“We have iodine pills,” said the husband.
“Try to strain the water through a T-shirt before filling your CamelBaks. Kids don’t like to find sinkers and bobbers in their water. Keep a low profile, and don’t take any deals that seem too good to be true. We’ve had reports of militia units doing some nasty shi—stuff further north.”
“Jesus,” muttered the wife.
“Trust nobody but family. It’s getting bad out there,” said Alex.
“That’s why we’re leaving,” said the husband. “We’ve heard the city is out of control past the Charles, and it’s about to spill over.”
Alex tilted his head, catching the sound of a diesel engine. Headlights flashed along the bushes across Lawrence Road, headed in their direction.
“Grab the kids!”
Alex grabbed both of the parents by their backpack chest straps and yanked them around the corner into a scorched evergreen bush. The kids screamed, causing the wife to break loose and pull at Ed. Alex jerked her backward by her hair, and she screamed.
“Shut up!” he hissed, clamping his hand over her mouth.
Ed managed to corral the kids into the shadows as a large, wheeled military vehicle rumbled past Ashcroft Road, heading east on Lawrence. The woman bit his hand, and he let go, giving her enough leverage to twist around and punch him in the mouth. He grabbed her wrist before she could pull it back to hit him again.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people? Why didn’t you want them to see you?” she demanded.
“Avoid contact with any government units if feasible. Make no assumptions. Can you navigate the Middlesex reservation?”
She stared at him, poised to strike again. “What’s going on out there?” she asked.
“Nobody knows.”
The woman took both children by the hand and pulled them out of the bushes. Her husband stood there, frozen.
“Are you coming? We need to get as far away from here as possible. We should have left yesterday like I said. I
knew
it. If these guys can’t even trust each other,” she said, pointing at Alex and the distant vehicle, “we’re utterly fucked.”
The woman grabbed the hand of one of her kids, angrily motioned for her husband to do the same, and they stalked off.
“That went really well,” said Ed when they turned a corner. “How’s your face?”
“Still have all of my teeth. She bit me. You see that?” said Alex, picking up the pace.
“Can you blame her? ‘Grab the kids’?” said Ed. “We’re lucky she didn’t stab one of us. Hey, on the bright side, you sounded convincing back there.”
“That’s about the only thing that went right.”
“And we didn’t get machine-gunned by the truck. Maybe walking the streets with an assault rifle isn’t the best idea with armored personnel carriers cruising the streets,” said Ed. “Especially at night. Can you break that thing down?”
“I can’t hide your Ruger. It’s one piece. Carrying a civilian rifle will look even more conspicuous,” said Alex.
“More than your SEAL Team Six gun?”
“I’ll try to keep it out of sight for now,” said Alex. “Once we get over the Mystic, we won’t stick out.”
“Except we’ll be going in the opposite direction,” said Ed.
“People will be going everywhere. We’ll be fine.”
Alex peeked around the corner, scanning the street toward Governors Avenue. A blood-orange band of sky stretched across the western horizon, hanging above the quiet street. A few stragglers moved up the sidewalk in the distance. They’d have to be extremely cautious crossing open spaces, especially streets.
Just hours after the “event,” the Department of Homeland Security issued orders to disarm citizens on sight. Thirty-six hours later, those orders might include “shoot on sight” considerations. Armed men sneaking around at night would go at the top of that list. The M240G machine gun mounted to the Joint Light Tactical Vehicle turret would make short work of them, no matter where they tried to hide.
“Just a walk in the park,” he mumbled.
Chapter 39
EVENT +41:58 Hours
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Alex leaned against a tree and lifted his night vision goggles to check his watch. Four miles in three hours. The pace was agonizingly slow, but it had kept them out of trouble. After Medford, they strictly avoided commercial or business districts, opting for the quiet, pitch-black neighborhoods that most of the refugees avoided. They couldn’t avoid crossing major roads, but the continuous migration east toward Interstate 93 kept the main thoroughfares busy, providing enough urban camouflage to slip across and disappear. They’d seen two police cars and one military vehicle during their journey.
“Let’s stop here and take a break,” said Ed.
