stop.  He blinked and looked out the windshield.  "What is it?"  He asked, reaching for his M4 leaning against the dashboard.

Ted sat in silence for a moment.  "You believe in coincidence?"

Erik wrinkled his brow.  "Why?"

Ted didn't say anything, but he pointed out the grimy windshield.  In the distance, at the far end of the next field, surrounded by tall Georgia pines sat a small car dealership.

Erik looked at Ted, who stared at the neat rows of new cars.  He glanced over his shoulder at Brin.  A half smile played on her lips.  It warmed Erik's heart better than hot soup on a cold winter night.

"You ready to go shopping for a new car?"

Chapter 7

Shopping

"ANYTHING?"

ERIK SCANNED THROUGH the binoculars until his eyes watered.  "Nothing.  I see the main building—looks like fire damage…a couple of cars look pretty smashed up at the main entrance, only a few along the road look vandalized…”  He lowered the binoculars and blinked.  “Everything looks like it's been sitting untouched for the last six months."

"That's not surprising," replied Brin from the back.  "Without electricity, there's been no operating gas stations.  Without gas stations, what’s the point of having a new car?"

“Or any car…” added Erik.

"I don't see anything with these, either," said Ted, tapping the night vision goggles strapped to his forehead.  "No movement, no light…no nothing."

"Well, should we go check it out?" asked Erik.

Ted removed his goggles.  "We only have about a quarter tank left.”  He looked up from the dash.  "If nothing else, maybe we can find us some gas."

"Let's do it then," said Erik.

"Agreed," whispered Brin.

"Alrighty then, here we go…" said Ted.  He shifted the big vehicle into drive and winced as the transmission groaned in protest.  "We might not have much of a choice, anyway.  She’s in sore need of some TLC."

The M-ATV crept forward.  Dawn was just creeping over the tops of the pines on the back side of the dealership.  Everything around them still lay in the dark shadows of twilight.

"If we do this quick, we might be able to get in and out before full daylight."

Erik glanced at Ted.  "You really think so?"

Ted shrugged, pushing the M-ATV just a little faster.  "The road's smoother here, we’ll be there in another minute or so.  Just be ready."

Erik pulled his rifle to his lap and ejected the magazine.  It was mostly full.  He slammed it home then checked the straps on his vest.  "I got one in the gun and two spare."

Ted eased the M-ATV up to the car dealership’s driveway and let the big vehicle coast to a stop.  He methodically scanned the surroundings on both sides of their vehicle for movement.  "Still looks quiet."

Erik snatched one of the hand-held radios off the charger they'd taped to the dashboard.  He  clipped one to his tactical vest as he looked over his shoulder at Brin.

"I'll be on two."

She accepted the other radio from his hand, fiddling with the buttons without making eye contact.

Erik looked at Ted, who still peered out the armored window.  "Particular color you like?"

Ted grinned, a strange sight with the night vision goggles back on his forehead.  "You’re going to want something big so we can carry the remaining supplies and all of us."

"What about two?" asked Brin.

Ted thought for a moment.  "That's a possibility, but it brings all kinds of complications with it.  Two drivers means one less person to shoot back at bad guys.  Two cars means more of a chance that we'll get split up…"

"Let me see what's out there first," said Erik.  "If I can't find any gas it doesn't matter, anyway."

"I'll leave it running and be ready to light up the .50."  Ted gripped Erik's shoulder.  "Be quick, be quiet, stay low.  If you see me turn the lights on, we're compromised—you need to get your ass back here, like fast."

Brin handed Erik his pack.  "I put enough supplies in here for a few days in the woods.”

“Don't stick around on my account,” Erik replied.  “If we run into another group like back at that strip mall, just clear on out of here."  Erik cinched his vest tight.  "I'll slip away into the woods and meet up with you.  Five miles north?"

Ted thought for a moment staring out the window.  "If we can get away fast enough, five miles might be good.  Stay in touch.  These radios only have a 20 mile range in the best terrain."

"Got it."  Erik looked back at Brin.  She stared at him and for a second he thought she was going to open her mouth and say something—at least that's what her eyes suggested.  In the dim light, she looked ready to cry, scream, or even fight.  Brin dropped her eyes to the floor and turned away.

Erik's heart sank.  He sighed, took one last look outside, then opened the door and stepped out into the chilly dawn.  Ted saw the exchange and shook his head.

"Good luck."

Erik flashed a thumbs-up sign and shut the door as quietly as possible.  A deep breath settled his nerves and focused him on the task at hand.  He took a quick glance around.  Not seeing any movement, he scurried across the gravel driveway to a pair of cars blocking the way into the dealership.  He crouched down behind the bumper of one of them—a crumpled Ford Escape—and checked the straps on his pack.

Erik marveled at the way the world and changed in the past six months.  Halloween was only a  week behind them.  If things had stayed on track in his life—if the power had stayed on and the Russians hadn't invaded, he might have been a teacher by now.

I’d be looking ahead to Thanksgiving break.

A dog barked in the distance, the sound faint.  A robin welcomed the dawn.  Erik snapped back into the present and peered quickly around the corner like Ted taught him.  No movement.

He shuffled around the ruined Escape and sprinted ten yards to the first line of parked vehicles.  Sliding in the gravel to a stop with his back against the passenger side of a used Toyota 4Runner, he paused.  Erik waited for the beating of his heart to slow back to normal.  Still no movement.  The only sound he heard came from the roughly idling M-ATV.

Damn that thing’s loud.

He held his breath and looked around.  Still no movement.  The place was empty.  He pulled the radio off his vest and clicked the transmit button.  "I don't see anything…this place is deserted."

“Make sure you clear the building."

Erik nodded at Ted's statement and put the radio back on his vest.  He was three rows back from the main building, approaching from angle.  No windows on his side meant he could approach with impunity.  Erik gathered his courage and sprinted across the first row of cars, coming to a stop and hiding behind a Ford Expedition.  He looked at the sheer size of the vehicle.

"This thing might work…" he muttered to himself.  He took a quick glance inside the window and noticed three rows of seating.

If we drop that third row there might be enough space to store all our supplies back there.  The kids and one adult can sit in the middle row and the rest up front.

Erik filed that thought away and sprinted across the gravel to the next row of cars.  He stopped alongside a Ford F150.  The truck had been fitted with a 4x4 lift kit.  His legs felt exposed next to the jacked up truck.  This thing would certainly get us through rough terrain…but there's not enough space for all of us.  And our gear would be exposed.

Erik's radio broke squelch.  "Still clear," advised Ted.

He clicked the transmit button twice and sprinted for the third and final row.  He skidded to a stop next to a minivan that had been partially burned.  He brushed his fingertips against the bubbled paint on the rear door.  A quick glance towards the main building showed him why the cars in this row had been burned.  The building, seemingly undamaged from the road, was mostly a shell.

He took a good look left and right.  Seeing no movement, he ran across the open space and worked his way down the side of the dealership.  He headed toward the rear, confident if anyone were inside waiting to spring a trap, they’d be toward the front where they could see the road.

Erik slipped around the back and his hopes fell.  The whole back wall of the building had collapsed during a fire—charred rubble, bits of rebar, and debris spilled out into the service area behind the office.

The fire had gutted the building.  He looked at the three blackened remains of showroom vehicles in the front.  There wouldn't be anything useful to scavenge in there.  He turned the corner and glanced inside, peering into the darkened interior.

"The building’s a total loss,” he reported.  “A fire got started here a while ago—there's weeds and shit already growing in the showroom."

Erik's radio chirped.  "Damn.  See if you can find fuel storage tanks.  Sometimes dealers have those…"

"On it," replied Erik.  He clipped the radio back to his vest and brought his rifle up to his shoulder.  He scooted along the exterior of the rubble pile at the rear of the building, keeping a wary eye out for movement.  Erik crouched next to a black and white sign that he could barely read in the growing light.

Service Department

Gotta be getting close.

He peered out into the empty yard and spotted a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire around the rear end of the property.  Several small structures sat tucked inside the chain-link fence.  Bingo.  He pulled the radio off his vest.

"Found something.  Looks like a couple big tanks and an electrical shed.  Everything looks untouched," he said quietly, eyes roving the dealership.  "But we're gonna need a big set of bolt cutters to get through."

"Erik, get back here—there’s people in front of us.  Four guys on foot.  I think they're armed," said Brin.

Erik stared at the fuel depot.  Damn.  "Okay, I'm on my way."

Heart racing, he turned and sprinted around the corner of the building.  As he approached the fire-damaged row of cars, headlights in the distance behind the M-ATV caught his eye.  He ripped the radio off as he passed charred minivan and continued racing to the next row.

"Lights! On the road behind you—headlights!"

"Hurry!" Brin urged.

"You in the truck!" a voice called out over a loudspeaker.

The suddenness of the sound caused Erik to trip mid-stride.  He fell painfully to the ground and skidded in the gravel on his chest, coming to a stop behind the first row vehicles in the parking lot.  Cursing, he got to his knees.  He reached for the radio and his hand came up empty.  In a panic he spun around.  The radio lay out in the open space between the rows of cars.

"Shit!" he hissed.

"I say again, you in the truck!  Come on out!  We got you surrounded!"

"Shit," Erik said again through clenched teeth.  He gripped his rifle and looked around, hoping he wouldn't find someone sneaking up on him.  The lot remained deserted save for him and the empty cars.

A squeal of brakes from the road brought his attention back to the M-ATV.  A Hull County Sheriff’s Department  cruiser had parked directly behind the M-ATV, next to a beat-up red pickup full of armed men.  As he watched, men spill out in a disorderly rabble and took up positions behind the vehicles in the road.  He peered north.  Armed men blocked the road.

"Shit."

Chapter 8

A New Nest

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER ELLIOT RIGGS banked his F-35C Lightning II and glanced down to starboard.  The long ribbon of I-95 stretched onto the north and south hundreds of feet below.  Hawk flight streaked over the front elements of General Stapleton's army in loose formation.  They hadn't encountered so much as a bird once they left the immediate area surrounding the scuttled Roosevelt in the Upper Bay.  Admiral Nella’s fighters owned the skies over New York.

"Hawk Lead, Two," Jonesy's voice crackled in his helmet speaker.

Riggs tore his eyes off the surreal sight of tanks, APCs, and Bradleys trundling down I-95.  "Go ahead, Two."

"I got nothing from Zeus."

"Okay, Hawks, let's split up.  You have your way-points.  Keep an eye out and I'll meet you at ONAS."

After a round of acknowledgments, the rest of the squadron peeled off in pairs and spread the front over a few miles.  Each 2-plane element would be just out of visual range of the next, making for a wide swath of visual coverage on their flight south.

Jonesy pulled his fighter in formation with Riggs.  "Awful strange seeing all that hardware down there," he commented.

Riggs rolled his fighter again and looked at the column of tanks and armored vehicles.  "Sure does."  A column of eight-wheeled personnel carriers snaked its way along the interstate.  "Whoa, you see that?" he asked.  "That lead Stryker down there just plowed through three cars.  That was intense!"

Riggs watched as the first two Strykers—which appeared to have snowplows or something attached to their noses—slammed into abandoned cars, clearing a path for the rest of the pack.

"Sure hope there's no one in those cars," muttered Jonesy.

"Amen to that.  All right, enough sight-seeing.  Let's go find us some rebels."  Riggs leveled out his ride and pushed the throttle forward, increasing speed and pulling away from the Strykers.  "Just keep in touch with Zeus.  I don't want any Russians surprising us."

"I think we got them all," replied Jonesy.

Riggs grimaced.  He was pretty sure, too.  Air superiority had been costly to achieve though.   Roosevelt had beached itself against the Manhattan shore within sight of the Statue of Liberty.  She made a hell of a mess, too—knocked down two coastal buildings.  Her fighters swarmed overhead, dispatching the Russians with reckless abandon.  Half of Hammer flight had taken a swim and the other squadrons fared little better.  Riggs' own flight lost three more pilots.  He was down to six combat effective F-35Cs.

Those six fighters now combed the ground out ahead of the army, looking for the remnants of the rebel army, fleeing south.  Peace treaty be damned, he thought, those bastards started this mess and even invited the Russians to play.  Everything—the chaos, the death, all the pilots we lost—it's all their fault.  Home was supposed to be a haven for every service man and woman deployed overseas.  It wasn't supposed to be a battlefield—it sure as hell wasn't supposed to be turned into one by Americans.

Cruising at 1200 knots, it only took another 2 minutes before he spotted the Philadelphia skyline on the horizon.  "Nest, Hawk Lead, I have visual on Philly."

"Copy that Lead."

Riggs switched frequencies.  "You seein' what I'm seein'?"  He looked starboard toward Jonesy's plane, no bigger than a decal on a child's toy.

"That's a lot of smoke."

"Roger that," Riggs replied.  A black and gray smear dirtied the horizon over Philadelphia.  "I thought they had the power on again…"

"I heard it was just the outlying areas.  This looks even worse than New York."

Chapter 9

New Orders

MAJOR STROGOLEV STARED AT the radio panel in his command BTR. The silence disturbed only by the ticking of his turn-of-the-century wristwatch, an heirloom passed down from his grandfather after surviving the Great Patriotic War.

"Comrade Major Strogolev, do you acknowledge your orders?"

Strogolev blinked. The implications of what he just heard, relayed from the message station on the Atlantic coast had momentarily stunned him. It made no sense. How was it possible an entire  carrier battlegroup had slipped through the Russian Navy's grasp, sailed out of the Mediterranean, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, and plowed its way into New York Harbor? How was it possible for the carrier to survive, let alone link up with the remains of the army that destroyed Chicago?

Kristanoff had failed. New York had been retaken.

"Repeat: Major Strogolev, do you acknowledge receipt of your orders?"

Strogolev shook his head. "Yes, yes. This is Strogolev. I acknowledgment and confirm receipt of orders."

"Copy. Transmitting your confirmation to headquarters. Good luck.  Relay station 2, out."

Strogolev removed the headset and dropped it on the terminal. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. How the hell could it all have fallen apart like that?  Our entire northern army is wiped out.  What happened to the United Nations?

The rear hatch on his command BTR opened, flooding the interior with the soft light of dawn.  He turned and squinted at the silhouette of his lieutenant, Gregor.

"Comrade Major, General Doskoy has just divided our strike group." He held up a piece of paper. "New orders."

Strogolev exited the BTR snatched the onion paper from Gregor. He scanned the hastily scribbled  Cyrillic. "Why is he splitting the battalion?"

Gregor shrugged. "Comrade General did not deign to enlighten me."

Strogolev glanced askance at his lieutenant. "You did not ask?"

Gregor blinked and looked at Strogolev. "I am not in the habit of questioning my superior officers when handed a list of orders."

No, questioning is not something that you do. You excel at following orders.

Strogolev looked back at the paper.  "Comrade General," he said acidly, "wishes my strike force to head south."

"While rest of the battalion stays behind.  With him."

"So…" Strogolev mused, "Moscow just relayed news our entire northern army has been wiped off the map."

Gregor blinked.  "What?"

Strogolev nodded. He handed Doskoy's orders back. "The Kremlin is rightly concerned about the overall survivability of our mission. The Americans somehow slipped an entire carrier battlegroup across the Atlantic past our blockade and into New York. There it linked up with the remaining elements from the Americans that destroyed Chicago."

"But the United Nations was supposed to have…the agreement…"

Strogolev nodded. He stormed off, hands behind his back looking for someone to yell at. "I know. The United Nations left us to hang. Moscow will not let that slight go unpunished."  He sighed.

"In the meantime, we must prepare to defend our conquest. Another wave of troops and equipment are currently on its way from the Motherland. It is our job to head north and lock down the border."

"And General Doskoy?  What of the insurgency in Bigby?"

Strogolev glanced around at his multi-wheeled armored scout vehicles. They were lined up outside the large bivouacked tents in neat, ordered rows. Most of the soldiers relaxed in the warm sun, awaiting new orders. Those that were smart, slept. The camp, normally a bustling hive of activity was relatively dormant at the moment. The mid-afternoon sun was just warm enough to make everyone  drowsy after a full meal and a good night’s rest. It was exactly what his troops needed before a long march.

"Doskoy will have to stay behind and deal with the insurgents by himself."  Strogolev snorted.  "He created them.  I would have preferred to leave nothing behind—he was the one pushing for prisoners and prison camps."

Gregor pulled his vanishing clipboard out of thin air and turned a few pages.

How does he do that?

"The latest reports indicate the insurgency is centered around a small town south of Orlando called Bigby."

"Where the insurgency is centered and how it got started is now Doskoy's problem. Moscow has given me direct orders."

Gregor released the paper in his hand and looked at his commanding officer with his head cocked. "Direct orders, major?"

Strogolev nodded, his shoulders squared and chest out. It wasn’t every day a mere major received a direct order from the Defense Minister himself. It must mean his bravery and swift action  had finally been noticed back home.

"Yes. Before our northern army was destroyed, General Kristanoff made a deal with the rebel leader, Malcolm. The two of them were to work together to defeat the Americans then besieging New York. All that went out the window when the carrier arrived and the rebels fled in the middle of the night.  Kristanoff was left severely out-manned and out-gunned."

Gregor's face tinted pink and Strogolev noticed his lieutenant's fists clenched.  "What can we do? We're 1,600 kilometers away.”

Major Strogolev smiled. "What Doskoy wants is not my concern anymore. I report to a higher authority. My orders are clear: get to the border and await Malcolm. Even now, he flees before the American army, heading straight into our arms. According to sources at the KGB, the American President has entered into separate negotiations with the rebels. He means to give Florida to them after they kick us out."

"These Americans are nothing but backstabbing traitors—they betray themselves faster than we can kill them!"

Strogolev laughed and clapped his lieutenant on the back. "That's the spirit, Gregor! We will teach these Yankee bastards how we do things in Mother Russia. The rebels will expect a fight. When they arrive, I will offer them a truce. I shall welcome them with open arms.  After all, were we not both betrayed by the United Nations?"

Gregor nodded.  "A bold plan.  And then?"

"Then we will kill Malcolm and cut the head off this rebellion once and for all." He stared at the rows of armored vehicles and neatly ordered tents. He had close to three thousand men and vehicles under his command.

"Take back Florida, will he? We shall see about that."

Chapter 10

Law and Order

ERIK GRIPPED HIS RIFLE with white knuckles and tried to push himself through the side of the truck behind which he hid.  This is not happening…this is not happening…

No matter how many times he tried to tell himself they weren't trapped, whenever he opened his eyes he saw the M-ATV surrounded by dusty pickup trucks, cop cars, and angry-looking men with rifles.

"I say again: Come on out, we know you're in there."

Erik closed his eyes and felt the sweat trickle down his neck.  He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. His radio lay in the gravel a dozen yards away.  His mouth suddenly dry, Erik crept to the rear of the truck.

Damn it,  I can't reach it.

The radio was in no-man's-land between the first row of cars and the second.  As soon as he stepped out from behind cover of the truck, he would be an easy target for any one of the dozen men surrounding the M-ATV.  He crouched behind the left rear wheel and rested his helmet against the barrel of his rifle.

Now what the hell do I do?  I was never cut out for this soldier crap.  He focused on slowing his breathing.  Ted had drilled into his head the power of remaining calm in a crisis.

"Erik?"

He winced at the sound of Brin's voice coming from the little abandoned radio.

"What are you seeing out there?  Ted's up in the turret…"

Erik strained to see if anyone heard the radio.  He ducked back down and shifted his gaze between the road and the radio.

"Wherever you're at, Ted says to just stay still.  He's going to see if he can get us out of this.  If they haven't found you and we can get away, you know what to do."

The hatch on top of the M-ATV opened with the squeal of metal on metal.  Erik craned his neck in an attempt to see what was going on.  His heart beat faster as the men on the ground called out to each other and tried to take cover behind their trucks.  The only man who didn't seem fazed was the one with the loudspeaker. He wore a campaign hat and a matching uniform.  He stood casually next to the open door of the police cruiser and waited.

"Now just settle down boys, this ain't nothing to get worked up about.  Hold your fire."  The man said to his followers.

Erik swallowed, it felt like a rock going down his throat.  He watched as Ted appeared in the roof hatch wearing a helmet and waved.  "Hello down there!"

"Hello yourself.  Where you y'all from?" called out the officer.

"Florida," replied Ted.

"What you doing in Dunham?  There's some sort of convoy on the way?"

The floodgates opened and Ted was peppered with questions from the men all around the M-ATV.  They asked for food, they asked for medicine, they asked for news.  Ted held up his hands to try to calm everyone, but the noise didn't stop until the Sheriff flipped the siren on his car for a few seconds, silencing everyone.

"Now boys just hang on a second, let me do the talking."  The man adjusted his wide-brimmed campaign hat and glanced up at Ted.  "My name is Daryl Jonston.  I'm Sheriff here in Hull County.  I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind?"

Ted nodded.  "That's fine, Sheriff—I'd like to ask a few questions myself."

"You boys part of a convoy?  What unit you with?"

"I'm Captain Ted Jensen, 3rd Battalion, 1st Florida Volunteers.  We're with the National Guard."

Erik stifled a laugh.  1st Florida Volunteers?  What kind of bullshit is that, Ted?

Sheriff Jonston hushed the mumbles from the men around him.  "Florida?  You boys know you're in the wrong state?  Hell, you're halfway to Atlanta."

Ted shook his head.  "All due respect, Sheriff Jonston, we're not going anywhere near Atlanta."

The sheriff nodded and took off his hat.  He wiped his face but the big sunglasses remained perched on his nose.  "I couldn't agree with you more.  Atlanta…it's a no-man's-land.  Only ones that survived the fires after everything fell apart are the gangs."

"We're on recon for the rest of the Battalion.  Bunch of us have been sent in all directions heading north.  We're looking for food, fuel, supplies, and local populations willing to help."

Erik counted to ten before the sheriff responded.  "Well…don't know how much we're gonna be able to satisfy any of those you're looking for, captain.  Things around here got real bad recently."

While the sheriff and Ted talked, Erik focused his attention on the men he could see.  Before he'd lost his radio, Ted mentioned a few cars coming from the north.  If they were anything like the pickup trucks that came from the south, he estimated there were at least 15 armed men out on the road.  So far no one had spotted him, but he couldn't stay hidden behind a truck forever.

"… all went kinda crazy of a sudden."

"That meshes with what we've seen from the other communities further south.  How many did you lose?"

The sheriff leaned against the hood of his cruiser.  "Lost most of my force.  Only got three deputies left.  And the posse."  He waved an arm, indicating the man in and around the pickup trucks.  "Had to deputize these good old boys just to help me keep the peace.  With the election coming up–"

"Election?" asked Ted.  Erik risked another glance and saw Ted lean over the side of the M-ATV.  "Sheriff, I don't mean to sound rude, but don't you think we got bigger things to worry about than elections?"

The lawman laughed, a bitter sound.  "I reckon you might be right.  Ain't up to me though—the mayor up and died an' the people need someone to lead them."

"You gonna ask them if they can help?" asked one of the men from the pickup trucks.

Erik couldn't hear what the sheriff said in reply, but he stared at the man until he looked down and away.  "I'm sure the Army has more important things to worry about than a small town election."  He turned back to the M-ATV.  "Am I right, captain?  How's the fight against them Russkies doing?"

Ted rested his elbows on the edge on the rim of the M-ATV turret.  "Not good, not so good at all.  The front collapsed along the Orlando-Tampa line.  They've probably pushed us up to the border by now.  We lost comms a few days ago."

The sheriff cursed.  "A few days ago?  Took you that long to get up here?"

Ted glanced south.  "Lotta roadblocks—towns don't want visitors coming through.  I can't tell you how many wrecked cars we had to move out of the way.  It's been real slow going.  In fact, that's why we're here."

"Do tell," said the sheriff.  Erik couldn't help but notice the subtle tone shift in the man's voice.

Ted noticed as well.  "Now, we don't mean to impose," reassured Ted, "but my mission is to find supplies and report back.  So far we haven't found squat.  But this pig is in need of repairs," he said slapping the roof of the M-ATV.  "It's been a rough trip.  We stopped here hoping to pick up a civilian vehicle.  Maybe a big SUV," Ted said.

The sheriff stared at him for a moment.  The only sounds Erik heard were the insects in the grass and the M-ATV’s engine at idle.

"I'm afraid I can't let you take anything, captain.  Law and order's already breaking down.  I let you walk off with private property, things'll just go from bad to worse."  The sheriff looked up at the M-ATV with an appraising eye.  "But that don't mean we can't come to some sort of understanding, you hear?"

Erik didn't like the way the men by the trucks mumbled and nudged each other as they looked at the big army vehicle.  The locals had a predatory look about them.  He remained silent, thinking.

It'd been almost five months since terrorists had taken out the power grid.  In that time, Erik had seen enough suffering and depravity to fill up dozens of horror novels.  The people, if the sheriff could be believed, should be starving, sick, or at least a little apprehensive about seeing a big military truck rumble into their hometown unannounced and alone.

Yet these men looked like hunters.  They appeared well fed, well rested, and if Erik could trust his judgment, a few of them looked drunk.  He checked his watch.  7:52 AM.  Something was off.

"That sounds like a mighty fine proposition, Sheriff Jonston," Ted's voice called out.  "Will you give me some time to consider my options?"

"Time is not something we have a lot of just now," began the sheriff.  "I tell you what—you take as long as you want—just so you don't take more than ten minutes.  After that, I'm gonna have to ask you to clear on out of town if you won't help."

Erik tried to control his breathing as he leaned against the side of the truck.  He cursed his situation.  He been so tired from the previous night's driving he didn't even pay attention to what deal Ted and the sheriff and just worked out.

He leaned his head forward until his helmet touched the barrel of his rifle.  If only he could have a few hours of sleep to clear his head.

"Nobody do anything stupid," said the sheriff in a lower voice.  "Nothing we got can punch a hole through the side of that thing.  So we just wait them out, you hear?"

The men near the pickup trucks mumbled the responses, too soft for Erik to pick up.  Whatever was going to happen, he'd have to stay where he was and hope no one spotted him.  His only option was to wait until Ted and Brin rolled out of town with the M-ATV.  After the locals dispersed, he'd slip off to the countryside and meet them at the rendezvous point.  He was not looking forward to a long hike through unfamiliar terrain.

"Erik?  You read me?"  The little radio squawked.  Erik's heart skipped a beat.  He turned and glanced out into the no-man's-land and stared at the little handheld radio playing face up in the gravel.

"You catch any of that?"

Erik swung his gaze back to the locals.  Damn it, Brin, stop talking!

All but one of the men kept a wary eye on M-ATV.  The man closest to the road, sporting a filthy white T-shirt and baggy jeans, scratched at the stubble on his cheek and adjusted the Atlanta Braves hat on his head.  He looked over his shoulder and said something, but the others waved him off.  He took a few wobbly steps off the road and down into the high grass.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…

Erik gripped the rifle in his hands and prayed he wouldn't set the damn thing off by accident.  The man grew closer and his legs disappeared into the weeds.  Erik watched, waiting to see what would happen and saw the man close his eyes as he unzipped his pants.

Erik sighed.  That was close.

Ted's voice crackled in the near silence.  "All right, I have to assume you can hear me…"

Erik watched in horror as the local relieving himself in the weeds opened his bleary eyes.

"Ted says the local sheriff offered us a deal.  They’re having some issues in town and they need some muscle to keep the peace.  They can't give us any vehicles or supplies, but if we help them, they'll trade for what we've got."

Erik held his breath, watching as the man took a cautious step toward the line of cars.  Please stop talking…

The radio broke squelch again with a little chirp.  "Erik?"

The local zipped his pants and drew a pistol from his belt as he stepped through the weeds and onto the gravel parking lot.  "Hey!  There's a radio over here on the ground!  I think the guy in the army tank—"

"It's a truck, you dumbass!" someone shouted back.

"Whatever!" the yokel responded over laughter.  He picked up the radio.  "He's trying to talk to somebody!"

Erik swallowed as four sets of eyes swiveled in his direction.

Awww shit.

Chapter 11

Survival

LIEUTENANT COLONEL CAROLINE EDWARDS would have killed someone to be able to scratch the back of her leg.  She'd been bound and gagged, then blindfolded—the Russians had even gone so far as to put a bag over her head.

The rebels had found her in Washington Park after she'd bailed out of her F-16 and since then she'd been passed from one group to another, never staying long with any of her captors.  It was like everyone was nervous having her in their charge and couldn't wait to give her away to someone else.

Not like anyone bothered to give me much to eat or drink.  I don't take up a lot of resources…

She tried to adjust her position and bumped her lower back against the metal wall of her small compartment.  Trunk.  It had to be a trunk.  She didn't remember actually being placed in a vehicle.  She'd fallen asleep on her side in the corner of a room that smelled like it had been used as a urinal for a few years.  She huddled in the corner, going over all her SERE training and trying to find a way to break free of her constraints as inconspicuously as possible.

When the Russians had first taken custody of her from the ramshackle group of rebels—teenagers with guns, really—they'd slapped cable ties over the crude duct tape restraints already in place.  When they blindfolded her, she started to worry.  Then the hood came down and blocked out what ambient light slipped around the rotten cloth.  Her world plunged into darkness and there it had stayed.

She didn't know how many days had passed. All she thought about was escape.  She focused her other senses to try and figure out her location.

At first, she heard nothing but Russian—she had no idea what they were saying, but judging from the muffled explosions and the frantic pace of footsteps in the hallway, things weren't going well for the invaders.  She hoped whoever the hell was fighting back was doing so without mercy.

She remembered one dreadfully loud explosion that shook the entire building—suddenly giving her an acute case of vertigo as she imagined herself in a high-rise, swaying in the wind.  Everything in the hallway went quiet.  Only the chatter on radios broke the silence in between explosions and the roar of jets streaking overhead.

The pitch was off for Falcons, so she knew whoever was flying wasn't her squadron, but couldn't quite place the type of engine.  Fighters, certainly, and a lot of them, but friendly or hostile?  She had no way of knowing and so tried to block them out.

Eventually, when her knees began to ache and then go numb, someone stomped up to her and dropped a metal plate next to her.  She felt something splash against her check.  Groping about blindly as the footsteps retreated into the distance, she found a bowl of what she hoped was water.  She sniffed it.

Please let it not be piss…

After a tentative sip, she discovered it was indeed water.  She'd gulped it down greedily, not caring that some spilled down her chin.  It was hard to figure out where to place the bowl with the hood tied tightly just under her nose.  The voices in the hallway grew quieter until finally a lone radio squawked then faded as the owner walked way.  She'd been left alone.

That was when Edwards truly felt afraid.  They'd left her to rot, bound, gagged, and blinded, in a building deep inside an active combat zone.  Would anyone find her?  She didn't have long to wait.  Before the air battle died down, another group of people entered the area speaking English.

They joked to each other and marveled at the jets criss-crossing the sky, pointing out damaged buildings and exploding bombs—she was sure they were missiles—and made their way through the rooms near hers.  It sounded like they were scavengers, calling out radios and weapons as they found them.  They sounded young.

They turned out to be a group of rebels sent to reconnoiter the abandoned Russian outpost.  They were none to happy to find her and a furious debate had raged over what to do with her.

Edwards forced herself to focus on finding a way out of the trunk.  Remembering how the rebels had argued over whether to rape her before turning her over to their commanders was not something that would help her escape.

As her fingers explored her small confines, she built a mental image of her new prison.  She was laying on her left side, the hair on her head rested against the left rear quarter of the car—it had to be a car, the space was too cramped for anything else.  She could just stretch out her slight frame if she did so diagonally.  Edwards couldn't feel anything else in the trunk—no tire iron or jack to rub against her restraints.

The car hit a pothole, and she bounced up, slamming into the underside of the trunk.  Edwards muttered a curse through her cracked, dry lips and prayed again for the ability to spit the damn gag out.  She didn't understand why no one wanted her to talk.   It's not like she'd try screaming.  She knew she was well behind enemy lines.  If she was going to get out of this mess, it wouldn't be because a rescue party arrived.  She'd have to do it on her own.

The driver must have thought himself a rally ace because he juked and weaved like a madman.  Each jostling of the car slammed either her head or her back into the side of the trunk.

The potholes were the worst though.

Edwards decided to try to see if the trunk held an emergency release hatch on the inside.  Judging by the smell, she had serious doubts the car was new enough, but it was all she had.  When the car skidded to a halt, she was slammed into the front of the trunk.

She froze, holding her breath and listening while three doors opened.  The car rocked as people exited.  Muffled voices announced something that sounded like 'present' and 'Malcolm', but she couldn't be sure.  Someone started drumming on the trunk, the sound like thunder inside.  She screamed defiance, a muffled, pathetic sound.

Without warning, the trunk opened with a metallic groan and her world, pitch-black for who knows how long, brightened just a shade.  At the corners of her vision, the world devolved into gray.  Daylight.

"In the name of Allah, take that hood off her!" barked a strong voice.

Hands grabbed her shoulders and legs.  One cupped her butt and squeezed roughly as she was lifted out of the trunk.  Her head snapped back as it clipped the edge of the trunk.

"Be careful, you clumsy fool!"

Thanks, asshole.

"She won't stop moving," a younger voice complained.

Edwards wrinkled her nose.  Is that pot?  Jesus.  It's a wonder we're still alive…

"I would struggle too, if you tied me up like that.  Look at her hands, they are so red!  If she has been injured through your incompetence, you had best not return.  Malcolm will have your head on a streetlight."

She stood between two sets of strong hands, wavering on her feet for the first time in…days?  She wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but it was clear there were at least two opposing factions here.  The question was, who were they?  Did someone say Allah again?

"Whatever, yo."

"Show some respect when you—"

"How 'bout you respect this, pops?" growled the younger voice.  She winced as the hands on her arms tightened.  The sound of pistol slides being racked and at least one shotgun pumped made the hands holding her arms squeeze even tighter.  Her cry of pain sounded like the mewling of a kitten.

Shit!  No, no, no…no gunfight here, not now!  Please…

"A'ight, a'ight!  Don't get twitchy, son," replied the younger voice.  "I get you."

Jesus help me.  She whimpered, the sound muffled through the gag and hood.

"May the Prophet protect us, she is gagged, too?"

"That's how we found her, okay?"

"Yossef, get these fools out of here."

"You heard Samir.  Move!" bellowed the deepest voice she'd ever heard.  The hands on her arms vanished amid a flurry of muttered curses and fleeing footsteps.

Without anyone holding her up, her weakened knees buckled.  Edwards braced herself to land face first on the ground but someone caught her.

"I have you.  Hold still, I will not hurt you.  Ali, get over here and help me get her to her feet.  There—easy now."

She felt hands fumble at the back of her head.  They were removing the hood.  God, please hurry.  She couldn't take another second of that gag in her mouth.  All she wanted was to drink some water and close her jaw.  Her muscles ached even more, the longer they took.  She resisted the urge to whimper but a muffled noise escaped her lips, nonetheless.

"Hurry, get the hood off."

At last, her world exploded into light that crept in around the ragged blindfold.  She closed her eyes against the bright white line that encircled her peripheral vision.

"Now hold still while I remove this…"

He gently pulled the gag from her mouth.  She coughed, breathing in sweat, unfettered air for the first time in what felt like weeks.  Her mouth was so dry.  "Water," she croaked.

"Merciful Allah, look at her lips—Ali, fetch water.  Hurry!"  The man in front of her turner her by her shoulders with a gentle touch.  "Here, there is a chair next to you.  Would you like to sit?"

She nodded, her voice gone.  Her body was at its limits.  She just wanted to sit and catch her breath.  As he lowered herself onto a metal chair, her hands clawed in vain at the blindfold.

"Allow me."

When the cloth was removed, she blinked back tears.  The world was so bright.  A wide-shouldered black man stepped back from her and adjusted the button shirt he wore.  He slid wire-frame glasses back up his nose.  Offering a slight bow, he proclaimed, "I am Samir, Malcolm's chief lieutenant."

She nodded, grateful to be dealing with someone with a little authority.  Her watery eyes focused on the hulk standing behind Samir.  No wonder those kids took off.  He looks strong enough to bench press a car.

Samir watched her carefully.  "I assure you, Yossef is not a danger to you.  He is my assistant—"

The big man grunted.  "Your bodyguard."

"You said it, not me," said Samir with a glance over his shoulder.  "Who, I must ask, are you?"

She opened her mouth to speak but her throat was too dry.  She shook her head, desperate for water.  She pulled her hands up and tapped the Velcro patch on her flight suit.

Samir leaned in and adjusted his glasses.  "Oh.  I did not see that—Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards."  He straightened and looked at Yossef, who raised one eyebrow.  Samir turned back to her and smiled, his teeth bright white against his skin.

"This is wonderful!  Malcolm will be pleased."

Malcolm again.  Who the hell is Malcolm?

"You think she's worth anything to the Man?"

The Man?

"A lieutenant colonel?  She must be important.  They take the safety of their pilots seriously.  Get a message to Malcolm.  He'll want to meet her immediately.  This could be the bargaining chip we need to slow down our pursuers."

"If you say so," said the doubting giant.  He lumbered off as a smaller man raced up carrying a bottle of water.

Samir took the water.  "Thank you, Ali.  Please find some food for our guest."

"What am I, your—"

"Yes, you are.  Now move."

Ali stared at Samir for a moment, then glanced at her, his eyes burning.  He muttered something under his breath and stomped off.  Samir's slight frame wasn't threatening at all like Yossef, so his authority was real.  Whoever Malcolm was, he was feared.

That's interesting.  She looked around.  Where the hell am I?

He handed her the water, and she brought it to her lips, greedily gulping the clear liquid.  Heaven exploded in her throat.  She drained half the bottle before pulling it away from her mouth with a gasp.

"Where am I?" she said, her voice sounding like it came from a corpse.

"We are just outside Philadelphia, Colonel Edwards.  My…associates…found you in a Russian outpost abandoned after the battle."

Who won?

Samir took a knee next to her and examined her hands.  "I will make sure these come off immediately.  I don't think you'll be much of a threat, will you?"

She shook her head and tried to appear meek.  You just get these things off my hands and feet, asshole.  We'll see  who's threatening.

"Good," he said, patting her knee.  He stood.  "If you behave, I shall protect you.  Some of our…soldiers…are not as chivalrous when it comes to the fairer sex.  You are lucky to be such a high-ranking officer.  Malcolm will value you a great deal in the upcoming negotiations."

What the hell are you talking about—negotiations?  With who?

Yossef trotted up to him, the very ground shaking as he approached.  "Malcolm says he wants her. Now."

"Now?" asked Samir.

"Now," said Yossef, glowering at her.  After a moment of squinted examination, he shrugged one massive shoulder.  "She's important."

The unmistakable sound of a turbine engine whined and roared, echoing between the tightly packed buildings around her.  Edwards lifted her head to the sky, squinting to see a familiar shape.  Only a fighter jet made that kind of sound.  It wasn’t a Falcon that much she could tell.   She closed her eyes and strained her ears.  At least two.  Maybe more.  This far south, they've got to be ours.

"Well, we should get a car," Samir said over the noise of the jets.

"Already got one," Yossef said, jerking a dagger-sized thumb over his massive shoulder.  "Out front."

"Come," said Samir, helping her to her feet.  "It appears you are going for another ride."

"Samir!" a voice echoed from the roof of the building across the street.  "They’re sendin' in tanks!"  The figure pointed in the distance.

"Do not worry, my friend," Samir shouted.  "Our brothers have prepared for this."  He turned to Edwards.  "We need to leave now.  Those jets make me nervous."

Ours then.  Edwards smiled.

Chapter 12

Captured

"FREEZE!"

ERIK HAD TIME to stand, but that was it.  He found half a dozen rifles pointed at him.

"All right, just take it easy—" he began.

"We got one!" called out a voice by the trucks.  The early morning stillness exploded in shouts and clamor as men surrounding the M-ATV scrambled to take cover behind the trucks and point their weapons at Erik.

He swallowed.  It felt like his heart was going to explode through his chest.

"Hands up!" called out a voice.

"Drop the weapon!" shouted someone else

"Hold your fire!" said the sheriff's voice over the loudspeaker.  The sound silenced everyone.  Erik opened his eyes, not realizing they'd been closed.  He stared at Sheriff Jonston.  The man wasn't paying any attention to him, but rather was focused on his men.  He extolled them to lower their weapons again.

"Why should we do that?" said the local with the pistol directly in front of Erik.  His eyes never left Erik's.

"Because if you don't stop pointing that gun at my husband, I'll cut you and your friends in half with this   machine gun," said Brin's voice.

Erik shifted his eyes to the M-ATV and spotted Brin behind the open-ended maw of the M240 aimed straight at the sheriff and his men.

"Travis!  For God's sake lower that pea shooter," shouted the sheriff.  "I don't know what the hell is going on, but that gun she got will turn us all into Swiss cheese."

"Jesus," muttered the man in front of Erik.  "They got girls in there, too?"

Before Erik could reply, the M-ATV's passenger side suicide door swung open and Ted dropped to the dirt.  He scrambled around the back of the big vehicle, hands up.  "Everybody let's just calm down," he called out in a commanding voice.  "The last thing any of us wants is to start a firefight.  It's too early in the morning for that shit," he said.  He turned to Brin.  "Point that thing somewhere else!"

"But–" Brin said, eyes on Erik.

"It's okay," Erik said in a voice whose strength surprised even him.  "Go ahead."

It took a few more seconds, but Brin finally nodded and swung the M240 away from the sheriff and his men.  She disappeared down inside the hatch.

When Erik turned his gaze back to the local who had spotted him, the man stared at the big vehicle, but his gun was now pointed at the ground and relief surged through Erik's chest.  His heart rate began to slow toward normal.  He leaned around the man and noticed the other locals had lowered their weapons as well.  Ted and the sheriff approached each other cautiously.

"Feels like we sorta got started on the wrong foot," said Ted.  He extended a hand.  "That's my partner over there, Erik Larsson."

Sheriff Jonston shook hands in silence.

"I believe you met Erik's wife, Brin," Ted said jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the M-ATV.

"You got anybody else I need to meet?" asked the sheriff, removing his sunglasses.

Ted shook his head.  "Just my two kids."

The lawman froze, stared for a long moment at Ted, then turned to look at Erik.  "May as well come on over, son.  I don't think anybody's gettin' shot today.  'Least not here."

Erik picked up his radio and angrily slapped it on his vest.  He slung the rifle over his shoulder and strolled past the local that stared at him with a mixture of amazement and distrust on his face.  Erik crossed the ditch and shook hands with Sheriff Jonston.

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Can I recommend the next time you boys roll into town you don't go sneaking up on anyone?"

"You're the first people who haven't shot at us as soon as they spotted that," observed Erik with a nod toward the M-ATV.  Now that he stood out in the open, he spotted at least a dozen armed men just on this side of the M-ATV.  He had to assume there was at least another truck load or two on the north side.  Inwardly he cringed.  They were trapped.

"These are dangerous times we live in, Mr. Larsson—"

"Erik."

Sheriff Jonston nodded.  "Fine."  He turned back to Ted

Ted put his hands on his hips.  "Sheriff, I think we caused enough trouble here for you for one day.  If you don't mind, I think it would be best for everyone if we just got on our way."  Ted motioned to get inside the M-ATV and Erik turned to do so.

The sheriff cleared his throat and brought him to stop.   "Well, let's not be too hasty now."

Erik and Ted shared a look before Ted turned to the sheriff.  "Excuse me?"

The sheriff placed his hands up in a placating gesture.  "I ain't arguing with you that we could have had one helluva morning just now."  He put his hands down and gripped the wide pistol belt at his waist.  "Ain't' gonna lie," he said in a lower voice for only Ted and Erik to hear, "I've had a hard enough time controlling these rednecks lately, but that gun you boys got on top sure as hell got everybody to stand down real quick."

Erik couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he thought about Brin.  "Yeah, she has that effect on people."

The sheriff snorted.  "I imagine she does."  The man's face grew somber.  "But I'm afraid I can't just let you roll-on outta here.  Things are…complicated."

"How so?" asked Ted in a voice Erik knew meant nothing but trouble for anyone who opposed them.

I knew we shouldn't have stopped here.  I knew we should've just kept going.  Dammit.

"See, me and the boys were en route to a mission."

"A mission?" asked Ted.

"You interrupted all that and put a whole lot of good lives in danger."

"Look, sheriff, I'm sorry my wife aimed that gun at you–" Erik began.

The sheriff waved him off.  "I ain't talking about that, son.  We got trouble in town.  Big trouble. Some outsiders—real bad seeds, if you know what I mean—rolled in to town a few months back.  I didn't want to let them stay, but the mayor can be persuasive when he wants to."  The sheriff looked at the ground.  "Could be."

Erik shot a glance at Ted.  We don't need this.  Whatever the hell's going on here, we need to go.

Ted's eyes agreed.  "I'm sorry to hear that, Sheriff Jonston, but we–"

Jonston took off his hat.  "I know, I know—you got your own mission.  Don't make much sense to me, you carrying around a bunch of women and children inside that thing," sheriff said, "but you boys got to understand, the mayor and the city leaders—including their families—are all locked up in the town jail.  The boys and I are mountin' a rescue operation.  Today."

Ted sighed.  "I'm sorry to hear that, sheriff, but I don't—"

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation Mr. Jensen," said the sheriff.  "There's 27 souls in that jail scheduled to be executed today."

Families...God dammit.

Erik recognized the look on Ted's face.  They couldn't just leave all the innocents to their fate.  Their desire to make the transit north easier on themselves had delayed the strike force from liberating their targets.

"Way I see it, whether you like it or not, you boys are involved now.  If we don't get set up in time, if we don't pull this off…"

"Them sons of bitches got my baby girl," said the sketchy local who’d first spotted Erik.  "Six years old next week."

"This here's Travis McDermott."  The Sheriff said.  "I understand his daughter was having a sleepover party with one of the alderman's kids.  They're all rounded up together."

"Sheriff, if you knew half of what we've been through to get here," Erik began.

"Son, I'm sure you had a rough time, just like the rest of us.  Right now I can't worry about that—I got 27 people in that town up yonder," he said jerking his head north, "that'll die if I don't lead these men into battle and rescue them."  He glanced at the M-ATV.

"You boys looking for a new car?  Supplies?"

Erik and Ted glanced each other again.  Erik looked down and kicked at the dirt as Ted replied.

"That's right."

Sheriff Jonston took a deep breath.  "Well, I already told you I can't let you just walk off with some cars.  Things the way they are, that could very well be the straw that broke the camel's back.  I fought hard to maintain law and order in Hull County since the lights went out.  Dunham ain't my only responsibility, but it's the biggest problem I got right now.  Word gets out I let you roll through here and take whatever you want, the shit will literally hit the fan."

So you're the one behind all the potholes.  No wonder I don't feel too good about this.

Erik glanced into the dealership parking lot.  All those cars.  All they had to do was get here 20 minutes earlier, or a few minutes later, and they could have had their pick of the litter and on their way around this godforsaken town.

Ted folded his arms, an awkward movement in light of the body armor he wore.  "Sheriff, I've been  around long enough to know when a man's got something to say.  What's your proposition?"

The sheriff polished his sunglasses for a moment and watched Ted with an unwavering gaze.  "As many boys I got, it'll st...l be a near thing to take that jail.  I was telling the truth when I said I lost most of my force."  He checked his reflection in the mirrored sunglasses and put them back on.

"I only got a couple deputies left—folks with proper training and all.  Most of these boys are just local kids and farmers.  They're all right with huntin' rifles, but ain't nobody seen battle.  You two on the other hand," Sheriff Jonston said, "just dropped into my lap by the good grace of God Almighty with that tank on wheels."

Erik closed his eyes.  Here it comes.

"I suggest a trade.  Goods for services.  You bring that beast of yours with us into town, help me and my boys free our people and put an end to these rabble-rousers once and for all, and in return I'll give you a couple vehicles in that lot there," he said gesturing at the car dealership, "filled up with as much supplies and gas as you can carry.  Then you can be on your way with my thanks and blessing."

Erik could see Ted thinking it over.  He glanced at the M-ATV, their home for the past few weeks.  "What about that?"  Erik said quietly.

"Well," the sheriff said slowly, his eyes appraising the army vehicle like a thoroughbred horse.  "She looks a little rough around the edges.  You boys definitely seen some action lately.  I tell you what—you let me have her and any ammo you got for that big gun on top and we'll call it even.  After we rescue my people."

"Just like that?"  Erik asked.

"Just like that," said the sheriff in a dead even tone.  "If the army comes looking for you, I'll explain everything."

Erik ignored the lawman.  The question was for Ted not him.  Ted's eyes met Erik's and they stared at each other for a long moment.  Finally Ted gave a barely perceptible nod.  It was the answer that Erik knew was coming.

The moment the sheriff mentioned a proposition, he knew the only way they'd get out of here and headed north again was through the sheriff's good graces.  They were outnumbered and outgunned.  Their only hope was either climbing in the M-ATV and rolling through the men around them like a tank or fall under siege and be starved out.

In either situation, 27 people would die and be additional blood on their hands.  As much as Erik wanted to go north, he didn't know if he could live with that.  The air left his lungs and he stared down at the ground, defeated.

"Sheriff, you drive a hard bargain, but I don't see how we can refuse.  My CO won't like this," he said with a glance at the M-ATV, "but Captain Winters certainly wouldn't like finding out that we walked off and left 27 civilians to be executed."

Erik forced himself to keep a straight face.  He knew Winders had died in Orlando, but the sheriff didn’t.

"You boys got radios you can use to contact your people, right?" asked the sheriff.

Ted nodded.  "Assuming there's anyone left to listen, yeah.  Besides what's in there," he said gesturing at the M-ATV.

"I tell you what, you help us through this and I swear to God, I don't care if it's the President himself—I will stand up and testify on your behalf."

He stuck out his hand.  Erik stared at it for a moment, then shook it.  "I can see the pain in your face, son.  I know what this means to you.  You look like someone who'd rather cut off an arm stay here and help.  I admire the gumption it takes to do it anyway."

Erik nodded silently.  "Now what?"

The sheriff hooked his thumbs under his belt and leaned back on his heels.  "Now we gotta discuss strategy.  Having you boys along for the ride changes everything."

Chapter 13

Vigilantes

MINISTER OF DEFENSE PO Sin watched Minister of the Interior Shin Ho as he perused the latest report.  It wasn’t good.  Po Sin had snagged the incoming transmission and already read it.  It detailed the imminent failure of their mission in the American southwest.

“These guerrilla fighters are having more of an impact than you led me to believe.”

Po Sin grunted and tried to affect an air of nonchalance.  “Mere flies in the face of the dragon.  They are of little consequence.”

Shin Ho stared at his friend over the top of the grisly reports.  “Ten dead here, twenty there, five over here…the numbers are adding up and they just don’t stop.  They’re not giving our people a chance to rest and recuperate.”

Po Sin grunted.  "The remnants of the vigilante group we slaughtered in Arizona.  These Regulators."

"Vigilantes," Shin Ho spat.  "Brigands.  We killed their leaders and most of their people.  Our artillery wiped their pathetic mountain fortress off the face of the earth—and yet the survivors still torment us.  They refuse to give up."

Po Sin frowned, hiding his expression behind his report.  Of course not, you fool, we’re invading their country.  Our people would do the same if their roles were reversed.

“Our plans are stagnating as more and more of these groups appear out of nowhere.”

Po Sin dropped the paper and lit a cigarette despite the ‘no smoking’ sign on Shin Ho’s desk.  “Inconveniences, nothing more.”  He blew a puff of smoke up over the desk.

Shin Ho grunted.  “Inconveniences.  I hardly think the families of our slain will agree.”

Po Sin held the cigarette an inch from his mouth.  “Since when do we care about what their families think?  Those boys were proud to serve the People.  They should be proud their sons died for the People.”

Shin Ho shook his head slowly.  “So cynical.”

Po Sin blew more smoke into the air, creating a blue-gray barrier in the space between them.  “So naïve to think they can actually win.”

“What are your plans to stop these guerrillas?  They call themselves—”

Po Sin leaned forward to rub out his cigarette on Shin Ho's desk.  “I couldn't care less what they call themselves.  Regulators, Ghosts…they are barbarians.  Nothing more.  We will crush them.”

Shin Ho stared at the pile of ash and the crumpled cigarette on his desk.  “That’s your plan?  ‘Crush them’?”

Po Sin stood.  "Call it your plan if you like—you took control of this operation.  You'll get all the glory, anyway.  I suppose it's only fair for me to share in the blame.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Po Sin paused at the door and pulled another cigarette from his silver case. He held it unlit between two fingers and examined it.  Even he wouldn’t risk walking down the corridor with a lit cigarette.  The younger generation of staffers would be all too quick to report the unauthorized vice to the Party snitches.

In the good old days…

“I asked you a question, Minister.”

Aren’t you high and mighty?  Three steps below the Supreme Leader and you think you're suddenly his right-hand man.  “I go to study the reports in detail so that I may present you with an updated plan, Honorable Minister,” Po Sin said, bowing deeply.  He stood, replaced the cigarette and snapped the case shut.

“While you’re at it, work up an exit strategy for me to present to the Supreme Leader.”

Po Sin froze, his hand on the doorknob.  Perfect!  He looked back, feigning confusion.  “Exit strategy?  What are you talking about?”

Shin Ho sighed.  He suddenly seemed ten years older.  “The Supreme Leader is no longer fully confident in our ability to attain victory over the Americans.  He wants a way to withdraw and save face.”

Po Sin returned to his seat.  This is too good to be true.  If things fall apart, you will get the blame.  “Hmmm.”  Po Sin leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.  “Have you reached out to that weakling in the White House?”

It was Shin Ho's turn to look confused.  “Jones?  No.  Why?  He is nothing but an usurper.  Our agents  report he will not long sit in the Oval Office.  They are close to finding the next in line.”

Must I spell it out for you? “He is in a position of weakness.”

“We are too—”

“But he doesn’t know that." Po Sin pursed his lips, trying to appear thoughtful.  "See if you can negotiate a truce, or even better: a peace treaty.  Something to give us breathing room to resupply the expedition.  Give them time to reach the coast and establish the beach head for the Second Wave.  If we can last until they arrive on shore, it’ll be too late for the Americans to do anything.”

Shin Ho grunted.  “Perhaps."  He drummed his fingers on the wide desk, staring at the crumpled cigarette in the corner.  Finally he nodded.  "Yes.  It might work.  Especially if we can convince the Russians to expand their conquered territory.  That would focus most of the attention on the East Coast.”  He looked up at Po Sin and smiled.  “It just might work.”  He reached for his phone.

“Wei?  Yes.  Get me the President of the United States."  He grinned at Po Sin.  "Yes, I understand what time it is—he will want to speak with me, I promise.  Thank you.”

Po Sin stood and offered a sincere bow this time.  “I will leave you to it.”  He smiled to himself as he left the Minister’s office.

I’ve given you plenty of rope.  Let’s see if you can manage to hang yourself, old friend.

Chapter 14

Pressure

A YOUNG STAFFER OPENED the door to the President's office and smiled, delivering a stack of papers. "Morning briefing's here, sir."

Daniel looked up from the maps spread out on his desk. He'd been closely following the trail of Stapleton and his army as they headed south out of New York.  What's your name?  "Ah…you seem to be in a good mood."

"I know we’re not supposed to read the briefing notes before you get them, sir, but Tom dropped it when he handed it to me and we had to put all the pages back and I saw—”

Daniel smiled and took this stack of papers. "Don't worry about it. Let's see what we have for today, shall we?"

The first page had a brief note about the Rebels.  The number of casualties estimated in New York City was staggering.  The second page held a brief damage estimate.

Daniel whistled. "That's a lot of zeros…" New York City had sustained a tremendous amount of damage. It was about the equivalent of having two major hurricanes strike the city back to back. Trying to find funds to help pay for that was a headache in the making.

He scrolled through the document, looking whatever it was that had brought a smile to his staffer's face.  In big bold letters, the report explained how the outer suburbs of Philadelphia had received power—reliable, stable power—and that PECO predicted the entire city have power by the end of the month.

Daniel's face lit up. If Malcolm could delay Stapleton for even a few days—just to prevent him from getting inside the city—he might find the citizens of Philadelphia to be useful allies against the rogue general.  Based on how Malcolm's people had thus far behaved, Philly would welcome Stapleton with open arms.

There was a lot of uncertainties, but by the time they could be worked out, he might just save Philadelphia the fate that had befallen New York and Chicago.

The phone on his desk rang before he could finish the thought.

He noticed which line had flashed—the secure line from his switchboard. That could be good or bad. He looked up at the staffer. "I'm sorry," he said, gesturing at the door.  "This one's private."

"Of course, sir," she said, nodding as she backed out of the room.

He hit the button activating the line after the door had closed. "Mr. President?" asked his secretary in a high voice.

My God, this one sounds like she's in high school. I have to find somebody more suitable than her. He would've loved it if Shaniqua had decided to stay on after President Reed's death, but she'd been fiercely loyal to the old man and hated Suthby with a passion. After she left, they'd gone through two more switchboard operators before they settled on the new girl, Marylyn Kretch.

"Yes, Marylyn."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have a Russian General Kristanoff on the phone?"

"Kristanoff…that name sounds familiar…" Daniel muttered to himself.

"He was the commanding general of their forces in New York, sir."

Shit. Of course he would be the first phone call I get today. "Okay, Marylyn, go ahead and put him through. I was expecting this call."  He waited for the line to click, establishing the connection.

"General Kristanoff! Let me be the first to offer my sincere condolences on the loss of—"

"Spare me the theatrics, Mr. President. We both know you care nothing for my men."

Daniel cleared his throat. Here we go. "If there is anything I can do—"

"You can destroy Stapleton!"

Daniel thought for a moment. "I assure you, general there is nothing I would like more in the world than to destroy that rogue general. If it's of any consequence, I would like to offer you the opportunity to hunt down and destroy—"

Kristanoff laughed.  "With what men? My army has been annihilated, no small thanks to Stapleton and your navy. This was a trap! Betrayal!"

"Absolutely not, general!" Daniel protested. "None of us saw this happening. We had no idea where that aircraft carrier was, let alone that it would attempt to link up with Stapleton in New York! I assure you!"

Kristanoff snorted his derision.  "Your assurances mean nothing."

Daniel thought for a moment. "General Stapleton is proving more resourceful than I'd anticipated. However, I believe he has another target in mind. His original mission was to destroy the rebellion—"

"I care nothing for your rebellion! My concern is vengeance. I will be transferring what remains of my command south to our bases in Florida.  There I plan to link up with loyal comrades. I have been assured by Moscow that any further meddling in our affairs by your administration or those under your command will result in the strictest of reprisals."

"What exactly you do you mean, general?"

"It seems Moscow has other plans for the United States, Mr. President. And we will not let this outrage go unpunished!"

The general disconnected before Daniel could reply.  "Well, that went…well."

He sighed and rubbed his head. It was too early in the morning for this. Turning his attention back to the briefing, the next item brought a smile to his face. Power was being restored throughout a number of cities west of the ruins of Chicago. Des Moines was the largest on the list of those that had power reestablished.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Thank God they were finally getting a handle on the power outage. Now if I can just take care of Malcolm and General Stapleton…and what was left of that carrier battlegroup…and the Russians…

Daniel massaged his temples again. One thing at a time. Stapleton was going to be a thorn in his side for a while. There wasn't much he could do about that. Most of the armed forces were still loyal to President Reed's memory and were either still returning—and had seen what happened to the rest of the country—or were those that had rebelled against their commanding officers during the transition. About the only thing he could say for the military was that they were playing a waiting game to see what happened.

Relations with the Russians would go a long way toward sealing the fate of the country one way or the other. If the Russians attacked, it was more than likely the military would fallen step behind him. If the Russians were allies and were allowed to maintain control over the parts of Florida they’d conquered, he would see more and more desertions by the military.  He sighed.

It would only be a matter of time before someone in Congress stepped up and claimed to be the legitimate heir under Reed's continuity of government orders.

Suthby had sent people loyal to him in search of the Vice President, the Speaker of the House and the others in the chain of command. But so far that mission had only turned up the Secretary of the Department of Education.  Though she was a good ways down the list, her legitimacy far outranked his own.

He needed a way to stop Stapleton from reaching Philadelphia. The city was just coming back to life.  A delay there could save him.

Jones heard a shout outside his office and clamoring voices. He reached the point where he raised up from his desk to demand answers when the door to his office banged open. A young man wearing glasses burst into the room, breathless.

"Mr. President! The rebels have reached Philadelphia!"

Daniel smiled. "Well that's good news! They'll find safety and security there.  We can—"

"They're setting fire to the city! Everyone is panicking. We lost contact with the governor!"

Daniel stared at the map. Oh my God.  It's New York all over again.  No, no, no!  This isn't happening!

Chapter 15

The Road to Dunham

ERIK STARED OUT THE M-ATV's tiny window and watched impassively as endless fields rolled by.  In front of them, a pickup truck bounced along the road, full of men.  Occasionally, one would turn and stared pointedly at the massive army vehicle.  Further up the road, the sheriff's cruiser led the way into Dunham.

Erik leaned around Ted at the wheel and peered out the small window on the driver's door.  Another pickup truck cruised next to them.  He knew that there were two more trucks behind them.  They were effectively blocked in.

"I don't like this," Brin said quietly.  She leaned over the pile of gear on the floor between Erik and Ted and stared out the windshield.

Erik risked a quick glance at his wife.  "I don't like it either," he whispered.  It was the first words he'd spoken directly to her since they left the dealership.

Without turning, she hissed through clenched teeth, "Then why did you agree to this?"

Ted didn't seem to hear the conversation, let alone have any inclination of jumping in.  Erik sighed.  He stared back out the window.  "We didn't have much of a choice," he muttered.

"You didn't even ask me," she said.

And that's the real problem, Erik thought.  You’re not upset that we're surrounded by bunch of rednecks, driving toward a town we know nothing about, heading into battle.  You're upset that we didn't stop to take time to ask your opinion.

"I mean," she continued in a quiet tone, "it's not like I saved your life or anything."

Guilt flooded Erik's chest.  She had a point.  The big .50-caliber machine gun in the M-ATV's turret had pretty well ended the standoff and kept him from being shot.  He opened his mouth to say so when she spoke again.

"I'm surprised at you, Ted," she said, rounding on the driver. "We're putting your kids' lives at risk here!"

Ted turned his eyes from the road and stared at her for a moment as the big vehicle rumbled over cracked blacktop.  "You honestly think I want to take my kids into some battle?  This thing we're driving is as good as a tank against anything the bad guys around here have.  I've been thinking this over," Ted said, turning his attention back to the road, "and they way I see it, when we show up with this matvee, it'll end the whole situation once and for all."

Brin shook her head.  "Do we even have a plan to go along with this genius idea, or are we just going to roll into town like John Wayne?"

"That's not fair," Erik said quietly.

"I tell you what's not fair," Brin said, the venom in her voice surprising everyone.  "What's not fair is getting dragged into some sort of battle.  After what we just escaped, after everything we've seen on the road north, you guys jump at the first chance to drive straight into a firefight."  She slapped the back of both front seats in frustration.  "We've survived so much, why are you guys trying to get us all killed?"

"Honey—"

Brin flashed him a ‘don’t-honey-me’ look and retreated back to the children at the rear of the massive vehicle without a word.

Erik half-turned in his seat.  “Brin—”

"Just let her go, dude," muttered Ted.  "Let her go."

Erik slammed his head against the seat back.  He clenched his teeth in frustration gripped his rifle barrel.  Why can't you see everything I'm doing, every single thing I've done is been to get you to safety?  What the hell happened back at that prison camp that makes you think I'm the bad guy?  He stared out the window as the pastures ended and they entered a small pine forest.  What did they do to you?

"Whatever you're thinking about saying, don't.  It'll only make things worse."

Erik turned to look at Ted.  The marine grimaced.  "I know from personal experience, brother."

"Are we doing the right thing?" Erik asked quietly.

Ted looked at his driver window at the truck riding six feet below them.  "I've been asking myself that same question ever since…Susan…"

Erik sighed and watched the trucks in front of them continue down the lonely road toward Dunham.  The sun had crested the pine trees in the east and flooded the farmland with vivid colors.  The bright blue sky, the brilliant white of the clouds above, the verdant green of the surrounding crops.  They all lent a sense of hope to Erik.

"You honestly think we can get out of this without anyone getting hurt?"

It was Ted's turn to sigh.  "I wouldn't have agreed to bring my children with me if I didn't think so."  He turned and held Erik's gaze.  "You've been out on ops with me for a few months—you know what it feels like to roll into a place with the high ground.  These locals, man they got a whole other world of surprise coming to them.  I'm telling you, most civilians will probably think twice about fighting the sheriff.  When they see all these trucks and guys get out with rifles and then we roll up in this big sonofabitch, the floor's gonna drop out of their execution plans."

Erik shook his head.  "How the hell do you know that?"

Because I have seen some hardened badasses in Afghanistan who would shoot you between the eyes for looking at them sideways wet their pants when one of these big rigs pulled up in front of their little terrorist training camps."  He patted the roof of the M-ATV affectionately.  "That big M240 up top will go a long way to solving the sheriff's problems.  I guaran-damn-tee-it."

Erik looked again at the truck in front of them.  From his vantage point riding shotgun in the massive battle wagon, the truck looked like a toy.  He thought back to how the M-ATV had dwarfed the sheriff's cruiser back at the dealership.

Maybe we do have a chance.

Erik turned to look back out the window. "Either way, I just want this over with.  I need to be able to move without tripping over everybody."

"Yeah, you need a shower, too," muttered Ted.

"That too," laughed Erik.  He grew serious immediately.  "And time to talk to Brin.  No offense, but I can't get that while we're all packed in here like sardines."

"You think I want to be cooped up in here with your farts?" asked Ted.  "Only thing I'm focused on is getting through this little deal of ours alive so we can get a couple cars and get the hell out of here."

"Sure would be nice to be able to stretch out in the back of a minivan…"

"We'd get better gas mileage too," Ted observed.

The entire vehicle shook with the bone rattling vibration as one of the giant wheels traversed a particularly large pothole.  Ted winced as he struggled to maintain control of the steering wheel.  "Of course, I sure will miss the run-flats we got on this thing."

"I sure won't miss these little windows," Erik said, tapping his knuckle against the little triangular ballistics-hardened window in his door.

Ted grunted.  "Somebody takes a shot at you with a .308, you'll be missing it."

Brin reappeared between the front seats.  "Did we just run over something?"

"Yeah," said Erik.  "A crater."

Brin turned to face Ted.  "Try to take it easy up here, okay?  We need to keep the kids calm as long as possible."

"Brin," Erik said quietly, unable to resist the opportunity to try to make peace.

She turned to him and her face lost all the hardness of the previous few weeks.  It was like staring at the face of his wife back in Sarasota again.  A slight smile played out on her lips.  She looked down and put a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing.  "About earlier, I…"

"No," said Erik, overjoyed at the touch of her hand on his shoulder.  He reached up and put his hand on top of hers. "It's my fault—I—"

Without warning she ripped his hand away from his.  "It's not always your fault!" she hissed.  "Can't you even let me—"

The M-ATV swerved suddenly and Brin was thrown off balance.  She fell unceremoniously into Erik's arms.  For a moment the two of them stared at each other, their lips only an inch away from each other.

"Oops," said Ted.

Before Erik could relish the feeling of his wife in his arms again for the first time in weeks, she pushed angrily away.  "Don't you two take anything seriously?  Our lives are at stake here and you're screwing around—"

"Come on guys, don't argue…please?" a small voice said from the dark interior of the vehicle.

Brin looked down and clenched her fists.  Erik and Ted looked at each other.  Ted cleared his throat.

"It's okay Lindsay, baby.  Erik and Brin were just discussing—"

"No, I'm done talking."  Brin turned away from Erik.  "Unlike you," she said softly, "I don't know if I'm willing to risk everything to get to your parents cabin anymore."  Without another word, she moved to the rear of the truck, mumbling to Lindsay.

Erik sighed and closed his eyes.  So close.  We were so close.  I had her in my arms…

"Well, don't say I didn't try."

Erik opened his eyes and stared at Ted.  "Excuse me?"

"Hey," Ted muttered, shrugging, "I got her in your arms.  That's more than you've been able to do lately—"

"Shut the fuck up," muttered Erik.  He ignored Ted's chuckle.  I'm losing my wife.  If we don't get out of this damn thing and get a chance to be alone for a few hours, surviving this trip won't even be worth it.  If I can't have her the way she was before the whole world went to hell, then I don't want anything.

"Brake lights," Ted said, his voice shifting from joking friend to marine in an instant.

Erik looked out the windshield.  In the distance, the road bisected a tree line.  He saw the white painted steeple of a church rise above the pines.  Up ahead, near the first truck in the convoy, a simple sign welcomed visitors to the town of Dunham, population 2,783.

The two men watched as the convoy came to a halt.  Sheriff Jonston exited his vehicle and jogged back to the M-ATV.  Ted opened the driver's door.  "What's the plan?"

"I'll take half the boys straight into town and come around behind the jail.  You and the rest pull up to the front door and we'll box 'em in.  I want them to see you come up nice and slow so they get an idea what they're up against."

Ted nodded.  "Sounds good.  When we pull up front, one of us will get up in the turret."

"That's a good start, but I'm gonna need some help on the ground."

"Pardon?" asked Ted.  "Sheriff, we agreed to bring our vehicle, we never said we'd fight—"

"You better just hope that stunt you pulled back at the dealership don't cost anyone their lives," Sheriff Jonston hissed.  "Me and the boys had this all planned out to strike at dawn.  We had the element of surprise with us—now that's all blown to hell because of you.  I'm gonna need you two on the ground with me.  Nobody else in this town—not even the Dillard boys—have full-auto rifles."

"Sheriff," began Erik.

"You make sure you get your asses on the ground with me, or I'll make sure to come after you when all this is over.  I'm beginning to think you boys are deserters."

Before Ted could get a word in edgewise, the sheriff moved on down the line of vehicles, shouting out instructions to the drivers.

Ted slammed the door and gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.  "This deal's getting worse by the minute."

Brin reappeared between the front seats.  "I got the kids laying down in the back under as much cover as I can find.  What did the sheriff have to say?  Is this it?"

"He wants you to man the turret," Ted said.  "He wants us on the ground with the others."

Brin looked at Erik.  "That wasn't part of the deal," she said.

"I know.  I don't like it any more than you—"

"I told you I didn't like that sheriff.  There's something rotten here—why the hell can't you see that?"

"I—" said Erik.

She put her hands up to forestall further argument.  "Don't—I can't do this right now."  She turned and shuffled away.

Ted shifted the M-ATV into gear and the big Caterpillar turbo-diesel roared as the convoy split.  He followed the truck in front of them through the winding streets without a word.  Erik watched as they passed the courthouse and a few small shops.  Abandoned cars had been pushed on to the sidewalks to clear the streets.  In the distance Erik saw a roadblock of cars, charred and full of bullet holes.

"This place has seen some fighting," he muttered.  "Those 'bad seeds' the sheriff talked about look like they did some damage here."

"Stay frosty," Ted said.  "I think Brin's right, this is looking like a raw deal."

"Great, we're rolling into town to get into a battle and you have to go and tell her she was right."  Erik looked at Ted.  "She's already pissed at me, now you want to make her gloat about it too?"

Ted grunted.  "Just be happy she's here to be pissed at you."

Erik looked down at the floor.  God dammit.  "I'm sorry…"

The M-ATV came to a stop.  "Save it," Ted said, focused out the windshield.  "It's showtime."

Erik looked up—the Dunham town jail filled his view.  A black man standing guard by the double front doors stared with an open mouth as the M-ATV came to a stop in front of him.  He stumbled backward and bumped into the doors, dropping his hunting rifle in the process.  Ted laughed as the man scrambled to throw open the door.

"What'd I tell you?"

The radio on the center console broke squelch.  "All right boys, you know what to do.  Jensen, Larsson, let's get this show on the road."

Erik looked back between the seats and caught Brin as she moved forward toward the turret.  The look on her face was a mixture of emotions.  Her eyes flashed, but her lips parted like she wanted to say something.  She closed her eyes and looked away before disappearing up in the turret.

This better be worth it.  Why can't people just leave us alone?  All I want to do is get home…

Chapter 16

Blackmail

GENERAL STAPLETON LOOKED AT the force allocation screen inside his command Stryker. He tapped it and grinned. Admiral Nella's fighters had found the tail edge of Malcolm's force exactly where he'd predicted, just north of Philadelphia.  The information had already been relayed back to Nella, so there was no point in calling. Half of the fighter squadron, represented by three blue triangles, circled over the city. The others continued south.

Stapleton tapped a few commands into the keyboard and the map was replaced with a real-time view from the pilot’s seat of an F-35C on CAP.  The jet wove in and out of thick black columns of smoke pouring up through the downtown area. This had to be the work of Malcolm's horde—the fires were too fresh and too much of the city lay undamaged.

The pilot banked his fighter into another left-handed turn and Stapleton saw most of the roads leading out of the city swarmed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. It was to be expected—this wasn't an actual army, more a ragtag group of gang-bangers and idealists, probably chock full of communists, anarchists, and any other dregs of American society they could be convinced to tag along.

He tapped another command into the control panel and his view switched to the squadron leader. The top right corner of the screen listed the pilot as Lt. Cmdr. Riggs.

Stapleton watched the grainy image and scanned the ground. The fighter was streaking ahead, attempting to find the vanguard of Malcolm's army. Something interesting caught his eye. It must've piqued the pilot's interest as well because the plane descended and turned in a slow banking maneuver to get a better look.

Stapleton spotted a mass of rebel fighters, streaming forward, many running for cover and jumping off overpasses into the bushes and trees that lined the interstate. Those not on the interstate scattered like roaches as the jet swooped overhead.

He grinned around his cigar stub. You guys think you own the world, don't you? Couple of jets come screaming in overhead and you lose your shit.

Stapleton tapped the corner of the touchscreen to zoom in and shifted the image farther south. Ahead of the army lay a significant empty stretch of road. In front of that gap was a solid wall of cars, trucks and pedestrians.

What the hell is this? Two divisions?

He wished there was a way to ask the pilot to get closer. His view was read-only—he had no ability to communicate with individual pilots.

The pilot must have been thinking the same thing, because he straightened out following the road south, dropping even lower to get a better look at the strange convoy of vehicles and pedestrians in front of Malcolm's people.

Stapleton realized what it was: exodus. Panicked civilians from all walks of life—from those that drove Yugos to those that drove BMWs—had all banded together to flee the advance of Malcolm's army. He was looking at the tail end of a massive civilian evacuation of Philadelphia.

He quickly backed out of the feed from the squadron leader and switched to one of the planes still over Philadelphia.  Those who had remained, and those who had been drawn back to America's onetime capital by the prospect of electricity were now streaming away again in all directions. The advance of Malcolm's horde had stirred up a humanitarian tidal wave.

Stapleton killed the feed and leaned back in his chair. This changes everything. He's moving faster than we thought.  There'll be an uncontrollable surge in every major city if we don't stop him.

He reached for the secure sat phone to contact Nella when the radio in his helmet chirped.

"Command Actual, Ghost 2-1."

"Actual copies—send it." Now what?

"I have a group of 12 unidentified foot mobiles approaching from the south. They're pushing an abandoned vehicle in front of them. Please advise."

Before Stapleton could repeat the rules of engagement regarding civilians, two more Strykers at the head of the column reported similar encounters.

"Ghost 2-1, Actual. Can you determine if the foot mobiles are hostile?"

The response was immediate. "Negative, Actual. No weapons in sight, but they're coming at us and not slowing down.  Everybody else we saw ran for the hills. Please advise—range to target, 50 meters."

Stapleton frowned. "Actual to all units: hold your fire, do not engage. Repeat: do not engage unless fired upon. Hold your positions."

"Actual, Chaos 2-1, the foot mobiles in front of me are getting something out of the back of a car."

Stapleton chewed his cigar.  Dammit, now what?

"Molotovs! Foot mobiles are hostile, repeat foot mobiles are hostile!"

Stapleton slammed his fist down. The descriptions from the other Strykers came in, painting a picture of kids and old folks in wheelchairs trying to block the interstate and the side roads. It was a desperate last-ditch attempt to delay the inevitable. Malcolm had sacrificed his weakest units in a rearguard action.

"They're targeting civilians!" warned Ghost 2-1.

Stapleton keyed his mic. "All Stryker units, this is Actual. Change in ROE. Engage the enemy. I repeat: engage, engage, engage! Clear that road!"

The confirmations came in, and the blue squares on his screen moved forward from where they'd stopped. The eight-wheeled vehicles rolled through Malcolm's blockade. As he listened to the grim accounts from the Strykers as they plowed through the ineffective rearguard, another transmission came to his attention.

"Actual, Lighthouse."

"Go ahead, Lighthouse."

"Receiving incoming transmission on an unsecured line designated for official DHS use only."

Stapleton clenched his jaw, squeezing the tobacco juice from the cigar in his lips in his teeth.  Daniel the pretend President. I don't need this. He keyed his mic. "Ignore it, Lighthouse."

"Apologies Actual, caller identified himself as Malcolm."

Stapleton paused.  Malcolm? This is interesting. "Very well."

He changed frequencies to the secure code last used by Daniel. None of this made sense. How did Malcolm get this channel and code authorization? The only way would be if that little twerp Jones gave it to him…

"I see you are not following the orders put forth by your president."

"I do not take orders from him," Stapleton grunted.

"In that case we have other things to discuss."

He laughed. "Enlighten me."

"I have in my possession one Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards, of the New Jersey Air National Guard. Say hello, Colonel Edwards."

Stapleton held his breath.  Not possible.

"Whom I speaking with?" asked a shaky female voice.

Shit.  "This is General Joseph Stapleton, U.S. Army, 4th Infantry Division." He moved his hands across the keyboard. "Authentication please?"

"Edwards, Caroline. Lieutenant Colonel, 75th New Jersey Air National Guard.  278-35-9625. I'm being held in—"  The line crackled as the phone transferred hands.  She yelled something in the background about 'rowhouse'.

"Colonel Edwards!"

Malcolm's voice returned, cool as ice.  "That's enough. I assume you can confirm the authenticity of my guest?"

Stapleton's eyes scanned the screen as the computer related the truth of Edwards' identity. A picture appeared next to the her file, and he skimmed down the screen looking at her service record.  She was the pilot he'd watched shot down over New York City. Everything matched—it had to be her.

He swallowed.  "I confirm her identity."

"Good, then you know what comes next."

"What?"

"You must call off your attack dogs. Get the jets away from my people and…"

Stapleton stared at the screen, looking into Col. Edwards' eyes.  I'm sorry.  "And what?" he asked, watching the screen that depicted his Strykers moving across the rebel lines.

"I've just been informed that you have slaughtered most of my rearguard. That was unfortunate, general. The blood of children and the elderly are now on your hands. May Allah forgive you."

"I'm going to give you one chance to turn her over—"

"You are not in a position to dictate to me, general. You may have destroyed Chicago and New York, but you will not stop me now. This is your last warning. Turn back or your Col. Edwards will be executed."

The transmission ended. Stapleton cursed and stared at the screen, his jaw tight.  You better pray for mercy to whatever God you believe in, Malcolm, because you'll get none from me.

His radio chirped.  "Actual, Lighthouse—the Strykers have pushed through the hostile foot mobiles. Awaiting your orders."

"What's the time-frame on the armored cav?" asked Stapleton, switching computer screens to bring up the force asset map.

"On scene in 30."

Stapleton pulled the cigar out of his mouth and tossed it out the hatch, then reached for a fresh one from his coat pocket. "Alert Ghost and Chaos to hold position and wait until Vinsen arrives. In 30 minutes, we'll begin the assault on Philadelphia. Whatever units are there will attack—remaining units will engage as they approach. Confirm receipt of order."

"Lighthouse copies all."

"Actual out."

Stapleton leaned back in the command chair. The Stryker rumbled through another pothole. Malcolm was right. First Chicago, then New York. How many cities would he have to destroy to put a stop to that snake in the grass?

Chapter 17

Jailbreak

THE RADIO ON THE center console crackled.  "This is it, boys!  We got the drop on them—everybody get ready!"

Erik looked at Ted.  "This doesn't feel right."

Ted grabbed his rifle.  "Too late for that, let's go.  Just stay by me."  He glanced over his shoulder at Brin.  "I don't expect you to get up there and shoot anybody, just make a lot of noise and I promise they’ll keep their heads down.  Keep everybody back—don't let anybody in."

Brin nodded in silent assent, but didn't say a word.  Her eyes met Erik's.  "Be careful," she whispered.

Erik felt a warmth in his chest that hadn't been there since the prison camp.  He opened his mouth to say something when Ted grabbed his shoulder.

"Look—somebody's coming out!  We gotta move."

Erik turned back to Brin but she was already clambering up inside the turret.  Growling at fate, Erik threw the suicide door open, grabbed his rifle, and dropped down into a crouch.  He slammed the door and scrambled through the gravel, boots crunching as he moved behind the M-ATV.

"Okay, this is how it's going to go down," Ted said, peering around the corner.  "You stay with me, watch my six.  When the shooting starts, aim for the knees.  Got it?  We don't know who the hell these people are or why they're fighting each other, but there's no need for us to be killing anyone.  Sound good?"

Erik nodded.  He gripped his rifle and held it close to his chest.  "I got a bad feeling about this."

"He's coming down!" somebody shouted from the other side of the parking lot.

Ted quickly leaned around the corner.  "It's just some old man.  Get to the other side," he said waving Erik away without taking his eyes off the action at the front of the jail.

Erik scrambled around the rear of the M-ATV and brought his rifle up to aim at the front doors to the jail.  An old man in a disheveled suit shambled from the front door, looked around, his dark eyes blinking rapidly.  He had both hands up.

"Now, boys, hear me out…" the elderly black man said in a deep stentorian voice.  His eyes found the M-ATV, and he stared at the vehicle for a long moment.  He spotted Erik leaning around the rear of the vehicle.  The old man nodded.

"I don't know who you are, but I see you're soldiers.  That changes everything—I don't know what  Jonston told you, but it ain't the truth.  My name is—"

"We ain't here to talk!  Release the hostages or we're comin' in!" called out the sheriff on his loudspeaker.

This doesn't make any sense, Erik thought.  This old guy doesn't look much like somebody who'd want to execute 27 women and children.  "Ted…"

"I know, wait one," replied the marine.

The old man kept his eyes locked on Erik's.  "Please!  Son, you've got to listen to me, things aren't what they appear—"

"I said we're not here to talk!  I'm gonna give you 15 seconds to open those doors and let out those hostages or were coming in."

The man on the front steps looked around with wide eyes.  Erik followed his gaze.  The parking lot was packed with trucks and men sporting rifles.

"I have proof!  Sheriff Jonston is not what he appears…" The man pulled back the left flap of his suit and reached for the inner pocket.

A shot rang out to Erik's right and a red splash of blood painted the door behind him.   The old man grunted with the impact then sank to his knees and collapsed face down on the ground.

"He was going for a gun!"  called out a voice to Erik's right.

"Let's get on 'em, boys!" the sheriff yelled through his loudspeaker.

Before Erik had time to think, silhouettes appeared on the roof.  Someone shouted about snipers, and the world exploded into battle.  Erik ducked back around the corner of the M-ATV as a bullet ricocheted off its thick hide.  The sheriff's men poured fire in toward the jail.  Shouts and curses flew, men screamed, glass shattered.  Behind him, Erik heard the bark of Ted's M4 on three-round burst mode.

"Erik!  Shoot back!" the marine shouted.  Pop-pop-pop.

Erik pulled the charging handle on his own rifle and braced himself to slip around the corner of the M-ATV.  Something held him back—even fighting the Russians, knowing that they were out to kill him, he never felt so nervous.  He clenched his jaw in frustration.

Come on, do it!  You've done this before!

"We're pinned down!  We gotta get rid of those men off the roof!"  A voice shouted.

"Open up with that big gun y'all got," the sheriff's voice crackled over Erik's radio.  "We gotta get inside!"

"Brin!"  Ted shouted.  Pop-pop-pop.  "Do it!"

The M240 lit up the jail with a sound like thunder.  He watched in amazement as the attackers paused, taking in the spectacle.  Chunks of rock, broken bricks and mortar flew from the facade.  The roof line crumbled under the attack and the front windows exploded as Brin continued to lay into the building.  She swept the gun back and forth, peppering the entire length of the building.

It was exactly the break the attackers needed.  Sheriff Jonston ordered an advance.  Under the covering fire of Brin's machine gun, first one, then two, then handfuls of attackers jumped up from behind their cars and trucks and raced for the front door.

"Let's go Army boys!"  said the sheriff as he slapped the M-ATV.  His sudden appearance caused Erik to stumbled backward and fall.

"On your feet!”  The sheriff sprinted for the building.  “Now the fun really begins!" he called over his shoulder.

"That guy's sick," said Erik as he got up off the ground.

Fresh gunfire erupted from inside the building.  Ted pulled Erik aside.  "You stay by me, got it?"

Erik adjusted his helmet.  "Just like old times."

Ted and Erik rushed forward and stepped over fallen attackers.  They made it into the lobby of the jail and took cover behind the receiving desk.  Gunfire erupted deeper inside the building.

Brin's attack had completely shredded the front offices and ruptured the bullet proof glass surrounding the receiving desk.  Glass, bits of wood, and chunks of desks lay strewn all across the floor.  Splatters of blood and more than a few bodies lay crumpled at random locations around the room.  One of the men Erik remembered seeing in the pickup trucks popped up behind an overturned desk to his right.

"We got ‘em on the run now!  Won’t be much longer!"  The big gap-toothed grin on the man's face disappeared in a spray of pink as he took a round to the forehead and disappeared behind the desk.

“Moving!  Cover me," barked Ted.  "Get down!"

