“I’m just keeping these two out of trouble,” said Charlie, holding his hands up.
“Doesn’t look like that worked out so well,” he said, sticking his hand through the window behind Charlie.
“We ran a militia checkpoint at the Maine border,” blurted Ed.
“These people are headed for a frosty reception up north,” added Charlie.
“Everyone remembers the fires that broke out during the pandemic. The riots. They’re trying to get ahead of it this time,” said the officer, motioning to the crowds.
“I give it a few days,” said Alex.
“I don’t know. Take a look around. A quarter of these people are carrying concealed weapons. Some don’t even bother to conceal them. We’re just here for show at this point. Same with the marines down along the river,” said the officer.
“Sometimes that’s all it takes. I was with the marines outside of Baghdad in 2003. We did show-of-force missions like this all the time. One Humvee and four marines could keep an entire city block from reaching critical mass,” said Alex.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a fifty cal mounted to my police car. When this goes to shit, we’re out of here,” said the officer.
“You need to be long gone before that, Officer,” said Alex.
“We can’t leave yet.”
“The first rock thrown at your car, the first tough guy that doesn’t back down after you’ve drawn your pistol, the first bullet fired in your direction—you get the fuck out of here. Two pistols and a shotgun will buy you a minute tops if this goes crazy. A fifty cal might buy you two or three more. We learned that the hard way.”
The officer stared at him and nodded. “All right. Good luck, guys. You need to be really careful with this thing down past Medford. Someone will blow your brains out for it. No warning. We’ve seen a lot of cars with blood-splattered windows.”
“Appreciate the heads up, Officer—Kennedy,” Alex said, studying his nametag. “Any relation to—”
“You think I’d be driving a patrol car?” interrupted the officer. “Be careful down there. Don’t flash any of that hardware until you have to. I assume everything you have buried under the blankets is legal in Massachusetts,” he said, patting Ed’s door and stepping back.
“Perfectly legal,” said Alex. “Thank you, Officer Kennedy.”
Ed drove them through the intersection, picking up speed on the wider streets beyond the downtown area. Alex twisted and looked directly behind his seat.
“What the fuck, Charlie? I can see one of the goddamn barrels sticking out of the blanket.”
“I had my hand over it!” said Charlie.
“You raised both hands—right when the cop looked in your window!”
“Hey, I didn’t have a lot of time to hide this shit. You threw your rifle at me. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
“Uh, I don’t know. How about make sure the barrel isn’t visible? That’s probably at the top of the list.”
“Well, nothing happened,” said Charlie. “It’s over.”
“Because we got lucky,” muttered Alex.
They rode in silence until the Jeep slowed in front of an empty gas station. Alex compared the GPS map to the street sign next to his window. A vast stretch of naked trees flanked the road ahead.
“This looks like the beginning of the Middlesex reservation. It’s less than a mile to the turnoff,” said Alex.
“This isn’t going to work,” said Ed.
“What isn’t?”
“We can’t hide the Jeep with this many people around. Especially with the trees stripped like this,” said Ed, slowing the Jeep.
“Yes, we can,” said Alex. “I’m seeing plenty of scrub and smaller trees with leaves. We’ll go a half mile in if we have to.”
Ed shook his head and repeated, “Not with this many people around.”
“We’ll be fine.”
“If we lose the Jeep, the plan is screwed, Alex,” Ed insisted.
“Ed, we’ll be fine. The entrance to the parking area is less than a mile away. GPS shows a road off the parking lot heading deeper into the reservation. We’ll find a path off that road and hide the jeep. Nobody’s out for a nature hike today.”
“People will see us turn into the park—and they will look for us. It’s hard to hide a Jeep behind twigs.”
“Then what do you think we should do?”
“We’ve gone this far without any trouble. I say we go for it.”
“Go for what?” said Alex.
“Try to drive through to the kids,” said Ed.
“Are you kidding me, Ed? This is not—no, I’m about to lose it here. Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”
“Shit. Here we go,” mumbled Charlie.
Alex turned to face him. “Feel free to weigh in on a decision once in a while.”
“These are your kids,” countered Charlie. “The two of you need to work this out—and fast.”