The smell of barbequed chicken wafted into the street, chased by raucous laughter.
“Probably not the best place for a pit stop.”
Alex took out the GPS plotter and examined the map. “Point eight miles to the Boston University Bridge. We’re almost there.”
“Alex, I need to stop. We’re about to run out of quaint, cobblestone-sidewalk streets to hide on. We need to find a quiet spot to rest up and eat. Try to learn something from the radio traffic Charlie’s been able to pick up. He’s been hearing about the marines guarding the bridges. We might be wasting our time headed to the BU bridge. Shit, that chicken smells good.”
“Judging by the laughter, I suspect the beer isn’t bad either,” Alex remarked.
Another round of laughter emptied into the street.
“Pretty careless to advertise like this,” said Ed.
“Maybe they don’t care,” said Alex. “There’s a park ahead. We’ll cut through and find a place to hide.”
Alex dropped his night vision goggles back in place and took a moment to scan the street ahead. Most of the three-story homes were pitch black. A few windows flickered bright green, indicating a candle. Nothing out of place beyond careless laughter and the smell of mesquite. He started forward, but the sudden appearance of green glow on the southern horizon stopped him. A deep, distant thumping reached his ears several seconds later, reminding him of a sound he hadn’t heard in over fifteen years. The eerie glow flickered and disappeared, replaced moments later by a similar, over-the-horizon shimmer.
“Hear that?” asked Alex.
“Can I say no?” said Ed.
“It’s usually not a good idea to ignore heavy-machine-gun fire. Probably the marines, or whoever is down there. I think they’re using aerial flares.”
“What could possibly require the use of a fifty-caliber machine gun?”
“Zombies,” said Alex.
“That’s not even funny.”
Alex approached the three-way intersection cautiously, weaving them between parked cars. The military vehicles they had spotted in Somerville didn’t use headlights, the drivers relying on night vision equipment to navigate the shadowy streets.
“Stay here,” Alex instructed. “Sennott Park should be across the street. Sounds too quiet to be another triage center or refugee camp.”
He slid along the remaining cars, crouching low and searching for signs of activity beyond the stripped bushes and trees on the other side of Broadway. He could identify a children’s playground directly ahead, and something to the left of it that looked familiar. Two bright green lines reached out from the edge of the park, terminating somewhere directly in front of him. He let his rifle hang loose in its sling and raised his hands high above his head.
“Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“Put your hands as high as possible in the air, and step into the street,” said Alex.
“Why?”
“So the marines don’t kill you. I think we ran right into their headquarters.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” whispered Ed.
“I’m not joking. They’re almost on us. Don’t make any sudden moves, and do exactly what they say,” said Alex.
A diesel engine roared to life, swallowing his voice. A brilliant light whitewashed the green image of figures moving in his direction. He squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to move his hands to flip up the NVGs. A sizable vehicle screeched to a halt in front of him, a large-caliber weapon most assuredly centered on his body.
“Don’t move! United States Marines!” they screamed repeatedly.
He had no intention of moving, not even a twitch. He hoped Ed had the sense to do the same. Rough hands yanked his arms back while others groped for his rifle and pistol. He was disarmed in a matter of seconds. His night vision goggles were ripped from his head; then he was thrown face first onto the cobblestone.
The impact jammed the triple-stacked rifle magazines attached to his tactical rig into his chest and abdomen, knocking the wind out of him. He groaned as his face was pushed into the curb. His wrists were squeezed together, pulled unbearably tight by military-grade zip ties. Sharp surges of pain exploded at multiple points along his legs and sides as his gear was stripped with knives. He struggled, but was hit in the lower back with a rifle stock. The flat end of a bloodied knife was jammed against his right eye, the point digging into his temple.
“Stay down, or I’ll cut your fucking eyes out,” a voice hissed, the smell of wintergreen chewing tobacco inches from his face.
“Can you believe this fucker was trying to ghost us?” someone called out.
“He’s a stone-cold killer,” said Wintergreen.
“I wasn’t trying—”
The serrated blade pressed into his lips. Alex grimaced.
“Nobody asked for your opinion.”