Ted had just enough time to scramble across the room and slide behind the next desk.  Ineffectual shots from the other side of the room peppered the wall behind Erik.  Ted peeked around the corner and then looked back at Erik.

"Go, go, go!"  he shouted before firing.

Erik dropped into a crouch and scrambled to the adjoining desk while Ted fired off a string of lead downrange.  He slid through the debris on the floor and came to a stop against the far wall.  Bullets splintered the upturned desks around him and sent papers and office supplies flying like shrapnel.

Erik's radio broke squelch: "Johnny, pull your men to the left!  We got ‘em pinned down by the holding cells!"  called out the sheriff.

The gunfire coming from the interior of the building slackened, but someone was determined to shoot through Erik's desk.  He felt it shudder with each impact.

"I'm pinned down!" he called out to Ted.

Ted fired down the hallway.  He flipped back around his own desk and stared at Erik as more bullets were sent back their way.

"Just stay down…I can't get a good bead on the shooter."

Screams replaced the gunfire down the hallway. "That's gotta be the hostages," Erik said.

"No!  Stop them, they're going after the hostages!"  called out the sheriff.

Something sounded off about the last transmission.  It was stiff—almost like the sheriff had read something off a script.  Erik gripped his rifle  It didn’t matter—innocent people, women and children were trapped in the crosshairs.

"We've got to get past this guy, he's keeping us from helping!" he yelled.

The look on Ted's face caused him to pause.  The marine simply shook his head.  "We need to get out of here."

Erik adjusted his helmet.  "What?"  He looked out the ruined windows of the front lobby, to the M-ATV waiting in the parking lot.  The turret swiveled back and forth as Brin searched for targets on the roof.

Bullets peppered the top of the desk again.  Erik ducked back down.

"God dammit…" muttered the sheriff.  "Cease-fire!  Cease fire!"

Silence settled onto the ruined jail.  Ted risked a glance around the side of the desk. "Shooter's gone," he reported, "let's move."

"But—the hostages…?"

"If I'm right, this was all a setup.  Come on."  Ted turned and walked from the room as if nothing had happened.  "Follow me, stay close, and watch our six.  We need to get back to the matvee."  He squeezed the radio on his vest.

“Brin.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re coming out and heading straight for the matvee.  I need you to cover us.  Don’t hesitate to shoot—we may need some serious backup.”

“What’s going on?  Are you okay?”

Ted paused at the corner, peering along the corridor.  “Fill you in when we get back.  Just watch for us.”

“You may want to hurry up.  It’s getting…weird…out here.”

When they emerged into the sunlight on the front steps of the jail, Erik and Ted were brought up short at the scene before them.  The sheriff had his arms in the air trying to calm a large crowd of citizens who had gathered in the parking lot.

"How did he get out here so fast?" asked Erik.

Ted glared at him.  "I was right," he muttered.  "Come on."

The crowd chanted.  They screamed and shouted—so many at once, Erik couldn't tell what they said, but it was obvious they were mad—really mad.

Erik followed Ted out of the jail.  They held their weapons ready as the other survivors of the gunfight spread out in a protective barrier around the sheriff.  The looks they gave the crowd told Erik they were nervous.  That wasn’t a good sign.

"Folks, folks!  Listen to me!"

"Angle right.  There's a gap over there," Ted said, indicating a break in the crowd.  They still had thirty feet to make it to safety.

"We're done listening!  You're a murderer!" someone shouted in the front row.

Erik sensed the men in front of the jail would be hard-pressed to keep the crowd back much longer.  He glanced at the M-ATV—Brin looked nervous in the turret.

"Brin, you okay?"  Erik whispered into his radio.

"Yeah, what the hell is going on out there?  Hurry up and get over here!"

Ted leaned into Erik's radio, "Just stay sharp and keep an eye on the kids."  Ted scanned the crowd.   “We can’t get back to the matvee yet.  Keep your eyes open.”

“God—be careful, you two.”

"There they are!  There's those two sons of bitches he brought in!"

"He's got the army on his side now!" someone else shouted.  “We gotta put a stop to this!”

Erik and Ted looked at each other and then glanced at the sheriff who stared at them with a predatory smile on his face.

"What the hell?" asked Ted, making sure to keep his rifle pointing down.

The sheriff didn't respond but let the angry voices of the crowd wash over them.  Finally, he drew his pistol, aimed in the air and fired a shot.  After the initial screams of surprise died down, silence reigned in the parking lot.

"That's better," Sheriff Jonston said.  "It's true—I brought these boys in and they helped stop the violence."

"Liar!" someone shouted.  "We were fine until you came along!"

Next to him, Erik sensed Ted tense.  "Sheriff, we had a deal."

The lawman nodded and winced as one of the survivors applied a bandage to his wounded side.  "That we did, son, that we did.  But unfortunately, it doesn't look like the crowd is very happy with you two right now."

"Hey, we didn't do anything wrong.  You said we had to help—"

"You see that, folks?  More outsiders trying to stir up trouble.  Already wantin’ to go back on their word."  He shook his head sadly.

About half the voices screamed for blood, the other half seem to blame the sheriff.  Erik had no idea what was going on or why the town was reacting this way, but he knew they needed to leave—immediately.

"I think it would be best for all parties involved if you and yours cleared out of here.”  He glanced at the crowd. “Now."

Ted stared at sheriff.  "We never wanted this.  All we wanted to do was move on—"

"That's what they all say, these outsiders.  But they’re all troublemakers!  That's why we need law and order!  That’s why you folks need me!" the sheriff said to the crowd.  More voices than before yelled in his support.

He's pinning this on us… Erik glanced back at the ruined jail behind him.  We need to get out of here before he turns them loose on us.

"Fine," Erik said flatly.  "Let us get back inside our vehicle and we’ll be gone."

Sheriff Jonston shook his head.  "You see, I don't think that's gonna work.  You boys caused of a lot of deaths and destruction in Dunham this morning."

Ted opened his mouth to argue, but the sheriff held up his hand.  "You're right, we made a deal,” he continued, ensuring the crowd watched.  “The deal was if you helped us save those people inside—"

"No, we agreed to show up, not fight," spat Ted.

"Like I was saying," the sheriff continued, glaring at them, "you made a deal to help us rescue these hostages.  You failed.  My boys had to do all the work—you only came in at the last minute.  Since you failed to hold up your part of the deal, it's off."

"Then we’re out of here," said Erik.  He nudged Ted and the two of them turned toward the M-ATV.

"Not so fast, outsiders."

A dangerous murmur rippled through the crowd.  Erik felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

"You broke the deal, not me.  That means I—we," he said gesturing at the crowd, "get to keep your vehicle.  But I’ll be generous and let you live."

Ted bristled in the crowd’s silence.  "And our supplies?"

The sheriff smiled.  "I will consider the generous donation of everything inside your vehicle—including your weapons and ammunition—as a parting gift to ease the  suffering of the good people of Dunham."  The crowd waited for a reaction from Erik and Ted.

Erik tensed, preparing to fight.

"And if we disagree?" asked Ted.  His eyes flicked to the M-ATV.

Brin picked up on what was going on and swiveled the turret slightly.  The squeak of the metal drew everyone's attention.  Several of the men on the front steps of the jail backed up, but the sheriff never flinched.

"It would not surprise me a bit if you were to fight me on this.  You already caused enough unnecessary bloodshed in this town though, don't you think?  Look around you.  There's nothing but unarmed civilians out there.  You open up that big gun and you might walk out of here alive, but there's gonna be an awful lot of blood on your hands come Judgment Day."

That's when Erik saw it: a slight movement toward the rear of the M-ATV as a man drew a pistol.  Scattered throughout the crowd, Erik spotted more and more weapons appear.  The crowd wasn't so innocent as he thought.

"This a trap," he whispered Ted.  "Lotta guns out there…"

Ted never took his eyes from the sheriff.  "Fine.  You let us get my kids and his wife out of the truck, and it's yours—including everything in it."  Ted grinned.  “And the payments.”

The sheriff smiled.  “I bet they’re a doozy too.”  He nodded at one of his men.  “I told you they’d see it my way.”

"But we keep everything we carry,” Ted continued.  “You try to take away what we've got on us and that gun’ll open up.  Everyone on this platform will die."

Sheriff Jonston regarded Ted coolly through half-closed eyes.  "You do that and you'll be the first to go," he said.  He motioned with one hand and two men with rifles took aim at Erik and Ted.

Erik felt sweat break out underneath his helmet.  He wore his plate carrier, but they had no ballistic plates.  His vest was good for hauling gear, but it wouldn't stop the bullet from a hunting rifle at close range.  If either one of those men had itchy trigger fingers, Erik and Ted were as good as dead.

"You take our weapons and gear and we’re as good as dead anyway.  So the question, sheriff," Ted said in a voice cool as ice, "is whether you want to live to see another sunrise.  Because our little group has seen plenty of what this world has left to offer and we will not go down without a fight."

"You are deserters," muttered the sheriff.

"I'm a marine," Ted snapped, "I don't know the meaning of the word."

Jonston nodded, but the smile faded from his face.  "Fair enough.  All right boys, let them walk out—they keep what they can carry.  Billy," the sheriff called over his shoulder.  A lank-haired, greasy man with an enormous beer-gut stepped forward, hand on the pistol at his belt.  He looked like he'd be more at ease on a motorcycle than standing next to a sheriff.

"Get your truck and escort these folks out of town.  Take them to the south bridge and not one foot further.  You understand?"

“We’re headed north,” Ted said.

Jonston eyed him for a moment.  "Fine.  Take them to the northern border.”

“Yes, sheriff," Billy responded with the clumsiest salute Erik had ever seen.

Ted turned to face the crowd.  "We didn't know any of this was going on.  We were just passing through—"

Catcalls and jeers met Ted's words and drowned him out.

"I'm telling you the truth!"  Ted bellowed using his best drill instructor's voice.  "We just want to be left alone—"

"Why the hell you driving that thing, then?" someone shouted.

The sheriff step closer to Ted.  "Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry I dragged you into this.  Y'all need to get out of here.  Hate me all you want, but you make your peace with it later.  If you want to keep your family alive, I suggest you leave with Billy."

That was all the motivation Erik needed.  He stepped toward the M-ATV and the crowd backed up.  Casting one wary glance at the angry faces surrounding the vehicle, he reached up and unlatched the passenger side suicide door.

"Brin?"

"I'm on it—we're coming."

Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw Ted near the sheriff, watching.  He appeared casual enough, but Erik spotted how Ted had shifted his body so his rifle—though not aimed at anyone—pointed at the sheriff.  One pull of this trigger and Sheriff Jonston would get a bullet in the chest.  The sheriff did his best to ignore the implied threat and held his side, trying to hold his bandage in place.

"If y'all could kindly get a move on…" he looked down at his side.  "I'm in need of a bit of medical attention."

"Let's go, kids," Brin said as she emerged into the sunlight.

Erik helped Lindsay and Teddy out of the M-ATV, both of them loaded with bags of supplies.  Brin worked fast.  He smiled at her when she appeared, fully loaded with a backpack and shotgun.  She ignored his hand and got down.

Erik didn't relax until Billy's red truck pulled through the crowd and the last of the shouts and thrown trash fell behind them.  He and the kids and Brin sat in the filthy bed, wedged in among the empty beer cans that rattled around as Billy weaved his way through town.

Erik turned and looked through the grimy rear window to see Ted talking to the driver as they sped north.  Dunham was a small town, and it only took a few minutes for them to pass through the last of the residential streets and onto a small two-lane road that led north.

Billy brought the aging truck to a shuddering stop just across the town line.  Erik jumped over the side of the truck and helped the others out of the back as Ted exited the front seat.

Without a word, Billy turned the car south.  He rolled down the window and sneered at them.  "Sheriff must like you.  We don't normally let prizes go," he said.

Erik glared at the man.  His greasy eyes never left Brin.  Erik took a step forward, but Ted shot out an arm and held them back.

"Not worth it."

Billy laughed and hit the gas, spinning tires and sending pebbles and dust in their faces.  The children shrieked and ducked as the truck roared off back into town to the tune of Billy's laughter.  They stood there until the truck disappeared through the trees around a bend in the road.

"Is it too soon for me to say I told you so?" muttered Brin.

“Yes,” Erik and Ted said in unison.

Erik sighed and looked up at the blue dome overhead.  At least it was October and they wouldn't have to deal with the sweltering heat of a Georgia summer as they walked.

"I'm sure we'll find a car or something on the way.  Let's get moving.  We're wasting daylight," said Ted.

They'd only taken a dozen steps when the distinct sound of the M-ATV's turret machine gun rolled like thunder down the road toward them.  The ominous brak-brak-brak shattered the surrounding stillness.  Lindsay began to cry quietly.  Teddy reached up and took Erik's hand.  His little fingers squeezed tight.

"Come on, we gotta move," Erik said as he urged the group north.

Ted stood still, staring back toward town.  "You keep them moving."

Erik stopped in the road while Brin took the hands of the children and kept them walking, talking softly to Lindsay.  "What are you talking about?" asked Erik as he stepped up next to Ted.  "Come on, we gotta get the hell out of here.  We're lucky to be alive and have what we have."

"I can't walk away."

Erik sighed and rolled his eyes.  "Dude, we don't have a choice.  We have our lives, we escaped—everybody's safe.  Let's keep it that way."  Erik turned to leave.

"Keep walking north, I'll meet up with you by sundown."

Erik turned and sighed again.  His pack suddenly felt like it weighed 200 pounds.  "What’re you going to do?" he asked quietly.

Ted looked over his shoulder and grinned.  "I'm gonna get us a car."

Chapter 18

Welcome to Florida

HAKIM STEPPED OFF THE gangplank leading off the rusted bucket of bolts the crew called a ship, inhaled the humid air and frowned at the smell of rotting vegetation and seawater. He had no idea why people seemed to flock to coastal cities. They perpetually smelled of swamp water.

"Welcome to Tampa, brother!" exclaimed Saldid.  "Is it not glorious?"

Hakim frowned and shook his head at his partner's exuberance.  He'd expected to see some sort of international police presence guarding the shipping lanes. That said, he had not expected to be stopped at gunpoint as he walked down the gangplank.

After all, Mexico, the proxy that facilitated his movement across the Gulf and back into the America, was in cahoots with China thanks to a brokered deal by his own people. Russia was also semi-attached to the whole enterprise, though they always did things their own way. They were on the same side—they all shared a common enemy in the United States—but the Russians were proving to be most unpredictable.

Hakim kept his hands up along with the others as Russian guards yelled and aimed weapons at all the passengers disembarking.  They lined everyone up at gunpoint and forced them to stand in the sun, sweating with their luggage.  A pair of Russians moved down the line, checking paperwork and verifying identification.

An officer, armed with only a pistol and a clipboard interviewed each person in passable Spanish. Immediately behind him was a stern-faced soldier with an AK-47 held at the ready across his chest.

Hakim caught Saldid's bloodshot eyes. Follow my lead. His partner nodded. They had spent enough time together causing mayhem and destruction in Arizona to know exactly what the other was thinking.

As Fistbrothers, their entire mission was to spread discord, chaos, and destruction. Being interrogated at border checkpoints by an occupying army of foreigners was not part of the plan.

Their only task for the day was to link up with brothers in arms at a safe house in Tampa. The Fist had used the invasion-induced chaos to sneak in hundreds of operatives and gather sleeper cells from all over the state in preparation for the next major offensive.

Hakim would not be held up because the Russians decided to throw their weight around and put on a show for the Chinese over who controlled Florida.

At last it was his turn. The sweating, pink-faced officer stood before Hakim and stared at him with hard, cruel blue eyes. He looked down at his clipboard and mumbled something in terrible Spanish.

Hakim waited a split second for Saldid to clear his throat. The guard shifted to the right to see around his officer.  Hakim chose that moment to step forward, draw his knife and stab the officer in his throat.

At the same time, his left hand reached for the officer's gun.  He tilted the entire holster toward the stunned guard and pulled the trigger four times, destroying the holster and the soldier's right knee in the process.

In less than five seconds it was over. Hakim pulled the pistol free and fired two times into the air, scattering the stunned passengers in every direction.  Saldid unstrapped the soldier’s AK-47 and shot the crippled man point blank in the face as he begged for his life in broken English.

"We are the Fist," Saldid said, wiping splattered blood  from his face.  "Do not expect mercy—you Russians should know us better than that." He spat on the corpse.

Hakim shouldered his backpack. "Come. We must hurry. This unfortunate delay will set back our schedule. Besides, the Russians will send reinforcements."

Saldid stared at the bodies and sneered.  "They're not so hard to kill, just as soft as the Americans."

Hakim looked askance at his partner as they ran for the shipping dock's exit. "Don't be overconfident, my friend. The Russians proved how hard they could be in Afghanistan. I doubt little has changed."

They reached the exit gate and sprinted across the street, ducking behind a dilapidated old cigar warehouse with peeling paint and a crumbling plaster exterior. No sooner had they disappeared around the corner than the first sirens wailed and two Russian armored vehicles roared past them, heavy tires chirping on the pavement as they raced for the docks.

"That was faster than I expected," Hakim said. "We must be cautious—the Slavic dogs are on edge."

"I wouldn't mind taking a shot," said Saldid, raising the AK-47 to his shoulder. He took aim at the rear of one of the receding vehicles.

Saldid slapped the barrel down before his partner could fire. "Are you mad? That thing is full of soldiers!  Our mission is just beginning—I will not fail now."

Saldid swallowed and nodded at Hakim's vehement outburst.  "For the Fist."

Hakim nodded. "For the Fist."  He clapped his partner on the shoulder and smiled.  "Come." The two ran in a haphazard diagonal pattern, crossing deserted streets and dodging piles of trash and debris as they made their way from the relatively undamaged docks into the heavily burned central district called Ybor City.

The Russians had laid waste to Tampa during the conquest and their patrols roamed the streets like a plague of rats. Hakim grew more frustrated as the afternoon wore on. They had to stop every 15 minutes or so and take cover as another troop carrier rumbled down the street.  In other areas, soldiers walked on foot, ready to fire at anything that moved.

They saw not a single civilian the entire time, but the Russians were as numerous as flies on fresh camel droppings.  Close to sunset, exhausted from their long trek across the ruined city, they finally reached the safe house.

Hakim approached the rear door, his eyes scanning for threats on either side of the small hacienda. Saldid walked backward, covering them with the AK-47.

Before Hakim reached the door, it opened and a man with a rather crooked nose perched above a scraggly beard met him with a wide smile.

"Welcome brothers. We've been expecting you."

Hakim knew better than to just embrace the stranger. Though they worked on the same side, they had never met—it was the way of the Fist. Saldid raised his right arm, pulling the sleeve down to reveal a small Sanskrit tattoo. It read 'the fist'.

The man in the doorway raised his left arm and pulled his own sleeve down. A faded tattoo, also in Sanskrit, read 'the way of'. They placed their elbows and wrists together, creating the sentence 'The way of the Fist'. Only then did Hakim embrace the man as a true brother in arms.

"I am Arad Zarin. Hurry, come inside—the others are waiting."

"When do we strike?" asked Hakim as the door shut behind them, throwing the trio into darkness.

"Tonight," replied Zarin as he led the way deeper into the house.  "We had planned to attack tomorrow, but the Russians have given us too good an opportunity to pass up."

"What?" asked Hakim.

Zarin turned and flashed a smile.  "A  prisoner exchange will be taking place—American soldiers are being held on the other side of town."  He lit a kerosene camping lantern and held it up, examining his guests by the soft glow.

"We know the facility, it is loosely guarded—the Americans are not bothering to fight, believing they will be transferred home.  We bribed an official to give us word of the exact time of this exchange."

"Sounds easy," Saldid grunted.  "Where's the excitement?"

Zarin's smile widened.  "Ah, but the Russians have no intention of delivering the Americans. They plan to transport them back to Siberia—as hostages."

"Why not let them?  What the Russians do with American prisoners of war is no concern of ours," replied Hakim.

Zarin glanced at him in the lantern light. "True, but such a high density of Americans and Russians together does not readily present itself often. A coordinated attack at the right time would kill dozens of them! Hundreds even, on both sides."

Saldid smiled. "Do you have anything to eat? I'm hungry. I like to kill infidels on a full belly."

Zarin clapped Hakim on the shoulder.  "I like your partner.  He has spirit."  He laughed and led Saldid down the hallway.

Hakim glared at their backs.

Chapter 19

Walk of Shame

ERIK TRUDGED ALONG, FOCUSED on keeping the small group moving forward.  One step after another, his boots crunched on the gravel at the side of the road.  He never went more than five or six steps without casting a wary glance over his shoulder south, toward Dunham.  It'd been two hours since they left Dunham.  He had no way of knowing how far they'd walked, going as slow as they were.

"I'm thirsty," complained Teddy.

"Me too," added Lindsay.  "Erik, can we take a break soon?"

Brin shot a sympathetic glance at him and shrugged.  She looked like she could use a break as well.

Erik sighed, but pressed forward.  Step after step.    He was pushing the kids about as fast as they could go—Teddy's legs were only so long.

Can't keep up this pace forever…

He spotted a large oak tree about a hundred yards up the road.  He took one more furtive glance south.  Still nothing.  They'd seen no trace of man or beast since leaving Dunham.  It was like the entire world had vanished.

Doesn't anyone have any cattle or anything out here?  This is getting creepy.

"Erik…" prodded Brin.

"Okay," he exhaled.  "Let's make for that tree up there, gang, then we can take a break in the shade.  But we can't rest long—remember the bad men back in that town?"

Teddy nodded, his eyes wide.

"We don't know if they're going to come after us or not, so we've got to keep moving.  Okay?"

His response was to tighten the grip on Erik's hand.  Lindsay nodded.  Scared, but confident.  I'll take it.

"Let's go," said Brin.  "My feet are killing me."

By the time they finally reached the shade, the kids were ready to collapse on the cool grass beneath tree’s generous canopy.  Erik helped Brin get them settled and pass out their lukewarm canteens.  He kept his eyes on the road.  Still nothing—no sign of Ted either.  Erik checked his rifle for the hundredth time since Billy dropped them off.

Still ready.

In the distance, a crow called out.  The mournful sound echoed across the empty fields.  To the west, a lonely farmhouse sat about half a mile off the road.

"How far do you think we've come?" asked Brin.  She took a sip from her canteen and passed it to Lindsay.

Erik took a drink from his own before responding.  "I don't know…we've been walking for a couple hours, but we're moving pretty slow."

"The kids can only walk so fast," said Brin defensively.

"I know that," said Erik, his voice tight with frustration.  "I just want to put as much distance between us and that town, as fast as possible."

"Have you heard anything from Ted?" Brin asked after a long moment of silence.

Erik looked at his wife.  "Nothing.  But I'm not going to risk talking to him.  I don't know what he's doing, but I'm sure he won't appreciate his radio going off."

She looked down.  "I told you I'm sorry," she said.

I know how that feels…

Erik took a bite of a protein bar and wrapped up the rest before dropping it back in his pocket.  The Russian food tasted like cardboard, but they discovered that it was surprisingly filling.

"You guys need a snack, or anything to eat?  Now's the time.  We have to get moving soon."

"I'm tired of walking," Teddy whined.   He looked up at Erik.  "My legs hurt.  Carry me?"

Erik sighed.  As soon as they lost their vehicle, the first thing Erik realized was it would be a long, slow walk with two children.  Especially one as little as Teddy.  He looked at Brin.

She shrugged.   "I can take as much of the gear as possible, but I can't carry your pack and mine."

Now what do I do?  Erik thought for a moment.  On his back he had his 72 hour kit with enough rations and water filters, first aid supplies, and ammunition to get him through at least three days.  Brin carried one fairly similar though lighter than his, with a little more emphasis on first aid.  She also carried a pistol.

Lindsay's pack had the rest of their first aid supplies.  So far the preteen seemed to have enough energy to carry on, but he doubted she would be going at full speed by sundown.  Teddy carried a small bag, with nothing more than a few gauze bandages and bits of food, including a few toys and small personal items they'd been able to scavenge from the Russian prison camp.  Erik hated parting with his pack, but Brin was right—there was no way one person could carry both backpacks.

"Okay, we've got to prioritize.  Let's start merging packs."

"We need to make sure we bring as much food and first aid supplies as possible," Brin said.

Erik nodded, already rummaging through his bag on the ground.  "Here, take the first aid supplies from my bag and give them to Lindsay.  You can carry the food since it's heavier.  I'll take this small detachable part off and wrap it around my waist.  I’ll put all the extra ammo and anything small enough to fit in it.  We can take whatever we can out of Teddy’s kit and put in this bag, then hide it behind the tree."

"What—you're just going to leave our stuff?" asked Lindsay.

"No," Erik said.  "We're going to plan a treasure hunt for your dad."

"Treasure!" said Teddy.  "I can go on a treasure hunt, too?"

Brin laughed and pulled Teddy into an embrace.  "Yes we can, little man. I promise we'll go on one soon.  Right now we have to keep walking—our treasure is that way," she said pointing north.

"When your dad gets back to us," Erik said as he stood, "I'll make sure to let him know to pick this stuff up on his way out of town."

As they shuffled back out on the road, Erik bent down and scooped up Teddy, perching him on his shoulders.  "How's the view up there?"

The little boy laughed.  "I can see trees!"

Brin looked at Erik.  "In that case, you have a very important job to do."

"I do?" the little boy asked.

"Yes," Brin replied in a serious tone.  "You are now the lookout.  We need you to spot any cars coming at us.  Do you think you can do that?"

"I'll look for planes and pirates, too!" said Teddy.

Erik laughed.  Lindsay chastised her brother about looking for pirates, but the toddler remained unrepentant.  As the two children argued back and forth, Erik trudged on, adjusting to the new weight on his shoulders.  The bag he carried weighed about as much as the boy, but it was more evenly distributed over his back, where Teddy sat precariously upon his shoulders.  Consequently, the toddler felt a lot heavier than he was and Erik doubted he'd be able to keep up a fast pace much longer.

"Let's get going guys," Erik said, his eyes drawn to the western horizon.  "I don't like the way those clouds look."

They continued to walk north, stopping only to drink a few sips of water in whatever shade they could find—the early November sun in Georgia was nothing compared to summer in Florida, but the walk was taxing.  Every mile they passed, Erik was more and more grateful for their little breaks, as it meant he could disgorge his cargo for a few minutes and stretch his back.

"I think you're growing on this little hike, Teddy," he said at their latest rest stop.  They stood in the shadow of several pines, just off the road as it curved northwest.

"How far do you think we've come?" asked Brin.  She poured some water into the cap of her canteen and passed it to Lindsay.

Erik wiped the sweat from his brow.  Lightyears, babe, lightyears.  You haven't spoken to me this much in the last week.  He suppressed a smile.      "Hopefully far enough that no one in Dunham wants to come after us."

Brin's eyes rested on his rifle, leaning against the nearest pine.  She whispered, "You think they'd come after us?  To get your rifle?"

Erik watched her as she moved between the children, making sure they both had enough to eat and drink.  "I'd think they'd come after their own mothers.  Did you see the way that crowd turned on us?"

"I did—you should have seen it from where I was sitting."

Erik started to say something when a sound reached his ear that made his heart stop.  "Listen," he said, holding up a hand.

"But—"

"Sssh!" he hissed.  There it was again.  An engine, he was sure of it.  The sound wafted in on the gentle breeze, fading in and out of detection.    Brin heard it too—her look of irritation melted into an open-mouthed gasp of fear.

"Everyone get behind the trees!  Now!" he said, urging the children to get up and move.  He grabbed his rifle.  "Brin, get the kids behind cover, I'll get the gear."

"What is it?" Lindsay asked.

"An engine!" Erik replied.

"Someone's coming, sweetie, we need to get in bushes there," Brin urged.

"Go!" Erik barked.

He dove behind a bush growing between two pines where the children and Brin hid.  He pulled their gear and his rifle in after him and held his breath.

"I hear it," whispered Brin, her eyes wide.  "It's coming from the south, I think."

"Are the bad men following us?" asked Teddy.

"Is it daddy?" asked Lindsay.

"Sssh," said Brin.  She leaned over to Lindsay.  "Help me out here."

"O-okay," stuttered the girl.

"Everyone down," ordered Erik.  He kept his rifle at his shoulder as he crouched behind the bush.  Please let them keep going…

The engine purred and gurgled as the car approached—it sounded powerful, like a muscle car.  A black Plymouth Barracuda pulled into view around the corner in front of them and ghosted past, the driver and his passenger scanning the road around them.  The car slowly rolled forward, engine rumbling at idle just past their position and stopped.

Shit.

Erik stared at the brake lights, willing them to shut off.  His eyes were pulled away from the car to the dark clouds to the west.  A bolt of lightning flashed in silence.  The driver saw it too.  Erik watched the two men up front converse for a moment.  The passenger pointed at the approaching storm, then the car rolled forward, picking up speed as it drove north.

Erik only let his breath out when the car had diminished to the size of a toy.  He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the pine needles on the ground.

"Are they g-gone?" asked Lindsay, her voice cracking.

"Yes, sweetie, they're gone," soothed Brin.

Erik looked up and adjusted his helmet.  He felt so tired.  Looking at the faces around him, he felt fear and relief wash over him, mixed with exhaustion.

"What time is it?" whispered Brin.

Erik checked his watch.  "Gettin' on three."  He craned his neck over the bush and scanned the road.  The car had disappeared in the distance where the blacktop receded into a wavering heat mirage.  "I think it's time we start planning to make camp for the night."

"We're going to sleep…out here?" asked Lindsay, looking around the pines.  Her eyes lingered where the trees grew thick behind them, a dark, small forest on the edge of farmland.

"We may not have a choice, Lindsay," said Brin.  "It'll be exciting, won't it, Teddy?"

"Yeah!"  the little boy squealed.  "I love camping!"

Erik lowered his rifle and tried to make his hands stop shaking.  He hadn't fired a shot during the fighting at the jail.  His rifle still held a full magazine, on top the two in his chest rig.  Just thinking about the men in the car returning made his heart race.

Shame bred anger in the back of his mind.  Brin would think him a coward for acting like this—the men in the car never even got out, yet he was shaking like a leaf.

Where the hell are you, Ted?

Chapter 20

Philly

THE SECURE SAT PHONE strapped to Major Michael Hughes' Dragon Skin armor chirped. He craned his neck down and activated the shoulder mounted mic. "Raider, Actual."

"Seeker 1, Actual, Command Actual."

Hughes looked up at his new second-in-command.  Captain Summers had been grievously injured in their New York raid. His new XO, Jeff Albertson, was a lieutenant on loan from Bravo company.

“Seeker 1 Actual, go ahead.”

The younger man shared a look with Hughes.  They both stood up straight.  It wasn’t every day a general called you on a sat phone.

"Ready for some action?"

"Locked ‘n cocked, Actual. Just gimme a target."

"Execute extraction Plan Alpha. I'm sending you coordinates."

"Dragonfly?"

"Affirmative," replied Stapleton. "The rebels have her—they're trying to ransom her in exchange for us backing off on the pursuit. I've got the coordinates—go get her."

"Understood."

"Actual out."

Hughes ended the transmission and put his hands on his hips.

"What was that all about?" asked Albertson.

Hughes squinted into the afternoon sun, looking south at the looming Philadelphia skyline.  Another Stryker roared past.  "Remember the pilot who got shot down a couple days ago?  The Falcon driver the Russians got."

"Yeah…" prompted the lieutenant.

"That's Dragonfly.  Well, they traded her to the rebels."  He checked his sat phone.  "Anyway, I got the coordinates.  They're using her as leverage to get the general to back down.  He said they're threatening to execute her so we gotta move quick and hit hard.  You ready for this?"

"Hell yes—it's just a bunch of gang bangers."

We'll see.  I thought the same thing before Washington Park.

The two officers waited while another armored vehicle rumbled past, churning up dust and pebbles in its wake.  Hughes coughed and turned from the road.  He adjusted his helmet and glanced around at the row houses that lined the two-lane road.

"We just broke through their rear guard.  General Stapleton is waiting to bring up the tanks, then he's attacking."

"So we're going in first?" asked Albertson.

Hughes nodded as he checked the straps on his combat pack.  "Yup.  Just like New York."

"Good thing I filled out my will," muttered his XO.

Hughes grunted and stepped past Albertson.   If the kid survived, he might have what it took to stay with the Seekers.  Summers would get better at some point and want his old job back.  He'd be pissed Hughes accepted the rook, but that was a worry for another day.

"Listen up!" Hughes barked, bringing his men to order.

Twelve rough-looking veterans blinked at the dust and continuous line of armored trucks rolling by, just behind their commanding officer.  All of them had survived New York.  All of them were combat veterans.  All of them were Seekers.  Hughes was proud to be going back behind the lines with this crew.

"You all know what happened last time we tried to retrieve this pilot.  We got one more shot—Stapleton just green-lighted round two."

A muted chorus of "hooah's" greeted the news.  More than a few of them nodded.  They were ready.

"We're not coming out without her this time."  It wasn't a question.  "Get your shit wired.  I've got to secure transport.  The General's going to kick the front door in…" he checked his watch.  "Thirteen mikes.  I'll give you two to prep, then we bounce, hooah?"

"Hooah," the men replied.

He turned away as they checked load-outs and weapons, talking amongst themselves.  Pressing the transmit button on his shoulder mounted radio, he called out, "Seeker 1, Actual requesting a ride behind the lines.  Reaper 3, you ready?"

"Copy that Actual, Reaper is standing by and ready to roll."

"Roger that, we'll be Oscar Mike in five."  He looked back at his men.  "You ready to bring the pain?"

"Hooah!"

Chapter 21

New Wheels

ERIK HID IN THE bushes and turned his attention from the north where the car had gone, back south toward town.  For a moment, he couldn't believe what he saw.  He rubbed his eyes and moved some leaves out of the way to get a better view.  In the direction of Dunham, a snake of black smoke—not there a moment ago—rose in the sky.  Something cold gripped Erik's spine and squeezed.

"Brin," he whispered.

She immediately moved closer to him, making no more than a slight rustle on the dried pine needles of the feet.  "What?"

"Look at that," Erik whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the children were preoccupied with getting food and drink.

Brin was silent for a second as she stared south.  "What do you think it means?" she murmured.

Erik shook his head.  "Don't know—but I bet you anything we know who's behind it."

Brin sat back on her heels.  "Think we should keep moving?" she whispered, hugging her knees.

Erik looked north again.  He half expected to see headlights any second, signaling the mystery car’s return.  "I don't know.  If we step out on the road again and keep moving north, what happens if those guys come back in the car?  Look up the road," he said with a nod.  "There's no cover for at least half a mile—the next stand of trees is way down the road there.  We'd be sitting ducks out in the open until we reach them."

"And if we stay here?" she asked.

Erik shrugged.  "I don't know," he said, frustrated.  "I just don't know, okay?"  He took his helmet off and rubbed his forehead.  All he wanted to do was sleep.  He was even past the point of being hungry and thirsty.  He just wanted sleep.  He wanted to forget about the worries of the new world they found themselves in.  He wanted to stop thinking about who was going to kill them, or how they were going to get food or water, or if they would even live to see the next sunrise.  He just wanted to be home.  He wanted to be on his parents sailboat, cruising Lake Ticonderoga fishing in the afternoon.  He wanted to relax under his favorite oak tree behind his parents' house, reading a book in a hammock.  He wanted to stop worrying.

"I said, what are we going to do?" she repeated.

"I said I don't know," hissed Erik.  He regretted the tone of his voice immediately.  Brin looked like he'd physically slapped her.  She lowered her eyes and nodded, then shuffled back to the children.

"Brin, I…" he whispered, but it was no use—she was already out of hearing.

Erik turned his back to the rest of his group pounded his fist silently into the soft earth.  Indecision will get you killed just as fast as making the wrong decision.

Erik lifted his head up and stared at the smoke coming from town.

I thought we got further away than that.  The smoke didn't look any more than a few miles away, yet they'd been walking all day.  His back and shoulders ached, his feet hurt—the kids were exhausted.  He wasn't even sure how Lindsay still remained on her feet.  Brin carried more weight than Erik had ever seen someone her size carry and she did it in silence, too.

And here he was stressing over a simple choice: stay or go?  What would Ted do?

That smoke unsettled Erik, the more he looked at it.  Something was wrong.  He glanced at Lindsay and Teddy.  Something was really wrong.  He could feel it.

Okay, let's assume that something happened.  It's just us now—what do I do next?  Erik turned north again.  If we keep going that clump of trees up there is about as far as I think we'll be able to get before the storm hits—if the kids can even make it that far.  If the car doesn't come back and catch us in the open.  If somebody doesn't sprain an ankle on the way… If, if, if…

Erik sighed.  He ignored the murmurings behind him as Brin and the children chatted.  If we stay here, we'll be locked in one position.  We'll have to cover our tracks, go deeper into the woods.  Less sleep with no shelter, we'll be drenched if it rains.  Unless I start breaking off branches.  He looked up in the pine trees and thought back to the camping trips of his youth.  He’d learned to make expedient shelters out of whatever was at hand—branches, leaves, bits of trash.

At the time, the lessons had seemed ridiculous.  Everyone in his troop had a perfectly good tent with them.  Why was the scoutmaster making them dig through garbage and sleep under rotten branches?

The old man had just laughed and said one day you'll thank me.  Erik smiled.  I'm not ready to thank you yet—you old bastard—but I can see how you were right.

He still hadn't reached a decision, and that knowledge was beginning to eat away at him.  His stomach rumbled.  Or maybe that was just thunder.  He looked up and sighed—through the gaps in the canopy above, the clouds had darkened as the storm approached.  He was no meteorologist, but his gut told him they didn't have much time.

So.  What the hell do we do?

Erik's radio broke squelch and shattered his train of thought.  "Erik?"

Even though the radio was set to its lowest volume, Ted's voice sounded as if he'd shouted in the relative silence at the edge of the forest.  Brin and the kids immediately quieted.

"Dad?" squeaked Lindsay.

"Daddy!" called out Teddy.

Erik whirled around.  "Guys, you gotta be quiet!" he hissed.

He pulled the radio off his vest and held it to his lips before pushing the transmit button.  He kept his eyes facing north, watching for the return of the car.  "Ted?  You okay?"

"I was about to ask the same thing of you?  How are my kids?" he asked, his voice surprisingly relaxed.

"We're fine.  Where the hell are you?" Erik whispered.

"I'm just leaving town.  But hey, I got us some new wheels.  Where are you guys?"

Erik held the radio in his hand and looked at the kids.  Ted would never knowingly give away the location of his kids—he'd kill himself first, taking at least half a dozen people with him, if Erik knew the marine at all.

Goddammit, make a decision!  You've got to at least decide on something today!

Erik nodded to himself and pushed the transmit button.  "We're fine.  We're about…well, I don't really know how far we are north of town.  I can see the smoke though, so it looks like a good couple miles in the distance…"

Ted laughed.  "So you see that, do you?  I wondered."

"What is it?" asked Erik, fear rising in his throat.

"Did you think I'd really let those rednecks keep that matvee?"

"But how?  What'd you do?"

Ted laughed again.  "Let's just say Marines have a natural tendency toward blowing things up.”

Erik felt a grin crease his face for the first time in a long time.  "Sounds good.  Listen, a car drove past here about 15 minutes ago.  They went by slow, checking out the trees we're hiding in.  They're definitely looking for us."

"What kinda car?  Wait, nevermind.  It doesn't matter—not that many people on the road anymore, are there?  How many were in it?"

"As far as I could tell, the driver plus one.  Passenger had a long gun, driver had binoculars.  When they spotted the storm, they drove on north."

"Any sign of them since?"

Erik took another glance to the north.  No headlights, no movement.  The only thing he could see was the hazy smudge of green at the horizon signaling the tree line on either side of the road.  Unattended crops painted the landscape dull greens and browns.

"Nothing.  Soon as they pulled away from here, they sped up to the next clump trees, then slowed down again.  After that they disappeared."

Ted was silent for a moment.  When he spoke again, Erik heard the background roar of wind whistling past the vehicle.  "All right, that complicates things, but it wasn't unexpected.  I didn't think that son of a bitch would let us walk out of Dunham, anyway.  You guys find some good cover?"

Erik tried to ignore the ominous clouds rolling in.  Thunder echoed in the distance, a soft reminder of the violence to be visited upon them soon.  "Yeah, storm's almost on us and I think we've got a good spot to hide.  We're fixing to get wet, but we'll be safe enough."

"Well, I'm making pretty good time.  I'll be there as quick as I can, just keep watching for headlights.  When you see them from the south, radio me and I'll flick my hi-beams.  If you don't see that, stay hidden and be ready."

"Were you followed?" asked Erik.

"I don't think so.  It was kind of…chaotic.  But you never know."

Erik nodded again to himself.  He sat down and leaned his back against a pine tree as he reached for his canteen.  After a long swig of warm water, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pulled the radio to his lips again.  "Oh, by the way, you see that big oak tree on the right side of the road yet?  The one with the busted barbed wire fence right behind it?"

"No, not yet.  Although I have seen—wait—I think I see it up ahead.  Light's fading fast.  Yeah…yeah I think that's it, that's the biggest oak tree I've seen in a while."

"Okay, under some leaves and a branch behind it are about half of our supplies."

"What the hell, man?"

"The kids were getting tired and I've had to carry Teddy.  We couldn't carry everything at the same time, so we had to drop off some of it.  Just make sure you get it—it's really important to Lindsay."

He watched a small smile spread on the preteen's space.  Brin looked down at her and patted her head before wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulders and squeezing.  She tousled Teddy's hair and looked at Erik with a genuine smile on her face.  As quickly as it appeared, it vanished, as if she caught herself doing something she shouldn't.

Erik latched on to that image of his wife, surrounded by kids and seared it into his memory.  That was something they'd always wanted.  Happiness, peace, and children.  He turned away and closed his eyes, hoping to control the emotion that threatened to crack his voice.  He cleared his throat.

"Just hurry up, will you?  The kids really miss you."

When Ted spoke again, Erik heard a subtle ding..ding, signaling a car door had been opened.  "Roger that.  Tell them I'm on my way.  I just got to the oak tree, I'm gonna see if I can find your stuff and I'll be there in a few minutes."

"All right, I'll keep an eye out for that car to the north."

Erik moved back to the forward position underneath the front edge of the bush and lay on the ground, settling in with his rifle at his shoulder.

"You hear that guys?  Your Dad's going to be here soon.  And he's got a car."

"No more walking?" asked Lindsay.

"Hooray!" cheered Teddy.  His face crumpled.  "But no more pirates?"

Erik couldn't help but smile at the young boy's enthusiasm.  "That's right," he whispered.  No more walking.  But you can still look for pirates.  Just look out the windows."

As the storm drew closer, the surrounding light grew dimmer.  Movement to Erik's left caused him to look south.  Headlights appeared around the bend about a quarter mile away.  "Brin, headlights!  Get everybody down and keep quiet."

Erik pulled the radio free and whispered, "Headlights—I got lights to the south."

The lights winked off and on twice.  "Is it me?"  asked Ted.

Erik smiled.  "Yes it is—boy am I glad to see you again."  Erik shifted his eyes to the north out of habit, relief washing through his system and draining away the stress.  His breath caught in his throat.  A second set of headlights had appeared on the far horizon.  They blurred and shimmered in the distance winking as the car coming south traveled over the bumpy road.  Erik's hands shook as he gripped the radio.

"Ted hurry, the car's coming back from the north!"

"Distance?"

"How the hell should I know without a rangefinder?  I know they're as far off as they can be.  The lights are winking on and off like a mirage.  Bet they're driving through potholes."  He looked back south.  Ted's headlights had disappeared.

"All right, I'm coming in blind where the hell are you?"

"You're almost here, I can see your car.  The road turns left up ahead, you see that sign?"

"Yeah, the one full of shotgun holes?"

"That's the one.  About 100 feet behind it is a clump of trees just off the right side of the road."

Ted was silent for a second, but Erik heard the engine as the vehicle raced forward.  "Is there enough room to pull this thing in there?"

Erik scrambled to his feet and looked around their little encampment.  "I think so, as long as you don't have an RV.  There's a gap in the bushes alongside the road.  I'll meet you over there.  We can get you inside the tree line—hopefully before they see you."

"There a way out of there?"

Erik spun around in the gathering darkness.  "I don't think so.  We'll have to back out."

"Damn," muttered Ted.  "Well, it's better than getting into a gunfight in the open.  The car still out there?"

Erik broke cover and raced to the side of the road as low as he could.  "They're still coming.  Must not be moving very fast—the headlights haven't gotten much closer."

"Probably still looking for you.  That's good.  Okay, I think I see you by the side of the road.  Get the hell out of the way so I can pull this thing in there."

Erik jumped back as a dark blue minivan crunched across the gravel at the side of the road and rolled down the slight incline toward the farmland below.  Erik pulled back on the bushes as well as he could and winced—the bushes scratched the side of the van as it passed like nails on a chalkboard.

When Ted had successfully pulled forward into the dense cover, Erik let the bushes snapped back into place, and hoped the van hadn't left tire tracks.  He pushed through the trees ahead of the van and guided Ted as far into the trees as he could.

Before the engine had even stopped, Ted jumped out and shut the door to kill the interior lights.  "Branches?  Anything we can use to cover the outline?"

Erik turned.  "Brin, kids, everybody find branches!  Quick!"

The next few minutes the entire group scrambled to pick up dried branches and sticks—or handfuls of leaves in Teddy's case—and pile them up around the outside of the van, facing the road.

"Ted, the lights!" gasped Brin at one point.  She pointed north.

The storm was almost upon them. Erik could smell the rain on the wind.  The headlights of the mysterious car were no more than a quarter mile away, glowing bright in the distance through the trees.

"They're close, man."

"Okay everybody, let's get on the other side of the van and make sure you grab all the gear."

Erik scooped up his rifle and stood guard while everyone disappeared behind the van.  He took one last look around their impromptu campsite and rushed over to the tree were Brin and the kids had been sitting.  He felt it was a little unnecessary, but he kicked the dirt and scratched up pine needles to cover their tracks before disappearing behind the van himself.

"You ready?" asked Ted, pulling back the charging bolt on his rifle.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Ted looked at Brin.  "Stay with the kids.  Whatever you do, don't let them be taken."

Brin had one arm around Teddy and held the pistol in her other, pointing at the ground between her legs.  "Never again."

The steel in Brin's voice sent a chill down Erik's spine as he moved around to the rear of the van.  Ted had moved to the front.  Between their two fully automatic rifles, Erik knew the two of them could take down the men in the car should they stop.  He just didn't want to risk a firefight so close to the children and their brand-new ride.

The car soon appeared, silhouetted by lightning flashes in the distance.  Thunder pealed overhead.  The vehicle came to a stop in the same spot as it had before, just in front of their position.  A window rolled down, and the driver moved inside the car.  Erik couldn't tell what the hell he was doing and prayed the man didn't have night vision goggles.

This close to the trees, the outline of the van would be impossible to miss.  He heard muffled talking, and the beat of a radio from inside the car.  The passenger lit up a cigarette, an orange light flaring inside the darkened interior.  Erik noticed there were two heads in the rear passenger seat now as well, huddled together.

Oh shit.

He held his breath, brought his rifle up to his shoulder and took aim at the driver.  If the man so much as opened the door, he would be forced to fire.  That's when the shaking started.

Erik found couldn't hold the rifle still.  Just the thought of pulling the trigger and ending someone's life sent him over the edge.  Erik prayed the car would move on before his finger hit the trigger by accident.

What's wrong with me?  I should be able to do anything to protect my family.  Those bastards  double-crossed us and now they're hunting us and I can't even pull the trigger?

The car shifted into gear and rolled forward, the window rolling up.  The driver threw a beer can out the window that rattled on the ground, then hit the gas.  The car peeled out, roaring off in the distance as the first drops of rain pelted the world.

Erik slumped against the back of the van and fell to his knees.  He dropped his rifle and threw up.

Chapter 22

New Target

STAPLETON STARED AT THE sat phone in his hands.  "Say again, Seeker?"

"Repeat, package is not in the store.  No sign at all, Actual.  This is a big fat Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot."

Stapleton cursed and pounded his fist into the console next to his main terminal.  "They moved Dragonfly!  Get out of there, we're going in hard."

"You want us to exfil without the package?"

"Yes, God damn it!  I'm going to rain holy hell on that city.  Get out!  Signal when you're clear.  I'm taking the gloves off, Seeker.  Command Actual, out."  Stapleton slammed the secure satellite phone  back in its cradle.

Son of a bitch!  This Malcolm was proving to be a wily bastard.  They'd traced the secure commlink the rebel commander had used to a specific address in north Philadelphia.  He heard Edwards' voice—she'd been there.

He knew we were going to make a play for her.  He's smarter than I thought.  Stapleton stared at the force asset location screen, watching the blue blips that designated Hughes' position as they clustered, then started to move north again.  Good, he's in the air.  He frowned.  I won't underestimate you again, Malcolm.

The general grabbed the sat phone again and punched in the authorization code he needed.  It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he needed some intel.

"Hello?" a woman's voice answered.  She sounded young.

"This is Brigadier General Joseph Stapleton calling for…" he couldn't bring himself to call Daniel Jones by his preferred title.

"The President?" she breathed.

Stapleton closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Yes."

"Okay, I've been practicing this.  You're the first one!" she squealed.  "Okay, here goes."

Stapleton rolled his eyes.  I don't need this.

"Please hold for the president."  The girl squealed again as the phone went silent.

Jesus Christ.  Stapleton held the phone away from his ear and stared at the ceiling.

"Ah, General Stapleton, good to hear from you.  Are you ready to surrender yourself and your men to face—"

"Shut up, you little prick.  I'm not here to surrender anything.  I'm calling to deliver terms."

"T-terms?" the 'president' stammered.  He cleared his throat.  "Excuse me?"  The subtle click in the line told Stapleton he was on speaker phone now.

Perfect.  "I'll cut to the chase.  Your administration is an affront to every American who ever bled for this country.  You claim the title of President without ever winning an election.  You followed on the coattails of that usurper, Suthby."

"President Suthby was—"

"I'm not finished!" barked Stapleton.  A dialog box popped up on his main screen, informing him that Seeker Actual had delivered the all clear signal.   His men were out of harms way and the armored cav was only moments away from assuming combat positions.  Stapleton smiled.

"I'm giving you fair warning that we're coming for you."

"W-what?  You're talking treason—"

"I'm talking justice."

"B-but, you can't do this!  I'm the President!  What you're talking about is a coup—a military coup!"

"Call it what you want, sir.  I'm giving you the heads up so you'll consider surrendering now and saving me a lot of hassle.  I'd hate to have to level Washington."

"You can't—the civilians—I…"

"Look at my track record.  I am under orders from President Reed—the last legitimate President—to seek out and destroy the rebellion.  Conveniently enough, they are leading me straight to you.  You sir, are part of this rebellion now that you've opening your arms and offered amnesty."

"I won't give in.  I'll fight you—"

Stapleton almost laughed.  "You and what army?"

"If I have to, I'll bring in the Chinese."

Stapleton paused for a second.  He hadn't expected that move at all.

"Yes, you didn't know about that, did you?  I signed a truce with them, too.  Was that treason to stop the bloodshed out west?  To save our citizens under siege in California?  They're our allies now and I think given the right incentive, would be more than happy to defend this government from a rogue general and his misguided army."

Stapleton clenched his fist.  He's bluffing.  The hell with this.  "If you have video feeds or any way of seeing what's going on in Philadelphia, I suggest you pay attention.  This is what's coming for you."  He killed the transmission before Jones could sputter a response.  Switching to the Stryker's in-cabin radio, he selected the command frequency and keyed the mic.

"All units, this is Command Actual.  Engage, engage, engage."

Stapleton watched the view from Colonel Vinsen's lead tank on his screen as it fired the first salvo into Philadelphia, concentrating on the rebel outpost Hughes had ID'd from the air.  The distant rumble of a dozen of other tanks firing at once brought a smile to his face.

"Watch carefully, Mr. President."

Chapter 23

The Fort

EVANS SIPPED HOT COFFEE from a mug that said 'world's greatest hunter' as he stared out the expansive three-story window west across Lake Ticonderoga.

The sun had only just risen, so the rich fall colors of the world were still gray and muted, but it was more than enough for him to see across the lake and realize the object he’d seen at the night before was none other than Fort Ticonderoga. He'd heard about the fort on TV back in prison, but as a native Mainer, he'd never visited before.

Now as he stared across the lake, it looked like the biggest golden ticket in the world. Thick, high stone walls, and a massive gate that he could easily see through the early morning fog that hugged the lake. The fort would be the perfect place for him to take control of the area. The idea of simply surviving the winter began to fade, replaced by something new.  Something hungry.

With the amount of food and water they'd secured by killing the family that had lived in his new mansion, He'd have more than enough to feed his crew for at least a few days. And best news of all, the Vermont side of the lake was littered with houses just like his new command center.

He took another sip of the coffee. It was a rich Columbian free-trade roast, probably cost the owners $100 a bag. One of the men from his raiding party had started a fire in the fireplace and before long they had fresh coffee to go with the emergency rations liberated from the basement bunker.

He smiled, remembering the activities of the night before. He'd known right from the get-go the guy who owned this place would be armed. What he didn't know, based off the trophies stuffed and mounted on the walls—he never understood why people did that, it was just gross to have dead animals hanging from your walls—was that the guy was a hardcore survivalist. The homeowner refused to give up the location of his stash, no matter the pain Evans inflicted on him—until he turned his boys loose on the man’s wife and daughter.

Their screams were like music to his ears.  The homeowner spilled the beans pretty quick after that. Once the boys had their fun, he had the girls killed, saving the homeowner for himself.  It took a while to clean himself after, but it was worth it.  He felt invigorated.  Alive.

He glanced across the lake at the pair of houses he'd had the rest of his men take last night. He didn't like having his forces split on opposite side of the lake, but at least this way if somebody decided to do something about it, worst-case scenario he'd only lose half his crew. His eyes drifted back to the fort.

But in there…I'd be untouchable.

A plan of action formed in his head. He would use the sailboat to transport a raiding party to the fort and capture it.  Then they could haul their loot across the lake once it was secure.   He'd send men out to find as many boats as they could and bring them to the fort. From there, he could shuttle men and supplies back and forth across the lake at will, raiding like Vikings, taking what they wanted, killing anyone who got in their way.

We'll be gods.

Evans smiled over the rim of his coffee.  His eyes locked on the fort. Oh yeah, this is gonna be good.  "Gimpy!" he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah?" replied the old sailor from across the kitchen.

"Let's get your boat ready for action. We've got a busy day today."

"Where we going?" the old man asked as he stepped up next to Evans. The man smelled like blood and piss.

Evans pointed with his coffee cup at the fort across the lake. "Over there."

"I like the way you think, sheriff."

Chapter 24

Friends no More

DANIEL STARED AT THE impassive face on the screen in front of him. "Mr. Secretary-General, I don't understand the reluctance—"

An expansive, if false smile spread across the older man's face. "Mr. President, I am beginning to realize there are a great many things you do not understand. Chief amongst them is how to effectively run a government. Quite frankly, sir," the Secretary-General said, clasping his hands before him, "you're in over your head." He shook his head.

"Our humanitarian forces and relief agencies have been completely decimated by rogue elements from your own military and civilian population.  The situation is untenable. Member nations have supplied troops, personnel, and supplies in the face of constant and now overwhelming opposition.  They have been wanting to leave for some time now. It is only through force of will that I've been able to hold together the coalition this long. I'm afraid if you do not reverse the trends in your country immediately, I will have no choice but to acquiesce to the General Assembly and formally terminate relief operations."  The man blinked and waited for a response.

Daniel's mind raced. Everything was falling apart. He had to have external military support to tackle Stapleton.  A few local commanders had gone rogue like Stapleton, but none were having more of an impact than the cantankerous army general chasing Malcolm.

Daniel frowned.  He needed Stapleton though—he needed the army to put pressure on Malcolm to force compliance so he'd focus on getting his people to Florida. He needed Malcolm to take out or at least slow the advance of the Russians.

He rubbed his temples.  All his problems were based on three uncontrollable variables.  It was like a giant house of cards and he was watching a gusty wind kick up. It was only a matter of time before one or more supports fell out and the entire thing collapsed.

And whoever sits on top falls the farthest. He glanced at the staffers through the window on the far side of his office. All of them thought of him as the real president. They expected him to lead, to bring the country out of the darkness and back to civilization.

An ironic question bubbled up in the back of his mind.  What would Hank have done?  What would Reed have done?

"Mr. President, I'm sure you have many things to attend to, but I wanted to offer you my personal best wishes. There's simply nothing more I can do for you."

The man wants to go, but he's too polite to just hang up.

Daniel nodded. "Oh…of course. Of course. I'm sorry we couldn't figure something else out, something more beneficial to both of our constituents…"

"There you have it…" said the Secretary-General, his face a mask of consolation.

Yes. There you have it.

The screen went dark. Daniel stared at the wall for a long moment, listening to murmured voices from the other side of his office door.  What am I going to do?

If the rumors were true that the Secretary of the Department of Education had been found alive in her home state of Colorado…Daniel looked at the pictures on the wall of past presidents shaking hands with foreign dignitaries. President Reed was the last one. Blank spaces had been left for future presidents. No one had gotten a picture of Hank and if Daniel didn't come up with a solution, there would never be one of him, either.

The U.N. is going to abandon me. After all the brokered deals, after all of the work—they're just going to pull up stakes and leave. The Russians will never trust me again.  He sighed. Kristanoff wants my blood almost as much as he wants Stapleton and Malcolm. How the hell those two managed to piss everybody off in the world, I don't know.

He drummed his fingers on the desk.  Where does that leave me?

He stared at a theater map showing the east coast of the United States and the current troop locations of Malcolm's people and Stapleton's army. He picked up his phone and the operator's breathless voice immediately greeted him.

"Yes Mr. President?"

"Marylyn, I need to get in touch with Malcolm."

A slight pause met his request. "Malcolm, sir? I don't see a Malcolm in the database here…"

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Malcolm Abdul Rashid. The leader of the rebellion. We have a secure link with him, but I don't know what the passcode is. Suthby had it all set up—I'm sure you've got it on file  somewhere…"

Another brief pause. "Oh! Oh, here it is!" she gasped.  "One moment, sir— I'll transfer you."

Daniel drummed his fingers on the desk again as he waited. And waited…and waited. At last the connection was established and a breathless voice came on the line.

"Who is it?"

"This is Daniel Jones, President of the United States. Whom am I speaking with?"

Crackling static tickled his ear as the phone was transferred to someone else. "This is Malcolm."

"I'll cut right to the chase.  I know you're a busy man."

"No thanks to you."

Daniel ignored the jibe. "I wish to propose a new deal."

"I'm listening."

"FEMA has a warehouse just outside of Washington—I'm sure by now your people could use a little extra food and water. Am I right?"

"A good guess. Go on."

"I'm going to do us both a favor and ignore the insolence in your voice. Try to keep in mind you're talking to the President of the United States." Daniel hurried on before Malcolm could respond. "I recommend you take those supplies and distribute them to your people."

After a thoughtful pause, Malcolm returned to the line. "In exchange for what?"

"I need you to delay Stapleton's arrival as long as possible."

"Why would that be, Mr. President? Are you planning on evacuating Washington?"

Daniel blinked. He had not even considered that possibility. But now he supposed, since Stapleton had moved south past the still-burning ruins of Philadelphia, he would have to seriously consider evacuation.

Stay in Washington and hope Stapleton didn't get greedy and try to snag the sitting president? Or pack his bags and flee west, maybe to the Greenbrier complex?  It was something else to add to the list of things think about.

"That is not what I'm suggesting," he said.

Malcolm laughed, a bitter sound "I can tell by the tone of your voice and how long you took to respond you hadn't even thought of that. I'm beginning to doubt the longevity of your presidency."

Daniel clenched his jaw.  Why does everyone keep saying that?

Malcolm grunted.  "I have a counterproposal."

Daniel swallowed. "Okay."

"I've recently come into possession of a high-ranking officer in the United States Air Force. A certain female colonel. She is my prisoner, but I would be willing to consider an exchange. I am not an unreasonable man, Mr. President—I understand she has family and friends who would like to see her again, if they yet live. I also understand, however, that as a lieutenant colonel, she might possibly have certain…secrets…"

"Secrets?" asked Daniel.

Malcolm grunted.  "Knowledge of your national defensive capabilities that you would not want to fall into the hands of the Russians at this time."

Daniel broke out into a cold sweat. Dear God, what I got myself into? "I see. That's very interesting. I'll need time to discuss this with my advisers."

"Don't take too long, Mr. President.  My people are almost out of food and water and General Stapleton has so far proven to be relentless in his pursuit. I would hate to see what happened to Philadelphia happen to…another city. Like Baltimore perhaps?"

Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but the line went dead. God dammit! This is not how it's supposed to go. If this falls through, I'm going to have to figure out how to get the hell out of Washington.

He looked up.  Jesus, what if Stapleton decides to send some sort of assault team after me? Daniel froze in a panic. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Chapter 25

Pit Stop

ERIK ADJUSTED HIS SEATBELT and blinked.  The road blurred in front of him, reduced to twin cones of white light in front of their van.  It'd been two days since they left Dunham.  They crossed the entire state of South Carolina without incident and Erik hoped this, the dawn of the second day, would go just as smooth.

He rubbed his eyes.  So far the back roads they'd been following remained mostly clear of cars.  He'd only slowed down twice during the long night to gently work his way around wrecks.  Brin, Ted, and the kids were in the back of the van sleeping peacefully.  They'd long since decided to stow the third row seating and provide the adults space to stretch out.  They didn't have much in the way of creature comfort with the kids curled up around them like cats, but it got the job done.

Movement between the two captain's seats in the middle row brought Erik's eyes to the rear view mirror.  By the dim glow of the instrument panel, Erik made out Susan’s ghost hovering over his shoulder.  He blinked.

"Um, Erik?" whispered Lindsay.  Her resemblance to her mother was uncanny.

"Yeah?" Erik mumbled.

"I have to go to the bathroom," she said.

Erik blinked and focused on the road.  Damn.  He was hoping to make it through this night, just like the last without stopping.  They were able to travel faster during the day, but any distance they picked up at night brought them that much closer to safety.

He gripped the steering wheel tight.  As tired as he was, it was hard to control his frustration and he had to—especially with the children.  Sighing, he realized he could use a break as well.  Better to waste five minutes going to the bathroom and stretching his legs in the middle of nowhere, then risk falling asleep and killing them all.

He nodded.  "Okay, hang in there and get your shoes on.  I'll find us a nice quiet spot."

A few minutes later, a suitable turnoff materialized in front of him. Erik slowed and passed through a deserted country intersection, looking both ways.  Just like every other small community they passed, everything was pitch black.  No lights, no electricity, no nothing.  It was like the whole world had vanished.

Erik knew deep in his soul that hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of Americans had perished in the weeks and months after the power had gone out.  In Florida, he'd seen the effects of the Russian invasion first-hand.  Yet the population had been decimated by disease even more than fighting.  He had hoped the people in rural areas of the country survived better than those that relied on just-in-time deliveries of food and water.

He shook his head as they rolled through the intersection.  If anyone was still alive out here, they were hiding well.

It was bad enough that Ted had filled him in on what the people of Dunham had been dealing with.  Ted found out through hushed conversations with sympathetic locals that the sheriff had been consolidating his power throughout the county—mostly by bullying and intimidating local townspeople into accepting his rule.  Over the course of the past few months, Dunham became the last holdout.

When intimidation tactics failed, the sheriff had 'outsiders' appear. When that failed he resorted to out-and-out hostage-taking.  That was when the town leaders occupied the jail.  The day they had rolled into town in the M-ATV, the sheriff had decided to make a frontal assault against the last holdouts.

The thought still made Erik sick to his stomach.  He and Ted had helped bring the last free town in Hull county to its knees at the behest of the corrupt sheriff.  The one comfort he had was that the sheriff would never hurt anyone again—Ted had made sure of that before he destroyed the M-ATV.

"Mr. Erik, I really gotta pee…" whispered Lindsay.

"Okay, okay…hang on…" Erik replied.  Well, we got another couple miles under the belt while she waited… That's something.

He saw a scenic overlook sign up ahead, and pulled into the side lane, quickly switching off the lights and letting the car ghost to a stop.  He shifted into park as fast as possible to eliminate the taillights.  He killed the interior lights first, then quietly opened his door, taking his rifle with him.

Positioned across the hood, he scanned around in the darkness as his eyes adjusted to the bright starlight.  One glance told him people in the past enjoyed a much better celestial show than anyone in modern times.  The stars were so numerous he could read a map.

Erik gave his eyes another few seconds to adjust to the pale light.  Nothing stirred.  In the distance a mournful owl hooted across the open vista to his right.  They were in the low country of North Carolina, so everything looked relatively flat.  He figured the most dangerous thing out there was probably snakes.

"Okay, it looks clear, hurry up," he whispered.

Lindsay opened the side door just far enough for her to squeeze through and then slipped down the slight embankment into the darkness.  She didn't go far—Erik could hear the rustle of her clothes as she did her business.

Erik sat there scanning all around them, praying for her to hurry.  The longer they sat still, the greater the threat of discovery or ambush.  Someone could be watching them right now.  They could be out there beyond Lindsay in the tall grass, behind him on the road,  in front of them on the road,  anywhere.  If someone was equipped with night vision goggles, they'd be sitting ducks.

The more Erik's imagination ran wild, the more he felt a familiar itch between his shoulders—like someone watched him.  He slowly turned in a circle, keeping the rifle at his shoulder and scanning all sectors.

There's nothing out here, it's just your imagination.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched.  "Lindsay," he hissed, "hurry up!  Something doesn't feel right."

"Okay!" she whispered back.

Erik waited patiently for a few more moments.  He  started to sweat.  "Lindsay?  You okay?"

"I'm coming," she whispered.

To Erik's relief he heard her footsteps in the grass, then he heard a startled squeak before it sounded like she fell to her knees.  On high alert, Erik crouched and moved in front of the van to the passenger side.  He peered down and saw her scramble up the embankment.

Helping her to her feet, he asked, "You're crying.  Are you okay?"

She sniffled.  "Yeah, I just tripped.  I'm okay."

Erik nodded.  "Good, let's get you inside and get out of here."

After she'd climbed aboard and shut the door, Erik took one more look around the darkness.  Someone—or something—was definitely watching him.  He shuffled around the front of the van and slipped in the driver's seat, feeling safer by the second after the door shut.  He turned on the headlights, half expecting to see a dozen armed men illuminated in front of them.  Instead, he saw only open road surrounded by trees and brush.

Erik shifted the van into drive and pulled forward, only relaxing when they got back up to speed.  His fingers fumbled in the darkness until he found the right switch to illuminate the instrument panel.  The soft glow told him what he feared.  They only had about a quarter tank left.

Well, that'll get us to sunrise, he reasoned.  There were three assorted sizes of gasoline containers in the back.  Two of them were empty, one contained about two gallons of fuel.  It was their emergency stash.

We're not seeing enough cars, he mused, watching the miles rolled by.  On the back roads, they saw hardly any sign of human civilization.  No traffic, no hitchhikers—no one.  It was more than a little unnerving.

Maybe it's time we shifted back to the highways…

As much as Erik hated to admit it, every time they tried to scout out an interstate, they always found parking lots—no matter the state.  It seemed the universal response to the national power grid going down was to jump in a car, get on the closest interstate, and get stuck in traffic jams until the gas ran out.

In more than a few instances, miles of cars had been scorched and burned.  Erik wanted to assume it started when one car got into an accident and caught on fire, then spread to the others, but he couldn't rule out the possibility that someone had deliberately torched them.

By the time the sun finally crested the horizon, Erik could barely keep his eyes open.  The van's speed had dropped down to 35 miles an hour.  He didn't trust himself going any faster—but they still moved north.

Finally deciding that it was time to switch drivers, Erik let the van roll to a stop on its own near the small town of Salemburg.  The minivan stopped, he put it in park, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

A hand gripped his shoulder.  "How long did you drive while you were asleep?" asked Ted in a cheerful voice.

Erik shook his head and forced his eyes open.  "I just stopped to close my eyes for a second."

"You know how many times I heard that when I was a deputy?"  Ted laughed.  "Come on, get out.  I'll take over."

Erik unfolded himself from the driver's seat and stretched in the chilly morning sun.  He blinked and looked at Ted.  "We're almost out of gas.  If we don't find something soon, we're going to have to use our reserves."

Ted's face fell.  "Well, this thing gets better gas mileage than the matvee, but not by much."  He climbed in and buckled up.

Erik slipped into the back and shut the side door.  "I think it may be time we discuss getting closer to the interstate again."

Brin stirred next to him in the tangle of children and supplies.  She lifted her head up.  "We out of gas?"

Ted cursed from the front seat.  "Near enough," he whispered.

Brin mumbled something in response as she put her head back down.  Erik moved up in the passenger seat and let it recline all the way back.  "Oh my God, I'm so tired."

Erik was asleep before Ted shifted into gear.

Chapter 26

Exodus Baltimore

MALCOLM STOOD ON TOP of a large delivery truck trapped in the sea of fighters streaming south from Baltimore. His sacrificial rearguard action in Philadelphia had delayed Stapleton enough for him to get the bulk of his forces away and that was something.  But was it enough?  He struggled against the self-doubt.  He'd sent so many of the old guard and youngest recruits to their deaths...he feared Allah would never forgive him.

He frowned as another group waved at him.  There was no other way for him to do it. The needs of the many often outweighed the needs of the few.  At least that's how he remembered the saying going.

After the debacle in Philadelphia, only a few people slapped the side of the truck and cheered.  He glanced north. Baltimore remained as yet mostly undisturbed. A few thin trails of smoke snaked into the sky, but he was fairly certain any city after six months without power would have smoke like that.

Philadelphia had turned into a firestorm despite the fact that power for the most part had been restored to the outer fringes.  The feeling of goodwill people typically experienced from regaining some semblance of normalcy—in this case through the return of reliable electricity—had not stopped the more restless elements of his army from running amok. He grimaced.

Will the same fate befall Baltimore? The last segments of his army were just now beginning to leave the downtown area. He had reports from some of his more trusted commanders the looting and rampaging that had taken place in Philadelphia had started again. Although with Stapleton's army growing ever closer, he wondered if trying to put a stop to the wanton destruction was a good idea.

Malcolm scanned the outskirts of the city through his binoculars. Rioters where even now overturning cars, trashing buildings, and doing everything they could to make as much of a mess as possible.  Unwittingly, they might slow down their mortal enemy.

Something he hadn't expected was the massive, spontaneous civilian evacuation.

Far off to the sides of his column of travel, he saw cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes—not to mention thousands upon thousands of people on foot—all flowing away from the city in an attempt to flee what they perceived to be an army of destruction. He smirked. Nevermind the fact most of his people had already passed through the city on their way south.

The threat is largely over, but these people don't think logically.

He'd even sent runners ahead to announce his arrival and let people know they were not in danger—at least not from him.  He and his forces were merely passing through Baltimore on their way to link up with President Jones in Washington.

He stared at a family as they exited a vehicle stuck in traffic.  With panicked looks over their shoulders, they pulled their children down the side of the road, desperate to flee before the surging mass of rebels overtook them.

He lowered his binoculars.  I don't think my warning had the effect I was looking for.  He'd have to think hard about whether to do that when he approached Washington.

His radio squawked again, another report coming in from the south about civilians tying up the roads and blocking his path. While they may be making it difficult for Stapleton to get within striking range, they were also making things tedious for him.

He sighed and looked south again, watching his people continue to move forward.  He wondered how long he would be able to keep things together, to keep pushing them south before the first groups began to revolt.

He'd already heard disturbing reports of individual gangs splitting off looking for greener pastures. Reduction in overall numbers was minimal, but the psychological effect could be immense if he didn't get it under control.

It all boiled down to a question of time. How much did he have, how much could he gain, and how much he could afford to lose?

His radio squawked. "Malcolm! Them people really slowing us down! What you want me to do? We're still a little ahead of them, but if I can't get 'em off the road, there's gonna be some shit goin' down when the rest of our people show up!"

Malcolm grimaced. "Where are you?"

"Down by the school."

"What school?" Malcolm asked, looking at his well-worn map.

"Sign says UMBC School of Technology…Don't know what it is, but we're sittin' up above the interstate.  Too many people down there so we had to come up this way to get around."

Malcolm tried to visualize where his lieutenant was, but failed.  His map listed a small college campus but had no elevation markers.  He needed to see it with his own eyes.

"What you want us to do?"

Malcolm wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was going to have to get south faster than this. The civilians were getting in the way.  He climbed down off of this truck, startled to see equal numbers of tired, angry faces mixed with the jubilant.

Whatever he did with the civilian population, he had to do it quick before things got out of control. He could not let the rearguard actions became the norm for the rest of the army. That would turn everyone in their path against them.

His bodyguards pushed their way through the river of people to get him across the highway to a small car cordoned off with loyal troops. He climbed into the passenger seat and keyed the mic on his radio.

"Just stay where you're at! Try to get the refugees to keep moving! Whatever you do, maintain control of our people and make sure things do not escalate. I'm on my way—I'll be there in…" he looked at his watch and glanced at the map on the dashboard. "Ten minutes!"

He turned to the driver. "We need to be  at exit 4a in five minutes."

"Sorry, man—I don't know how we can do that…" the driver said with a shrug. He gestured at the windshield. "I mean, look—they gotta get out the way first."

Malcolm ground his teeth in frustration. "Honk the horn."

The driver shrugged again and hit the horn, scattering the first dozen people in front of the car. He lurched forward about a dozen feet and then came up against the wall of people again. A few, recognizing who was in the car cheered and tried to clear path, but there were just too many bodies.

I need a helicopter.

Malcolm turned to the driver again. "I will get my bodyguards to clear a path to the next off-ramp. Get us on to the side streets. We'll just have to go as fast as we can."

He picked up the radio and switched frequencies to his guards' channel. Allah, grant me this boon. Help me to get your people safely south. You know I wish to avoid bloodshed, but the longer this goes on, the less hope I have for the journey to be peaceful.

"Terrence, we need to get to the off-ramp. There is an emergency south of here I need to oversee personally. Can you clear a path?"

"I can—how bad you need it?"

"It is a matter of life and death for a great many people."  Perhaps all of us.  Malcolm thought for a second. "Do what you need to, but clear that road."

After the first gunshots rang out, people quickly moved out of the way. Malcolm closed his eyes and begged for forgiveness as the car sped toward the off-ramp.

Chapter 27

Encounter

"ERIK, WAKE UP."

A gentle hand squeezed his shoulder.  Erik turned his head to the side and opened his eyes, hoping to find himself in his own bed next to Brin on a lazy Sunday morning.  He longed for that sleepy look in her eyes, a sly smile on her face that promised he would be in for his favorite way of waking up.

Ted's face filled his vision.

"Ugh!"  Erik tried to sit up but the seatbelt across his chest slammed him back in his seat.  He fumbled with the latch and the belt zipped off him.  He winced as he sat up, his back protesting in pain.

"Where are we?" he asked, rubbing his lower back.

Ted grinned.  "Welcome to Virginia."

Erik's eyes snapped open.  "Seriously?"

Ted nodded.  "We just crossed the border.  But," he said, holding up an empty gas can.  "We're out.  Completely.  I got as close to 95 as I could, but this is as far as we go without some more fuel."

"Come on," said Brin from the back seat.  "It's our turn."

Erik rubbed his face to wake up, then grabbed his rifle and hopped out the passenger door.  Ted tossed him the empty gas can.  Brin waited a short ways away with the other two plastic gas containers.  "You get some sleep?"  she asked politely.

"Yeah, I guess," Erik replied around a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Good," she stated flatly.  She walked off down the road toward the on-ramp, then stopped and turned around.  "You coming?"

Erik sighed and accepted the small pack Ted handed over.

"Focus, loverboy," Ted said.

Erik flipped him off as he shouldered the first aid pack and the last of their protein bars.  Food.  Water.  Two more pressing needs weighed down his spirit.  They'd been on strict rationing lately, but even so they wouldn't have enough water to finish the day.  Erik jogged to catch up to Brin.  His mission while she collected gas from abandoned cars was not only to provide security, but to spot any targets of opportunity and find supplies they might use.

Despite her shorter legs, Brin was walking fast.  Erik reached her just before the on-ramp's crest.  "Hey, slow down.  Let me get in position."

She didn't say anything, but dropped into a crouch.  Erik slipped past her and got near the guard rail, putting his own container on the ground.  He brought his rifle to his shoulder and crept up the ramp just high enough to see the interstate.  His heart thundered in his chest.  This was the make or break moment.  They gambled all on his idea of getting to 95.  If there were no cars…

Erik forced the negative thought from his mind and smiled.  It wasn't wall-to-wall like I-75 had been back in Florida, but there were enough cars that there just had to be some fuel for them to harvest.

Erik paused for a moment, watching.  No movement.  He lowered the rifle after scanning north and south, then pulled Ted's little mini binoculars to his eyes.

"Okay, Brin.  Go on out—I don't see anything moving up here.  Looks like we got plenty of cars."

The words had barely left his mouth before she brushed past him.

"You got your hammer and screwdriver?"  Erik called as she moved toward the closest car, about 20 feet away.

"This would be an awful short trip if I didn't," she replied over her shoulder.

Erik lowered the binoculars.  So now we're talking again?  He shook his head.  The first day after leaving Dunham, Brin said more no more than two words to him all day.  Now, suddenly she was back on speaking terms.  The more she did this back-and-forth thing, the more confused and angry he became.

He looked back down the on-ramp toward the van.  Ted leaned against the hood of the vehicle, scanning the road behind them with his rifle.

The kids sat on the side of the road playing with pebbles.  He flashed a thumbs up to Ted, who waved enthusiastically.

It would've been easier to pick up his radio and let them know, but as long as they stayed within shouting distance, everything would be okay.  At least that was the plan.

"Jackpot!"

Erik turned and let the small binoculars dangle at his neck as he snapped his rifle up.  He only lowered it again when he saw Brin giving him the thumbs-up from the Impala she had approached.  She sat by the rear bumper with her hammer and screwdriver on the ground at her feet.  The first small gas can sat underneath the car.

Erik closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.  Finally, something was going their way.

He walked further out into the road toward Brin, eyes continually scanning.  The southbound lanes had a lot fewer cars than the northbound lanes.  Erik followed the road south with his eyes—a few cars here and there spaced about every 50 to 100 yards.  It looked like a normal flow of traffic.  The other side of the road was a different matter.

Heading north, the cars were tightly packed together and as far as he could see—more than a dozen had been abandoned in ditches.  Their drivers had attempted to get around traffic and failed.  He looked as far as he could but the pattern remained the same far into the distance.

Almost half the cars had their doors open, and the rest had at least one bullet hole—some had been well ventilated.  Erik idly wondered how many people had locked the cars as they got out and walked to wherever they were going, hoping to come back someday.  He shook his head at the waste of it all.

"I wonder how many of the owners are still alive?"  Brin asked softly.

"This is as bad as we've ever seen it," Erik observed.

"Fredericksburg must be really bad, if this many people are trying to get out of town…"

Erik grunted.  He dropped his rifle from his shoulder and glanced in the rear window of the Impala.  "It looks like there isn't anything in this one.  There's an SUV behind us in the other lane.  I'll go check it out."

"Okay."

The hope Erik had that Brin would try to strike up further conversation died with that one word.  He shrugged and left his gas can as she plugged the hole in the Impala's gas tank and poured the contents of the little container into the big one.  He walked across the distance to the Jeep Cherokee that sat with its driver's side pinned against the guard rail.  The only sound that reached his ears were his own footsteps and the scrape of plastic on gravel as Brin switched containers again.

He looked around and seeing no movement, risked a glance over the concrete barricade on the median.  No one was hiding there, but he did find nice piles of windblown trash.  He shook his head and went back to the Jeep.  The tinted rear windows revealed little of what was inside.

He opened the passenger door and a stench hit him so powerful it caused him to back up gagging.  His eyes watered and he dropped to his hands and knees, unsure if he needed to throw up or cough.

Brin jumped to her feet and raced over.   "You okay?"

As the odor hit her, she stumbled backward, her gasoline soaked hands in front of her face.  "Dear God, what the hell is that?"

Erik coughed again and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he rose to his feet.  "There's gotta be a dead guy in there…" He walked up and shut the door with his rifle stock.  It didn't do much to stop the odors that already escaped, but he could at least breathe.

"That was the nasty."

"Yeah," Brin chuckled.  "You're on your own with this."

Erik stood there for a second watching her jog back to the Impala.  He tried to ignore the foul stench of death around him and watched his wife's lithe form across the road.  He missed her touch.  He missed watching her without being worried that his eyes would start a fight.  He missed the sound of her laughter.

He missed his wife.

Erik steeled himself and decided the best course of action would be to open the Jeep's rear hatch and let it air out while he worked on other cars.  As he stepped back, he saw Brin signal the tank on the Impala was empty.   She held up one empty gas jug and trotted toward another car.

Erik walked around the back of the Jeep and tore open the door while quickly spinning away to avoid the foulness that billowed out.  As his eyes watered, he watched Brin slither under the rear bumper of a Ford Escape and line up the screwdriver on the edge of its gas tank.

She swung the hammer and hit her screwdriver three times before puncturing the tank.  She pulled it out fast and slid the small fuel tank under it.  A stream of gas immediately poured out into the small container.

Flashing him a smile and the thumbs-up sign, Erik felt…something.  It wasn't relief—he knew from previous experience that even though she was happy this second, the next she might be mad.  He offered a half-smile and shook his head, turning back to his task.

Focus.  It's still a long way to New York.

He took one more look around the surroundings to confirm there was nothing moving besides birds and squirrels.  Holding his nose, Erik peered inside the Jeep.  There was a suitcase and a few small bags in the back.  Resolving himself to check out the treasure when they were ready to leave, he made his way over to the next car.

His next target was an old Buick, the driver's door already cracked open.  He walked around it.  Though he peered in through the windows and found it unoccupied, he still cautiously sniffed before he opened the rear door.  Inside was a purse.  He opened it up and found nothing but useless junk: keys, melted lipstick, pens, pencils, some paper, and breath mints.

Sighing, he tossed the purse aside and quickly rummaged through the back of the vehicle.  Finding nothing other than a flashlight with weak batteries, he popped the trunk.  Inside, he was rewarded with a homemade emergency roadside kit.  Erik glanced around, relieved there was still no movement on the road.

He shouldered his rifle and explored the kit.  Inside he found a few road flares, jumper cables, a pair of gloves, some stale gum and a few rotten packs of jerky.  He dropped the gloves and flares in his pack and left the rest.  He moved over to Brin's vehicle.

"How's it going?"

She looked up at him from where she squatted next to the small SUV.  "Not bad—this one's almost out.  I've got a couple gallons in the little can here ready to transfer to my last big one.  I'll run these back to Ted so we can fill up the van and bring it up the on-ramp."

Erik nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.  "We should make pretty good time now.  Looks like the southbound lane is pretty clear as far as I can see."

Brin grunted under the weight of the two 5 gallon jugs of gas.  Erik instantly offered a hand.

"Want me to help?"

She shrugged her shoulder away from his hands.  "No.  I got it.  You keep digging for supplies.  We'll meet you in a minute."

Erik swallowed the emotion that threatened to burst through his lips.  "Right.  We want to get out of here as fast as possible."

A flash of sympathy crossed her face, but Erik forced himself to turn away before she could say anything further.  He stopped off at the next vehicle and opened the doors.  A cloud of flies emerged.  Some animals had climbed in through the open window in the back and made an absolute mess of the car.  The bones of small animals, garbage, rotted fruit, and all kinds of trash picked up from the road had been collected into a disgusting den of filth.  He backed away, cursing.

How long has this thing been sitting here?

Moving on to the next car, he was more cautious.  Inside he found several bags of supplies.  Someone had gone shopping just before they'd abandoned their vehicle.  It looked like a kid preparing to go to college.

Boxes of books and textbooks filled the backseat.  Bags of clothes and other useless items occupied the front seat.  Plastic grocery bags full of toiletries and school supplies had been haphazardly tossed in the back.

There was a pretty good space left behind the driver's seat.  Erik imagined a box full of CDs or an Xbox or something had once sat there.  The video game controller he found under the driver's seat confirmed his suspicion.  A sad smile cracked his face.

Some poor kid on his way to school decided to abandon his car and took the cool stuff, leaving things like toilet paper, toothpaste, and toothbrushes.  He shook his head.  A sudden sadness enveloped him.

This was someone's child.  They probably never made it to wherever they were going.  A set of parents out there—if they were still alive, were grieving the loss of their child.

He was grave robbing.

Erik thought about his wife and Ted and the kids.  Things like toilet paper and toothpaste and toothbrushes, band aids, and other such trivial necessities of modern life would go a long way toward easing their journey.  They certainly weren't doing anybody any good sitting inside this car.  He looked up and down the highway again—still no movement.

Well, if I don't take it, someone else will, or the damn thing will be hit by lightning or something and catch on fire and then no one will use it.

Erik pulled out a few of the empty grocery bags and stuffed them with things to keep.  He pulled out all the toilet paper and stacked it on the ground next to the car.  Adding to his little pile, he opened the bags of clothes and rifled through them, tossing away whatever seemed useless until he found what he'd hoped for—a nice warm blanket.  He held it up and got a good look.  Maroon and gold fleece, it was emblazoned with the Florida State University Osceola head.

He was right—some kid had been headed south for college when the lights went out.  He collected a few of the warmer items and pile them up with the blanket next to the car.  Two sweatshirts, some sweatpants, a windbreaker.  It wasn't much.

In the distance an engine started.  The sound shot through him like a bolt of lightning.  His chest tightened, and he brought the rifle to his shoulder, sweeping back and forth, looking for a target.

