“I’m Leon. I really appreciate it,” Leon said, still breathing hard. “Trying to get home to my wife and my boys.” And I just killed a man and I’m wearing his gun. Good Lord.
“The country’s gone insane,” Burt said. His voice was southern and rocky. “Don’t mean we gotta join it. They say there’s war.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, join the club. Buncha assholes in Washington doing what they do.”
“No shortage of those,” Leon agreed.
“I thought it was all just talk. I guess not. I don’t know what things have come to.” He chuckled. “Whoa there, we’re doing twenty-five. Get my smellin’ salts. What line of work you in, Leon?”
“Landscaping.”
“Ah, yeah. That’s an honest trade.” Burt nodded as though Leon had uttered something profound. “You served? If you don’t mind me askin’?”
“Yeah. Army.”
“Me too,” Burt said. “Six years stateside. Got out before the first Gulf War.”
“I hope this doesn’t last.”
“Naw, it’ll be over quick. People ain’t as dumb as Washington thinks. We got problems, but nothing worth killing everybody over. Folks’ll see that pretty soon. It’ll take some time to set things right again. But maybe we’ll be better off in the end. Maybe. Then again, if what they’re saying on the radio is true, maybe not. My wife always said I wore rose-colored glasses.”
“There’s a whole world full of hate out there, Burt.”
“I know it. But the nasty folks have always been the loudest. Sooner or later, they get drowned out by the rest of us, the ones not so full of venom.”
“Well, I hope you’re right.”
“Uh-huh.” Burt hunched over the wheel, squinting into the misting rain. A half mile away, blue lights flashed on both sides of the road. The truck had not moved in twenty minutes.
More than anything, Leon wanted to put his arms around his wife and his boys. He wanted to pretend today had never happened.
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
Jessie Johnson, a man who had lied to himself so many times he could no longer distinguish fact from fiction, racked the 12-gauge, put it on his shoulder, and strode down his muddy driveway. He was feeling bulletproof, and it wasn’t just the case of Old Milwaukee he’d consumed. This day was like Super Bowl Sunday and the first day of deer season all rolled into one.
His bulky cammo coat was threadbare but warm. The sun had gone down fast and it felt like the rain might turn to snow overnight. He stood next to his dilapidated mailbox, swaying slightly, realizing he did not know exactly what he wanted to do. Let it out. That’s it. Just explode like a bomb.
He noticed that the lights inside the trailers had gone out while he was walking. The street had gone dark. All except for the trailer directly across the street. Somehow, their power kicked back on. He could see the huge flat-screen through the window. One of those fancy new 3-D jobs. The family who lived there were Mexicans. Probably ten of ‘em piled up on top of each other. They got a television they probably stole. Probably stole the power too.
He raised the shotgun, aware that he was lurching and his aim was unsteady even though he was not moving. He wanted to shoot out the window and kill that big TV. The front door opened.
“Hey, Marshall!” the man said. What was his name? Alejandro or Hondo or some spic shit. I could shoot him right now.
“Hey, man,” said Santiago. “Hey, I’ve got a generator. You need to store any food or anything, let me know.”
“Do what?” Jessie said, faintly pleased the man had referred to him correctly. Jessie lowered his weapon.
“Just trying to be a good neighbor, man,” Santiago said. “Spread the word. If we’re still without power tomorrow, we gonna have us a neighborhood cookout.”
“All right,” Jessie said. He felt strange, unfulfilled. Maybe I should go home and sleep this one off. I can kill his TV tomorrow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Incoming
ALBERTA, CANADA
Henry crawled out of the snow shelter he’d spent the night in. Dawn was gray and frozen. He and Carlos had dug burrows into a drift in the dead of the night because the snow would help to conceal their heat signatures from drones, satellites, and anything else with bad intentions that might be hunting them. They hoped the attackers would decide their mission was complete.
Carlos was already up and looking around. “I was really hoping some of our guys might cut our trail and show up. Some of them might have made it.”
“Maybe we should go back?” Henry already knew the answer, but felt compelled to put the question out there. He needed confirmation.
“No. You know the drill. They’ll do what we did. Evade the enemy. If there were wounded back there, the guys sent to kill us got to them already.”
Henry tore into an MRE and ate a cold burrito. He’d lost friends before, but never so many. He was still numb. He needed a plan. He needed explanations. He had neither, just a sense of desolation.
He pulled out a snapshot of Taylor and Suzanne he kept with him in one of his chest pockets, right next to field dressings, tape, and painkillers. The photograph, unposed and natural, was one he’d taken a year ago of a perfect moment. Suzanne and Taylor playing in the pool, laughing in the sun. He stared at it for a time in silence. It was like a door to yesterday, a tiny portal with warmth and light and hope filtering between worlds, and more than anything, he yearned to slip through and become a part of that other world, to go back in time and place. He gazed at the picture with longing, like if he stared long enough, the door would open and he could step through.
“You okay?” Carlos said.
“Good to go.”
“Let’s get moving, brother. We’ve got a lot of hard miles to cover.”
“Copy that.” Henry put his rucksack over his shoulders with a leaden feeling in his legs. They moved out into the wilderness, trudging south.
The woods were lonely and silent, as if the snow sucked the sound from the world and hid it beneath a blanket of white. The branches on the trees were naked of leaves and coated with an armor of snow and ice, and the pine and spruce stands were heavy laden, branches weeping to the powder. There was an air of quiet expectation, as if the mountain held its breath, waiting to exhale.
They took a brief stop at around noon. Henry sat on an exposed boulder and gobbled down an energy bar.
“So who were those troopers?” Henry said. “And who dropped the bombs?”
“Yeah. My wheels are turning,” Carlos said. He had his big hands wrapped around the mouthpiece of his CamelBak drinking tube to thaw some ice buildup there.
“I think the first guys, the ones on the ground, probably were air force commandos out of Malmstrom. Now, why they got dispatched, I have no idea. I think maybe the colonel stirred up a hornet’s nest with his inquiries.”
“And the bombs? The UAVs?”
“You got me, Henry. Somebody wanted to be damn sure the Wolves were dead. Dropped ordnance on their own guys. In Canada, no less.”
“One of the things that’s got me concerned,” Henry said, “is that they know who we are, whoever they are. If they figure out we made it, they may keep coming.”
“I’ve got no family,” Carlos said, his voice flat. “I’ll get you home, Henry. I swear.”
“I appreciate that, my friend. Maybe we’re just paranoid.” But he knew otherwise. Would they go after my family to get to me? If they think I know something I shouldn’t, then, yes.