He felt the marine’s hot, tobacco-heavy breath against the side of his face before everything faded.
Chapter 40
EVENT +43:10 Hours
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Alex fixated on the steady rumble of an industrial generator. He pulled at his restraints, confirming once again that he wasn’t going anywhere. The marines had stretched him prone and mercilessly secured his limbs to the four corners of the bare metal bed frame with zip ties. Moonlight from the room’s single window exposed a dark trickle rolling down his blood-encrusted left arm. His captors had tightened the plastic restraint too high on the wrist, digging into the thicker metacarpal bones.
The slightest movement reopened the wound, yet he still gave the zip ties an angry tug every few minutes—or what he thought was a few minutes. He had no idea. He faded in and out with no true concept of time. He knew it was nighttime, but that was about it. He couldn’t tell if it was the same night or three days later. He hadn’t soiled himself, so he guessed it hadn’t been very long.
He stared at the half-illuminated striped mattress lying across the desk next to his bed, one end sagging out of sight toward the floor. Another desk and bed sat pushed against the wall in the opposite corner. The marines had stripped Alex down to his underwear and left him to rot in a sweltering, stagnant college dorm room.
They’d done exactly what he would have done in the same situation: locked him up for later. They couldn’t afford to waste any time or energy on vetting Alex Fletcher. The situation in Boston would continue to deteriorate, occupying more of their attention and resources until the city reached a critical mass, forcing the marines to withdraw. He just hoped they didn’t forget about him. They’d have little warning when it happened.
He lowered his head onto the metal frame and prayed for sleep. Anything to get his mind off the fact that he had effectively doomed Ryan and Chloe. Best-case scenario, the marines released them without their gear and they returned to the Jeep to gear up and try again. Worst-case scenario, the city fell apart around the marines and they were forgotten—or discarded. He’d let his guard down approaching Sennott Park. A stupid, exhaustion-fueled mistake that could cost them everything. Alex yawned, welcoming the waves of fatigue washing over him.
The door burst open, causing him to tense against the zip ties. Bright lights focused on the bed; boots shuffled through the room. He turned his head to the right, anticipating a vicious punch.
“Get one of the corpsman in here! What the fuck did you do to this guy?” said a gruff voice.
“He tried to ambush us,” said a marine hidden behind one of the flashlights.
A hollow snap dropped Alex’s left leg to the bed frame.
“Careful with the snips. You guys already did a number on him,” said a staff sergeant, leaning far enough into one of the beams for Alex to make a rank identification.
One by one, the rest of his limbs fell to the steel frame. They felt heavy, almost useless. A CamelBak hose was pressed against his mouth, and he turned away.
“It’s just water, Mr. Fletcher.”
Mr. Fletcher?
They must have checked his ID. He drank from the hose for several seconds, letting the excess water dribble down the side of his mouth onto the black-and-white checkered linoleum tile beneath the bed. The hose tasted like chewing tobacco, but he didn’t care. He let the hose drop from his mouth and closed his eyes for a few moments, letting the fluid settle.
“You need to drink more.”
“You got one that doesn’t taste like Skoal?” said Alex. “Just kidding, sergeant. Thank you.”
“This is going to hurt a little,” said the corpsman, sprinkling powder from a green packet onto Alex’s wrist.
He tried to yank his hand away from the intense stinging, but the corpsman held it in place.
“Fuck, Doc. What
is
that?”
“It’s a combination of Celox and disinfectant. The disinfectant part stings a little,” said the corpsman.
“No shit,” Alex groaned.
“I need to rub this in all of your cuts. I don’t have time to wrap all of them.”
“Sprinkle away, Tinkerbell,” said Alex, bracing for the burn.
“No time for that,” called a sharp voice from the doorway. “Battalion commander would like a word with you.”
“I need to wrap the wrist, sir. Zip ties cut him pretty deep,” said the corpsman, digging through his med kit.
“Tidy up the wrist, and get him down to the TOC (Tactical Operations Center), Corpsman.” He turned to Alex. “Can you walk?”
“I should be fine, Captain. They didn’t hobble me.”