Nothing moved in the southbound lanes.  He quickly spun and leaned against the car, using it for cover to check the northbound lanes.  Still nothing.  The engine revved, the sound coming from behind him, bouncing off the trees.  He spun back to the on-ramp to see Ted waving at him from the van as it crested the ramp.

Brin sat in the passenger's seat pointing through the windshield, directing Ted to maneuver around the abandoned cars.  Erik watched as they navigated the maze of vehicles and eventually drew near.

The van's brakes squealed as it came to a stop ten feet away from Erik.  Ted shut the engine off and got out along with Brin and the kids.

"Check out what I found," Erik said proudly as he motioned to the pile next to the car.  "Looks like somebody was heading to college," he said holding up the blanket.

"Oh my gosh, that's gonna be great for the back of the van," said Brin as she gently took the soft material from Erik and held it to her face.  "Kids, check this out.  Won't this be nice to sleep on tonight?" she asked, holding the blanket out for the kids to run their fingers through the soft fuzziness.

She beamed at Erik over the tops of their heads as they moved in.

Ted ignored the exchange and started tossing the supplies in the back of the van.  "All right guys, stay on target here.  We need to get as much gas as possible.  Brin was able to give us about a half a tank.  Let's keep pushing."

"Right," agreed Erik, shifting the pack on his shoulders.

"Erik, you keep working your way north.  This is a good idea," Ted said pointing at the pile supplies by the car.  "Put anything you find by the side of the car.  As soon as Brin gets enough gas to fill us up, we'll move forward and collect what you've left behind.  We'll fill the cans as we go."

Erik nodded.  "Sounds good.  I'll give you a wave if I find food or water."

"Roger that," said Ted.  "Somebody's got to have something out here…" he muttered, hands on hips and staring at the vehicles in the northbound lanes.

"Okay kids, we're gonna play a game," said Brin as she huddled with the children.  "Uncle Erik is going to search through the cars and pull out treasure for us."  She looked up at Erik and winked.

"Treasure?" asked Teddy in open-mouthed amazement.  "Like pirates?"

The conflicting emotions inside Erik melted at the sheer happiness on his wife's face.  What is going on?  One minute you're snapping at me, the next you're all smiles and giggles.

Erik gripped his rifle tight and turned.  He trotted off toward the next car, ignoring the sound of her voice as she explained to the children how they could gather the supplies Erik left behind.

Erik spent the next hour moving quickly from car to car, not finding much of anything.  After the initial success with the mother-lode of college supplies, he'd found nothing but empty food wrappers and spare tires.

It didn't seem like anybody was prepared for anything—either that or everyone took whatever they had when they’d abandoned their rides.  Erik sighed as he shut the trunk on a Toyota Camry.  Whoever owned it had nothing in the back, not even a spare tire.  It was completely empty.

How can someone go through life without even having a spare tire or jumper cables?  Erik shook his head as he turned and moved on to the next car.  It didn't make any sense.  Most of the cars had been empty—

A chilling thought stopped Erik in his tracks in the middle of the highway.  He slowly glanced around the cars.  There was still no movement.  On either side of the four-lane divided highway, birds and squirrels chattered in the trees, insects buzzed.  Everything went on as normal except for the fact that hundreds of cars lay stalled in the middle of the road.

Hundreds of empty cars.

Erik turned around and surveyed the scene behind him, looking at all the open doors and popped trunks leading back to the van some 300 yards in the distance.  Of course they're empty, Erik told himself as he narrowed his eyes.  Somebody came through here and cleaned them out already.  There are survivors around here…  He peered at the trees.  I knew it.

Erik walked over and checked one more car to confirm his suspicions.  "Okay, if you're empty, I'm turning around and heading back to the van and we're getting the hell out of here."  He closed his eyes and pulled on the driver's door.  Inside, the car had been ransacked.  Random bits of clothing and a belt lay in the front seats.  He looked over the head rest of the driver's seat and found a bag had been cut open, the contents of a makeup kit scattered across the back seat.

He reached in and popped the trunk.  Inside the back of the car, he found exactly what he expected.  A tire, a few pens and pencils, and scraps of paper.  Someone had cleaned it out.

"Damn," he said, hand resting on the lid of the trunk.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.  Someone could be watching them right now, scoping them with a rifle.

Suddenly, as he scanned the distance to the north, he spotted movement.  He stared for a moment, almost unbelieving.  Someone darted between two cars.  He turned and sprinted for the van, waving his arms.  "Contact!" he shouted.

Ted immediately gathered up the kids and threw whatever supplies they had at hand into the van.  Brin scrambled from underneath a car in between Erik and the van, running awkwardly with her two red gas jugs.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Erik overtook her and snatched one of the jugs from her hand.  "There's somebody back there!"

"They armed?" she panted.

"I didn't stop to ask."

Before he could say anything else the windshield of the car they were passing popped as a bullet punctured it.  Brin screamed and tripped, losing her grip on the gas jug.  Erik  dropped to a crouch next to her.

"You okay?" he said looking over his shoulder.  "Come on!"  He hauled Brin to her feet and pushed her toward the van, then shouldered his rifle and grabbed both gas cans.  "Don't stop!"

Ted had the driver side door open and his rifle propped against the frame, providing cover.  "I got movement!  At least three…"

"Hurry!" yelled Lindsay.

Brin raced ahead and reached the van first.  She threw open the large sliding and hopped in.  Once she was inside, Ted jumped in and started the van.  He shifted into reverse and started rolling back.  Erik raced up and handed the gas cans to Brin as he trotted alongside the van.  He flung his pack and rifle into the passenger seat.  Even before his feet had completely left the ground, Ted hit the gas and the van lurched in reverse.

"Stay down kids!" Erik said as he swung inside and took a knee by the door.  He pulled his rifle up and aimed forward leaning out the door, looking for movement as they retreated south.

Damn it, we're going the wrong direction…

Ted turned in his seat and peered through the rear window, driving in reverse.  "Hang on, there's a spot for me to turn around."

Erik lurched back into the closest seat as the van twisted and weaved in between the abandoned cars on the interstate, pulling backward at a good clip toward the exit.  Every move threatened to toss him out the door.

A loud thump signaled a bullet impacting the front of the van.  Lindsay screamed and Brin dropped down on top of the kids to cover them with her body.  Erik aimed out the window.

"I don't have a target!"

"Hang on," Ted said as he spun the van, tires chirping and threw it into drive.  He floored it and the engine roared.  Tires squealing, the van lumbered around one final car and down the exit ramp, heading away from the interstate back the way they'd come.

"There was a crossroads about a mile back," Ted announced over the noise of the wind rushing past Erik's open door.  "We'll aim for that, then loop north and try to get around these jokers."

Erik manhandled the door and slammed it shut.  The noise inside lowered dramatically.

"Did you see any other vehicles moving?" asked Brin as she got up off the floor.

"No, but they can have their pick of what's left out there," replied Erik, his heart thudding in his chest.  "Why would they start shooting at us?"

Ted grunted and spun the wheel, avoiding a charred car.  "Why would we run?  It's the new normal, man—brave new world and all that crap."  He glanced at Erik in the rear-view mirror.   "Anyone you don't know is a threat."

Chapter 28

Chinese Proposal

DANIEL STARED AT THE map, trying to ignore the frantic pace of the staffers out in the hallway. Baltimore had fallen. The arrival of Malcolm's people with Stapleton hot on his heels had caused a mass, impromptu evacuation— the greatest in the history of the United States. Over two hundred thousand displaced survivors streamed out of the city and outlying suburbs just as promises of power began to shine a beacon of hope to the beleaguered mid-Atlantic states.

It was the worst possible timing.

Daniel stared at the paperwork on his desk regarding Edwards' transfer.  Everything had been finalized. Great.  She was shot down trying to attack Malcolm and the Russians. She's part of the goddamn problem. Now what do I do with her?

His door opened and one of the ubiquitous Secret Service agents stepped inside. "Sir, the prisoner transfer is complete. We have custody of the colonel—she's being brought here now."

Daniel blinked.  "Here?"

"Yes, sir. When you issued the evacuation directive, the decision was made to bring her with us."

Daniel felt heat creep up his neck.  "Who made that decision?"

The agent shook his head. "I don't know, sir. That came down from the Pentagon. I'm just following orders. No man left behind, I guess?"

Daniel forced himself to smile. "Of course, thank you Brian."

He stared at the door after the agent left. Okay, that's the least of my concerns. When we leave, we'll just take her with us.  Then he smiled.

If Stapleton manages to get close to me, she can be my shield. I'll trade her life for mine. He knew playing not to lose was a surefire way to lose, but at this point in the game, things were falling apart faster than he could put back together.

He glanced at the map.  The leading-edge of Malcolm's army was less than ten miles from Washington.  Stapleton, as far as he could tell, was still north of Baltimore, but that wouldn't last long. The video reconnaissance from drones orbiting Baltimore showed Stapleton had transferred his tanks onto flatbed trucks and was transporting them around the 695 loop.

He's trying to get his tanks south first. That's not good.  He's playing offense.  If he's moving his tanks that early, what kind of units has he already slipped south?  Does he have any special forces?  Why didn't someone tell me about that?

The phone on his desk rang, interrupting his dark thoughts on the best route to evacuate to the Greenbrier bunker.

West Virginia. How the hell am I going to run the country from West Virginia?

He picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"I… I'm sorry, Mr. President, I don't mean to interrupt—”

He sighed.  "What is it Marylyn?"

"You have a call…from a Minister Shin Ho.  Or maybe it's just Mr. Shin Ho.  I can't really tell," she whispered.  "His accent is so thick."

"Who?"

"I know, right? I said the same thing!" his secretary cleared her throat. "I mean, I'm sorry, sir. I don't know who he is, but he claims to be an official representative of the Chinese government.  And he already had the proper codes…"

"What does he want?"

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't ask. Hang on, I'll go check—”

Daniel rolled his eyes again. "No, no. Just put him through. Thank you."

"Hello Mr. President," said a heavily accented voice—Marylyn was right. "My name is Shin Ho. I am Minister of the Interior for the People's Republic. It is a pleasure to be finally speaking with you."

"Mr. Ho, I've heard good things about you," Daniel lied.  Politicians always liked to hear that.  Didn't they?  "Thank you for calling. Has your country reached a decision on my proposal?"  Please say yes.

A polite chuckle crossed the line. "Mr. President, I believe I should be asking you that question. We've been watching the disturbing events taking place near your nation's capital. My sympathies and condolences are yours, sir."

Daniel sighed. Is everyone out there watching us like some Goddamn reality TV show? "Thank you, minister."  What's your God damn decision?  Are you going to accept my offer or not? Daniel opened his mouth to give voice to his thoughts when the minister spoke.

"We have considered your proposal, and in light of the current situation, I have a counter-offer for you, Mr. President."

Daniel tasted bile in the back of his throat. "With all due respect, minister, what exactly makes you think that I would be open to hearing a proposition from you? Your people have invaded several states in my country and if the reports are accurate, destroyed several major cities. This is unacceptable."

"Ah, yes. Phoenix.  I regret to inform you Mr. President, my people had nothing to do with that—insurgent vigilantes from your own civilian population started the conflagration that destroyed Phoenix.  We have been trying to provide humanitarian aid in line with the United Nations mandate.  Unfortunately, our soldiers have been forced to defend themselves, sometimes with costly results for the local civilian population…"

"Vigilantes you say?"  Why wasn't I told of this?

"Indeed, Mr. President.  They called themselves the Regulators."

"Called?"

The minister cleared his throat.  "They have been destroyed, Mr. President.  But their influence lives on. All these people want to do is fight and make war. They don't understand that peace is a far better alternative."

"I see…" Daniel said cautiously.

"Mr. President I will come to the point. I know about the deal you cut with the Russians. I know about your offer to the rebels. I wish to secure my own deal for China. Help us track down and fight these insurrectionists in Arizona and California. Help me stop the needless slaughter of my troops and in return I will make sure they follow the strictest of orders to leave civilian populations alone."

Daniel stared at the map of the invasion with an open mouth.  "You want me to help you invade my own country?  I offered you a truce if you'd stop hostilities in exchange for assistance on the east coast and you want me to actively support your invasion in the southwest?"

"If you do, I can guarantee the swift arrival of Chinese forces to help stop your rogue army and end the rebellion.  My people are standing by.  Check your satellite imagery. You know this to be true. Within 36 hours, I can have an army division four times the size of the one outside your capital city ready to take back your country for you. All I ask, is a tiny bit of land in California and Arizona."

Daniel thought about this for a moment. He forced himself to get over the gut-wrenching aspect of ceding part of the United States to a foreign power. It was easier this time that it had been when he was dealing with the Russians, but he still didn't like the idea.

"Let's say I agree to this plan of yours. What guarantee do I have you'll keep your word?"

The cultured voice laughed softly another in the line. "Why, you have no guarantee at all. Beggars cannot be choosers—I believe that is how the saying goes in your country? You Mr. President, are perhaps the greatest beggar in the history of the world. I'm offering you a solution to all of your problems. I understand if you wish take some time to think about it. In your position, I might do the same."

"Well…"

"Think quickly Mr. President—this offer does have a time limit. If the rebels or your rogue army happen to capture Washington, I am unsure as to whether anything can be done to help you."

"I…thank you," Daniel said. "How will I contact you? I mean, once I've made my decision?"

Shin Ho laughed again. "Not to worry, Mr. President—I will contact you. Good day."

The line went dead.

Daniel slammed the phone down. He felt like he was being pulled in a hundred different directions at once. Why the hell did I ever want this job?

Chapter 29

Liberate D.C.

"WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT they say, 'third time's the charm.'"

Hughes stared at Albertson, sitting across the cabin in their Black Hawk, strapped securely in his jump seat.

"What?" asked his XO.

Hughes shook his head.  "This isn't the third time.  If we find her, that's great, but our target is the president."

"We're going after the president?" asked the young officer over the noise of the helicopter's rotors.  "Dude, I didn't sign up for that."

Hughes frowned, though he had to agree with his lieutenant.  "I didn't either, but keep in mind what the general said—Jones wasn't elected.  He assumed power.  He took the reigns of government after Suthby died—he wasn't elected either, but he tried to at least act like a president.  Jones is running around making treaties with the ChiComs for Chrissake.  That shit's gotta stop."

"Hooah," replied Albertson.

Hughes checked his watch.  It had been only a few hours since their hasty retreat from Philly and immediate retasking to Washington.  He stared out open side door and frowned at the city below.  Everything was moving so fast.  One minute he's trying to rescue a downed pilot in an American city, the next he's assaulting Washington, D.C. and trying to capture a sitting president.

Well, sort of president.

He let the thoughts tumble and percolate in his mind as he watched the sprawling suburbs of Washington drift under their ride.  Lifting his eyes up, he focused on the dozens of helicopters ferrying hundreds of troops toward the nation's capital.  Between the Black Hawks and their haze-gray Sea Hawk cousins, Hughes estimated they had a combined Army/Navy task force big enough to be called a proper battalion.

"Look at 'em down there…" muttered Albertson, leaning out the door to stare at the ground.  "There's hundreds of people in the streets, just watching us."

"They probably think we're relief workers or something.  Washington hasn't had any help since the U.N. pulled out."

"How many rebels you think they left behind as sleepers?" asked Albertson, still staring at the ground.

"Too many."  Hughes didn't want to think about it.  It was hard enough to wrap his mind around the idea that they were going after the president.  He just wished he knew what Stapleton's endgame was—no one said anything about what would happen when they found the president.

"Heads up Seeker, we're ten mikes out.  Lead units reporting small arms fire,"  reported the pilot.

Before Hughes could answer, a faint ping echoed just outside the cockpit.

His XO flinched.  "They're shooting at us!"

No shit, Sherlock.  "All right Seekers, listen up!  The LZ's going to be hot, so get ready!  The rebels may have left us some surprises, so I want any foot mobiles you encounter considered hostile until confirmed friendly."

The somber nods were all the confirmation he needed.  They had gone in twice now to find the missing pilot.  General Stapleton told him the rebels had transferred her into the president's custody in exchange for support as the horde moved through Washington.  He didn't think President Jones had the balls to execute her, but he might use her in other ways to slow down Stapleton.

A gray jet screamed over the phalanx of helicopters.  Three more followed, all of them loaded for combat.  He spotted missiles under the wings on the Hornets.  The others—Lightnings, if his guess was right—had external fuel pods instead.

"That's the Navy!" his XO called out, pointing to one of the jets as it streaked ahead.   "They're softening up the LZ for us."

"Hooah!" the men cheered as the first thunderous boom sounded.

The pilot banked the Black Hawk in formation with three others and Hughes found himself staring at the ground as they circled over The Mall.

"There's the LZ!" he shouted over the noise of the rotors.  Plumes of red, green, and orange smoke set up in repeating patterns littered the wide, green space between the Washington Monument and the Capitol Building.  Explosions rocked the structures around The Mall as fighters circled overhead and delivered their ordinance.

"Jesus God," muttered his XO.  "What the hell are we doing?"

Hughes stared at the bubbles of over-pressure rippling the air around the explosions below.  Debris and smoke sailed blossomed over each one.

"Taking back our country," Hughes muttered as the Black Hawk flared for a combat landing.

I hope.

Chapter 30

All in the Family

EVANS STOOD AT THE top of the driveway, staring at the house. The mailbox next to him read Larsson. From this position, he saw the house next door, where the mysterious ‘colonel’ lived, was much closer than the Holden house.

Have to deal with him today, too.

He'd let this cluster of houses alone for far too long, occupied as he was with more lucrative playthings across the lake.  But today all that was going to change.

He had the fort now, a secure base of operations and it was time to take complete control over the lake. He was doing a fine job spreading his reign of terror out from Fort Ticonderoga but this was the final loose end he needed to tie up before he could turn all of his men loose on the town of Ticonderoga itself.

"You know what to do," he said to his new XO.  Carl wasn't as smart as Bondo had been, but he got the job done without questions.  "Get to it."

His greasy-haired second-in-command mumbled confirmation of the order, then grabbed three big brutes. They boldly walked up to the front door without bothering to be discreet.

"You in the house!" Evans called out from the driveway, his voice echoing off the snow-muffled landscape.  "Come on out with your hands up and nobody gets hurt."

He had two men stationed at the rear of the house and two more to his right with armed guns they’d taken from mansions across the lake.  A third pair watched over the colonel's house. Evans opened his mouth to repeat his warning when the door to the Larsson house cracked open and a face appeared.

"Get the hell out of here! We don't want any trouble!"

Evans chuckled. "Well, trouble's found you! So come on out or—”

The face in the door disappeared, replaced by a shotgun barrel. There was no time for a warning—the gun went off, shattering the silence of the early afternoon.  One of his men crumpled to the snow in a spray of red.

Then all hell broke loose.

Carl charged forward, screaming as his own shotgun blasted a hole in the front door.  He stepped aside as one his brutes rushed forward.

The homeowner fired once more, taking off the side of the poor bastard's head and some of his shoulder with it. The brute’s body toppled back in the snow spraying blood. Then Carl signaled his last remaining man to the front door. He smashed into it, knocking the old man back and disappeared inside the house.  Carl whooped and followed his lackey inside, the blast of his shotgun lighting up the foyer.

Evans stood there with his hands in his pockets, waiting at the top of the driveway. He watched as gunfire flashed back and forth inside the house, expecting to see his men emerge triumphant any second.

He then saw his men exit the house limping—without their weapons. Evans' eyebrows came together as he frowned. He walked forward, stepping over the bodies of the fallen and approached the front door as Carl made to run past.

The barrel of the shotgun emerged again from the ruined front door, but before the homeowner could fire, Evans reached out and ripped it free in one savage twisting motion. He turned and tossed the weapon to Carl.

Reaching back into the doorway, he grabbed a handful of flannel robe and dragged the sputtering old man out into the snow. His wife screamed from the doorway and begged for mercy.

A sudden burst of gunfire erupted from the neighbor’s house on his right as the colonel shouted defiance and fired. The men around him dove for cover, but Evans ignored it. He had snipers up by the road that would take care of the cantankerous neighbor soon enough. He had other issues to worry about.

He smelled smoke.

Forcing Larsson to his knees in his own front yard, Evans stared into the house and saw the glowing flicker of fire.  Shadows danced on the walls.  The house was doomed.

Dammit, I told those assholes not to burn anything.  It's going to send a helluva smoke signal on a calm day like this. He glanced up at the cloudless blue sky.

"You got anything in there worth saving?"

"Screw you!" the old man spat.

"Any food? Weapons? Liquor?" Evans asked, ignoring the outburst.

"Please! Don't hurt him—” the old lady whimpered from the porch.

One of his crew backhanded her and sent her reeling in the snow, but it didn't stop her crying.

"Leave her alone, you animals!" the old man growled.

"Fine!" Evans replied.  He slammed his fist into the side of Larsson's head.  The old man grunted and kissed the snow.

A rifle cracked and Evans heard something buzz past his head.

"You'll never take us alive!" called out a strong voice from the colonel’s house.  A rifle cracked and another chunk of snow erupted at Carl's feet.

"Will you morons take care that old bastard already?" Evans roared. His men finally returned fire.   Evans knew he had to move quick, or they’d lose everything inside—the Larsson house was already engulfed in flames.

"Find anything?" he hollered at the men inside.

"Nothing! It's too hot in here—we gotta get out!"

"My house!" the old woman wailed.

"You son of a bitch," said Larsson through clenched teeth as he tried to rise up from the snow.

Evans pulled out his crampon. The old man looked at the spike in his hand and glanced up at Evans. Recognition dawned in his eyes. He knew his time was up.

"I would ask if you want to say any last words…" Evans said.

The old woman screamed again. Evans took the crampon and slammed it into the side of Larsson's head. He sputtered a wet cough and collapsed into the snow.

"…but I don't really give a fuck what you’ve got to say."

Carl swung his shotgun at Larsson's wife, catching her on the side of the head.  She fell into the snow, silent at last. Evans turned and watched the flames eat at their house.

One of his men jogged up through the snow, bloody but grinning.

"You get him?" Evans called through the smoke.

"I think so—I’m sure I winged ‘im!  He stopped firing at us," was the shouted reply.

Evans looked up at the thick black smoke soaring up in the sky. So much for doing this quick and quiet.

He put his hands to his face and bellowed, "Change of plan! Let's head into town. People will see this smoke for miles around. If we don't hurry, we'll miss out on all the fun."

"What about that one?  Should we make sure he’s dead?" one of his men said, pointing his rifle at the neighbor’s house.

"Naw, it ain’t worth it.  Set it on fire—we gotta go. Let the old fucker burn if he's still alive."

"And her?" asked Carl, pointing his shotgun at Larsson's wife.

"Why?  You want her?" Evans asked, his mouth curled up in a crooked grin.

Carl licked his lips.  "Maybe."

Evans shrugged.  "Bring her with us.  But she's your responsibility now."

Carl grinned.  "She may be old, but I like the way she moved."

"Whatever."  Evans turned and marched up the driveway, his men falling in behind him. Ashes drifted down on top of them as they passed under the smoke cloud of the dying house.

Glancing over his shoulder, Evans saw the flames already licked at the front door of the colonel's place. Before long, both houses would be reduced to nothing but piles of soot and ash.

Evans smiled. "Let's go boys, it's time for us to hike into town."

Chapter 31

Run

"WE HAVE TO LEAVE—right now!" barked a Secret Service agent.

Daniel stood from his desk and stuffed his latest treaty proposal in his briefcase. "Fine, fine! Let's go."

The instant he stepped out into the hallway, two more agents grabbed his arms and rushed him toward the far exit. A third ran ahead of them, clearing staffers on the way, physically shoving them back as they stepped up to join the panicked stampede.

Washington, D.C. was about to fall.

After a swirl of corridors, shouts and screams, Daniel was passed off from agent to agent until dumped in the back of a black Secret Service Suburban.  He struggled to retain some dignity, but felt like a sack of potatoes.

"Foxtrot is mobile!  Repeat, Foxtrot is mobile! Let's roll!" one of the agents said as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Foxtrot?  Good grief, is that what you've been calling me?

The Suburban lurched into gear and peeled out of the underground parking garage, led by two other identical vehicles. Daniel, in the third vehicle, gawked out the bulletproof windows. Two more Suburbans followed, their headlights dim and murky through the heavily tinted glass.

"Sir, please stay down!" the agent next to him said, forcing the president to lay down. "We waited as long as possible, but we have reports there's widespread looting and violence already taking place in the northern suburbs."

"It's not safe anymore, sir. Just listen to us, and we'll get you out of here," said the agent from the front seat.

Daniel heard the telltale clatter of weapons being prepped for battle.  The driver cursed, and the vehicle lurched left, tires chirping.

"Ow!" he complained as his head smacked the door frame.  He listened to the agents talk amongst themselves as he rubbed the sore spot.  The dash radio crackled constantly, relaying positions back and forth between the other vehicles.

"I'll take Two with me—turning left…now!"

Daniel peered through the windshield in time to see the first black Suburban disappear around the corner to the left as they passed a major intersection. Police cars blocked the road with flashing lights as mobs of civilians streamed across sidewalks. Daniel was shocked to see how many carried bags and suitcases.

They looked thin and hungry. They looked completely panicked.  It's another evacuation.

"Two going left…" said another voice over the radio. "…now!"

Daniel watched the second Suburban cross the street under a hail of objects thrown from the civilians.

"Three going straight. Four and five, you're with me," said Daniel's driver. They barreled forward, smashing through a police barricade as frightened citizens jumped out of the way. Rocks and bottles smashed against the armored sides of the SUV.

"They're throwing—keep your eyes open for weapons," called out the man in the front seat.

Confirmations crackled over the radio, along with status updates from the other vehicles. Daniel heard squealing tires behind them and spotted one of the other Suburbans turn down a side street.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"Decoys, sir. The number of unsubstantiated threats we have against your person have been skyrocketing over the past week. And with Stapleton breathing down our necks, this is the safest way to get you out. We don't have air superiority, so we can't risk flying out on Marine One. We spotted drones in the air too—at least this way they won't know which one you're in," the agent said, gesturing at one of the trucks that disappeared down the last side street.

"Hang on, making a turn!" called out the driver. "Three, going left…now!" The big vehicle swerved around another police barricade, tires squealing. He heard screams and shrieks a split second before something impacted the side of the vehicle and made his teeth rattle.

"Jesus! You hit somebody!" he called out.

"That's their problem," replied the driver. "My job is to get you to safety, sir—no matter the cost."

"Mr. President, please stay down," begged his minder.

A high-pitched ping sounded from the rear the vehicle.

"Taking incoming small arms fire," warned the driver.

The radio crackled as other drivers reported coming under attack.

"They're shooting at us?" asked Daniel.

"It's got to be Stapleton's advance elements. They snuck in among the civilians!" replied the agent in the passenger seat.

My God, all those people out there will be trapped in the middle. "Wait—where's that pilot?"

"Sir?" asked the agent next to him.

"Edwards!  The prisoner transfer?"

The agent in the passenger seat up front turned and looked over the rim of his sunglasses. "She's in vehicle six, sir—following us along a parallel street."

"No!  She needs to be with us! Get that vehicle in line with us, right now!"

"Sir, I don't advise—”

"I don't give a damn what you advise! I'm the President of the United States!" Daniel exploded. "I order you to bring that vehicle in line with us right now! She's too high value to lose—we have to have her—she has to be with me!"

The agent held the president's gaze for a split-second longer than necessary, then slowly faced forward. He reached out for the radio. "Six, what's your status?"

"Heading west on Arlington."

"Divert to the main route—Foxtrot wants the HVT with us."

"You're kidding me!"

"Negative, this is a direct order. Get the HVT on the main route. We'll meet you at…" Daniel watched the agent pull up the GPS in the center console, he flicked through some screens with his fingers and tapped location. "Here. You got the location?"

After a brief pause, the reply came through, filled with static. "Yeah. I got it. Gimme 5 minutes."

"We're not waiting, so fall in line pronto and try to keep up."

Almost five minutes to the second later, Daniel heard squealing tires behind them.  He looked over his shoulder as they merged onto the Custis Memorial Parkway to see a second black Suburban,  decorated with busted headlights and bullet holes in the front quarter pane.

He slumped back into his seat, filled somewhat with relief. At least now if something happened, he'd have his get-out-of-jail-free card with him.

"Oh my God," said the driver. The vehicle slowed.

"What are you doing?" said the other agent. "Floor it!"

"There's too many of them," replied the driver.

Daniel leaned around the passenger seat and stared in horror through the windshield as the highway before them materialized through the smoke of the burning city. It was wall-to-wall people. He recognized a big banner held in the front ranks—a black flag, unfurled and flapping through the smoke with a crude white hand painted on it.

"The Rebels!" he exclaimed

“We’ve got weapons!" announced the agent in the passenger seat.  "AKs and M4s! Get us out of here!"

"No, we have a truce—" Daniel argued.

"Six, stay on me," the driver called out as he spun the wheel hard to the left.  They took the exit for North Glebe Road, narrowly avoiding the wave of humanity heading toward them. Bullets peppered the side of the vehicle.

Daniel screamed and covered his head. The agent next to him shoved him to the floorboards and dove on top of him.

"Stay down, sir!"

Daniel felt every pothole and every turn as the heavily armored SUV plowed its way through abandoned streets, the driver swerving back and forth like a drunken fool.

Daniel began to pray.

"Hang on! They’ve set up a barricade! We’re going through!  Stay with me, Six!" yelled the driver

Daniel felt the impact before he heard it—all 17,000 pounds of armored car slammed into whatever it was the rebels had thrown up to block the road.

Time slowed.  For a moment, Daniel thought he was going to throw up as he went seemingly weightless. His briefcase hit the door, smashing open and scattering papers everywhere.  He was only able to get a quick glimpse of the chaos as he and the agent on top of him bounced around the back seat.  Then it seemed like he was plucked away—as if by some giant’s hand—as he felt himself float up from the floor.

Oh my God, we're in the air.

It happened quicker than he could process the screams from the driver and the other agents in the vehicle. Smashing glass, screeching metal, the pull of gravity slamming him onto the door at a painful angle.  A stab of pain shot through his neck and shoulders. The weight of the agent landing on top of him knocked the air out of his lungs.  Something in his chest cracked, flashing pain through his system.

Daniel felt the SUV skid and roll, spinning his world around before it careened into something solid. He threw up.  When it was finally over, he heard someone moan from the front.  An obscene mixture of gasoline and vomit burned his nose.

The dead agent that landed on top of him had effectively pinned his legs. Daniel was trapped.

So this is how it ends…

Chapter 32

The Pentagon

CAPTAIN DAVIS AND ADMIRAL Nella looked out the Sea King's porthole window.  The Pentagon filled his view as the helicopter lowered.

"I almost forgot how big that thing is."

The Admiral grunted, wearing his bulbous headphones.  "Don't expect this to be as easy as Oceana.  The new SecDef swore allegiance to Suthby.  He'll have packed the Pentagon full of loyal troops."

Davis watched as the main parking lot in front of the massive edifice to the American Military began to fill with people in orderly ranks.  Soldiers.

"Well, they haven't shot us down yet, I guess that's something," he said into the mic attached to his own headset.

Nella nodded in agreement.  "That's something."

"Admiral," said the pilot over the command frequency.

Davis and Nella looked at each other.  "Yes," barked the old man.

"We're not getting anything on comms, sir.   I know they see us—the parking lot is filling up with looky-loos, but I can't raise anyone."

"Understood.  Carry on."

"Aye, sir.  We'll be on the deck in two."

Davis half-expected the helicopter to explode around him any second.  When the big dual-engined beast touched down, the slight bump of its wheels hitting the ground came as a pleasant surprise.  A squad of marines opened the rear hatch and streamed out, taking up defensive positions at the rear of the helicopter.

Nella calmly stared straight ahead, waiting.  Davis however, wanted to scream.  He’d never felt so out of his element as he did at that moment.  He was born for commanding a ship, feeling the thrum of the hull as it smashed through waves.  He was used to being surrounded by thousands of tons of steel and might.  The thin aluminum skin of the Sea King wouldn't stop a .45, let alone project strength and power.

He glanced out the open hatch on the other side of the admiral.  A squad of marines in full battle rattle went a long way toward establishing power, but how many soldiers waited in the parking lot?  How many hundreds more could be waiting inside?

Without warning, Nella stood.  "Let's go see what's waiting for us, shall we?"

Davis got to his feet and followed his CO down the ramp through the prop wash.  The pilot kept the rotors spinning in the event they needed to beat a hasty retreat.  As Davis stepped out into the light and swept his eyes over the marines protecting their helicopter, he paused.  There had to be at least a hundred servicemen and women out there, from all branches, all standing at attention.

Davis and Nella shared a look again.  Davis leaned in next to one of the Marines.  "I think we can have the pilot spin down now."

"Yes, sir—I'll let her know."

Davis stepped back next to Nella as the marine relayed the message to his commander and on to the pilot.  After a few seconds, the drone of the engines faded, and the whine disappeared.  Another minute and silence descended on the parking lot as the rotors slowed to a stop and hung limp from the Chinook.

"Who's in command here?" asked the old man.

A two-star general stepped forward in Air Force blues.  He saluted Nella and smiled.  "Major General Oliver Ross.  As for who's in command, well…you are, Admiral Nella.  But I can't guarantee for how long."

The two men shook hands.  "What's the situation?"

Ross turned and walked toward the Pentagon's main entrance.  The marines visibly relaxed and lowered their weapons as the sea of bodies in front of them parted to allow the officers room.  Nella and Ross moved forward, followed by Davis and most of the marines.  A few remained at the rear of the helicopter, warily watching the crowd.

"Where's SecDef Masterson?" Nella asked.

Ross shook his head.  "He's in A ring.  They all are—the loyalists."

Nella stopped to look at the exterior of the massive building as they reached the front door.  "Damn, that's a lot of holes.  What happened?"

Ross stood with his hands behind his back as he surveyed the damage.  "When Suthby took power, some of us didn't agree with his decisions.  I'm ashamed to say there was some fighting, but nothing serious.  The more outspoken dissenters left and tried to retake the building from the loyalists by force of arms.  They failed."

Nella waited for him to continue.

"When Jones took over, the rest of us finally saw the light of day.  We captured the building from the inside—that's why SecDef Masterson is in A Ring with his supporters.  They called in outside help, but we fought them off and took the Courtyard to prevent escape and resupply."

Nella put his hand in a hole in the door the size of his fist.  "They brought some serious hardware."

Ross nodded.  "They did.  But after 9-11, we really did turn this place into a fortress."  He held the door open.  "We've been tracking what's going on out there and things appear to be getting ugly."

"Getting?" asked Nella as he and Davis stepped in to the dark interior of the world's largest office building.  The air was cooler and held far less moisture than outside.

"No power, sir?" asked Davis.

"Yes and no," replied they general as they moved past a guard post built of sand bags and sheet metal, manned by a squad of soldiers in digital camo.  They snapped to attention as the officers approached.  Nella returned the salute and spent a minute shaking hands and slapping shoulders, thanking them for their bravery and loyalty to the Constitution.

"We have our own power supply here—besides a direct feed to the local nuke plant—plus emergency backup that can last a long time.  We've simply shut down all non-essential areas to conserve power.  This way, Admiral."

They walked through what felt like miles of corridors, many lined with cots and personnel going about their daily lives as if the E ring of the Pentagon was one giant barracks.  As they descended deeper and deeper into the building, lighting became more prevalent.

By the time they reached C ring, Davis had to do a double take.  The lights were on, the air conditioning was on, the servicemen and women wore clean, pressed uniforms.  It looked like they'd stepped out of time and into a world where none of the insanity of the past six months had taken place.  It was business as usual at the core of America’s military heart.

"Welcome to the War Room."  The general opened a final door leading into B Ring guarded by two saluting Air Force security officers.  Inside, a wall of noise pushed out like a stream flooding its banks.

Everywhere Davis looked, screens depicted unit locations and enemy positions with blinking lights.  People shouted information across the room and hunched over terminals.  Some had radios to their ears and dispatched orders.  Organized chaos was an understatement—it was like the CIC back aboard Roosevelt, only an order of magnitude bigger.

As word spread of their arrival, the noise level slackened.   Only a handful of people failed to turn from their tasks.  Someone started clapping and in seconds the entire room was thundering with applause and tumultuous cheering.

General Ross beamed.  "We've been watching Roosevelt for a while, sir.  I thought you could hear the cheering in New York as we monitored the battle unfolding.  Brilliant, sir.  Simply brilliant."

Nella smiled—the first time Davis had seen that expression crack the Admiral's stony facade in months.  He raised his hands and waved, trying to calm the room down.

Ross had to shout to be heard.  "Admiral Nella, the Pentagon is yours, sir."

When the clapping and cheering died down Nella lowered his hands and waited as all eyes swiveled to him. The only sounds remaining that could be heard in the room was the occasional murmur of a printer in the background and a few radio operators with hands to their ears, bent over microphones. Nella cleared his throat and spoke.

"You all know why you're here—you know why we're all here. You know what your jobs are, you've been doing them to the best of your abilities. We have a perilous road before us. I'm going to ask each one of you to have faith in the Constitution and the principles this country was founded on."  He paused to take the measure of the room.  Grim faces stared back at him.

"We're going to restore this country—we're going to save it. The people demand it of us. I want to say right now, General Stapleton and I have decided—after extensive councils of war with our officers—that the only course of action we have left is to remove the current administration from power."

Nella clasped his hands behind his back and paced to and fro, frowning at the floor.  No one spoke.  Davis glanced around at the faces that watched the old man with rapt attention.  At last he turned and stared at the Pentagon's War Room personnel again.

"I understand this may be an uncomfortable idea—perhaps crossing the line for some of you. There will be no hard feelings, no reprimands, and no reprisals—if there's anyone out here who does not wish to take part in this mission to restore our country, now’s your chance to leave.  You may join the others locked up in the A Ring, or you may leave the building and go where you wish. We won't argue and we won't hinder you. We only ask you stay out of our way."

He paused, waiting to see if anyone took up his offer.  No one moved.

"The last thing any of us wants to do is cause injury to our brothers and sisters in arms. That's why any prisoners that we capture will be taken into custody with the utmost respect and protection. At the end of the day we are all Americans. When this is settled, we'll let the politicians figure out what's to be done with those who supported Suthby and Jones and their illegitimate regimes."

Nella looked around the room and examined the force allocation maps of the walls. "The entire world is turned against us. You folks know that better than most—you've got it all right in front of you 24/7. But let me tell you, Captain Davis and I have been out there. We’ve been on the angry seas when friends became enemies. We lost too many to a world gone mad and I for one will not tolerate it any longer."

The room erupted into cheers and clapping again. Nella tried to calm them but was forced to wait until it died down. "So here's what's going to happen. We're going to take back Washington piece by piece if we have to, but we're taking it back. When Jones and his administration are removed from office and secured, we will call forth Congress. Once the true government is reestablished, we as the military will step down and gladly hand over the reins of government to those who govern. Legitimately."  He raised his hands to forestall the clapping again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are not here to take over the government and run it the way the military runs things.  This country has been attacked both from without and within. Stability must be reestablished in order for the citizen population to be safe. That, along with preserving and defending the Constitution is our ultimate mission."

More clapping. This time Nella waited, basking in the adoration until the clapping died down on its own. "Now, that's enough pontification. Let's get back to work people."  He took a long look around.  "As you were."

The room immediately commenced into controlled chaos with the boisterous hubbub of everyone talking at once, moving back to their stations and relaying orders and positions.

Nella turned to face Ross. "All right, now that's over with—let's have a sit rep."

The general escorted them into a room labeled 'officer of the watch'.  He shut the door behind them, blocking off almost all the sound from the main room. Turning on a large screen that covered the entire far wall, General Ross picked up a laser pointer.

"The situation is not good, admiral. Outside of your forces and General Stapleton's Division," he said indicating on the map with his laser pointer the respective groups on the eastern seaboard, "we're having one hell of a time trying to coordinate the incoming troops from overseas.  President Reed's last order to withdraw all troops from foreign bases around the world was never rescinded.  I don't know if anyone could stop it, anyway."

"How many?" asked Nella.

The general frowned, pressing his lips into a thin line. "We've only been able to reestablish contact with about 50% of the outstanding assets." He shook his head. "We can confirm almost 30% losses. We’ve been attacked everywhere we turn, Europe being the worst."

"Figures,” Nella grunted.  “What about the Rim?"

The general frowned. "The Pacific is a total wildcard.  We expected Europe to be the most friendly and China to be the most hostile, however it's been the exact opposite."  He shifted the laser pointer to Beijing.

"While the Chinese haven't completely ignored our requests for a cessation of hostilities, they haven't overtly attacked any of our forces overseas. It's like they suddenly decided to ignore us. On our own soil, it's a different matter."

Nella looked at the map. Davis followed his gaze and found the southwest littered with little red dots and a few black triangles.

"What the hell's going on over here?" Nella said pointing at the map.

The general sighed. "The Chinese invaded the southwest."

"Fuck me sideways," Nella growled. "The rumors were true? And that pantywaist in the Oval Office let it happen?"

Gen. Ross narrowed his eyes. "And that was the straw that broke the camel's back, sir. When he announced the treaty, we rose up and took back the Pentagon. We lost twenty-five good people doing so, but we wouldn't stand for making peace with those bastards."

Nella nodded. "Retaking the Pentagon should've happened earlier, but at least it happened when it did."

"Agreed. If you look at the map here, the Chinese have sacked Phoenix, Flagstaff, and crossed the border into California."

"Sacked?" asked Davis.

"Destroyed, Captain. As in completely razed to the ground. Phoenix and Flagstaff no longer exist. We're looking at a total loss—upwards of a million and a half casualties—almost all of them civilian."

"Oh, my God," Nella said, stepping back as if physically struck.  He collected himself quickly.  His face darkened. "We're damn well not going to let them get away with this. What countermeasure have been taken so far?"

"We've been doing the best we can—coordinating what units remain with NORAD—but we're thin on secure comms. Power supplies are failing all over the west as backup generators run out of fuel. The only thing keeping NORAD alive is its own nuke plant. Most of the units on the west coast are tied up fighting insurgencies spawned by the rebellion. Furthermore, the Russians are sending planes down from Alaska—"

"They took Alaska?" breathed Nella.  "What about the SAC bases?"

"Luckily, we still control all SAC sites. They don't have our strategic arsenal. But outside of that, Russia's in almost complete control of the state of Alaska." Ross shook his head.  "It happened faster than we thought possible—the bastards have obviously been planning this for some time."

"Of course they did—just like we planned to take Moscow during the Cold War.  But we never did anything with those plans," grumbled Nella.

Ross continued: "They've been doing a fine job distracting our air assets all up and down the coast.  It's kept us from putting up a concentrated effort against the Chinese. There's just too many of them and we're spread too thin.  You hear that a lot around here lately," the general said, staring at the wall.

"Well not any more," growled Nella.  "We’ll have an immediate council of war and decide the action to take. But I'm going to tell you right now, I think we ought to concentrate all our firepower against the Chinese and take care of them first.  The Russians aren't landing troops, they're just harassing us."  He looked at the map, arms crossed over his chest.

"If we take out the Chinese quickly, we can turn everything against the Russians and put a stop to their incursions into our airspace."

"That was the same idea I put forth when this initially started. You won't find much argument among the people here.  The problem is that the Russians are stirring up more trouble in Florida."

"What?"

The general frowned, and the pointer shifted to the middle of the Sunshine State.  "After they broke the Orlando-Tampa Line," he said, tracing a red line with his pointer east to west from Cape Canaveral to Tampa, "they went quiet.  Our best intel suggests they are trying to consolidate their southern gains.  Cuba is trying to ship reinforcements, but the blockade is having an effect."

"About God damn time," grumbled the admiral.  "Is this accurate?" he asked, pointing at the positions of several  warships.

"Yes, sir.  It's updated in real-time."

Nella stepped closer and rubbed his chin.  "Jonestown?  What's she doing down there?"

"Sir," said Davis, stepping forward.  "There's no subs on this map."

Nella turned to Ross and arched an eyebrow.

The general cleared his throat.  "Ah, no—they're not listed on any map."

"They're dark?  All of them?"

"Yes," said the general.  "To be honest, we have a fair idea where a few of them are, but the rest have disappeared."

Nella smiled.  "Well, it's about time something went our way.  If the subs are dark and we still have at least a few carriers—"

"We have all the remaining carriers, Admiral Nella," Ross said as a point of pride.  "Roosevelt is the only one offline."

Nella clapped Davis on the shoulder.  "Now we're cookin' with gas."

As the two flag officers discussed the pros and cons of troop deployments and what it meant that the Russians weren't deploying and where they might go, Davis stood there, staring at the map.  He imagined a line from Chicago to New York, then down the coast toward Philadelphia and south to Washington.  Wherever Malcolm went, he left a trail of destruction in his wake.

"Excuse me, sirs but do we have contact with the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville?"

The general shook his head.  "The Russians hit our air base in Tampa and JNAS also took it on the nose pretty hard.  The commies didn't occupy Jacksonville, only knocked out the flight line, radar, and comms with air strikes."

"Then I recommend we send someone down there.  Immediately."

Nella looked away from the map and regarded his carrier captain.  "Explain."

"Sirs, we shouldn’t trust Malcolm or the rebels at all."

"Agreed," said the general.

"General, from what you said, the rebels are heading south to fight for Jones.  General Stapleton's forces are hot on his heels."

"Correct," replied the general.

"Where are you going with this?" asked Nella, studying the map.

"Who's to say the rebels aren't going south to link up with the Russians, who just happened to be waiting?  The Russians know they can't take Stapleton in a head on fight—now that more of our assets are slipping through the European blockade…what if the 'peace treaty' is nothing but smoke and mirrors?"

"If that's the case, Stapleton could be walking into a trap—with a combined army including the rebels—" Ross began.

"What's their strength?" asked Nella.

"Anywhere from 10-20,000 effectives is our latest estimate."

"Good thinking, Davis," Nella said.  "I think it would be prudent to send a significant detachment to Jacksonville and secure it ASAP. If nothing else, it's a training facility—they'll have plenty of JP8 for our fighters.  Coordinate the efforts and report back—we'll need that aviation fuel."

"Yes, sir," Davis said, happy at last to be doing something.  "I'll get a message to Stapleton."

"Good.  Now, let's nail down the comms situation with area commanders out west," Nella said to the general, "and then you and I need to have a talk with the folks in A Ring."

Chapter 33

A Fine Speech

PO SIN STUBBED OUT his fourth post-lunch cigarette and leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers across his paunch. He stared at the TV screen opposite his desk in amazement.  He never thought he'd see the day when the United States—once the bastion of liberty and democracy the world over—would devolve into a Banana Republic.

He chuckled to himself.  "You see it now?" he asked, gesturing at the TV.

"I see," said the Minister of the Interior. "I see the Americans are in the throes of a coup. The timing could not be more advantageous to our venture."

Po laughed. "Well said! The Americans are tearing themselves apart. Even their own military has decided that fool in the White House has to go. I love it!"

Shin Ho failed to laugh along with his friend. His face crinkled into a frown. He held up a hand for silence. "Wait—listen. Turn it up."

Po Sin turned up the volume on the TV.

"…to that end, the officers of the Armed Forces of the United States, adhering to our oaths to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of United States against all enemies both foreign and domestic, do hereby declare the current president illegitimate and his power and authority nullified and void as of this moment."

The sparsely populated Senate chamber exploded with yells and clamor. Of the hundred seats available, barely 20 were occupied. It was a sad scene, made comical by the fact that one old senator threw a stack of papers in the air in protest.

Po Sin roared in laughter, pointing at the screen. "Fools! All of them fools!"

Shin Ho was not so easily persuaded. He continued to listen to the TV.

"… not dissolving the Congress of the United States."

Silence descended into the Senate chamber and Po Sin's office at the same time.

"What?" asked Po Sin

"…this august body has not been compromised in the manner of the Executive Branch. From the untimely death of President Reed to the usurpation of power by FEMA Director Hank Suthby, to his assassination and the subsequent seizing of power by Undersecretary Daniel Jones—what remained of Congress has for the most part resisted this disturbing trend. But the revolving door of dictator presidents must be stopped and it will be stopped and we will stop it.  Right now."

After a moment the audience calmed down enough for the admiral with all his glittering medals to take the floor again.  "Myself and General Stapleton, who's 4th Division now occupies Washington, D.C. itself, declare as of this moment Daniel Jones to be an enemy of the state.  Every executive order issued by him and his predecessor Hank Suthby are declared null, void, and non-binding upon any American in uniform or civilian. Only those acts and resolutions passed by Congress in accordance with the Constitution itself will henceforth be considered valid."

"Well, that is interesting," Shin Ho said, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes, but what does it mean?  That's a lot of lawyer-speak for an admiral," Po Sin observed. "They just removed the president, but they left Congress in power.  That's not how you run a dictatorship.  Don't these Americans know anything?"

Shin Ho nodded, deep in thought. "Congress, judging by what's on the screen, is barely able to function. It doesn't look like they have more than a handful able to attend this…event."

"Sssh—the general is talking," muttered Po Sin.

"…leave it then to this body to decide when and how to select the next pro tem President of the United States. If in Congress' judgment this is not a valid option, we leave it to Congress itself to decide how and when to hold special elections for determining the fate of the Executive Branch."

The Senate chamber erupted again with shouts and screams, accusations and questions. The press pool was almost as loud as the members of Congress themselves.

The old admiral in dress whites raised his hands for silence. When he was finally able to speak, his voice rang loud and clear. "At this time, the United States is under direct invasion from the People's Republic of China in the southwest—"

Shin Ho gasped.

"—the Russian Federation in the southeast, as well as an undeclared rebellion that President Reed was attempting to quell at the start of the collapse. General Stapleton and I depart now to secure the borders of the United States. We leave the fate of our country in your hands.  Our staff will be on hand to answer any and all questions you may have for us. That is all."

More shouts and screams echoed through the ornate Senate chamber as the admiral and general turned and marched off the stage shoulder to shoulder. They wore their finest dress uniforms, ribbons and medals gleaming in the reporters' lights. Soldiers secured the doors to the Senate Chambers and saluted as the two officers made their exit.  It made a fine spectacle.

Po Sin turned the TV off and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "I have to admit, I did not expect this."

Shin Ho stood abruptly. "I must ponder my official position regarding this news.  This changes everything."

Po Sin jumped out of his chair. "This changes nothing!  The Americans can do nothing about us—our Russian friends have been controlling the air along their Pacific coast all the way to Alaska now for months. Their air defense network is spread so thin due to the loss of their satellites they can't possibly coordinate any effective action against us.  Now is not the time to retreat but to press forward and throw everything we have into the fray. If we succeed in cutting the southwest apart from the rest of the country and link up with our resupply fleet, we will have accomplished our mission and divided the United States."

"And where is the fleet?" asked Shin Ho.

"The next wave is nearly across the Pacific, just offshore what’s left of Los Angeles. Once we have landed a sizable civilian population, they will have no choice but to cede us control of the land. If the Russians hold out long enough in Florida, we may be able to take over all the Pacific Northwest as well!" Po Sin said vehemently. "We can't stop now! The only way to certain victory is forward!"

Shin Ho stared at his old friend with a sad look. "I wish I shared your optimism. I will keep you informed."

The door to Po Sin's office shut softly after Shin Ho.

"See that you do!" Po Sin hissed.

He straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie, then reached for another cigarette. After the first calming breath of nicotine soothed his rattled nerves, he organized his chaotic thoughts. There was a way he could spin this to his own benefit, he knew it—he just had to find it and exploit it. And if there was one thing Po Sin was good at, it was exploiting events to his own advantage.

He smiled through the smoke wreathing his head.

Chapter 34

Rolling South

GENERAL STAPLETON FROWNED AS he stared down at the map spread before him covering the hood of an abandoned car.  He looked up and squinted at the sign proclaiming the rest stop—now filled with civilian refugees—to be one mile down the interstate.

We’re moving too damn slow.

He knew staying behind to coddle Congress with Nella would cost him valuable time. He knew it. He also knew it had been the right thing to do—to reassure the politicians that he and Nella were not planning on taking over the country and dividing it up amongst themselves as dictators.

But God damn if it didn't slow me down just enough to let this bastard escape.  Again.

"I don't understand how he's moving so fast," complained one of his aides.

"It's not him, it’s the civilians. They're slowing us down at every turn. Everywhere he goes, this army of his—” said his Stryker Combat Brigade Team Commander.

"Horde," growled the general. He looked up at the major who'd spoken. "I will not dignify this rebellion with the word 'army'. It is a horde he commands, nothing more, nothing less. They are barbarians."

The reprimanded major nodded. "Of course, sir. But it's still the civilians that are causing us the problems," the young officer said.

"Go on," he growled, looking down at the map.

“There's just too many civilians in the way. What we were able to accomplish, the speed with which we left New York City and arrived in Philadelphia—it's going to be impossible from here on out I think."

"I concur," added Bob Vinsen. The colonel in charge of Stapleton's armored cavalry crossed his arms.  "The civvies are choking the roads with cars and when they see us on the horizon they panic and flee, leaving everything in place. My Bradleys are having a hard enough time clearing the roads.  Throw in hundreds of thousands of panicked civvies and it's a recipe for disaster."

Stapleton circled the capitol on the map with his finger. "Gentlemen, we are exactly 15 miles south of Washington. We know Malcolm has already pushed through and he's a good six hours ahead of us by now."

"Closer to twelve, sir," said the commanding officer of the army's air wing. "I've got his rear elements under constant Kiowa surveillance."

"Don't stretch yourself too thin," replied Stapleton.  "Our supply line won't last forever. We’re going to need air support when we catch these bastards and the shooting starts."

"Roger that, sir, we'll start phasing out the helos with drones."

Stapleton stood back and pulled a cigar out of his mouth, fists on his hips. "Now, seems to me these fools don't have much of a plan other than following 95 south as far and fast as they can go. They are purposely misleading the local populations into thinking we're going to slaughter everyone in our path."

"It's the only way to explain why the civvies collectively lose their shit when we show up, but not when they show up," muttered Vinsen.  "It's not like we're the ones who set Philly on fire."

Stapleton frowned. Shelling Philadelphia had been unfortunate, but necessary. If he hadn't attacked, he wouldn't have been able to link up with Nella in Washington.

And yet that son of a bitch Jones slipped away too, another in a long string of failures.

Stapleton jabbed his finger at the map as if the force of the gesture  could propel them on to victory through sheer willpower alone. "We've got to gain ground. I don't care what it takes, as long as we can avoid civilian casualties, we've got to push through."

Vinsen shook his head immediately. "About half my force has to be transported on flatbeds—the other half has to move on its own power, which slows us all down. The roads are taking a beating—”

"To hell with the roads!" said Stapleton, slamming his fist down on the hood of the car. "If your tanks tear up a few streets on the way south, then so be it. I want maximum speed in this, Bob. We can worry about rebuilding the roads after we stop this rebellion. Tear up whatever you have to, just get those tanks moving."

Vinsen nodded, a grim look on his face. "Yes, sir."

"If we have to, we can use the Black Hawks to ferry troops.  Maybe jump out in front of them…we've got to slow them down," suggested the general.

"Carrying soldiers, equipment, and fuel…to get ahead of Malcolm and disable the roads…"  The commander of the air wing shook his head slowly. "It'll be close, sir—we'll deplete a lot of our reserves. I'm not sure it's feasible."

Stapleton nodded, thoughtfully. "Fine. Run some numbers and get back to me by sundown. I want best estimates. We've got to have options here, people."

Vinsen step forward. "I have an idea. It calls for splitting up my tanks, but it might give us the edge we need to gain ground."

"I'm all ears," Stapleton growled around his cigar.

Vinsen nodded and placed his hands on the map, framing Washington and the interstates that fed the city like lifelines. "I can jump across to 1—from what the scouts are telling us, it's mostly empty."

"That's right, most of the civilians fleeing the city aren't bothering to get off 95, they're just getting off on whatever road they can and getting the hell out of Dodge," added the aviation brigade commander.

Vinsen nodded. "Right. So I take what tanks I can on flatbeds and transport them south on 1. We can merge back here—near Fredericksburg."  He adjusted his finger to point at the intersection of 95 and 1.

"Other options?" asked Stapleton.  He didn't exactly like the idea of splitting up the Division.

"We've got minesweepers that I can hook onto my leading Abrams—we can roll through any abandoned civvie vehicles like a hot knife through butter."  Vinsen shrugged.  "It'll be a lot faster than the Strykers ever could clear the road. I'll have to put a handful of my M1s out of commission through wear and tear, but it won't lower the overall combat effectiveness of the unit. I think it'll be acceptable for what we face."

"Is this feasible?" Stapleton asked the others. He waited as the brightest of his staff leaned over and examine maps, making calculations and muttering amongst themselves.

The consensus was it would work and they might gain at least half a day on Malcolm.  That would be enough to pin him down.

Stapleton nodded. "Then it's settled—make it happen, Bob. Take whatever support you need."  He looked at the other brigade commanders.  "I want to give priority to this, people. Get us on the other side of this son of a bitch and we'll have a real chance at stopping that bastard Malcolm before he reaches Richmond."

Chapter 35

Hidden Injury

IT WAS NOON ON the third day after they left Dunham that the troubles really began.  Brin was behind the wheel of the van, taking them north on I-85.  They were moving at a decent pace, closing in on Petersburg, Virginia.

Erik sat in the back with the kids, trying to stretch out as best he could, but between his long frame, the kids, and the meager supplies they'd collected, there was precious little room to relax.

"Okay, I think it's decision time team," said Ted from the front passenger seat.  "We just passed the 10 mile mark to Petersburg."

Erik unfolded himself from the back, and pulled himself into one of the middle seats next to Lindsay, who sat behind Brin staring out the window.

"How…" Erik cleared his throat.  It was so dry, he found it difficult to speak.  "How we doing on gas?"

Ted looked over his shoulder. "We only ended up getting about three quarters of a tank last time we stopped."

"We're almost out again," Brin announced.

Erik shook his head in amazement.  I guess I fell asleep after all.  "Okay, want to do the same thing we did outside Fayetteville?"

Ted paused as Brin weaved in between stalled cars and slowed to a stop next to an RV.

"Good idea Brin, this thing will provide at least a little cover."

"Well, I'm sure the people around here have already picked this place clean, but I figure it's worth a shot," she replied.

"Good thinking, sweetie," Erik said.  It was the first time he'd called her that since they left the prison camp.  He felt his cheeks redden when she turned and glanced at him over her shoulder.  It'd been an unconscious slip of the tongue.  Erik pulled his rifle from in between the front seats and opened the side door to escape the awkwardness.

He stepped out into the early afternoon noticing immediately the difference in temperature between Virginia and Georgia.  He stared up at the crystal clear blue sky.  "Almost forgot what it's like to be in the north."

The passenger door opened and Ted stepped out, stretching.  "We ain't there yet—don't get cocky."

"Okay kids, we're all going to stay here…" Brin said as Erik moved away.

"Let's check this big bitch out first," suggested Ted, jerking his head toward the RV.

Erik and Ted cautiously approached the abandoned RV, rifles aimed at the open side door.  Erik took a position to cover the front half of the RV, then nodded as Ted moved past him and slipped straight into the vehicle.  It only took a few seconds before Ted called out "clear."

As Erik's eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the RV, he saw that Brin's guess was correct.  Someone had ransacked the RV.

"They even cut up the cushions…" Ted said, lifting up the torn up remains of foam and fabric with the barrel of his rifle.  Erik slipped past him and poked about in the small galley kitchen.

"Yeah, there's nothing here but silverware."

"Well…we tried," Ted sighed.

Erik slammed shut the cabinets over the sink.  "Okay," he said as he turned and leaned against the counter.  "You want to do this like before?"

Before Ted could answer, Erik felt moisture in his hand.  He jumped back from the counter in surprise.

"You sir, are a God damn genius," Ted muttered as he pushed Erik out of the way.  He slapped at the faucet and shut the stream of water off that Erik had inadvertently bumped when he leaned against the counter.

"Well, I never expected to see running water again…" Erik mumbled in amazement.

Ted pulled his empty canteen from his belt, put it under the faucet and filled up.  "This thing must be full of water.  Look, I just filled the canteen, and the flow is still steady and strong."

Erik licked his lips his Ted sniffed the water in the canteen and smiled over the rim at Erik.  "Smells good.”  He brought it to his lips and paused.  "We should probably filter it first."

"How long will that take?" asked Erik, fingers itching to get his own canteen under the water.

"I don't know, but that'll keep us occupied while you look ahead for other stuff.  Sorry man," Ted said.

Erik dry-swallowed and nodded, not taking his eyes off the canteen.  "No, I get it.  You're right.  We need to make sure this is safe before we start drinking it.  Who knows how long it's been sitting here?"

Ted licked his own lips.  "I mean, it's probably safe…it's inside someone's RV.  Not like they would  intentionally poison their own water…and I can't see bacteria growing in a sealed..."

Erik looked around them.  "It’s pretty obvious whoever came in here had no idea what they were looking for.  They probably never checked the faucet."

"I bet most people were digging for food…" rationalized Ted.

Erik pulled his canteen out.  "Okay, I'm just going to fill this up to take with me—in case of emergency."

Ted nodded.  "In case of emergency, right.  You go on ahead and start checking the cars, I'll get Brin and the kids working on filtering this and collecting as much as we can."  Ted shoved Erik’s shoulder.  "You may have just save our asses, brother," he said with a grin.

Erik put his canteen back in his pack with a smile.  For the first time since they left Dunham, Erik felt a spark of hope.

Erik left as Ted called through the RV’s window to the others.  He slipped out and walked north to the car immediately behind the RV.  The windows were smashed.  His boots crunched on the broken glass as he stepped forward, eyes on the horizon looking for movement.  He reached in to unlock the driver's door, then popped the trunk on the little two-door Hyundai hatchback.

Mumbling to himself how the thing looked like a clown car, he stared at what waited for him in the trunk.  A few cans of dog food had been scattered in the trunk.  Marks and slashes scored the interior paneling and the carpeted seat backs were trashed.  Bits of paper and cardboard mingled with curled up pieces of shrink wrap.

Whatever the hell had been inside the little car, someone had a field day removing it.  But they left the dog food.  Erik sighed as he fished out one of the dented cans.  Despite his disgust, his mouth watered.  The first ingredient listed was beef.

He closed his eyes.  Gross.

Erik tossed the can back inside with a hollow thump.  He turned, about to yell to Ted when what he heard caught up with his mind.  A hollow thump?

He took another quick check of the horizon and satisfied he was the only one on the road, probed around the edge of the cargo space with his fingers.  He found the catch to release the false bottom which covered the spare tire and jack.  Only, when he lifted the panel, there was no tire or jack.

Inside the space reserved for a spare tire, he found a small black duffel bag and about a dozen cans of chili.  He hurriedly pulled out the cans and found the cavity extended a little further toward the rear seats.  He found another six cans of vegan chili.  Erik's mouth began watering immediately.

Erik looked up from the back of the car at the RV.  On the camper’s bumper a big sticker proclaimed the owner's love for their shih tzu.  A smile spread across his face.

"Your dog ate pretty good."  He picked up one of the cans and checked the expiration date—two years in the future.  Closing his eyes, Erik whispered a prayer of thanks as he gathered up the entire haul.  He let his rifle hang by his side as he carried part of his treasure back to the van.

Brin's eyes opened wide in sight.  "Is that what I think it is?"

Ted's head popped out of the van.  "What?  More water?"

"Grade A, FDA-certified processed horsemeat and beans!"  Erik said as he deposited the cans on the passenger seat.

"It's a Christmas miracle!"  exclaimed Ted.

"That's disgusting!"  said Lindsay.

"Horse?"  asked Teddy.

Erik laughed and turned back to the towed car behind the RV.  "I'm gonna keep going—Brin you want to give me one of those gas cans?"

"Don't worry about it, I'm right behind you."

Back at the car, Erik pulled out the last of the chili cans and cursed as his watch caught on the cheap plastic paneling in the cargo area.  He pulled, and the panel gave way at the corner with a plastic pop.  Out of curiosity, he pulled again, and the panel fell off.

That was too easy.

He immediately saw why—behind the panel was a small compartment that housed wiring inside the rear quarter panel styling.  A small black bag had been stuffed in there.  It was surprisingly heavy.  He unzipped it as Brin squatted next to the Hyundai and pounded away with her screwdriver on the gas tank.

"You think this thing’s got any gas in it?" she asked.

Erik grunted as he looked inside the bag, revealing several zipped baggies of 9mm ammunition and a canvas pouch.  He opened the pouch and pulled free a pristine Springfield XD Mod.2.  He whistled.  "I would be surprised if this thing wasn't completely full of gas."

"Well, you're right," said Brin as she sat up, wiping her face. "The gas is like a fire hose coming out down there," she said.  “How did you know?”  Her eyes lit up when she saw the pistol.  "Look at that!"

"I guess whoever looted the RV figured all the good stuff would've been inside…" said Erik.  He slipped the pistol back into the case and zipped the duffel.

Watching her wipe sweaty hair from her forehead and squint up at him, he suddenly felt uncomfortable.  Now would be a good time for him to try to talk with her, but she’d probably get mad—so he chose option B.  He turned and made for the next car.

"Make sure Ted gets that gun, I'll go see what else I can find," he called over his shoulder.

An agonizing hour later, Erik walked back to the van empty-handed.  Every single car, truck, and sport-utility vehicle had been stripped clean or burned to the ground for hundreds of yards.

That wasn't the worst of his news though.  At some point, somewhere around the curve in the road up north a little ways, the traffic pattern had switched.  The closer they approached Petersburg—and Richmond just beyond—the stronger the flow of traffic heading south.

They'd have to switch to the other side of the road if they wanted to continue.  With as many cars that littered I-85, it would be a time consuming ordeal.  Assuming of course, they could find a break in the median to allow them to cross at all.

Ted handed Erik a plastic bottle of clear, sparkling water when he returned to the van.  "I take it you didn't find much?"

Erik took three sips, swishing the water around his mouth to make sure everything was good and wet before he swallowed.  "Nothing.  God, that's good."  He drank half the bottle.  The lukewarm water revived his spirit.

"It's like a graveyard out there.  But we got other problems."

Ted looked at Erik sharply.  "Such as?"

Erik jerked a thumb over his shoulder.  "We're getting too close to Petersburg.  The traffic up there around the corner is like a parking lot.  Way worse than that stretch back around Rocky Mount.  We'll have to switch to the northbound lanes."

"Damn," muttered Ted, already sizing up the problem.

"Everyone was trying to escape Richmond I guess…" Brin said staring around at the hundreds of cars.

Erik accepted the open can of meat-filled chili from Ted and tucked in immediately.  He examined the plastic spoon he’d loaded with soupy glop before dumping it all in his mouth.  It tasted awful.  It tasted wonderful.

"Nice silverware," he muttered.

Ted laughed.  "It was Teddy's idea.  He said there was no point in letting it sit there…"

"Recycling!"  The little man chirped from his seat on the van’s running board, kicking his legs in the air.

Erik smiled.  Everyone seemed in good spirits for once, even Brin.  They gathered around the side of the van as if they were on a camping trip, sitting around the campfire at night enjoying a hearty meal.  His eyes rested on Lindsay, huddled up inside the van by the seat farthest from the door.

"She not hungry?"  Erik said, gesturing with his spoon.

Ted looked over his shoulder at his daughter, then looked back at Erik.  He shook his head.  "I'm not worried about it.  Teenager thing, I think."

"Look at you two nodding like you actually know what you're talking about," Brin muttered in mock disgust.  She scraped the bottom of her can of chili and set it carefully on the ground before standing up and dusting her legs off.  "I'll go talk to her."

Ted sighed as he put his empty chili can in a plastic bag.  "Oh my God, that was good."

Erik tried to savor what was left in his can.  He took another sip of the bottled water and closed his eyes, letting himself fall into a wave of bliss.

"It's my turn behind the wheel," Ted said as he shouldered his rifle.  He belched.  "I think with all the stuff we've gathered, you're gonna need to reorganize back there if you want to lay down," he gestured toward the rear of the van.

"First, I'll head up on top of the RV for lookout."  He glanced at his watch.  "Let's take a 10 minutes break and then try to switch to the northbound lane?"

Erik nodded, only half listening.  His entire being was consumed with the taste of room temperature chili with meat.  At any other time he probably would've gagged, but he felt as if he sat at the table of a five-star restaurant.

"Sounds good…" he mumbled, eyes closed.

Ted laughed and moved around the rear of the RV.  Erik heard his boots ringing off the thin aluminum ladder that led to the top of the big vehicle.

"Why didn't you tell us?"  Brin's voice said, from inside the van.

Erik paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.  That didn't sound good.  He wolfed down the chili and leaned in the van.

"Everything okay?"  He saw Lindsay huddled against the far side of the van.  Brin, kneeling between the middle captain's seat, had one hand on Lindsay's leg.  "Hey Lindsay, you gotta try this stuff it's really pretty good—"

"She's hurt," Brin said quietly.

Erik froze.  "What?  Where?  How bad?"

"Keep your voice down, I don't want to upset Teddy," whispered Brin, her eyes on the little towhead as he happily kicked at a rock outside.  "She said it happened a couple days ago…"

"A couple days ago?" Erik asked.  He knelt inside the van.  "Lindsay, when?"

The girl sniffled and looked at Brin as if waiting for final approval to tell her tale.  Brin nodded.  Lindsay closed her eyes.  "It was when I had to go to the bathroom that night you were driving."

Erik looked at the floor, thinking.  He didn't remember her getting hurt at all.  She never cried out, she only…

"You said you tripped."

"Wait, you knew about this?  And you didn't say anything?" asked Brin in an accusing tone.

"Whoa, wait a minute," said Erik, raising his hand.  "She said she tripped when I asked her if she was okay.  She said she was fine."

"And you didn't look?"

Erik frowned.  "It was like three in the morning, everyone was asleep, and we were almost out of gas.  No, I didn't look when a 12-year-old girl told me she was fine.  I didn't look because I didn't hear her scream, or cry out…or anything."

"Guys, don't fight, please,"  Lindsay begged.

"It's okay, sweetie, Uncle Erik should've known—"

Lindsay shook her head, barely containing tears now.  "No!  It's not his fault!  I tried to hide it from him, I didn't want him to know—"

"Lindsay," Erik said slowly.  "Why not?"

"Because I’ve rolled my ankle before—it's never been a big deal.  It's happened at school, gym, and cheerleading practice, and…" her voice faded.  “I just rolled my ankle.  That’s all.”  She sniffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"And how did they treat it at school?" asked Brin.

"With ice packs…"

"Lindsay, this is much worse than a twisted ankle."  Brin shot a concerned look at Erik.  "Take a look."

Erik leaned forward and peered into the dim light where Brin pointed at Lindsay's ankle.  The skin was stretched tight with decent swelling and darkened to a sickly purple color.  A red line snaked across the top of the bruise.

"Did you get cut?"

Lindsay nodded.  "I didn't think it was any big deal.  It was just a little scratch."

Erik sat on the floor of the van and faced out, watching Teddy.  Jesus.  Now what are we gonna do?

"Lindsay," he began, "you have to tell us every single time something happens.  Okay?  We can't just run down to the drugstore and get you an ice pack, or bottle of Tylenol.  We have to be very careful now—"

"Don't you dare lecture her," hissed Brin.

"Lecture her?" asked Erik in a defensive tone.  What the hell is your problem?

"That's right—she only hid this from us because of you."

Erik blinked.  "What?  Because of me?  I never asked anybody to—"

"I didn't want to slow us down!"  Lindsay burst, tears pouring down her face.  She wrapped her arms around herself and covered her face in her hands.  "We were always in such a hurry to get north, I didn't want to slow us down.  I didn't think it was a big deal, it was just a scratch!  I'm sorry, guys, I'm so sorry!"

Brin shot one more glare at Erik and wrapped her arms around Lindsay's shoulders as she shook.  Erik turned and stood up, standing in the sunlight outside the van and staring at the side of the RV.

Oh my God.  Did I really push everyone this hard?  All I wanted to do was get us the hell out of Florida.  I never wanted anyone to get hurt, I just…oh, my God.  What if she's got an infection?  His mind raced.  They didn't have any antibiotics.  If the cut was infected, he didn't know what they could do.

Erik only knew basic rudimentary first aid—he'd picked up a few tips from Ted like how to use a tampon to plug a bullet wound—marine shit like that.  How would they even know it was infected?

He leaned against the RV, watching Teddy kick the rock back and forth next to the van.  I gotta tell Ted.  This changes everything.  He turned and looked north.  We have to find medication, we have to… His mind spun circles, grasping at ideas before rejecting each one of them in turn.  Erik stood rooted to the spot, frozen in indecision.

He tried to think of anything to block the dark shadow that formed in the back of his mind as soon as he saw that red line across Lindsay's shin.  In a world without doctors, without power, without refrigeration, the tiniest scratch could get infected.  Infection would inevitably lead to what?  Blood poisoning?  Death without proper medical treatment.

Oh God, don't let that happen.  Ted's already lost so much.  Between Susan and Mark… And it's all my fault… She was afraid of upsetting me… Of trying to slow us down…

Erik listened for a moment as Lindsay sobbed softly in the van.  I have to tell Ted.  He turned and trotted to the back of the RV and was halfway up the ladder before Ted called out.

"Erik!  You need to check this out."

Erik closed his eyes, hanging off the ladder.  "On my way."  He did not want to give Ted this kind of news.

Once on top of the RV, Erik slithered his way forward, every movement bringing a new wave of fear that he’d crash through the roof of the thin-skinned vehicle.  He moved his legs a foot at a time and felt the RV creak under his weight.  Not for the first time, he envied Ted’s shorter stature.

"Took you long enough," muttered Ted.  He didn't look back, but handed the small field binoculars to Erik.  "Due north, right up there at the curve of the road."

Erik put his rifle on the roof and settled in.  "Listen, there's something you need to know…"

"Later.  We got bigger things to worry about."

Erik looked at Ted sideways for a moment.  I doubt that.  Stalling for time, Erik brought the binoculars to his eyes.  "Okay, what am I looking at here…" he sighed.

"Trust me, you'll know it when you see it.  They finished eating down there?"

"Yeah…about that," Erik began.  Then his eyes caught movement in the distance.  At first he wasn't sure what it was—it looked like a tan rectangle that moved.  It was much bigger than a car and lower too.  It didn't make any sense.  Then he realized why it didn't make any sense—the long barrel that stuck out the back pointed the wrong way.

"Is that—holy shit, that's a tank!"

"M1-Abrams.  You betcha.  Either someone jacked a mainline battle tank from the army, or they're right around the corner clearing roads."

Erik couldn't tear his eyes away the sight of the lumbering machine as it crept around the corner and made contact with two cars.  "What do you mean?  What the hell is the army—" he froze as the tank lurched forward and shoved the two cars aside as if they were made of paper.  "Wow."

"Someone's clearing a path south out of Richmond.  You know what that means?"

"Help?"

Ted took the binoculars back.  "No, it means we need to get the hell out of here.  In case you haven't noticed, we're still carrying standard issue army equipment.  What are they going to think when they find us with fully automatic Colt M4s?  And all the ammo we have for the pistols?  Or packages of Russian emergency rations?"

Erik's blood ran cold.  "Oh, this is not good."

"Yeah, you're telling me.  Let's get going."

Erik looked at Ted.  "No, I mean we may have to stay…I mean, I don't know.  Look, Lindsay's hurt, you need to get down there."

"What?  How?  She was sitting inside the van—"

Erik put a hand on Ted's shoulder.  "Just get down there.  I don't know what we're going to do, but we're gonna have to make a decision pretty quick."  He turned back and barely caught the movement of the tank in the distance with his naked eye.  "God damn that thing's big."

Without a word, Ted rolled to the side of the RV and disappeared over the edge.

Chapter 36

The Valley

ERIK GRIPPED THE WHEEL with white knuckles as he weaved around a single car parked sideways in the middle of the small country road.  The van jerked left as he pulled them around the car, then swerved back to the middle of the road.  He cursed as he overcompensated and felt the supplies and passengers behind him jostle.

Dammit, calm down.

"Hey, you don't have to go quite so fast—take it easy."

Erik couldn't meet Ted's eyes.  He stared at the road, watching the trees zip past.

"Sorry."

Ted chuckled softly.  "There's nothing to be sorry about, man.  Lindsay is as stubborn as Sue ever was."  Ted was quiet for a moment.  "Look, things have changed, okay?  It's gonna take us all a little time to adjust to the way the world works now.  I never even noticed she was limping.  I never noticed her ankle was swollen or that big bruise—and I'm her father.  I would never have expected you to notice first."

Erik clenched his jaw.  If anything, Brin should have spotted it first.  She spent more time with the kids than anyone.

No.  It's not her fault Lindsay got hurt—it's mine.  This constant pressure I put on everybody to push north, to keep going, to switch cars… It's all come from me.

"I can tell what you're thinking," Ted said after a moment. "I want you to listen to me: it's not your fault."

Erik tore his gaze away from the road and stared at Ted.  "How can you say that?" he whispered.  "She said she didn't tell anyone because she was afraid to upset me.  Dude, she was afraid of me."

Ted shifted in his seat and tried to face Erik.  "Listen to me, she's my daughter, okay?  I know her better than you do.  When she says that, she doesn't mean she's literally afraid of you.  What she's afraid of his disappointing you.  Have you seen the way she looks at you?  That girl idolizes you man.  I wouldn't be surprised if she's jealous of Brin and wishes she could marry you at some point," Ted muttered.

Erik blinked. "Keep your voice down."

Ted laughed.  "They can't hear me, Brin's got them all the way in the back playing games and all the windows are open on this thing.  Sounds like we're driving through a wind tunnel."  Ted adjusted his rifle and leaned it against the dash.

"We didn't find any gas back there except what was in that little tow-behind, right?  You need to slow us down a bit so we don't burn through what we got too fast.  We're gonna have to keep pushing north, going way the fuck around Washington and Baltimore now. There's no way in hell I want any contact with the army."

“You sure?" asked Erik, grateful for changing subjects.  It didn't relieve any of his guilt, but at least it was temporarily distracting relief.

"If they found us, how long you think it'd be before they separated us for interrogation?  How long you think it'll be before Teddy, Brin, or Lindsay let slip we came from Florida?  That we were in a Russian prison camp?  That you and me were in the army?  That we drove a fucking matvee into some town in Georgia…"

Erik gripped the steering wheel even tighter.  "Okay, when you put it that way, you right—it doesn't sound very good."

Ted chuckled.  "You're God damn right it doesn't sound good.  Sounds like a firing squad waiting to happen."  Ted looked out the window.  "No, we gotta stay the hell clear of the army for a good long time.  And that means we need to steer clear of Baltimore and Washington.  And Richmond."

"I just wish we could have stayed on the interstate, you know?  Feels like we're slowing way down."

"Look at it this way," Ted offered, "at least we're still heading north.  Well…northwest.  Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Shenandoah Valley.  We may be only going 55 or 60, but there's less traffic and no scavengers."

"So far," groused Erik.  "But less cars means less gas."

"You're telling me you're sorry we’re bypassing  Richmond?"

Erik answered eventually, "No..."

Ted grunted.  "Okay then.  Look, if the military's active in or around Baltimore or even Washington, they're trying to push south—and that means one thing: the Russians are still kicking our ass down there in Florida and these guys are trying to get there.  Either way, I don't want to get in the crossfire, do you?"

"Nope," said Erik, watching the signs on the road.  "Look, we're coming up on Leesburg."

"How are we doing on gas?" asked Ted.

Erik smiled at the laughter that erupted from the back.  At least Brin got Lindsay laughing.  That was a start.  He glanced down at the dash.  "Uh, looks like we got a quarter tank.  Again."

"And only one jug full…that's about four or five gallons."

"I think this thing has about a 25 gallon tank," Erik mused.  "So if we add the reserves in, we'll have between a third and a half a tank."

"But nothing to spare," observed Ted.   He rubbed his face, the sound of his hands on his cheeks like sandpaper.  "I'm getting hungry again."

"Me too," Erik said.  He squinted at the sun.  "Should we stop for dinner outside Leesburg?   Maybe we'll get lucky and find some cars to drain."

"Sounds like a plan."

A short while later, Erik found a suitably deserted scenic overlook.   Sheltered by trees on three sides and the open road behind, the little gravel turnoff fit their needs.

"I spotted a car up the road a ways," Erik said as he stepped out of the van.  He held his rifle close and peered around.  "Don't see anything else.  Want me to go check it out while you get everyone some food?"

"Brin?" asked Ted as he exited the vehicle.

She got out the side door and handed Erik the large and small gas cans.  "Here you go—I'll stay and help with the kids."

"Oh," said Erik, holding the cans.  "Okay."

So much for getting a chance to talk.  He took the hammer and screwdriver from her and tucked them in his belt.

He strolled north through the parking lot, listening to the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel.  It was just before 3pm and the air held a hint of a chill, promising a cold night.  He unzipped his sweatshirt—a boon from one of the parked cars he'd looted—and let the dying warmth of the sun propel him toward the road.

The temperature's really going to start dropping soon, he mused as he stepped on the highway.  He grinned at himself as he checked both ways before starting to walk along the road.  Old habits died hard.

A stiff breeze ruffled the orange and brown leaves of the oaks and bright yellow birches along the road.  He paused for a moment and listened to the wind, the birds chatting in the branches, the utter silence of the day.  The sound of the wind in the trees was altogether different the sighing of the pines further south.  He'd almost forgotten that unique rattle the wind causes in trees with autumn leaves.  The sound was comforting, like nature itself offered proof he was getting closer to home.

He watched a squirrel scamper across the road, cheeks stuffed and round.  Erik watched the bushytail disappear into the brush at the side of the road.  He'd never thought of eating squirrels before, but their recent brush with an empty larder had him pondering alternative sources of food.

Erik kept his mind busy thinking up ways to trap and kill small game as he approached the car.  Shooting one of their precious weapons was a surefire way to accomplish the grisly task, but he wasn't sure how well a squirrel or rabbit would react to a .223 round from one of the M4s.  He assumed there wouldn't be much meat left.  Maybe if they used the XD he'd found, or the Russian 9mm Brin wore?

He shelved those thoughts as he approached the abandoned car, a purple Scion that had been in an accident.  He put the gas cans down and shouldered his rifle.  The car had been shoved off to the side of the road, a trail of glass sparkling in the sun from its original position near the middle of the southbound lane.  The whole front end had crumpled in on itself after impact.  He wondered if anyone had walked away from that mess.  The driver's side door had collapsed inward, but the passenger door lay open.

The car was indeed deserted.  He didn't see any sign of dried blood and a decent layer of dust and leaves covered the seats.  He tore his eyes away from the  surrounding woods and examined the back seat.  Dried animal droppings littered the back seat.  Something had made a home in there.

The driver's door was hopelessly jammed, so he reached in with his right hand and tried to find the trunk release button.  After a moment of fiddling around blind, he moved around to the back of the vehicle.

First things first.  He dropped down to the ground and set the small gas can under the car's gas tank.  He took one more look around to make sure no one was coming, then placed his rifle gently on the pavement.  Two strong hits from the hammer against the screwdriver's handle, and the blade sunk deep into the tank.  Gas immediately leaked around the hole and he yanked the screwdriver out to allow the liquid gold to collect in the small can.

The stream wasn't as strong as some he'd seen Brin find, so he figured it'd take a minute or so to fill up the little can.  He sat up and brushed his hands on his pants, sniffing at the strong gasoline smell.

Erik pondered the trunk for a moment.  "How do I get you open?"  He tried to pry the trunk up with the screwdriver to no effect.  The metal around the trunk bent and the paint cracked, but it didn't open.  After thoroughly damaging the finish, he paused.

Placing his thumb over the hole in the gas tank, he stopped the flow long enough to use his other arm and pour the little can into the big one.  Once it was empty, he returned the little can under the car.

That just got us a couple gallons.  Not enough, but it's a start.  Erik wiped his hands again and observed the weakened stream of gas.  Won't get but maybe half that now.

He stood up and checked his surroundings again.  Still nothing as far he could see around the bend to the north.  The road disappeared into the dappled shadows—still, there could be anything lurking around that corner just 20 yards off.

Erik set to prying open the trunk under the license plate.  This is getting me nowhere fast, he grumbled to himself.

He stared at the trunk for a moment then peered through the cracked rear window.  Maybe there's a trunk release switch or something behind the seats?

Hands on his hips, Erik stared at the button just above the license plate.  He hadn't tried pushing it yet, assuming the thing had been locked.  "What the hell," he said.  He stabbed the button with his fingers and laughed when he heard a click and the lid popped up an inch.

"Son of a bitch!" he hooted.   A jay squawked at him from the side of the road and flew off, indignant.  "You too, pal," he muttered, lifting the lid to see what treasures he might find.

"What the hell is this shit?" he asked, rooting through rolls of duct tape and neatly bound lengths of rope.  He found two big bowie knives, a couple box-cutters and three cans of tuna.  Dirt-crusted work gloves and a couple filthy t-shirts rounded out the contents of the trunk.

Erik shifted his helmet back and scratched his forehead.  "It's like a serial killer drove this car or something.  That’s creepy as hell."  Shrugging, he pulled out one of the shirts, then dumped the knives, tuna, gloves, and rope into a small pile on the shirt.

Satisfied the car held little else of value, he waited for the last few precious drops of gas to land in the small transfer can, then poured it into the big one.  The larger can now felt about 2/3 full—possibly three gallons.  Erik slung his rifle over his shoulder, hefted the cans in one hand and his bundled shirt in the other before starting back to the others.

Ted met him at the entrance to the scenic overlook.  "I’ll take the gas," he said, hand outstretched.  "What'd you get?"

"About three, I think."

"Well, that's not too bad, I guess," Ted replied.