“There’s nothing to work out! You heard what the cop said. Marines are running the show north of the Charles. How’s that gonna work when we get stopped in our most conspicuous vehicle? ‘Just driving a car full of military grade weapons across the river. Nothing to see here, Sergeant.’ Add to that a million plus people staring out of their apartment windows, all thinking the same thing: ‘Wish I could trade this gun for a car.’ Then along comes a four-wheel-drive vehicle with Maine plates! You want to try to drive this thing all the way through, go for it. It’s your car. Just drop me off up here with my shit, and I’ll walk it. Switzerland back there can stay with you if he wants a bullet in the head. Sorry to force you into a decision, Charlie.”
“Charlie?” asked Ed.
“Yes?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think this is my—”
“Bullshit, Charlie. You’re making it worse by not weighing in,” said Ed.
“I agree,” said Alex.
“First time we’ve agreed in a while,” said Ed. “Charlie, we’re coming up on the turnoff. I know you have an opinion.”
“You sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes,” both Alex and Ed responded.
“We need to hide the jeep, even if it means walking an extra mile or two to make sure it won’t be found.”
“All right. We ditch the Jeep in the reservation,” said Ed resignedly.
“The turnoff should be right—there,” said Alex, pointing at a granite slab etched with “Sheepfold Middlesex Reservation.”
Ed turned the Jeep and edged forward, clearing people out of the way. A few fists pounded the hood in protest, but nothing serious materialized as they forced their way through the refugees.
“Chandler Road should be on the left, just after the turnoff for the parking lot. Anyone following us?”
“Negative,” said Charlie.
Alex handed him the binoculars. “Make sure.”
“All it’ll take is one downed tree on this road to stop us,” said Ed. “There’s no room to go around.”
“Most of the trees we’ve seen down are smaller than this,” Alex said, failing to hide the doubtful look on his own face.
Chandler Road ran east/west from the parking lot to the reservoir, following the same directional axis as the air blast. Any flattened trees should land within the forest. Alex was more concerned about the eight-hundred-foot north/south stretch along the reservoir, where an upended tree could fall laterally across the road, blocking them from reaching Middle Reservoir Road.
Middle Reservoir Road was the only route he could find on the GPS plotter that could take them west, deeper into the reservation. What were the chances that an eight-hundred-foot north/south-oriented section of road in the middle of a forest preserve would be clear?
“Up there,” said Alex, pointing toward an unmarked dirt road. “Watch the road behind us, Charlie. If anyone appears while we’re turning, we have a decision to make.”
“We’re clear,” said Charlie, as the Jeep squeezed onto a tight path cut through the trees.
“This is a road?” asked Ed.
“That’s what it says. Shit. Can you get by that?”
“Looks like it,” said Ed, pulling the Jeep as far to the left as possible without clipping the side mirror on a tree.
Jagged branches scraped against the passenger side of the Jeep, snapping and cracking as Ed coaxed them past a massive, torn branch. A ruler-sized piece popped into Alex’s lap.
“Dead?” he said, snapping it with little effort.
“Root system looked fine. Shallow, but healthy,” said Charlie.
Alex examined one of the pieces more closely, rubbing it between his fingers. “I think this was singed,” he said, passing it back to Charlie.
“I don’t know. But it’s definitely dried out,” Charlie said, sniffing it. “Smells a little smoky.”
“Everything smells like that. Right or left at the reservoir?” asked Ed.
Alex looked up at the calm, glittering water ahead. “Left. This has to be damage from the blast,” he said, holding up the branch. “I don’t see any leaves on the ground—anywhere. I bet the leaves burst into flames from the initial flash, and the air blast extinguished the fires a few minutes later, like when you blow out a candle.”
“Look at the bushes. Totally fine,” Ed noted.
“The treetop fires would be caused by thermal radiation. Like a sunburn,” said Alex.
“A really bad sunburn,” said Charlie.
“SPF 1000 bad. The radiation only lasts for milliseconds, so the leaves probably blocked most of it from reaching the ground. I bet we’ll find some burnt spots where the trees thin out,” said Alex.
“I think this is the end of the road,” announced Ed.
The Jeep stopped in front of a one-and-a-half-foot-diameter tree trunk raised two feet above the ground—pitched perfectly across the ten-foot-wide dirt path. The top of the tree lay in the calm.
“No problem. We can get this thing out of the way in a couple of minutes unless it’s jammed in the trees on the other side,” said Alex, hopping down from the Jeep.
Charlie winced. “We should have brought my chainsaw.”