"Nope.  I'll take it.  Found some other stuff too, couple knives, duct tape, rope…"

Ted looked at him.  "Who the hell drove that thing, Ted Bundy?"

"Right?"

Brin walked around the rear of the van and handed Erik a can of chili.  "Here you go," she said.  "Have any luck?"

"Thanks," Erik replied.  He held up the bundled t-shirt.  "A serial killer kit and three gallons."

"A what?" asked Brin.  She frowned when Erik explained what he'd found.  "Well, the duct tape will come in handy—the knives too.  You're right though, that's a little creepy."

"It gets creepier," Erik said around a mouthful of chili.  He licked the spoon, savoring the salty taste.  "The car got in a head-on accident.  Front's totally crumpled.  But get this, someone dragged it to the side of the road."

Ted looked up from where he was pouring the contents of Erik's fuel run into the van.   "You see any signs of tread marks on the road?  Think a tank came through?"

Erik shook his head.  "I thought the same thing, but there's nothing.  It's like someone just pulled it across the road.  There's glass everywhere—I found some poop and leaves on the inside so it's been there a while."

Ted stood up and wiped his hands on his pants before closing the van’s gas tank lid.  "Then it was probably moved after everyone left."

Erik chewed for a moment.  "What do you mean?"

Brin took his arm and pulled him around the van.  "Look what we found."

Just down the hill from the scenic overlook of the Valley, the bushes and trees gave way to an open field.  At first glance, it looked like a very sloppily tilled patch of farmland.  Then Erik realized what he was looking at.

"Is…" he swallowed.  "Is that fresh?"

"Fresh enough," Brin said quietly.  She glanced away at the children who sat on the van's running boards and ate their food in silence, eyes locked on the view down the hill.  She squeezed his arm before moving away to the kids.

Erik turned his eyes back to the grisly scene.  He'd never seen a mass grave before.  The entire field had been plowed over—the dirt heaped high in some spots, low in others.  Bits of gray stuck up here and there—he didn't want to think what that was.

Ted's boots crunched on the gravel as he walked over and stood next to Erik.  "I've seen this before—Kosovo.  Bad shit, man," he whispered out of earshot of his children.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," he admitted.  "But I think we need to proceed cautiously.  If there's anyone left in Leesburg, they're liable to be a little…nervous…around strangers."

Erik stared at the field.  "There could be hundreds—"

"More like thousands," Ted said quietly.

"Jesus."  Erik didn't know what else to say.  He crossed himself.

Ted sighed.  "I don't think He had anything to do with this, brother."  He clapped Erik on the shoulder and turned.  "Finish up.  We should get rolling.  We only got about five hours of daylight left.”  He picked up the map from the driver’s seat.  “This road loops up and to the northeast before it hits Leesburg.  I want to get closer to town so we can decide what our next move is before dark."

Erik nodded and took a bite of chili.  Staring at the mass grave before him, he ate in silence.  In the past, before the lights went out, he figured he would have lost his appetite altogether.  Not now.  He spooned another mouthful of lukewarm chili into his mouth.

The breeze returned, blissfully blowing toward the field of death.  He didn't even want to imagine the smells if it were otherwise.  The hairs on the back of his neck rose.  The wind had a tinge of cold to it that he'd not felt in the last few years living in Florida.

Erik finished the chili and dropped the can to the ground, licking his lips.  He cleaned his spoon and put it back in one of the smaller pockets on his chest rig.

"What are you doing?" asked Ted, half out of the van.  "Pick that up, man."

Erik looked at the empty chili can at his feet.  "Why?  You worried we're going to get a ticket for littering?"

Ted snorted in derision.  "No, smart ass, I don't want anyone knowing we were here."  He ducked back in the van and set about reorganizing their supplies for the next leg of their journey.

Brin stepped up next to him and handed over her half-empty bottle of water.  "Here, everyone's sharing.  This is ours."

Erik took it and let his fingers linger on hers for a second too long.  She didn't move but didn't look him in the eye either.  "It's terrible, isn't it?" she asked, nodding toward the mass grave.  "All those people…all that death."

Erik drank the water in silence, swallowing his words as the moment passed.  There was nothing he could say to mitigate the scene before them, or the damage done to their relationship.  Nothing that wouldn't take time and privacy.  Brin gently took the empty container and climbed in the back with the kids.  Erik took at least a little comfort from the fact that she didn't snap at him and didn't pull her hands away from his.  At least not immediately.

"Let's roll," Ted said from the driver's seat.

Chapter 37

Dunham

MALCOLM STOOD AT THE one lane bridge next to a sign welcoming visitors to the small town of Dunham, Georgia. The afternoon sun beat down on them. Despite the lateness of the year, Malcolm felt sweat trickle between his shoulder blades.

This late in November, he expected it to be a little more mild, but a combination of nerves, exhaustion, and stress made him feel much more acutely what the sun did provide.

It didn't help that he had to deal with some ignorant, inbred hicks. Dunham set squarely in the path of his army, now less than two hours out. The front runners were already trickling in through side roads and dirt paths that lead to this point, a two-lane bridge crossing the minor stream north of Dunham. It was the easiest point of access, but he knew if the rednecks continued in their asinine blockade, his people would merely swarm around it and engulf the town, anyway. At this point, his people were desperate for food and shelter and rest.

General Stapleton had provided more than enough impetus to keep his people moving. The stragglers were swallowed up by the inescapable force of the army so close on their heels. Those that were left behind had been provided explosives and weapons.

The red truck's passenger door squeaked on rusted hinges as an overweight, greasy-looking man got out and scratched at his jeans.  He spat a glob of tobacco juice on the ground next to the truck. He said something to the driver of the truck, eliciting a laugh from the men with rifles standing in the bed.

One of them had a scoped hunting rifle.  Malcolm felt his skin crawl as the barrel of the gun swept over him and lingered just a little too long. From a distance of about 25 yards, Malcolm was sure the man with the rifle could hit him. He prayed to Allah for strength and willed the man to move on to another target.

The fat man shambled his way across the bridge, spitting and talking with the two armed men that shuffled along beside him. They looked younger and related. Perhaps they were his sons or nephews?

Malcolm muttered assurances to his guards and stepped forward alone, unarmed. He walked fully a quarter of the way across the bridge before the fat man and his entourage stopped about ten feet away. He held up one sausage-fingered hand and frowned.

"That's far enough, mister."

Malcolm nodded in acceptance of the man's terms. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.

"My boys said they already done told you folks to clear on outta here. You ain't gonna find anything in Dunham.”  He pronounced it “Dun-num”.   “We been through some hard times."

"My people do not wish to cause any concern or problems. We are only passing through—"

The fat man laughed, then spat a glob of tobacco on the ground before Malcolm. "Well, I'm sure you'll understand when I say we've heard that before. You see them houses back there?" he asked, jerking a fat thumb over his shoulder without turning.

Malcolm shifted his gaze in the indicated direction and saw the husks of two houses by the side of the road, burned to the ground. "I do."

"That happened when another group of people rode up on motorcycles saying they ‘just wanted to pass through.’ My predecessor let them through and this is what we got. Four people died."

"Your predecessor? I take it then you are someone in a position of authority?"

"That's right, my name is Billy—I'm sheriff in these parts."

One of the younger men snickered behind him. Sheriff Billy turned and glared at the young man until he fell silent, cleared his throat and stood at attention. Billy returned his gaze to Malcolm with a self-assured smile on his face.

"So like I said, y'all need to clear on out here. Go on back the way you came."

Malcolm sighed. "I apologize, but I fear that will not possible."

Billy frowned and spat another glob of tobacco juice.  "You hard a'hearin',  boy? I said get outta here."

Malcolm resisted the urge to take a few steps and pummel the man's face. "I apologize, but as I said, that is not possible—my people—”

"You seem to be confused," Sheriff Billy said. He laughed. "I don't give a rat's ass about your people," he said flashing quotes with his fingers. "You try an' cross this bridge, you gonna be buryin' your people."

The younger men behind him high-fived in enthusiastic support of their leader.

"In fact, if you don't get off this bridge in the next 30 seconds, I'm going to signal my boys to open fire. We won't wait for your people to try and cross. We know what happens when your kind comes town. We ain't taking that chance again. Now get outta here. You all done been warned."

Billy turned and stalked off toward the far side of the bridge, his guards backing up slowly, their weapons at the ready.

Malcolm stood there, transfixed by anger. He'd made sure to be among the first to approach Dunham, to prevent the normal panic from taking root before they arrived. He'd done everything he could to make people see that they were not aggressive in any way and this was the welcome he got.

He glanced at the sign on the far side of the bridge, proclaiming Dunham to be 'friendliest town in the south'.

"Go on! We'll really shoot your asses!" screamed one of the younger guards from the far side the bridge.

Malcolm turned and walked away, his fists clenched, begging Allah for relief from his anger.

A tempting thought tickled the back of his mind as he crossed back into the questioning looks of his followers. I could just unleash my people upon this town.

He chastised himself immediately. No. I will not do that. We can still resolve this peacefully. I just need to give them some time—his thought was cut off by the crack of a rifle shot.

The side of Malcolm's face was sprayed with a fine mist.  He flinched as one of his people crumpled to the ground at his feet, blood leaking out around a grievous head wound.

Screams erupted from his supporters as they gathered around him.  More rifle shots crackled from the far side of the bridge and the second, third, and fourth victims fell bleeding to the ground.

Malcolm stood frozen as a chunk of asphalt exploded next to his foot.  The sting of the gravel against his cheek finally snapped him into action. He turned and screamed, waving his hands for the shooters to stop.

"We are leaving! We are leaving! Don't shoot!" The woman next to Malcolm shrieked as her head whipped back and she fell to the ground.

The blockade on the far side of the bridge exploded in a fusillade of rifles and shotgun blasts. Bullets ricocheted all around Malcolm, striking concrete barriers, trees and people. Malcolm felt like he’d stepped into a war zone.

He turned and grabbed the closest wounded person he could, physically dragging them off the bridge toward the safety and shelter of bushes on the far side. "Hurry!" he called. "Grab the wounded—we must get them out of here!"

By the time he’d pulled the survivors off the bridge, the death toll stood at nine. Nine souls who'd followed Malcolm with innocent hopes of achieving a promised land, their lives snuffed out by ignorance and greed and hate. Two of them were mere teenagers, their lives cut short for no reason.

In a rage, Malcolm screamed at the laughing shooters across the bridge. All of his frustrations on the journey south, all his fear and anger—all of it now exploded in one soul shattering moment.

Malcolm knew what he must do. He turned to his lieutenant. "Send word back. Tell them what happened here! Tell them how we were attacked!"

Malcolm stared at the group of men across the bridge, their numbers growing by the minute as more and more armed citizens approached from Dunham. The whole town appeared to be gathering for a party.

Malcolm stared at his blood-covered hands and looked into the innocent face of a teenage boy, staring up into the sky with unblinking eyes.

"We will make Dunham burn."

Chapter 38

The Fever

BRIN PULLED THEM SLOWLY around a disabled tractor-trailer.  She slowed as they approached the outskirts of Leesburg, pausing just long enough for Ted to get a good look at the semi.

"It's empty."

"You're sure?" asked Erik from the back.  He craned his neck to see through the tinted side windows but only spotted the open maw of the trailer.

"Oh yeah.  Someone took this thing apart a while ago.  Look at all the trash in the street."

Erik glanced around at the ground as the van rolled past the sleeping 18-wheeler.  Ted was right—paper and empty bags swirled in the breeze.  Rotting cardboard boxes and electronics littered the road.

"Careful—don't run over anything," warned Ted.  "I don't think we have a spare tire…"

"Easier said than done," muttered Brin, wincing as the tires crunched something plastic.  "What do you think happened here?"

"Desperation," Ted said in a quiet voice.  "Keep going.  I'm thinking our best bet might be to roll through town and stop for the night on the east side."

Erik stared at the empty buildings and houses on the outskirts of Leesburg, just south and west of the Maryland border.  "Yeah…" he mumbled.  "I think that's a good idea."

House after house had been burned to the ground.  The charred beams and timbers that rose from the ashes and rubble looked like skeletal fingers reaching up from the grave.  The whole south side of Leesburg had burned almost to the ground.

"Wonder how the fire started?" asked Brin.

"Could have been anything from arson to lightning," replied Ted.  He remained silent for a moment as they drove past a house with three wooden crosses planted in the front yard near small grass-covered mounds.  "Once the fires got started, without electricity to pump the water into the hydrants, they must have burned out of control."

"For days, it looks like," said Erik.  "This place looks like Dresden after World War II."

Even the children sat silent as the van made its way through the debris-clogged, deserted streets.  Teddy burrowed his head into Lindsay's shoulder as they drove past a playground.  The equipment had melted in the heat of the fire into unrecognizable, monstrous shapes.

"Anyone see any movement?" asked Erik.

"Negative," replied Ted.  "Stay frosty—I don't like this.  Brin, let's pick up the pace a bit."

"The road’s getting more and more congested—I'm trying."

"Heads up!" called out Erik.  "Got a walker at 3 o'clock."  He stared at the shabby figure that emerged from the shadows between two buildings, hands raised.

"Armed?" asked Ted, turning in his seat.  "I can't see 'em—Brin, keep moving, don't slow down."

"Make that two walkers."  Erik shifted to Brin's side of the van.  "I can't see anything.  They have their hands up—looks like one's an old woman."

"Should we stop to help her?" asked Lindsay's small voice from the back-back.

Ted glanced at Erik.  "No, sweetie—we don't know—"

A hole appeared in the window not six inches from Erik's face and the glass spider-webbed.  He stumbled back out of the seat and fell on the floor with a curse.

"Get down!" shouted Ted.  "Brin—floor it, we’re taking fire!"

"But—"

"Go, go, go!" Erik called out.  "It’s a trap!"

Lindsay screamed.  "Daddy!"

Tires squealed, the children cried, Erik cursed as he slammed against the sliding door, and Brin drove the van like she’d stolen it.

"Hang on!" she called over her shoulder.

"Now she tells me," muttered Erik.

"I can't see them!" yelled Ted, pistol drawn.  He peered around through the side and rear windows, looking for the shooter.

"There's someone in the street," announced Brin.  "I see them in the mirror—they've got a rifle!"

"Swerve!  Take the next side street!"

Erik struggled to his knees as the van rocked back and forth with Brin's efforts at evasive driving.  He flew to the other side of the van and smashed his face against the window.  As his vision cleared, a shot shattered the rear window, spilling glass chicklets on the children, huddled down low against the rear door.  Erik heaved himself between the middle seats and threw his body over the screaming children, forcing them away from the door.

"Stay down," he said in a soothing voice.  "I'm wearing a bullet-proof vest—just stay in front of me and they won't be able to hit you."   It was a lie, but one the children were eager to believe.  They crawled forward and stayed as low as they could to the bucking floor.

The engine revved, and the tires squealed again.  "Hang on, here comes the turn!" shouted Brin.

Erik wrapped his arms around the kids as another round thudded into the door above his shoulder.  Come on, baby, get us the hell out of here.

"Why are they shooting at us?" shrieked Lindsay.  "What's wrong with them!  We didn't do anything!"

Erik pulled the children close and held them against his chest as the van sped away, the wind from the ruined window howling in his ears.  Eventually the road smoothed out, and the children stopped crying.

"Everyone okay?" asked Ted over the noise of the wind through the broken windows.  He crawled back to his kids.  "Is anyone hurt?"

Not accepting their mumbled responses, Ted frantically searched them, looking for blood or cuts from bullets or glass.  Satisfied no one had been hurt in the brief exchange, he embraced Lindsay in a bear hug and buried his face in her hair.

Erik disentangled himself from Teddy and took Ted's place in the front seat while the family consoled each other in the back.  He adjusted his helmet and scanned the buildings that sped by.

"Whoa…I think you can slow down now, sweetie," he said softly.

Brin ignored him and jerked her head as if she'd been slapped.  Her hands gripped the wheel with white knuckles as the van approached 70 mph down the little residential street.

Erik's eyes flicked from his wife's face to the cords standing out on her neck, to the road that zipped under their wheels.  "Brin, listen to me, you need to slow down, just a little.  Just a little bit—not a lot.  Can you do that?"

Brin whimpered but nodded.  The van's engine changed pitched and their speed dropped a hair.

"Hey, we need to slow down…" warned Ted.

Erik swallowed.  "Good, that's good…okay, let's take 'er down a little more.  Okay?  There's no one over here—the buildings all look burned down just like on the south side of town.  Just slow down a little…"

She nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek.

"Erik…" Ted said a little louder.

Erik took another glance out the windshield.  In the distance, maybe three blocks away, the road ended in a T-intersection.  A cluster of signs stood directly in their path in front of some charred tree trunks.

"Baby, I need you to listen to the sound of my voice.  Take your foot off the gas."

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can…do this for me, okay?"

She shook her head.  "Got to get away…"

Erik checked the intersection.  Two blocks away and closing fast.  They were still doing 50 mph.  "Brin, we need to turn up ahead.  You've got to slow down."

"I…"

"Erik…" called out Ted's voice in warning.

"Brin…come on…" Erik looked at the intersection.  They were only a block away.

"Everyone turn around and put your backs against a seat," said Ted from the back.  "Hurry!"

"Brin," he said, not bothering to look forward.  If she didn't stop them, they'd all die when the van crashed into the barrier.  "I love you."

The van dipped down as Brin slammed on the brakes.  She closed her eyes and screamed, her voice competing with the chirping tires as they shuddered to a stop not two feet from the intersection railing.

Erik blinked and took a deep breath.  Jesus Christ.  His eyes met Ted's in the very back of the van.  He turned away to comfort Lindsay, who'd started crying again.

“Again!  Again!” cheered Teddy.

Brin sat there, staring out the front window.  She slowly peeled her hands off the wheel and shifted into park.  They both opened their doors to get out at the same time.  Erik raced around the rear of the idling van, ignoring the damage it had taken escaping the ambush and raced to his wife.

He'd expected to wrap her in a bear hug—this had to be the breakthrough he'd been waiting for.  He opened his arms and moved to her.

She shoved him aside and stepped past.

"What—"

"Not yet," she said in a soft voice laced with steel.

"Brin," Erik said, feeling the heat in his own voice.

She looked at him, her eyes red, filled with tears and ready to burst.  "Not yet," she whispered.

Erik's heart broke.  She stood there before him, more in need of his support and love than ever before in their relationship, yet she banned him from helping.

"Why?" he asked softly.  "Why won't you let me—"

"I said not yet!" she shouted and fled to the other side of the van.

Erik took a moment to catch his breath and swallow his anger before climbing into the driver's seat.  He slammed the door with more force than he'd meant and took a few more calming breaths.

"Everything copacetic?" asked Ted from the back.

"Fine," said Erik through clenched teeth.  He threw the van into reverse and backed up through the intersection.

"Which way do we need to go?" asked Ted, moving into the middle seat.

"North."  Erik turned left and followed the signs for Highway 15 to Frederick, Maryland.

"Okaaaay," muttered Ted.

"Daddy?" asked Lindsay.  "I don't feel so good."

Ted turned and disappeared into the back again.  Before Erik could say anything to Brin, he heard someone throw up.  The sickly-sweet sour odor of vomit filled the van.

"Eeeew!" whined Teddy.

Erik glanced in the rear-view mirror.  Ted had crouched down behind the middle driver-side seat.

"That's okay, honey, let it out…"

Lindsay threw up again, the sound as revolting as the smell.  Teddy started to cry.  Brin seemed to snap back into herself and unstrapped her seatbelt before moving to the back.

Erik tried not to break the steering wheel in half.  For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what Brin's problem was, but he worried that things would get too strained between them to salvage their relationship.  He was feeling more and more like a stranger around her these days.

Brin returned to his side and stared out the windshield.  "We got a problem."

"What is it?  Was she hit?"

"No," Brin said, never looking at him.  "Lindsay's got a fever."

"A fever?" asked Erik.  "Is she sick?"

"I don't know…maybe that chili was bad?  Maybe it's her leg…"

"Oh God, is that cut infected?"  Erik's mind raced.  They had no antibiotics.  How much time would Lindsay have before blood poisoning set in?

"Should we stop and look for medicine?" Brin asked.

"No," said Ted from the back.  He moved up to take Brin's position as she reclaimed the passenger seat.

"How is she?" asked Erik.

"She's resting.  Feels like a low grade fever to me.  I'm concerned, but it's nothing to panic over yet."

"Is it her leg?" asked Erik, afraid to hear the answer.  Did I push us too hard?  Did she get hurt because of me and now she's going to get worse…?

"I don't think so.  It's hard to see back there, but that cut looks like it's healing.  It's been what, three days now?"

"Yeah, I think," said Erik, weaving around two motorcycles in the middle of the road.  What was left of the drivers lay scattered across both lanes.  He swallowed and tried not to look at what the scavengers had left behind since the accident.

Ted grunted.  "I bet it was that damn chili.  She wouldn't eat anything but that meatless shit.  Meatless chili—it ain't natural."

"Do we have anything for her?" asked Brin.

"I've got some Tylenol in my kit," replied Ted.  He sighed.  "I'd like to keep that in reserve a bit longer.  If she gets much worse, I'll give her some. I don't know…"

"Well," said Erik, "we're coming up on Frederick in a bit.  Someone want to check the map and see the best way back to 95?"

"Is that really a good idea?" asked Brin.

"We'll move faster," said Ted, "no doubt about that.  May even find a place with medicine."

Brin wrestled with the well-worn map from the glove box.  "This is 15?"

"Yeah.  Frederick's about a mile ahead across the Potomac."

She murmured to herself and traced a finger on the map for a few seconds, calculating.  "How much gas do we have?"

"Uh, down to half a tank," replied Erik.

"On the other side of Frederick we can pick up I-70 and ride it all the way to the outer loop around Baltimore.  We can pick up 95 north of there."

"How far is that?" asked Ted.

"Looks like about 30 miles from Frederick to the loop."

"Well, anything’s got to be faster than this," observed Erik.

"I just have a bad feeling trying to jump back on the interstate that close to Baltimore," replied Brin.  “What if the military is in control?  What if they spot us?”

"Half a tank will get us a couple hundred miles," Erik said looking at the instrument panel, "according to this thing."

Brin squinted at the afternoon sky.  "At this rate, we'll be at the Delaware border before nightfall."

Ted nodded.  "Fine.  We'll plan on making Delaware before we stop for the night, then.  Maybe we can find a small town or something and hit a few more cars."

"Or a drug store," offered Brin.

"If we're lucky," replied Ted.  He clapped Erik on the shoulder.  "Just keep us moving and don't hit anything."

Chapter 39

Deep South

STAPLETON GRINNED FROM THE open hatch of his command Stryker.  By God, we're gaining on you now, you son of a bitch.  He scanned the horizon ahead—nothing but open road south as far as he could see.

A smudge of smoke on the horizon looked interesting.  He'd long since grounded his air wing, except for mini-drone flights at each vehicle refueling stop.  So far, the rebels had managed to barely keep ahead of his army—barely.  Whatever it was, he'd find out soon enough.

He lowered the binoculars and glared at the horizon, chewing his stub of a cigar.  A day ahead of us now.  Just one day.  I’m going to catch you, you slippery bastard.  Despite the fact that Malcolm was an avowed traitor and enemy to the Republic, Stapleton had to admire his ability to master logistics and transport such a large body of troops so quickly.  His best estimate had Malcolm's strength somewhere between 10-15,000 combat effective fighters.

He glanced at an abandoned, late model Dodge minivan left in the ditch by the side of the interstate.  Just another reminder that when Malcolm's people run out of gas, they'd abandon the vehicle, hitch a ride with another and keep moving.  He slapped the roof of the Stryker and the driver put the big rig in gear, engine roaring to life.

This must be what the Romans felt like, chasing Attila the Hun.  Always gaining, but always a step behind.  I should have destroyed him when I had him holed up in New York.  Damn it.

As the Stryker picked up speed, he squinted into the wind, glaring at the smoke on the horizon.  What did Malcolm do, set fire to another town?  He knows we'll stop to help the civilians, or get slowed down by them trying to get to us.  I knew I shouldn't have spent so much time with Nella in Washington.  He could have handled that speech solo.  He shook his head.

Politicians.  If they're not sticking their nose in your business, they’re needing their hands held when you give them bad news.

He ducked back inside as another eight-wheeled armored transport rumbled by, the heavy wheels creating an awful din on 95 as it passed.  He waited for his jaw to stop vibrating before he spoke into his helmet mic.  "Viper Actual, Command Actual."

"Go ahead, Actual."

"Got something on the horizon.  Looks like smoke.  Might be another raiding party like last time.  I'm sending Chaos 3-1 forward to investigate.  How quick can you get your transports up here?"

After a brief pause, his tank commander replied: "It'll be at least another hour.  I only got six through Savannah.  The rest are strung out on the road between here and Florence."

"That'll be plenty.  These guys aren't exactly the Soviets."

"Hooah."

"Get your toys up front as fast as possible."

"Roger that Actual.”

Stapleton looked at the map displayed on his force location screen while his vehicle roared south.  No speed limits for the IV.  The miles melted away as he plotted where and how to trap Malcolm.  The more he thought about it, the more he realized it would happen somewhere near the Florida-Georgia line.

He zoomed in on the tactical display and started searching the topography of the area and where the roads might form a natural bottleneck.  Maybe he could use the last of the aviation fuel to leapfrog a brigade of dismounted troops up ahead of Malcolm…slow his advance enough to bring the sledgehammer with Vinsen's tanks.

"Command Actual, Chaos 3-1."

"Go ahead, Chaos."

"Found the source of the smoke.  We're about ten miles ahead.  Town of Dunham."

"Rebels?"

"Unknown.  If it is, they really did a number on this place, Actual.  We're talking 90% of the buildings are nothing but shells.  Someone came through here like Sherman through Atlanta."

Malcolm usually took his time and set fires in logical choke points to funnel the civilian population directly onto 95.  He checked the map screen.  Dunham was a few miles off the interstate.  That didn't make sense—it was too far for a civilian exodus to have much of an impact and with a population so low—only a few thousand—they wouldn't have done much to slow Malcolm down, anyway.  It just didn't add up.

"Hold position, Chaos 3-1."  He brought up the feed for the front-mounted camera on the armored personnel carrier.

"Copy that, Actual.  Holding position."

The screen flickered to life and showed an image of a town that looked like it had been nuked.  Trees stood denuded of leaves and smoldering.  Most buildings in the line of sight of the driver were burned to the ground.  Bodies and debris littered the streets.  Blackened cars—full of bullet holes—formed solemn lumps in the road as far as he could see.

He took remote control of the camera and panned left.  "Good God."

A dozen bodies, charred and black, hung from the smoking branch of an oak, out over the cracked and blistered street.  One of them—the biggest of them—had something strapped to its body.  They were so burned, he couldn't tell if they were male or female.  Just dead.

"Chaos 3-1, is that a sign on that fat one there in the middle?"

"Affirmative."

"What's it read?"

"Wait one," the Stryker commander replied.  When he returned, his voice was quiet.  "Sign reads: Justice."

"What the hell did you do this for, Malcolm?" Stapleton asked the bleak image on the screen.  It was completely outside the rebel's normal modus operandi.

"Whoa, Actual, we got something here."

"What is it, Chaos?"

"Pan left, Actual.  Forty degrees."

Stapleton swiveled the camera in the indicated direction and stared in disbelief.  Sitting in front of the charred remains of a building—the sign said Dunham Jail—sat the blackened outline of a massive truck.  "Is that a matvee?"

"Affirmative, Actual.  Looks like it’s the ambulance or specops crew cab model.  Whiskey-tango-foxtrot?"

"Any hostiles?"

"Negative, Actual.  No hostiles, no friendlies, no nothing.  Just bodies and ashes.  It’s a ghost town."

"Copy, Chaos.  Get out of there and rejoin the column.  There's nothing for us to do there.  Actual out."

The view screen shuddered as the Stryker rolled forward and lumbered around in the carnage.  Stapleton switched the screen off.  He didn't need to see that.  Whatever the hell happened in Dunham, he'd get his answers when he found Malcolm.  Some of the bodies in the street were far too small to be adults.

He stared at his force allocation screen again.  If it was the last thing he did, he'd get to the bottom of this.  He tapped the screen to bring up the FL-GA line again.

I'm going to pin your ass to the border.  Right there.

"Havoc Actual, Command Actual," he called out.

"Go ahead, Actual," replied the commander of his aviation brigade.

"I may have a job for you…"

Chapter 40

Newark

ERIK LOWERED THE BINOCULARS as he rested his elbows on the hood of their van.  "What do you think?"

Ted shook his head and leaned his rifle against the side of the vehicle.  "I don't know.  I don't like it—this is the third town of this size that just seems…empty."

"Well, we have to do something," said Brin.  She peered inside the darkened van.  "Her fever's getting worse.  That Tylenol you gave her when we passed Aberdeen doesn't seem to be doing much.”  She ran a hand through her hair.  “It's too dark to get a good look at her leg, anyway…"

Ted grunted.  "Let's not risk a flashlight to check things out until we get back inside the van.  We’re almost in twilight—I don't want to give away our location to anyone who might be watching."

Erik looked at the horizon as the sun disappeared behind the rather large tree-covered hill to the northwest.  "We still got some time.  I think the sun is just behind that hill over there."

"We don't have much gas for screwing around, guys," Brin added.  She ran a hand through her hair again.  "God, what I wouldn't give for a nice hot shower."

Erik put the binoculars back to his eyes and tried to ignore Brin's comment.  Every time she said something like that, it invited him to make a reply that might lead to further conversation.  And every time he tried, she shot him down as if he insulted her family or something.

Erik decided the best course of action was just ignore it until she decided to come talk to him.  He focused his binoculars on the green sign beside the interstate.

"Sign out there says ‘Newark University: Main Campus’ is at the next exit."

Ted grunted.  "College town.  There's gotta be someone left there…"

"Colleges have medical facilities, maybe even a hospital.  I think we should check it out," said Brin.  She peered back in the van again.  "I can't get her to eat or drink anything."

Ted nodded.  "I don't want to, but you're right.  We've got to find somebody or at the very least some medication."

Erik pulled the binoculars from his face and stuffed them back in his pack.  He peered forward into the gathering dusk.  "Whatever we do, we should get going now.  Ted, Lindsay's your girl.  What do you think?"

Ted looked at the battered road map stretched across the van’s hood.  "Newark looks like a decent-sized town.  This close to Philadelphia though…who knows what happened after the power went out."   He glanced east.

"I-95 goes northeast through Delaware.  According to the map that smoke on the horizon over there is coming from Wilmington."

"You think we can see that far?" asked Erik.  "That's what, a good 15-20 miles away."

"It's about right.  That dark smudge is smoke.  Something's still burning over there."

"Well I think something's burning closer to us, too."  Brin sniffed the air.  "You smell that?  Smells like…"

"A camp fire," Erik whispered.  "I don't see anything," he turned around in a slow circle looking for movement or light.  As the sun's light faded to the west, he spotted a pinprick of orange light at the top of the big hill south of the interstate.  "There, on top of that hill.  See it?"

Ted nodded.  "Well, somebody's still alive around here."

"I'll take that as a good sign," added Brin.

"Let's get to the next exit and see if we can get closer to the college, maybe find the medical center.  Sound good?" Erik asked.

"Let's roll."

Ted drove them to the off-ramp and turned north onto South College Avenue, pulling away from the interstate.  As they pulled underneath the overpass, they drove past few cars left like a child's discarded toys, crumpled beside the road.  Ted picked his way carefully through the debris scattered across South College and accelerated north.

"Think we ought to slow down a little?" asked Erik.

"I do, but the light's fading and I don't want to turn on the headlights—they'd give away our position."

"What is that?"  Erik asked, pointing at a dark outline just off the road to their right.  "Is that a football stadium?"

"Looks like it.”  Ted whistled.  “That thing has seen better days…"

They rolled past the stadium in silence.  It was surrounded by a huge number of cars, all of them burned to blackened husks.  The south end of the stadium itself had collapsed  as if a bomb had gone off.

Erik read the shot up and partially burned sign as they drove past the main entrance.  "Stubbs Field.”

"Look," Ted said, pointing at a bed sheet, flapping in the breeze at the next entrance to the stadium complex.  "Can you read that?"

Erik stared as Ted slowed the van.  "I can't make it out—the lettering is blurred together, but it says something about emergency…FEMA.  I think it says something about a  FEMA camp."

Ted stopped the van, and they sat in silence staring at the ruined sports complex.  Every building looked at least partially burned.  "I wonder how many people were in there when that place went up?"

"I see a bunch of buildings of ahead,” said Erik.  “I can't make out what they are, but I think we're almost there."

After passing a decent-sized train station, they continued on north and discovered immediately that someone had survived the collapse.  Ted stopped the van in front of a large three story building on the right side of the road.

"A library?" Brin asked, peering at the sign by the road.

"Why would they set up a roadblock in front of the library?" asked Erik.

"Maybe they got some important books in there?" quipped Ted.  "The important thing is somebody’s still alive around here.  No one would bother setting up a roadblock if they didn't have something they wanted to protect."

"God, you sound like those guys that tried to attack us back in Gainesville…" muttered Brin.

"Welcome to the new world," Ted replied.

They idled the van in front of the building in silence, looking for any signs of life.  "Think we can go around it?  Up on the sidewalk there," Erik said pointing to the right.

"I don't think so…too many parked cars just close enough to those trees to block us."

Erik turned in his seat and peered out the darkened window to the west.  "Well, there's a road right there to the left, looks like it heads west…we could take that and try to loop around?"

"It's worth a shot," agreed Ted.  He put the van in reverse and slowly backed up to the intersection.  "Here we go, everybody stay frosty.  This could be a trap."

"We're all clear back here," reported Brin.

Ted turned at the sign for Winslow Road and drove past a two-story building that proclaimed itself to be the Newark University's visitor’s center.  He stopped the van again.

"Shit.  Look up there," he said pointing.

"What is it?" asked Brin from the back.

Erik sighed.  "Another roadblock.  The next intersection has cars blocking all four ways.  Damn, we can't drive through here, either."

"I wish we still had that matvee," said Ted.  "We could have rumbled through like Patton."

"It would've been nice, but those guys with the tank back near Fredericksbrg would have spotted us in that thing for sure—we never would have made it this far."

Ted grunted.  "You're probably right," he admitted.  He shifted back in reverse and backed down the street, turning them onto South College once again.

"Looks like our only choice is to head south, go back to that first crossroad and turn east."

The engine chose that moment to sputter and cough.  "Or not…" added Erik.

"Come on," said Ted staring at the fuel gauge.  "The empty light isn't even on yet!"

"The way that engine sounds, I don’t think low gas is its only problem…"

The engine sputtered and coughed one more time then died.  Everyone sat in silence for a moment.  The orange ‘low fuel’ light blinked on with a faint ding.

“Son of a…" growled Ted.  He smacked the steering wheel with his fist.  "Not cool!"

Erik looked out the passenger side window.  "Well, I guess we're stuck here until we can scavenge some gas.  I sure don't like sitting out here in the middle the road."

"I don't like sitting out here with this big hole in the back of the car," observed Brin as she peered out the rear window.  "Anybody can just walk on up and reach in…"

"No one is going to just walk up on us," said Ted.  He opened the door and slipped out.  "Erik, go check out the library and see if you can get inside.  I'm willing to bet a library isn't high on the list of places squatters want to go after the world goes to shit.  I'll check these cars at the roadblock and see if we can get some gas.  I want to stay close to the kids."

Erik sighed and opened the passenger door.  "That makes sense.  Your radio still got any juice?  Mine’s down to one bar."

Ted ripped the radio off his chest rig.  "It's got a little left.  Keep it tight and only use it if you run into trouble.  I don't think they’re gonna last another day."  He looked around and scratched his head.  "There's gotta be something in this damn town that we can use to charge these things."

"I don't see much fire damage around here…" Erik observed.  "Just a few buildings a few couple blocks back and the stadium.  If there's anybody here, they seem to have at least been able to take care of the place."

"Well, find out if you can see anybody.  And for fuck's sake be careful."

Erik slapped his helmet, leaving the chinstrap to dangle against his neck.  "Hey, it's me."

"Yeah, I know.  Call me if you run into trouble.  If you can't get through on the radio, fire two shots.  I'll be able to figure out which direction you're coming from."

Erik shouldered his pack and picked up his rifle from the front seat.  He shifted the weight on his back until it settled into the comfort zone and slung his rifle over his shoulder, bringing the weapon up and sliding the stock into the sweet spot on his shoulder.

"Okay, wish me luck.  I'll be back as soon as I can."

Erik trotted off in the darkness, hoping Brin would shout  about being safe.   Disappointed at her silence, he moved across the sidewalk to the waist-high brick wall that surrounded the library.  Seeing no movement, he quickly hopped it and crouched on the far side.

The library itself was a three-story tall brick rectangle, separated by recessed narrow windows.  Megalithic in his design, the massive structure looked impenetrable.  Without the windows, he could easily imagine it being a prison or fortress.

Erik jogged up the side of the building and peered through the trees across the deserted parking lot.  Satisfied  no one was out and about, he worked his way around the south side of the building.  Turning the corner, he found a large open space crisscrossed with walking paths, surrounded by buildings.

The lawn was about the size of two football fields and in dire need of some landscaping.  The library occupied the southwest corner of the green.  To the north, he spotted a building that seemed more at home in a state capitol.  It looked like a cross between Independence Hall and Monticello, sporting a bright white dome atop a solid brick structure.

How old is this place?  These buildings look like they’ve   been here since the 1800s.

Erik scoped out the sidewalks that crossed the open space, almost like a Roman forum.  Admiring the school's landscaping, he shifted his gaze along the front of the library.

The upper floors consisted mostly of windows.  He moved cautiously down the front until he stepped under the overhang and approached the main entrance.  Cautiously checking each one, he found them all locked.  It didn't surprise him in the least.

What did surprise him was the barricade of two white trucks and one police cruiser at the base of the curved steps leading up to the entrance.  The trucks had seen battle—bullet holes stitched the hoods and all the tires had burned, leaving the chassis permanently in place at the bottom of the steps.

The police cruiser bore a Newark University campus police logo as did one of the white pickup trucks.  He took another look around the open area which he began thinking of as the quad.

Scattered all around the open space and along the pathways, the trees all had orange and yellow leaves, lending a riotous color to the overgrown grass and weeds that had taken over the outdoor area.  The domed structure to the north looked like it had been damaged recently.  Fully one half of it looked black and charred.

Erik turned and looked back the way he'd come.  Somebody went to a lot of trouble to block off that walkway.

His eyes followed the outline of the building up to the second floor, and he noticed a window open above the main entrance.  It wasn't open much, but the shadow it cast against the wall in the dim light was just enough for Erik to realize the window had been left open on purpose.

"So that's how you get in and out," he muttered to himself.  "Question is how to get up there?"

At first glance, looking along the rough stuccoed exterior, the walls didn't seem capable of providing hand or footholds for someone to climb up.  However, as he moved closer to the northernmost door, he noticed chunks of the exterior of the building had been hacked out for someone to put a hand or foot.  He stared at the indentation for a moment and then let his eyes drift up to the porch roof and saw a pattern of alternating depressions in the facade.

Sneaky.  I like it.

Casting another quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him, he slung his rifle and quickly fit his boots and hands into the depressions.  It should have been a simple matter to haul himself up, but his pack made him top-heavy and by the time he reached the porch roof, he was grunting with exertion.

After he caught his breath, he shouldered his rifle and moved forward, stepping carefully on the gravel-lined roof.  Each footstep sounded terribly loud—he hoped no one was out there to hear him as he approached the open window.

He passed the bank of windows that had been sealed shut.  He looked inside the building, but the interior was too dark to see anything.

Erik reached the open window and pried it open a little wider.  It squealed in protest at being mistreated.  He grimaced, then quickly slipped in through the window and dropped to a crouch inside the darkened library.

The room was silent as a tomb though surprisingly well lit.  The windows on the upper floors let in a decent amount of what little light remained outside.

The air temperature was dropping rapidly outside with the setting of the sun, but inside it was at least five degrees warmer.

Erik sat still, listening.  He heard absolutely nothing.  The routine sounds of a building this size, with its air conditioning system, murmurs of students pouring over books, normally a center of electronics and lights…all of it was gone.  It was an altogether unsettling, unnatural silence.  He kept the rifle ready and thumbed off the safety.

He approached the middle of the building by walking down the length of the upper floor, carefully stopping along the way to check his progress and listen for footsteps.  At the south end of the building, he leaned over the railing and took a quick glance below.

He imagined a happier time months ago when power was still available—the place would've been gloriously lit from the inside.  There were a number of potted trees on the ground floor, all of which were shriveled up, stripped bare of their leaves as the water system and died without power.  Their naked, dead trunks stood mute sentry over the abandoned building.

He quickly moved through the upper floor of the building, peering down row after row of neatly ordered books, stacked floor-to-ceiling along their shelves.  He failed to find a single person—it was like the building had been locked up and abandoned after the collapse.

Unable to tell if he was more nervous now after knowing the upper floor was completely deserted, Erik found an emergency stairwell and opened the door, the sound echoing through the empty building.  He winced, sure if anyone was inside they’d know he was there now.

After counting to 30 and not hearing anything, Erik slipped into the darkened stairwell and shut the door behind him.  Surrounded by complete darkness, Erik freed a small LED flashlight clipped to his vest.  The stairwell, a plain metal structure wrapping the concrete walls, led down to the second landing, and to the ground floor below.

He found no tracks, no trash, no debris—nothing.  His boots rang hollow on the metal steps until he reached the second floor landing.  He took a deep breath, clicked off the light, and wrapped himself in utter darkness before opening the door and quickly emerging on the second floor.  Careful to not let the door slam shut behind him, he brought his rifle up to his shoulder and began the search process anew.

He stopped about midway the length of the second floor in a large section of books that contained a few comfortable reading chairs.  He checked his watch.

Twenty minutes.  They're going to start worrying soon.  He peered out the nearest window.  It's almost full dark.  I’ve got to hurry this up and get back.  This place looks like it'll be good shelter for the night.

Erik trotted to the south end of the second floor and looped around to the other side of the building finding more of the same.  The place looked like it'd been meticulously cared for.  He figured somebody would've broken in by now to at least used the books for kindling or something…maybe even toilet paper.  The place protected a vast wealth of knowledge.  There had to be plenty of books in here on self-sufficiency and how to construct survival tools or at least build things that might make life a little easier in a world without electricity.

Why the hell is there no one here?

Erik opened the door to the ground floor and froze.  Backpacks and books lay scattered along the carpet.  Someone had been here.  A half-empty water bottle stood next to a pack full of books on hiking.  Erik dropped to a knee and touched the water bottle.  It was slightly cold.  His hands went back to his rifle, and he spun in a circle, looking for a target.

Cold water.  Someone's here.

As he hastily searched through the rest of the ground floor, he found more backpacks—some full of supplies, some full of batteries, and some full of packaged food.  Someone—or maybe a group of people—had been scavenging vending machines and gathering supplies.  Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he cautiously crept to the west side of the library.

He expected a mob of people to rise up and rush him to rush him around each corner.  As he reached the west side of the library, he found more evidence that people had at least been through the library if not stayed: a sleeping bag neatly rolled up in the corner by an emergency exit.

What the hell is going on in this place?

He didn’t see anyone, so he walked past a section of independent study rooms, peering in through the windows to find each one deserted.  More than a few of them held book bags, backpacks, purses, and piles of supplies.  He didn't take the time to figure out what was in each room, but he could tell the library had been transformed into a storehouse.

Whatever was going on, it looked safe enough to bring Brin, Ted and his family to spend the night here.  He reached the southwest corner of the building and peered out the closest window.  He could just barely make out the roof of their van on the other side of the low brick wall surrounding the library.  It was practically full dark outside.

Erik took one more glance around to make sure no one was watching before unlocking the casement window.  He opened it, thankful this one didn't squeal as loud as the one on the third floor where he’d entered.

Once outside, he disengaged the swing arm on the window and closed it.  If need be, assuming someone didn't lock it from the inside, they'd be able to open the window again and get back in at a moment’s notice.

Erik, looking both ways again and finding the coast still clear, dashed across the weed-infested patch of ground to the brick wall and climbed before over.  His heart raced when he reached the van and found it empty.  The hatch was up, both side doors were open, and all the supplies were gone.  He spun around in a circle looking for someone, anyone.

"Ted!" he hissed into the darkness.  "Brin?"

His radio broke squelch.  "We're in the visitor’s center behind you.  I wanted a backup plan," Ted's voice announced.

Erik turned and trotted across the street to where Ted  was motioning to him from a window behind a large juniper shrubbery.  "Hurry up," Ted whispered.  "Brin spotted someone walking down the street to the south with a flashlight."

Erik pushed aside the bush and climbed in through the open window.  "What about the van?"

"Nothing we can do about that," said Ted.  "I've got this window—get up to the second floor and cover the street."

"Got it," Erik started to move to the stairwell, lit by a glow stick laying on the floor.

"You find anything good?"

Erik paused at the stairs.  "Took me a while to break in, but somebody's been using it like a warehouse or something…I found lots of backpacks full of supplies.  There's a lot of food in there."

"That makes my mouth water just hearing it," said Brin from the top of the stairs.

Erik turned to face her dark silhouette.  "I don't know, there could be an awful lot of people using that thing."

"Where are they, then?" asked Brin.  "Seems strange they'd leave all that stuff lying around."

"I know," said Erik as he slipped past.  "It doesn't make any sense."

"Contact," hissed Ted.  "More lights to the south.  Get upstairs and cover the street!  Let's hope they just keep going."

Chapter 41

Sic Semper Tyrannis

DANIEL CRIED OUT IN pain. He heard voices beyond the crackling of the fire. Heat made it almost unbearable inside the vehicle.

He tried to yell and found his throat too dry. It was hard to breathe. Between the smoke and the fumes, it felt like he had a spear shoved through his chest.

Broken ribs. Punctured lung?

"Over here!" a voice called out.

Thank God, they found me.

He raised a hand and slapped the inside of the door closest to him. Over the crackle of the fire trying to consume his vehicle, he heard someone struggling to open it.

"It's jammed! I'm going through the front!"

"I can get him from the side," called out a new voice—a woman.

I don't remember seeing any women on my Secret Service detail today…

The pressure on his twisted legs eased when the door behind him opened. Gentle but strong hands gripped his throbbing ankles. He howled in pain.

"Careful! Looks like his ankle’s are broken. Hang in there Mr. President, we're going to get you out of here…"

Panting and bleeding, they dragged him from the burning vehicle. Supported by two Secret Service agents and a woman wearing an olive-drab outfit, they then transferred him to an idling Suburban.

"Put him in the back seat," one of the agents grunted.

"Can't…breathe…" Daniel gasped.

"Quick, open the hatch, we can lay him down in the back," suggested the woman.

Gunfire echoed unseen in the distance.  "Contact!  We need to move, people," warned another voice.

"We won't be able to move very fast with him just laying there–" warned one of the blurry agents at the edge of Daniel's vision.

"Doesn't matter how fast we go, we just have to get out of here!" argued the woman.

Reluctantly, the agents agreed and Daniel felt himself lifted and gently placed in the back of the big black SUV.

Instantly, his breathing improved. Definitely something screwed up with my lungs. He turned his head and blinked through the pain, trying to focus on his saviors.

"Ready!" called out the woman.

"Roger that, let's go!"

The woman settled behind him, holding him gently as the rear hatch slammed shut.

The other agents piled in and Daniel felt his body lurch as the vehicle raced forward on screaming tires.

"Hey! Take it easy up there!" the woman called,  sheltering him from the abrupt bumps and shifts in direction as the vehicle rumbled down the street.

"If we don't get out of here before the rebels and the army converge on us, we're all dead," replied the driver.  "Ma'am."

Daniel tried to pay attention to the driver and his passengers as they chatted back and forth on the radio, trying to locate the other units. None of it made much sense, but from what he gathered, his entire motorcade had either been wiped out or trapped by protesters and rebels.

Daniel's heart started to slow. It seemed he was finally out of the danger zone. Surrounded by loyal agents and…his eyes came to focus on the dirt and blood-smudged face that hovered over him.

She offered him a gentle smile.  She had kind eyes behind short brown hair that threatened to hang down into her face. She tucked a stray bit behind one ear and rested a hand gently on the side of his neck and face.

"There, there. Rest easy, sir. It'll all be over soon."

Daniel smiled at her touch. "Who…?" he breathed.

The smile on her face faded as she glanced over her shoulder at the agents in the front of the vehicle. "How much longer?"

One of the agents checked his radio, and then shouted and then answered, "Not much longer—looks like we were able to skirt around the edge of the rebel position. We should be able to get him to medical staff in the next couple minutes. How's he doing?"

The woman nodded and turned back to Daniel. "He's still with us."

The agent grunted and turned his attention back to the radio. Daniel heard it squawk something about incoming army units.

"Sssh," she said, brushing some strands of blood-soaked hair from his forehead. "You've been seriously injured, sir. They're doing their best to get you to safety."

"Who…?" he whispered again.

The kind smile returned her face—like the type of smile a mother would give to a favored son who had tried to show off for her and skinned a knee.

"My name is Lieutenant Colonel Caroline Edwards, United States Air Force."

Recognition flashed across Daniels eyes. He tried to shout, but found the gentle hand now became an iron vice around his throat. He feebly clawed at her hand, amazed she could choke him so easily.

The extent of his injuries came rushing at him like a ton of bricks. He had to warn the agents. She was supposed to be his prisoner, not the other way around.

"You are a dictator," she said, her face close to his. The smile vanished as his vision darkened.

No, no, no…it was that guy from the Air Force who…Hank!

"Sic semper tyrannis," she whispered before he lost consciousness.

Chapter 42

Heading Home

"YOUR TURN, BUDDY," SAID Ted as he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes.  He immediately collapsed on the rough pallet they’d made out of cushions from a couch in the downstairs lobby of the visitor's center and closed his eyes.

Erik groaned and got to his feet.  He'd been up most of the night on watch keeping an eye on the people who picked over their van by candlelight.  When at last they’d began to disperse into the night, he and Ted were able to relax and get some rest.  Erik took the first shift, then was able to sleep while Brin took the graveyard shift.  Ted took the early morning shift so Erik could wake at dawn and take over.

He shuffled over to the window at the southeast corner of the building and peered out into the morning sun.  Their van sat in the same spot it had occupied all night, only all the doors were now open.  Bits and pieces from the glove compartment and one of the seats lay on the street.  The hood was up and Erik spied the battery on the ground.  Whoever found their van in the night did a decent job of dismantling it.

Erik sighed and let his forehead rest against the window.  The cool glass felt welcoming on his skin, compared to the slightly stuffy atmosphere of the visitor's center.

Now we have to find another car…

Brin stirred behind him and moved up next to him by the window.  "God, what a mess…"

Erik sighed.  "Yeah, guess it's time to go car shopping again."

Brin grunted and disappeared to go check on the children.

Erik sat at his post for the better part of an hour, watching the empty streets and counting the number of birds that flew overhead.  Around 9 o'clock, he gave a start as a helicopter appeared on the horizon to the south.  Brin and the kids rushed over to take a look and marveled together at the sight of the aircraft as it circled closer and closer.  Erik pulled out the binoculars and quickly realized it was no ordinary helicopter but a military Black Hawk.

"I wonder what he's doing over here?"

Brin shook her head.  "Whatever he’s doing, I don't want any part of it.  You remember what that stadium looked like?"

"I think we better get started on finding a new car quicker than we thought," Erik observed.  He lowered the binoculars and put them on the window sill.  "You're okay with the kids?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

Erik grabbed his rifle and tousled the hair on Teddy’s head before snagging a bottle of RV water from their pile of supplies.

He stepped out into the early morning air and closed his eyes, relishing the crisp air that enveloped him.  He closed the door quietly and walked across the street toward the van, sipping his water.

He examined the remains of the van and cursed.  The scavengers had taken several sections of wiring from the engine area and it looked like they’d dismantled part of the radiator as well.

"What the hell were these guys doing?"

He sucked air in through his teeth when he examined the van’s interior.  They'd slashed open all the seats, removed some of the foam padding and taken two of the captain's chairs with them.  The glove box was completely empty, and the rudimentary toolkit stowed with the spare tire was gone as well.

He shook his head, took a final drink of water and slipped it into a mesh pouch on the side of his pack.  Slipping the rifle sling over his shoulder, he adjusted the weight of his pack and decided to pick his way around the pile of cars blocking the street to the north.

He stepped up on the sidewalk close to the brick wall by the library.  On a hunch, he quickly stuck his head over the wall and looked down its length north and south.  Empty.  At least he wouldn't be surprised.  He made his way across the street and stuck close to the trees that lined the front of the next few buildings.

Cautiously peering into the windows, Erik checked for movement.  Nothing.  As he listened to crows and blue jays calling in the distance, an eerie sensation settled on his shoulders.  It was like walking over someone's grave.  By the time Erik traveled two blocks, he almost hoped to run into someone just to relieve his anxiety.

He crouched down at the corner of a building and peered around, looking for signs of activity.  An empty plastic bag carried along by the breeze scraped the sidewalk on the far side of the road.  In the distance he saw another barricade of cars at the far end of street.

This place is creepy as hell.

Over another colonial-style building a block away, he saw a parking garage in the distance.  Erik trotted off with a purpose.  He covered the distance in short order, pausing only to look into the windows of the buildings he passed.

Most of them had been smashed out.  A few of the buildings he passed looked like they'd been gutted by fire.  Whatever had happened here, it looked to be violent and swift, but not as completely destructive as what had swept through Leesburg, Virginia.

On the second to last building before the parking garage, he saw a cacophony of spray paint on one of the brick walls.  Most of it had been covered over in layer upon layer with different paints, except the top right corner which proclaimed in bright orange paint: e=mc2.

He stood for second and stared at the graffiti.  Unable to make out what had been covered up by previous layers, he shook his head at the sheer madness of it all.  To the left of the famous equation, a partially covered fist raised in the air in black spray paint had been crossed out with a red spray paint.

Something weird as hell is going on here.

He didn't know what to make of it, but knew the parking garage he’d seen was just behind this building, so he slipped around to the west.  Moving low beneath the windows he passed, Erik crept through the bushes until he was able to spy his target.

The parking garage had one entrance, blocked by two cars parked at angles.  He cursed his luck as he saw the curved metal spikes also preventing people from going in the exit.

If there’s any cars in there, someone sure wants to make sure nobody gets them.

Erik decided to scope out the situation for a while.  He made himself comfortable and slowly removed the water bottle from his backpack, taking a few sips to pass the time.  He choked down his last Russian protein bar and counted birds.  He watched a few chipmunks skittering through the bushes nearby.  Across the street he watched as pigeons relentlessly picked at the gravel in the street, looking for food.  He wondered what pigeon and chipmunk pie tasted like.

An hour went by, then another and Erik began to nod off.  He decided it was time to make a move.  Ted and Brin would be starting to worry soon enough.  He'd been gone almost three hours already—it would be noon in a few minutes.

Erik pushed the bushes back and slowly rose to a crouch.  Keeping his rifle at his shoulder, he scurried across the street and pressed himself against the wall of the parking garage.  After a quick scan of his surroundings revealed no immediate threat, he ducked around the corner and disappeared inside.

He paused and crouched behind a large concrete barricade, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light inside the garage.  His nose detected the routine smells of a garage— rubber, gasoline, and oil.  Everything seemed normal.

Emboldened by the lack of contact, he moved forward and grinned as he saw row upon row of parked cars waiting to be plucked like fruit ripened on the vine.  He'd hit the mother-lode.  Erik beamed ear to ear, relishing in his first real stroke of good luck since the power had gone out.

Finally, things are turning our way.  I can have my pick of the litter!

He trotted up the rows of empty cars, looking for something appealing.  Most of them appeared to be compact cars.  Reaching the ramp that led up to the second level, he found four-door sedans and a few small trucks.  By the time he was halfway through the second floor, most were larger cars and SUVs.  Keeping his eyes peeled for a van, he was disappointed turn after turn as he continued to work his way up toward the upper levels.

The cars thinned out by the time he reached third floor. On the fourth he found only six vehicles, but the first was a blue Ford Expedition.

Erik had the place completely to himself.   The vehicle was locked.  His luck hadn't been perfect after all.  He slung his rifle over a shoulder and put his hands on his hips, pondering what to do next.

He walked around the big blue Ford and tried to figure out how to get inside.  After a while, he concluded it was best to just smash a window and be done with it.  He walked over to the passenger door, took one look around the deserted parking garage and raised his rifle.

He aimed the butt directly at the bottom corner of the glass and swung it as hard as he could.  The rifle bounced right off and the upper receiver nearly kissed his forehead.  Surprised at the rifle's inability to shatter the window, he smacked it again, again, and again.  The dull thumping sound of the rifle stock on the glass made him grit his teeth in frustration.

It's never this hard in the movies.

Then he remembered seeing a news story years ago about carjackings in Tampa and how the crooks smashed windows.  What did that reporter say?  Erik sat on the driver side running board and rested his rifle on the ground for a moment.  He remembered seeing the newscaster trying to smash a car window with a hammer and failing over and over again.  The heavy hammer should have busted right through the window, but the curved glass deflected it every time.

"What the hell did that guy do to finally break the window?"  Erik mumbled as he adjusted his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  This shouldn't be so difficult.

"Some survivor I am," he muttered.  "Can't even break into a car."  He stood and paced around the vehicle, thinking.

I've got to get inside this thing.  Think.  The reporter had a hammer and he couldn't break a window.  I've got a rifle and I can't smash it open either.  Why?

The memory suddenly came to him—the hammer and the rifle stock were both flat.  He needed something with a sharp point to shatter the glass.

Sharp point, sharp point…what the hell do I have with a sharp point other than a knife?  Erik walked back to the passenger window and pulled his knife from its hip sheath.  He held it like a dagger and took a swing, point toward the glass.  The knife skittered across the glass.

"What the hell?" he asked, rubbing his arm where the vibration had nearly caused him to drop the blade.  "What do I  have to do to break this damn thing?"

Erik sheathed the knife, cursing at the bent tip and put his hands back on his hips.  "This is ridiculous."

As he stood there thinking, he almost didn't register the sound of a shout echoing in the distance.  When he heard it again, his ears pricked up, and he spun around.  He scrambled around the SUV and scooped up his rifle on his way to the edge of the platform.

Two blocks over, just in front of the domed building he’d first spotted from the library, a two-lane street littered with trash and cars bisected the college town east-west.  A green sign below read ‘Main Street’ and pointed toward the road.

From four levels up, Erik had a nice view over the entire campus.  He looked south, to the northern ring of buildings that surrounded the library.  Across the street, another collection of colonial-style buildings stretched into the dense trees planted around the campus.

Another shout echoed up Main Street.  A few blocks away, the college buildings gave way to small shops abutting each other as far as he could see.

Someone darted out from the north and raced across Main St., sliding over the hood of a parked car with practiced ease.  The figure took a quick look around, then pitched a rock through a window.  The vandal disappeared from sight before the glass had finished falling.  More movement caught his eye—other dark-clad figures appeared from the north side of the street and raced across to join their comrade.

He heard some indistinct shouting and noticed a group of three people emerge from the cluster of buildings that lined the south side of Main Street.  They sprinted around some trees and disappeared into an adjoining building, chased by the people from the north.  More shouts echoed across the yard, and people exited the brick buildings, joining what quickly turned into a group brawl.

Erik shifted his grip on the rifle.  What the hell is going on?

Erik felt more uneasy as the minutes passed and the fighting continued.  A few bodies dropped to the ground and the dark-clad figures seemed to more than hold their own against overwhelming numbers.  They looked bigger and even without binoculars Erik could tell they moved with the natural grace of athletes.  Whoever the dark clad figures were, they clearly were superior fighters.  Erik shook his head and moved back to the car.

I need to get inside this thing and get us out of here.  Whatever’s going down here, I don’t want any part of it.

Hoping the noise from the ruckus would cover what he was about to do, Erik pulled his rifle up and yanked back the charging handle.  He aimed at the driver's window and pulled the trigger.  The rifle blast, much to his chagrin, sounded like a cannon in the enclosed parking structure.  He winced as a few car alarms on the floors below screamed to life with indignant honks.

Jesus, that was louder than I’d expected.

A neat hole perforated the window he'd aimed at.  Erik stepped forward and with a mighty swing drove the butt of his rifle straight through the window, sending glass bits everywhere.

He reached in and unlocked the door, then threw it open and frantically searched for a spare key.  First, he flipped down the driver's visor, then the passenger side.  Nothing.

He slammed them back up and threw open the central console.  Nothing.  Leaning across the passenger seat, he reached for the glove box.  He used to carry a spare apartment key and a valet key there in his old green Sebring convertible.   He looked out the windshield.

Sudden memories flashed across his mind of cruising through Sarasota with the top down, Brin at his side as they headed toward the beach for sunset.  He could almost smell the salt in the air.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.  He frowned.

His only hope was that whoever owned the Ford did something similar.  He didn't want to think about trying to hot-wire it.  He'd never done it before—had never even seen it done—but desperate times called for desperate measures and he was prepared to try.

He'd just closed the glove box empty-handed when he heard the first voices echoed up from the lower levels of the parking garage.

“Did you hear where it came from?” said one.

“…definitely up.”

“—set off all these alarms.”

“Are they still here?”

—don’t know, why don’t you ask?”

“Hello?” someone shouted.

“Shut up, dumbass!” the first voice said.

“Aww shit.”  Erik scrambled from the SUV, rifle at his shoulder.

Chapter 43

Setting the Stage

HAKIM CURSED AS HE threw his burner phone into the canal.  He watched as the water rippled and spread out in concentric rings from the point of impact.

Fools. All of them! We've come so far come, come so close!

"Bad news?" asked Saldid from the shadow of their safe house on the east side of Tampa. They had split from the main group after the successful conclusion of their mission the night before.

A few well-placed improvised bombs had killed dozens of unarmed American prisoners and more than a score of Russians in the pre-dawn confusion. The panicked Russians had started shooting and killed who knows how many of their own men.  It had been glorious.  But it wasn’t enough.

He doubted anyone would ever find out about the attacks. In coordinated strikes all through the night, other Fistbrothers launched their own small-scale attacks scattered throughout Tampa and even in Orlando.

It was something, but it wasn’t enough.  Not for Hakim—not after what they’d done in Arizona.  Los Angeles had burned to the ground because of the fires he’d set.  What was a few pipe bombs and dead prisoners compared to the destruction he’d already wrought in Allah’s name?

The previous night’s attacks had been the brainchild of Zarin. Effective but unimaginative.  The Iranian had heard of the guerrilla uprising near the small town of Bigby—in some swamp south of Orlando—where Russian troops had been slaughtered in an ambush by civilians.  He wanted to provoke the Russians and stir up trouble.  He wanted them to think the insurgents from Bigby had attacked Tampa.

The resistance movement started when a Russian prison camp burned to the ground and a number of American captives escaped. But Zarin and his group chalked it up to special forces activity and laughed when the Russians reaped the price of failure.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. With so many Fistbrothers concentrated in Florida, all they had to do was start launching small-scale raids against the invaders and the Russians would naturally blame these attacks on the Bigby uprising.

The more the Russians were attacked, the more they'd crack down on the American civilian population and the more the civilians grew ready to fight back. It was a vicious cycle Hakim had seen countless times in Iraq and Afghanistan, which would lead only to the destruction of both the Russians and the Americans. The chaos that would ensue would be beautiful.

And now this.

"Yes, bad news," he grunted.  He sat down heavily against the cool brick wall next to his partner.  Saldid handed him a bottle of Jack Daniels honey whiskey and a protein bar. Without even thinking of breaking his faith, Hakim took a long swig of the alcohol, relishing the burn in his throat.

He ate half the protein bar before answering Saldid's unspoken question. "It is Mushani—he commands us to stand down and return to cover."

"What?” Saldid gasped. “But—we're so close! Another few attacks and the Russians will be on such high alert even looking at them the wrong way will start a firefight!"

"I know!" hissed Hakim. He chewed another mouthful of the foul protein bar and washed it down with a slug of liquor. "It makes no sense. We have waited for decades, only to be roused and cause so much destruction and glory for Allah…and now, just on the brink of ultimate victory, they tell us to stand down and slink back to the shadows."

"This…" Saldid said, his hands shaking, "…this is wrong…"

Hakim nodded. "I agree. This reeks of weakness. Our esteemed leaders back home do not see the situation on the ground—they fear reprisals. Mushani said the Americans are not only surviving this catastrophe but defeating the Russians. Yet he made no mention of the Chinese in the southwest!  No mention of the destruction of Los Angeles!" Hakim threw the empty protein bar wrapper into the canal.

"Gah! Cowards! Fools! Allah give me strength!" He rested his head against the cool brick wall and closed his eyes, hands at his face. He'd been awake for nearly 29 hours and it was increasingly hard to think.

"So…what options do they leave us?" asked Saldid.  He was quiet.  That was good.  When he was quiet, he was thinking.

"They want us to disappear back into the population, abandon our weapons and supplies…and show up at one of the aid stations."  Hakim took another drink. He had to cleanse his mouth after speaking such foulness.

"No," Saldid said quietly. "I will not."

Hakim grinned. It was exactly the reaction he hoped for. He wiped the smile off his face and turned to look at his partner. "Are you sure? You know the price of disloyalty?"

"It is they who are disloyal! Allah does not tell us to strike and then just when we have our grip on the infidel's throat to let him go! Allah commands us to destroy the infidel!”  Saldid waved his hand dismissively. “Mushani and those fools are 10,000 miles away—they don't know how close we are to victory!"

"I agree."  He shrugged one shoulder.  "But what can we do?"

Saldid nodded, his brutish face contorted in concentration. "We…we must continue our attacks!  Though this may mean the death of both of us…"

Hakim wiped the sweat from his forehead and gazed out across the canal at the row of burned houses. Part of a charred American drone stuck out of the roof directly across the water.

"I never expected to return home from this mission.” Hakim said slowly.  “But I will be thrice damned if I quit."

Saldid got to his feet and extended a hand to Hakim. "Then let us both do what is right in Allah's eyes."

Hakim spat on the ground, gripping his partner's hand tight. "Agreed."

Chapter 44

The Unarmed Army

ERIK'S EYES DARTED AROUND the fourth floor of the parking garage.  He had to get out.  The voices echoing up through the guts of the garage grew louder by the second.  There had to be at least ten people coming.

Shit.  I knew this was too easy!

Erik bolted for the nearest emergency exit stairwell.  He tried to open the door as quietly as he could.  The coast looked clear.

He had a partial view down the ramp and spotted shadows moving at the far end.  No one had turned the corner yet, so he slipped inside and slowly closed the door.  He stood there a moment in the cool, total darkness listening for the sounds of someone coming up through the stairwell.  Nothing.  He fumbled for his LED flashlight and clicked it on.

Concrete steps.  Well, maybe it's not so bad after all.  At least they won't echo like those metal ones in the library.

Erik took the steps two at a time to the third floor, then the second, before reaching the ground level.  He pressed his back against the wall next to the exit, avoiding the small window and its bright beam of sunlight.  He waited until his heart slowed, listening for the clank of a door opening three floors above.  Nothing.

Erik risked a glance out the small window, expecting to see a group of people milling about waiting to hear from those who went up, but he saw nothing.

The streets look exactly the same as they did when he first entered the parking structure.  He hated leaving all those cars behind, but he hated getting surrounded even more.

Erik took a deep breath and slowly pushed on the handle to open the exit.  Under normal circumstances, he would expect to hear a high-pitched chirping alarm, but the battery in the door had failed long ago.  The panic bar squeaked slightly, so he quickly slipped outside and shut it.

Not hearing any sounds of alarm nor seeing any movement, he sprinted across the street and returned to his hiding spot in the bushes around the corner.  The sign he passed mentioned the history department, but he didn't slow down long enough to see the actual name.

All he knew was he’d escaped a particularly hazardous situation and made it back to cover.  He waited another few moments, letting his breathing adjust back to normal, then started to move.  That’s when he heard the first shout.

"Over here!"

Erik froze.  Voices drifted down from on high.  He slowly turned in the shelter of the bushes and peered through the leaves up toward the top of the four-story parking garage.  Someone leaned over the safety railing and waved.

"Somebody was definitely up here!  There's busted glass all over the place!

"Okay—fan out and look for them!" a voice—it sounded like a girl—shouted nearby.

Erik held his breath.  The responding voice sounded like it could've come from the other side of his building.  He readied his rifle and thumbed the safety off.  Whatever the hell was going on, he wasn't about to be captured.  Never again.

"Hey, like, if you're out there, let me know okay?  We don't want to hurt anybody!" the girl called.

Erik frowned.  That's what they all say…

"Seriously!  Look, maybe we can help each other out?"

Erik adjusted the grip on his rifle.  Suspicion began to cloud his mind.  She certainly didn't sound like a soldier.  She sounded like a twenty-something college student.

Movement at the far end of the building caught his eye.  Someone stepped between two trees around the corner, flashing past his narrow field of view before he could make out who they were.  The shape was shorter than what he expected, about Brin's height.

"Hello?"

He readjusted the grip on his rifle again and closed his eyes.  Stop.  It's a God damn girl—I can't shoot a girl…

He waited, peering out through the base of the bushes as the girl strolled past humming a tune.

She sounds nervous…

The girl eventually worked her way around the building, walking within three feet of Erik's position and stepped back out into the sunlight.

"You think he went this way?" she called, hands cupped over her mouth.

"We're not even sure if it's a he!" someone yelled back from the top of the parking garage.  "Don't even know if there's more than one or not.  We just know someone was up here!"

Erik watched as the girl put her hands on her hips.  "Well, I don't see anybody down here…you sure they came this way?"

"Nope!  Keep looking!"

"For what?" she asked.  "I don't see anyone."

"I don't know…footprints?  Crime scene shit, you know?  Look, just hurry up!  The Jocks might come back…"

Jocks? Erik shook his head in disbelief.  If these jokers are serious about trying to hunt someone down, they've got a lot to learn.  All I have to do is pull the trigger and I might be able to take out both of them.  Ted certainly could.

Instead he waited.  His instincts paid off—the girl grumbled something about wasting time and walked off to the left, over toward the next building.

Erik waited another few moments until the person up on the fourth floor of the parking garage turned and disappeared back into the shadows.  He didn't see anyone else on the ground level, so he inched his way toward the far corner of his building, then rose to a crouch and waited.

After counting to 30, he was fairly satisfied the coast was clear.  Erik sprinted across the street and ducked behind a parked car.  He looked south and spotted the short brick wall surrounding the library a few blocks in the distance.

But there was still one major problem: there was at least a 20 or 30 yard gap between cars before he found cover again.  If anyone looked in his direction, they'd make him in a second.

Erik gathered his courage took a deep breath.  He adjusted his helmet then sprinted for the next car down the street.  His boots rang out like thunder on the pavement as he ran for all he was worth to the next car.  He skidded to a stop and dropped painfully to his knees, hoping no one spotted him.

Kneeling there panting, he listened for the telltale shouts that would signal someone had seen him.  After a moment of listening to the chirping birds in the trees and the pounding of his own heart, he shook his head in disbelief.

I may not be a real soldier but these guys are pathetic.  How did no one see me?

With renewed confidence, Erik got to his hands and knees before standing and sprinting for the next car.  In this manner, he leapfrogged his way back to the safety of the low brick wall surrounding the library.  Without pausing to stop for the final car, Erik vaulted the wall and threw himself lengthwise in the grass.

He lay there until his heart slowed and his breathing had returned to normal.  He peered up at the darkened windows of the library and realized most of the trees on this side of the building effectively blocked the view of his hiding spot from anyone on the inside.  If someone happened to be glancing in the right direction at the right moment they might spot him, but for the most part, he felt fairly invisible.

Erik backed up against the brick wall and slowly raised his head enough to look north.  The street remained quiet and deserted.  Only a slight breeze ruffled some of the leaves on the nearby bushes and a piece of newspaper flitted across the street.

Thanking God for his luck, he trotted the last block on his side of the brick wall until he came up to the barricade of ruined cars, behind which sat their dismantled van.  He took one last look up and down the street, then quickly rolled over the brick wall and made for the visitor’s center.  Brin was there waiting for him.  She opened the window as he pushed aside the juniper and slipped into the building.

He lay there panting, his back against the wall as she refastened the window. She squatted next to him.  "Are you okay?  What's going on?  We heard a gunshot."

Erik removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead.  Ted appeared at the base of the stairs, followed by Teddy.  He walked over to Erik and handed him a fresh water bottle.

"What's the sit rep?"

Erik nodded his thanks and took a long swig.  "This place is definitely not deserted," he said around a gasp for breath.  "I found a parking garage full of cars and trucks about five blocks north of here.  Main Street runs straight through the middle of town, east-west.  The parking garage sits right off that street.  Four floors," he continued, describing the vehicles he found inside.  "I found a big SUV on the top floor, but couldn't figure out how to get the window open."

Ted frowned.  "Did you try your knife?"

Erik rolled his eyes at him.  "Of course I tried my knife—you need something pointed to break a car window, right?

Ted nodded.  "That's what the handle's designed for," he said.  On Brin's questioning look, Ted unsheathed his own knife and handed it to her hilt first.  "Here.  Look at the base of the handle that raised part of it that looks like a pyramid."

"It's not very sharp," Brin said running her thumb across the little nub that stuck up from the bottom of the handle.

"That's not the idea," he said, taking the knife back.  "When you swing the handle of this thing toward a car window, all the force of the impact is directed towards that point.  Even if it's rounded a little, that's a tremendous amount of force projected at the glass.  Works like a charm—it'll bust open a window, easy as you please."

Erik rested his head against the wall and sighed in frustration.  "Yeah, well, I found out the other end doesn't work so well."

Ted laughed.  "You didn't…"

Erik pulled his knife out and stared at the damaged tip.  "I did."

Ted laughed again.

"What was that gunshot, then?"  asked Brin.

Ted stopped laughing and stared at him.  "You didn't," he said.

Erik picked up his rifle and thumbed the safety on.  "Oh, I did.  Earlier, I saw a bunch of people coming from the north.  I watched 'em slip across Main Street and start attacking some others.  I didn't know what the hell was going on—these two groups were chasing each other all over the place and fighting and ransacking some of the buildings.  I was out of options and time.  It looked like they were heading in my direction, so I aimed at the window and pulled the trigger.  Instant access."

"Good grief," said Ted as he rolled his eyes.  "You may have gained instant access, but you gave away your position to anybody with two ears—"

"Where's the car?" asked Brin.

Erik looked down and felt the heat rise in his cheeks.  "I got the car open, but I didn't know how to hot-wire it."

"No spare key?  No valet key?"  asked Ted.

Erik shook his head and looked up.  "Nothing—but I did manage to avoid the ten or so people that ran into the parking garage looking for me."  Erik continued to relay the details of his escape.

"Looks like those SERE lessons I gave you weren’t a total waste of time…" Ted joked.

"I'm just glad nobody saw you," said Brin.  Satisfied that Erik was not wounded, and they were in no immediate danger of being found, she turned and ushered Teddy out of the room, saying she was going to check on Lindsay.

Erik watched his wife disappear upstairs and sighed again.  "I just keep feeling like I can't do anything right…"

Ted slapped him on the shoulder and stood next to the window.  "Don't worry about it.  It was an honest mistake."

Erik took another swig from the water.  "You know how to hot-wire a car?"

Ted laughed.  "No way in hell.  Why?"

Erik grimaced and let his head rest against the wall again.  "Just curious.  How are we gonna get a car running?"

"Well you could just ask," said a voice from the other side of the room.  Erik snapped his eyes open and raised his rifle to aim at the chest of a bearded man in jeans and flip-flops.  He looked like a vagrant.

Ted already had his pistol out and aimed with a rock-steady arm toward the intruder.  "Don't move.  Hands up."

The man continued to stare at them with his hands in his pockets, an irritatingly smug look on his face.  "That's no way to treat a visitor, man—and in case you didn't know, like, you are in the visitor’s center…"

The ex-deputy stepped forward and holstered his pistol when he heard Erik take his rifle off safe.  The bearded young man opened his mouth to say something, but Ted lunged forward and swept his feet out from under him, simultaneously swinging his left arm to the stranger's sternum.  The bearded fellow crashed to the floor sputtering gurgled curses.  It was no contest.  Ted had the young man's face down on the floor with his hands behind his back and legs spread in a matter of seconds.

"Who are you?  How'd you get in here?

"Ow!  Hey!"

"What's going on?" asked Brin from the top of stairs.

Ted flashed his knife in front of the beard.  "Who do you work with?  How many other are there out there?"

"Brin, stay up there!" Erik called.

"Whoa, man!  Slow down!  I'm not here to hurt anybody!"

"Who's that?" she asked.

"How many are with you?" roared Ted.

Erik ignored the two men on the floor as he moved to the stairs.  He pointed his rifle at the open exit door down the hallway.  "You okay?" he called up the stairs.

"Yes!  What's going on?"

"Get the kids in the room and lock the door!" his voice brooked no argument.

"Okay!"

Erik waited until he heard the footsteps retreat and the door slam upstairs before he moved down the hall and investigated the open exterior door.  Just outside the door frame, the same girl who’d walked right past his hiding spot stood staring at the rifle in his hands with wide blue eyes.  Her tangle of blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.

She stood there shaking like a leaf.  "Hey…omigod…I–I–" she muttered.

"On the floor, now!"  Erik yelled.  When she didn't move except to raise trembling hands, Erik jumped forward, grabbed one arm and pulled her inside.  As she stumbled forward, he slammed the door shut. He turned and kicked her as gently as he could behind the knee.  She gasped and staggered forward before falling to her hands and knees.  Erik put his foot on her butt and shoved her sprawling into the room with Ted and the other intruder.

"Well, well, well," Ted crowed.  "Looks like we got us a little party!”  He glared at his prisoner.  “You said you were alone."

"Roger?"  the girl asked.

"Tammy!  What are you doing here?"

"I thought you were dead!" she cried out.  "I heard voices and…oh my God, what are these guys doing to you?"  She began to sob, her words slurred.

Ted stood up. "Both of you—shut the fuck up and answer my questions!"

Roger turned to look at him, his eyes twinkling.  "Excuse me, sir, but how am I supposed to shut the fuck up and answer your questions at the same time?"

The smart comment earned him a slap upside his head from Ted's hand.  "Shut up!  You know what I mean.  Answer my questions or we're gonna have to dig some graves."

"I'll tell you everything you want," Roger said, his eyes narrowing.  "But I'm not saying another word till you let her go."

"Roger, don't—" the girl blurted.  "These guys are mean business!"

"Tammy, be quiet!” he hissed.  “I'm trying to save you."

"How noble of you," she replied, her voice thick with sarcasm.  "Just answer their questions—I thought I lost you once, I don't want to lose you again."

Erik looked at Ted and shrugged.  Ted rolled his eyes.  "Are you serious?"

"Look, man, I think it's pretty obvious I don't know how to fight.  I'm not exactly what you would consider a threat," Roger said.  "I’m just a grad-assistant, okay?  And I sure as hell know Tammy is no fighter."

"Hey!  I know how to fight."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Ted.  He waved Erik off and helped Roger to his feet.  "Okay, let's try this again."

Erik safed his rifle and slung it over his shoulder before bending down to help the girl up.  "Who are you two?"

Tammy ran to Roger and fell into his embrace.  Over the top of her head, Roger looked at Erik.  "Thank you for not hurting her."

Erik shared a glance with Ted.  The marine shrugged one shoulder.  "No problem.  Now, you mind telling us who you are?  What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same thing of you," Roger said.  "The army scouts left a while ago and but sure as hell didn't look anything like you guys.  Where'd you guys get those cool uniforms?"

"Hey, we’re guys with guns, remember?" asked Ted, holding up the Springfield XD Erik had liberated from the RV.  "We'll ask the questions, if you don't mind."

"Okay, okay," said Roger.  "Like I said, I'm a grad assistant.  I was with the Professor when the power went out.  Tammy's my girlfriend—she was visiting from Penn State when things all went crazy."

"What were you guys doing on-campus in the middle of the summer?" asked Erik.

"I was teaching the Professor's summer studies program.  That’s when he does the majority of his research."

"Who were those people you were working with earlier?"  Erik asked Tammy.

"Working with?"

"At the parking garage."

Her eyes widened again.  "That was you?"

Erik smiled.  "Who were they?" he repeated.

"Um, the Professor sent us to check out the gunshot."

"We're just students," said Roger.  "We don't have self-defense or military training at all," he continued.

Tammy spoke up: "That's how I lost Roger.  When the Jocks came across Main Street and attacked—”

"The Jocks?" asked Ted.

Roger nodded emphatically.  "Yeah, the football and basketball teams were starting their summer practice squads when everything went down, right?  They ended up banding together over up in the north campus—they're based out of the Denulli Center."

"Okay, I don't know what the Denulli Center is and I don't know what your beef with the Jocks is—I just need to know what we're dealing with here."  Ted pointed at the ground.  "Your group—how many are in it?"

"Oh there's probably 30 or 40 of us."

“Shit,” muttered Erik.  He glanced down the hallway toward the door again.

"You have any kind of medicine here?" asked Brin as she came out of the stairwell.  “We have a sick child with us.”

Erik winced.  He wasn’t ready to release that information yet.  He saw by the twitch in Ted’s jaw that the marine wasn’t ready either.

Roger stared at her for a long moment—long enough that Tammy hit him in the ribs.  He coughed and sputtered an apology before looking at Brin again.  "Yeah.  Yeah, we got some stuff.  I don't know exactly what.  What are you looking for?"

"Antibiotics," Ted said, "or something to help fight infection and fever.  It's my daughter…"

"That's harsh, man.  My best friend got a little cut on his hand last month.  It got infected, and he died.  Totally sucked."

"Do you have anything that can help?" asked Erik.

"I don't know, honestly," Roger said.  "Tammy?"

She looked at Erik and shrugged.  "You'd have to ask the Professor.  He keeps track of all that stuff."

Ted put his hands on his hips.  "Well, looks like you two need to arrange an introduction."

Chapter 45

Propagandist

BRIN STARED AT TED.  "I don't like this idea."

"You think I do?" he shot back.  "Lindsay's not getting any better—what other choice do I have?"

Erik held his tongue as he kept watch over Roger, who sat in the corner sipping a bottle of water.  He peered out the window as Brin and Ted argued the merits of inviting the Professor to come see them.

"We could keep looking for—"

"Some mythical medical facility we don't even know exists?"

"Ted, I'm only trying to help keep us all safe."

Peace reigned in the room for a moment.  "I know," Ted said quietly.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout like that."

"It's fine," Brin said shortly, her voice indicating it was anything but.  "The important thing is we do what's best for Lindsay."

"Exactly," said Erik.  "If this Professor has some meds that can help, that's the best course of action—even if we have to reveal our location in the process."

"Oh, you already did that—that gunshot got everyone's attention, trust me," said Roger.

Erik felt the heat rise in his cheeks as he peered around the corner of the window.  The street remained deserted as the sun approached dusk.  Still no sign of the Professor or Tammy.  She'd been gone since before noon.

"Shut up," Erik said, his jaw tight.  "No one was talking to you."

"I'm just saying—a gun is quite the rarity around here."

Erik's ears pricked up.  "What?"

Ted and Brin moved closer.  "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," began Roger, settling himself into the corner, "if you give me something to eat—I’ve been on the run since dinner yesterday—I'll tell you all the tale of the Professor and his band of merry underclassmen, the Jocks and the Rebels."

"Wait, now you're trying to blackmail us for food?" asked Erik.  He turned to Ted just in time to see a Russian nutrient bar sail through the air and land in Roger's hands.

"Start talking," Ted said.

Roger tore into the exotic protein bar and made a face.  "This isn't very good, is it?"

"Well, it's Russian,” Erik said.

“It's food,” Ted grunted.  “Talk."

Roger stared at Ted for a moment as he chewed and made a face.  "What did they make this out of, haggis?"

Ted glanced at Erik.  He squatted down in front of Roger.  “If you don't start making sense, I'll take that thing away from you and shove it up your ass.  Sideways.”  Ted crossed his arms.  “Think it’ll taste better that way?"

Roger swallowed and took a swig of his water.  "Okay, okay.  Look.  There's something you’ve got to understand about the situation around here.  There's not just our group—there's three groups in Newark.  You got the Professor and the rest of us—"

"Mostly college kids?" asked Erik.

"Yeah, with a few grad-assistants like me and even some high schoolers who were here for that summer program I ran.  Kind of like an early-admission thing in the entomology department."  He took another drink of water and sighed.  "Man, that stuff tastes nasty but it sure fills you up."

"Okay, so you said earlier there's like 30 or 40 of you with the Professor," prodded Brin.  "Who are the other two groups?"

"Well, there's the Jocks—"

"On the north campus, you already told us.  Bunch of football players," interrupted Ted.  "You got any idea on numbers?"

Roger blinked.  "Well, no, not really.  We've never been able to find out.  They don't talk much, just rush in and beat us up and run off with our supplies.  Sometimes they drag off a girl or two," he said, looking at Brin.  "The few times we've tried to send peace envoys, no one ever came back."

"Were they the ones I saw run across Main Street this morning?"

"Yes," Roger said.  "I saw that, too.  They're getting desperate.  We already removed what provisions we thought were useful from almost all the shops on Main Street—they don't like the fact that we're preparing for the winter while they’ve spent the last few months throwing a never-ending kegger.  Typical meat-heads."

"So no one's really talked to them?" asked Brin.

"No—why should we?  They're just a bunch of knuckle-dragging Neanderthals who care more about how much they can bench press rather than seriously plan for their own survival.  They probably still think the army is going to come back with cases of food and water any minute—or maybe the power will come back on like it did in Philly."

"The power's back on in Philadelphia?" asked Ted.  "Are you serious?  How did you find out?"

Roger raised his hand, ticking off answers on his fingers.  "Yes, yes, and we talked with people moving south through the area—we're kind of civilized like that," replied Roger.  He examined the crinkled ration wrapper in his hands.

"I wish Martin was still alive.  He was a Russian lit major.  He could read this crazy writing they have and tell us what's in this stuff.  I bet there's processed Siberian Tiger in there somewhere…"

"Stay focused here, Roger," said Erik.  "Where did these people come from?"

"Well, Philly, of course.  The refugees."

"Wait—I thought you said they got the power back on there?  Why would people leave after that?"

"You don't get out much, do you?" asked Roger.  "Where are you guys from?"

"Florida," replied Erik.

Roger nodded.  "I see.  That explains the Russian food."  He narrowed his eyes.  "Maybe you're Russians…"

Erik looked at Ted.  "If we were Russians, do you think you’d still be here eating our food and giving u slip?”

Ted jumped in: “How do you know so much about what’s going on out there if you don’t have any electricity or active comms?”

Roger held is finger up.  "We may not have electricity in our buildings, but no one ever said we didn't have power.  That's the only thing keeping us safe from the other two groups.   The Professor had us rig up solar panels and all sorts of stuff.  We have radios and lights and refrigerators, all the conveniences of modern man," Roger finished with a sarcastic chortle.

"You have a radio."

Roger looked at Ted.  "Yes!  Give that man a cookie.  Actually, give this man a cookie, if you have one.  Do you?"

"No," said Erik in a flat voice.

"Oh.  Well, but yes, we have a radio," Roger continued, fidgeting with the water bottle.   He squeezed it and made it crackle, then flexed it again. "We've been listening to the international efforts to help out.  You know, the U.N. mission.  I'm not surprised you guys have that Russian stuff—they're taking the lead on the humanitarian front."

"Humanitarian front…?" sputtered Brin.  "Russians?"

Erik reached out and put a hand on Brin's arm.  She blinked and looked ready to spit nails but closed her mouth at his nod.  "I'm going…I'm going to go check on Lindsay," she said and left the room.

"She okay?" asked Roger after Brin left.

"She's fine," replied Erik with a warning look at his wife.

“For now,” added Brin, crossing her arms.

Erik sighed and looked away.  Really?

"What else have you heard?" asked Ted quickly.

"Well,” Roger said slowly, watching Brin make a face at Erik.  “Uh…the Russians and the U.N., they’re like, sending over food and supplies, you know?  But there's still pockets of people out there who think they're invading.”  Roger exhaled.

“They're just clinging to their Bibles and guns—you know, crazy people.  They haven't gotten with the times—this a new world, man.  Things are different now.  We have to be able to accept a handout from our fellow citizens of the world…"  Roger paused.  "You guys are looking at me like I just stepped off a ship from Mars."

Erik spoke first.  "It's just…well, we haven't heard anything from the outside world in so long…It's kind of hard to take in all these changes at once, you know?"

Roger nodded with sagacity.  "I understand.  Sometimes I forget what we have here is so much more than most people have out there.  I heard Florida is worse off than most.  They said a pretty badass hurricane came through just after the power grid failed and really set you folks back to the Dark Ages."

“A hurricane?” Ted muttered.  He glanced at Erik, saw the warning look in his eyes and closed his mouth.

"You have no idea," said Erik.

"It must have been a relief to see the Russians show up with food and water," Roger added.

"We were very grateful for their food," agreed Erik carefully.  "Even if it does taste a little strange."

Roger laughed.  "See?  That's the kind of attitude we need to have as a country going forward.  We're not the leader of the world anymore,” he said, scratching at his beard.  “When the power grid went down, we stepped into a time machine.  We're back in the 1800s while the rest of the world is still in the twenty-first century.  It's a real mind job, but there it is, man."

Brin came downstairs and motioned for Ted to talk privately.  Erik took the lead with Roger.  "So, uh, tell me more about the Jocks.  They're kind of like your arch-enemies or something, right?"

Roger sighed.  "Well, not as much as the Rebels.  Those guys are just plain nuts.  They're zealots.  There's no talking or reasoning with them.  At least the Jocks can appreciate what a truce means.  Or they did, up until today."

"You have a truce with them?"

"Had a truce with them," said Roger.  He sighed.  "It'll take some pretty good talking to justify their sudden attack this morning.  Those shops were cleared out a month ago—and they know it.  That's the only reason I escaped—"

"You escaped?  You were a prisoner?"

"Yeah, that's why Tammy was surprised to see me alive.  They took me in a raid back in September.  Far as I know, I'm the only one who ever made it back to safety."

"So this Professor is going to be pretty happy you’re back, huh?"

Roger paused and stared at Erik.  His left eye twitched.  "I should hope so, I was his lead assistant.  God only knows how he survived without me."

Erik had to suppress a grin as he nodded.  I can't wait to tell Ted…we got ourselves a nice little bargaining chip here.

"The real threat in town is the Rebels."

Erik checked the window again.  Still nothing.  He watched a fluffy cloud float overhead.  "Okay, you keep talking about them.  Who are they?"

"They've taken over the west campus.  Pretty much everything west of here, actually.  This here is like, the edge of no-man's-land, man," he said, patting the commercial grade carpet on the floor.

"That explains a lot," muttered Erik.

"You were pretty confused by all the barricades, huh?" asked Roger with a smile.  "That was my idea.  See, the rebels still have access to a few working cars—ones the rednecks haven't disabled or shot up."

"Rednecks?" asked Erik.  "How many groups do you have in this town?  I didn't think Newark was that big…"

"Oh, they're not based here—they're from Maryland.  I call them rednecks—I honestly have no idea what color their necks are."  Roger waited for Erik to laugh, then cleared his throat and continued.  "Um, they're just a bunch of townie racists, actually.  They're always fighting with the Rebels."

"Okay, wait again—who are these rebels?" asked Erik, one hand on his head.

"They call themselves the Brotherhood.”

A chill ran down Erik’s spine.  “The Brotherhood?”

Roger nodded.  “They're…well, we consider them black separatists.  Freedom fighters, you might say."

Freedom fighters?  Is this guy nuts?  "Separatists?"

"Yeah—from what we can gather, they just want to be left alone.  They're the ones who built this country.  Well, not them specifically, but their ancestors, right?”  Roger paused and smiled.  When Erik stared at him in disbelief, the smile faded and he continued.

“The slaves, man—you know, they’re the ones who really built this country.  I say it's the least we can do for them, to let them have their own space.  Hell, the country is plenty big enough and goodness knows we aren't doing anything productive with all that land anymore."

Erik blinked.  He was glad when Ted returned to the room—he had no idea how to respond to Roger's last statement.  He wanted to laugh and punch the fool at the same time.  The level of delusion Roger lived under was epic.  Before Ted could speak, Erik thought of something.

“Have you seen any flags or banners the Rebels fly?”

Roger snorted.  “Oh yeah.   They love the hand thing.  No one really knows what that’s all about, but they paint it on everything.”

Erik thought back to the parking garage and the graffiti he found.  “You mean the black fist, raised up like this?” he asked, raising his own fist to mimic the painting.

Roger shook his head.  “No, that was what they did in the beginning.  You can still see some of their graffiti throughout the town.  They used that black fist back before we agreed to a truce with the Jocks.  Now they use this white hand thing—ever since all the refugees came pouring out of Philly.  Well, that and after the army came through.”

Erik leaned against the wall.  It felt like someone had hit him in the chest with a piece of lumber.  White Hand.   Jesus Christ, it’s those guys again…they’re everywhere!

“You okay, man?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost…or maybe had a few too many of those Russian bars…”

Ted cleared his throat. "Roger, you said you have communications."

"Yeah, we got radios.  That's how we found out the power was back on in Philly and why people were leaving."  He shook his head.  "I suppose it's going to be like that everywhere—gangs took over after the grid collapsed.  The government is going to have to take the kid gloves off and get serious about restoring law and order.  I wouldn't want to stay there either.  Not if I had any choice."

"Yep," Erik agreed quickly.  Ted looked like he wanted to ask a question.  "But where do you get your news?  Like the BBC or something?"

Roger laughed.  "Oh hell no—we don't listen to those fascist pricks.  The Professor knows they're just propagandists.  They're just spewing the same hate as those guys from Maryland that keep harassing the Rebels.  The same shit those army scouts said.  Always talking about liberty and national sovereignty.”  He laughed bitterly.  “As if we gave up the right to free speech when the lights went out," Roger said, shaking his head.  "No, we listen to the broadcasts from the U.N. news service they broadcast out of New York.  I guess it's kind of like their headquarters or something?”

Erik looked at Ted.  New York?

"Anyway," he continued, "that's where we get our real news—or at least we did.  I haven’t heard anything since before the Jocks captured me.  But the Professor used to let us all listen to updates on how the recovery efforts were going all the time…like, before, you know, man?"

"That's where you heard the Russians are doing so much good in Florida, right?" asked Ted.

"Yup," replied Roger.  "From what we heard, it was pretty nice down there.  Why'd you leave?"

Erik blinked.  "Uh…"

"My daughter's sick," Ted said suddenly.  "Do you think the Professor will really have any antibiotics?"

Roger smiled.  "Oh sure.  The Professor's actually an apiologist."  Roger stared at Erik and Ted for a moment.  "Apiology?  You know, the study of bees?"

Erik glanced at Ted and shrugged.

"What does that mean?" asked Ted.

"Bees make honey."

"Yes, I know that," growled Ted.  "How does that answer my question?  Does he have access to antibiotics or not?"

"I said yes, man.  Look, honey has been used throughout history as an anti-biotic.  We’ve use it plenty of times to heal cuts and stuff.  I think he boils it in water to put on bigger wounds.”

“You said your roommate got a scratch and died though—” began Erik.

“That was different,” Roger said.

“How?” asked Ted.

“He didn’t follow the Professor’s advice.”  Roger shrugged.  “Good guy, you know?  But he was an engineering major.  Very analytical.  He wouldn’t see reason.  He cared more for his measurements and his calibrations than for things like freedom and survival.”  Roger looked down at the carpet.  “I liked him, man.”

“So only the Professor’s supporters get access to the meds?” asked Ted.

Roger looked up.  “You think there'd still be 30 or 40 of us if we didn't have honey?  Shoot, we'd be more like the Jocks, just running on dumb luck."

Ted nodded, looking out the window.  "Good.  Because your friends are about to arrive."

Erik glanced around a curtain.  "I don't see anything."

"I just spotted them coming down the street when I was upstairs.  There's a group of about ten headed our way.  Got a big white flag and a few smaller ones.  It looks like their coming in peace, anyway."

"God, I can't wait to take a shower," sighed Roger as he leaned his head against the wall.

"You have antibiotics and showers?" asked Brin from the stairwell.  She looked at Erik.  "Okay, now I'm glad we stopped in this town."

We'll see, thought Erik.

Chapter 46

The Professor

THE PROFESSOR SMILED AND offered a slight bow before Erik and Ted.  "I cannot express to you my gratitude.  We never expected Roger to return to us after his long captivity among the athletes.  I don't know how we can repay you."

Erik regarded the older man.  The professor stood about 5’10” with his shoulders slumped forward a little and his birdlike head perched slightly forward on his neck.  The man had sharp, intelligent eyes which never seemed to rest on anything long.  To combat the chill in the air, he wore a tweed jacket complete with elbow patches.  Erik wouldn't have been surprised to see the man pull out a hornpipe and start smoking.

"I suppose it's best for people to try to stay on good terms with each other, isn't it?" said Ted.

The Professor nodded.  "Indeed, it is."

Erik turned his gaze to the gaggle of young people who stood behind the Professor.  They appeared bright-eyed and alert.  None of them appeared to be suffering from malnutrition or dehydration and their clothes were in good repair.  In contrast, Roger looked like he'd just crawled out of a homeless shelter.

The conspicuous absence of weaponry of any kind—even a knife—made Erik uneasy.  He felt overly conscious of the rifle he kept in his hands, even though it was safed and pointed down.

Erik forced his attention on Professor once more.  He was speaking with Ted and nodding enthusiastically, almost like a bird hunting on the ground for food.  "…quite possible.  I would very much be open to discussing how we may benefit each other."

Something about the way the man spoke set Erik on edge.  He was too concise, too smooth, too comfortable using academic syntax.

Smug—it was intellectual smugness.  That's what bugged him.  The man was a tenured university professor.  He probably had more knowledge about his specific field of study that most of the people left alive in the country.  And he knew it.

Good grief, is this what I was trying to become?  Some kind of smug old man, prattling on about history?

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," Ted said.  "As it happens, my daughter has been injured on our journey and we're in need of some medical supplies."

"Goodness," the Professor said putting his hand across his chest.  "I hope it's nothing serious?"

Ted sighed.  "To be honest we're not exactly sure how bad it is.  She sprained her ankle pretty good.  And there was this cut…but she's got a fever now..."

"Lucy?" the Professor called over his shoulder.

One of the girls from the Professor's group, a raven-haired girl who looked like she appeared to be no more than 19 or 20 spoke up.  "I was in the nursing program before everything went crazy…if you'd like, I'd be happy to take a look at her…?"

Ted smiled and Erik felt the tension in the air immediately slackened.  The marine slung his rifle over his shoulder and gestured toward the visitor's center door.

"Thank you so much!  She's right in there—here, I’ll show you the way."

Erik smiled awkwardly as nine sets of eyes swiveled to focus on him.  More than one person shifted their feet and glanced at his rifle.  Erik became more and more uncomfortable by the second.

Their faces were easy enough to read: who was he to go about armed to the teeth while they, mere students—most of them half-grown children—went unarmed.  Almost as an afterthought, Erik slung the rifle over his shoulder.

"So…uh, I can't help noticing that nobody has any…"

"Guns?" the Professor asked with a wry smile on his face.  He gestured toward the group.  "We have no need of weapons here.  We're all part of the same community.  We are survivors, not warriors.  We strive to offend no one and help all.  I like to believe that is what humanity was put forth of this earth to accomplish.  Don't you agree?"

Erik hooked his thumbs behind the utility belt at his waist and rocked back on his heels, considering the question.  "Well, I won't argue that's not a noble ideal."  He paused for a second to gather his thoughts.  He didn't want to say the wrong thing and offend anybody, especially as Ted was working to get some medical help for Lindsay.

"I just…from what we've seen, this has become a really dangerous world.  I don't like violence, personally—despite this,” he said, shrugging his shoulder to indicate the rifle.  “But I've had to do my fair share and seen much worse in the past six months."

"Is it bad out there?" asked one of the young men behind the Professor.  "I mean, you look like you're with the army…"

Erik subconsciously glanced down at the plate carrier he wore on his chest and extra magazines for his M4.  The weight of the rifle pulled at his shoulder and he couldn't help but notice the handle of the large knife he had strapped to his leg.

"Unfortunately, yes.  It’s pretty violent out there.  I don't even want to talk about what we went through in Georgia…I've seen things I didn't think possible…not in this century at least."

The Professor nodded.  He gestured for Erik to take a seat by the little outdoor table located behind the visitor’s center in a little secluded garden bordered by pines.

"I understand.  We've seen more than our fair share of barbarism since the power went out."  He shook his head sadly as he lowered himself into a chair.  "However, I can't help thinking this is an opportunity to start over, to make this a better world."  The students arrayed themselves around him on the grass.

This guy sounds like a politician, Erik thought.  And you guys just look creepy.  What is this, some sort of cult?

"Did you stop to visit Washington or Baltimore on your way, north?"

Erik shook his head and took a seat, keeping his back to the visitor’s center.  "I wouldn't exactly we visited.…"

"But surely you heard of the U.N. safe zones?" asked one of the girls in the back.  "They talk about them all the time on the radio broadcasts.  People are gathering in the state capitols to promote peace and prosperity for the future—"

"Let's not bore our guests," said the Professor, waving a casual hand toward his students.  "Our new friends have had a long trip," he announced.

"You have no idea," Ted said, returning with Lucy to join the group.

The Professor stared at Ted as the girl moved behind him and took her place in the grass.  "I will cut to the chase," he said with a sigh.  He picked up an untouched bottle of water in his hand and examined the plastic like it was a dead snake.  Sitting in the wire frame garden chair with his acolytes behind him on the grass, he looked like a medieval prince.

"I propose we come to terms that will prove to be equitable to both our parties."

Erik shifted in his seat and glanced as Ted sat across the table from him.  Ted took a sip of his own water before replying.

"Sounds fair enough—what did you have in mind?"

The Professor's head bobbed like a bird.  "In exchange for providing you some of my medicinal supplies, you will provide my people with…security training."  The Professor held up a hand to forestall any argument from the students and plowed ahead.

"The three groups in this town—my own, those who call themselves Rebels, and the athletes to the north—must come to terms with the new reality we all face.  The only way to survive in these harsh times until the authorities regain control is through the peaceable exchange of aid and services.  The ridiculous  fighting we've been party to—regrettably so—since the electricity failed us must stop."

Erik watched the Professor’s facial expressions as he spoke.  The man's words sent a chill down his spine.  He looked like an old-school revival preacher, his eyes burning as he leaned forward over the table, fists clenching in time with the emphasis he put on his words.

The more Erik learned about the Professor and his followers, the more he disliked them.  He felt the urge to jump in a car—any car—and race north as fast as possible.  Yet for Lindsay's sake he swallowed his fears along with his water and sat in silence.

Ted considered the Professor for a moment, letting his eyes roam over the faces of the others as they sat clustered around their glorious leader.  "You're sure you have antibiotics that can treat my daughter?"

"Lucy?"  The Professor asked over his shoulder without breaking eye contact with Ted.

"Yes, Professor," said the dark-haired girl who had seen to Lindsay.  She stood from the ground,  brushed off her jeans, and stepped closer to her leader.

"Is it your professional opinion that the young lady in question can indeed be treated and possibly saved by using our honey-derived antibiotics?"

Without hesitation, Lucy nodded.  "Oh definitely.  She doesn't appear to have any sort of puncture wound.  She has a slight infection, but it hasn't progressed to the bloodstream yet.  You can tell because there are no red streaks coming up from where the—"

The Professor held up a hand and smiled at Ted, looking more like a carnivorous bird of prey than a  pigeon.  "That's quite enough, dear.  Thank you."  He waited until Lucy settled herself on the grass at his feet before continuing.

"I have full faith and confidence in Lucy.  She has served me well over the past few months," he said.  Erik immediately noticed the girl was now looking down at the ground and color was rising in her cheeks.

I wonder how she’s served you…  The smirks on some of the boys’ faces and glares from a few girls confirmed Erik’s thoughts.

"The only concern left in my mind," the Professor continued, "is whether or not you and your rather large companion here," he said with a smile toward Erik, "can adequately train my people to defend themselves."  He paused.  “Without weapons.”

Erik sputtered on his water.  "Without weapons?  You don't have any?"

The Professor leaned back in his chair, a condescending look on his face as he interlaced the fingers of his hands over his thin chest.  "Of course we have weapons: reason, intellect, and logic.  These are the weapons of an educated man.  What you carry," he said waving a disdainful hand toward Erik and Ted's rifles, “those are the weapons of war and destruction.  They can bring no lasting peace.  And by the way," the Professor said leaning once more over the table, "we have plenty of those as well.   Voluntarily given up as part of the Covenant."

“Covenant?” asked Erik.  I don’t like the sound of that.

“Yes.  Think of it like a home owner's association.  We have rules that one must obey to be a part of our community.”

Community.  I hate it when people who have no idea what that word means throw it around like it ends the conversation.  Erik clenched his jaw at the disgusted looks from the students.  Every one of them glared at him, except Lucy.  Nice.   Anyone who relies on guns is an ignorant savage, eh Professor?

Ted frowned.  "I don't understand.  If you have weapons, you have the means to defend yourselves—why are you—"

"Insisting on using peaceful means?" asked the Professor.  He leaned back in his chair, the metal springs creaking softly.  "Roger, would you care to enlighten our guests?"

Erik shifted his gaze to Roger, who sat at the Professor's right hand.  He grunted as he got to his feet, shrugging off the helping hands of his friends.

"It's like this, man.  We started out wanting to use guns—just like everyone else.  Okay, but you know what?  We lost people fast.  Everybody got cocky. Everybody decided they were Rambo, that they were going to save the world.  We got into a lot of gunfights.  There was a lot of bloodshed—on all sides.  It wasn't pretty, man."

The Professor nodded.  "It was a direct result of our use and reliance upon those crude weapons of destruction and death," the Professor said, waving again at Erik and Ted's rifles, "that led us into the present situation where we have nothing but a stalemate.  On top of the utter stupidity and loss of life immediately following the collapse, the addition of firearms into the equation proved too volatile for us.”  He sighed.

“I admit, at first even I was lured by the seductive power of guns," he said, the last word uttered as if he had to spit something vile from his mouth.  "But after our second or third fight, as we dug the graves of the fallen, I realized the only thing the gun would bring us is death.  I decreed all guns would be locked up henceforth," he said puffing on his chest, "and since then I'm proud to say we have lost only six souls."

Erik watched the Professor as he looked down his nose at the two of them, almost daring them to challenge his assertion.

Okay, I’ll bite.  "What about the other groups—the Rebels and Jocks?" Erik asked.

The Professor sighed and slipped further into his chair.  "The same cannot be said for those misguided fools.  Those children—for I truly think of them as such—who call themselves the Jocks," he said, his fingers making quotes in the air, "would like nothing more than to rely on firearms.  They chose to keep weapons close to their hearts.  Unfortunately, or rather fortunately for us, we still have the upper hand because we have more.  The Rebels on the other hand," the Professor said, sweeping his hand toward the west, "have a much larger stockpile of weapons.  It almost rivals our own, so I'm told."

Ted put his water bottle on the table, the plastic making a sound that caused everyone to look at him.  "And what's stopping them from rolling through here and wiping you out?  What's stopping them from just taking over?"  Ted looked down the street through the trees.  "A couple cars parked across the road certainly ain’t gonna stop anybody who's armed and determined."

A sickly smile spread across the Professor's lips.  "Now you're beginning to understand our true weapon.  We have brokered an uneasy truce for one reason and one reason only: knowledge."

Ted looked at Erik.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

The Professor sighed.  "You, my friends, have the temperament of my students, but the instincts of our rivals.  In time, I believe you could be one of us.  So I suppose I should explain things more clearly."

Erik clenched his teeth at the insult.  "Just be sure to go extra slow for me, Professor, sir," Erik replied.

If the Professor took umbrage with Erik’s words, he didn't show it.  "The reason we have this unofficial truce—which I want to stretch into a lasting peace—is knowledge.  The knowledge I have here," he said as he tapped side of his head.  "The knowledge my students possess, the knowledge of thousands of books in the library across the street.  That knowledge is invaluable.”  He steepled his hands and regarded Erik through half-lidded eyes.  “Do you recall a saying from the time before the collapse?  Knowledge is power."

"Sure, everybody remembers that,” replied Ted.

Professor nodded.  "If knowledge was power then, it is the ultimate power now."

Erik felt the coolness of the air for the first time as the Professor spoke his last words.  The students nodded.  Erik waited for them to stand and genuflect as a group.

"I sit atop a vast stockpile of weapons and ammunition, but choose not to use them.  Instead I use the knowledge locked in our collective intelligence," the Professor said sweeping his hand over his loyal subjects sitting on the grass at his knees.  “We have used reason and logic to deal with the barbarians at our gates.  As a consequence, even they have come to realize truth of our enlightened ways."

A crooked grin spread across Ted's face.  "You gave them medicine and treated their sick and injured, didn’t you?  They know you've got medicine."

The smile flickered on the Professor's face for just an instant, but Erik saw anger flashed in the man's eyes as Ted stole his thunder.

"Yes."

Ted nodded.  "I see what's going on here," he said, staring at the students on the grass.  "That's pretty smart, by the way," he said to the Professor’s immediate satisfaction.  "It's also pretty reckless.”

Erik watched the Professor’s eyebrows climb up.

“Has anybody been outside Newark?"  Ted asked, then squinted.  “You guys have any idea what the real world is like out there?"

Erik decided to jump in before Ted tipped his hand.  "Roger told us about the U.N. radio broadcasts.”  He caught Ted’s eye and hoped he got the message: follow my lead.

“They've heard a lot of stuff we haven't, Ted," Erik said, eliciting a smile from the Professor.  Creepy bastard.  "I think they understand how bad it is out there."

"Precisely.  Which is why we've had no desire to go beyond the confines of Newark.” The Professor swept both arms out.  "The university's College of Agricultural Sciences—a department which I chaired in better times, by the way—has provided me with everything we need to survive.  I know what to do," he said ticking off the points on his fingers.  "I have the workforce to carry out my plan, I have land, I have supplies, seeds for crops, and most importantly, I have my bees."  He leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“How?” asked Ted.  “We didn’t see anything on our way in to town and there’s no farm or anything around here…”

The Professor’s smile broadened.  "The university maintains a working farm just southwest of that dreadful sports complex by the interstate."

"The stadium?”

The Professor shook his head sadly.  "In the early days, it was the logical gathering point for information and supplies.  Those that had, shared.  Those that needed, traded services for food.  Eventually, what was left of the local authorities gathered there and tried to entice the federal government to take over.  I believe no one ever came—they made up signs proclaiming it to be a disaster relief zone on their own.  The local citizenry flocked there, desperately hungry."

"What happened?" asked Erik.

"As usual, when a group of desperate hungry people are gathered in confined spaces and you have the influence of a pervasive gun culture," the Professor said, glancing at Ted, "a fight broke out.  No one really knows who fired first, but the point is someone fired.  Before long, the place was in flames and thousands of people perished—including most of the remaining civil authorities."

"We never saw another cop after that," added Roger.  "Dark times, man."

Erik watched the Professor in the silence following Roger's statement.  I wouldn't be surprised to hear you set that fire.

"But back to the honey," said Ted.  "That's how you did it right?  That’s how you brokered the truce?  You hold the medicine so no one wants to mess with you.  Honey is your weapon."

The Professor nodded but his eyes narrowed.  "Honey has long been used by most civilizations capable of harvesting it as an antibiotic, it has excellent astringent properties.  On top of that, it is highly nutritious and an excellent source of unrefined sugar.  Without bees, we would all be extinct."

Ted shot another glance at Erik.  "So you trade peace for medicine derived from honey."

"That is correct," replied the Professor, once more looking down his nose.  "Honey has never tasted so sweet."  A few of the students tittered from the grass like well-trained monkeys.

"And what happens when some of the others figure out how to make it on their own?" asked Ted.

"Yeah, what's stopping the Rebels coming in here?  You said they had a lot more guns than the than the Jocks, they could just take the medicine—"

The Professor’s face soured.  "I prefer to use the term athletes.  Jocks is derogatory, much like many of the words chosen to describe our friends the Rebels."

"Rebels?  You mean the Brotherhood?" asked Ted.

"Precisely.  Our black brothers and sisters built this land as slaves hundreds of years ago.  Is it not right that they should inherit at least a portion of this great country as their own?"

Erik tried to keep his face neutral.  Where have I heard this before?

"The original 13 colonies wouldn't be here if it not for the slaves," parroted Roger.

"You got to be kidding me—" began Ted.

"I think what my friend is trying to say, is that we’re surprised they haven't claimed the entire country," blurted Erik.  Come on, Ted, play along.

The Professor nodded.  "A valid point.  However, the Rebels are not above logic.  They understand that slaves did not create the rest of the country, merely most of the South and the original colonies.  The states out west were created after abolition.  There is a movement gaining traction in fact, to proclaim San Francisco as the new national capitol."

Erik forced himself not to roll his eyes.  California—you've got to be fucking kidding me.  He forced himself to nod instead.

The Professor smiled again.  "Most of the upper Midwest and the Pacific Northwest was purchased, rather than conquered.  The people who carved those states out of the wilderness were settlers, not slaves."

Erik frowned.  “I doubt you’d find many Native Americans who’d agree with that assessment.”

The Professor steepled his hands again, inspecting Erik like a cat watching a mouse.  "Are you a student of history then?"

Erik forced himself smile openly.  "Yes, sir.  In fact, I was just finishing up my master’s in education when everything went crazy.  I was on track to be a history teacher in Florida."

"Ah!” the Professor said with a clap of his hands.  “A kindred spirit!  I knew there was something I liked about you," he said, pointing a bony finger at Erik.  "It’s settled then!  You shall provide training to my people—without the use of weapons—to defend ourselves.  In return, we shall provide you with all the antibiotics you need including all the food and water needed for you and your group to fully recover your health and strength."

"That’s more than gracious of you, sir," Erik said with a nod.  He saw an angry look from Ted and moved his hand slightly under the table to wave him off.

Ted got the message and reluctantly leaned back in his chair.  "Well, if you two are in agreement it sounds good to me," he said, his words carrying more enthusiasm than his face.

"Excellent!" the Professor said, clapping his hands.  He stood up, followed immediately by his student entourage.  "As the first order of business for our new venture, I propose we collect all your weapons and ammunition.  Fear not," he said, one hand raised toward Ted.  "We have a secure facility and I'm the only one with the key.  Roger will take them when you're ready.  If at some point you so desire to leave our happy commune in the future, I will deliver these weapons of death and destruction back to your hands so you may remove them from our presence.”  He extended a hand toward Ted.

“It is my sincere hope, however you will see the error of your ways and join us here permanently."

Chapter 47

Disarm

ERIK WATCHED TED AS he methodically put all their weapons on the wooden table in the visitor's center lobby.  Brin was upstairs, tending to Lindsay with the help of the Professor's resident nurse, Lucy.  The Professor and most of his entourage had already left to return back to whatever building he used as his headquarters in the center of campus.

Erik figured he would have taken over the agricultural department buildings, or at least been somewhere closer to the food and water sources on the south campus.  According to the Professor that was not necessary—they had plenty of people to run food and supplies back and forth.

"Man, this feels weird…" Erik said.  "I didn't think I'd ever get used to carrying a rifle around when I first agreed to Captain Winters' proposal."  He placed his rifle on the table, his hand lingering on the upper receiver.  "And here I am feeling even more weird handing the damn thing in."

Ted frowned at him, hands on his hips.  "You should feel weird.  A soldier without a rifle is just a target."  Ted reached over and picked up his own rifle.  "And a citizen without a gun is just a subject."

He ejected the magazine and pulled one round free of the chamber.  He handed Erik the magazine and then proceeded use the loose round to fiddle with the side of the rifle. Soon, Erik heard a click and the top half of the rifle separated.

Erik turned away and ejected the magazine from his own rifle and added it to the pile of ammunition they had on the other side of the table.  When he had turned back, Ted had already ejected the locking pin from his rifle.

"I thought we were going to turn them in, not clean them."

Ted looked up, a crooked grin on his face.  "I said I'd turn 'em in.  I don't agree with it at all, but if that's what it takes to get Lindsay better, I'll do it and gladly."  Ted looked down and lifted up the charging handle, removing the bolt assembly from his rifle.  He put the body of the rifle on the table and examined the cylindrical, open-sided tube in his hand.

"I never said I'd hand over every part of the rifle."  Ted continued: "I trust that limp-wristed Stalin out there as far as I can spit.  Here," Ted said handing Erik the bolt assembly.  "See that little clip there?"

Erik looked.  "Yep."

"Pry that thing out and the firing pin will drop right out.  They can have the rifles—we're keeping the firing pins."  Ted moved to the first pistol, pulled back the slide and checked the chamber, then dropped the magazine out.

"Same thing for the pistols.  When these guys take our weapons, all they're going to get are paperweights."

"I don't think they know how to use them anyway…" muttered Erik as he fumbled with the bolt assembly.  Finally pulling the firing pin free, he looked at the needle-like object in his hand.  "It's amazing—you take one little part out and none of it works."

Ted grunted.  "I think you're right—these clowns probably don't know how to shoot, but if pushed too far, even the biggest pacifist knows how to pull a trigger."

Erik gathered the firing pins from all their weapons, sealed them in a baggie and dropped them in the thigh pocket on his cargo pants.  "I'll keep these on me.  I wouldn't put it past them to try and search our stuff when we're out training the troops."

"At least we still have our knives," said Ted as he stepped back to admire their handiwork.  The table contained three reassembled pistols and two M4 rifles, piles of ammunition for each, along with spare magazines.  Ted tossed the .223 round he'd used to disassemble the rifles onto the pile.

"Yeah, that bit about knives being 'tools not weapons' was genius," he said shaking his head.  "Why some people can't figure out that a firearm is a tool too, is beyond me."

"Listen, you need to be on your best behavior when you take this stuff over to the armory," warned Erik.  "These guys are obviously drinking the Kool-aid.  They bought everything the U.N. is putting out there, hook line and sinker.  You know what Roger told me?"

Ted carefully placed their weapons into a spare bag.  "What?"

"He told me the Russians are here to save us.  He's actually excited to meet them.  They think the U.N. arrived to help us out of this mess.  You believe that shit?"

Ted paused for a moment.  "I'm not surprised, actually.  Think about it," he said zipping up the duffel bag.  "If the only communication you had was a small radio that only received signals from stations powerful enough to reach it—and those stations happen to be controlled by our enemies, what do you think you're going to hear?"  He shook his head.  "We don't have the Internet, there's no cell phones, and most of the people around here are dead."  He stacked the ammo on top of the weapons.

"The only word that we're getting is coming from our enemies.  So of course they're going to tell us everything is rosy and they're helping us.  I don't blame these folks for believing the bullshit."

Erik blinked.  "You don't?"

Ted zipped up the bag.  "I blame them for getting behind that Prophet Professor of theirs without questioning anything.  Did you see the looks on their eyes out there?  They look at the guy like he's some kind of savior.  Hell, he knows a lot of stuff—so do I.  It doesn't mean you're walking around following me like I'm some kind of academic messiah or something."

Erik nodded.  "Yeah, that kind of freaks me out, too."

Ted slung the bag over his shoulder.  "The quicker we get Lindsay back on her feet, the quicker we can get the hell out of here."

Erik folded his arms.  "Maybe what we're doing is wrong."

Ted paused.  "Say again?"

Erik looked at the floor.  It was so hard to say out loud.  "I've been thinking—”

"Here we go."

"I'm serious.  Lindsay only got hurt because of me—”

"Come on, I thought we already went through this," Ted started.

"No, hear me out.  I need to say this."  Erik waited until Ted sighed and nodded.  "I've been thinking.  Maybe this trip we're on, this journey—maybe it's just too much, you know?  Maybe we need to just find a safe spot and hole up for a while.  See where we stand in the spring and then continue if that's what we decide."

Ted stared at him for a moment.  "You know, I might've been willing to agree with you a few days ago, but after finding out what's going on in this town?  No way.  I want to bounce.  Now."

"But—"

"No, Erik.  This town is fucked up.  No guns?  Some kinda weird truce based on honey?  The Brotherhood—yeah, I caught that—running free to the west and these guys are calling them freedom fighters?”  He shook his head.  “Screw that."

Erik shook his head.  "I know!  But you heard the way the Professor talked about how we should give the country to the Brotherhood.  He really believes it, man," Erik groused.  "My family's been here since the 1630s and we never had any slaves.  They hacked a living out of the wilderness in Massachusetts on their own, fighting Indians the whole time.  This whole thing about the country built on the backs of slaves is bullshit.  Maybe the South was built on the backs of slaves, but not everywhere!"

"Either way," Ted said with a dismissive hand, "that's getting on 300 years ago.  I'm willing to bet this Professor's gonna start having everybody apologize for it soon, too."

"You know what's weird?  There was a couple black kids with his crowd.  They didn't seem to care at all.  They stared at him just like the others did," Erik observed

Ted nodded.  "I saw that too.  I guess this Brotherhood isn't for everyone, huh?"

"What I don't get is why the Brotherhood hasn't come in here and wiped everyone out.  If the Jocks don't have many guns and these guys keep theirs locked up—”

"Mostly it's because they have other things to worry about," said Roger from the other side of the room.

Erik spun as Ted cursed.  "Dammit!  Stop doing that!"  Erik hissed.  He caught Ted's look: Did he see the weapons being disassembled?

"Sorry," Roger said, smiling.

Erik took his hand off his knife, hoping to send the message to Ted that he thought Roger was harmless.

Ted cleared his throat.  "Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"What?  Walk around without being heard?  Trust me.  If you get captured by the Jocks and manage to escape, you'll figure out real quick how to walk around all ninja-like."

Erik straightened his shirt.  "So what is it that the Brotherhood—”

"We prefer to call them Rebels," interrupted Roger.

"What is it the Rebels really want?  What’s their goal?" asked Erik, ignoring the interruption.  He remembered what the Brotherhood had done to Colonial Gardens.  The Freehold.

Rebels was too dignified a label for them.  Animals was more like it.  They destroyed everything in their path, took what they wanted, and cared only for themselves.  They were almost as bad as the Russians in his mind.

"The Klan for one," shrugged Roger.  "They got a pretty big presence in Elkton, just across the border.  Nobody likes to talk about it around here and the administration never said a word, but every year the KKK used to have marches down Main Street."  He shrugged again.

"Most people just kinda laughed and thought they were a bunch a harmless rednecks getting drunk in the woods.  But once everything went crazy, especially after the Rebels started making their presence known…the Klan showed up."

"Good Lord, what is this South Carolina in the 1950s?" asked Ted shaking his head.  "This town is crazy."

"About that, yeah.  They were pretty vicious.  We heard gunfire and saw lots of burning crosses in the beginning…but once the Rebels got a hold of some guns, they began fighting back."

Erik looked at Ted.  He gave them the guns to fight back.  The Professor's an arms dealer running out of stock—that's why he's nervous about the Rebels and the Jocks.

Roger continued.  "That was about the time one of them came and talked to the Professor and convinced him a truce would be in the best interests of everyone.  For the most part, they keep the Jocks in line, too.  Then all of a sudden we get a wave of refugees passing through from Philly and the Rebels just up and vanish."

"Why?" asked Erik.  "That doesn't make much sense—it sounded like they had a pretty good thing going…"

Roger nodded.  "That's what I thought, too."  He shrugged.  "I've heard a disease got to them or something.  Others say they joined the refugees, or the army came and got them in the middle of the night.  Nobody really knows.  But like, the Klan has all but disappeared, too.  To be honest, we haven't seen anyone but Jocks in the past few days.  Maybe a week.  I know I haven't, but I've been hiding in bushes and shit."

Ted nodded.  "That's why the Professor’s all gung ho about getting your security up to snuff.  He thinks the truce is about ready to collapse."

Roger shrugged.  "I don't know, man.  I just work here."

Ted and Erik shared a look.  "Well, let's get this shit-show on the road."  Ted hefted the duffel bag.  "I take it you're the one leading me to the armory?"

"Yep.  Follow me," he said.  His flip-flops slapped his heels as he headed out the door.

"I'll see you later," Ted called.  “Hi Lucy,” he added as he passed the girl on her way in.

Lucy stepped through the door, both hands clutching her canvas satchel and glanced around as if looking for someone.  She found Erik and almost tripped on her own feet.  "Oh, uh…hi…"

Erik stuck out his hand.  "Erik Larsson.  I don't think we were properly introduced."

Lucy shook it, her hand delicate and but clammy.  "Lucy.  Shelton.  Lucy Shelton."  She blushed.  "Nice to meet you.  I like your wife—I mean she's nice," the girl said quickly, her face even redder.

Erik glanced at the stairs and cleared his throat, trying not to smile.  "Yeah, I like her, too.  So how is she?"

Lucy blinked.  Then she shook her head.  "Uh...oh—Lindsay," she said, tucking a lock of jet-black hair over a pink ear.  "Right," she said with a nervous laugh.  "Yeah—the fever's getting a little worse.  I didn't have any of the fresh stuff on me, just what I found in the stores.  I think pretty much most of the Tylenol we have is expired.  We're going to need to make a supply run."

Erik looked up the stairs.  I can't leave Brin.

"I talked it over with Brin," Lucy said softly.  "She's very pretty, by the way."

Erik smiled sheepishly.  "Thanks.  She's…uh, okay with this?"

Brin came down the stairs and gave him a meaningful look.  "They'll be fine, Erik.  I'll stay here with the kids."

Erik took a subconscious step back from Lucy.  He felt naked without the comforting weight of his pistol or rifle.  I can't leave her.  I can't leave the kids.  Ted will skin me alive.  He glanced at Lucy as she moved over to chat with Brin.

I really don't want to be out alone with her, either.  God, things are tough enough with Brin as it is…but we need the medicine.  And it would be good to know where the hell they keep everything.  At least I'll have some operational knowledge of what's going on here.

"Go," Brin said, snapping Erik back to reality.  "I'll be fine."

Erik nodded.  He ignored the smile on Lucy's face.  "You're sure?"  Come on, please say no.  I'll go with the kids, you go with her.

Brin smiled, and it melted Erik's heart. It was the first time she'd smiled in what seemed like forever.  Her eyes flicked to Lucy, and she took a step back toward the stairs.  "I can still take your ass in a fight.  I'll be okay—you might need her to help you out."

Erik swallowed.  "I'll be back as soon as I can. "  He leaned in to kiss her out of habit.  She immediately jerked back, like he'd slapped her.

"I–I'm sorry–" he said, hands up to assure her he didn't mean anything.

Brin shook her head.  "Don't worry about it," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.  She glanced at Lucy, then turned and stumbled up the stairs.

"That was weird…" Lucy said, her arms folded across her chest.  "You guys okay?"

Erik turned, feeling the heat rise in his own cheeks.  He cleared his throat and adjusted his sweatshirt.  "It's fine.  Let's get going."

"Okay," Lucy said as she stepped lightly over to the door.  "You might want to grab a bottle of water.  It's kind of a hike."

Chapter 48

The Farm

ERIK WIPED THE SWEAT from his brow as he stepped into the Ag Sciences building southwest of campus.  The survivors had taken control of the university farm after the collapse and he had to admit, they'd done well for themselves.  The main buildings sat secluded in a forest of oaks, colorful maples, and pines.

He looked back the way they'd come.  The winding road disappeared through a dense canopy of bright reds, oranges, and yellows.  From South College, the farm was completely hidden.

No wonder we didn't see it when we came up from the interstate.

He unfolded himself from the mountain bike Lucy acquired for him back on campus an hour ago.  They'd walked into a chemical engineering building that had become a storage warehouse.  Inside, they found a few student-survivor clerks.  They found rooms upon rooms packed with unused chemistry equipment, bicycles, scooters, mopeds—even a SmartCar.

Lucy had led him south on a bike of her own and they'd pedaled steadily, bypassing the major intersections in favor of side roads.

"Anyone out and about is a target this far from campus," she'd explained over her shoulder as they sped south.

Erik struggled to keep up—he hadn't ridden a bike in years and grunted a non-committal response.

"The couriers try to stick to the shadows, you know?  We have to bring food and water and medicine north every day or so…"

"Why don't you just use cars?" Erik asked, gliding through a deserted intersection.  He listened to his bike click-click-click in idle as they continued south.  The noise carried a long ways.  He kept his head moving, looking for threats.

"They're too loud—besides, the Professor wants to keep all the fuel in reserve…"

"Reserve for what?"

"Oh.  Uh, for the generators at the farm and for the well pumps, that sort of thing.  I don't really know," she said, weaving around some trash in the road.  "I just do what I'm told, you know?"

Erik had wondered at the wisdom of making multiple trips north with food and supplies—commodities that were easily worth killing for in the outside world.  As he stood at the entrance to the main Ag Science building, he shook his head.  The Professor and his crew lived on the main campus while all their resources were here.  Long term, that was a recipe for disaster.

"Wow," he said, staring at the stocked shelves, full-to-bursting with canned goods and pickled vegetables.

Lucy smiled and tucked that stray lock of black hair over her ear again.  "Yeah, pretty cool, huh?  This is just the tip of the iceberg.  We're trying to dig a system of tunnels out behind the fields for the rest.  Like cold storage."  She looked away for a moment, almost as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder.  "Oh.  Well, I mean—that's what I've heard."

Erik wiped the sweat from his face to hide his grin.  These people wouldn't know what OpSec is if it bit them in the ass.  How are you guys still alive?

"So how long have you and Brin been married?" Lucy asked suddenly.  Her face turned beet red and her hands flew to her face.  "Omigod I asked that out loud, didn't I?"

Erik blinked, unsure how to react.  "Uh…yeah."

She closed her eyes.  "I am so sorry.  I…sometimes when I get nervous I say what I'm thinking or I talk way too fast and I just end up making things worse, because I never think anyone will take me seriously because I'm—"

Erik laughed.  "It's okay.  Really."

She blushed again and covered her face in her hands.  "I am so embarrassed."

How do I handle this?  He reached out and awkwardly to pat her arm then stopped.  "It's okay.  Really.  Lucy, you don't have to be upset."  He laughed again.  "Just give me a few minutes, I'm sure I'll do something that will have you laughing."

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes.  "I'm sorry.  It's none of my business, I just…Brin—your wife," she rolled her eyes.  "Of course she's your wife, you know that…I mean, she seems so nice and cheerful, and then whenever I mention you or she hears or sees you, she gets all…"

Erik sighed.  "Yeah."

"I was just—no.  I'm sorry, I can tell by the look on your face you don't want to talk about this.  This is stupid."  She took a deep breath and smoothed her shirt.  "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Erik said, trying to be nice.  "You were worried, and you spoke up.  To be honest, I don't know what's wrong.  We haven't been speaking much lately.  Not since we…" his voice trailed off as he remembered the way Brin looked when she'd gunned down Stepanovich during their prison camp escape.  It was the last time things had been anywhere near normal between them.

"It's none of my business.  I'm sorry," Lucy said softly.  She stepped back quickly when he looked at her.  Clearing her throat, she gestured down the hall over her shoulder.  “Anyway, the med lab is this way.  We should, uh, we should get going."

Erik followed her in silence for a few moments.  A change of subject was on order to clear the weirdness in the air between them.  He had no feelings for her whatsoever, but it still felt like he was on a first date.

"You have a lab down here?" he asked, staring at the overhead lights.  Holes had been cut in the ceiling and sonotubes installed, leading all the way to the roof.  The lobby and most of the main hallways were flooded with bright, natural—energy-free—sunlight.

"How tall are those tubes?"

"Oh, those?" asked Lucy, looking up.  "They go up through to the roof.  We had to cut holes through the floors above us."

Erik followed her into a side room with a hand-painted red cross on the door and a sign that read "Medical Laboratory: Authorized personal only".  His amusement over the misspelled signage ended with an open-mouthed gasp as he stepped into another well-lit room.

Electric instruments filled the lab.  Lights, monitors, computers—computers!—hummed all over the room.  Erik felt like he'd just walked into a dream.  He turned around, ignoring the surprised looks from the men and women in white lab coats as they carried test tubes and trays of amber goo to and fro.

"What is this place?"

"This is where we make miracles," said a voice behind him. "Lucy, who is this?"

Erik turned to stare into the face of a man who's appearance screamed 'scientist'.  From his rumpled lab coat, to his thick glasses and unkempt hair, and slight frame—Erik would have pegged him for someone who leaned over microscopes all day from a mile away.

"Dr. Norris, this is Erik," Lucy said, blushing.

The older man looked at Lucy for a long moment before turning his brown eyes on Erik.  "You have a last name?  Or do you just look like a Viking?"

"Larsson," Erik said, extending a hand.  "Erik Larsson."

The scientist grunted, but took Erik's hand.  The grip was strong but brief.  "Don Norris.  I'm the madman in charge of this facility.  What can I do for you, Mr. Larsson?"

"Erik and his group have agreed to help us," announced Lucy before Erik could open his mouth.  "I brought him here to pick up some antibiotics."

Norris stared at her.  "Does Oscar know he's here?"

“Yes, sir."

“Oscar?” asked Erik.

“The Professor,” offered Lucy.

Norris frowned.  “I refuse to call him by his title like it’s an actual title.  I’m a professor too, but you don’t see me demanding people call me that.”

"I'm supposed to be helping you folks beef up your security," offered Erik.  "As payment, the Profes—uh, he agreed to give us some medicine for my friend's daughter.   She's got an infection."

Norris rubbed his upper lip, the pencil-thin finger making a scratchy noise.  "How bad?"

Erik shrugged.  "Bad enough—she's got a pretty good fever.  Had it now for about 2 days."

"She's pre-septic," said Lucy, jumping into the conversation like a 5-year-old seeking attention.  "I examined her myself."

Norris sighed.  "Well, you'd better go take it up with Doc.  She'll probably want to see the patient, too.  In the meantime, let's get you some meds."

Erik followed the research scientist over to a massive refrigeration unit built into the side of the building.  He unlatched the pad-lock and swung open the seven-foot door. Cool air poured out—it felt wondrous on Erik's skin.

Norris handed a few little vials to Erik.  "Here you go.  That's enough for a week."

"A week?" asked Erik as he took possession of the antibiotics.

"That’s what we've determined is the median time it takes the medicine to be fully effective for most simple infections."  He stepped out of the giant fridge and shut the door like it was a bank fault—slow and careful.

"Do I need to keep it refrigerated?"

"No—we just keep it in there to prolong the shelf-life.  It'll keep just fine for about a month at room temperature."

Erik slipped the vials in his pack.  "Thank you very much, I—I don't know what we'd have done without this."

"You'd be digging a grave."  Norris pushed his glasses up his wide nose.  "It's what usually happens when someone gets an infection these days.  This stuff works—but not for everyone and not all the time, mind you.  This isn't amoxicillin."

Erik paused with that sobering thought.  Even medicine wasn't a guarantee in the post-collapse world.

"So, you're some sort of security consultant, huh?" asked Norris, leading Erik toward the lab entrance.  "Got any pointers?"

Erik stopped at the doorway, aware he was being tested.  "For starters, you've got to stop keeping so much food in the lobby.  Anyone can see in—the windows aren't tinted."

"We ran out of space."

"If you don't cover those windows or move that stuff, you'll run out of food when someone breaks in and takes it all.  There's enough food in there to feed a few families for a long time."

Norris nodded.  "I've raised the same point before.  Anything else?"

Erik pressed forward.  "Secondly, you shouldn't let anyone in here—I mean anyone—who doesn't work here.  Lucy, too."

Norris arched an eyebrow.  "Why?  We know her—"

"But you didn’t know me.  What if I was armed?"

"Are you?"

Erik frowned.  "No.  But no one bothered to check—there's no security presence here at all.  I could have had a pistol in this backpack and taken the whole place by myself.  What you guys have here is more precious than all the gold and jewels in the world, Dr. Norris.  You've got to protect it at all costs."

The scientist flashed a grin that disappeared as fast as it came.  "You sound like me six months ago.   You know why I'm not worried?"

Erik glanced at Lucy.  "No."

"Because I'm one of maybe three people within a hundred miles—maybe a thousand miles—that has the knowledge, experience and equipment necessary to produce life-saving medication.  You think anyone's going to mess with me?  Next time they get a scratch who do they turn to?"  Norris smiled.  "Me."

“That’s exactly what the Pro—uh…Oscar said.”  He pulled his hand up and pointed his finger in the shape of a gun at the scientists’ head.  “And if this was a real gun, you’d work for me or you’d die.”

Norris snorted, but Erik saw the fear in his eyes.  “Then if you really needed me, you’d be dead too.”

“We’re all going to die,” said Erik, lowering his arm.  “Trust me—you don’t want to let someone who’s desperate get in here with a gun.  I’ve seen stuff out there…things you can’t unsee.”

Norris led him out of the lab in silence, but made a show of securing the door behind him.  He called out for assistance and a few dirt-stained students came running.  Norris told them to go and fetch some weed-cloth to cover up the front windows of the lobby and they took off at a run.

Erik sensed an opening.  "This place is fantastic," he said.  "You've really got something here.  How many people can the farm feed?"

Norris smiled, seemingly glad to be talking about something he could be proud of.  "Well over a thousand, by my calculations."

Erik looked out the window, admiring the pastoral view.  "The Professor was pretty damn smart to take over this place, huh?"  He watched Norris' reaction in the reflection.  The scientist controlled his face, but his voice was tight.

"Take over?  Please.  I was standing here and watched him come up.  We were getting along just fine before he showed up and we'll still be here after he leaves on his trek to the promised land."

"California?" asked Erik.

"Yes. He’s always going on about some post-modern utopia nonsense out there."

Erik took note of how prickly the scientist became over the topic.  That bit of information if nothing else would make Ted smile.

He let his eyes roam over the green fields of vegetable crops and orchards dozens of students moved through  picking ripened produce.  He glanced toward the trees on the western horizon and the clouds that gathered there.  Whoa.  Those are pretty dark.

Lucy trotted up, carrying a canvas satchel with a red cross on the outside.  "Doc says she wants to see the patient, so she's going to join the next convoy."

Norris nodded.  "I figured as much.  Once again, I’ll be left here to run the place by myself.”  He put his hands in his lab coat.  “Well, from the looks of those clouds, you two better get going.  The convoy's likely to head out soon.  We've got another storm coming in."

"It was nice meeting you, Dr. Norris,” Erik said, shaking the man's hand once more.  “I look forward to working with you.  Thanks for the medicine."

"I've enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Larsson.  I look forward to more.  You two stay dry."  He turned and disappeared back inside the lab.

"Why is he so worried about us being in the rain?" asked Erik as he Lucy walked through the interior of the Ag Sciences building to the rear loading docks.  Erik watched as no less than a dozen bicycles pulling large handmade wooden trailers stuffed with packages of food.  Each trailer had been wrapped in blue tarps and bungee cords.

"It's because of pneumonia."  Lucy looked at Erik.  "We lost a lot of people to stuff like that because we were running supplies through the rain.  At first, we thought it was smart—no one was out in the storms.  If we could drive the supplies to the main campus through the rain, it would give us a little bit of protection."

Erik shook his head.  "Let me guess, some of your people spent too much time in the rain and got sick.  And when they get sick, they got sicker without modern medicine.  Right?"

Lucy looked at the floor.  "We lost more than 20 people in first month after the collapse to pneumonia—or what Doc called pneumonia at the time.  We don’t have access to x-rays anymore, so she can't be a hundred percent sure—we just keep calling it that out of habit."

"It sure makes those clouds a lot more menacing, doesn't it?" asked a female voice.

Erik turned to face a short, slender woman wearing a windbreaker and jeans.

"You must be our visitor, Mr. Larsson.  I'm Dr. Stephanie Aldrich.  I used to run the student health clinic here on campus."

Erik shook her bony hand and smiled.  "Nice to meet you Dr. Aldrich."

"Please, call me Doc—everybody else does, I can't seem to shake it so I just embrace it."

Erik nodded.  "Then call me Erik, Doc."

"Ready when you are, Doc!" called out one of the male students attending the bicycles.

"See?"  Aldrich nodded and glanced at the clipboard in her hand.  She peeled back some paper and made a note of the time.  "Okay, people, let's mount up."  She turned to Lucy and Erik.  "You two coming with us?"

Lucy nodded.  "Our bikes are out front.  We'll meet you out on the main road."

"Fair enough.”  Aldrich turned back to the group.  “Let's get moving everyone, I don’t like the look of those clouds."

On the way north, Lucy explained to Erik the work schedules.  "Nobody really gets bored with any one particular job.  See, there's a rotating schedule."

Erik listened attentively and found it easier to keep up on the trip north, despite the fact he was tired and more than a little hungry.  The threat posed by the storm clouds to the west—growing closer by the minute—propelled him forward.  From his time in Florida, Erik had a healthy respect for the rain, but never a fear. He glanced at the clouds, menacingly close now and wondered how cold the rain would be.

"When we bring a load of supplies north,” Lucy continued, “we take back whatever we need to—including extra workers.  They ride back in the empty trailers."

"That makes sense," Erik said as they coasted over a foot bridge.

"Then, people who were ready at the farm to take the next load of supplies north rotate out to work on the gathering teams in the fields while someone else takes their place."

"Sounds pretty efficient."

"Yeah, that's the Professor!  He's pretty great sometimes."

“Sometimes?”

Lucy shot him a dark look, blushed, and didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

Erik clenched his jaw as the wind slapped his face. Yeah, he's a great guy all right.

They made it back to town just as the first peal of thunder echoed in the distance.  Aldrich slowed the convoy a few blocks south of the library.  "Okay, you folks know what to do.  Get your stuff unloaded and get inside.  I think the storm is about on us," she said, directing the rest of the group to shelter.

Lucy glanced around as the convoy peeled off.  “Where is everyone?” she asked as they coasted by deserted streets.

“You’re right, it sure looks quiet,” added Aldrich.

“I don’t like this,” said Erik.  “It feels even more deserted than before.”

Aldrich nevertheless waited until the main body of the convoy had disappeared down side streets before she turned back to Erik and Lucy.  "Okay, Lucy, lead the way to this patient of yours.  Let’s get off the streets."

Back at the visitor's center, Lucy, Aldrich, and Erik barely had time to dismount their bikes before the first raindrops fell.  They opened the rear door and pulled their bikes inside for safekeeping.  They were immediately met by Ted and Roger and provided bottles of water.

"It's a good thing you’re back," Ted said.  The edge in his voice felt like a slap in the face to Erik.  "We got trouble."

"What's up?" he asked warily, his hand automatically searching for the rifle that should've been hanging from his shoulder.

"It seems some of the athletes are massing just north of Main Street.  The Professor thinks they're planning on making a move.  My guess is before sundown—they'll use the storm for cover. He put the main campus on lockdown."

“Oh no…” breathed Lucy.

Aldrich took a hard look at Ted.  "Are you the patient's father?"

Ted nodded.  "Yes ma'am.  Ted Jensen, Sarasota County Sheriff's Department.  My 12-year-old daughter Lindsay is upstairs with Brin, Erik's wife.  She's the one who's hurt."

“Lindsay, not Brin,” Lucy was quick to add with a quick glance at Erik.  She tucked the hair behind her ear.

"Fine then," Aldrich said as she headed toward the stairs.  "I'll go check on her."  She glanced at Lucy.  "Lindsay, not Brin."

Lucy blushed but followed the physician up the stairs.

"How did we find out?" Erik asked when Aldrich and Lucy left the room.

Roger spoke up from the table.  "Your friend and I spotted them when we were dropping our weapons off at the armory.  I never thought of it as an armory before,” he said to himself.  “I still think of it as part of the history department.  But, ‘armory’ is starting to grow on me…"

Ted ignored Roger.  "There's lots of movement on the other side of Main Street.  I got up on the roof of the armory," he said with a look for Roger, "and spotted lots of movement near some fancy building to the north."

"That would be Memorial Hall," said Roger.  "During the Civil War, a couple students supporting each side got into a fistfight which turned into a knife fight.  One of them was actually killed on the steps of that building."

Erik blinked.  "The Civil War? How old is this place?"

"The school first opened as a private academy in 1743.  It was up in PA at the time, but in 1769 they moved it here and called it the Academy of Newark."

Erik whistled.  "I had no idea this place was that old, but it sure fits with all the colonial buildings you got here."

"Hey," said Ted snapping his fingers in front of Erik's face.  "Focus, bro!  We got a big problem.  The Jocks are getting ready for a fight and we just turned in our weapons."

"Oh, they're not going to fight us, Ted.  It's probably just another raiding party.  They're looking for more girls."

Erik stared at Roger, aghast at the sheer callousness of his words.  "How can you sit there and not care?  You got a bunch of guys getting ready to kidnap—”

"Yeah, whatever you're thinking, that's exactly what they do.  I've seen it."

"Then why are you so okay with this?" growled Erik.  Just the thought of someone thinking about doing that to Brin made Erik ready to break something.

"Because how are we gonna stop it?  It's not our way, man.  Violence begets more violence.  The Professor always says that.  Look, when the signal’s given, we all go underground and scatter.  The Jocks roll through here and roam around, probably find a few things, maybe some food, then leave.  They know if they push too hard or take too many people, the Professor will shut off negotiations and they won't ever get any more medicine.  They'll just start dying."  Roger shrugged.  "It's kind of a symbiotic relationship, I guess."

Erik put his hands on his hips.  "Symbiotic?  What the fuck do you get out of it?"

"Well, they don't kill us, so that’s like, cool I guess."

Ted threw his hands up.  "Whatever.  Look, we can’t go anywhere—Lindsay's trapped upstairs.  We're going to have to defend this building."

"With what?"  Erik asked.  He didn’t want to say out loud in front of Roger that they still had a working pistol.

Ted rolled his shoulder.  "With our bare fists, and knives if we have to.”

“No way man.  The sun goes down, they come out like vampires and we hide.  It’s the only way.”

Erik glared at Roger before he checked his watch.  He looked at Ted.  "The storm's on us.  If that buys us some time, maybe we can come up with some expedient weapons."

“Let’s start looking in the basement.  But, I don’t think there’s much in this place other than broken furniture,” replied Ted.

Roger sat at the table and opened a bottle of water.  “Whatevs, man.”

Chapter 49

Divide and Conquer

STROGOLEV SMILED, PERCHED AS he was on the turret of his BTR and stared through field binoculars. He had marched his scout division north at a leisurely pace, preserving the strength of his troops.  They had averaged a mere 30 miles a day, but his strike force was in excellent condition.

He made sure to allow his troops free run of the land as they moved north.  Towns or cities they encountered that offered any resistance whatsoever were completely destroyed.  General Doskoy, upon being appraised of Strogolev’s new orders from Moscow had stressed the importance of stamping out any rebellion in the north while he dealt with the Bigby insurrection in the south.

Strogolev was only too happy to oblige. His men were like locusts as they moved north through Florida. They took everything they needed and left nothing but charred ruins behind. Of those places that decided to fight back, they left scores of bodies in their wake as well.

And so Strogolev deployed his best troops, including a company of spetsnaz on loan from Doskoy into houses and buildings of the small border town of Hale's Corners. He had a small scout detachment roaming wide in southern Georgia and had seen the aerial reconnaissance footage from their handheld drones.

The lead elements of Malcolm's army rushed south along the interstate.  Any moment now, the Rebels would appear directly in front of his position.

He could hardly wait.  This time, there would be no one else to swoop in and claim the lion’s share of the glory.

Strogolev scanned the off-ramp, looking for the first signs of movement. "Is everything ready?" he asked into his helmet mic. "It will only be a few minutes before he arrives."

"Yes, comrade major."

Strogolev grinned. Gregor was right on time as usual.

A beat up four-door sedan rattled over the top of the ramp and stopped when it saw Gregor’s unarmed negotiating group standing by the side of the road.  Of the seven men Gregor took with him, four were spetsnaz and held no fear of fighting without weapons. The other two were medics, with a decent amount of supplies and water on hand.  Strogolev shifted his binoculars to focus in on his executive officer. Gregor played the part perfectly, standing at ease with his hands behind his back.  His men stood neatly ordered behind him, guarding their peace offering.

"That's him, Gregor."

"Yes, comrade major."

The vehicle stopped about 20 yards away, and the doors opened. Strogolev watched, fascinated, as four heavily armed black men stepped out, using the car doors as shields to cover the Russians with rifles. A fifth man emerged, impeccably dressed with a suit and…Strogolev adjusted his binoculars.

A bow tie.  How quaint.  Malcolm buttoned his suit coat and strolled confidently up to Gregor.

"Squads one through four await your disposal, comrade major," squawked the radio next to him.

Strogolev took one hand from the binoculars and picked up the radio.  "Confirm."

"Squads six through ten, awaiting orders."

Strogolev smiled. "Confirm."

"Teegr, waiting for orders."

"Confirm," replied Strogolev. He smiled.  Teegr.  His spetsnaz had all the ferocity of a Siberian tiger that much was certain.  All of his men were in place. The spetsnaz held the middle of the line, waiting in some of the houses closest to where the meeting took place.

After a few minutes of simple gestures between Gregor and Malcolm, it was over.  The Rebels relaxed. They loaded up the supplies and drove back to the top of the off-ramp.

Strogolev watched as Gregor collected his men and walked casually back to the Russian lines. "He agreed," said Gregor.

Strogolev keyed his mic.  "That easy?"

"It did not take much convincing. His men look half-starved and exhausted. I do not expect the supplies we gave them to make it to any other people."

"What did Malcolm say?"

"Very little," Gregor related as he took his position inside one of the northern houses. "He will lead his people through the town to our main position."

Strogolev smiled and put the binoculars down. He leaned back against the warm ring of the turret and laughed. The ‘main position’ Gregor had conveyed to Malcolm was actually nothing but a phantom. When Malcolm brought his people straight down through the streets of Hale's Corners, the houses and buildings would explode around him in a hail of missiles and gunfire.

Though outnumbered almost 5 to 1, Strogolev was counting on the strength and skill of his troops—on top of overwhelming firepower—to not only decapitate but eradicate the rebellion.  The only unknown was the American army.

Moscow was unable to give him any information on how close the rogue general was to catching Malcolm. If he was at least a day or so away that would give Doskoy enough time to arrive with the bulk of the Russian forces. The replacement divisions should be arriving about the same time on the Atlantic coast. If need be, Strogolev figured he and Doskoy would be able to hold off whatever the nekulturny Americans could throw at them until reinforcements arrived from Canaveral.

Strogolev smiled, thinking of the glory soon to be his. Not only would he single-handedly wipe out the rebellion, he would hold off the American advance until the rogue general himself could be destroyed. With no resistance and no Rebellion, Russia would have total control over not only Florida but most of the American South.

I'll be a general by the end of the year.

Chapter 50

Allah's Will

MALCOLM WATCHED DESPONDENTLY AS the Russian envoy returned to his vehicle and drove back through Hale’s Corners. Any hopes he had of sneaking across the Florida-Georgia line and into their promised land unseen had been dashed almost 24 hours ago—if the Russians could be believed.

"Do you believe him?" asked Samir around a mouthful of protein bar.

Malcolm clasped his hands behind his back and ignored the sounds of his bodyguards as they gorged themselves on the food provided by the Russians as a good faith gesture.  He watched in silence as the ugly Russian truck rumbled between two houses and disappeared down a side street.

"I trust them not at all," he said when the truck finally disappeared. "I believe he tells us the truth when he speaks of their army waiting on the other side of this town, but I do not believe they are willing to join us."

"You think he would lie under a flag of truce?"

Malcolm turned to look at Samir. "Just because he is Russian and not American does not make him any less the Man. To him we are little more than exotic slaves."

Externally, Malcolm fought harder than normal to project an image of serenity and absolute conviction. For certain he preached about inclusiveness to combat the Man's hate and bigotry—most assuredly present in the town of Dunham. But had he not been the one to give the order destroy the Dunham?

How many innocents were killed by his command? That thought had weighed heavily on his soul the rest of the trip south. He had lost a dozen good people and would likely lose many more to grievous injuries suffered at the hands of the racists on that cursed bridge.

And in return? I exacted an awful vengeance.

When his army moved south to the border, they left behind them smoldering ruins where a town had once stood.  They left behind more than a thousand bodies. Enraged by the unnecessary provocation, his exhausted and hungry army of followers had finally reached their limit. They'd waited for one simple order and when given, unleashed the fury of Hell upon Dunham.

Malcolm had watched as entire blocks of the town had been razed by his marauding horde. Anything that moved was shot down and killed—women raped, entire families eradicated. His people showed no mercy as they’d been shown none at the bridge.

The pent-up frustration of having been shunned and feared the entire trip south had finally manifested itself in unadulterated violence. He knew his people to be truly peaceful and wanting nothing more than to be left alone, to live their lives with the same opportunities and freedoms that the Man gave to first-class citizens. He knew by allowing his people to run roughshod over Dunham, he'd fed into the stereotypes that enabled them.

In doing so, Malcolm feared he had betrayed his people worse than even the Man.

There was no turning back—the only thing he had left was the deal made with President Jones. Get to Florida, remove the invaders, and take control of the state. It would be their promised land, a haven for all those who'd been oppressed. He envisioned a raceless utopia, populated by all who wanted safety. He wanted to build a place where equal opportunity meant just that.

The only thing standing in his way was the Russian army who’s commander now claimed he wanted peace.  The Russian major wanted his help in defeating Stapleton.  He wanted help putting down the Bigby uprising before it spread too far across the state to contain.

Americans were rising up in rebellion against the invaders. Americans who might otherwise have risen up in rebellion and joined his own people. The Russians had no knowledge of his pact with President Jones, of course, but Malcolm's suspicions had been raised, nonetheless.

He found it a little too convenient the Russians would come to him so readily with offers of truce and partnership. But if the Americans outside the town of Bigby were having that much of an impact, would it not be wise to take up their offer?

"I think we should agree," said Samir once more, adjusting his glasses. "The more we can kill with the help of the Russians, the less we will have to face when we're on our own."

"So much killing. When does it stop?" asked Malcolm.  He waved off a protein bar held out by one of the guards.  He would not partake of the Man's food.

Samir glanced nervously at the bodyguards around them and ushered them back. When the two of them were alone, he glanced at Malcolm and whispered, "Please do not say such things so loud, Malcolm. Our people are stressed to the breaking point as it is. You know as well as I do these people hiding in the swamps will be just as big a thorn in our side as they are for the Russians. Why not use the Russians to our advantage?"

"Because they intend to do the same with us." Malcolm sighed. "Again and again, the cycle repeats itself. Everyone wishes to use us. No one wishes to leave us alone. I grow weary of it all. I want to rest, Samir," Malcolm said, looking at his friend.  "I want peace."

Samir blinked. "I cannot imagine the pressure you bear. You have held us together now for the past six months. What you have accomplished is beyond a miracle—"

"What I have accomplished has been through Allah," Malcolm said solemnly. "If it be His will that we prevail here, we will know."

"I do not question Allah's will, nor do I question His power, but—"

Malcolm looked at him. "What is it you question then, Samir?"  He placed a hand on his own chest. "Me?"

Samir bobbed his head and looked away. "Of course not! You know I am your most loyal servant—"

"We all serve Allah, Samir. I have no servants," he said putting his hand on Samir's shoulder. "Only friends."

And enemies. Enemies all around me.

"If we do not do something, Stapleton will be upon us in less than a day," Samir noted.

He is relentless, Malcolm thought. Like a hound chasing slaves in the woods, he will never give up—never let us be free. "We must make a decision—I know this. Our people are running dangerously low on food and water—"

His radio chirped. "Malcolm! The Russians are hiding troops in some of the houses nearby. I spotted one just now!"

Malcolm looked from Samir toward the deserted houses. The Russians had assured him they had cleared out the civilians in preparation for taking on Stapleton.  He brought the radio to his lips.  "Are you certain?"

The voice that responded was strong and clear. "As certain as the sun will rise—I saw a rifle.  My scouts say others have been spotted as well, all wearing strange camouflage. They are not Americans!"

"Another betrayal," Malcolm sighed. He keyed the radio. "Do any of your scouts report tanks, trucks, or any other large equipment?"

"No—other than the helicopter we spotted early this morning.  Nothing but these troops in the houses."

"How many soldiers do you think your friend the Russian could pack into these houses?" he asked Samir.

Samir pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at the line of houses across the street. He glanced nervously to the left and right. "I do not feel safe here anymore," he muttered.

Malcolm put his hands on his hips and glared at the houses. "Nor do I, but this is a sign from Allah. He has shown us the way forward—the Russians are preparing for the Americans. They fully expect us to join their ranks."  He gestured down the off-ramp at the houses in the distance.

"Did you see how confident that soldier was? He was not nervous or sweating. He has a small force here and is truly relieved to find us and not General Stapleton's army before him."

Malcolm squinted at the houses. A man wearing camouflage darted between two houses. He had a large pack on his back and a rifle. "The Russians are setting up their defensive positions. I can feel it. Now is the time to strike."

"You mean to attack the Russians?" asked Samir, his eyes almost as large as his glasses.

"I did not when this day dawned, but Allah has finally made clear His will.”  He bowed his head and touched his chest in reverence. “Think of it, Samir," Malcolm said grabbing his friend by the shoulders. "These insurgents that give the Russians so much trouble, they want what we want: land, freedom from invaders, freedom from tyranny and oppression."

"Yes, but…what about…"

Malcolm waved off Samir's objections as he would a bothersome gnat. "In the past. All of it, in the past!" Malcolm turned and faced the houses again. "Over there, is the Man. An outsider, someone bent on enforcing his rule, his law. Behind him, trapped by invading forces are other Americans, some brothers and sisters too—all yearning for freedom! We can give them that. I can give them that!"

"But…how?" Samir stammered.

"Before us stands but a small force. Who are they compared to the teeming thousands we have at our back?" Malcolm said gesturing over his shoulder.  "You saw what happened to Dunham! Once I unleash our people, this token Russian force will not be able to stop us," Malcolm said.

"But they're soldiers—trained in war.  We will lose too many—"

"How many hundreds have we lost already?" snapped Malcolm. "Just through traveling? Not even fighting—we lost many tens and hundreds through starvation, thirst, and injuries on the road. Would it not be a greater death to sacrifice oneself in battle against infidels than to die of hunger or thirst, abandoned on the side of a road?  Would not Allah's glory be greater if we perish in holy battle?"

Malcolm ignored Samir's response.  He saw it all so clear now. Sweep the Russians from the field. March his people successfully across the state line and pour south into Florida. Disappear into the swamps and send scouts further south to link up with the insurrection based in Bigby. It would be another long, dangerous extension of their already treacherous journey, but after escaping New York and fleeing Stapleton's army, Malcolm felt his people up to the task.

Everything had at last been revealed with crystal clarity. Malcolm finally understood Allah's will—he was not meant to be a conqueror or a divider. He was meant to liberate the people of Florida, to unite his people with all those yearning for freedom into one glorious tribe. It did not matter what skin color they were—what mattered was freedom.

Malcolm fell to his knees with his arms raised high. "I am not worthy of Your grace, Allah!" He bowed down, touching his head to the ground with his hands before him. "But if it is I You choose, then let me be victorious in Your name!  Allah-hu-akbar!" He sat up on his knees and stared at Hale’s Corners for a moment.

"Samir," he said at last.

"I am here."

Malcolm stood and turned his back on the houses. "Signal our fastest fighters. Send them forth. If we need to destroy this town like Dunham, so be it. We shall eradicate the Russian stain upon the earth, starting right here."

"Here?" Samir asked, pushing his glasses up his nose

"Here.  It is time we unleash Allah's wrath upon these infidels."

Chapter 51

Defense

THE STORM BROKE AND shrouded the visitor's center in darkness, broken only by the occasional flash of lightning.  Erik peered through the downstairs window, waiting.  He gripped a galvanized pipe found in the basement.  He took a practice swing and tested its weight one more time.  It was almost the length of his katana, but weighed three times as much.  That would certainly hinder his endurance, but he felt confident enough to make good use of the pipe as an improvised sword.

"Anything?" called out Ted's voice from the top of the stairs.

"Nope.  All quiet."

The Professor had recalled his people back inside the safety of the larger dorms at the center of campus.  Roger stayed with Ted, Erik, and Brin.

"I don't like this, man."

Erik looked at Roger.  "Why?  I thought you said you didn't have to worry much about the Jocks?"

Roger shifted in his chair.  He glanced toward the rear door.  "I don't imagine they'll look kindly on me—you know, because I escaped and all?  They'll probably take it personally."

Erik grunted and looked back out the window.  Movement caught his eye across street.  "Hey!  I got somebody moving on the other side of the library wall."

"Copy that—I see them too," called out Ted.  "Okay, get ready everyone!  There's two more running down the street."

Erik moved back from the window and pulled the curtain shut.  His task was to protect the rear of the building.  The front door had sealed itself long ago with an electronic lock that no one could figure out how to open.  Short of tearing the door off its hinges, the front door would not open until the power came back on.

Roger got up from the chair and moved to the farthest corner at the front of the building.  "Shit, shit, shit!  Why did he have to make me stay behind?"

"Settle down," muttered Erik, eyes still focused on the door.  A shadow passed by the small window set into the steel exit.

"Movement out back," hissed Erik.

“Coy that, holler if you need me.  I’m watching the roof access,” replied Ted.  “I got someone climbing on the roof of the building next door.”  Footsteps above signaled Ted shifting position to counter the new threat.

"I'll be at the top of the stairs.  Anyone needs help, let me know," Brin announced.

Erik stood calmly in the center of the room, the pipe resting at his side, feet spread shoulder width apart, his stance loose but ready.  He focused on his breathing, maintaining an even heart rate, and preparing himself to spring into action.

This is just like back at the Freehold.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Step, swing, counter swing.  No different.  You can do this.

The door rattled as someone tried to open the lock.  "They're here," Erik muttered up the stairs.  He rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.

“Oh shit…they’re coming…” whined Roger.

“Shut up,” Erik said calmly.

Someone kicked the door, and the wall shuddered.  A picture frame hanging on the wall, depicting the university in winter fell to the floor and shattered.  Erik heard more than one voice outside, muffled through the door.  The shadow moved past the window next to the door.

"Get ready," Erik said.  "Ted, there's multiple contacts out back."

"Copy!" he replied.

"Oh, my God…" muttered Roger as he scrambled around behind Erik somewhere in the back of the room.   He moved next to the window at the corner and peeled back the curtain.  “I don’t see anything…maybe they left?”

"Hey!” Erik said.  “Get the fuck away from those windows—they're gonna see—”

A rock smashed the window Roger had just passed.  He screamed and dropped to the floor.

Voices outside shouted in triumph.  "There's somebody in there!"

“We got a live one!”

The pounding returned to the rear door.  Erik focused his attention on it, dropped back into a swordsman's low stance and brought the pipe up in front of him with both hands.  He knew the door wouldn't last long.  It was designed for aesthetics, not security like the front door.

Two more kicks buffeted the door before the jam splintered and the lock disengaged.  The door swung open, revealing two athletic young men—one black, one white—who rushed into the room and froze at the sight of Erik standing calmly with a 30 inch piece of pipe in his hand.

"I'm only going to say this one time, so listen carefully," he said quietly.  "Leave now or face the consequences."

The two students looked at each other and laughed.  "Leave?  This is our building now why would we want to leave?  You're the one who needs to leave, bro."

The bigger of the two students stepped forward but his shorter companion put out a well-muscled arm and stopped him.  "Yo, I got this.  Watch and learn, bitch."

The taller one laughed and stepped back, bowing graciously.  "Show me how it's done, oh wise master."

Shorty, who appeared older due to his facial hair, stepped forward and regarded Erik with cool, predatory eyes.  Before him, Erik saw a young man who'd thrived in the chaotic environment after the collapse of the electric grid.

"I tell you what, my man, I'm gonna give you one chance to put that fuckin’ pipe down and walk on out of here.  You don't leave and give me everything you got, I'm gonna take it out of your ass."

Erik smiled.  "Molon labe."

The smile faded from the shorter man's face.  “The fuck you just call me?”

“It’s Greek,” Erik said, still smiling.  “It means come and take it.”

“Ooooh no you didn’t,” chuckled the tall one.

Shorty’s eyes flashed and his nostrils flared.  He tensed his muscles, the cords in his neck standing out.  He paced back and forth in front of Erik waving his arms and jumping, throwing practice punches in the air.

Erik remained still, only his eyes moving, watching Shorty pump himself up for a fight.  He tightened his grip on the pipe and exhaled.

"Fuck 'im up!" called out the tall one.

"You gonna do something or are you gonna dance for me all day?" asked Erik. He hoped his voice was steadier than his nerves.

"Erik!  What's going on down there?" called Brin's voice from the top of the stairs.

Dammit.

Both men in front of him pivoted to look at the stairs.  "Yo, they got bitches in here!"  Shorty said breathlessly.

"Hell yes— jackpot!" said his partner.  They high-fived.

"Now this changes everything, my man," said Shorty suddenly calm.  "Look here—I’ll give you a new deal."  He pursed his lips and clasped his hands in front of him, striking quite the magnanimous pose.  "I tell you what—you keep everything in here, including that fucking pipe of yours, but we take the bitches.  Got it?"

Erik gripped the pipe tighter.  "No deal."  He pointed the pipe with one arm at Shorty.  "You've been warned."  He took a step forward.  The larger man ironically stepped back.  Shorty, clearly the leader, held his ground and Erik's eyes with his own steely gray gaze.

"Oh, we got us a tough guy,” he said over his shoulder.  “You remember the last one?"

The taller student chuckled nervously from the doorway.  "Yeah, that was a mess."

"Better get some cleaning supplies, Leo, I’m about to fuck this white boy up."

Erik took one half step back, dropped his sword arm and swiveled the pipe in a long, slow circle around his wrists.  The open-ended pipe whistled as he stretched his arm above his head and brought the sword into an offensive position.  The smooth, practiced movement had the desired effect.  Shorty stepped back, his eyes growing wider.  Leo’s mouth hung open from the doorway.

"Last chance.  Leo, right?"  Erik asked, directing his question toward the younger student in the doorway.  "You might want to follow your friend’s advice and go get some cleaning supplies.  You’re gonna be pickin' brains out of the carpet in a minute."

"I don't think so," growled Shorty.  He whipped out a six-inch knife from his baggy basketball shorts.

Without another word, Erik stepped forward and brought the pipe down in a vicious swing from overhead.  It whistled as it cut through the air but missed Shorty’s arm by millimeters.  He was fast—far faster than Erik had expected—and the weight of the pipe threw him off balance.

“Erik?” called Ted.

“Engaging!” he yelled over his shoulder.  Lightning flashed, throwing the room into supernatural clarity for a split second.

"Damn how many people they got in here?" asked Leo.

Using size and strength to his advantage, Erik muscled the pipe around in a gray blur to force Shorty back while he reloaded his swing.  He pivoted on his right foot, slung the pipe around his head in an arc and felt a satisfying crunch as the pipe connected with Shorty’s knife hand.

Shorty screamed, and the knife went twirling away to embed itself into the far wall.  "Motherfucker!  I'm gonna cut your fucking head off for that!"  He clutched his wounded hand in the other.  "That was my glove hand!"

Leo stepped out of the doorway and the two of them rushed Erik at once.  Erik took note of their positions: Shorty on the left, Leo on his right.  It looked like a well-practiced bum rush.

Erik fainted toward the leader and then snapped the open end of the pipe directly into Leo’s face.  Blood gushed down Leo's face as he gurgled a scream and stepped back.

Erik turned and exposed his back to Shorty’s punch.  He grunted in pain as the black man's fist connected with his spine.  He knew by the sound of cracking bones and another howl of pain that Shorty had broken a finger in exchange for giving Erik a nasty bruise.  Erik dropped his shoulders while thrusting out with his hips, causing the shorter man to launch up and over his back like a sack of laundry.

Shorty landed flat on his back, his head a few feet away.  Erik swung the pipe behind him in a wide circle after gathering all the speed he could, swung it down in one final blow.  The pipe clipped the ceiling tiles, robbing Erik of most of his balance and all his power.  The killing blow was significantly less than intended.

Dead or unconscious—either way Shorty was out of the fight.

Erik spun on his heel, ignoring lingering screams from the earlier inflicted pain on Leo. The younger man staggered backward, both hands in front of his ruined face.  He hit the wall and paused, his eyes round.

"Jesus Christ!" screamed Roger.  Over a clap of thunder.

Leo's eyes traveled down to the inert body of his partner and his face hardened in rage, transfigured into the mask of a demon by his own blood.  He shoved off the wall and lunged for Erik, screaming like a madman.

Erik calmly sidestepped and used the end of his pipe to smack Leo on the side of the head as he rushed past.  Leo grunted under the impact and staggered sideways into the wall again.  He fell to his knees, clutching the side of his head, already sporting a nice goose egg.

Erik swung the pipe out, making it whistle until the tip pointed directly at Leo.  "Get out of here while you still can."

Leo blinked back the pain, whimpered a little and got to his feet on shaky legs.  He raised both hands in submission and nodded.  “Okay… I'm out…fuck!  You’re crazy, bro."

Another Jock stepped through the rain pouring in the doorway and gasped in surprise.  "What the fuck is this?"

"Stay back—this guy's insane!"  Leo warned with bloody hands.  Erik turned and brought the bloody pipe up into a defensive position, facing the new threat.

"Hey!  That's Roger!" the newcomer said.

"Shit!"  Roger whined from the background.

"This ain't over," said the newcomer.  "We'll be back for your bitch ass," he grinned.  Lightning flashed over his shoulder.  The storm seemed to approve.

Erik swung the pipe again in a loose circle, making it whistle and sing in the air.  Flecks of blood splattered the surrounding walls.  "Leo, get this sack of shit out of here before I decide to lay you both out next to Shorty here."

Leo nodded submissively, bent down and scooped up his unconscious friend by the shoulders.  He got reluctant help from the angry-eyed newcomer and the two of them dragged Shorty out, leaving a bright red trail on the gray industrial carpet.  They moved out the door and disappeared into the storm-torn night.  Erik heard more hoots and laughter, then shouts of surprise and finally the sound of running footsteps through the rain.  Eventually the raging storm swallowed all sounds from outside.

It was over.

A moment later Ted appeared at the bottom of the stairs.  "You okay?  I think they're gone—holy shit," he exclaimed, looking at the blood on the floor, the splattered drops on the walls, and the gore dripping from the end of Erik's pipe.  "What the fuck did you do?"

Erik turned and dropped the pipe.  He winced at the pain in his lower back where Shorty landed a blow.  "I think I'm going to throw up," he said.  He dropped to one knee and braced his hands on the floor.  "Why can't they just leave us alone?"

Brin appeared at the bottom of the stairs.  "Is everybody okay—Erik!" she gasped.  "You're bleeding!"

Erik blinked at her and then brought a trembling hand to his face.  He wiped blood from his cheek.  "Oh—it's not mine.  I'm okay."

The concern melted from Brin's face.  The stony, distant Brin returned, but Erik was happy enough to have seen the brief emergence of his wife—his real wife—if only for a moment.

Chapter 52

Training

ERIK PUT DOWN HIS pipe and wiped the sweat from his brow.  "No, you’ve got to do it again.  Walk around the ground floor of this building and check all the windows and doors.  That's all I’m going to tell you.  Now do it again," he said gesturing with a tired arm.