“I thought about it. Charlie, keep an eye on the road behind us. Ed, I’ll need your help.”
“Got it covered,” said Charlie, pulling his rifle out of the pile stuffed under the blanket.
Alex walked to the back of the Jeep with Ed and opened the rear gate. He moved the red gas containers and dug underneath the blankets. His hand emerged holding a thick coil of royal blue boating line.
“I just hope it can handle the strain. We’ll have to go really easy.”
They tied the thick rope around the tree at the closest point to the water’s edge.
“We tie the other end to the bumper and ease the Jeep back as far as we can go until the line starts to slip,” said Alex. “You’re driving.”
“I’m always driving,” said Ed.
Ed kept the Jeep’s motion smooth, pulling the tree slowly. The tree resisted initially, as it broke free from the reservoir’s muddy grip. Alex gauged the strain on the line, guiding Ed with hand signals. When they had finished the first round, the tree lay mostly in the road, branches aimed at the Jeep. Ed craned his head into the passenger seat to gauge their effort.
“I still can’t get through without flipping this thing into the reservoir,” he said.
“We’re not done yet. We’ll wrap the line around the thickest tree we can find on the left side of the road—”
“Pulling the tree from a different angle,” finished Ed.
“Elementary, dear Watson. Elementary—in theory,” said Alex.
Ed smiled for the second time Alex could recall today.
“We’re gonna make it,” stated Ed, nodding gently.
“Still have a long way to go—but yes. I don’t see anything stopping us.”
“I wish I had more of your optimism,” said Ed.
“I’m just better at ignoring reality,” said Alex, slapping his shoulder lightly.
Chapter 34
EVENT +35:47 Hours
Acton, Maine
Eli Russell’s feet hit the pavement before the pickup truck had skidded to a halt. Dave Connolly, a grizzly, two-hundred-twenty-pound barrel of a man, rushed toward him.
“Eli, you don’t want to see this. We’ll get to the bottom of it. I promise,” he said, holding up two hands.
“Touch me and I’ll kill you, Dave. Everyone! Out of the fucking way,” he said, parting a crowd of sweaty, MultiCam-clad militia.
“Who moved the fucking bodies?” he said, addressing Connolly.
“Nobody moved nothing, Eli. This is how we found ’em.”
“None of us touched shit,” added the man closest to the pile of bodies.
“Nobody fucking asked you!” barked Eli, pointing a finger at him. “Get control of your men, or I’ll find someone else to run your squad.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Buddy, move them to the other side of the street, and wait for instructions. No dicking around over there.”
“Do you want them in formation on the road?” asked Buddy.
“Just get the fuck out of your commander’s way!” yelled Connolly. “Sorry about that, sir.”
The gaggle of AR-15-cradling Maine Liberty Militiamen scattered out of Eli’s way, exposing the scene. Lifeless eyes stared skyward, barely visible under a shifting layer of flies. Two of the bodies lay side by side, pulled halfway out of the blood-caked mound of twisted limbs and contorted faces. The sharp smell of feces permeated the humid air. Eli approached his brother’s body. His fists clenched. A faint, gravel boot print appeared on his brother’s right cheek.
“Nobody touched my brother?” whispered Eli.
“Nobody. I was with the first group here. Sorry, Eli. I don’t know what to say,” said Connolly.
“You don’t say another word. That’s what you say,” he whispered, fixated on his baby brother’s gore-covered face.
Jimmy had been nothing but trouble from an early age, spending a solid chunk of his life locked up in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Eli had spent the same amount of time trying to keep him out. He’d always been a good kid with bad ideas. Really bad ideas—which was why he’d been the perfect choice to run the Milton Mills operation. The militia needed vehicles, lots of vehicles, but they couldn’t go around confiscating them from the constituency. Not yet.
Selling safe passage across the border to fleeing motorists had been Eli’s brainchild from the beginning, along with a few other flashes of genius. He’d dispatched Jimmy’s special-missions platoon on two missions within hours of the blast.
First priority was to barricade the crossing at Milton Mills with a skeleton crew. Traffic would be light for most of the morning, as people struggled with the decision to abandon their homes and flee north. The vehicle-snatching operation could afford a short delay while Jimmy personally handled the second task: a series of targeted assassinations focused on the York County sheriffs assigned to patrol western York County townships.