A few of the Professor’s students groaned but dutifully trudged off to visually inspect the dormitory again.  It'd been three days since the attack on the visitor's center and Roger had spread the word of Erik's fight.

As a consequence, Erik had become a living legend among the Professor’s group.  No one had ever stood up to the Jocks so successfully.  Word had come back almost immediately that the captains in the northern campus desired a more lasting truce.

It didn't hurt that Roger had also spread rumors Erik and Ted were only a small number of the larger group who'd recently merged with the Professor’s.  The Jocks took it all in as gospel.

The temperature had started to drop and though most everyone—including a few students who were majoring in meteorology—hoped it was merely an early cold snap and not a lasting trend.  The fight at the visitor's center convinced the Professor they needed to disperse more supplies throughout the buildings on campus rather than have everything centralized at the farm.

Erik had been tasked with training as many of the students as possible to recognize security faults, shore up defenses, and harden living quarters against future attacks.  It had not been a hard conversation to have with the Professor.

The night of the storm, the Jocks had been bolder than ever before, actually breaking into an occupied building.  It showed signs of desperation and an unwillingness to have their behavior checked any longer by assurances of  medicine and antibiotics supplies.

Erik put his Newark University cap on and watched approvingly as this time the group of students figured out the ground-floor windows were prime targets.  Two of them took notes while the others discussed how best to set up impromptu defenses.

Eventually one of the group broke off and trotted over to Erik.  "So, we got a couple ideas we want to run by you."

Erik hefted the pipe and twirled it casually.  "Let's hear it."

"Okay,” the kid said, eyeing the open end of the pipe as it sang through the air.  “So we don't have access to large sheets of plywood, which would probably work best to cover the windows…"

Erik nodded.  "Right.  Kinda like hurricane shutters back right where I come from.  But to make it worthwhile, you'll need some thick, heavy pieces.  Go on."

The student agreed.  "We don't have that—but we do have lots of scraps in one of the machine sheds down at the farm.  We could bring those up and…we were thinking maybe to put a few across each window—”

Erik frowned.  He planted his pipe firmly on the ground, resting his arm across the top.  "Stop right there—you’d be wasting your time.  Look at the exterior of this building.  It's mostly brick-and-mortar.  If you try to nail something into that, you're only going to weaken the mortar around the windows—which is a very bad idea.  Also, if you just put a few boards up and leave open gaps where light can get in, what else happens?"

The young man thought for a second, scratching his head with his pencil.  His eyes grew large.  "Anyone outside can see in."

Erik smiled.  "Right!  All you're doing is warning people outside that there's something valuable inside you're trying to protect and showing them you don't have the necessary tools to protect whatever it is properly.  That will invite them to check it out further and when they do…"

"They’ll be able to see whatever we have inside—or whoever we have inside…"  The young man looked crestfallen.

"You're on the right track with the wood," Erik said as a way of placating him.  "Just think outside the box.  What would happen if you put a bunch of nails through those boards and then hid them on the ground underneath the windows."

The student turned and looked over his shoulder at the dorm, examining the bushes and landscaping—largely left wild since the collapse.  "Well, they’ll have to step on it or move it to get to the window."

Erik nodded.  "Right.  And what does that do for you?"

"Hey… Hey, I know what you talking about!  If they have to step on it…if it's dark and they step on it, they're gonna get hurt—that might be enough to make the run away.”

Erik nodded.  “And…?”

"And if not, if we bury the boards in the mulch and stuff there underneath the windows, that they’ll probably make enough noise so we’ll hear them rustling around.  They’ll definitely make noise if they step on one!"

Erik clapped the young man on the shoulder.  "Now you're thinking like a survivor.  Keep it up.  What's another benefit of having the nailed strips laying on the ground where they're not easily observable?"

The kid’s brow wrinkled.  "Well, if we had boards up over the windows and someone thought that we had something valuable inside…if we don't have anything up…then they might think there's nothing inside and walk on by."

Erik winked at him.  "You got it."

"Awesome.  This is awesome—thank you!"  The student scribbled more notes in his book and then jogged back to the others, shouting in triumph.

Erik picked up his canteen from the ground and took a swig of water, eyeing the sky.  Ever since the thunderstorms a few days ago, the temperature had steadily dropped and now the overcast sky blocked even more heat.  It felt like it was in the low 50s, maybe upper 40s.

A slight breeze tickled the back of his neck.  He’d worked up a sweat tromping around with his little gaggle of students, pointing out the flaws in their current security measures.  He took the opportunity to continue practicing his kata while the others examined the buildings in detail.  The pipe he carried wasn't nearly as graceful as his lost katana so he worked up an awful sweat, but it felt good to use his muscles again.

He looked at the pipe in his hands.  The brutish instrument still had a bit of a stain at the end where he’d bloodied the Jocks during the attack.  God, I miss my sword.

Three days, he thought to himself, watching the students eagerly gesticulate toward the window and  ground as they hashed out a plan for the building.  Three days stuck in this medieval clusterfuck they have going on here.  Three days of hiking around this campus and showing these kids how to defend themselves and not a single person has brought up the fact they have a stockpile of guns and ammunition that they won't train themselves to use.  Erik shook his head.  It makes no sense at all.

Lindsay's recovery provided all the comfort he needed, though.  The honey-derived antibiotics they'd acquired from Dr. Norris down at the farm had already started to show results.  Not only had Lindsay's fever stopped climbing, but it actually fell the night before.  She was now only mildly warm and was constantly complaining she wanted to get up and walk around.

Lucy, her ever-present nurse, strictly forbade excessive movement.  Erik smiled thinking about the eager-to-please sophomore nursing major.  She never went anywhere without her oversized canvas messenger bag emblazoned with a crude red cross.  She was quick to illustrate the dangers of life without modern medicine and ever ready to lend a hand when someone got a scratch or bruise or strained muscle.

No matter where Erik went, he always found her hanging around his group.  She was a near constant companion for Lindsay and followed Brin around incessantly, always tucking that stray lock of black hair over her ear whenever Brin talked to her.  Which was a lot.  Erik had come to grips with his jealousy and tried to ignore it, but there it was.  Brin talked more with Lucy than with him.

Wait a minute, Erik paused.  He turned toward the visitor's center.  She's always talking about Brin…always following Brin.  A slow smile crept across his face.  Maybe she's got a crush on Brin?  He frowned.  Good grief.  Really?  Get your mind out of the gutter, Larsson.

Everyone in the Professor's group had realized Erik, Brin, and Ted had taken over the visitor's center as their own private space.  Most people recognized that and treated it as their house.

Roger was the glaring exception to that.  The scruffy grad assistant walked in at all hours like he owned the place.  It was as if by the mere fact that he’d survived the attack there now bestowed hero status on him.  The other students were quick to promote the idea.

As the days wore on and Erik gained more intelligence about the Professor's operation, he came to understand just how communal it truly was.  The Professor had taken the most logical course of action possible when dealing with a large group of 18 to 24-year-olds who were unarmed and essentially helpless after the collapse.  Everyone stayed together in a few dorms and hunkered down at night.  They only moved around during the day and only in groups of four or more.  They were very cautious—to the point of paranoia—about everything.

Erik stared at the golden maples and red oaks that lined the quad.  It really was a beautiful campus.  He watched as his 'students' trotted back and forth between two buildings, pointing at windows and bushes.

They all seemed like so many lemmings to Erik, willing to blindly follow the Professor and do whatever he asked as long as he kept them safe and well fed.  Erik was amazed the man had been able to do so much with so little for so long.  Yet one intelligent raid by the Jocks or Rebels and the whole thing would come crashing down.

As Lindsay continued to improve, Erik's desire to run north grew stronger and stronger.  It was an inescapable pull that constantly tugged at his soul.  He wanted to be gone before that one intelligent raid took place.

Of all of them, Teddy was having the best time possible.  Where Lindsay followed Brin around, Teddy followed Lucy.  He was proud to be her ‘surgical assistant’ and fetched anything she needed.  He wasn't allowed out of the visitor's center and though there was always someone around doing chores like raiding cars or hunting through buildings for supplies, Brin watched him like a hawk.

As the days continued to march forward, Erik felt more and more like the students were keeping tabs on his group.  He couldn't blame the Professor for doing so—it's what he would have done.  But it was a little disconcerting, nonetheless.

He didn't like being watched.  It reminded him too much of being a Russian prisoner.  Just thinking about those harsh and dramatic early days of the collapse in Florida made him grip the pipe with white knuckles.

No, first chance he got, he wanted to get everyone off campus and heading north again.  They were only about five hours away from his parent’s house in Upstate New York.

Erik glanced at some abandoned cars on Main Street in the distance.  Well, five hours on open roads traveling at highway speeds, he corrected himself.  Now?  Who the hell knows…

He sighed.  They’d have to find a working car first and plenty of gas.  Both resources the Professor controlled with an iron fist.

The tasks ahead began to mount in his mind and Erik felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders once again.

Chapter 53

Gainesville

HAKIM STEPPED DOWN FROM the beat-up truck and adjusted his backpack. He slung his captured M4 rifle over his left shoulder and walked forward, glancing at the rows of apartments stretched out before him.

"So little damage…" observed Saldid.

"This is a college town, useful to no one…" Hakim said, eyeing the closest apartment building. "Besides, this place is too far north to have taken part in the fighting around Orlando. The refugees may or may not have made it here—but if they did, they likely continued north.”  He turned east.

"That way lies Jacksonville. The Americans have their Naval Air Station there, so Malcolm will try to avoid it and head west, toward us.  I believe it will be at a border town between here and Jacksonville.  Several good spots for an ambush."

Saldid grinned. "And the Russians are heading north to stop him, so they will be there as well."

Hakim nodded.  "The Americans chase him, so they will follow too.  All we have to do is find the place they'll meet and plant the seed of our masterstroke. This, though," he said swinging his arm wide to encompass Gainesville, "is where we shall birth vengeance for Mecca.”

"I can hardly believe it. Here we are, surrounded by college students…let us celebrate our good fortune and find some young willing girls.  I bet they all have alcohol as well, I have seen the videos on the Internet."

Hakim looked at his partner in disgust. It was the final straw. Throughout their long partnership of destruction over the past six months—setting wildfires in Arizona, killing citizen vigilantes along the border, stirring up the Mexicans, and leaving a trail of dead and bloodied Russians across the state of Florida—they were at last on the cusp of their final act of defiance.

He had not arrived in Gainesville by happenstance. He knew the university here held a significant science campus. They must surely have radioactive material. He had just enough rudimentary training to make a dirty bomb the world would never forget.

True, it would not be the equal of the device that destroyed Mecca—may Allah curse the Zionists forever—but Hakim’s bomb would be a symbolic gesture to strike fear in the hearts of every American. If during this national crisis, mujahideen could reach out across the world and deliver a nuclear explosion, no American would ever feel safe again.

And on the doorstep of all of that glory, this fool is more interested in pussy and beer. Perhaps it was the heat of the day, or lack of sleep, or Saldid’s insistence on playing nothing but Ashley Sword on their trip north from Tampa—Hakim would never know. He did know it felt good to pull the trigger on his M4 and final put an end to Saldid's incessant sinful distractions.

Once the bark of the rifle had dissipated, Hakim took a quick glance around. He knelt over the twitching body of his partner and stripped off all the useful items like spare magazines and bits of explosive material.  He ignored the cigarettes and threw aside the folded up pornographic magazines with disgust.  He stuffed the remainder of Saldid's gear into his own bag.  Hakim's anger flared anew when he rifled through Saldid’s cargo pockets and found six protein bars.

"You bastard—I have starved the last two days, yet you have been hoarding this!" He spat into the ruined face of his former partner. "You deserve more than death, but I shall leave that to Allah.”

Hakim stood and adjusted his pack, shifting the extra weight to a comfortable position. He reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a crumpled, sweat-stained map of the university. The science and engineering buildings had been circled in red ink. They were the first places he'd look for radioactive material.  He took his bearings from the street signs and walked off to find his bomb.

As he passed between two apartment buildings, he saw a girl's face peek out from behind curtains and then vanish almost as quickly as she had appeared. Hakim paused, squinting up in the sun at the shaded window. He felt a familiar stirring and for a split second thought Saldid might've been onto something regarding the college girls.  His breath quickened, thinking of what might await him inside that building.

A cloud passed overhead, casting Hakim in shadow.  He frowned at the window.  No. That way lies distraction and debauchery—sins in the eyes of Allah. I am mujahideen.  I am here for nothing but the glory of Allah.

Hakim turned and faced northeast again. This way lies my destiny.

Chapter 54

Ambush

ERIK PICKED UP THE pipe and use it as a walking stick as he turned to leave the training grounds.  His students had all packed up and moved off to find dinner.  It was time for him to head back to the visitor's center.

"Mr. Larsson!" a voice called out from behind him.

Erik turned and watched another of the Professor’s acolytes trot toward him.  "I'm glad I found you, I’ve been looking all over…" he panted.

Erik arched an eyebrow.  "I've been right here ever since lunch.  What's going on?"

The young man looked flushed, no doubt he’d run all the way from wherever the Professor was hiding today, intent on delivering his secret message like the famous Spartan of Marathon.

"It's…" he doubled over and clutched his knees to suck wind.

Erik laughed.  "Hey, catch your breath—just take a minute."  He watched the others stroll off, casting glances over their shoulders at him.  One or two of them pointed at the buildings as they passed and the group fell to arguing.  Erik smiled.  Maybe they weren’t so helpless after all.

"Okay…okay, I think I can breathe now…" the young man said as he straightened and wiped the hair off his forehead.  He flashed a grin.  "I have a message from the Professor," he said.

Of course you do.  Erik spread his arms wide.  "I'm all ears," he said with a smile.

"Okay.  The Professor says there's a……" the kid's eyes darted away from Erik to the right.  He looked down at the ground and looked back at Erik.  "I mean there's some more buildings that need attention—"

Erik kept a tight hold on the suspicion that grew in his mind.  He kept his voice level. "Yeah, you guys got a lot of buildings that need help.  But, it’s time for dinner so—"

"That's just it, one of the buildings is the dining hall.  He wants that one checked first—by you, not by students—"

Erik leaned on his pipe.  "Now?  It’s dinnertime, everybody's heading inside…" Erik looked around the empty quad.  No birds chirped and only a very slight breeze ruffled a few leaves on the ground.  The brightly colored trees stood still.

"Is there some sort of threat I don’t know about?"

The student hesitated for just a second before nodding vigorously.  "Yes!  A threat, exactly—that's what he said," he said, the words tumbling out swiftly.  "Look, I don't know why, I just know that he said to give you this message.  If I was you," the student said in a more imperious tone in imitation of the Professor, "I’d do as he asked.  He's been right about everything so far—I think he's right about this, too."

Erik held the pipe at his waist with both hands, letting it lay across his hips.  "Is it the Jocks?  Or the Rebels—who's making the move?  Is it tonight?"

The younger man's eyes flicked away from Erik again.  A fresh sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.  Erik suspected by how fast he recovered his breath the kid hadn’t been running all that far.

Why are you so nervous, kid?

Erik looked on while the kid rambled, stumbling over his own words about the threats they all faced—Erik recognized the same skewed spiel the Professor gave him on their first day.

As he continued to watch the young man, his suspicions grew. This kid is really nervous about something.

Erik had enough.  He raised a hand to stop the tirade.  "Look, before I go anywhere, I need to check in with—"

"No!" the student said abruptly.  He collected himself for a second and stepped back as if he'd just slapped a tiger.  "I mean—that will not be necessary.  Look.  I'm not good at this sort of thing, okay?  All I know is the Professor said you’re supposed to go to the dining hall, right now.  I’m just a freshman—I never even started school before everything went crazy.  Please don't screw this up for me, okay?  If I do a good job, he’ll make me an official messenger…"

Erik squinted one eye at the student.  "Really?  What exactly do messengers do all day—and what exactly does a messenger get out of it?"

Color crept up the kid’s neck before him.  "Messengers are very important.  We…take…"

"Messages," prompted Erik.  “I got that part.  To who?”

The kids nodded.  "Back and forth between the Professor and his subordinates."

The kid rattled on about how important the task of a messenger was, making himself out to be some sort of Mercury incarnate as Erik pondered whether Dr. Norris would appreciate being labeled a subordinate.  He rather doubted it, given the man's prickly nature.  He seemed to think he ran the south campus on his own and was more of a partner than a follower.

After a few moments Erik held his hand up and smiled.  "Okay, okay.  I got it, Hermes.  Go on back to the Professor and tell him I'm on my way,” he said with a sigh.

Relief washed over the kid’s face like he’d just finished his final exams.  He smiled, offered his thanks, then turned and sprinted away.  Erik stood there watching him, shaking his head.

I sure hope I wasn’t that stupid when I was a freshman.

Erik picked up his pipe and walked straight toward the visitor's center, cutting across the open space in the quad.  No way in hell he was heading to the dining hall.  Whatever that kid was—whether he was a messenger or not—he was a terrible liar.

Erik saw right through the thinly veiled attempt to get him to go to the dining hall with everyone else.  All the Professor's people knew Erik and his group tended to eat together in the visitor's center.  They’d only taken one communal meal together and that had been quite enough for Ted to bar his children from ever seeing that cultish scenario again.

The Professor had held court along a group of tables put together inside one of the dining hall.  Everyone sat in a row and waited with bowed heads as he stood and gave a short speech about the merits of community organization, pulling together for the common man—a long diatribe about all for one and one for all…

“A load of bullshit,” Ted had called it.

That had been on the second day.  Now, it'd become customary for Erik, Ted, Brin, and the kids to simply return to the visitor's center at mealtime and eat food that one of them had picked up earlier in the dining hall.

Regardless, the Professor's group remained more than generous with their food.  As a result, Erik and the rest of them had eaten more fresh vegetables and canned meat than they had in the past few months.  Already, he felt stronger and healthier than he had since they’d been captured by the Russians.  It was amazing what six good meals and plenty of water could do for someone.

Whatever they think I am, surely they can’t think I’m stupid enough to fall for whatever it was that kid was selling.  First thing I'm going to do is head straight to the…

As Erik rounded the corner of a small science building just before the library, he saw Brin rushing toward him in the distance.

Erik leaned forward and cocked his head trying to catch her voice on the slight breeze.  He heard his name and saw by the way she was running that whatever the message was, it was urgent.

Sneaky little bastards, trying to get me to stay away are they?  We'll see about that.  Erik took one step toward his wife when he felt something slip around his neck and tightened like a boa constrictor around his windpipe.  Erik dropped his pipe, and both hands flew to rope around this throat.

Someone yanked on the cord and like a dog on a leash, Erik fell backward to the ground with a grunt of pain.  He thrashed out with his arms and legs, attempting to catch some of his unknown attackers off guard.  He was on his back—unarmed, with what felt like a noose around his neck—easily one of the most dangerous situations he could imagine.

Erik successfully dug a few fingers under the rope and pulled hard to give himself just enough room to snatch a ragged breath before it tightened again, threatening to break his fingers against his throat.  Panic rose in his chest.  Another few seconds of that bone crushing tension and his windpipe would collapse.

"Pull!" someone yelled.  The rope tightened.

Erik heard Brin screaming and saw several sets of feet on the dried leaves that carpeted the ground around him.  The panic that had risen inside him at the thought of the Professor’s subterfuge flared into rage.  Not only had they attacked him and tried to keep him from his group, but now they going after his wife.

Erik had one immediate concern: get the damn rope off his neck.  He rolled to his side, one hand clutching the front of his throat.  He tried to pull the rope free as he slipped a hand behind his head, feeling along the length of the thick rope for a knot.

There.  It felt crude and loose—not surprising considering the thickness of the rope.  Whoever attacked him must have assumed a thicker rope meant a stronger noose.  Erik rolled to his other side and prepared for the inevitable blows to the face as he felt the ground tremble with approaching footsteps.

He turned his head to the side and tried to tuck his neck into the hollow space between his left clavicle and shoulder.  It provided just enough gap for him slip his right thumb underneath the rope and pull in a quick gasp of air.

"Hurry up and tighten it!" someone hissed.  "Get on him!"

“I’m trying—this shit is too thick!” whined a girl’s voice.  “Who got this anyway?”

"Look at her—his chick just wrecked Andy's ass!"

"Help me take care of this guy—they can handle her."

As his would-be attackers argued amongst themselves, Erik used their hesitation to fumble at the awkward knot behind his head.  Someone jerked the rope out of his hand and the knot tightened just a little.  He cursed inwardly and decided enough was enough.

He grabbed the taut line leading away from his neck and pulled forward with as much strength as he could muster.  A surprised squeak erupted behind him followed by the sound of someone hitting the ground.  The rope slackened immediately and Erik grabbed the entire knot in his hand and pulled backward.  That put an inordinate amount of pressure on the front of his throat, but the end result was what he'd expected—whoever had tied it made a simple slipknot, not a true noose.  The knot slid backwards, just enough for Erik to get his fist under the front side and take a deep breath.

The air situation temporarily resolved, Erik narrowed his eyes.  He away from the sound of the arguing voices and stood at the same time as the girl holding the rope.    It was Tammy.

Her eyes as big as teacups, Roger’s girlfriend held the rope loosely in her hands and took a hesitant step back.  "Uh, guys?"

Really?  I should have shot your ass.

Erik held the rope in one hand, the other still held gripped the coil around his neck.  He yanked and watched the rope snap out of the girl’s hands.  Pivoting, he spotted three students engrossed in watching Brin beat the tar out of her attackers.

One of them turned, "What?" he snapped.  His eyes found Erik, and he took a step back, bumping into his comrades.

"Watch it!"

"Guys!" Tammy shouted.  "Look out!"

All three turned in time to see Erik drop the rope from his neck to the ground.

"Somebody want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"  Erik rasped.  His voice sounded like he'd just risen from the grave.

"Shit!" cried the first to recover.  "Get him!"

"For the Professor!" screamed the second one.

"For survival!" screamed the third.

Erik actually took a step back as the kids charged him.  With those words screamed as a battle cry, the three kids rushed Erik at once while Tammy shrieked behind him like a banshee on the warpath.

Shit.

Chapter 55

Fight or Flight

ERIK LOWERED HIS SHOULDERS and took a quick assessment of the situation.  Three male students ran at him—one slightly to his left, one straight on, and one to his right.  Behind him, Tammy shouted a blood-curdling scream.

Instinct told him that the largest of the three attackers in front of him was his prime threat.  So as the attackers drew within range, he pivoted on his left foot and landed a front kick square on the biggest one’s chest.

The kick stopped him in midair as if he'd run into a brick wall.  Erik felt a satisfying impact under his boot.  The kid grunted and collapsed.

The downside to his strategy was the other two were already on him.  He heard more than felt Tammy land on his back from behind—they'd caught him unbalanced on one leg.

Erik knew he was going down, but with the largest of his attackers already out of the fight, he felt he had a decent chance.  As the three attackers pulled him over, he caught a glimpse of Brin squaring off against two attackers of her own.

A third lay face down in the dirt at Brin’s feet.  Her eyes met his and for a second, absolute fear flashed across her face as she saw Erik go down under three assailants.

Erik heard her scream his name before he crashed into the dirt, then the world descended into muffled grunts and curses as his attackers ground his face into the dirt with their feet.

The blows and kicks rained down. While keeping his left arm tucked around his face and neck as best he could, Erik snatched the first foot that came near his chin and pulled with all his might. The foot’s owner kissed the dirt with a grunt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik saw the last male fly toward him, one knee extended.  This kid's been watching too much wrestling on TV.

He exhaled and turned his midsection into a muscular, hardened wall to block the incoming blow.  That didn't stop the pain when the kid crashed into him—Erik saw stars and the world faded from his view for a split second—but he knew nothing had been broken.  He counted himself lucky he'd only have a large bruise across his ribs and stomach.

The kid had shown initiative by dropping the full weight of his body like that on top of Erik.  If he'd caught Erik by surprise, the blow would have been devastating.  As it was, Erik was positioned just right to deflect most of the impact into the ground.

Erik took full advantage of the kid's proximity and grabbed a fistful of unruly brown hair.  Using the student's awkward position on one knee to his advantage, Erik pulled down hard and smashed the kid's face into the ground.  Ignoring Tammy, he rolled to his knees and drove his left elbow right into the lower back of the closest male attacker.

The student whimpered and went limp, slapping at the ground with his free hand.

Erik got to his feet, breathing hard but still in the fight. He saw Brin not 30 feet away in somewhat of a stalemate with her two attackers.  Each one had taken hold of one of her hands and they'd stretched her arms apart.  When she saw Erik on his feet, she called his name once more, drawing the attention of both her attackers toward him.

Dumbasses, Erik thought with a grin.

The ruse worked. Using the tension on her arms as a balance point, Brin connected her left foot with the groin of the man on her right.  As he crumpled, she twisted her hips and kicked backward like a horse.

She may have missed her target, but the kick had the desired result.  In less than two seconds, both her attackers were doubled over sucking wind.  She twisted her wrists and slipped her arms free with little effort.

As one student tried to stand, sputtering for air, he reached out and grabbed hold of her shoulder.  Brin punched him straight in the throat and spun, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as she dropped her upper torso. The kid found himself flat on the ground next to his two comrades.

Erik opened his mouth to say something when Tammy landed on his back again, the force of the impact causing him to stagger forward.  A hand grasped at his hair and yanked hard, sending a bolt of pain down his spine as his head jerked back.

He reached back with his left hand as she found his face.  Ignoring the flash of pain and the sound of tearing skin as her fingernails raked his cheek, his fingers found the soft flesh under her jaw and squeezed.

She gurgled a gasp of surprise and relaxed her grip just enough for Erik to fling her off his back.  A muffled whimper escaped her lips as she crashed into the unconscious form of one of her partners.

Erik, now on his feet, was left facing one attacker.  The biggest one, who had gone down at the onset with a kick, tried to get to his knees.  Erik easily blocked the kid's first telegraphed punch and countered with a right uppercut to the gut.

As the student doubled over, Erik swung his left fist forward and connected with the side of the thug's head.  He wasn't aiming to kill anybody—they were just students after all—but they needed to be taught a lesson.

He heard a loud smack behind him and Brin's triumphant shout: "Kiai!"  Her fight was over. Erik let a smile crease his bloodied, stinging face.

The last remaining assailant looked at the ground at Erik's feet and took in the unconscious bodies of his friends.  "You son of a bitch," he growled.

"What was that?"  Erik rasped.  He scooped up the pipe and swung it in a whistling arc around his shoulders. "Come over here and say that again."

The student flashed a murderous glance at Erik before he turned and sprinted off toward one of the dorms.  Erik followed him with his eyes and spotted a knot students in front of the building, watching and pointing in his direction.

Looks like discretion might be the better part of valor after all…

He turned and crashed straight into Brin.  She talked rapidly, asking if the he was okay, trying to assure him she was unhurt.  Finally, Erik grabbed her and planted a kiss on her lips.  Brin resisted at first, then melted into his arms, wrapping her own around his neck.  They stood that way until the moment passed and he gently released her.  She held onto his neck for a second longer before stepping back.

"Are you okay?" asked Erik, his choked voice sounding like sandpaper on gravel.

"God, your voice—Erik, your face looks pretty bad…" she said, her voice full of concern he hadn't heard since Orlando.  Her hand gingerly reached up to his face, but he turned away.

"Is it bad? 'Cause it hurts," he croaked.

Brin peered at him and shifted her head in the overcast light.  "It looks bad—there's a lot of blood.  But you sound worse.  We need to get you checked out.  Did they try to hang you?" she asked, kicking at the rope.

Erik sighed and put his hands on his hips.  "Tried, yeah."

Brin suddenly became serious.  "Where's Teddy?"

Erik looked at her.  "What do you mean, 'where's Teddy?'" he asked, rubbing his throat.  "Last I saw him, he was back there with you and Lindsay."  He coughed.

"No, I was changing the dressing on Lindsay's leg when he left the room to get me some more of that honey medicine from Lucy.  I heard them go downstairs, but I never heard any doors open.  When I was done with Lindsay, Teddy was gone."

"You think he went to find Ted?" asked Erik.  He sidestepped the bodies of his attackers and snatched up his pack.

"No—Ted said he was going out to look for a car.  He asked me to make sure Teddy stayed behind."

"How long ago was this?" croaked Erik, checking his watch.

"It took me like 15 minutes to get Lindsay sorted out—another five to get here, then these morons jumped me…"

"Only three?" Erik chuckled.  "They didn't know you very well…"

Brin laughed and looked at him as they jogged.  "Oh my God, your throat looks a worse!  We need to get you back so Lucy can check you out."

Erik shook his head as they raced toward the visitor's center.  "No way—she's one of them.  I'm not letting these crazy fuckers near me anymore.  I haven't fully trusted them yet—and I sure as hell won't now."

Brin wouldn't give up, however.  "I don't think that's fair, Erik.  She's not like them.  I can tell.  Lucy's different.  She seems to go out of her way to spend as much time as possible with us."

"She sure does.  She spends a lot of time with you.  Did she disappear with Teddy?"

It was Brin's turn to shake her head.  "What are you implying?  Forget it—no—Teddy wouldn't leave Lindsay's side."

Erik and Brin ran the rest of the way to the visitor's center in silence, encountering no one on the deserted campus grounds.  They swung south of the library and steered clear of the dorms.  Erik figured they only had a few minutes before word of the failed attacks reached the Professor and the next wave was launched.

"Pick up the pace," said Brin as she pulled ahead.  "I got a bad feeling about this.  We need to get back."

"We need to find Ted!" wheezed Erik as he ran behind his wife.  She had the benefit of less injuries and wasn't carrying a 5 pound pipe and a 30 pound pack on her back either.  It was getting harder for him to maintain his pace—he couldn't get enough air.

As it came to pass, by the time they reached the visitor's center they had no need of finding Ted.  Erik spotted him jogging along the library.

"Ted!" he wheezed.  He coughed and tried again but his throat constricted and he doubled over, trying to stay on his feet as his vision blurred.

"You have Teddy?"  Brin called out.

Ted switched from jogging to sprinting.  "No!  What're you talking about?" he called as he approached.  "Jesus—what happened to you two?"

By the time Erik brought himself back to vertical, Ted shuddered to a stop in front of them.  "What the hell's going on?  Where's Teddy?  Where's Lindsay?"  he demanded, urgency rising in his voice as he spoke.

The door to the visitor's center opened behind them.  "Lindsay's inside—hurry, get in here!"  Lucy called from the doorway.

The three of them rushed into the building and Ted immediately charged Lucy, one finger stabbing out at her like a sword.  "Where the hell are my children?  If you hurt them, so help me God—”

Lucy squeaked and backpedaled away as Ted approached her.  "Lindsay's fine!" she said, arms in front of her chest to ward off the marine.  "She's upstairs!  I just finished giving her the next dose of antibiotics and some water.  Her fever broke!"

Ted froze.  "It's down?"

Lindsay nodded.  "Yes—I've been giving her a double dose of the antibiotics—”

"I thought Doc said that was dangerous?" asked Brin suspiciously.

A mischievous smile spread across Lucy's face.  "Not really—this is honey, remember?  The only danger is in using up our supplies quicker than we want to."  She turned to look at Ted.

"Look, the infection hasn't spread to Lindsay's bloodstream—it's superficial, restricted to her skin.  We found out a long time ago the double dose is a lot closer to modern antibiotics and works better than the long treatment plan at a lower rate of dosage."

"Then why the hell didn't you do that from the beginning?"

"It's…" Lucy's face fell as she fumbled at the strings on her blood-stained 'Kiss the cook' apron.  She glanced at Brin and tucked a lock of hair over her ear.  "It's complicated."  She blushed.

Ted got right up in her face and glared at her, the muscles of his back and shoulders coiled and thick.  "Then why don't you simplify things for me," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Chapter 56

Showdown

"WHERE'S MY SON?" TED shouted.

“He hasn’t been hurt,” offered Lucy in a mouse-like voice.

Ted glared at Lucy. "Why the fuck should I trust you?"

"Please!" Lucy stammered, backing up.  She took a deep breath.  "If I help you, you've got take me with you!  I can't stay anymore—they're crazy!"

Erik put a hand on Ted's shoulder.  "Hang on, man," he rasped.  He turned to Lucy.  "What are you talking about?"  It sounded more like a whisper than anything.

"There's a few of us that don't want—what happened to your neck?" she gasped.

"Answer his question!" barked Ted when Erik waved her off.

"Uh…" Lucy fidgeted with the strings on her apron again.  "We came here looking for help and the Professor made me…" she blushed. "He makes me do...things…I—I can't do it anymore—I want out!" she cried, clenching her fists. "I swear to God, if one more of those psychos grabs me I'm going to hurt someone!"

Brin stepped over and pulled Lucy away.  "Gimme a second," she said quietly.

"Where's my son?" yelled Ted as Erik stepped in front of him.

Erik stared at Ted.  "What the hell is going on?" he wheezed.  "I was jumped by some of the Professor's—”

"Me too," Ted said, eyes locked on Lucy.  "How many?"  Ted looked at him as if seeing Erik for the first time.  "Damn—someone did a number on your neck."

"Four—three guys and Tammy."

“What?” asked Ted.    “That sneaky little bitch…”

Erik motioned toward his neck.  "Tried to hang me.  They attacked you, too?" he wheezed.

"They tried," Ted said glancing out the closest window.  "I got the jump on three of them—not sure how many more there were.  All I know is one of them isn't going to live to see tomorrow."

"Jesus Ted, did you have to kill them?  They're just kids…"  Erik rubbed his throat as his eyes watered.

Ted regarded Erik with cool look.  "You're not much older than they are, chief," he said.  "And for the record, when someone pulls a knife on me, I take that personally.  What happens after that is their problem."  He raised his voice.  "Same thing's going to happen to each one of these sons of bitches if  I find out anything happened Teddy—”

"I think Teddy's fine," Brin said, returning to the group.  "Lucy's  telling the truth—I'm sure of it."

"How?" rasped Erik.

"They…" Brin's eyes shifted between the two men.  "She's been abused.  Sexually.  The Professor is no more than a well-educated barbarian."

Erik nodded.  "I take it she wasn't one of the Professor's original supporters?"

Brin shook her head.  She looked over her shoulder at Lucy, huddled in the corner holding herself.  "No, she said she goes to school in Pennsylvania and her family died after the power went out…they were visiting relatives in town and there was some accident or something.  Lucy found herself on campus and was captured.  At first they made it seem like the Professor was there to take care of her and the others, but she found out pretty quick the grad students were given free rein among the girls so long as they kept order for the Professor."

"It's good to be the king," muttered Erik.

"Where's…my…son?" Ted said, sharply enunciating each word.

Shouts from outside stopped the conversation tracks.

"I don't know," replied Lucy, "but I'm thinking whoever's outside has a good idea."

"I knew it was a bad idea to give up the guns…" muttered Brin.

"We didn't give up everything," replied Ted.  He lifted his shirt and produced the tan and green Springfield XD.

A voice outside shouted.  Erik crossed the room to the window and peered around the corner.  "They have Teddy!" he said, coughing.

Ted threw open the backdoor and flew outside before Erik could say anything else.  Brin rushed past him with a worried look on her face.

Outside, Erik, Ted, and Brin faced the Professor, his grad students, and a pretty good chunk of his followers.  Erik guessed there were at least 30 people arrayed behind the visitor's center.  Roger was with them, his hand on Teddy's shoulder.

"You okay, bud?" asked Ted in a normal sounding voice.

"Mr. Jenson, you—"

Ted raised his hand at the Professor and watched his son.  "It's okay, buddy, you can talk.  Are you okay—did they hurt you?"

Teddy shook his head slightly, blonde hair tumbling over his forehead.  He glanced at the Professor and Roger with tears his eyes.

Erik, standing just behind Ted, saw him tense.  He held the pistol behind his back, drawing attention to his free hand by keeping it in the air.

"As I was saying, Mr. Jenson…” the Professor began again.

Ted shifted his gaze and pointed at the Professor.  "If one hair on his head is harmed, you die."

The Professor recoiled as if struck.  He collected himself and turned to the rest of his group, a mixture of surprise and anger on the faces of the college students.

"You see?  This is exactly what I have told you to be wary of.  The base animal nature of man is not well controlled in those uneducated, unfortunate souls who lack our enlightenment.  That is what we face.  This," he said with a sweep of his hand toward Ted, Erik and Brin, "is what we're up against.  This kind of reckless intolerance is what we must defeat."

Erik stepped around Ted to address the crowd, massaging his neck.  "How exactly are you going to do that?" he croaked.  "The first time the Rebels or the Jocks decide to really get serious, you guys are toast.  You all know it—I can see the looks on your faces.  You guys aren't fighters, none of you are."

The Professor nodded as a smile spread across his face.  "Precisely—that is where you come in my friend."

Erik shook his head.  "No."  He rubbed his bruised throat.  "Not after this," he said motioning to Teddy.  "You people are delusional."

"It is you who is delusional, Mr. Larsson.  You will cooperate, you will help us, and you will do it voluntarily.  If not, this little boy will die."

Ted took a half-step forward and only Erik's arm across his chest stopped him from reaching the Professor.  Erik stared at the older man.  He lowered his voice, barely above a whisper.

"I suggest you choose your words a little better, sir.  There are many types of men in this world.  This man," he said with a nod to Ted, "is not one you want to threaten."

"If words cannot persuade you to aid us, then perhaps this will?  Jonathan, you know what to do."  The group parted, and the bruised student who escaped Erik's wrath earlier stepped forward, carrying a familiar looking rifle.

"You!"  Erik hissed, pointing at the youth.  "You're one of those chickenshits that jumped me!"

"I'm no coward!" the young man shouted back, his voice cracking.  He raised the rifle—Erik recognized it as one of the Colt M4s he and Ted had turned in.  "You do what the Professor says, or I'll gun you all down right here."

Ted looked at Erik and laughed.  It only took a moment before Erik joined in.  "What the hell is so funny?" hissed Brin.

"That thing is a lot a gun for a boy," Ted said conversationally.  "She shoots a lot better when you take off the safety."  He laughed again.

Jonathan flushed and examined the side of the rifle for a moment.  His fingers fumbled at the fire selector and slid the safety off.

"There.  You laughin' now, asshole?" he said, aiming the rifle at Erik.

"Yes!" Erik laughed, struggling not to double over.

"I fail to see the humor in this situation," the Professor said.  "Do as I say and no one gets hurt.  You will be allowed to stay here, obviously, but after your work is complete, I'll be sure to send you on your way with at least a minimum of provisions.  You're headed north, correct?"

Erik grew serious for a moment.  "That's right."

The Professor nodded.  "Then we shall not delay you any longer than necessary.  Prepare the buildings of this campus for assault, train us to defend ourselves and you will be released.  In the meantime, you will be provided food and shelter commensurate with your skills and…" the Professors beady eyes shifted to Brin, "…abilities."

"And if we refuse?" asked Ted.

"Then I shall order Jonathan to dispatch you this very moment—”

"No!"  shouted Lucy as she emerged from the visitor's center.  "Please, you can't do this!  These people are innocent!  They're only trying to get home."

The Professor's eyebrows crawled halfway up his forehead.  "Miss Shelton, I am most surprised to find you here.  Why are you not at your post?  Dr. Aldrich assured me that the patient is sufficiently stable to not require 24-hour care."

Lucy halted her forward progress, standing next to Erik and looking down at her feet as she kicked at the dirt.  "Oh, I uh…well, I wasn't sure about the fever—”

"You ignored Dr. Aldrich's orders on purpose or through negligence?  Are you questioning her medical judgment?"

"I…" Lucy stared at the dirt and smoothed her apron over and over again with trembling hands.

"You see?" asked the Professor, arms spread wide.  "You see how fast you can be sucked back into the evils of the old ways?  These people have survived in the wilderness and still cling to their guns like they did before the collapse.  I cannot blame them—they have not enjoyed the education we have.  We have prospered while they fell.  And in just a few short days, Lucy has fallen to the prejudices of the pre-collapse world."  The Professor shook his head sadly.

"I'm afraid if you do not agree to help us, not only will you be shot, but Lucy will as well.  Jonathan make sure you include her when you pull the trigger."

Jonathan grimaced, but nodded.  "Yes, sir."  The rifle wavered between Ted, Erik, Brin, and Lucy.  "What's it gonna be?  Help us or die?"

Ted laughed again.

Jonathan adjusted the rifle to aim at Ted.  "If you don't do what the Professor said, I will cut you down right now!"

"I am not the sort of man to make idle threats," replied the Professor with an icy voice.  "One word from me and you and your friends will die, before your child's eyes."

Ted looked from the rifle pointed at his face to his son and said, "It's okay buddy. I want you to do Daddy a favor, okay?" When the little boy nodded, Ted continued.  "You cover your ears and get down on the ground.  Okay?"

Teddy nodded again, his eyes big and round.  Roger moved his hand to grip Teddy tighter, but the little boy was quick and dropped to the ground.

Ted pulled his hand from behind his back and aimed the pistol at Roger's face.  "By God, you touch my child one more time and I'll blow your fucking brains through your skull."

"Enough of this treachery!  Jonathan—they won't help us—their kind knows only one thing, destruction and death.  It's time to give it to them."

Jonathan pulled the trigger on the M4, but the only sound anyone heard was a faint click.  Without taking his eyes off of Roger, Ted said:  "You might want to pull the charging handle on that bad boy first, Jonathan."

"You were really going to shoot us," Erik breathed, incredulous.

Jonathan cursed under his breath as he yanked back on the charging handle.  He took a step closer to Ted and pointed it straight at his face.  The barrel trembled.  He pulled the trigger and was rewarded with another click.

"What the fuck?"

"I pulled the firing pin out of that weapon before I turned it over.  That thing is nothing more than a glorified paperweight."  Ted said as he glanced at the Professor.  He shifted the pistol to point at the older man.  "I assure you though, this one is in perfect working order."

Chapter 57

On the Road Again

ERIK LOOKED AT THE university maintenance van.  It was all the Professor was willing to part with—even under threat of immediate violence.  The paint on the sides of the old repair wagon had faded long ago, but it ran, had AC and the windows weren't too grimy.  There were no windows behind the driver and passenger seats, so inside it was like a cave.

He closed the squealing door as Brin loaded the last of their supplies in the back.  Erik winced—they'd need some WD-40 if they wanted to remain hidden in this thing.

"Well, she's not much to look at it, but she'll get us north," sighed Ted.  He slapped the side of the white van and looked around.  "You see 'em?"

Erik shook his head.  "Haven't seen anyone since noon.  I think they're giving us a wide berth."

"Not as wide as you'd think.  There's two up the road, right where we have to go.  Been watching us all morning," he said, rubbing his throat.

Erik squinted in the distance.  "I don't like this."

Ted laughed.  "Which part?"

"The part where we traded our second M4."

It was Ted's turn to wince.  "Yeah, well, call it the price of freedom.  I couldn't get the old bastard to budge.  We get a van, but only one rifle.  We want your M4 back, we walk."

"My M4?" Erik wheezed.

“I didn’t give up mine,” Ted replied.  He clapped Erik on the shoulder.  “Come on.”

Erik sighed.  "It still pisses me off."

"Well, look at it this way, we got another mouth to feed!"  Ted grinned and disappeared inside the van.

Erik frowned.  Lucy was easy enough to get along with when she wasn't trying to showcase her medical knowledge.  To her credit, she knew a lot more about first aid than the rest of them combined.  Brin was okay with her tagging along, so in the end he’d agreed.

The breeze kicked up again, cooling his skin in the warm sun of the mid-afternoon.  Autumn rushed south to meet them.  Georgia and the Carolinas were still in the embrace of late summer.  Maryland and Virginia had just been kissed by the first colors of fall.  But Delaware had been enveloped by the changing of the seasons.  Further north, the colors would be more vibrant—in Upstate New York, they might have even had a snowfall already.  From his youth, he knew a late October snow wasn't unheard of up there.

Thinking about the changing weather—and the extra supplies they'd need made Erik all the more anxious to get going.  His mind kept hashing over the cold weather list: more food and water to keep energy up in cold weather, extra clothes and gloves, boots…the list went on.

He tested the rear door on the van and satisfied it wouldn't fling open, slapped it with finality.  "Okay, folks, we're all loaded up.  Let's get going."

"I'm ready when you are,"  Lucy said, stepping up toting her canvas medical satchel.  In her other hand she dragged a large plastic garbage bag, stretched at the seams.  "I got the kindling you asked for."

"Great," Erik said, forcing some enthusiasm for the girl into his voice.  "That paper and stuffing is going to come in handy when we need to make a fire later on."

"I looked everywhere and gathered up everything else I could on your list," Lucy said, tossing the bag into the van.  "It wasn't much, just some butter knives, pens, some blank paper and stuff like that.   They didn't have any food or water in the visitor’s center so we only have what Mr. Jensen got from the Professor—"

"You can call him Ted.  You're one of us now, Lucy," Erik said as he helped her into the van.  One of us.

"Right," she replied, looking down. She tucked the hair over her ear and looked past Erik. "It still feels weird leaving."

"You want to stay?" asked Brin from the dark interior of the van.  She reclined on a pile of cushions next to Lindsay.  The recalcitrant patient's leg had been propped up by a seat cushion liberated from the visitor's center.

"No!" snapped Lucy immediately.  "These people are sick—I want to get as far away as I can.  It's not that…it's just…this is the only place I've felt even close to being safe since the collapse."  She took a long, wistful look at the colorful trees that dotted the landscape and the looming hulk of the library across the street.

"If you can forget about the Jocks, the Rebels, and those psychopaths that follow the Professor, it's really pretty tranquil, you know?"

Erik listened to the birds on the breeze and watched the colors shimmer on the trees.  "Yeah," he said.  "I can see that."

"Head's up—our friends are coming closer," warned Ted.

Erik ushered Lucy into the van before he shut the side door with a solid thump.  He moved up next to the passenger door and opened it to pull his pipe free.  Ted started the vehicle.

"Come on, just get in," he called.

Erik stared as Roger and Tammy approached the van.

"You really leaving?" asked Roger.

“As if you care?" Erik asked, narrowing his eyes at Tammy.

“Good riddance,” she spat, as she took a half-step behind Roger.

“Yeah, you better step back, bitch,” hissed Brin from inside the van.  “He won’t hit you but I will—”

“Come on, let’s go,” barked Ted before Brin could get out of the van.

"You're just going to abandon us to the Jocks?" asked Roger in an accusatory tone.  His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.  "That’s not right, man."

Erik kept his hand at his throat, massaging the purple bruise.  “Kiss my ass.”

"Lucy!" called out Tammy, peeking around Roger’s shoulder.  "You in there?"

"I don't want to talk to her," she whispered from inside the van.

Erik slid the pipe in the front wheel-well and climbed aboard.  "Yes she is, and she doesn't want to talk to you."

"You'll never make it, Lucy, you know that, right?" Tammy said sweetly.  "I hear you were pretty good, Lucy—won't be long before these guys want to have—"

Ted gunned the engine and the old van roared, drowning out the vulgarity of her words.  Erik shut the passenger door and they rolled away, leaving the taunts and insults shouted at the van in their wake.

Chapter 58

Pennsylvania

THEY SAT IN SILENCE as the van crept north through town. Erik wondered what exactly Lucy's role had been with the Professor's group.  Roger and Tammy’s reaction to her departure indicated she'd been forced to do more than just provide medical assistance.  The thought stuck with Erik and twisted the knot in his stomach.

He gripped the barrel of their only remaining M4.  It seemed no matter where they went, violence and the horrible aspects of human nature were never far behind them.  Whether defending the Freehold  from drug-addled fiends hell-bent on destruction or fighting off Russians intent on conquest or some kind of perverse Lord of the Flies scenario. Erik shook his head at the senselessness of it all.

So much for civilization.

Maybe that's why Brin took such a liking to Lucy.  That line of thinking brought up a whole other darkness that Erik wasn't prepared to deal with.  What exactly happened to Brin at the Russian prison camp?  Would she ever tell him?  Would she tell Lucy?

Even inside the safety of his own mind, Erik couldn't bring himself to mention the unmentionable.  His deepest darkest fears he kept on a short leash, locked inside a prison of his own creation.

He tried to focus on the colors of the trees as they rolled through the college town.  Cars that had run out of gas or been in accidents littered the streets.

It took longer than expected to pick their way through town.  Using a map they had found while looking for extra gas didn't help—most of the streets in the small town of Newark weren't even on the map—but they finally managed to pick their way through to route 896 and turned northwest.  They didn't want to go anywhere near Philadelphia, which is exactly where I-95 would have taken them.

As they rolled through Jock territory, Erik noticed more and more students were out and about, rummaging through buildings and homes and some even jogging.  He frowned.  Erik could tell right away the Professor and his bunch of sycophant bookworms didn't stand a chance if the Jocks decided to mount an all-out offensive.

"Stay frosty," Ted muttered.  "We're deep behind the lines.  Everybody stay down as low as you can.  I don't want any lucky shots."

Erik ignored the murmured replies and rustling from the back of the van.  Every now and then one of the passengers would bump the trays of tools lining both sides of the van.  At some point, they’d have to catalog what they had.

"I'll keep my eyes open for a more comfortable ride if we come across anything," Erik offered.

"I don't think that would be such a bad idea.  I think this thing's leaking gas or something…I swear we've only been driving for about 30 minutes, but it looks like we've already burned up a quarter tank."

Erik grimaced.  He didn't like the idea of having to stop and hunt for gas deep in the middle of Jock territory.  Even if only half the stories the Professor's group told were true, he wanted to be well north of this clusterfuck of a town before they stopped.

He shot a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Brin kneeling next to Lucy, who huddled on the floor.  The two women muttered to each other while Lindsay and Teddy looked on with wide eyes.

Erik brought his attention back to the window.  Two impressively large men stood by the road, hands on their hips, bent over gulping air after a run.  One stood as they drove past and yelled something at the van and Erik got a good look.

That guy could be a linebacker for the Bucs…

"Yeah, buddy, we don't want whatever the hell you're selling," muttered Ted.  He pushed the accelerator down in a clear stretch and the maintenance van surged forward.

The trees grew thicker north of the main campus as the road climbed higher into the Appalachian foothills.  Just a few minutes after leaving Newark University behind, they passed a sign welcoming them to Pennsylvania.

"Well, I guess that's that," Brin said.  "I didn't realize Delaware was such a small state…"

"Welcome to Pennsylvania, kids!"  Ted announced.

Erik half-turned to talk over his shoulder.  "I'm just happy we didn't run into any Rebels.  The further we get away from that mess back there the better," he whispered

"You got that right," agreed Ted.

“You shouldn’t speak.  You need to rest your voice,” Lucy suggested quietly.

It took another two hours before Lucy spoke.  The entire time, the only sound in the van was the gurgling engine, purring along at the sedate pace Ted was forced to weave around countless obstacles.  Every so often they'd come across an accident that forced them up on the shoulder and into the grass that lined the road.

It was slow going, and they only traveled about 100 miles before dusk, but they were moving.

All in all, Erik mused, they’d made out okay.  Sure, they’d traded one of their more valuable weapons, which hurt—but they still had the Russian 9mm pistol Ted brought acquired in the prison camp and the XD Erik found at the RV, plus Ted's M4.

He sighed.  They'd lost half their firepower but gained a vehicle and a huge cache of tools, though what they might be used for was anybody's guess.  They had a decent amount of food to go along with a pretty impressive supply of antibiotics and first aid gear, so that was something.

Thanks to Lucy.

As the sun stumbled toward the horizon and they crawled north, the world outside grew darker, which meant inside the van it was pitch black.  He could barely see Lucy, Brin, and Lindsay as they sat against the far wall of the van, heads together in mumbled conversation.

Girls.

Erik still wasn't sure what to think of Lucy, but Brin and Lindsay seemed comfortable enough with her.  He figured that counted for a lot—Brin was not exactly the trusting type.  He turned back front and watched another group of cars, abandoned on the side of the road, trunks open and debris littered around them.

"How much gas we got?" he asked softly.

"Quarter tank," replied Ted.  "It's probably enough to get us through the night at this pace…the road's opened up a lot.  But I don't know…"

"Should we stop now, then?  While there's still a little light left so we can find some more gas or supplies for tomorrow?  If nothing else, I think we could all use a good stretch."

Ted considered this for a moment as he weaved between two cars that looked like they had driven through a furnace.  The vehicles had been reduced to black frames sitting on the remains of what used to be wheels in the middle of the road.  As they drove carefully around the charred carcasses, Erik got a glimpse of a something person-sized slumped over in the driver’s seat.  Not for the first time, he was thankful the van had no windows.  The kids didn't need to see that.

Hell, I didn't need to see that.

"Okay, looks like there's another clear stretch coming up,” Ted announced, his voice loud in close confines of the van.  “There's a break in the trees up ahead—might be some kind of farm or something up there…we can scout it out and see if we can find some gas."

Erik felt the muscles of his neck and shoulders tense for a moment.  "Feels kind of exposed without trees on both sides of the road…" Erik observed, eyes on the colorful canopy of leaves surrounding them.

"Trees provide cover, yes," replied Ted, "but that works both ways.  Every one of those trunks on the hills around us  gives someone with a weapon cover to pick us off.  Open space," Ted said, motioning with his left hand toward the gap in the trees they approached, "provides no cover.  We stay in the middle of the open space, it's going to take someone with a lot of skill to sneak up on us."

Erik nodded.  "Fair enough, but someone with a scoped rifle will still be able to hit us."  He couldn't shake the itch between his shoulder blades, but he was getting used to it.  He focused his thoughts instead on the task at hand.  Get out, find some gas, find whatever they could use, then get back to the van and keep moving.

We're only a handful of hours away now…just have to get across Pennsylvania and the New York backcountry.  He closed his eyes.  That's it.  We're so close...

The van slowed, tires crunching on gravel along the southbound shoulder.  The brakes squeaked for an instant before they came to a complete stop.  Ted shifted into park and shut the rattling engine off.

Erik cracked his window and rolled it down an inch to listen.  Outside the only thing he heard was the breeze rustling leaves across the road and birds chirping back and forth, gathering in preparation for the approaching night.  A dog barked off in the distance, the sound comforting yet lonely.

"We're really out in the country now," muttered Ted.  He looked at Erik.  "You want me to go this time?"

"Daddy was that a wolf?" asked Teddy from the darkness at the back of the van.

Erik grinned.  "I'll go.  I think you have other things to keep you occupied on the home front."

After one more look around the immediate vicinity, Erik opened his door, wincing as it squealed in protest.  He stepped out of the van and shut the door as quietly as he could, eyes scanning the tree-covered hill on the north side of the road.  The ground sloped at a gentle grade and the trees grew so thick he couldn't see anything but shadows beyond 50 feet.

There could be a whole army hiding up there and I'd never see them.  Erik slung the M4 over his shoulder and made his way to the double doors at the back of van.

Brin hopped out, carrying two plastic fuel cans salvaged from their minivan.  She handed one to him.  "Here, you take one and I'll take one."  She reached back inside and took two screwdrivers from Lucy's outstretched hand.

Handing one to Erik, she said, "There's a ton of tools in there, but without light I can't tell what we have.  Lucy found these," she said slipping a screwdriver behind her belt.  "Let's get going, the sun's setting pretty quick."

Erik nodded his thanks to Lucy and left the doors open so they could get a little light in the van.  He slipped his own screwdriver in his pocket and walked off behind Brin.

In the fading light of day, Erik watched wife as she moved forward, full of confidence and strength.  He wanted to wrap her in a hug and take her away to a safe place—away from the chaos and death and insanity of the world.  The sway of her hips as she walked made him think of more pleasant times.  Lazy days spent in bed back home in Florida, waking to the sound of a rainstorm and snuggling back under the covers.

I miss those days…

"Get your eyes off my ass and come up here," she muttered.  "I feel naked out here without a gun.  How strange is that?"  She snorted.  "I used to hate the sight of those things…"

Chapter 59

Reconciliation

BRIN DROPPED TO THE pavement and slithered under the rear bumper of the first car they came across—a dark little hatchback that had been customized to the point he couldn't tell the make or model. She put her gas can on the ground and aimed the head of the screwdriver at the car's tank before smacking it a couple times with a rock. On the third hit, the driver sank in.  She pulled it out and a thin trickle of gasoline dribbled into her container.

"This one doesn't have much," she muttered, brushing the gravel off her hands.

Erik grunted as he looked around. He didn't see any movement other than leaves shimmering in the breeze. "There's nobody out here. I'm gonna walk across the road to that car over there," he wheezed, gesturing toward the truck on the other side of the road.

Erik squatted down behind his vehicle and did the same thing Brin had, only he punctured the gas tank on the second try. The truck had a decent amount of gas—it came out in a steady stream.

"This one's got a lot more," he called over his shoulder.

Before his container was half-full, Brin walked over, her feet crunching on loose gravel. She handed him her half-empty container so he could make the switch as his filled. The tangy smell of gas burned his nose.

Erik stood and brushed his hands off, leaning against the truck's dented tailgate.  He surveyed the area again in the gathering gloom of dusk.

Tall oaks and white birches, interspersed with green pines surrounded the area. Bright golden leaves fluttered on the breeze while brown and red ones swirled in little eddies along the sides of the road. On the other side of Brin's car, the road gave way to a gentle slope covered in knee-high weeds that led down toward a wide field, run wild with what looked like soybeans. The small green leaves rippled in the breeze.  Here and there a random taller plant stuck up.

"Is that corn down there you think?" he asked, pointing in the gloom.

Brin grunted on the way back to her car.  "Could be…I have no idea.  The only corn I know comes in a can.  It’s too dark to see, anyway."

The whole scene gave the impression that someone had planted crops earlier in the year and had made at least an attempt to tend them throughout the summer.  It must have been some time since the field had seen the farmer.

Erik switched containers as the gas continued to leak out of the truck. Brin emerged from her car clutching a backpack. She held it in the air like a trophy, then moved around to the driver’s side and opened the trunk.

Erik couldn't help but smile as his wife rummaged in the trunk. A garbage bag, food wrappers, a pair of boots, and an umbrella soon piled up on the ground next to her.

Other than the sounds of Brin scavenging in the car across the street and the gas dripping in his container, there was absolute silence around him. Erik took a deep breath and smelled the sweet scent of fall on the breeze.

Time to get to work before it's too dark.

He opened the driver's door and found hasty leavings: bits of paper, a scribbled note that looked like it had once been taped to the steering wheel, some food wrappers, and a soda can. The small truck contained little else of value.

Erik watched the last of the gas drip into the red container. He yawned. There were a few more cars up the road and around the corner, there could be who knows how many more. They might find a few bits of food or maybe a water bottle somewhere out there. His eyes returned to the field across the road.

Somebody farmed that. There had to be a farmhouse nearby. The gears in Erik's mind started spinning. Without electricity, the farmer probably couldn't get fuel to run his equipment. Without machinery, the fields had to be left unattended. Would someone be out there now? Maybe something happened to the farmer? There might be a farmhouse somewhere on the other side of the field just waiting for someone to move in.

Shelter, food, probably water too. He couldn't imagine any self-respecting farmer living without a well and the means to power it. He licked his dry lips at the idea of clean, fresh water and stores of food put away for a long winter.

Brin walked over to him. "You okay?" she asked, handing him her newfound backpack. "I just finished telling you I found some candy bars, road flares, and a sweet multitool along with some gloves and other stuff…"  She stared at him. "Earth to Erik?"

Erik looked over her head and watched the wind ripple through the leaves in the field across the street.  "I know…I'm sorry…I was just thinking…" he whispered.

"Clearly," Brin said sourly. "You totally missed that joke I made about the pizza…"

Erik looked down his wife. "What pizza?"

A smile threatened to pull up the corner of her mouth. "Never mind."  As quick as it appeared, the half-smile vanished.  "You get much gas?"

Erik stepped aside so she could see both full containers on the pavement beneath the truck. The amber liquid continued to drip from the wounded gas tank. "We should take the gas back to Ted."

Brin nodded. "It doesn't look like much, does it?" she asked, picking up one of the 5 gallon jugs.

As they strolled back toward the van, Erik pointed at the field. "What if we just stopped right here?"

Brin did just that.  She peered up at him. "You mean stop right here?"

Erik turned, careful not to splash the open container of gasoline in his hands. "I mean, look at the field right there. Right in the middle of nowhere.  We haven't seen anyone recently—there's not even that many cars on this road. We're definitely out in the country."

"Yeah…" Brin said noncommittally.  "So?"

Erik took a step toward the side of the road, closer toward his imagined farmhouse. "Okay, so hear me out. What if on the other side of those trees over, past the field—what if there's farmhouse somewhere?  Farms usually have a well, right? I mean, everything in this part of the country's older than dirt. Somebody's probably been living here since the 1700s and farmers usually have food stocked up for winters and—"

"Hold up," Brin said, raising a hand to interrupt him. "First, you’re not supposed to talk that much.  Second, are you telling me you think it'd be a good idea if we just stopped and tried to find a farmhouse in the woods?"

"Well, yeah…maybe,” he whispered.

"You want to just to stay here? You're giving up on New York?" she scoffed.

Erik paused, unable to find the words to express his emotions. He clenched his jaw in frustration. "Nothing I've done has turned out right."

Brin stepped up next to him. "What?  Stop whispering."

Erik shot an angry glance over his shoulder at her. "I said, nothing I've done has turned out right on this trip. I've been pushing us so hard to get north—maybe too hard.  Maybe we shouldn't go any further.  Before something worse than Lindsay spraining an ankle happens..."

Brin sighed. "Erik, this is not your fault…"

"Isn't it?" he asked rounding on her. "I was the one who pushed us to head for my parents place in New York. I was the one who got us captured by the Russians. I was the one who suggested the minivan in that little podunk town in Georgia."  He kicked at the dirt.  "And I was the one who pushed us so hard through the Carolinas that Lindsay got hurt and almost died!"

"Erik…"

"Everything I do is pushing us toward New York and it seems like everything we encounter is telling me that's a bad idea. I'm starting to get the feeling we should stop." His eyes returned to the field.

"Think about it—what are the odds that right in the middle of nowhere we find this.  We haven't seen anyone for hours, then there's suddenly a farm.  Right here.  It might be abandoned—"

"And it might not," Brin snapped. "You ever think of that?"  She put the gas down and stepped in front of him. "What's going on?"

Erik's frustration boiled over. He could stand it no longer. "That's the question I've been dying to ask you ever since we left Florida!" he hissed. The words tumbled out of him like an avalanche, unstoppable, destroying everything in its path, including his voice and possibly his marriage. But God damn it felt good to finally clear the air.

"You give me the cold shoulder every time I try to look at you, you won't talk to me—when you do it's just grunts—you act like I did something to you!"  Erik threw his arms up.  "What the hell happened back in that prison camp? Why won't you talk to me? You're my wife, Brin! I'm supposed to be the one you turn to when things get rough and you're supposed to be my best friend but I feel like we're strangers!"  His arms fell limp, his anger spent.  He shook his head and massaged his throat.

"I can't do this without you."

Erik took a deep, cleansing breath and looked in his wife's tear-filled eyes.  I went too far. Dammit. He raised a hand to touch her shoulder, "Oh God, Brin, honey—I'm sorry—"

She stepped back from him as if he were a stranger. "No, it's okay…" She shook her head, and angrily wiped her eyes. "It's not your fault. Erik, I am so sorry…I never meant for it to get like this.  It just sort of happened…"

"What is it? What aren't you telling me?" He paused, waiting for her to respond but she buried her face in her hands instead. Erik watched her shoulders shake with the effort of trying to stop crying.

"Was it…Did they…" Even after the torrent of emotion had exploded, Erik still found it hard to say what he'd really been thinking the past few weeks. "The Russians…did they…?"

"Did they what?" Brin asked, looking up between her hands. Her eyes suddenly grew large. "Oh my God, you think they—you think they raped me?"

Erik suddenly felt very foolish." I…well, I mean I heard…when they were beating me—"

He staggered back as Brin collided with his chest and enveloped him in her arms. "I'm so sorry!" she wailed, her words muffled by his chest. "I knew I should have said something sooner, I knew it!"

Erik closed his eyes, torn between conflicting emotions. On the one hand, as his arms snaked around his wife's shoulders, he felt more at peace than he had since before the collapse. On the other, her reactions seemed to confirm his worst fears. Anger filled his body and his arms trembled. A murderous rage developed like a blossoming thunderstorm in his chest. He needed to kill a Russian. What they did to his wife—

"They didn't rape me," Brin said quietly.

The anger evaporated. Erik blinked and looked down at the top of her head.  "Wait, what?"

She shook her head and nuzzled deeper into his chest squeezing tighter.  He smoothed the silky black hair on the back of her head.

"It's okay…whatever happened, I just want you to know I'm on your side—you can come to me, you can talk to me. I'm here for you Brin. You know that right?"

Brin sobbed.  At last she looked up at him, tears slicing through the dirt smudged on her face. "I know that, silly."  She smiled and wiped at her nose.  "Erik, this is all my fault, I'm so sorry."

Erik disentangle himself from his wife and pulled her over to the guardrail. They sat. He swung his backpack around and dropped it between his feet, rummaging for a bottle of water and handed it to her. "Here, take a sip."

Brin handed the bottle back and wiped his mouth.  "They didn't rape me."  She stared across the road at the tree-covered hill.  "They beat the living hell out of me but they didn't touch me…that way."

Erik shook his head, forcing himself to go back to the dark place in the beginning when the Russians had captured him and believed him to be in the special forces.

"I don't understand. I heard you. I heard them…"

"You heard them hitting me?"

Erik nodded, looking at the gravel at his feet. "They had me in this dark room tied to a chair as they took turns hitting me. They put me up against the wall and forced me to listen. I heard you cry out more than once."  He closed his eyes.
"And then I heard this…" He shook his head.  "I can't even describe it—but it was clear someone was being..." He shook his head again, trying to wipe his mind of the nightmarish memory. "It was you—I heard your voice. I heard you cry out in pain."

Brin's hand found his and squeezed hard. "They were hitting me all right—and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why this one guy was dry humping a table."  She laughed.  "He was smashing it against the wall and grunting like...I was more confused than anything."  She closed her eyes.  "But now it makes sense…"

Erik stared at her. "They didn't…? I mean, you don't have to tell me until you’re ready—it's up to you, but—"

Brin smiled again and rested her head against his shoulder, gripping his arm tight. "They didn't do anything like that to me. I think they were hitting me and making noises to try to break you." She squeezed his arm harder. "But you didn't."

Erik grunted.  "I couldn't—I didn't know anything…"  He laughed bitterly.  “They thought I was in the special forces.”

Brin cried again and held him.  "I'm so sorry…" she whispered.  "You mean you thought…all this time you thought they…?"

Erik's silence was her answer. He stared at the abandoned truck across the road. "I was ready to kill every one of the sons of bitches with my bare hands."

He looked down at his arms, the angry, half-healed wounds on his wrists glared at him just past the sleeve on his sweatshirt.  The Russian ropes had cut deep during his frantic attempts to tear himself free. Brin watched him look at his arm and her fingertips traced the outline of the raw wounds. She leaned in and kissed his left wrist, her lips cool against the new skin.  The sensation sent a small shiver up Erik's arm.

"I'm sorry…" Brin started crying again and wrapped her arms around him. "They didn't rape me, nobody touched me other than that first day. I heard rumors they'd mistreated a few of the girls, but nobody could figure out who. I think it was just talk. The Russians treated us pretty good, actually."  She wiped her nose and sniffed.  "If you don't count locking us up in a prison camp—or that stuff they called food."

Erik shook his head. "I don't understand…"  He rubbed his eyes.  "Why haven't you talked to me? Why have you been so distant?"

"You haven't been very outgoing yourself, you know," she said accusingly and pulled away from him.

"Hey, at least I tried."

Brin nodded and wiped her face again. "You're right. The Russians didn't do anything to me but they did make everybody go through a medical screening process. They separated all the people who were wounded and gave them…I guess what they called treatment. That's why Susan was in that little back corner by herself. They agreed to let me stay with her and the kids, to try to take care of her. But they didn't give us any medicine all."

Erik waited for her to go on.

"I…"she took a deep breath and clasped her hands to her stomach. "When they checked me over, one of the doctors was suspicious. He made me take a test."

Erik clenched his fists.  "Test? What kind of test?"

Brin looked at him with big eyes. "I'm pregnant."  She exhaled and looked down at her hands. "There, I said it. Oh boy, I said it."

Erik jumped to his feet and paced a few moments.  He stood there staring at the truck, the words she'd just spoken going through his mind like a shout in an empty cavern. Clenching and relaxing his fists, he stood there, his body a coil of raw energy. He wanted to jump and shout, he wanted to scream to the heavens.  He had so many questions.  Excitement, fear, surprise—they all swirled around inside him creating a vortex of emotion.

"Erik…?" Brin's soft voice called behind him.

He spun around and rushed to her.  Dropping down to his knees he embraced her in a hug, then realized he might be squeezing too hard and abruptly let her go and stepped back. "Oh—I'm sorry, did I hurt you? I—"

"You haven't said anything about…" Brin looked down and put both her hands on either side of her stomach protectively.

Erik placed his head against her chest, wrapping his arms around her. "This is the best news I've ever heard," he whispered.

"Really?" Brin asked, voice high with hope. "You're not just saying that?"

"No!" Erik barked. He raised himself up, grabbed both sides of her head and kissed her. "This is the happiest day of my life!"  He stepped away from her and threw his arms up.  "A baby! We're going to have a family!"  He laughed and ran back to her again.

He felt the tension leave her body as Brin collapsed into his arms and wept. The two of them sat on the guardrail again, holding each other as the sun dipped below the horizon and twilight retreated into full darkness.

"But…" Brin said at last, "I was so scared…I mean, look around us. Look around us! It's the end the world!"

Erik shook his head and wiped the tear away from her cheek. "It doesn't matter—I don't care about the rest of the world right now," he rasped.  A smile spread across his face and he lowered his voice to a whisper.  "We're going to have a baby."

"Well, I'm going to have a baby," Brin corrected him, "I don't know about you."

Erik laughed. "You know what I mean."

"Erik, I'm sorry I've been distant. It's just that ever since I found out I was pregnant, I’ve been so worried.  I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to even think about us being happy with a baby and a family…in case it never…I mean, the whole world is going batshit crazy. What if…what if the baby doesn't make it?  There's no more hospitals, what if I don't make it? Even if we do both survive—"

"Hey, don't talk like that—" Erik began.

Brin pulled back a little. "No, I need to talk like that. Both of us need to think about it. Seriously, there's no hospitals, there's no doctors, no medicine, no nothing! We're using honey as antibiotics and you have to be my midwife! This is like some sort of medieval nightmare…"

"Well, it's a good thing we brought Lucy with us then isn't it?"

Brin rolled her eyes. "Lucy! I don't even want to think about her right now. To think I was jealous—”

“Jealous?  Hey, I never—”

“I know,” Brin said, a calming hand on his chest.  She laughed.  “Trust me.  I know.”  The smile faded from her face.

“She does have a crush on you!” Erik laughed.

Brin shook her head and tried not to laugh. “Not funny!  Lucy’s got her own baggage.  Seriously, though—even if everything works out and I have the baby—"

"You will," Erik said.

"Let’s assume everything's okay," Brin said, playing the fabric of her pants without looking at him. "What then? Is this going to be a world that we even want to bring a child into? We don't even know if your parents’ house is still there. What if—"

Erik kissed her again to stop the what-ifs. "We'll figure that out when we get there."

Brin looked up at him, the whites of her eyes glistening in the darkness. "So you want to keep going?" she whispered.

Erik smiled and kissed her again. "More than ever. Whatever's going on Upstate, they have to be safer than we've been since we left our apartment."

It took a few more minutes of cuddling and kissing in the darkness, but they were finally ready to stand and head back to the van. She wiped her eyes and tried to make herself presentable as they walked.  Erik hardly noticed the weight of the 5 gallon gas cans he carried.

"Don't say anything to anyone yet, okay?" Brin asked in a small voice.  She squeezed his arm.

Erik stopped about ten yards from the van. "It'll be our secret," he whispered. He leaned down and kissed his wife once more. As they approached the van, Erik felt happier than he had in all the days since the power went out.

For once, for one shining moment, things were looking up and he felt like they were going to make it.  He believed it in his soul. Erik turned and stared into the northern darkness.

I swear to God, nothing is going to stop me now.

Chapter 60

Death From Above

RIGGS PUT HIS F-35C into a tight starboard turn.  He ignored the cacophony of alarms going off in the cockpit.  The Russians were lighting up his fighter squadron with anti-aircraft radar and he didn't have time to listen to his targeting computer complain.

The battle began at dawn and everything below looked like a complete Charlie-Foxtrot.  His screens showed the American line was holding, but the Russians were still advancing.  Hawk flight screamed north out of Jacksonville Naval Air Station at Mach 1.6 right into the enemy's rear flank.

"There's a lot of Russians down there," muttered Jonesy.  "Where are the fighters?"

"Don't know, but it means more mud for us to move.  Hawk Lead to Hawk flight," he said.  "Let's get to work—this is a target rich environment, folks. I don't want any wasted shots.  We're on our own here, so fly tight.  I want a few solid runs before Hammer get here, then we transition to CAP."  He paused to flip the fire selector switch and arm his missiles.

"Weapons free, gentlemen."

"Fox three!" someone called out as soon as Riggs stopped speaking.  Two more announced missile launches on top of the first.

"Hawk Lead, Hammer Lead," crackled over his radio.

Riggs answered, "Go ahead, Sledgehammer."

"We're five minutes behind you—you guys cheated with that VTOL shit.  There better be some Russians left when we get there or you're buying the beer."

"Copy that," Riggs laughed.  He scanned his tactical screen.  There were a lot of red blips.  How the hell did they sneak so many over here?

"There's plenty of targets—we'll both get our share."

"Fox two!"

"There's a SAM site—Three, take it out—I'm coming around for another run."

"Roger, I'm on it.  Guns, guns, guns!"

Riggs smiled.  His Hawks were angry and eager, just the way he liked it.  He switched frequencies to contact the ground-pounders.  "Lighthouse Actual, Hawk Lead," he called.

After a moment of listening to shrill warning alarms, a gruff voice answered through the static.  "Hawk Lead this is Actual, go ahead."

"My fighters are engaging the enemy south of your position.  They're lighting us up like a Christmas tree with AA radar.  If anyone down there could take them out, I'd be much obliged.  Otherwise, please pass on the warning of danger close.  You've got a wave of F-18s hot on my ass with itchy trigger fingers."

"Actual copies all, Hawk Lead.  Thanks for the assist—we'll handle that radar.  Good hunting.”

"I say, shall we join the fun?" called Jonesy in a terrible British accent.  "Talley Ho and fox two, old boy?" he added.

"Oh yes, let's do." Riggs snorted, watching a missile streak from under his wingman's plane.  His own targeting computer offered a lock on a Russian APC trying to maneuver around a building to get a better shot at the American eastern flank.  He selected a GBU 12 Paveway II self-guided bomb and his F-35C shuddered with the release.

Riggs and Jonesy angled down in a steep curve to join the fray.  He smiled as the targeting computer removed his target from the tactical map.

"Hawk Lead, Longbow."

"Go ahead, Longbow," Riggs said, curious as to why JNAS control had hailed him.

"Be advised, we've established contact with surviving Florida ANG units and have directed them to your location.  You'll have some F-15s coming to assist in about ten.  The uplinks have been sent."

Riggs smiled.  The Russians were about to have a very bad day.  "Roger that, Longbow, I'll play Air Boss."

He fired off a missile and pulled back on the stick, climbing up over two thousand feet.  With so many fighters entering the battlefield airspace, someone was going to have to provide air traffic control—someone who could see what was happening.

"Jonesy, I'll need some cover.  We're about to open up a big ol' can of whoop ass on Ivan."

Chapter 61

What Have We Done?

PO SIN PASSED THE tray of sweets across his desk to Shin Ho.  They had been gathered in his office all this rainy afternoon, pouring over reports and attempting to come up with a viable exit strategy that hopefully would both satisfy the Supreme Leader and allow them to delay the withdrawal. If they held out long enough, the second wave might actually make a difference.

So far they had come up with nothing except a sullen appetite.

Po Sin’s phone chirped.  He activated the key with a knuckle, trying to keep the red bean bun in his hand from smearing the phone.  “What is it?”

“Intelligence just intercepted an encrypted message, honorable minister.”

“Well?” asked Po Sin around a mouthful of bun.  “That's their job.  What is it?”

“The American President is dead.  Killed in an exchange with rogue army units while he was attempting to flee Washington.”

Po Sin stared at Shin Ho.  Shin Ho looked at the plate in his hands and closed his eyes.

He knows.  He knows this is the final nail in his coffin.  His treaty is out the window—no protection from the Americans means no delay and a swift withdrawal.  The Expedition is doomed and so are you, old friend.

Shin Ho swallowed and placed his tray on the desk.  He stood slowly and straightened his suit, dusting crumbs off with deliberation.  “I need to speak with the Supreme Leader.”

Po Sin nodded and watched his onetime friend.  “Most likely.”

“Thank you for the repast.  It was lovely.”

Po Sin waved it off.  “Think nothing of it.  I wish there was something I could do.”

Shin Ho smiled, a tired, thin smile.  “Thank you.”

After the door closed, Po Sin silently clapped.  He gorged himself on buns and dumplings.  Suddenly, he was ravenous.  Things were looking up for the first time since Shin Ho claimed credit for the expedition.  Po Sin smiled as he dabbed a napkin at his lips.  Shin Ho was about to go before the Supreme Leader and fall on his sword.

Po Sin rolled his eyes as he savored the delicate sweetness of another bun.  The chef had outdone himself.  He laughed and took another bite.

Chapter 62

Ticonderoga

ERIK SLOWED THE SPUTTERING van to a stop. He sat there in the predawn light staring at the simple green sign illuminated in their headlights.

Ticonderoga—population 5,042.

He listened to the engine cough and struggle. It felt like the poor van didn't have much left to give.  Erik sat there, his hands gripping the wheel. All the fatigue of the last 360  long miles quickly evaporated from his system.

We made it.

He let the memories roll over him. From that first moment back at the Freehold when he and Ted put their heads together and decided it was time to leave, through all the fighting against the White Hand people and Henry Grimes to meeting Archie and Maddie Sinclair on the Flying Piper.  He remembered rescuing the Guardsmen at the Sarasota Marina, then becoming one of them, fighting for Captain Winters against the Russians. The battle of Orlando, the long retreat, their captivity…

Erik did not smell the oil and grease-coated tools in the back of the van, but instead imagined the slightly burnt odor of the prison camp's dirt floor he and the others had shared while guests of Stepanovich. He pushed those memories aside and focused on their escape and his reunion with Brin. Then came the crushing sadness of Mark and Susan's deaths.

He sighed. The long march north through Florida, avoiding towns and thousands of people begging for help as they escaped in their stolen M-ATV. Rolling through the blockade at the Georgia line, coming across that crazy town of Dunham out of supplies and gas and being pulled into a small scale civil war.

Erik forced himself not think of the death and misery they had been a part of during the fight at the jail. He focused instead on the long walk out of town. Remembering when Lindsay got hurt brought out a wave of guilt in his chest but he couldn't ignore the facts. His relentless drive to bring them to Ticonderoga had almost cost Lindsay her life—and everyone else—after the Professor’s fanatics had attacked.

Yet only two days ago he and Brin had patched things together. They'd been inseparable since her revelation about the pregnancy. Every time they stopped to hunt for gas or supplies, Erik and Brin walked off hand-in-hand and now were never more than a few feet away from each other.

They talked constantly, sharing fears and worries for the future along with hopes and dreams. Would it be a boy or a girl? When should they worry about names? They stepped carefully around looming specter of childbirth without modern medical facilities—there was nothing they could do about it and worrying would only make things worse.

They'd had enough worry over past few weeks and months—it was time to share in something joyful. For now, they decided to keep the news to themselves, excited to have something so special just between them. They decided when Brin was a little further along and they were all safely ensconced at his parents' place, then—and only then—would they break the news. Hopefully by Christmas.

Erik fought hard not to let the emotions get the better of him. He rubbed angrily at the wetness on his cheeks as he stared at that beautiful green sign that proclaimed the end of their long journey.

We made it.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Without turning his head, he knew Brin reached out to him.

"You did it."

He closed his eyes and relished the whisper of her voice.

"We did it," he replied just as quietly.

Her hand squeezed gently. "I wish there was a way to let your parents know we were here, so we didn't just show up at the crack of dawn…"

Erik nodded and rubbed his face again under the pretense of waking up. "My parents won't care.  Besides, we're not there yet. We still have to wind through town and get down to the lake. As slow as we've been going, I wouldn't be surprised if it was sunset by the time we pulled into the driveway."

Brin smiled at him in the semi-darkness, the whites of her teeth brilliant against the pale hues of her skin. "Then let's get going."

Erik let his foot off the brake, and the van crept forward, gurgling and coughing. His eyes swept the dash. They had less than an eighth of a tank left.  More than enough to get them to his folks’ place down by the lake on a normal day.

He frowned.  Erik didn't like showing up with an empty tank. If there were some medical emergency in the near future, he wanted to make sure they had enough gas to get them out of harm’s way.

As they came through the trees on the back way into town and the first buildings appeared, Erik spoke. "I think we should stop and see if we can find some gas before we get too close. We're coming in on fumes."

"But we’re here…?" asked Brin. "Wouldn't you rather just get home?"

Erik grimaced. "You have no idea—I can almost taste mom's homemade bread. But we have to remember—if something happens and we need to leave in a hurry, we won't get far without gas."

Tools clinked in the back as Ted stirred. "Erik's right," he said, stifling a yawn. "We should at least get half a tank before we arrive.  Just as a safety measure. Remember, we don't know what we'll find when we get there."

"This is Ticonderoga, Ted, not Orlando," Erik chuckled softly. "I'm sure they haven't had any drama in these parts.  This place was boring as hell when I was growing up."

"Well, it certainly seems like it's in good shape," Brin said cheerfully as she observed the first few buildings came into view through the trees.

Erik was relieved to see the vet's office still looked the same, with the same old purple paint.  Across the street was one of the three feed stores in town. A lot of dairy farmers in the area used to come into town to get supplies. Erik remembered seeing loads of horse trailers and big dualie pickups rumble through town when he spent his summers here.

He turned at the first stop sign and everything suddenly changed. All the interspersed buildings and shops including the houses appeared to have suffered severe damage.  Erik slowed and took a long look at the buildings lining the street.

"You know, now that I look at it, this place has seen better times."

"Somebody had a shoot out in here…" observed Brin.

"Don't stop," Ted urged.  "Let's see if we can find a little cover before we try to get some fuel. I definitely think it's a good idea to gas up before we get to your parents place now, but we need to be real careful. Something went down around here and I don't like the looks of it."

Erik shrugged off Ted's pessimism. "I'm sure it’ll be much better closer to the lake. It's a lot more secluded out there. Let's just keep going and see what we find."

He turned onto another side street and continued east, trying to cut across the southern part of the little town of Ticonderoga. Winding through the trees, they found more evidence of a recent snowfall where the ground was still sheltered underneath the boughs of the pines.

At last they came to a suitable spot on the eastern edge of town that had a decent number of cars visible but not too many buildings.

"I don't think this thing's going to last much longer…" observed Brin.

The van sputtered and coughed in response, then the transmission slipped. The van lurched forward, causing a cascade of noise from the tools in back.

Erik grunted. "I think you might be right.  Let's try right here.” Erik pulled the van off the road and stopped. Before he could shift into park, the engine died.

He looked at Brin.  "Well, that's that. At least we're here. If we have to walk, it's only maybe two miles."

Ted glanced out the window down the street. "Something doesn't feel right. We need to get out, get gas, and get out of here."

Erik agreed and stepped outside. "Brin you stay inside for this one, I'm only gonna check a couple cars—we don't need much."

For once Brin didn't argue. Erik wasn't sure what Ted sensed, but he understood. It felt like they were being watched. He turned and looked up and down the street.

"I don't see anything out there, do you?"

Ted opened his door looked around, holding his rifle at the ready.  "Nope—I got nothing. I'll keep the rifle and provide cover. Hurry up and go find us some gas."

Erik nodded and took a gas can from Brin along with a screwdriver and one of the hammers from the tool bins in the back of the van.  Her hand lingered for a second and she smiled.  He winked.

"I'll be right back."

“You better.”

Erik trotted forward, the uneasy feeling intensifying the farther he got away from the van. The air felt cold—more bracing than chilly like it had felt back in Pennsylvania. Winter was definitely just around the corner.  He glanced up at the clouds hanging low in the sky.

Snow clouds.

Erik approached the first car and cautiously peered around. No one was in the car, nor was there anything sitting out in plain sight. The doors were locked.

His radio crackled.  "Hurry up."  Ted sounded nervous.

Erik hit the transmit button. "Okay, okay." He dropped to the pavement, put the screwdriver's tip against the gas tank, and smacked it with the hammer, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He ripped the screwdriver out and began collecting gas.

He stood up and dusted off his knees as the fuel streamed into the gas can at a fairly decent flow. He clicked the transmit button on his radio again. "We might've gotten lucky, guys—I think this one has  enough gas to give us a quarter tank."

"Good," Ted replied. "Stay frosty."

Erik examined the town around him. Across the street up ahead a small subdivision full of cookie-cutter nouveau-colonial houses sat in complete silence. Only one in five had a thin tendril of smoke drifting up from a chimney. The first couple houses closest to the road had burned to the ground.

It was a new neighborhood and hadn't been here in Erik's youth. He’d known most of these roads like the back of his hand.  While he hadn’t been in the area for the past few years, everything was coming back to him now,  especially the smells.

Everywhere he turned, memories washed over him: riding his bike down the road, watching the trees change colors, smelling the spices in the air from people burning firewood, roasting meat, or cooking savory harvest treats. He remembered the festivals the community reveled in around the lake each weekend leading up to Thanksgiving.

He remembered the flocks of tourists that came up from the south to visit the picturesque fort on the lake, a relic of the Revolution. Ticonderoga sat in the middle of New England's historical heartland. Memories swirled around him and he was only snapped from his reverie when he heard the radio crackle.

"All good?"

Erik blinked and realized he'd been staring down the road. He tore his eyes away and glanced at the dripping gas tank. "I think so.  I've got at least a two, maybe three gallons here. Hopefully that'll be enough."

Erik picked up the gas can and froze in his tracks. Ten yards behind the van, a figure stood in the middle the road. He stared at Ted. Erik slowly tilted his head to his shoulder and nudged the radio with his chin. "Check your six—you got somebody in the road behind the van."

Chapter 63

Annihilation

MALCOLM STARED AT THE smoking, ruined houses that used to populate the neighborhood. The Russians had completely surprised him and hidden far more troops than he’d imagined in the neighborhood. His people stood no chance against armored vehicles—not to mention rockets raining from the sky.

Malcolm watched in horror as wave after wave of his fighters poured in from the north only to disintegrate amid the seemingly never-ending hail of gunfire and horrific explosions.  His people had been slaughtered wholesale—they had no body armor to speak of and even less training, relying on sheer numbers to carry them to victory.

"It was a trap!" screamed Samir as bits of debris fell from the surrounding sky.  He dragged Malcolm out of the street between two houses as the Russians began another wave of counterattacks with groups of 15 to 20 soldiers backed up by their eight-wheeled monsters.

The first two waves of Malcolm's dawn attack had maintained discipline as long as he could have hoped before being completely obliterated.  But then his army exhibited  a mind of its own: as word spread further down the line that the Russians were mounting stiff resistance, even Malcolm's grasp on the reins of power evaporated.

Kill everything, destroy everything, burn everything—that was order of the day. His people poured through the streets and died in droves, heaped into piles alongside the roads or blown into the sky with houses and bits of asphalt as the bombs rained out of the sky.

Malcolm had no idea the Russians had so many aircraft. He glanced up as a flight of jets streaked overhead, heading north.

Those look different…

"We have to get out of here!" shouted Samir, ducking as an explosion nearby shook the walls of the house they used for cover. "Malcolm! We have to retreat!"

An explosion ripped apart several houses in the next block over, ejecting a huge billowing mushroom cloud of orange and black up in the air. The over-pressure shattered windows and knocked Malcolm to the ground next to Samir.

Malcolm sat up, his ears ringing, while he watched a drone fly through the stubby mushroom cloud reaching into the sky.  Curled tendrils of smoke trailed from the drone’s wingtips. A missile dropped off one of its long, slender wings, broke into four segments, and scattered over the rooftops.

A group of his fighters attempting to rush across the street disappeared in a hail of fire and screams.

"Malcolm! We have to leave!" cried Samir. He grabbed Malcolm's shoulder and shook him, attempting to pull him to his feet.

"Where?" Malcolm whispered. He knew Stapleton was continuing his relentless pursuit from the north. Once the American caught sight of the explosions and smoke, he'd increase his speed to join in the fray. By nightfall his people would be trapped between two opposing armies.

Part of him almost hoped for the swift annihilation that would soon occur. They could be no other outcome. His entire rebellion, trapped between an American sledgehammer and a Russian anvil.

How could I have misread Allah's will so?

His only hope lay in defeating the Russians and slipping south. But how?

"We have to flee!" screamed Samir. He grunted and fell against the house, screaming as he dropped to the ground. He rolled into Malcolm, clutching his right arm. "I've been shot!"

Bodyguards emerged around the back of the house and pulled Malcolm to his feet, urging him to hurry. Malcolm tried to resist, but they were stronger.  They yelled over the din of battle about making sure he was safe. Malcolm refused to leave until one of them grabbed Samir and hauled him off the ground as well.

"Now's our only chance—we have to leave!" one shouted in his ear.

"What has happened?" called out Malcolm over the noise.

One of the bodyguards pointed at the sky. A Russian jet streaked overhead and abruptly disappeared into a ball of fire.

The Americans. They're attacking the Russians. It's already started. We'll be locked between the two of them and wiped out before anyone can escape.  I was too slow.  Allah forgive me—I was too slow!

"Hurry!" called out one of the bodyguards as he struggled to get Malcolm to move faster.  "Some soldiers found us. They're from the army! They're trying to help us evacuate."

"What?" asked Malcolm, incredulous. It was impossible—it was a trap. "No! Don't trust them! It's a trick!" He struggled against the bodyguards. "Let me go! We have to save our people!"

"Malcolm! It's true—the soldiers saved me! I was pinned down by the Russians over there," he said pointing down the street toward a smoking house. "Some soldiers popped up behind us and shot the Russians, then protected us while we retreated. They said the Russian forces were a lot bigger than anyone expected. The only way we're going to survive is if we all work together!"

"Was that a message from General Stapleton?" asked Malcolm as he allowed himself to be led further north.  He shook his head.  "We cannot trust them!" he cried, struggling against the guards.

"We don't have a choice!" yelled one of the man on his left. "If we stay here, the Russians will kill us all!"

"If we go with the Americans, they will kill us all!" retorted Malcolm.

Samir leaned against the closest house, gripping his bloodstained shoulder. "Malcolm…" he muttered weakly. "We don't have a choice anymore."

"He needs a doctor," observed one of the guards as if he were something more than a bouncer.

"What do you want us to do?" asked the other, finally relenting.

Malcolm stood there, listening to his radio squawk about reinforcements and Russian attacks and people dying. The chaos surrounding him was too much.

"What are you doing standing out there in the open! Get the fuck behind some cover!" a voice shouted from the left.

Malcolm watched as his bodyguards produced weapons.  American soldiers crouched behind the corner of the house. "If you're gonna shoot, shoot—otherwise get your asses over here before the Russians kill you all!" one of them shouted as he urged them forward.

“Look out!” A second soldier raised his rifle and fired a shot, causing Malcolm to flinch.

Malcolm spun and saw a Russian writhing on the ground across the street. Two more took his place and charged, laying down fire from AK-47s. Bullets peppered the ground and walls around them. One of the guards went down, clutching his chest in a spray of blood.

Malcolm turned and helped get Samir around the corner where they were joined by not one, but four soldiers.

"Thank you," Malcolm said breathlessly. "What do we do now?"

"We'll lay down suppressing fire. You get your wounded man out of here. It's clear that way," the soldier in charge said, signaling with his hand to the northwest.  "I've got reinforcements coming in from the north on the eastern flank. Our armored division should be here within 20—we just have to hold out until the armored cav shows up."  He peered around the corner.   "Go!"

Malcolm reached out his bloodstained hand. "Thank you. Thank you, Sergeant.…Miller," he said reading the man's blood-stained name tag.

The handshake was firm.  "No problem…?"

"I am Malcolm."

The soldier's eyes widened. "No shit."

Chapter 64

Welcome Home

ERIK WATCHED AS TED spun and aimed his weapon at the guy behind their van. The man didn't move.

"Freeze!" shouted Ted.  He dropped behind the driver’s door. "Get on the ground or I'll shoot!"

"We don't want any trouble," a gravelly voice said off to Erik's right.

Erik turned and saw two older men step out from the shoe repair shop across the street.

"That's right, we just want to stop you—”

Erik dropped into a crouch as he reached the van while Ted continued to scream at the man behind the van.

"Stop us? Why?" asked Brin from inside.

"Brin, keep the kids down!" Erik hissed.

"Because you don't want to go any further up the road," a woman said behind him.

"What the hell is going on?" Erik said as he spun to face yet another person. She was older, like the two men from the shoe store.  She stepped out from behind one of the trees alongside of the road, her hands in front of her, empty.

"You just hanging out up there waiting for us?" asked Ted, shifting his rifle between the targets.

The old woman nodded, brushing a lock of white hair from her face. She wore a sad look. "It's our job. We warn people away."

Erik relaxed when he saw no visible weapons. "Ted, I think it's okay…"

"That's right, none of us are armed," said the woman. She took a step forward, her arms spread wide. "We threaten no one and hope to protect everyone who drives this road."

Ted reappeared from behind the door, albeit slowly. His rifle was aimed at the ground, but ready to snap up in an instant. "If you're unarmed and you don't threaten anybody, why are you guys snooping around and hiding?"

"Because people like you would gun us down in a heartbeat if we stepped out in the open to meet you, even though we only want to help."

Erik glanced from the old woman back to Ted. He shrugged his shoulders.  She's got a point.

"Well, if it's gonna be like that, I guess I may as well introduce myself. I'm Erik Larsson."  He walked over to her and extended his hand.

She wrinkled her nose. "Larsson? I know that name…"

"My parents live on the lake.  Ed and Vi?"

Her eyes opened wide and her mouth creased in the smallest of smiles.  "Erik? Little Erik that used to come to my husband's ice cream shop?"

Erik laughed. "Mrs. O'Malley?"

Before he could say anything else, she enveloped him in a hug. Erik gave the gas can to Ted and patted the old woman on the back.

"I didn't expect a welcoming committee, but this is nice…"

She stepped back, her hands on Erik's arms. "But why are you here? I thought you were in Alabama or Texas or something at school?"

"Florida," Erik chuckled.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. O'Malley said with a grandmotherly smile. "Your parents don't come to town all that often and the last I heard you'd just graduated college."

"Well, I'm back.  I brought my wife—”

Mrs. O'Malley's face lit up. "Your wife?"

Erik nodded, smiling at the old men who crossed the street and cautiously approached the van. "We've come all the way from Florida and I can't tell you how excited we are to be this close to home."

The two older men looked at each other before looking down the street. Erik glanced at Mrs. O'Malley, who wouldn't meet his eyes.

"What'd I say?" asked Erik.

The man behind the van caught up to Erik and Ted. "I'll tell you what's going on—that crazy son of a bitch out by the lake thinks he's some kind of king—that's what's going on. If you know what's good for you, you'll get the hell out of here as fast as you can." The old man turned his rheumy glare on the trees as if expecting an attack.

"Probably got one of those bastards of his watchin' us right now."

The old woman sighed. "Dan can be a little rough around the edges, but he's mostly right."

"You're damn right I am!" Dan replied emphatically. He cast Ted a wary look as he stepped around the marine to approach the front of the van.

"Dan Smith," he said holding his hand out for Erik. "That's my shoe store there," he said with a nod toward the dilapidated building. "Don't look like much, but it probably saved my life. A cobbler's shop is too boring to attract the interest of assholes like them."

Erik shook his head. "Whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? What's going on—who is this king?"

Mrs. O'Malley glanced nervously around. "We should head inside and get out of sight."

Erik frowned. "I'm not going anywhere until somebody at least gives me a hint about what's going on around here."

Mrs. O'Malley sighed, fidgeting with her dirt-caked shirt. "It's kind of difficult to explain."

"Young man, we've seen some horrible things," Dan said.

"Try me," said Erik, crossing his arms.  He heard the unique creak and rattle of a wooden window sash rise.

"Dan!" hissed a voice across the street from the second floor of the cobbler shop.  "Someone's coming in through the woods! They're moving around up at the top of the hill," said a middle-aged woman leaning out the window, pointing south.

Dan waved her off. "Get back inside, Melissa!"  He  turned his attention back to the others. "We've got to hurry. That'll be last night's patrol coming back."  He turned to look at the white Newark University van. "You gotta get this thing off the street."

"Well, she's not going anywhere without this gas," Erik said holding up the gas can.

"No, you don't understand—we have move it without noise."  Dan turned to the two other men.  "Help us push this thing."

Ted shot Erik a look.

"Brin, put it in neutral and steer," Erik called.  He shut the passenger door.

"Everybody, on me," Ted announced from the back of the van. "We'll push it together."

"Just turn left," said Dan through the window as Brin climbed into the driver seat. "Pull on back around my shop—they never go off the street anymore."

Erik put the gas can in the passenger seat through the open window and rushed to take his place at the back of the van with Ted, Mrs. O'Malley, Dan, and the two old men.  They pushed and heaved and strained, forcing the van forward.

Brin steered them around the corner and parked behind the cobbler's shop in a small, weed-infested gravel lot.  Erik stepped back from the van and wiped the dirt from the door on his pants. He glanced up at the back of the cobbler's building in the growing light of the morning.

"Why did they shoot this place up?"

"Why the hell did they shoot anything up? Why the hell did they kill all the people in town and take the survivors away? Nobody knows. Like I said, the bastards are plum crazy."

"We can talk later—let's get everyone inside," suggested Mrs. O’Malley.

Dan nodded. "She's right, let's go," he said circling his hand over his head. The old men had already mounted the rear steps and threw open the wooden door.

"Hurry!" a voice called from inside the darkened building.

Erik opened the van’s back doors and helped Lindsay and Teddy hop down. Lucy tumbled out blushing, her first aid satchel clutched tight in both hands.  Brin jumped out next and pulled two backpacks with her. She handed one to Erik as she ushered the kids into the building. Ted grabbed his pack, and they shut the doors as quietly as possible before following Mrs. O'Malley up the steps into the building.

"That everybody?" asked Dan.

"Yes," said Erik as he entered the darkened building.

"Good. What the hell are you doing dragging kids up here? This is a war zone."

Chapter 65

The Arrival

ERIK STARED THROUGH THE grimy window and narrowed his eyes at the familiar yet surreal scene outside. He turned away from the window and looked around the darkened room.

"None of this makes any sense. I don't see why we can't just go right now."

Ted sighed, the chair he sat in creaking under his shifting weight. "Erik, you saw those guys out there just like we did. They were carrying shotguns. We have a pistol and one rifle. I don't—”

"Oh, give me a break, Ted—you can take those guys with your bare hands!"

"That's not the point and you know it," Ted snapped. "Look, we can't rush in half-cocked. We have too many people relying on us now."

Erik clenched his jaw and stepped away from the window into the room.  The group watched him impassively as they sat around a card table amid piles of empty cans and trash on the floor .

Brin sat so close to Lucy their shoulders almost touched. Lucy, their de facto nurse, nervously fingered the strap on her satchel. On the other side of the little table from Brin and Lucy, Lindsay sat next to Ted as the marine folded his arms across his chest. Their new friends sat opposite Ted and Lindsay.  Teddy sat on the floor playing with an empty plastic bottle.

More lives than you know, Erik thought as his eyes met Brin's. Guilt washed over him. He had been reckless in pushing the group north as fast as he had and Lindsay had already paid the price. As he stared at Brin, he realized pushing now might endanger his unborn child.

Get a grip on yourself and think, dammit!  Ted's right.

Erik turned back to the window, barely resisting the urge to pace the room. He needed to move, to do something. Standing around cooped up in a dark, stuffy room just a few miles from the end of their journey ate at him like nothing he'd ever experienced.

The only thing stopping him now was some mysterious group that had rolled through town—according to Mrs. O'Malley and Dan—and killed most of the survivors of the collapse, then set up shop down by the lake.

"Your friend is right, Erik," Mrs. O'Malley said in a soft voice. "These men are dangerous."

"We already told him once," grumbled Dan. "What good is it to go over this again? He doesn't believe you," the old man stood up and moved to the door.

"It's not that I don't believe you, Mrs. O'Malley," Erik muttered "it's just that…"

"Maggie.  Please, dear.  Call me Maggie.  Mrs. O'Malley died when my husband passed away."

"It's just what?" asked Dan, ignoring Maggie.  "It's not fair?" he demanded in a mocking tone. "You're just like the others—'it's not fair,' they said. 'It's not fair these people have all the supplies, it's not fair these people moved in, fought us, and took what was ours. It's not fair people died'."

The old man opened the door and left, slamming it behind him.

"Don't pay any attention to him," Maggie said standing up from the table to face Erik. "He's had a hard time since his brother went with the last group to challenge the newcomers."

"What happened?" asked Brin.

It was Maggie's turned to stare out the window. "Just like the rest of them, he never came back. I think they were killed, but I also think Dan holds out hope his brother is alive out there somewhere." She shook her head. "No one else has been brave enough—or young enough," she said with a glance at Erik, "to go find out what happened. The frustration's been eating away at him for a while now."

"How long have these 'newcomers' been in power?" asked Ted.

Maggie sighed and looked at the ceiling. "Oh, it had to be early this month. We had that surprise early snowfall—late September or early October. I don't really remember which. Without power for computers and clocks, I'm afraid we all forgot what day it was a long time ago."

Ted rubbed his chin, the scratching sound of his finger across the dark patchy beard on his chin the only noise in the room. "So they've been consolidating for what, about a month, month and a half now?"

“That’s right,” Maggie replied.

"Can you give me your best estimate on how many people they have?"

Maggie put her hands in her threadbare coat and scrunched her shoulders into the fabric. "Oh, I don't know, I'm not the one to ask. The others probably know better—”

"Maggie, the others aren't here. Just a guess that's all we need," suggested Erik.

She looked into his eyes, then turned and squinted out the window. "When they first came through town…it seemed like there were hundreds of them. Of course they were walking in ones and twos—slowly—like they'd been on their feet for a long time…" she said, her eyes glassing over.

Erik felt the limits of his patience quickly approach as the old woman stared out the window, lost in the past.  "Would you say there were ten? Twenty?"

She shook her head. "It's hard to say. They just kept coming," she said craning her neck to look south. "We tried talking to the ones at the front, and the others would just shuffle past like they didn't even see us…"  Maggie shuddered.  "Then there were a few that did see us.  When you looked in their eyes, you didn't see men…just animals."

Erik turned and shot a glance at Ted.  The marine grimaced.

Maggie hugged herself tighter. "They looked at us like we were prey or something." She shook her head and looked away from the window. "And that was back when there were a couple thousand of us still alive in town. I'd hate to think what they’d do if they came through again. "  She looked at Erik.

"No one left now but the old and sick…"

Erik folded his arms and stared out the window next to her. "You said there was a group that went after them recently?"

Maggie nodded. When she spoke her voice sounded distant. "Yes. About three weeks ago. We got together and decided to find out what happened to the those who'd been taken." She turned and looked at Ted.

"There were a few people who'd gone out on their own—mostly the younger men.  Hunters.  They disappeared too and never came back."

"And all this time no one ever saw or heard anything from the authorities?" asked Ted. "County cops?"

Maggie sighed.  I called Sheriff McAdams to report the strangers.  He said he’d send Undersheriff Dixon to check it out, but we never heard anything else and the sheriff disappeared a little later…”

"State police?  Not even the feds?"

Maggie sighed and moved back to the table, sitting down gingerly. "No. This isn't a big town and other than the fort, hardly anybody comes through here except during the color season."

"The color season?" asked Brin.

Maggie smiled, but it was sad and never reached her eyes. "The fall colors, dear. Most of our tourism happens between September and November. All the southerners come up to see the leaves on the trees."  She pulled her coat tighter around her chest.  "Other than that, we're mostly left alone."

"It sounds nice…" Lucy offered in a small voice.

Maggie nodded. "It is, child, it is. Or it was…"  She looked down at her wrinkled hands on the tabletop and closed her eyes.

Erik turned to face the window once more, his hands clenching and relaxing. "We don't know anything. We've got to find out what's going on."

"Agreed," said Ted. "But we've got to do it on our terms. Rushing off into the woods to go see what happened—that's what got these folks into trouble."

Maggie nodded.  "Your friend is right, Erik. We were all so excited to see strangers from the outside we didn't ever stop to think there could be danger."

"Why?" asked Brin.

"We figured they had news from the outside—they obviously weren't from around here.  They didn't really talk. I knew something was wrong—we all did—we were just so starved for human contact…"

As Maggie's eyes teared up Brin reached across the table. The older woman's shoulders shook and her head bowed lower, the massive gray braid falling into her lap.

"It's okay," Brin said soothingly. "Everybody makes mistakes," she added, her eyes locked on Erik's.

Erik walked back to the table and yanked back his chair with more force than he had planned. He sat heavily and sighed. "I got it—these guys are hard cases—they walked through and people in town didn't pay attention to the clues. They weren't ready when the bad guys came back." Erik leaned around Maggie to look at Ted. "But we aren't them. They won't catch us off guard."

Ted sighed and stood up, his knees cracking. "Erik, I've taught you a lot since everything went to sh—" he glanced at Lindsay.  "Since everything collapsed, but you're still no soldier. Listen to me when I say this—overconfidence in our own abilities is just as dangerous as running off against these guys without a plan. We have to come up with—”

Erik slammed his hands down on the table and stood, glaring at Ted. "We don't have time!" He pointed out the window. "My parents are out there—there's a lot of people out there in trouble!  People I grew up around, friends!"

"We don't know that," Ted said in a calm voice.

"Oh come on!"  Erik spun away from the table.  "After everything we've seen on the way up here, you don't honestly think those guys who came through town—and it was only guys, right Maggie? You didn't see any women or children with them?"

Maggie shook her head. "Only men. Most of them seemed to be on the younger side, but there were a few old-timers."

"See?" Erik said gesturing at Maggie. "Nothing but a bunch of men come straggling through town. They had the look of predators. I think it's a gang—what more evidence do we need? They came back through and captured a bunch of people and hauled them away to do God knows what with them, then killed almost everybody left! We're dealing with a bunch of…"

"A bunch of what?" Ted said, his voice calm as still water. "Are they terrorists? Are they foreign nationals? Special forces from the United Nations down in New York? Escaped convicts? Gang members? Did they come through the first time unarmed?  Was it all just a recon mission so they could come back with weapons?"

"There was an awful lot of shooting when they came back…" Maggie muttered.

Ted never took his eyes off Erik's. "So they came through town unarmed, returned with weapons, took a lot of prisoners, and killed a bunch of civilians. We don't know much about these guys, but we do know that we should proceed with caution."

"I have to know…" Erik said, his voice tight.  He couldn't shake the paralyzing thoughts of what the strangers might have done to his parents.

Erik closed his eyes, forcing dark thoughts from his head. His rational side knew Ted was right—they had to slow down, they had to plan, and they had to be methodical. But his heart felt a pull stronger than gravity, threatening to rocket him from the room.

I could be there in 15 minutes if I ran…

"I know what you're thinking," Ted said quietly.

Erik looked at his friend.

"I can see it in your eyes.  It's what I’d want to do. You want to charge off on your own and find out what's going on." Ted put a hand on Erik's shoulder. "Listen to me, Erik. That is not how we do things. Remember? We're a team," Ted said and turned and waved a hand at the rest of the group. "All of us. We're in this together. It's not just you against the world."

Erik clenched his fists at his side. "It's the waiting…the last time I waited…" His eyes darted to Brin. "I can't do that again. I won't."

"No one's asking you to wait forever—but we've only been here an hour. We need time to rest.  I need to look at a map."

Maggie looked up from the table suddenly. "A map? We've got tons of maps. The one place they didn't touch was the little tourist shop a few doors down. It's full of maps."

"You got topographical maps?"

"Topographical…" Maggie began. "I don't know.  We've got lots of tourist maps. Maps of the Fort, maps of the state parks around here, maps of the lake…"

Ted shook his head. "How about maps for hikers?"

Maggie nodded her head. "Oh sure, we've probably got lots of those too." She turned to look at Brin. "We get a good number of hikers through here. They love going up and down the hills—”

"Can you get me some of those? Maybe a map of the Fort, the town, and a hiker's map?"

Maggie got to her feet. "Of course. You all stay here, I'll be right back. Won't take me a minute." She walked to the door and pulled it open. "You know what? How about I bring us some food and drink, too?"

"Oh Maggie, we don't want to impose, we have our own—” Brin began.

"Don't worry about it, when those—whoever they were—came through town last time, they were more interested in people than supplies. They took a lot of stuff from the obvious places where people would normally stockpile everything.  The grocery store and gas stations, mostly. They didn't think to search too many of our homes and businesses. We have enough food for the few people left in town… I'll be right back"

After the door shut behind Maggie, Erik moved away from Ted and stared out the window again. Movement caught his eye down the road to the north.

"Look, here's what I'm suggesting," Ted began. "Let's rest up, get a few hours of sleep, get some food and water.  Sometime before sunset we'll get up and take the maps Maggie's gonna give us.  We can do a little recon tonight."

"We?" asked Brin.

"Well, me," Ted said.

Erik shook his head. "No way—I know this town like the back of my hand. I used to run these hills when I was a kid.  I can get us to the fort from here with my eyes closed. Even if you could study the maps, you won't know the shortcuts and little ravines that let get you under fences like I do."

"Well, we can't both go—”

"Daddy, please don't go away again!" cried Teddy. The towhead toddler ran up to Ted and wrapped his arms around the marine's leg. Ted looked up at Erik "That's besides the point—I'm the only one here with actual training and—”

"You're also the only one here with children," Erik said, carefully making sure his eyes didn't find Brin's. "And besides, with your training if something happens while I'm out there, everyone else will be safer with you here than me."

"Erik—” started Brin.

"I've seen how you handled yourself with a sword Erik.  They'll be fine with you."

"I don't have a sword," muttered Erik. "I haven't been…"

Ted stepped up next to Erik.  He lowered his voice. "I know. You haven't yet been able to pull the trigger lately."

"You know?" Erik asked.

The marine nodded. "I may not have said anything, but that doesn't mean I didn't see anything.  It's fine, Erik, don't worry about it."

"Yeah, but I'm useless—I can't even…" He turned and looked at Brin. "She killed Stepanovich."  Saying it out loud felt like he'd just confessed to murder.  A weight disappeared off his chest.

Ted turned and appraised Brin with an arched eyebrow. "Really?"

Brin looked down at the table. "I…he…" When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears and her fists clenched. "I was just so mad."

“You killed someone?” whispered Lucy, her eyes round.

Ted nodded. "She isn’t the first woman to kill a bad guy and she won't be the last."

"Yeah, but I—” Erik began. He stopped and closed his mouth. He shook his head and looked out the window again.

The movement that had caught his eyes earlier now materialized into two men strolling down the street carrying shotguns. They had the same general scruffy appearance as the first two scouts that went by earlier, but these two were different.

One was black and one was white. Erik kept his eyes locked on them. "It doesn't matter. I don't…I won't be as useful as you. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I don't want to put everybody else's lives at risk.  Again."

Before he could say anything further Brin raced to him and wrapped her arms around him. "I don't want you to change. I don't want you to be someone who could take a life without thinking about it." She turned her head and muffled, "No offense."

Ted laughed. "None taken. I'm a marine—killing bad guys is what we do."  He shrugged.  "It's in our DNA."

"But it's not in yours," Brin said, squeezing Erik even harder. The strength in her arms lifted Erik's heart.

"But I did…back at the Freehold.  I killed…I saw their eyes, I felt the sword as it went…"

"Sssh," Brin said, eyes on the kids. "You don't need to talk about it."

Erik closed his eyes. She was right. Not in front of the kids. They had lived through enough of a nightmare so far, he didn't need to describe his own.

"Leaving all that aside, I still think you're the better man to be here."

Ted sighed. "And why is that?"

Erik jerked his chin toward the window. "Because whatever I find out there, more of it is bound to come back. Like those two coming down the street."

Ted leaned around Erik and his eyes narrowed as he found the targets. "Looks like we got company."

"Maggie's out there!" Brin gasped as she saw the two rough-looking men for the first time.

Erik looked at Ted. The marine's expression hardened.  "Brin, take the kids and find an interior room on this floor.  Start pushing furniture or whatever you can to block the door. Stay there until we come back."

"Ted, I—”

"Stow it Erik.  I'm only going to say this once: you need to take your fears and worries and box them up—wrap them in chains and stuff them into a little corner of your soul.  Bury it—you understand me?"  He poked Erik on the chest.

"Now is not the time for self-doubt. Those guys out there are armed—they're looking for trouble. They're looking for us. If they catch Maggie out there walking back with food and supplies there's going to be hell to pay and it'll be our fault. It's up to us to change this."  He put his hands on his hips.  "You want to find your parents?"

"Of course," Erik said sullenly.

"You want to help this town?"

“You know I do—”

"Then man up."  He stared into Erik’s eyes.  "You with me?"

Erik glanced out the window the men as the men grew closer.

Ted grabbed Erik's shoulder and pushed him against the wall. He got right up in his face.  "You listen to me—you are perfectly capable of defending yourself and your family."

Erik's eyes darted to Brin.

"Eyes on me!" Ted barked in his drill instructor's voice. "I know you think things are rough and you think you don't have it in you to be a killer—but I've seen you do it.  You do have it in you. It takes a special kind of man to compartmentalize those feelings and still carry on.  That's the only way our families are going to survive.  You're going out there to fight for your family—for Brin. For my family. Because right now you and I are the only things that are going to stop those guys out there from walking in here and taking everything we have left."  He took a breath.  "You get me?"

Erik thought back to the Freehold when the escaped convicts had attacked Susan and Brin. The old heat coursed through his veins again.  Just remembering how his sword had flashed in the sunlight…Erik narrowed his eyes.

Ted took a step back and smiled. "I guess you do have it in you. For a second there, you looked like Erik the Red again.”

Chapter 66

Prisoner of War

STAPLETON CLIMBED DOWN OUT of his command Stryker and adjusted the pistol belt on his hip.  He stared in disbelief.  The makeshift prison camp set up by his scouts defied logic.  Before him stretched what was left of Malcolm's rebellion.   At last count, 3,513 men, women, and children sat in the dirt and grass alongside the interstate, just three miles from the Florida border.  The ones closest to the road had their hands on their heads but looked more relieved than worried.

My God, they look awful.  Half-starved, exhausted, completely spent—Stapleton smiled. The rebellion was over.  He couldn't believe the reports and had promptly ordered his command vehicle straight to the front of the column.  He had to see it with his own eyes.

A captain snapped a salute when he spotted Stapleton.  He tucked a clipboard under his arm and adjusted the M4 slung over his shoulder so the weapon hung from his back.

"Whats' the sit rep, captain?"

"General—this here's what's left of the rebel army.  If you can believe it."

"I almost didn't, son.  Do we have Malcolm?"

The captain nodded.  "Indeed, we do, sir.  Other side of my vehicle, up there," the young officer said, pointing.  "Third one on the left.  I have him under guard.  He willingly surrendered and asked to speak to you, sir."

"Had any trouble from anyone?"

"Negative, sir.  In fact, most of them have been thanking us."

Stapleton shook his head.  "Well, make sure we get them some food and water.  See to the processing and make sure anyone that needs medical attention gets it."

"Roger that, sir."

Stapleton moved on up the column to the captain's Stryker and waved off the guards.  A handsome, well-built man with his head in his hands sat by the open rear hatch.  He looked up at Stapleton's approach and slowly got to his feet.

"Hello, General Stapleton."

Stapleton stood there for a moment, staring into the coal-dark eyes that watched him warily.  "So. You're the infamous Malcolm."  He put his hands on his hips and clamped down on the unlit cigar in his mouth.  "I take it this is your unconditional surrender?"

Without hesitation, the young man nodded.  "Yes, sir."

The general looked at one of the guards and grunted.  "Just like that?"

"Just like that."  Malcolm sighed.  "It's over.  When one is betrayed and abandoned by those thought to be allies, one must look to saving lives, not taking them.  Everything I did was for my people.  I would not willingly slaughter them now.  I surrender."  He swallowed.

"Please, whatever you do—protect my people.  I will submit to whatever judgment you deem necessary, but don't let them—"

"Who?" asked Stapleton.  "Who betrayed you?"

"The Russians," hissed Malcolm.

"Russians?" asked Stapleton, one eyebrow almost touching his helmet.  "They're down in Orlando—what the hell are you talking about?"

"A large group of them confronted us on the other side of the border.  I was assured by President Jones I would not have a difficult time defeating them.  They were rumored to be running out of supplies and men.  But the force that destroyed my army was massive and well supplied."

Stapleton turned and looked at one of the guards.  "We've heard the same thing from just about all the prisoners, sir.”

"Pardon me," Stapleton said to Malcolm as he stepped inside the Stryker.  He grabbed the comm link and keyed the mic.  "Lighthouse, Command Actual.  We have eyes in the sky?"

The radio warbled as it broke squelch. "Roger that, Actual.  Providing air cover for detachments bringing in  prisoners."

"What birds?" Stapleton asked, hoping to hear a helicopter.

"Drone.  We're critical on avi-fuel until we reach JNAS."

"Retask it," Stapleton said, chewing the cigar.  "I want to see as far south as you can."

"Wait one, Actual."

"Standing by."  Stapleton tapped his fingers on the console as he waited.  He cursed himself for pushing so hard, so fast.  He'd stretched his column out nearly 100 miles and the fuel trucks were barely keeping pace.

President Jones be damned—Stapleton never trusted the news that he'd given Florida to the Rebels in exchange for fighting the Russians.  He'd assumed from the get go the Rebels were in cahoots with those commie bastards all along.  Why else flee south so fast?  Surely Malcolm wasn't so stupid as to think he could knock off a professional army with a bunch of protesters and gangs?

"Contact!  Actual, I'm seeing multiple armored-up vehicles about four miles south of the border.  They're holding position but heat signatures are giving me at least a dozen foot mobiles ranging out north.  Wait…there's some interference."

"Lighthouse, what's going on?"

"We lost the feed, Actual.  Trying to reestablish a link to the drone."  A momentary pause and then the commander of Stapleton's air wing returned to the line.  "I'm sorry, Actual, I think they spotted the drone and shut it down with a remote jamming array.  It's gone.  It’s a good bet they know we’re here, now."

"God damn it!" Stapleton cursed, slamming the radio back in its receiver.  He took a moment to compose himself, then picked up the receiver again.  "All units this net, this is Command Actual.  Russian ground forces have been spotted just south of the Florida border.  I want all units to make best possible speed south.  Prepare for general engagement.  Out."

They came to the border after all.  Nella was right.

Stapleton stepped back out into the humid air and let his eyes adjust.  He found Malcolm sitting by the ramp again, hands over his face.  His boots clicked off the ramp as he exited and stood in the grass before the defeated rebel leader who'd caused so much death and destruction.

And it's only been six months since you raised the flag of rebellion.

Stapleton crossed his arms.  "Malcolm Abdul Rashid.  On your feet."

Malcolm stood.  His body looked defeated but the steel in his eyes betrayed his inner strength.

"I have one question for you.  Did you come south to join forces with the Russians?"

The anger that exploded across Malcolm's face answered his question before the outraged response.  "At first, yes!  Then those animals attacked us.  The women and children—we—"

Stapleton held his hand up to stop the tirade.  "That's enough.  I believe you."  He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders.  "You will be placed in military custody until such time as you can be safely transported to Washington, where you will face justice."

Malcolm blinked.  "You are not going to shoot me?"

Stapleton stared at him.  "No.  What do you think I am, some kind of barbarian? You'll face justice later,  at the hands of the civil authorities—whoever the hell that turns out to be.  I have to fight these Russian bastards now."

"What about my people?"

Stapleton turned to look at the pathetic mass of humanity clustered around his scouts.  "They will be given food, water, and medical attention, then transported north.  It's up to the politicians to decide their fates.  Though I wouldn't be surprised to see them pardoned in exchange for service against the Russians or Chinese—but that’s just my opinion."  Stapleton pulled the cigar from his mouth and pointed the stub at his most important prisoner.

"Frankly, I don't care what happens to them.  I was tasked with ending your rebellion by whatever means necessary.   I have, as of this moment, completed my mission.  Now I must proceed with my sworn duty to defend the nation from external enemies.  Excuse me."

“Where are you going?" Malcolm called out as Stapleton stormed back to his command Stryker.

He turned and lit his cigar, inhaling the bittersweet smoke.  Stapleton savored the taste for a few moments as his mobilization order trickled down to the nearby units.

They upped their pace and shouted at prisoners to keep moving north with a lot more urgency. Vehicles roared to life and took up defensive formations across the six-lanes of interstate.

A far off rumble, accompanied by the faintest of tremors felt through the soles of his boots announced the imminent arrival of his tanks.

He puffed the cigar and squinted through the smoke at Malcolm.  "We may not like each other—hell, we may hate each other, you and I—but we're both still part of the big dysfunctional family they call America."  He blew the gray-blue smoke out his mouth and examined his stogie.

"No one comes into my house uninvited and pushes my family around," he growled, watching Malcolm.  "No one."

"But…" Malcolm said, confusion clouding his face as much as cigar smoke.

Stapleton grinned.  "I'm going to go kick some Russian ass."

Chapter 67

Offense

TED CLOSED THE BUILDING'S rear door behind Erik.  The two of them crouched in the sun at the corner. Distant voices echoed on the breeze between structures. Erik turned to Ted.

"So how's this going to go down?" he whispered.

Ted indicated the road with his hand. "Those guys are coming toward us from the left. Maggie said she was only going a couple shops up the street. They could be on her before we reach her. I'll shift to this building next door, to keep their attention away from Brin and the kids. You see if you can run down the back alley and stay even with them."  He hefted the rifle.

"I'll draw their attention with this.  When they stop, you step out from the side with the XD and collect their weapons. Once we have them under control, we can interrogate them."

Erik shifted his grip on the pistol. He pulled back the slide, checked the round in the chamber and made sure the safety was off.

"That easy?"

Ted stood up and paused, listening to a distant echo of laughter.  "That easy. These jokers think they own this town. They're completely at ease." Ted peeked around the corner. "Coast is still clear. You ready?"

Erik stood next to the marine. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said. He took a deep breath and waited.

Ted watched the street.  He motioned north. "Go."  Without waiting, he sprinted around the corner and dashed across the narrow alley to position himself at the front corner of the adjacent building.

Erik scrambled through the gravel as quietly as he could, moving behind the next building, pausing only at the corner to make sure the road was still clear. He heard two distinct voices echoing out in the street now, one of them laughing. They were still out of sight.

He exhaled and sprinted across the next alley, repeating the process two more times. Hoping he was far enough, Erik found the target building had a bush planted by the front corner that should give him enough cover to surprise the men. He scrambled along the side of the building, hoping they didn't appear while he was exposed.

"… funny as shit, man. I never knew you had so many stories."

The voices were clear now. Erik shuffled the last few feet to get behind the cover of the bush. He crouched down, pistol held in both hands and pointed at the ground.  His heart thudded in his chest like thunder and his breath came fast and shallow. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stay calm.

"Yeah well, I was in C Block. You know what they say about C block?" said a distinctly older voice.

"What's that?" asked the other.

“Nothin’—you don’t say shit in C Block.”

Erik grimaced as the two men laughed, casually strolling down the street. Through the small leaves of the dense bush, Erik caught glimpses of their legs as they approached. They were no more than 15 feet away.

He heard their shoes on the asphalt. If either of them pointed his shotgun at Erik and pulled the trigger, he was as good as dead.

As the two strangers approached, Erik felt more naked than ever, despite the concealment of the shrubbery.  He kept his eyes on the targets and slowly raised his pistol, only moving as they took steps. They drew even with him, still talking about prison life.

Ex-cons. Great.

As they passed him, the conversation changed to grumbling about their current duty.  "…bullshit and you know it."

"Ain't that the truth? Ol' Spike still mad at you for gettin' that choice piece of ass, huh?" the older man chuckled.

"It wasn't my fault!" the younger one argued as they passed Erik. "She was practically begging me for it!"

The older man laughed. "Man, only reason Spike was mad cause she was a virgin!   She weren't beggin' for shit 'cept for you to stop!"

The two of them laughed again.

"That's far enough!" Ted's voice called out down the street.  He sounded a lot further away than Erik expected.

The two men froze, neither one of them bothered to raise their shotguns.  One corner of Erik's mouth curled up.  Ted was right—they were overconfident.  They thought they owned Ticonderoga and never expected someone to challenge them.

"Drop those boomsticks before I drop your asses," Ted commanded.

Erik ever so slowly sidestepped around the bush until he was able to raise his weapon and draw a clear bead on the nearest convict.  He waited  for them to drop their weapons. Even if Ted got one, if Erik rushed to soon, one lucky blast of a shotgun would end everything.

"Who the fuck said that?" asked the old man.

Erik held the pistol in slightly trembling hands and checked the safety was still off, keeping his finger on the outside of the guard.  The younger man slowly moved his shotgun into a ready position. Erik's hands steadied as he lined up the sights on the side of the man's head.

Only 15 feet away.  You can do this.

"I'm only going to say it one more time," Ted's voice called out, full of confidence and command. "You move another inch and I will excavate your cranium.  Drop your fucking guns.  Now!"

The two convicts froze and looked at each other. "Whaddya think?" whispered the younger man.  “Let’s take ‘im.”

“I don’t know,” mumbled the old man.

Erik moved out from behind his cover. What the hell am I doing this for?

"We have you surrounded!" he shouted.

The sound of another man's voice, strong and clear from so close, startled both convicts. They spun to face Erik's position and Ted took the cue.  He fired a single shot and a puff of asphalt exploded between the two of them.

The older man had his hands in the air even as his shotgun clattered to the street.  His younger partner's eyes locked on Erik, half-exposed in the bush.

Erik felt a chill trickle down his spine.  The eyes that stared at him were full of nothing but hate and loathing. The man looked capable of cutting Erik's heart out with spoon.

That son of a bitch would do the same thing to Brin if given half a chance, a small voice whispered in Erik's mind.  The trembling in Erik's hands stopped like he'd thrown a switch. Erik stood, blood thundering in his ears.  He stepped forward with the gun pointed at the convict's head.

Erik took another two steps.  "Drop your weapon! Now!"

"Better do it," said the older man. "Spike's cool and all, but I ain't dying for his shit."  When his partner hesitated, the old man spoke louder.  "His shotgun ain't loaded!"

"You fuckin' snitch!" the younger man said, holding the shotgun in front of him like a club.  His fingers tightened on the stock and barrel but Erik noticed the man didn't try to pull the trigger.

"On the ground! Now! Drop your weapon—do it!" shouted Ted. Erik saw movement out of the corner of his eye as Ted raced across the street to the two men, rifle at his shoulder.

"I don't want no trouble," called out the older one as he dropped to his knees.  "I don't want to hurt nobody."

The younger one, still in front of Erik, his eyes still blazing with hatred, detected the sound of Ted's boots on the pavement.  He turned his head a fraction of an inch and froze.  The appearance of a soldier was evidently the deciding factor. The younger man dropped his weapon and raised his hands.

Ted didn't wait to command the younger man to join his friend on the ground. He kicked the younger convict behind the left knee,  planted his rifle stock between his shoulders, and sent him to kiss the pavement.

"Hey, man, you got any food?" asked the old man hopefully.

"What?" asked Ted as he leveled his rifle at the back of the now prone younger man's head.

"Food," pleaded the old man, hands still spread-eagle.  "I ain't had me a good meal since breakfast—"

"Look, I—" began Ted.

"Yesterday."

Ted looked at Erik.  That was interesting.

Erik kept the XD pointed at the younger man.  He kicked the shotguns out of reach.  Ted slung his rifle over his shoulder as Erik stepped back, covering the two prone men.  Ted produced two cable ties from one of his pockets.

"You always have those things on you?" asked Erik, irritated now that his hands began to tremble.

"Don't leave home without them…" Ted mumbled as he zipped the younger man's wrists together behind his back.  He ignored their protests and switched positions to straddle the older man.

"Hey brother, take it easy okay—I ain't resisting," the older man whined.  "I'll help you out if you got some food."

"Shut the fuck up!" yelled his partner.

"Take it easy, old-timer," Ted said as he cinched the man's wrists together with considerably less emphasis than his younger partner.

Ted hopped off the older convict, swung his rifle back around to point squarely at the younger man's head.   "Prisoners secure."

"You're a dead man," hissed the young one.  "Spike's gonna gut you like a fish."

"Hell, I'm dead already—so are you—you just ain't figured it out yet," replied the old man.  "But that don't mean I ain't hungry."  He tried to crane his neck around to spot Ted.  "How's about it, my man?  I can tell you—"

"Shut up!" yelled the young one.  "Don't you tell 'em nothing!"  Despite being bound hand and feet, he thrashed about trying to get at his partner.  "Spike'll kill both of us!"

Ted cleared his throat.  "I don't know who the hell 'Spike' is, but I'm the one holding the fully automatic rifle.  Now, I'm going to tell you one last time—shut your cock hole or I'll shut it for you."

The younger guy opened his mouth and Ted's boot connected with his jaw.  He ate the pavement for his trouble and glared at Ted, red faced and sweating.

Erik stepped a few feet back, engaged the safety on his pistol and holstered it.  He kneeled and picked up the shotguns, slinging both over his right shoulder. "Weapons secured."

"You guys military or something?" asked the younger convict as he spat gravel out of his mouth.

"Shut the fuck up, these dudes are special forces…" whispered the older one.

Erik rolled his eyes as he stepped around the convicts well out of reach. "Here we go with this again…"

"What the hell was that about?" whispered Ted once they'd stepped out of earshot of the bickering convicts.  "I had this—you were supposed to come in at the end."

"I don't know…I…the younger one looked like he was going for his—"

"We had a plan, damn it."  Ted glanced at the captives and frowned as they quietly continued to argue.  "We stick to the plan. Haven't I taught you anything these last six months? Jesus, Erik.”

"I was trying to—"

"You're trying to get yourself killed!" hissed Ted. "Look, all that shit you said about not being able to pull the trigger, I get it—it happens, bro. I've seen it happen to the baddest of the bad over in the Sandbox.  If you can't handle bullshit like this,” he said gesturing at the prisoners, “—if you ignore the plan then you throw all of us in danger.  You get me?"

Erik kept his eyes on the backs of the prisoners' heads.  "I get you," he muttered.

He ignored Ted as the marine explored their options: do they take the prisoners back inside the cobbler’s shop and interrogate them? Do they haul them to the van and interrogate them privately? Drive them into the woods and shoot them?

As Ted weighed their options, Erik's attention shifted two miles east. His parents were out that way, threatened by the same scumbags—maybe even captured or…

Erik closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the shotgun slings cutting into his shoulder. Don't think about it…don't think about it.  Focus on Ted.

Try as he might, Erik couldn't shake it—he was so close. He had to find out about his parents.  He had to see for himself. His recent argument with Ted over the wisdom of a recon mission toward the lake came back into focus. Ted had moved up now to ask the prisoners questions. Erik stared at his friend's back as Ted’s rifle wavered between the two men on the ground.

Ted's got this—it's now or never.

Torn as he was between wanting to stay and protect Brin, deep down Erik knew if Ted was the one to disappear into the woods and another attack took place, it would be tougher to defend Brin, Lindsay, Teddy, and Lucy—and the baby—by himself.  There was only one way to do it. Of the two of them, Erik knew he was the expendable one.

If something happens to me…at least Brin will be okay.  He'll make sure she gets to safety.

A few seconds later, Erik found himself staring at the colorful leaves on the forest floor, just on the other side of the road. He looked east, toward the lake—toward home.

A slight breeze rustled some dry leaves still clinging to the branches above. He turned back to face Ted. The marine was down on one knee, barrel of his rifle pressed into the back of the younger man's head. The convict's body had gone rigid with fear.  The older man tried to wriggle away, his eyes closed as he whimpered protestations.

Ted's already started the interrogation…

Erik turned and took two steps toward the side of the road. He paused, listening to Ted. "…the fuck do you think you're doing in this town? Who sent you?"

Erik turned back.  I can't do this. I can't leave him like this—he's got two prisoners…

A door opened up the street and Maggie stepped out into the light, carrying a bulging backpack and an armful of paper. She froze at the sight of Ted standing in the street over two bound men.  She turned and disappeared back into the building before reappearing with two older men, both of them armed. They hurried forward together calling out. Ted kept his rifle pressed into the back of the younger man's head and looked up at them, waving them over.

Erik watched the quickly unfolding scene in silence.  Though it was a clear day, no sound reached his ears.  The only thing he heard was the thunderous roar of his own heart.  It was decision time—now or never.

If I don't do this now, I’ll never get another chance. If something happens…

Erik saw Brin's face in the window over the cobbler's shop, she smiled, one hand pressed against the glass.

I'm doing this for you.

Erik quietly laid the shotguns down on the side of the road and sprinted for the trees.

Chapter 68

Mohican

ERIK SLID DOWN THE ravine and slowed to a stop at the bottom, pausing only to get his bearings. The further away from town he ran, the more familiar the woods became. Before long—before he'd even broken a sweat—Erik had found one of the many game trails he'd traveled in his youth. The trees all looked smaller—or maybe he was just bigger—the hills and ravines seemed easier to traverse than when he'd been a teenager, but it was all the same.

The land welcomed him home.

The closer he got to the lake, the faster he pushed himself. He could feel the power of the historic body of water pulling him forward, propelling him through the trees, over the crusty snow still hidden between their cold trunks, and past downed branches and logs.

Erik crested the final rise he knew would lead him down under the wooden horse fence that bordered the Colonel's property. Though he was a neighbor, when Erik was growing up, the Colonel had always seemed formidable—scary even. Short with words, gruff in manner, the old veteran had never failed to impress Erik when he and Erik's father got together to talk over a barbecue.

Erik had heard stories of how the Colonel had served with the army in Vietnam.  One year, after a particularly festive Fourth of July, the old man had appeared in his full dress uniform, complete with ceremonial sword. From that point on, Erik refused to call him anything other than 'the Colonel'.

Erik slowed his pace, to quiet his approach up the tree line that separated his neighborhood from the forest. He hadn't come across anyone in the woods having long since left Ted and the others behind.  Though he was beyond anxious to see his home, he wasn't about to go strolling out of cover and walk blindly into a trap.

Man, Ted's gonna be so pissed…

Erik forced thoughts of his friend aside. He couldn't risk losing himself mentally now. He knew as soon as he emerged from the trees, he would spot the shimmering waters of Lake Ticonderoga.  His neighbor's house would be just on the other side of the tree line.

Erik crept silently forward, the tips of his fingers tingling with excitement. Their long, nightmare of a journey was almost over. He allowed himself to indulge in a few moments of nostalgia as he caught his breath leaning against a big oak, remembering the first day back in Sarasota when he and Ted had shared a beer at the pool—the night the lights went out. The first thing that popped into his head had been 'what do we do now?' It wasn't long before things around them began to spiral out of control and Erik hit on the idea of coming home.

Now, almost six months later, they had made it.

Almost, he told himself. There was one more obstacle to overcome. The strangers—convicts—whoever the hell they were. He frowned. Now was not the time to get sentimental or nostalgic.

He had to find out what the situation was at his parents' house and the surrounding area. He had to find out if there were any more convicts around. Maggie said it had been a large group that passed through town a month ago, yet no one could give them a straight number.  Was it twenty or two-hundred?

Erik crouched at the edge of the tree line and peered around the side of wide maple. Green grass, speckled with the remains of crusty snow stretched before him for about 30 yards. The yard beyond extended all the way up to the Colonel's large garden and looked freshly tilled. The Colonel had apparently decided to expand the garden.

Erik paused and listened, hearing nothing. Just the usual chatter of birds and squirrels in the trees above him. His eyes continued to be drawn toward the shimmering lake on the other side of the Colonel's house. In the hazy distance, a small sailboat—not much more than a white spot in the distance—plied the waters of the old lake.

Erik brought his attention back to the Colonel's yard. Something still seemed off. He could understand the desire to tear up all that grass and plant crops for the winter—but it all looked fresh. He couldn't imagine what would grow in winter except maybe onions or some sort of crop used as fertilizer in the spring.

No, that wasn’t it—there had to be something else.  His eyes roamed the trees that surrounded the Colonel's yard, a mixture of birches, maples, and oaks. The riot of colors still on the trees competed with that of the leaves that sprinkled the yard. Erik's eyes lingered on the house. The Colonel’s place was a small, one-story ranch, not uncommon along the lake in the small older communities that hugged the shore.

On the other side of the lake it was a different story—McMansions dotted the far shore.  Erik spotted the glint of sunlight off windows on two- and three-story houses that lorded over the water.

Erik brought his eyes back to the house again. One of the windows had been boarded up with a piece of plywood, hastily cut to cover the opening. The closer he looked at the Colonel’s house, the more he realized something was amiss. Fresh scorch marks, black as coal, wrapped around the walls near the roof.

The house had been on fire at some point in the recent past.

Erik tensed, preparing for trouble. He saw neither footprints in what snow remained, nor debris or any other signs of struggle. Whatever had happened, someone had cared enough to patch up the place. Through the trees that separated the Colonel's property from his parents', he spotted a lazy tendril of smoke wafting through the branches.

His chest tightened. The smoke had to be coming from his home.  Someone was home!

No smoke rose from the blackened chimney of the Colonel's house. Erik took another glance at the property. The only window facing his direction was the one boarded up. Unless someone watched from the trees surrounding the house, he would have a blind approach and could sneak up unobserved. He unstrapped the pistol in its holster and slid it free. After pulling the slide back to check for a round in the chamber, he gripped it tight.   Keeping his finger out of the trigger guard, he emerged from the forest.

Chapter 69

The Final Jihad

HAKIM LAUGHED AS HE ran, ducking behind buildings and trying to stay in the shadows. The cell phone transmitter clutched in his sweaty hand continued to show full signal strength. His bomb had been placed. The actors were taking their stage. Malcolm—and as a bonus, a great army of Americans—were closing in from the north. From the south, the Russians approached.

He honestly had no idea how large the blast radius would be—in his sleepless delirium, he imagined the shock-wave large enough to topple every building as far away as  Jacksonville. Though subconsciously, he realized his meager explosive would probably only cloud the air over Hale’s Corners with radioactive material.  If it worked.

In the end, he figured it didn't really matter. Hakim knew his death was upon him.

Bombs exploded, shaking the earth all around him. The incessant crackle of gunfire and heavy artillery screamed at him from all sides. Jets streaked overhead, enveloped sometimes in blossoms of fire and smoke. Debris rained from the sky.  The world was consumed by chaos.

He ducked behind the corner of a ruined house, laughing to himself. This is what it must feel like for the suicide bombers, he thought darkly. Knowing that at any second, just after a brief flash, he would be surrounded by his 72 virgins in the presence of Allah and His Prophets.

He looked down at his hand as he passed a pile of rubble that once had been a home.  His fingers lovingly traced the edges of the cracked cell phone. All he had to do was push 'send' and when the signal reached the bomb, the massive explosion would obliterate everything within sight. Hale’s Corners would cease to exist and anyone within sight of the blast would be contaminated with radiation. It would be his final, beautiful sacrifice.

He had to force himself not to push the button too soon. To make the Russians and Americans suffer the absolute maximum number of casualties, he must give the opposing infidels just a little more time. They were getting close…so close, so intent on killing each other that they were rapidly drawing together at the epicenter of the planned detonation.

Bullets from a helicopter peppered the street next to him, the large caliber rounds blasting chunks of pavement ten to fifteen feet into the air. Fragments cascaded against the side of the partially destroyed house behind which he cowered. Surely they couldn't see him—they were merely shooting at each other.

It would make no sense for me to die out here before I can trigger the device. I need to find shelter for the next few moments. It's just not quite ready yet.

Hakim looked to his left and saw a darkened but largely undamaged house still standing. That had to be a good omen.  He quickly made up his mind. He would hide out there until sunset, allowing the Americans and Russians to draw as close as possible before he detonated his nuclear device. He jubilantly raced to the front door, laughter on his lips.

Hakim stumbled over a large smoldering chunk of wood but ran on in a low crouch, hoping to stay low enough to avoid detection by the screaming jets and buzzing helicopters that roared overhead. Hopefully they were too busy to notice a lone figure scrambling for cover through the dying embers of the neighborhood down below.  Miraculously he reached the front door and tried the knob.

Locked.

Panic gripped his chest.  This makes no sense—no one's left alive here.

A tremendous explosion—just on the other side of the street—slammed him into the door with a shock-wave of tortured air.

He dropped the phone and fell to his knees.  As he coughed in the smoke and dust, scrambling to grab the all-important detonation device. The battle was getting closer.

I am out of time. He clambered to his feet, reared back, and kicked the front door open.  Just another few seconds and I'll be out of this mess and able to relax—

He froze, his eyes widening as he stepped into the darkness and saw a half dozen Americans, rifles trained in his direction. He saw the telltale red lasers wink on—he could almost feel the little dots of light crawl over his skin.

He closed his eyes. Arms spread wide, he offered a silent final prayer beseeching Allah to deliver him from the infidels. He raised his thumb above the transmit button and his brain sent a final signal: push.

Hakim's world exploded into fire, blood, and pain, then all encompassing blackness.

Chapter 70

The Truth

ERIK RACED ACROSS THE yard, avoiding any remaining patches of crunchy snow and freshly tilled earth. The last thing he wanted to do was leave footprints. He reached the side of the house and crouched at the corner, facing away from the lake and waited a few seconds, listening for movement. Satisfied no one was nearby, Erik took a quick peek around the corner at the front of the house.

What he saw froze his heart. He stood stepped around the corner, forgetting everything Ted taught him about concealment.

As he stared through the trees that separated the houses, he was shocked to see only the far wall of his parents’ house remained standing.  The rest of the old structure had been destroyed.  The smoke he saw snaking its way through the upper branches of the pines—what he assumed to be coming from his parents' chimney—came instead from the smoldering ruins of his childhood home.  Nothing remained of his house but chunks of brick and broken boards, charred studs and rubble sticking up out of the debris

It looked like a bomb had gone off.

Erik's mouth hung open as he stood there, taking in the scene and watching the smoke rise up beyond the trees. Everything he considered safe in this world, his parents, his memories…home…all of it was gone.

This entire trip was a mistake. We never should have left.

Erik could not contain the tears or the grief any longer. He dropped to his knees at the corner of the Colonel's house, his pistol forgotten on the ground next to him. Desperation crushed his spirit as he stared down at his dirt-covered hands.

I'm too late. They're gone.  It was all a waste of time.  He looked up at the gray sky.  Oh God, maybe if we hadn't left, Susan and Mark might still be alive…

Memories flashed before his eyes, swirling around and around, threatening to drag him down into an abyss of despair.  Memories of his parents when he was growing up, laughing and happy at his antics and mischievous ways. Their carefree faces, naturally more concerned for his safety as he grew older and prepared to enter into the wider world of grade school, high school, and then college.

He remembered the pained expression on his mother's face when he announced he'd be leaving home to pursue his Master's degree and follow his true love.

Brin.

Erik wiped the tears from his face with grimy hands. Brin—I left her behind… For this?

He struggled to his feet and suddenly felt like an old man. Erik stood there, shoulders slumped with quivering breaths and stared at the smoking remains of his childhood home one more time. He had to find out what happened and whether his parents were…

He looked down at the pistol on the ground and felt foolish.  There was no need for it here.  This place was deserted.  He stooped to pick it up and shoved it in the holster.

Erik turned the corner and walked back around the Colonel's house. A sudden thought struck him: Did the convicts that sacked Ticonderoga do this?

His fists tightened to the point of pain. If they hurt mom and dad, there will be blood.

Erik strode purposefully back around the side of the Colonel's house and approached the lake. He turned the corner, ignoring Ted's voice to be careful, to be cautious—to remember his training.

But he wasn’t thinking straight—he didn’t really care.  He was only thinking of his parents and how he would avenge their loss if the worst of his fears had happened.  He certainly didn't expect to see the point of a sword just inches away from his throat, gleaming in the overcast midday light.

He instinctively leaned back, his hands up. His eyes immediately darted along the gleaming blade to the Colonel. The old man looked twice as old as he did the last time Erik had seen him. His face was contorted and twisted in anger.

"Thought you could snoop around, did you? Thought you could come back take what's left, huh? Well not on my watch you piece of filth."

"Colonel?" Erik stammered as he backpedaled, trying to keep the tip of the sword from slicing through the base of his neck as the old man took a wobbly step forward. Erik stood head and shoulders over the aging soldier but the old man moved with a purpose and didn't seem to care.

"How do you know me?" he snapped, eyes narrowing. He didn't take any further steps, but he didn't lower the sword either.

Erik blinked. "It's me? Erik!"

The Colonel's eyebrows came together as he regarded Erik carefully. "Erik?" he asked, like a man peering through fog.

"Yes—it's me, Erik—Erik Larsson. Your neighbor? Have you seen my parents? You know, Ed and Vi? What happened to my house? Where are they?"

The sword finally lowered in a flash of light and hung by the Colonel's side. The air went out of him and his shoulders slumped, but he stared at Erik. "Too late."

Erik slowly lowered his own hands. "I see that. What happened? Are they alive? Please tell me they’re alive—"

The old man snorted.  "If you call this living."

Erik stared at him. "Colonel, are you okay? What's going on?"

The Colonel glanced around as if looking for hidden enemies.  He turned to the lake and cursed.  “Come on, let’s get inside.  The daily run across the lake is almost back.  Maybe they didn’t see you.”

“Daily run?  What?” Erik asked, spying a sailboat in the direction the old man pointed.

“Inside.  Now.”

Once Erik shut the back door to the Colonel's house he had to pause and let his eyes adjust to the gloom.  The Colonel's kitchen was a disaster area.  Erik saw empty MRE packages, opened cans of food—Erik saw dog and cat food cans on the counter, too—and trash everywhere.  It was in the corners, on the tables and counters, under chairs.  Erik questioned how long it’d been since the man had last left his house.

"Pardon the smell," the Colonel said with a grunt.  "I get used to it, but every now and then it hits me how bad it stinks in here.

Erik refused to rub his watering eyes.  "It's not that bad."

The old man grunted again and waved Erik over to the table.  He cleared off a nearby chair by shoving empty cans and wrappers to the floor with the flat of his blade.  "Haven't had company in…well, in a while."

"Can you tell me what happened?" Erik asked.  He was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know.  "Are my parents alive?"

The old man lowered his head.

Erik felt the room squeeze his heart.  He staggered back and sat in the chair, his legs splaying out through the garbage at his feet.  His vision blurred and his heart thundered in his ears.  He shook his head.  "No, no, no…"

"I'm sorry, son.  Your old man put up one helluva fight.  I helped out as best I could, but those bastards kept me too busy trying to keep this place from burning down around me."  The Colonel placed his sword across the table and sighed.

"How?" Erik croaked, his throat tighter than ever.

The Colonel stared out the grimy window toward the lake.  Erik followed his gaze and spotted the blurry image of the same sailboat cutting across the waters from earlier.  It was much closer now.  He saw ant-like people moving about on the deck.

"Who are they?" Erik whispered, pointing at the sailboat.

"Spike's crew."  The Colonel spat.  "Same one’s holed up out at the fort.  Bastards swept through here and took everything.  Killed your folks and burned their place down."

Erik stared at his hands.  All of it was for nothing.  The trip, the suffering, the danger…all of it had been for nothing.  They'd have been better off staying in Florida and rebuilding the Freehold.  He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.  His mind went completely blank.  He was done. Used up.  Fnished.

"Happened about a week ago," muttered the old man as if Erik had asked.  "Surprised the place is still smoldering.  They came through in a snow storm and just attacked.  Eddie took out two with his shotgun before they got him.  I saw Spike.  Big bald bastard.”  The Colonel shook his head.

“He killed Eddie with his bare hands.  One of his henchmen killed Vi.  I saw her go down, then I had to fight off an attack on my house.  Took out three more myself before they set fire to my place and left me to die."

The old man laughed.  "They thought I did, too!  Lazy, stupid bastards never even came back to make sure."

Erik sighed again, one hand over his face as he tried desperately to not break down and sob in front of the old soldier.  He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry.  He wanted to kill.   He opened his eyes and stared at the Colonel.  He rubbed his neck, but his voice still came out like something fresh from the grave.  "Tell me."

The old man nodded. "Spike and his crew came through town about a month and a half ago, sometime around the first snow. Don't know where they came from,  but they must've broken out of a prison somewhere. I spotted jumpsuits on more than a few of them—some still had handcuffs."  He stared off in the distance.  "When they showed up, Spike pretended to be the local undersheriff."  He snorted in derision.

"I've known the undersheriff—Tom Dixon—longer than you've been alive. He's the son of old Sam Dixon.  Sam was an old friend of mine from the army.  When Spike showed up at the front door wearin' Tommy’s uniform…I knew it meant nothing good."  He sighed, rubbing his temples.

"I was too damn old to do anything about it. His men took your parents at the same time. We didn't have a chance to send a warning. All the houses nearby got hit  about the same time.”  The old man shook his head.

"Spike thinks he's some kind of king or something."

This shit has gone medieval.  He clenched his jaw.  By God, two can play at that game.

Erik sniffed and wiped his face.  He raised his eyes and stared at the Colonel.  "How many men does this 'Spike' have?"

"Son, you won't find anything good thinking those thoughts."  He shook his head and looked out the window again.  "It ain't no good.  The people from town tried a while back.  I saw 'em and tried to reason with them, but they wouldn't listen.  Told ‘em they were outnumbered and out-gunned.  They didn’t care." He sighed.

"I heard a lot of gunfire and when I went out to check what happened, they were gone.  Just a few bodies on the ground—everyone else was gone."

"Where?" Erik wheezed.

The old man shrugged.  "Probably back to the fort, way I figure it.  He takes all his prisoners there.  Got himself a little town set up outside the gates.  It's crazy.  They call it Shanty Town."  He looked down at his hands.

"If I had just a company of my old boys from the war…by God we'd give 'em hell."  He met Erik's eyes.  "That sumbitch damn sure needs to be taught a lesson," he raised liver-spotted hand.  "But don't get any ideas.  You'd need—"

"How about a Force Recon marine?"  Erik watched the Colonel's mouth open in surprise.  "Weapons?  Ammunition?"

The old man nodded.  "That's surely a start.  How many you got?"

"How many does Spike have?"

The old man smiled.  "Smart boy.  Never give up your cards.  You don't know that I'm not working for Spike…heh, heh.  Is that it?"

Erik held the older man's gaze.  "I do know you’re not with him.  You'd never work for him, sir.  You took an oath—I've heard you tell my father I don't know how many times—to preserve and defend the Constitution and you take that oath seriously."

A slow smile spread across the old man's wrinkled face.  "You're right about me, Erik.  I'm just too damn old to do anything about it."

"Do you know how many men he has?"

"Yes.  My last count was 29.  But he picks up new recruits wherever he raids.  There's always someone out there willing to throw away their humanity for some food and a piece of ass."

Erik crossed his arms.  "See?  You're already helping."

The Colonel shook his head.  "Ain't no use, son.  There's too many—and they hold the fort.  That would be a tough nut to crack in the best of times.  There's a reason it's still here after hundreds of years."

Erik frowned.  "So what options do I have?  Run away?"

"If you want to live."  The old man looked around.  "If you call this living."

Erik shook his head.  "I can't do that.  My friends and I—we've been running away for a thousand miles.  We've seen more death and destruction than I ever want to think about.  I'm tired of running.  This is my home."

"I'm not going to convince you this is a bad idea, am I?" asked the Colonel.

"No, sir."  Erik paused.  "My parents…"

"They wouldn't want you to throw your life away on revenge."

Erik shook his head.  "No they wouldn't.  But I don't plan on dying here, either."

"No one ever does."  The old man regarded Erik for a long moment.  Finally he put both hands on the table and stood up.  "Well, if you're set on doing something foolish, the least I can do is give you what help I can."

He shuffled through the trash on the floor and rummaged through a pile next to the fridge.  Muttering to himself, he produced three long pieces of paper rolled up into tubes and brought them back to the table.  He dumped the papers out and stood back smiling.

"What's this?" Erik asked, unrolling the first tube.  "Maps?"

"Yeah.  I've had these for years.  Always planned on getting them framed and putting them in my office."  He waved the idea away.  "Doesn't matter.  I've done some tactical reconnaissance in the past month.”  He crossed his arms.

“I wanted to know what I was up against.  But when I found out just how strong Spike was, I gave up on the idea but couldn't bear to get rid of these.  I showed them to the folks from town, but they weren’t impressed."

“Well I am.”  Erik looked at the first map, showing elevations for the area immediately around the fort.  "This is some pretty detailed information."

The Colonel grunted.  "Troop movements, locations, sentry positions.  You got it all."

Erik stood.  "I need to show these to my friends."

"Take 'em.  They aren't doing me any good sitting around here."  He stared out the window.  "Just wish there was a way I could be of more help."

Erik smiled, an idea forming.  "Leave that to me."

Chapter 71

Slaughter

STROGOLEV WIPED THE DUST from his goggles and grinned like a schoolboy up to no good. His plan had worked perfectly. Malcolm's people had been caught off guard and completely annihilated—at least the lead elements. He had unfortunately underestimated the size of Malcolm's forces and only managed to ambush the first two-thirds that crossed the border.

What was left of Malcolm's people, a few thousand of them, were now trapped. The American army would be on them by nightfall.  One loose end neatly tied off.

Strogolev decided to prepare his forces for the second phase of his strategy. He wasn't planning on waiting for the Americans to engage him; he was going to take the fight to them as soon as possible.

He'd already issued the orders for his men to regroup along a new line just north of Hale’s Corners. His advance scouts controlled the interstate across the border. He'd moved his BM-27 Uragans into position to cover the advance and his drones provided a constant bird's-eye view of the battlefield.

And what a battlefield! The town of Hale’s Corners had been erased from the map. When Malcolm's people strolled through, expecting a warm welcome and truckloads of supplies, they found nothing but death and destruction. His  pre-positioned spetsnaz had surged forward and nearly captured Malcolm himself. It was only through happenstance and pure luck the rebel leader managed to slip away.

Strogolev was still confused as to how that had happened. He had some conflicting reports of American soldiers running in and among the rebels. But that that didn't make any sense—he knew Stapleton was trying to wipe out the rebels just as much as he.

It must have been members of the Bigby insurrection—civilians joining forces trying to fight his Russian troops.

Strogolev ducked down inside his BTR and scanned the force position screens. It mattered little—his men knew exactly where to go, what to do, and what positions take. The only thing left to do was clean up the mess, make sure everyone got food and water, a bit of rest, and extra ammo. They would then settle in for the night with his advance scouts probing north for the enemy in the morning.

He sorely wanted visual confirmation Malcolm had been killed.  So far, his search teams had come up empty-handed. Some areas—closest to the interstate mostly—were still putting up stiff resistance.  All told, though, only 19 Russians had given their lives for the Motherland.

This is the most lopsided victory in modern Russian military history! He looked at the report again: 1,723 confirmed rebel deaths. The tally continued to climb as his forces picked through the rubble of Hale’s Corners, taking no prisoners.

And it’s not even mid-morning yet.

Overhead, Russian Air Force jets on loan from General Doskoy streaked north, pounding the rebel army stretched out over the horizon. It would all be over in another hour.

He glanced at one of the tactical cameras mounted to a BTR on the left flank. Scores of rebels—men and women—stood around in clumps with their hands in the air, their weapons on the ground. As word spread that Malcolm had fled the field, the entire rebel force had crumbled.

Strogolev grinned.  Those that did not surrender would be exterminated.

The speaker in his helmet broke squelch. "Comrade major," said Gregor breathlessly. "We have contact with American—”

A tremendous explosion ripped the air outside the BTR and the entire vehicle shook, throwing Strogolev into the control panel. He cursed and looked up through the open commander's hatch to see smoke in the sky.

Ignoring Gregor's screeching in his helmet, he clambered up through the hatch and watched as debris rained down around him.

"What was that?" he called out to a soldier just getting up off the ground next to the BTR.

"It's the Americans, comrade major! They're shooting down our planes!"

Strogolev looked up and watched another Russian fighter scream by overhead only to be met with a small pinprick of light that lanced up from the far horizon. Another explosion boomed through the air and the fighter disappeared in a ball of orange and black smoke. Strogolev stood there for a second watching the debris fall in the distance.

"Gregor! Status report!"

The static-filled reply was unintelligible. Strogolev caught the words Americans, armor, and attack.

"Gregor!"

No response.

Strogolev ducked down into the BTR and tried to rapidly filter out critical situation reports from incessant screams for reinforcements. His force allocation map blinked like a Yolka tree.

Each one of the blinking lights represented a either a soldier or unit out of contact with the tracking satellites.  It didn't necessarily mean they were dead, but the signal had been obstructed by either debris or mechanical failure. Some lights returned solid, others winked out after a few seconds. Known enemy positions popped up in red and began to spread out from the north—they moved fast.

Tanks. Somehow that son-of-a-whore brought an entire tank group with him.

Several thunderous booms clapped in the distance and echoed across the smoldering battlefield.

Screams erupted through his headset.

"Tanks!"

"They are firing!"

"All units, take cover!"

"They—"

Strogolev closed the hatch to the BTR as the first incoming shell impacted about 30 yards away, violently rocking his heavy vehicle.

"Driver! Damn it—get us out of here!" he shouted as he turned his attention back to the force allocation screen.  Strogolev quickly issued emergency orders for a tactical withdrawal. He had to regroup and get out of range of those tanks.

His light-armored reconnaissance strike force was no match for American armored cavalry. The M1A2 Abrams' 120mm main gun could punch right through his BTRs like a bullet through a block of cheese. He had no no choice but to retreat under such overwhelming firepower.

Just like the Kremlin to issue orders for me to head north, right into the teeth of a fucking tank division! Won't Doskoy be upset…

Strogolev froze, staring at the screen. Why didn't he see it sooner?  Doskoy hadn't been surprised at all when Strogolev had announced his orders countermanded and overruled Doskoy's. Comrade General seemed fine with it and wished him well, even going so far as to give him extra supplies.

“Sukin syn,” Strogolev cursed.  He punched the terminal.  That son of a bitch knew this was going to happen. He knew about it—and pulled some strings to get Moscow to send me north. He knew he couldn't do it on his own authority. He sacrificed me and will take credit for stopping the Americans when he arrives tomorrow after I've softened them up.

Struggle pounded his fist against the control panel again. He screamed obscenities at the top of his lungs and ignored the pain in his hand.

"Comrade major! American antitank helicopters on approach!" called out the driver.

"Just get us out of here!  Damn it!" Strogolev turned and hit the command frequency. "All units, it's a trap! Retreat—save yourselves and get to the emergency rendezvous point! I repeat, it's a—”

Strogolev's face cracked the computer screen as the BTR lifted off the ground.  The roar of a nearby explosion shattered his eardrums and silenced his world as he sailed through the air with the heavy armored vehicle before crashing to the ground. Only the reinforced seatbelts attached to his command chair kept him from breaking his neck on impact.

When the BTR had finally rolled to a stop, he peered through the smoke at the flickering lights and sparks from the panels in front of him. Hanging upside down, he used his field knife to slash through the webbing of his restraints and collapse to the floor in a painful heap.

Coughing as he ignored the fire inside his vehicle, he hit the emergency release panel and tumbled out the rear hatch.

Staggering to his feet, Strogolev felt the ground shake all around him as more explosions impacted. The over-pressure of each explosion shoved him back and forth, physically pushing him to the ground again.  Again and again the shells threw earth into the sky.  A rain of incoming shells pulverized the battlefield over and over again, mercilessly chewing up everything in sight.

He opened his eyes, scrambling in the sandy soil to pull himself up behind the dead BTR's corpse. Thick black smoke poured out of every hatch.  A radio lay on the ground near the driver's bloodied hand. Strogolev focused his attention on that and tried to crawl forward, shaking as the ground absorbed still more explosions.

All of it was a set up. There will be no glory for me, only death.

Movement in the sky caught his eye, and he saw a tight formation of gray warplanes streak overhead. He followed them across the clouds and saw one bank sharply and peel off, chasing down one of the few surviving Russian jets still in the air.

One word, four dark letters painted on the side of the gray aircraft told him all he needed to know about his prospects for surviving the battle.

NAVY.

With an attack group of Abrams tanks and air support in the form of fighters from the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Strogolev knew his scout division was as good as dead. He may have ended the rebellion, but the Americans would end him.

Strogolev clutched the radio in his hand and tried to repeat his desperate retreat order. At least he might save some of his men.

Exhausted, he collapsed against the steaming hull of the BTR and winced in pain as the metal put pressure on a broken rib.  He gathered what strength remained in his battered body and shouted the orders again.  He did not know if his message had gotten through—deaf as he was, he continued yelling at the top of his lungs, hoping someone heard him, hoping someone survived.

Someone needed to survive. Someone needed to tell the story. Someone needed to expose Doskoy's betrayal.  Another BTR, perhaps a hundred yards away, exploded in a spectacular display of fire, smoke, and shredded metal.

Someone needed to avenge Russia.

He got to his feet and looked around. If there was a way he could escape and seek shelter that someone might be him. The ground trembled slightly as he staggered away from the BTR, heading toward one of the few intact houses in sight.

Smoke obscured his vision briefly as the ground continued to vibrate. He turned in a circle, looking for the source of the commotion, expecting to see explosions lining the horizon. Instead, a scarred M1A2 Abrams crawled through a collapsed house only a few hundred feet away.

Strogolev was caught standing in the middle of the ruined street with his hands akimbo, still clutching the radio. He stared as the tank came to a stop and the turret slowly turned to face him.

Strogolev dropped the radio and raised his arms. If he could not escape, he would welcome captivity. It would give him a chance to heal and live to fight another day.

There will be troop exchanges, he told himself. Despite what we do on the battlefield, our governments still act civil to each other. If nothing else, the Cold War taught us that.

He waited for the hatch on the tank to open and the tank commander to climb down and accept his surrender. As the seconds slipped by, sweat broke out on his forehead. Or was it blood? He was afraid to move his hands and check, for fear of giving the tank any excuse to fire.

The 120mm barrel slowly lowered until it was pointed directly at him.  That black hole looked as big as a house.

No. No, you can't do this. This is not—

The tank rocked back as a puff of white smoke ejected a shell from the long barrel at 1,575m/s in his direction.  He had time to see the grass and dirt in front of the tank ripple with the shock-wave.  Major Aleksei Strogolev blinked and never opened his eyes again.

Chapter 72

The Prodigal Son

THE SLAP TO HIS face echoed like thunder in the small room.  Erik reflexively brought a hand up to his cheek.  I deserved that.

"Don't you ever do something so stupid again.  I'm serious," growled Brin.  "I will kill you myself.  I didn't drag you out of that Russian prison camp so some scumbag criminal can kill you before I have our baby," she hissed in his ear.  Brin threw her arms around him and squeezed his neck so hard Erik thought she might break something.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed.

"Sorry don't cut it, bub," added Ted.  Brin released her hold on Erik's neck and stood next to him, her hand interlaced in his.  "You not only went off on a foolish mission that should have been planned out beforehand, but you put yourself and the whole squad at risk."

"Since when are we a squad?" asked Erik, trying to throw a little levity into the somber room.

Maggie shook her head from the far corner.  "He's right—oh, I don't know about this squad business—but you can't do things like this, not when you've got a family to protect."

Erik put his arm around Brin.  "I knew what I was doing—besides, look at the maps I brought back.  And the intel—"

"Were you followed?" snapped Ted.  He paced in front of Erik, shaking his head as he stomped.  "Were you seen?"  He stopped in front of Erik and Brin.  "You don't know—"

"I wasn't—I was careful, like you taught me."

"But if I had been there watching, we could be sure."  Ted folded his arms.  "Even I wouldn't have gone off alone like that.  If you'd gotten hurt in the forest—"

"I didn't," said Erik with a little more heat in his voice than he'd wanted.  "Look—I appreciate you all are pissed at me.  I'd probably be mad too.  But I had to know, okay?"

"No, it is not okay!" yelled Ted.

"I had to know!" Erik shouted back.  "And," he said, raising a hand to forestall Ted's argument, "I came back with more knowledge than we had this morning.  Invaluable knowledge."

"Irrelevant—you put all of us at risk.  If we were in the Corps—"

"We're not!" screamed Erik.  "I'm not a marine, I'm not a soldier, I'm just me—a post-grad who wanted to be a God damn teacher but keeps getting dragged into shit that shouldn't even be happening!"  Erik felt the urge to put a lid on his emotions but something gave inside him and the volcano erupted.

He stepped away from Brin, breathing hard and yelling, venting all his fears and frustrations, his anger and his worry.  "This whole world has been nothing but one fucking nightmare after the next since that day back in June when all hell broke loose.  We've fought our neighbors and defended our homes against gang-bangers and the White Hand people, we joined the Army and fought the Russians and got sent to that fucking hellhole after Orlando.  For God's sake we were bombed by Russian planes!  After surviving the insanity back in Dunham and," he looked at Lucy with wide, frantic eyes, "that bullshit in Delaware and…and—"

Brin stepped forward, one hand out as if she were trying to calm an injured dog.  "Erik, take it easy—"

"I will not take it easy!" he screamed.  "This whole fucking world is insane, my parents are dead, murdered by the sick bastards who came through here last month—"

The punch came out of nowhere, caught him completely by surprise, and sent him reeling.  Erik blinked back the pain as he put a hand to his jaw.  His eyes narrowed as he looked up at Ted from the floor.  The marine looked calm as ever, but a dangerous glint in his eye gave Erik pause.

"Stay down."

Erik stayed down.  He worked his jaw and tried to calm his breathing.  Brin rushed forward but Ted put a thick arm out and blocked her.

"Better now?" he asked.

Erik took internal inventory and felt the anger fading.  He nodded.  Ted held his eyes for a moment before releasing Brin and nodding.  "I didn't want to do that, but someone had to."  A smile cracked his face.  "Jesus Christ, man.  You need to learn how to decompress.  Get a hobby."

"I didn't know you were so wound up…" Brin murmured as she touched his face where Ted struck him.

Erik looked past Brin and smiled at Ted.  He let her help him to his feet and stuck out a hand.  "Thanks for the wake up call."

Ted shook his hand, the grip firm and steady, but he didn't return the smile.  "No worries.  But I was serious about the running off on your own.  That shit would get you in front of a firing squad right now."  He flashed a grin.  "You're lucky I don't want to waste the ammunition."

"So," said Maggie, drawing all eyes to her.  She lit a candle and set it on the table to fight the encroaching night.  "Can we agree to worry about blaming each other later?  What do we do now?"

Ted stepped over to the table and looked down at the Colonel's maps.  He picked up one and examined the area outside the fort.  "These elevations would be a lot of fun to work with if I still had my M40.  I mean, from here," he said, indicating Mt. Defiance, "I could empty that fort.  It's a good thing they only had muskets back in the day…"

"Great idea.  But what can you do with this?" asked Erik, placing their lone M4 on the table.  "We've also got the captured shotguns and the pistols."

"You'll have whatever help you need from us," Maggie said simply.  "I know Dillon and Norm both have hunting rifles, but I'm afraid I don't know who else is armed besides Dan."

"Much appreciated ma'am," replied Ted.  "Do you have a ballpark number on how many people are left with  weapons in town?"

She shook her head, the thick silver braid tumbling over her shoulder.  "Maybe ten?"

Ted rubbed his chin in thought.  "You said most of the survivors here in town are…"

"Old farts, like me.  Not much use in a fight, I know.  I'm sorry."

"Don't sell yourself short so quick," said Erik.

Maggie laughed.  "I don't think you'll be able to convince us to charge that fort.  Most of us can hardly walk."

Erik examined the map on the table.  "Just because you can't run and fight like someone twenty years younger—"

"Try forty," Maggie interjected.

"—doesn't mean you can't play a part in bringing these sick bastards down."

Maggie hugged herself.  "I'm sorry about your parents, Erik, I really am.  And all the folks in town who’ve been murdered.  We've all seen too much of death lately—I'm not so sure going off looking for revenge is the best option.  Not with winter on us."

"No one said anything about revenge," Erik said, glowering at the map of the centuries-old fort.  "We’re talking about good old fashioned, cold, hard retribution."

"Call it whatever you want, but we still can't just walk in guns blazing.  They outnumber us four to one."

"We have a fully automatic M4.  We have hunters," Erik offered.

"Two old men hardly count as hunters—no offense," Ted added for Maggie.

"None taken," she replied quickly, her tone casting the truth of her words into serious doubt.

"What we need is for everyone down here," Erik said tapping his finger on the map at Shanty Town, "to rise up and join us."

Ted grunted.  "That would go a long way to evening the odds.  But none of them are armed and they're probably half-starved if what your friend the Colonel says is true.  Not exactly fighting material."

"They don't have to fight, just confuse those bastards."

Ted stared at the map for a long moment.  "Maybe."

"We can do this, I know it."

Ted looked at Erik.  "I know you want this real bad, man.  I would too.  But you got to step back and look at this objectively.  They killed your dad and mom.  I get it—they killed a lot of people in this town and took a lot more.  The sooner you get that out of your system, the quicker you can start thinking with a clear head."

"Being mad is what made me think of this in the first place," muttered Erik.

"And you being mad is something I'm counting on.  We need more of that berserker you got squirreled away in there," Ted said pointing at Erik's chest.  "But if we don't think about this and do it right—do it my way—we're going to get ourselves killed."

Ted glanced over at the door on the other side of the room, behind which Lindsay and Teddy slept.  "I will not deprive my children of both their parents—not now.  They'll never survive out there alone."

Erik watched as Ted stared at the map.  "I need to see this for myself."

"Well, whatever we do, we need to do it quick.  Those two we captured this morning are sure to be missed by tomorrow," added Brin, hugging herself.  "The younger one gives me the creeps, the way he looks at me."

"He looks like the ones at school," said Lucy, speaking up for the first time.  When everyone looked at her, she blushed and cleared her throat.  "I mean, back at the university.  They looked like him.  I mean they looked at me the way he looks at me."

"We understand," said Brin, reaching out a hand to the younger girl.

"Yeah," Lucy said, tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear and looking down.

"Speaking of our visitors," Ted said with one final look at the maps.  "I think it's time we go have a chat."

"The old guy sounded like he wanted to talk earlier," said Brin hopefully.  "He keeps saying he'll tell us whatever we want for some food."

"We'll see."  Ted moved to the door.  "If he can give us some reliable intel—if he can confirm what Erik found out—if we can trust him…"

"That's a lot of ifs," added Erik.  "But I trust him a lot more than that other guy."

Ted grimaced.  "Yeah, well…never trust a prisoner."

Chapter 73

Presents

MAJOR HUGHES CROUCHED BY the body bag, waiting for the Black Hawks to dust off. He kept his eyes shut and his hand on the tough plastic sheeting that covering his prize.  Soon enough, the pilot hit the throttle and the big brown helicopter lifted up, taking most of the wind and dust with it. After a few more seconds, it was clear enough for him to open his eyes and stand.

He grabbed one end of the white body bag and his XO took the other. They marched off with the rest of his squad toward the command Stryker, where General Stapleton stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the aftermath of the battle.

My God, that magnificent bastard looks like Patton.

"Well, Major Hughes, what did you bring me?" growled the general around the cigar in his mouth.

Hughes dropped the body bag at the feet of the conqueror and saluted.

"This is the HVT I told you about." He gestured with his right hand for Albertson to take a knee and unzip the body bag.

"The radioactive material?" asked Stapleton.

Hughes grunted.  "It wasn't much.  Already in decon and under lock and key.  Would have been more psychological than destructive."  He rolled his neck.  "That's what they told me when an E3 from demo took it off my hands."  He peeled back the body bag, revealing a bloodied, disfigured face.

"Jesus," Stapleton grunted, switching his stub of a cigar to the other side of his mouth. "I bet he's seen better days. Who is it?"

Hughes reached behind him and accepted the tablet from one of his men, turned it counterclockwise and handed it to the general. "CIC photo ID'd him for us on the ride back. Hakim Sharif Hassan. He's been wanted for several bombings throughout the Middle East from Israel to Turkey. They had a possible ID on him in Arizona when everything fell apart back during the collapse—"

"Arizona?" asked the general.

"Yes sir, looks like this son of a bitch and his buddies were somehow linked to the wildfires.  Makes him responsible for L.A., too."

"Says here he had a partner," Stapleton said using his finger to scroll down the information on the tablet. He looked up. "You find him?"

Hughes shook his head. "That's a big negative, sir.  Me and my squad had just entered an abandoned house to set up an LP/OP when this dumbass kicks in the front door, screaming about Allah." He shrugged.

"It was pretty much reactive fire. He didn't stand a chance. However, we did find he was loaded with enough C4 to leave a 30 foot crater where the house was."

Hughes reached behind his Dragon skin armor and pulled out a packet of grungy, blood-stained papers. He handed the folded stack to the general and took the tablet back.

"What's this?" asked Stapleton flipping through the pages.

"Unknown, sir. Most of it is in Arabic and the rest seems to be ramblings about imperialist America—the usual terrorist bullshit propaganda. The last page though, you got complete scheduling for several trans-Pacific shipments. Notice the embarkation point?"

Stapleton looked up. "Ningbo, China. Son of a bitch. I need to get this to Washington." Stapleton turned to leave, then glanced over his shoulder. "Damn fine job, son." He held up the stack of papers. "This might give us the political ammunition we need to take care of the Chinese out west."

"Yes, sir," Hughes said as he saluted.

After the general slammed the hatch on the command Stryker, the big vehicle roared to life and headed north.  Hughes relaxed. He was never comfortable standing around the brass. Not that he had anything to be nervous about with Stapleton.  He—like most all the soldiers under Stapleton's command—had nothing but respect for America's premier fighting general.

Hughes shook his head. Stapleton was the only general Hughes had ever known or heard about leading from the front lines.  General's just didn't do that anymore.

"Good Lord, would you look at that?" asked his XO, pointing off in the distance.

Hughes looked around him for the first time since jumping off the Black Hawk and took in the scenery. Everywhere to the south—in a ragged line going southwest to southeast—lay the smoldering hulks of destroyed Russian tanks, troops transports, and mobile missile launchers. Bodies and parts of bodies lay everywhere in piles and scattered bits and pieces.

Likewise behind him, to the north—a number of American vehicles and wounded lay across the ghastly battlefield.  Death and destruction surrounded Hughes in a horrific 360-degree panorama.  The Americans and Russians had poured everything they had at each other and Malcolm’s people had been in the crossfire.

Albertson pointed to a gaggle of weapon-toting civilians surrounded by a cordon of guards.  But none of the soldiers paid much attention to them. In fact, a few of them shared canteens and food packages among their prisoners.

Hughes noted the civilians—mostly minorities but with a sprinkling of just about every race he could imagine thrown in—received treatment from a group of medics as they worked their way through the injured.

In the opposite direction, a line of soldiers kept their weapons trained on a small group of Russians. They looked beat to hell, exhausted, and bloodied. Not a single medic was near them.

Hughes looked back at the collection of rebels. There had to be a story behind this. He just finished fighting for his life against these bastards in New York, chased them a thousand miles down the eastern seaboard and nearly had his ass blown out of the air by them. Now they'd just shared the battlefield with the American army against the Russians and were being treated surprisingly then they deserved.

Hughes shook his head. He would never understand generals.

One thing he did understand was that the Russians were finished. Their invasion of America had come to nothing. If he knew Stapleton, the general would resupply and regroup the Division as fast as possible then march straight into the heart of occupied Florida.

His XO adjusted the bloody bandage on his right leg. He stretched his leg out in the sun and groaned. "Well, that was fun. Now what do we do?"

Hughes turned and looked south. Through the smoke obscuring the horizon, past the pine trees and a few scattered, charred palms along the road, he stared toward the remaining Russian army.

"Now we take our country back."

Chapter 74

Strategy

ERIK LOOKED AT THE ragtag group of seven senior citizens gathered around the table in front of him. Five old men, a woman he didn't know, and Maggie. All that was left of the town of Ticonderoga still willing to fight.

"I'm all for going in there as the underdog," Erik whispered to Ted, "but…I mean, is this really gonna work?"

Ted regarded the recruits with a dubious eye. "I don't know. Whatever happens—”

"It's got to work," said Maggie, silencing the others. "We don't have a choice."

"She's right," added Dan, in his usual gruff voice. "Those of us still living here don't have much of a chance to make it through winter without electricity and heat. That group over in the fort damn well knows that, too. They can sit back and let us die.  Come spring, they can pick through the whole town without risking anything."

"In fact, if they decide to attack now," said one of the newcomers, "there's not enough of us left to make much of a difference. They probably know that, too—i's got to be the only reason why they haven't attacked again."

"These are the only weapons left in town?" asked Ted.

Erik looked over the assortment of hunting rifles and shotguns.   Here and there a pistol worn on a shrunken hip rounded out the bulk of their hardware. Erik looked at Ted and noticed the marine looked genuinely worried. It was not comforting sight.

"That we know of," said Maggie. "After the last attack, they took pretty much everything."

Ted nodded. "I want to make sure you all understand the risk that you're going to be taking."

"Some of us have lost everything: our homes, even our families. Not everyone has lost loved ones, but we've all lost something. We understand the risks, Mr. Jensen.  Time is running out for us to do something—in more ways than one."

"I ain't gettin' any younger, that's for sure," muttered one of the men.

"I appreciate you all volunteering to help, I really do," said Erik. All eyes shifted to him. His voice caught in his still-sore throat. Instead of a group of hardened soldiers—or even a bunch of average citizens banded together to defend the Freehold—grandparents with wrinkled hands and emaciated arms stared back at him.

"Let me guess, you want to warn us that this is a suicide mission, right?" asked Dan.

Erik cleared his throat and glanced at Ted. "Well, that's not exactly how I would put it, but yes something along those lines."

"Son," the old man said, his voice softening, "when you make it to our age, sometimes just going to check the mail can be considered a suicide mission." He waited for the others to stop laughing.

"In all seriousness, if we don't do something now, we're as good as dead come spring. And I don't know about all of you, but I don't intend for my story to be over yet."

"That settles it then," said Ted. "Let's go over the plan one more time."

"Right," agreed Maggie.

"Tonight, the nine of us will—”

"You mean ten of us," said Brin from the background.

Erik turned and faced his wife. "No way—you can't—”

"I can and I will. I have just as much at stake in this as you."

Erik stared at her, trying to communicate his fears and worries through his eyes. "Brin," he said stepping closer. "This is going to be rough. You should—”

"Don't treat me like I'm some sort of glass rose," she said. A frown creased her brow. "You're the one walking in there unarmed. At least I'll have a shotgun."

"But, you're—"

"I know," she said quickly, cutting him off before he could make the announcement inadvertently to the entire group. "That doesn't change anything. It's not a guarantee, anyway. What is guaranteed is that if we fail, then we're all doomed."

She lowered her voice and stepped close to him, looking up at him with her big dark eyes. "This new world is scary, Erik," she whispered. "If you don't come back, I won't either."

Erik hugged Brin, the argument on the tip of his tongue fading as he sighed in her embrace. "I still don't like it," he muttered into her hair. He didn't have much choice in the matter—it's not like he could forbid her from going. He stepped back and looked at her. With her martial arts training, even unarmed she would be a formidable opponent—one a bunch of convicts wouldn't likely suspect. They'd probably be too busy ogling her.

Erik frowned. That is exactly the kind of attention he did not want her gathering. On the other hand if someone were to focus on her it might give the others just enough of an opening to dispatch them. Erik chided himself for thinking of his wife as bait, but it beat thinking of her as vulnerable and helpless.

Ted cleared his throat and brought order back to the table. "All right, Dillon, Norm, and Ben—you're going to be my sharpshooters. Your rifles zeroed in?"

The three men across the table nodded, all of them sporting bolt action hunting rifles that appeared in a range of conditions from pristine to absolutely filthy and covered and scratches.

"Okay, review your mission for me," said Ted, arms folded across his chest.

Norm, the man in the middle, cleared his throat and spoke up. "We fire when you fire, but pick our targets and start from the outside, working our way in, taking out the guards with long guns first."

Ted nodded and pointed at the map. "You three comfortable with the positions I set up for you?" He moved his finger from position to position along the fort's western flank, where the surrounding land rose into the hills that surrounded the lake.

"You'll be under cover with good shooting lanes, though it's not as close as I would like.  How are you all with the range?"

"I'm okay," said the Dillon.

"Me too," said Ben amiably, "but Norman might have a hard time finding his target—”

"Hogwash," grumbled Norm. "That buck I took last year was further away than this."

"That buck gets bigger and farther way every time you tell the story," replied Dillon.

"And these bucks'll be shooting back," added Maggie in a somber tone.

Norm's face flushed, but he nodded. "Don't worry about me. I'll hit my target." He cleared his throat. "They burned down my grandson's house—my daughter-in-law was inside."   His eyes narrowed.  "I've been waiting for this."

Ted held the man's gaze for a few moments before turning to the rest of the group. "You four will slip into position tonight in the Shanty Town. Here," he said pointing at the eastern edge of the ramshackle cluster of hastily built huts south of the main entrance the fort.

Ted moved his finger to strategic points around the perimeter.  Clumps of trees and bushes would hide a shooter just 20 yards from the shore.  "Here, here, and here."

"That's pretty spread out," muttered Dan.

"It is," replied Ted.  "From each one of these positions you'll be able to cover Erik and pick off any guards that try to come up to the main entrance. Our guest—"

"Is that what you Marines call a prisoner?" asked Ben.  "In my day we called 'em targets."

Ted nodded.  "It's the kindler, gentler Marines."  After the chuckles subsided, he continued.  "Our prisoner—"

"Jeffrey," Erik added with a smile.

Ted glared at him.  "Jeffery informed us that on occasion the guards like to spend the night visiting women who live in Shanty Town."  He frowned.

"Disgusting pigs," mumbled Brin.

Ted continued.  "There's no way to know if anyone will be there at all, so keep your eyes open and be ready for any guards that pop up and try to take Erik from behind."

Erik stepped forward. "The guard or guards stationed directly over the main gate—they're going to be hard to see from any angle. The little guard shacks that they have up there for the tourists are going to block your view from every direction except straight on."

"I've been thinking about that," Ted added. "Anyone that tries to take out the guards on top of the gate from inside Shanty Town won't be able to do so because the angle will be too steep. All the guards have to do is duck behind the wall and disappear."

Erik folded his arms.  "Well, without a canon or something there's no way we’re going to breach those walls—no one ever took Ticonderoga through direct assault with siege weapons."

Ted nodded. "That means every time it was captured it was done by treaty or trickery. I vote trickery. I'll cover your approach from the water—”

"What?" asked Brin. "The water's got to be barely above freezing."

Ted shook his head. "It's fine—I won't be in it very long," Ted said gesturing at one of the older men. "When I went out to set up the positions for the shooters I scoped out the shore. It looks like there's enough new brush along the banks of the lake that's grown in since the collapse—I should be able to slip down and wade through."  He put his hands on his hips.

"The water probably won't get above my knees and I can handle it for a few hours. That will give me enough distance to make the angle so I can take out the guards on top of the gate."

Erik looked down at the Colonel's map. "The Colonel has a pistol which he's going to use at my back, pretending I'm a prisoner." Erik looked up at the others. "His shot will be your signal to start the attack."

"Hope that means he shoots someone else, not you?" asked Ben.  The others chuckled nervously.

Erik smiled but didn't respond.

"What if they don’t take you inside the fort?" asked Brin, her hand squeezing his.

Erik shook his head. "It won't happen. Once I reach the gate, the Colonel's going to start a ruckus."

"I don't like how exposed you're going to be," Brin said, slipping an arm around Erik's. "Everyone's going to be shooting toward that gate and you're going to be standing right in the middle."

"I'm not going to be standing still for long," he said with a smile.  "Soon as the Colonel starts firing, I'm heading inside. He's going to be blasting away as long as he can to clear a path to the officer’s barracks," Erik said pointing at the Colonel’s most detailed map.

"Soon as I take out the guards on the gate house, I'll advance and meet you inside,” said Ted. He turned to the four people assigned to cover the main gate.

"It's going to be up to you all to clear Shanty Town and make sure there's no counterattack coming from behind us,” Ted said to Maggie’s group. “We know there's 20 to 30 guards. At any given time, there's usually six or seven up on the walls. If we do this right, we'll even the odds with the first volley."

“We’ll do our part,” Maggie replied, her face emotionless.

"The quicker we all get inside the buildings the better," added Erik.

Ted nodded. "That's right, the prisoner said—”

"Jeffrey," interrupted Erik.

"Right, Jeffrey said they're running low on ammo—the raids across the lake into Vermont have been meeting stiffer resistance as they approach winter. They had to use more of their ammunition to gather supplies and workers. When we caught those two on the road, only one of them had any ammunition, and Jeffrey," Ted said with a look at Erik, "only had two shells for his scatter gun."

"Hell, we don't have much more than that," muttered one of the elderly snipers.

"It'll be enough," said Ted. "We'll have the element of surprise and your rifles will punch a lot harder than their shotguns.  If we pick our targets, take our time, and make each shot count the element of surprise is going to be a major force multiplier here. These guys are convicts, not Marines—"

"Well, we're not Marines either—” said Dan.

"Not everyone is good enough for the army," muttered Ben.

"Agreed," said Ted with a smile. "But they're going to panic when the shit hits the fan and I guarantee more than one is going to blow through their ammo before they actually find a target. It's the classic spray and pray response."

"There's going to be a lot of innocent people in the way," observed Brin, staring down at the map.  "There's kids in Shanty Town, remember?"

"That's right, most of the people in there are probably going to panic and make a break for freedom. Doing that," Ted said drawing his finger from the camp west toward Ticonderoga itself, "is going to put them in the line of fire between all the guards shooting out and all of us shooting in."  He moved his finger to a new position on the map.

"I found a nice secluded spot just over this rise here," he said circling a small knoll next to the tourist parking lot. "Lucy's going to be set up with all of her supplies and plenty of helpers from town right here. When all this goes down, once we clear the fort, she and her squad are going to move in and set up a triage station."

"I don't see any way for this to play out without innocent people getting killed," Brin said sadly. "This is going to be horrible."

Ted grunted. "This Spike character's pretty smart. Nobody ever sees him leave the fort. He's not going to be drawn out. If they close that main gate we're not going to be able to launch a frontal assault."

Erik nodded.  "Jeffrey said they leave the gates open during the day and close them at night to block off the people in the Shanty Town. I bet there's more than one who would love to slip inside and shank these bastards in the middle the night. Even the guards have to sleep at some point."

Ted frowned again.  "Well, unfortunately, we don't have the numbers or the skill to tackle this place in a night op—which is ideally what we should do. It's just too risky."

"This is our only option," agreed Dan.

"That's leaves the sailboat," said Erik, tapping the dock on the map. "They don't have a regular schedule according to Jeffrey. If it's here, it will be tied up at the dock on the edge of Shanty Town. From what he says, at least one guard is always on board to make sure no one tries to steal it. We know they use this thing to sail across the lake on raids so we have to assume he's probably armed—”

"I'll take care of the boat," said Brin.

Erik stared at her for a moment. "I'm not comfortable with that at all," he said. "What if there's more than one, what if they're all armed, what if—”

"I'm not comfortable with you strolling straight into the heart of this place with gun at your back. You're going to be completely surrounded. I might have to deal with one or two."  She shrugged.  "Maybe none."

"She's got a point," said Ted.

Erik frowned at his wife and then turned his angry stare on Ted. "You're not helping."

"All of us are going to be at risk," added Maggie.

Erik glanced over at Maggie. She looked older than she had just a few days ago. She'd always looked old to him—Erik remembered that silver hair from when he was a kid—but he'd never seen the strength in her before today. She was the walking picture of determination.

"I've seen too much death, too much destruction, too much evil brought to my town at the hands of these animals. It needs to end. Now."

"Any questions?" asked Ted. He stared down at the map. "This thing is pretty accurate, so take a good look at the positions and memorize the layout of the interior. You snipers, when you've expended your ammunition work your way down toward the fort and either help with the wounded, or pick up any discarded weapons you find and come in after us. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Erik looked at Ted again as the others poured over the maps quietly discussing strategy.

"You sure this will work?"

Ted stared down at the map. "It has to."

Chapter 75

The Walk

ERIK FORCED HIMSELF TO ignore the torn, filthy tents and the emaciated people occupying Shanty Town. His eyes wandered over the tops of expedient shelters to the massive stone fortress that dominated the landscape. The Colonel muttered along behind Erik with his pistol loosely bumping his spine, most of the people who inhabited Shanty Town were off doing work for Spike.

During the day, they'd either rummage through whatever houses they found nearby or prepared rations and packs for the raiding parties sent out to neighboring communities. The Colonel explained the most lucrative prizes were across the lake—Spike was obsessed with the nouveau riche mansions. For the most part, explained the Colonel as they trudged through the filthy, cramped streets—if you could call them that—the people on the Vermont side had vanished.

The Colonel had heard rumors from others that he'd provided shelter and food to during escape attempts that Spike had lost more than a couple raiders to people defending their property.

Erik knew the Colonel was living proof of that—when Spike and his raiders had come and destroyed his own house and killed his parents, he left at least four men behind. The mere thought of what his parents had gone through and the destruction of their house and belongings erased any fear he had about the bold plan to stroll into the fort.  He would cut the heart out of Spike's operation.

Erik walked calmly, his shoulders squared, his eyes moving as Ted had warned him, always on the lookout for anything suspicious enough to abort the mission.  Dirty, sweat-smeared faces stared at him with empty, uninterested eyes.  People—walking skeletons, really—dressed in rags of what could've been clothes at one point stared out from inside the darkened interiors of ramshackle huts or ragged tents, snapping in the stiff breeze off the lake.

Every step Erik took deeper into Shanty Town made him angrier. He clenched and released his fists over and over again. He'd have given anything to have his sword with him when he met Spike.

The closer they came to the gate, the more Erik was shocked no one had yet to raise an alarm. That could be good or bad—if the guards were that sloppy, then the entire attack might go exactly as Ted planned. On the other hand, if the guards were distracted by something going on inside the fort, they might be more difficult to bring to the walls and harder to pick off at long range. Or they might just be used to having prisoners arrive—either possibility was bad.  Erik needed to make a grand entrance for their plan to work.

The Colonel received a few weak nods and halfhearted greetings as he walked Erik to the gate. Most of the surrounding people looked bored and a few downright hostile. Erik had lost a lot of weight since the collapse—no one had eaten regularly or as well as they had when the power was on—but compared to the poor souls that inhabited Shanty Town, Erik looked like he'd been eating like a king.

Thin tendrils of foul-smelling smoke drifted up through the hole in the top of a wooden shack that looked like it belonged in a civil war documentary. The whole thing had been cobbled together with random boards and planks stolen from God knew where.  It would never survive an Upstate winter.

Standing at 6'4" with his red hair, Erik was used to sticking out in a crowd.  As he looked around him though, this was different.  He almost felt like a different species.  The filth-covered, emaciated husks that once were called people stared at him or even looked down, refusing to meet his eyes.

They're afraid.  They've lost hope.

He looked around, desperate to spot the sailboat. It wasn't anywhere to be seen. Part of him relaxed. After all, Brin would have nothing to deal with. The sailboat wasn't there. Spike must have sent one of his raiding parties off across the lake again.  He knew Brin would fall back to Lucy's position now and provide security for improvised medical Corps.  He closed his eyes in relief.

Another thought occurred to him: if the sailboat wasn't here, then at least one or two of Spike's men were out and about.  If the attack went as planned, they'd still have some mopping up to do or they'd never be safe.

The Colonel had already walked him across the parking lot and through the outer edges of Shanty Town, passing underneath one of the five points of the star-shaped fortress before a sentry finally called out.

"Fresh meat comin' in!"

As Erik walked, he kept his eyes forward, surreptitiously glancing up at the fort's walls. Just as he suspected, two guards stood above the main gate. Another guard lounged on the southwest corner and watched with a shotgun as he passed. A fourth appeared between the two guarding the gate and the corner guard.

Four guards, all armed.  Why the hell did I volunteer for this job?

Erik was shocked to find people he'd last seen in his youth wasted away to the point of walking skeletons. He tried to stop more than once to say something as someone recognized him. Every time he did, he felt the barrel of the Colonel's pistol digging into his back. Perhaps even a little more insistent than Erik would've liked, the Colonel urged him forward without pause.

Muttered warnings of "don't stop," and "keep moving," followed the prodding. Erik stumbled more than once on the assorted junk and debris people had left on the ground, including the bones of small animals, rags, and chunks of wood.

Down a little side alley just before the gate, Erik was shocked to see two bodies face down in the dirt. A cloud of black flies hovered over them, their buzzing loud from more than twenty feet away.

One was the body of an old man with stringy white hair, the other was a small child. Erik stared in disbelief that the people moved about with so little regard for the two corpses in their midst.  He had stopped to stare and only moved forward when the Colonel dug his pistol in Erik's back.

Erik’s blood ran cold at the sight of the child laying in the dirt, discarded and left to rot. He turned and looked up at the guards above the gate hooting down at him in derision.  All the doubt and fear that swirled through his mind during the long walk vanished.  He knew then why he'd volunteered.

These men need to die.

Chapter 76

Endgame

CAPTAIN DAVIS WATCHED THE back of Admiral Nella's head as the newly promoted Vice Admiral stared at the digital world map inside the Pentagon's war room.  The promotion had come as a surprise to everyone—Congress had thought over Nella and Stapleton's plan and evidently approved.

Davis took his eyes off the three silver stars on Nella's epaulets and focused on the floor-to-ceiling screen again.  The Pacific theater had been highlighted and enlarged so China nearly filled the entire screen. Several possible targets along the eastern shore of the world's next superpower had been highlighted with slowly rotating red triangles.

"Can we confirm the information from General Stapleton yet?" Nella asked over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the screen.

Davis looked at tablet in his hands and scrolled through some hasty reports filed from local strategic commanders on the Pacific coast.

"Yes sir, the shipment manifest retrieved from the suspected terrorist killed outside Jacksonville meshes with satellite imagery of ships that left Ningbo and unloaded on the western coast of Mexico.  Those were the last images we had before the satellites were taken off-line."

Davis scrolled down to the first image in his slideshow. He tapped the screen, sorting through different menus trying to figure out which option would display the image up on the wall for the admiral and the rest of the flag officers. Frustrated, he turned to a lieutenant manning the console next to him.

"You have any idea how to get this picture displayed up there?"

"Yes, sir. Just tap this, then here, and here," the young man said handing the tablet back.

"Thank you," Davis said as the blurry, grainy satellite image from one of NASA's weather satellites, retasked during the initial days of the collapse, filled the main screen.

"What are we looking at here, Davis?" the admiral barked.

"That blur there on the left-hand side, sir, that's one of the ships named in the manifest. This was just after they made landfall in Mexico. According to documents the CIA provided—”

"You're welcome!" called out the liaison from Langley in the back of the room.

"—the ship was scheduled to unload emergency supplies for the Mexican nationals fleeing the United States."

Nella grunted. "That was a load of bullshit if I ever heard one. So what happened next?"

Davis scrolled down his tablet. He tapped keys in the order the lieutenant had showed him and successfully displayed the next grainy geosynchronous satellite picture.

"Sorry for the rough imagery, sirs," Davis said, nodding to the collection of senior officers. "When most of our fleet of military and surveillance satellites went down, the only thing we had left to use was aging weather satellites from the 1980s. In this image, you can see the same ship after two days at sea, station-keeping off the coast of southern California. That white blur at the top of the screen is the smoke from Los Angeles."

"Sneaky bastards were just waiting to link up with their ground forces," commented Gen. Ross.

Davis nodded. "It appears that way, sir. I'd say this is the confirmation you're looking for that clearly demonstrates China launched a preemptive strike against us."

Nella finally turned around, his hands still clasped behind his back. "Gentlemen, there can be no doubt now that China launched a preemptive strike against the United States in an attempt to wrest away control of California. I don't know about you, but in my mind, this constitutes an act of war."

Silence met the admiral's statement.

"Has this information been passed on to Congress?" Ross asked.

Davis nodded. "Yes, sir. I delivered it myself this morning. The Judiciary Committee Chairman—”

"Judiciary committee? Where the hell's the Armed Forces Oversight Committee? Where the hell is the Speaker?"

Davis shook his head. "Unknown, sir. The Secret Service is also trying to track down the VP Jorgenson.  They've had no contact with several of the top members of Congress listed in the chain of command under President Reed's COG orders. As it stands, the Secretary of the Department of Education is next in line for the Presidency."  Davis looked up from this tablet.

Nella closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Jesus H. Christ." He opened his eyes and stared at Davis. "Please tell me they at least know where the damn Education Secretary is currently?"

"The Chairman of the Judiciary Committee informed me this morning when I dropped off the intel packet they have a good idea where Secretary Benson is, but he couldn't confirm they actually found her yet."

Nella shook his head. "Gentlemen, we're going to have a bigger mess on our hands than we first anticipated. I knew it was bad, but I didn't realize that we'd lost as many members of Congress…"  He turned back to the screen.

"Once this is settled, we're going to have to seriously consider persuading what's left of Congress to hold special elections. This country can ill-afford three years of bickering and infighting among the survivors to decide who's going to be top dog and run the show. Next thing we know, they'll be arguing over redrawing congressional districts and it will be a decade before we finally get a new CNC."

Several of the generals and admirals in attendance muttered agreement and talked quietly amongst themselves. The mood appeared grim. They all knew what was coming. Davis knew too.

"Brad, I think it's time we put Endgame in the play."

General Ross cleared his throat and looked around for support.  "Admiral Nella, I admire everything you've done for this nation and your ability to bring Roosevelt halfway across the world to help repel the Russian invasion. But I can't be a part of this. What you're proposing, in my opinion, will be the start of World War III."

Nella waved his hand to encompass the screens on the far wall that depicted American military assets around the world.  Battles, hotspots, and conflicts currently raged on five continents and six of the world's oceans.

"Open your eyes, Brad, we're in World War III. What I'm proposing will end this—at least one half of it—and ensure the safety of the people living on the west coast."

"To date," began Ross, "this conflict—no matter where it’s been fought—has remained conventional. I don't think it sets a good precedent for the United States to be the first to lob a tactical nuclear weapon into the fray."

Nella nodded.  "Noted, but at this point we don't have much more we can do. The Chinese need to be stopped dead in their tracks. Immediately. There is a power vacuum on this planet right now, gentlemen," Nella said addressing the rest of the officers. "For too long the United States has been the number one target on the planet—we've been weakened by politicians bent on preserving their careers rather than preserving the country. We all knew something like this was coming, we just didn't know it would happen in our lifetimes."  He glared at the assembled officers.

"I for one am personally glad it's happening now, so our grandchildren will not have to deal with this." He turned to look back at the screen and pointed at China. "There lies the enemy gentlemen. Not Russia, not the United Nations—they made their play and failed. To date, the Chinese have destroyed 17 American cities and towns, including Phoenix and Flagstaff.  Let me be brutally clear: the PRC has caused  an estimated 2 million American deaths. That. Is. Unacceptable."  He turned to point at the map again.

"We can infer from their troop movements and supply chain they're planning on cutting off the American southwest and creating a zone of influence, not unlike the Russians in Florida. We cannot and will not allow them to reach the Pacific coast. Those cargo ships Capt. Davis displayed on the screen," Nella said gesturing to the next giant screen on the wall, "are more than likely filled with military supplies and ammunition, just waiting to resupply the conquering forces coming in from the east. When that happens, the balance of power will shift irrevocably in their favor."

"Admiral Nella—” began Gen. Ross.

"Los Angeles," Nella said, ignoring the interruption, "is a total wasteland thanks to the wildfires no doubt set by terrorists in league with China. There is a vast swath of now relatively unpopulated American soil, teaming with resources to be used as the perfect beachhead for a full scale invasion by China. If our power grid was back on and the civilian population could receive support and critical services, the military could focus all of our power into this area," Nella said pointing at Arizona.

"There would be no stopping us and China knows it. With most of the country in the dark and our comms out due to satellite failures, the best we can do is patch things and keep the status quo. They know that and so we must do something more to stop them."

"Launching a nuclear strike? That's not going to solve anything, admiral. The only thing that will do is escalate matters to the next level. They will in turn launch theirs—”

Nella rounded on Ross.  "The Pacific fleet was relatively unscathed in the collapse, unlike the carrier battlegroups in the Med and the Atlantic," Nella said calmly. "We have reestablished secure comms with Pearl and Adm. Lewis is quite confident he's already located up to 95% of the Chinese surface and subsurface Navy.  Davis?"

"Yes, sir.  Gentlemen, the good news is this all happened before China could get their military on par with our own. Our subs are better, faster, and bigger than theirs. When we launch Endgame, our naval assets in the Pacific will wipe the ocean clean of the Chinese."

"It's a risk," Nella said, looking back at the gathered officers, "I won't deny that.  No one ever said there was no risk in war. What we're trying to do here is nothing short of ensuring the very survival of the United States. Every option needs to be on the table, every plan must be considered, and every risk must be taken. We have no other choice. They have backed us into a corner and it's time to strike back while we still can."  He sighed and faced the group again.

"What we need is breathing room—to regroup, restructure, rearm, and counterattack. President Reed's strategy was plain in the days before his untimely death. He wished to secure the United States and launch an overwhelming response against our enemies the world over. There is only one way we can accomplish this now, and that is with China decisively out of the picture."

Davis stood and watched as the other admirals and generals argued amongst themselves for a few minutes, with more and more of them nodding in agreement.  Finally the lone dissenter step forward.

"Very well, Admiral Nella. I can see I'm outnumbered here. If we are going to do this, then we need to do this from a position of overwhelming strength and power. If that way includes Endgame, then so be it."

"I'm sorry I'm glad to hear you say that, Brad. I truly wish there was another way, but this is the only option we have left to knocking China out of the game permanently. This will not only nullify China's global presence, but it will provide us with the least damaging option to their civilian population."

The bank of officers and Adm. Nella stared at each other for a moment before Nella turned to face large screen. "Are we in agreement then?"

"We are," said the commanding general of the Air Force.

"Very well then. Send the order to launch Operation Endgame. May God bless United States and grant mercy upon our souls."

Chapter 77

Something to Fight For

THE GUARDS, MOST OF them with long hair and lots of tattoos, all had that mean, caged look of animals long denied freedom.  They laughed at him from on high. Erik realized if he was alone, if he didn't have friends waiting to inflict violence upon those that had caused so much misery, he'd be a far sight more scared than he was. Just knowing Ted was maybe 200 yards behind him, hiding in the bushes along the shore, ready to take out the guards with his M4 that now mocked him made Erik want to smile.

The urge to smile faded quickly.  When did I change? All I ever wanted was to play video games and be a teacher, love my wife, and start a family. Now? After all that's happened and everything we've done to survive, I'm standing here before an 18th century fort hoping to see men die.  What happened to me?

"Ooo, check this shit out!" a guard called to his partner.

"Big redheaded fucker comin' in!" another shouted.

"Hey, fish!" someone yelled to a round of laughter.

"Someone get Carl!"

Erik clenched his fists. They killed my parents that's what happened.  They destroyed everything I had left in this world for no other reason than it was there.

"Wait till Billy Ray see you—he likes redheads!"  More laughter.

As he looked up at the silhouetted guards against the cloudless skies above and watched them laugh and hurl insults at him, as they lorded over all the people wallowing in filth and misery, his heart hardened for the last time. There was no going back.

Every one of these sons of bitches is going to die.

Erik unconsciously blinked and found himself standing in the portal to the gate house.  How many times had he been to the fort in his youth? How many times had he walked through this very gate and felt a little tingle down his spine as he realized the great personages of history who had done the same exact thing?

As was his custom as a youth, Erik approached the old bronze plaque and reverently ran his fingers down the names.  He read the inscription to himself:

Through this entrance to the place d'armes of the fort have passed: George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Benedict Arnold, Horatio Gates, Anthony Wayne, Arthur St. Clair, Henry Knox, Phillip Schuyler, Richard Montgomery, Ethan Allen, Seth Warner, Major Robert Rogers, The Marquis de Montcalm, The Duc de Levis, Sir Jeffrey Amherst, Sir Guy Carleton, Major John Andre, Sir John Burgoyne, Thaddeus Kosciusko and a host of other great men of our history.

Erik paused as he stared at the last line.  It was his favorite.  He ran his fingers over the bronze letters, soaking in their meaning.

You who tread in their footsteps remember their glory.

Erik glared at the graffiti rudely sprawled across the aged metal. To think the animals who now occupied this majestic building had defaced it with common spray paint made Erik almost as angry as to see the dozens if not hundreds of innocent and downtrodden people camped in fear just outside its walls.

"It's a damn shame, but nothing anybody can do about it. Keep moving," warned the Colonel.  "Shit.  Here comes Carl—he's Spike's XO.  All right, just play along like we planned."

Erik stepped through the portal and back into the Middle Ages.

The parade ground that took up most of the interior of the fort was unrecognizable.  The crushed pea gravel that he remembered stretching across the entire open space was almost non-existent.  The ground had been covered with trash, clothing, sports equipment—it looked like an immense flea market.  Three open-sided banquet tents had been erected in the middle of the junk heap.

Erik swallowed.  Loot.  It was loot.  The only open space lay to his left, in front of the officer's barracks—their target.   An area about twenty feet square had been left clear.

A big man with wide shoulders, greasy black hair and a bushy, unkempt beard met him just inside the gate as they passed under the enlisted men's quarters.

'Carl' wore filthy jeans that looked two sizes too small and a denim vest with frayed seams.  He walked up to Erik and stood before him in the middle of the walkway, Spike's lieutenant scratched his crotch and belched, politely turning his head to the side while keeping his eyes focused on Erik.

So this is the son of a bitch that killed mom.

"What the fuck do you want?" growled Carl.

Amazing, Erik thought. There must be 200 people just outside the gates while they stay inside and gorge themselves on stolen food. How many homes over there in Vermont lay vacant or occupied only by corpses because of men like you? How many lives have you ruined?  How many families had you destroyed over a can of Spam?

"My bounty," replied the Colonel.  "Heard you're offering."

"Leave him here, I'll get back to you."

"I said I want my bounty," the Colonel shot back, his voice tight.  Erik felt the gun push into his spine a fraction of an inch.

Carl's eyebrows moved down over his wide, Neanderthal-like brow and his expression hardened.  "I don't give a fuck what you want, old man. Them's the rules. You don't like it, get the fuck out of here. But you better do it quick before Spike decides to make an example out of you for any of these other old fuckers who might wanna get uppity."

Erik felt the pistol shift against his back again.  Almost there… A trickle of sweat slipped between his shoulder blades. He hoped the old Colonel had his finger off the trigger.

"I got you a new recruit. I want my bounty," the old man stubbornly repeated.

"Deal's off," the convict said nonchalantly picking his teeth.  "You took too long."

"It's not my fault he chose to come back now, if there had been anybody else—" whined the Colonel.

Carl raised his hands in supplication. "Then how is it my fault? The offer had a time limit, pops.  One month and guess what?  That month has passed. We spread the word to bring in people for bounties and looks like you didn't make it in time.  Tough shit."

"You know who I am, Carl?" asked the Colonel.

"I don't give a fuck who you are.  If you don't clear outta here, you'll be dancin' on the blacktop."

Erik could contain himself no longer.  "You guys really trashed the place, huh?"

Carl poked a greasy finger into Erik's shoulder and forced him to look forward. "Don't go dippin' in my Kool-Aid, fish.  You need to learn some respect—I wasn't talking to you."  The greasy convict push a lock of dank hair out of his face and looked Erik up and down. He licked his lips. "You know how we got new fish to show respect back in the 5-0?"

"You're the one who killed my parents," Erik blurted.

Carl threw his head back and roared in laughter, quickly joined by the guards above the gate house. One of them shouted about what he did with Erik's mom the night before, the other laughed and said he did the same with Erik's father.

Erik clenched his jaw and held his tongue. He waited patiently. In his head, he imagined striking forward with his katana and slicing right through Carl's ugly face. The world would be better for it.

Carl wiped a tear from his eye and slowed his laughter to the point he could speak again. "Man, you are one funny motherfucker. Maybe we just cut your hands and feet off and let you tell jokes all day." He looked up and shouted at one of the guards up above.

"You hear that? There's plenty other assholes for you in Shanty Town! I'm markin' this one for Spike and me!"

Carl ignored the raucous boos and complaints thrown down at him from above. Erik noticed more than one of the guards on the far sides of the fort had lost interest and turned their attention back outside. That was a good sign.

He shifted his eyes back to Carl and fixed him with a stoic gaze.

Carl laughed. "Well, you got a set of balls on you, I'll give you that. We done we killed a lot of people, took a lot of women. Have you seen?" Carl said putting a friendly hand on Erik's shoulder and turning him to face Shanty Town.

Erik resisted the urge to grab Carl's hand and break his arm. Carl must've felt Erik shoulders tense because he quickly removed his hand and stepped to the side.

"Okay, okay, just relax, fish. Look, as the hospitality chair—" Carl fired a string of expletives at the guards who laughed at his title, "—it's my job to make sure your stay with us as pleasant as possible," he said to another round of laughter from above.

"Forget those assholes," Carl said conspiratorially. "They think they're all that just because they're guards. All they do is stand around and watch people all day, then grab anything that moves and have fun all night. That's not a life."  Carl took a deep breath and threw his arms out wide, facing the lake.

"You want the open-air, the clean water, the sky above you, the dirt in your hands," Carl said putting his hand back on Erik shoulder and gesturing toward the view beyond Shanty Town.

"You wanna work the land, grow crops, make us food—and stay alive."  Carl stared at Erik, the smell of onions and garlic on his breath.  His eyes narrowed.  For the first time, Erik saw how dangerous the man was.

"Don't you?" Carl asked. His hand painfully squeezed the side of Erik's neck. "Because I guarantee you, fish, you don't do what we say and I will make your life—what remains of it—a living fucking nightmare."  A sudden smile broke out on his pock-marked face.  "And I'm the nice guy," he said with a laugh as he slapped Erik on the back.

Erik tried a different tactic. "So…that's it then? I'm your prisoner now for life or something?"

"Hey now, nobody said anything about being a prisoner!" said Carl with an offended hand across his chest. "Like I said, you're our guest here. This is Casa Del Spike," Carl said with a sweeping gesture that elicited another laugh from above.

"Shut the fuck up, Ray!" Carl shouted up at the wall.  He looked at Erik.  "What's your name, fish?"

Erik ignored the banter. "Erik Larsson."

Carl stared at Erik for a second, then rubbed his finger across the sandpaper on his chin. "Larsson…Larsson…"

"You came through and killed this boy's parents and burned down his house," growled the Colonel.

Carl's eyes hardened as he looked past Erik to stare at the diminutive old man. "Oh, how could I forget," Carl muttered sarcastically. "That was your house?"  He laughed.

"That's right, he was your daddy, huh?" he asked, his eyes shifting back to Erik, "He killed two of my boys—almost shot me.  I don't think I'll be forgetting that one anytime soon."  He grinned, revealing yellow teeth.  "Spike really did a number on him. Stepped right up and—"

"Erik?" a weak voice said outside the gate. Erik ignored Carl and turned to look at an old woman who shuffled by, carrying two buckets of water up from the lake.  A wooden yoke had been placed on her neck, making her stoop almost halfway.

"Mom?" Erik breathed.

A guard shouted behind him, but Erik didn't care. His mother stood before him, doubled over carrying water for the animals who’d killed her husband, his father. Carl's face suddenly blocked his view, so Erik removed it from his sight. He slashed out with the knife Brin forced him to conceal in his waistband and Carl fell out of the way clutching his throat in a spray of blood. The Colonel's first gunshot echoed behind him—it sounded as if it had been fired miles away.

His tunnel vision focused only on his mother, driving him forward to her as she shrugged out of the cruel yoke wrapped around her neck and shoulders. She collapsed into his arms and he fell to his knees as gunfire exploded all around them. A bullet ricocheted off the thick stone wall of the fort not ten feet away from him with a loud whining cry.

"Sorry!" a man's voice said, carried on the wind to Erik's right, deep inside Shanty Town. "Sorry about that!"

"Dammit Irwin, shoot, don't apologize!" yelled Dan's voice from the other side.

The ricocheting bullet snapped Erik into action. He gathered up his mother and raced with her over to the dubious protection of the nearest shack. Crouching down behind the wooden structure, he tried to yell over his mother's screams and grabbed both of her hands as she clawed at his face.

"Mom! It's me! It's Erik!"

"They killed him! Eddie!  They killed him!"

His mother descended into silence and fell down face first onto the ground, covering her head as the battle erupted.

A young woman with a black eye and a busted lip shrugged into what was left of a tattered blanket and emerged from the next tent over. "I'll watch over her," she said quietly. "Are you here to fight them?" she asked, hope written on her battered face.

"No," Erik said.  "I'm here to kill them."

"Good," the woman whispered as she wrapped her blanket around Erik's mother.

He turned and peered around the corner of the wooden hovel in time to see one of the guards topple off the gate house and land in the dirt at his feet with a stomach-turning crunch of broken bones. His shotgun clattered a few feet away.

Erik scrabbled into the open to collect the weapon and remained crouched. Shanty Town erupted into screams as people ran in every direction, desperate to get away from the firefight that exploded all around them.

Erik faced north, straight into the open maw of the fort. On the far wall he saw a single guard sprinting for the northwestern corner. Gunshots crackled to the west, loud thunderous booms that signified the ongoing attack from Ted's snipers.

Behind him, toward the lake, he heard the telltale pop-pop-pop of Ted's M4. Scattered throughout the screams and shouts from Shanty Town, he heard people screaming for others to duck and get down—Maggie's squad was making their way to the fort.

His eyes focused straight ahead as the Colonel stepped over Carl's twitching body and yelled at Erik to follow. The old man stormed straight into the fort, turned left and fired two times. Erik jumped into action and raced after the Colonel.  He turned left, bringing the shotgun to bear on the body of another guard sprawled in the dirt.

Two down…

"Officer’s barracks!" the Colonel hollered, pointing west.

Erik followed the Colonel and zeroed in on the central faded red door of the old stone barracks.   The chaos they'd unleashed in Shanty Town sounded like a full-blown prison riot what with the crackling gunshots and screams coming from within and outside the fort.  All too frequently a bullet ricocheted off a wall or little puffs of dirt erupted at his feet.  It was hard not to flinch despite knowing the people outside were shooting not at him but at the guards.

By the time he and the Colonel had crossed the cluttered parade ground and slammed up against the faded red door—the middle of three on the ground floor—the gunfire outside the fort had intensified. Erik risked a glance and spotted three guards still atop the walls, shooting down into Shanty Town with shotguns—it sounded like canon fire.

As he watched, he heard a three-round burst from Ted's M4.  Pop-pop-pop.  One of the guards disappeared over the walls. The other two ducked down, yelling at each other and gesturing with hands.

One pointed at Erik.

He turned and grabbed the Colonel's shoulder, throwing the faded red wooden door open with his other hand. "Go!" he said, shoving the older man inside just before pellets peppered the stairs leading up to the second level. Erik dove left, and the Colonel fell to the right.

Erik coughed in the dust and quickly got to his feet, snatching up his shotgun.  The room had been converted into an office—he'd remembered years ago seeing rustic wood-framed beds and a picnic table the last time he'd been to the fort.  Now, it held a desk, some chairs and someone had plastered maps on the walls.  Empty liquor bottles filled the fireplace and a large hole had been carved out of the far wall, connecting the room with the next living quarters.

As Erik stared in disbelief at the crude remodeling, two convicts rushed through the hole. One brandished a silver revolver and took aim at the Colonel.  The second dove around the first, wielding a large knife.

The Colonel's pistol barked, affected his opponent's aim. The convict's shiny revolver expelled fire and smoke as it shifted toward the ceiling and its owner fell to the floor screaming.

The one with the knife ignored the gunfight and charged the Colonel, stopping short only when Erik stepped around the old man and leveled the shotgun at his chest. Without hesitation, Erik pulled the trigger and the knife wielding man froze in his tracks, wincing.

Click.

Erik looked at the shotgun at the same time his enemy did. They locked eyes again and the bald man with the knife grinned. His crooked, stained teeth and deep-set eyes made his general appearance even more menacing. He screamed and charged, raising the knife with his heavily tattooed arm.

Out of options, Erik swung the shotgun's stock forward, catching the convict's knife arm at the elbow. With a satisfying crunch, the arm buckled, and the knife went flying. Erik then used his momentum to swing inside the convict's attack range and ram the shotgun barrel into his face.

The convict staggered back with blood gushing from his broken nose, screaming obscenities and yelling a warning.

The Colonel roared something about Spike. Erik spun, bringing the shotgun up like a club, expecting to find a giant in the doorway behind him. He flinched when the Colonel emptied his magazine, the flash lighting up the room. Erik spun back around again in time to see the convict with the smashed nose collapse to the floor in a cloud of dust and blood.

The old Colonel kept trying to fire his gun into the corpse at his feet, even though the slide had locked back exposing an empty chamber. "That's for Vi, you son-of-a-whore!"

Erik stared at the body on the floor. He matched the description. Bald head, heavily muscled, lots of tattoos.  Spike.

He looked at the Colonel and back down at the body. Something was off. Jeffrey, in fear of his life and with no reason to lie, had explained that Spike was the biggest white man he'd ever seen—even bigger than Erik.

He'd expected to find someone close to 7 feet. Yet the man laying on the floor in an expanding pool of blood at his feet could not have stood any taller than 6 feet.

"You sure that's him?"

The Colonel walked over and spat on the body. "That's him, sonofabitch had a bald head just like that."

Erik glanced past the Colonel into the open door behind him. "Yeah, but I mean are you absolutely sure?  A lot of the convicts have bald heads.  Think, sir. This is critical—"

"I think I ought to remember the man who killed my neighbors and burned down their house, don't you?"

Erik ground his teeth in frustration. "My mom didn't die." Erik didn't point out that if the Colonel could have mistaken her death, he might not have ID'd Spike correctly, either.  "Did you see him with your own eyes—were you close enough that—"

"God dammit son! That's him! That Spike! That's the son of a bitch that killed your father!"

As Erik stood staring at the Colonel, a shadow crossed the doorway.

The Colonel opened his mouth to say something when a puff of red mist materialized out of his chest and he straightened his back in surprise, his eyes wide. He opened and closed his mouth but only a choked gurgle and some pink foam escaped. His eyes blinked and locked on Erik before he glanced down at his chest at the rapidly expanding red bloom on his dirty shirt.

He staggered forward and turned, pointing at the new arrival in the doorway. Erik turned away from the Colonel and saw a mountain of a man fill the hole in the wall and stoop to enter.

"He's wrong, that's not me.  That's Tommy Three-Ball."

Jesus Christ! That's the biggest man I've ever seen! Erik took an involuntary step backward as Spike approached.  In spite of all the chaos erupting outside, the man appeared calm and collected as his eyes swept over the room and took in the carnage. The pistol he held looked like a child's toy in his meat-hook of a hand.

"You the one behind all this?" he asked in a deep voice.

Erik stared at the monster before him straining the seams of an Essex County Sheriff's uniform. Holy shit…

Spike brought the pistol to aim at Erik's chest. He ignored the Colonel as the old man crashed into the far wall and slumped to the floor.

"Keep your eyes on me boy—anyone shot through the back like that don't usually get up." He flashed a crooked smile exposing straight, stained teeth.

Erik's fear evaporated when Spike smiled. Rage coursed through every fiber of his being. This was the man who had murdered his father. This was the man who had burned his home down. This was the man who had ruined everything—the one who had taken away his future life and that of his family. This was the man who destroyed the town of Ticonderoga and ripped apart countless families.

"I'm sorry it has to end this way. You look like a big strapping fucker.  You would've been a pretty good raider, I think—you look like you got some Viking in you."

Erik stared at Spike. His fists clenched, a movement that the bigger man immediately noticed.

"Really?"  Spike glanced at the pistol in his hand. "You got a pair of balls on you, don't you?"

"So I keep hearing," Erik said.

"Well, say hi to your old man for me," Spike said with a laugh. He pulled the trigger.

Erik closed his eyes and wondered what the bullet would feel like as it plowed through his sternum. Would it be painful? Would it be so fast that he didn't feel it?

Click.

Nothing happened.  Erik opened his eyes and realized Spike's gun had misfired.  He watched as the huge man quickly racked the slide and aimed at Erik again.

"Sorry about that—let's try it again." He pulled the trigger.

Click.

Spike looked down at the pistol and frowned. He dropped it and cracked his knuckles, the sound like firecrackers in the small room.

"Fuck it. I always liked killing people with my bare hands, anyway."

Chapter 78

Something to Die For

ERIK LOWERED HIMSELF INTO a fighting stance and brought the empty shotgun up in front of him like a staff.  He stepped past the Colonel's body and kept his eyes locked on Spike.  The two of them shifted position like sharks circling prey.

Spike made the first move, lunging at Erik with a massive right fist.  Erik sidestepped it with ease.  His eyes flicked to the desk in the corner and he adjusted his path to avoid bumping it.  Spike took the opportunity to jab out with his left hand.

The punch wasn't all that hard—Erik surmised Spike was right-handed—but it was enough to knock him off balance.  Erik rolled his shoulder angrily, forcing the throbbing sensation to go away while he glared at the grinning giant.

"You're quick, I'll give you that," Spike admitted.

Erik held his tongue and focused everything on staying alive.  A voice in the back of his mind screamed 'playing not to lose makes you lose.'  He decided to take Spike's confidence level down a notch.  Sure, the giant convict was bigger and clearly stronger—he looked well fed, too.  But he didn't know Erik practiced martial arts.

If I just had my sword…

Spike noticed the shift in Erik's stance and braced for a punch.  Erik took advantage of that and swung the end of the shotgun like a club, feinting right.  As Spike shifted to avoid the shotgun, Erik swung out with his left leg and landed a solid blow to the bigger man's knee.  Spike grunted and hopped back out of range, his eyes burning.

"So it's like that, huh?"  Spike put his hand in his pants pocket and withdrew a blackened railroad tie.  "This here's how I got my name.  This here's what killed your old man."

Erik stared at the crampon.  The Colonel said Spike had driven it straight into his father's head.  Erik's eyes narrowed.  It would look wonderful sticking out of Spike's head.

Spike opened his mouth to speak again, but Erik rushed him.  He swung the shotgun in a flurry of strikes, left, right, and left again as he forced the bigger man back.  Erik screamed as he surged forward, ignoring the occasional spark as Spike's weapon glanced off the shotgun barrel in a clumsy attempt to parry the incoming attacks.

Erik paused as Spike threw a punch, then recommenced his attack when the bigger man flew off balance.  Spike cursed and staggered back as the barrel grazed his cheek, snapping his head back.  Erik shrugged off the vibration that shot up his arms and swung backward with the stock, narrowly missing Spike's neck.

"God damn it!" Spike hissed as he stumbled through the small door outside, clutching his cheek.  He backpedaled quickly as Erik charged through after him with a roar.

Erik ignored the slackening gunfire from outside.  His peripheral vision picked up several people on the fort's walls, but he didn't bother to figure out if they were friend or foe—it didn't matter any more—he focused on the man who'd killed his father.

Spike took another big step back.  Erik swung the shotgun like a baseball bat with all his might, aiming to land the stock on Spike's head.  The convict's eyes flared and snapped to the wooden club sailing at his face.

Faster than Erik thought possible, Spike's left arm shot up and deflected the shotgun like it was made of balsa.  Before Erik could recover the backswing, Spike's hand latched onto the shotgun.

Erik stepped back massaging his wrists after Spike tore the shotgun away.  He expected Spike to use the captured weapon as his own club, but the big convict tossed it aside with a sneer.

"Only a pussy would use that thing when they had this," he said, holding up the crampon.  "You're gonna die just like your old man."

Spike lunged and Erik leaned back, barely avoiding the hissing piece of metal as it passed in front of his chest.  He stumbled in the dirt as he backpedaled, ducking and weaving under Spike's relentless assault.  The man was huge, strong, and incredibly fast.  Erik's mind raced as his eyes darted around the open courtyard.  Other than the empty and discarded shotgun, he spotted nothing he could use as a weapon.

Pain suddenly exploded in his right shoulder as the head of the crampon connected with Erik's arm.  He grunted and spun away to the left.  His hand went numb with the impact.  He skipped backward out of range as he rotated his arm, trying to shake off the pins and needles down its length.  That's gonna leave a mark.

A woman screamed.  Spike paused.  Erik jumped sideways and used the space he gained to search the small crowd of people cautiously entering the fort.  Great, I have an audience.  Where the hell is Ted?  Why doesn't he just shoot this big bastard?

"Erik!" called out Brin.  Her voice echoed through the cluttered parade ground.

Erik and Spike paused, both seeking the source of the interruption.  Spike saw her first.  "Who's that?  Your woman?"

"Don't do this!" Brin yelled.

"Nice.  I ain't split me a Chinese Elm before."

The blood rushed through Erik's and he charged, ignoring the pain in his right arm.  "She's Japanese!" he yelled as he ducked Spike's clumsy swing and landed a solid left uppercut to the bigger man's gut.

Erik's knuckles cracked—Spike's abdomen was solid as iron.  The force of his punch and the speed of his attack was enough to surprise the larger man and send him reeling backward, but Erik knew he'd done no real harm.

Spike's laugh confirmed Erik's fear.  He wasn't going to go down by punches and kicks alone.  He was too strong, too big, too fast.

Erik ignored the screams and shouts of encouragement from the crowd.  Brin had disappeared.  Erik hoped she'd gone to get Ted.  Gunfire still crackled off and on from the other side of the fort's walls.  The M4's distinctive pop-pop-pop rang out again.  Whatever was going on, Ted appeared to be otherwise engaged.

Erik desperately swept the parade ground with his eyes again, looking for anything he could use as a weapon.  How could there be so much crap piled around and no weapons?

He could always make a break for the shotgun, but Spike seemed to know what he was thinking and placed himself conveniently between Erik and the discarded firearm.

As they circled each other again, Erik worked his way closer to the crowd.  He saw a mixture of hope and defeat on the faces that stared back at him.  He half-worried they might try to attack him to gain favor with Spike, assuming their savage master would win.

The woman with the black eye and the blanket—one arm around his mother—stepped forward and yelled to get Erik's attention.  "There!" she said, pointing at a rusted old pitchfork leaning against a kayak.

Erik darted forward and snatched the ancient tool from the pile.  He held the thick tines pointed toward his opponent.  Spike laughed.

"Really, Kelly?" asked Spike.  "I thought we had something."  He turned to Erik with a sneer on his face.  "Swing that thing at me and I'll shove it up your ass.  Then I'll shove it up hers."

"Kill him!" Kelly shrieked.

Erik held his ground as Spike rushed him and quickly slid to the left, avoiding the skull-crushing swing of the crampon that would have ended his life if he'd stood still.  As Spike moved past to recover his balance, Erik slashed at his exposed side with the rusted farm tool.  He felt the thick tines bite clothing and flesh but knew any wounds he left as he spun away would be superficial at best.  He needed a chance to stab but Spike wouldn't hold still.

"You're going to pay for that," growled Spike as he gingerly touched his ribs, fingering the torn uniform.

Erik swallowed.  He saw the hard packed muscles ripple through the jagged tear in Spike's shirt.  The man must lift weights twenty hours a day.

Spike rushed again and parried Erik's pitchfork with his crampon.  He grappled the oak handle with his other hand and tried to rip the pitchfork free like the shotgun.  Erik was ready though and twisted in the opposite direction, catching Spike's shoulder with the tines.  The convict howled and smashed his hand down on the handle, severing the metal portion of the pitchfork from the handle.

Erik staggered back from the blow and held the splintered piece of oak, now reduced to a little over three feet long.  He easily dodged the rest of the thrown pitchfork as it sailed toward him.  Spike laughed again.

"I told you I'm gonna shove that thing up your ass.  And I ain't starting with the smooth end."

The crowd screamed as a gunshot went off just outside the gates, but Spike didn't seem to notice.  He walked forward casually, arms outstretched, offering Erik a clear shot at his wide torso.

"Go ahead.  Free shot.  I should at least let you get a good hit in before you die."  His hand twirled the crampon.  "Then it's my turn."

The crowd hollered and moaned.  People started to flee.   The chaos outside the fort threatened to push in through the throng gathered to watch Spike and Erik duel to the death.  Somewhere out there, Erik knew Brin was still alive.  If anything, he had to keep Spike occupied long enough for her to escape.

He figured if Ted hadn't shown up by now to put Spike down like a rabid dog, their attack must have failed.  They'd made a good show of it, though—judging by the half dozen bodies in the dirt of the parade ground.  Spike's guards had been decimated, but it didn't seem to be enough.

A peace settled over Erik.  He realized his fate had been sealed.  The dozen or so people still blocking the gatehouse now had the look of serious religious zealots—eyes wide, rapid breathing, hands clenched.  Just glancing at them, Erik knew they were betting on him losing.  He made a mental note to steer well clear of them.

That left Spike.  The hulking convict continued his slow, deliberate advance, still smiling.  Erik settled into his low stance and held the rake handle up in front of him as if it were his practice bokken.  It was about the same length though the shattered oak handle hardly had any balance at all.  He'd have to compensate with sheer muscle, but the handle would make a fine sword.

At least I'll go out on my feet.  Erik held his breath and sent a brief prayer heavenward, seeking forgiveness and asking for someone to watch over Brin and his unborn child.  He let the breath out and lowered his shoulders, feeling himself more centered and calm than he'd been in months.

It was time.

Erik shifted the handle to a high ready position, his arms to the side of his head, the handle  forward in what looked like an awkward pose.  In reality, Erik had struck the samurai version of a batter waiting for the perfect pitch.  In a split second, he could drive the impromptu sword down with tremendous force using the long muscles of his back to swing his arms.  He hoped the deceptive stance would give Spike pause.

It did.  The big convict stopped his advance and stared at Erik, the sickening smile fading from his face for the first time.  "What the fuck is this?  Ballet?"

"Watashi no ban," Erik said quietly in Japanese.  My turn.

Spike grunted and lunged, closing the final five feet with alarming speed.

Erik slipped his mind into auto-pilot and allowed muscle memory to take over.  This was nothing more than a high-stakes kata, after all.  He stepped into Spike's attack and brought the oak handle down in a blur.  The stout wood snapped against Spike's right arm with a loud crack.  Spike howled and jumped back, rubbing his forearm.

Erik didn't pause.  He spun in the opposite direction, swinging the rake handle in a wide circle.  The jagged tip grazed Spike's left arm, causing him to lunge off balance to mitigate the damage.  He stepped away cursing as he examined the new tear in his uniform.

He never got a chance to quip something witty as Erik pressed the attack, whirling his 'blade' above his hand and slashing down and to the side, driving Spike back through the dust.  The convict grunted with each impact.

Erik stepped forward, parrying Spike's increasingly desperate attacks and ignoring the ones that actually landed on his arms and shoulders.  As long as he continued to advance and kept the handle slashing through the air, the massive convict's size and strength were negated.  The oak cracked against his ribs and shoulders, slapped his forearms and even grazed his sweating, bald head. Each impact spun and pushed Spike back and back again.

At length, Erik paused to catch his breath.  Spike doubled over, gasping for air.  He limped back, adjusting the grip on his crampon.  His body looked damaged and weakened, but his eyes blazed with a fury that sought only blood.  He was far from beaten.

Good.  I'm not done with you yet either.

He stepped forward and drove the jagged point of his 'blade' at Spike's exposed throat.  The big man swatted the tip away again and again, growing more irate the more Erik stabbed at him.  Every time he struck out at Erik's weapon, he winced when his bruised and battered arms made contact.  The crowd grew more vocal as Erik took the upper hand.

Erik blocked all the extraneous noise and commotion out, focusing the entirety of his anger and determination on ending the life of the man in front of him.  He thought of his father and pulled the handle in a vicious backhanded swing.  The crack of the wood against Spike's jaw sent the larger man reeling.  Erik thought of his mother, dragged screaming from her house as her husband died at her feet.  He pummeled Spike's back when he turned to move away.  The oak staff in his hands shuddered with the impact of wood on bone.  Spike cursed and Erik pressed his attack further.

He thought of his family home, burned to the ground by Spike's friends, likely at his order.  He swung the handle in two wide arcs, impacting either side of Spike's left knee, one after the other.  The man was defenseless to stop him now.

Erik felt a surge of power course through him.  He swung faster and harder, ignoring the burn from his muscles.  Each impact sent a jolt up his tired arms that renewed his strength.  Spike sank lower and lower into a crouch, trying to present the smallest target possible—hardly easy given his size.

Then it happened—Erik stepped forward to deliver a crushing blow to Spike's head, but the bigger man struck with the speed of a rattlesnake.  The crampon flashed through the air and Erik staggered back, fire searing the left side of his face.  It had happened so fast, he wasn't sure what hurt more, the ragged tear in his cheek from the tip of Spike's weapon, or the dull ache from his mouth where the massive head of the crampon had impacted his jaw.

He gingerly felt his teeth with his tongue.  A molar was loose.  The smell of iron filled his nose and blood coated his tongue. Erik stepped out of Spike's reach and raised the tip of his bokken out of the dirt.  Spike, half-beaten to a pulp, laughed, a ragged, hollow sound.

"I ain't done with you yet, boy.  When this is over," he said, gasping for air, "I'm gonna throw your mama to the boys and take your woman my self.  Before you die, I'm going to make you watch—"

Something snapped inside Erik.  Time slowed to a crawl.  In an instant, he was transported back in time to the Freehold, when the two men had attacked Brin and Susan on a warm sunny day in June.  He and Ted had raced out of his darkened apartment to find Susan unconscious on the ground and the would-be rapist closing on Brin.

Erik remembered the flash of steel in the sunlight as he drew Grandfather Hideyo's katana.  He remembered how the ancient steel shuddered as it had severed tendon and muscle with ease.  He remembered how the body fell out of his way as he rushed to his wife's side.  He remembered the anger that drove him forward like some kind of berserker, uncaring for his own safety, seeking only to destroy his enemy.

He felt that same anger flow through him now.  His vision narrowed to a red-rimmed tunnel.  The sounds of the world faded to a distant buzz.  His heart thudded in his chest, his arms burned with the effort of beating Spike to death, and his face throbbed.  He charged.

Erik released his fury on Spike's bent form.  He rained blows down with reckless abandon, picking his targets as they appeared—back, shoulder, the exposed neck, a hand, a knee—it didn't matter, he struck out at any part of Spike within range.  The image of Spike laying on the ground, a quivering, broken shell of a man drove him forward.  He knew he couldn't keep the frenetic pace up for long and poured all his strength into the crushing attack.  Swing after swing after stab he pushed his own body to the limit, pummeling Spike.

In a desperate attempt to gain space, Spike spun after taking a strong blow to the back of his neck—a strike that would have killed a normal man.  He ignored the next attack on his shoulder and struck out with the crampon as Erik landed the hit.

In the split second before he could pull his pitchfork handle back, Erik felt a jolt of fire flare in his hip.  Knocked sideways, Erik staggered a step and cried out in pain, falling to one knee. A quick glance told him Spike had landed a solid hit with the crampon.   He didn't see any blood.  A glance at Spike explained it all—in his desperation, the convict hadn't reversed his grip.  He'd hit Erik with the flat head of the railroad spike, not the tip.

Spike bellowed and charged him.  One clawing hand reached for Erik's throat, the other brought the dull, glistening crampon in for another stab.  This time, the point was facing the right way to do serious damage.

Erik was having none of it.  It was time to finish things.  He lurched to his feet.

He brought the makeshift sword down with all his remaining strength square in the middle of Spike's forehead.  The impact jarred his arms and with an air-rending crack, the oak handle exploded.  Not missing a step, he moved forward as Spike fell back, stunned.  Before the convict could fully recover, Erik lunged, thrusting the stump of his sword as hard as he could, straight at Spikes neck.

The big man saw the attack at the last second and flinched, the jagged end of Erik's weapon merely grazing his neck.  Erik cursed and spun clockwise, bringing the end of the handle around in a hammer-fist strike.  The blunt end of the handle connected with the side of Spike's bloodied head.  Erik felt a sickening crunch as bone yielded to wood.

They both collapsed to the gravel in a heap of bloody arms and legs.

Erik rose to his knees.  Spike didn't.

That was all the invitation the onlookers needed.  They shoved Erik back and pounced on the inert form of the man who had lorded over them and turned their lives into a living hell.

They tore at Spike's flesh with their hands and teeth—some used broken rocks or bits of trash, whatever they could find.  He turned away from the macabre scene and tried to ignore the screams and curses.

As he looked up from the ground, Erik spotted Brin standing in the middle of Fort Ticonderoga's gate.  Her hands flew to her mouth as she ran to him through the river of tortured humanity struggling to get at Spike.  Erik wrapped his aching arms around her and buried his face in her hair, ignoring the shouts of triumph that exploded around him.  He let her half-drag him through the refugees, heading out the gate.

"It's over," Erik muttered, more for himself than Brin.

Chapter 79

EMP

PO SIN STARED OUT his floor-to-ceiling office window, overlooking the Beijing skyline.  Americans were such a contradictory people—always talking of freedom but treating their citizens like slaves.

Who would have thought they'd launch a military coup in their own country?

That was never something anyone had predicted, even in the old documents and plans from the Cold War he'd used to create the current operation. It just wasn't something Americans did.  They were the ones in the business of rescuing other countries after a coup.  He stared out at the glittering lights of Beijing. It didn't matter anymore, he supposed.

In the morning, he'd receive word Shin Ho had been removed from office—most likely permanently. The Supreme Leader was not pleased with the way things in America had devolved.  The Americans' successful campaign to expel the Russians had freed up most of their southern home guard units.  They'd focus on what was left of the Chinese force in California now.

We failed to link up with that resupply mission on the coast and the second wave is in jeopardy of being destroyed upon arrival. The American surface fleet is encroaching dangerously on the secret locations of our submarines.  He clasped his hands behind his back.  He'd gone over everything in his mind a hundred times and the result was still the same.  The situation had become very dangerous.

America was positioning her forces for a counterattack. Beijing sent a steady stream of diplomatic wishes of goodwill and offers of support—anything to keep Washington occupied until they could get within striking range of the American mainland.  Their last chance was to get Chinese missile subs off the coast of California and threaten retaliation if any action was taken against Beijing.

Po Sin lit another cigarette and smiled, staring out the window at the cityscape. "You see old friend?" he said, speaking the words he wished he could say to Shin Ho's face.  "You stole my thunder—you took everything from me.  You claimed credit for the idea, you got yourself a promotion by presenting it to the Supreme Leader, and you pushed me aside."  He exhaled smoke and frowned.

"You kept me in the background, using my genius—my plan—and my men. This is what you deserve."  He inhaled slowly, letting the luxurious blue-gray smoke fill his lungs with warmth.

In the morning Po Sin would be proclaimed the new Minister of the Interior and take his rightful place in the upper echelon of Chinese politics. He already had an idea of what he wanted to do to remodel Shin Ho's office. The man had no taste—but he did have an excellent side chamber which could be used to entertain Po Sin's girls.

He fairly salivated over the party he would throw to honor himself. He'd have to find an excuse to ship his wife out of town for a few days.  Maybe a week. This one will go down in the history books! It's a shame you won't be there to see it, old friend.

Po Sin laughed, watching the glittering city out his window.  Somewhere downtown an air-raid siren sounded, muffled and eerie on the edge of his hearing.

A storm drill? Now?  He glanced up at the sky.  The bright lights of the city effectively canceled any view of the stars but one of the planets—Venus maybe—glared at him from the heavens.  Clear skies then.  Another drill.  The failure of the Russians must have someone on edge.

He rolled his eyes and continued to smoke. Let them practice their drills. I will not be afraid…

He spotted a white point of light far out to the east. It seemed terribly low for an airplane. There were no blinking navigational lights, either. He stared at the low flying object as it quickly approached—much faster than any airplane he'd ever seen. It was then he noticed the first spotlight slicing across the night sky.  Then another…and another.

His curiosity piqued, Po Sin stared at the light, the cigarette absently burning away between his fingers. Without warning, the light made an abrupt turn and shot straight up into the sky. More spotlights flickered on and lanced up into the sky like white fingers seeking out the unidentified target. The civil defense brigades had been activated.

He squinted through the cigarette smoke.  What the devil is this?

Within seconds the object disappeared high above his office and out of view. He shook his head. As far as he knew there were no test flights scheduled for tonight out of Shahezhen—certainly not over the capitol.

As he finished his thought, night turned to day. His office lit up with the intensity of the noon sun. He cried out in surprise and staggered back from the window, blinded. After the initial shock wore off, Po Sin blinked, rubbing his eyes and stepped forward to the window.

The bright light outside dimmed slowly. He stared at Beijing, revealed in daylight when it should be night. Over the course of the next minute or so, the light faded until it seemed no more than dusk outside. A very pink-tinged dusk. Po Sin pressed his face against the window like a child looking for winter's first snowflak and peered up to find the source of the light. Undulating ribbons of color swirled in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the ground.

The northern lights?  Impossible.  None of it made sense.

Only when he saw the stars—thousands of them glittering like diamonds scattered across a velvet mat in the sky—did know something was terribly wrong.  He glanced down at the city and in a unique moment of self-pity, accepted that his career was effectively over.  The bright light—an explosion—the aurora, never seen this far south—and not a single light on in the city, not even car headlights.

No, they couldn't have…how did it slip through the air defense network?  Po Sin glared at the dark city, seeing the trajectory of the object again in his mind.  That's why it flew so low. A cruise missile. It was the only logical conclusion to reach based on the event he'd just witnessed.

The Americans had finally retaliated. With one detonation they'd obliterated the entire electrical grid in Beijing—most likely a good chunk of China as well.

Is this the only strike?  What about our navy—they've been getting into position to…

Panic gripped his heart. He had to get out of the city. Now.

At any moment, 11 million of people trapped in a powerless Beijing would realize they no longer had working refrigerators or running water.  There would be no more working public utilities, no Internet—no nothing. The factories would not open tomorrow and no one would get paid. China’s capitol was as good as destroyed.

The door to his office burst open and a breathless Fai rushed in, illuminated by starlight and the eerie auroral glow.

"Minister! Did you—"

"Yes, Fai, I saw," Po Sin said urgently.  "Quickly, now—we need to leave!  Do you remember your emergency directives?"

His assistant nodded and his Adam's apple bobbed in the dim light. "Yes, minister!"

Po Sin opened his desk and pulled out a Norinco 213. He tossed the 9mm pistol at Fai then pulled another out and slipped it in his waistband. "Good, let's go.  We must leave.  Now."

"Minister, your wife?  I can call—"

Po Sin laughed. "If we survive tonight, I will happily embrace my status as widower. Now move!"

Chapter 80

Aftermath

ERIK EASED HIMSELF INTO an Adirondack chair and sighed as the pain in his hip subsided.  Taking the weight off his legs helped a lot.  Lucy had done all she could and packed his wounds with her honey-based antibiotics, cleaned him up and proclaimed his hip not broken, but he still felt like he'd been in a car accident.   His cheek throbbed and the hole in his gums where she'd pulled the loose molar out grossed him out, but he'd live.

He closed his eyes as a sudden flare of pain down his leg made its presence known then subsided while he settled his body into a somewhat comfortable position.  A long sigh escaped his lips.

Warm fingers entertained in his.  He turned his head to the left and smiled at Brin, sitting in a matching chair.  She'd hauled the chairs up from the fort curators' house just north of the structure and set them up on the eastern wall.  Now that the battle was over, the gulls circling overhead made the only sounds to be heard.  Shanty Town was quiet.

"They're waiting for you, you know."

Erik sighed again and let his eyes roam out over the still waters of Lake Ticonderoga.  He wondered how many times in the past people had come to the edge of this picturesque lake and just looked, procrastinating some an important decision.

He smiled to himself.  Maybe Benedict Arnold did the same thing hundreds of years ago while he was debating how best to delay the British advance south out of Canada during the Revolution.

"Spike kept the survivors as slaves.  You can't just lead the attack that wiped out his crew and just walk away…"

"Watch me," Erik said quietly.

Brin was quiet for a moment.  "Babe, the folks living in Shanty Town are free for the first time in weeks, if not months.  They're homeless, half-starved, and most are injured.  Lucy's got her hands full down there and we don't have close to the supplies she needs to treat everyone.  Someone needs to organize—"

Erik shook his head.  "I'm retired."  His tongue found the hole in his gums unbidden.  God damn that's weird feeling.

"What?" she asked again.

"I'm done with leading," he said, massaging his cheek.  "I tried that in Florida and we got shit-canned in favor of Lentz and his 'trust the government' crowd.  Remember where that got us?  Our homes burned down, half the people in the Freehold killed…we had to leave and…"

"The Russians…" she said quietly.

"I tried to be a leader then, too."  The faces of the men Stepanovich had killed in retribution for Erik's failed prison break still haunted his sleep.  Just closing his eyes transported him back south, tied to that damn tree in the woods, surrounded by the rotting bodies of the men he'd tried to help.

He shook his head.  "I'm done with leading.  Let someone else take over."

"That kind of thinking got them Spike," Ted said, limping up the ramp on Erik's right.

Erik listened to his friend's boots crunch on the pea gravel strewn across the wall's walkway as he approached.

"You too?" Erik asked.

Ted sighed as he leaned against the wall, gazing out over the lake.  "God damn but it's pretty."

"Yes it is, but the answer's still no."  Erik lay his head back on the chair and closed his eyes.  "Besides, Lucy said I need to be immobile for a while.  Consider me medically disabled for the time being."

"There'll be more Spikes, you know," Ted said.

Erik cracked an eye and looked at his friend in the waning afternoon light.  "Not that Spike, though.  They tore him to pieces."

"True," Ted admitted.  "But he's not the only hard case out there.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but the guys still out there on the sailboat will come back."

"God, I hope not," muttered Erik.  "I need a vacation."

"Sssh," added Brin with a playful squeeze of his hand.

"Someday, another one like Spike is going to show up.  The world we live in now was made for people like him.  People who can mistreat others and abuse others and try to rule others…"

Erik sighed.  "It's the Dark Ages all over again.  The strong will rule the weak and get stronger."

"That sounds about right," muttered Ted.  He rubbed his shoulder and winced.

"As the single thug gains followers and people to work for him—willingly or not—he becomes a chieftain, then a general, then a lord, then a king."  Erik watched the far shoreline for a moment.  "I wonder if there'll be a dozen little kingdoms here in a hundred years or…"

"That all depends on people like you."

Erik squinted up at Ted again.  "How do you figure that?"

Ted stared out over the water.  "You're a leader Erik."

"You're a marine."

"Oorah—but that's different.  I can fight, but you're…I don't know, good at pulling people together.  Organizing.  If those idiots hadn't given in to Lentz back in Florida, we'd probably be fat and happy instead of hungry and bruised.  You get me?  Susan and Mark would still be alive."

"That's not fair," Brin argued.

Erik closed his eyes again, letting what little warmth the late November sun provided soak into his battered body.  He dreaded waking up tomorrow—he'd be stiff as a board and sore without pain relievers.

"But it's the truth," pressed Ted.  "You're the type of person the rest of us need to help us stand up to people like Spike."

Erik looked at his wife and squeezed her hand.  "I only did what everyone wanted to do—"

"But until you arrived, no one did.  Don't you see, man?  You're the opposite of Spike.  Most of us are happy to follow someone and if it's not you, I guarantee someone just like Spike—maybe worse—will come along and try to do what he almost got away with."

"Kill a town?" asked Erik with acid in his voice.  Dad's dead because of that psycho.  Mom's going to take a long time to come out of whatever place she's in.

"Or start a kingdom."

Erik thought about Ted's words.  The scholar in him knew Ted was right: nobles in the middle ages all across Europe weren't noble because God waved a hand and decreed it.  They were just lucky to be the descendants of brutal warriors who took power at the point of a sword when Rome fell and law and order became a memory.

"How many people were in prison across the state—across the country—when the lights went out?" asked Brin quietly.  "How many survived?"  She shook her head.

"No, forget about the prison—there are plenty of opportunistic assholes out there not in prison.  How many of them were only law-abiding before the collapse because they didn't want to go to jail?  When everything fell apart, it would be like…like letting a starving dog off the leash outside a chicken farm.  It's only a matter of time before the dog catches a meal.  And then what?"

"Farmer needs a gun," Ted observed.  "The people need a leader."

"I see your point."  Erik sighed.  "Both of you."

"So?" asked Ted.  "The people are waiting."

Erik craned his stiff neck to look over his shoulder.  "Awww, shit."  The recently cleared parade ground was packed with bedraggled, hopeful faces, most of them standing around staring at him.

"That is definitely not fair."

Brin squeezed his hand.  "They cleared all the loot out so they could see you.  No one told them to."

Erik looked back out over the water, letting his eyes trace the Vermont shoreline south until it met the intimidating mass of land and trees called Mount Independence.  He'd hiked over there with his family every summer growing up.  He knew every trail and path on that promontory, all the best spots to lean between the trees on the cliff face and look at the fort across the water.

"I always wanted to live over there," he said softly.

"The lady that's looking after your mom—Kelly—she's the widow of the dairy farmer who lives just the other side of—what did you call it?"

"Independence.  That's Independence," Erik said, pointing.  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing west.  "The one behind me is Mount Defiance.  The Americans wanted to put canon up there during the Revolution to take the fort."

Ted whistled.  "That's a hell of a climb to drag those two-wheeled bastards without a road."  He turned back to the lake.  "Anyway, Kelly lives over there.  She has cows and fresh milk—she's willing to bring food across if we can help her get things back in order.  Spike did a real number on her farm."

"How did you find all that out?"  Erik asked with a lopsided grin.

"I…uh, well, I mean…she—"

"Are you blushing?" asked Erik.  "You are!"

"Fuck you."

"You're stalling," Brin whispered over Ted's embarrassed stuttering.  She squeezed his hand.

Erik sighed.  "All I wanted was to make it up here and sit by my parents' house, in chairs like these, holding your hand, and watching the sunrise over the lake."

Brin sighed.  "It's a good dream.  And we can still have that."

"Well, you'll have to get a new house…"

"Thanks," muttered Erik.  "You're a real help, Ted."

"Just doing my part.  Duke."

Erik groaned.  "Oh come on.  Don't start that shit again."

"So you'll do it, then?" asked Ted.  Erik didn't need to look at him to see the smile on his face.  Before Erik could answer, Ted turned toward the parade ground and raised his arms.

"He said yes!"

"Damn it, Ted!" Erik hissed.

The ragged cheer that exploded behind him sent a shiver down Erik's spine.  He reached out a hand to Ted.  "Help me up, you bastard.  I can't just sit here while they're all cheering."

With Ted on one side and Brin supporting his other, Erik stood and faced the people.  His people.  Someone got a weak chant started.  "Dux…dux…dux…"

"Are you serious?" Erik asked.  "You taught them that?"

Ted cracked a grin, his face a mess of cuts and bruises.  "Dux bellorum, right?  War leader in Latin—that's what you told me back at the Freehold, right?"

"Asshole."

"They love you," Brin marveled.  She squeezed his free hand.

"For now," Erik replied.  He waved, and the people cheered.  "We've got a hard winter ahead of us," he muttered, looking out over the hopeful faces.

Ted chuckled.  "That's the old Duke we know and love."

Erik glanced at his friend while the people in the courtyard continued their obscene chanting.  "We'll see how happy you are when I announce you're our chief of security.  Again."

Ted's smile faded.  "Hey, we only have a few people who can fight, and most of them are twice my age.  Not much for me to be chief of—”

"Ah, the trials of leadership," answered Erik as he waved to the crowd below.  "Ain't that a bitch?"

"So what's the first order, oh wise and merciful Duke Erik," quipped Brin, hugging him gently around the waist.

"Ow.  Easy on the battle wounds, there."  She squeezed harder.  "Ow!  All right, all right."  Erik took in a deep breath and surveyed the fort.  The fire in the gate house had been put out, but the smoke lingered and the structure was still hot.

"First thing we have to do is get that fire 100% out," he said, gesturing at the gatehouse.  "If that thing burns, we'll lose a lot of living space and it'll compromise the integrity of the fort itself."

"Living space?" asked Brin.

"Yeah, that's the old enlisted men's barracks.  You don't think we're going to live in what's left of the town, do you?  We're going to move as many people as we can inside the fort.  There's not that many survivors left, unfortunately.  I think we'll all fit.  We may have to modify some of the buildings a bit…"

He waved again to the crowd, setting off a new round of applause and cheering.

"God, they're desperate aren't they?"

"Yep," answered Ted.  He raised his rifle in the air and the noise intensified.  "And thankful."

"They need to eat."  Erik looked at the red-tiled roof of the gunpowder storage building on the east wall.

"Everyone," he called out, his voice echoing across the parade ground.  He raised both arms, wincing at the effort.  "Everyone calm down, okay?"  Eventually silence returned to the ancient fort.

"Thank you for placing your trust in me.  I don't deserve it—"

"Bullshit!" someone called out from down below.  "You killed Spike!"

"You did—I merely knocked him out."  The crowd thundered in approval.  They were wholly unrepentant for what had happened to Spike.  Erik glanced at the dark stain on the gravel near the gatehouse, the last reminder of what had been the evil that reigned over this place.  He didn't know what happened to the body, or what was left of it—and he cared less.  Spike was gone.

"Spike and his crew spent their time stealing and killing, building up a huge stockpile of food and supplies taken from everyone they could reach.  It's enough for ten times the number of people he had.  I know some of you may be uncomfortable eating the spoils of their raids…but if we don't, the people who died—who gave up this food we now have—they will have died in vain."

The crowd grew deathly silent.  Erik cleared his throat.  "That said, if we're careful, that food can see us all through the winter."

The crowd roared.  Several people fell to their knees in tears.

"We'll need volunteers to help our surgeon—"

"Lucy's a surgeon now?" asked Brin playfully.

The shouts went out as people raised their arms, offering to help.

"Ted, can you find Lucy and have her meet with the volunteers?"

"On it," Ted replied.  He limped toward the stairs.

"Once the wounded have been seen to, let's all get something to eat.  I'll need a volunteer to run the kitchens—"

More than one person nominated Maggie.  She smiled, the fresh pink scratches on her face in stark contrast to the white hair around her shoulders.  She handed her shotgun to the nearest man and retied her pony tail.

"I guess it's time to start cooking."  The crowd cheered again.

"Maggie, can you handle a big Thanksgiving?" asked Erik.  "It's only a week away…anyone have any objections to celebrating a little early?"

The crowd cheered again.

Erik raised his arms.  "I want to warn you right now," Erik said, dampening the spirit of the crowd instantly.  "There's rough times ahead.  We can't just empty the stores in one day.  We're going to have to ration what we have to last us all through the winter and into next year.  We've had some early snow and I'm no farmer, but I don't think that bodes well for the rest of the season—we'll need to start crops as soon as the spring thaw hits."

"We'll survive," someone said.  "We always have."

"That's going to be our motto," Erik replied somberly.  "We survive."

A knot of people clustered around the base of the flagpole in the center of the courtyard drew his attention.  In a few seconds he understood what they were doing.

An old, tattered Betsy Ross flag rose to the renewed cheers of the survivors.  The threadbare flag reached the top of the pole and snapped in the breeze.  It reminded him of the flag he flew atop the Keep, back before the Freehold fell.

Brin rested her head against his shoulder and sighed.  "We made it."

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MARCUS GRADUATED FROM the University of Delaware and later earned his J.D. at the age of 26.  Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a highly over-qualified stock boy, cashier, department manager at a home furnishings store, assistant manager with a national arts and crafts chain, an acting store manager with the same chain, an unemployed handyman, husband, cook, groundskeeper, spider-killer extraordinaire, stay-at-home-dad, and writer.

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Books by Marcus Richardson

The Future History of America

Book I: Alea Jacta Est

Book II: Sic Semper Tyrannis

Book III: Dux Bellorum

The Wildfire Saga

Book I: Apache Dawn

Book II: The Shift

Book III: Firestorm

Other Books in the Wildfire Saga

False Prey (Novella)

The Wildfire Bundle (Books I-III)