by Jim Heskett
After leaving, the first stop was the town of Boulder. When Canyon Road emptied out of the mountains and became a city street, White paused to let the car idle. After a few seconds of silence, he killed the engine. The leafless trees of a park next to the street threw fractured shadows across the hood of the car.
“What do you think?” White said.
“I think we should check downtown,” Kellen said, “and then maybe the campus. Some of those buildings might be a good place to hide.”
“It’s not a big city,” White said, “but it’s not exactly a tiny town, either. We could be looking around for a while.”
Kellen craned his neck toward the back seat. “Dave, you’re from here, aren’t you?”
“Sort of,” Dave said. “Not Boulder, but I know the area.”
“What do you expect to find?” Isabelle said.
Kellen sighed. “I’m not sure. Evidence. Some trace of them. Maybe they left us a message about where they went.”
White touched Kellen’s arm, his eyes imploring. “Let’s just go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Montana, maybe? Find a national park with an abandoned ranger cabin and live out in the woods for a while.”
Kellen donned a grim smile. “You going to wear flannel and grow a beard?”
“I look great in flannel.”
Kellen patted White on the back of the hand. “I’m sure you do.”
“We could head back east,” Isabelle said. “I don’t love Helen Rappaport and her army, but they feed you three meals a day, and you’re relatively safe most of the time. You don’t have to worry about being robbed in the middle of the night when you’ve got thousands of soldiers within spitting distance at all hours of the day. They would love to have you.”
Kellen considered this for a moment. Being a soldier in someone’s army. He hadn’t sworn off the idea, but it’s not something he’d ever pictured for himself.
And he still had his guilt to settle.
“No. We need to find our friends. We need to see if there’s anything we can do here. George and Hector and their army are coming. Probably soon. Thousands are going to die.”
From the back seat, Isabelle hefted an AR-15 she’d found in the street in Nederland. She removed the magazine, eyed it, then shoved it back in. “Whatever you guys wanna do is fine. If you want to go back to Rappaport and get her to pledge some help, we’ll need to see something more concrete. She’s not going to buy it unless we can prove to her what’s coming. She’s all about opportunity. You show her we can capture thousands of guns and rations to feed her army, she’ll bite.”
Kellen tilted the rearview mirror to look Isabelle and Dave in the eye. “And what about you two?”
Dave shrugged. “We gave up passionate causes a long time ago. We’re just along for the ride.”
“Might go up to Oregon or Washington after this,” Isabelle said.
White pointed off to the east. “Riders, coming down Highway 36.”
Kellen heard it as soon as White had said it. Motorcycles revving, approaching. The collective roar was enough to indicate at least a dozen of them, but it might be several dozen.
“Okay,” Kellen said. “Let’s ditch the car and make our way downtown. Let’s find where everyone from Nederland went and do something useful for once.”
Chapter 29
Quentin - Boulder
The bullet entered Coyle’s forehead and snapped his neck back and then forward, in the space of a quarter of a second. His body folded and then tumbled down the stairs. The blast of the pistol was so loud, everyone else stood stunned for several heartbeats.
Quentin was on the top step, Farrah and Willam behind him. Across from them, a young man—probably not even yet a teenager—held a smoking pistol in his hands. His eyes were wide open, his mouth formed into an O. Maybe he’d never pulled a trigger before. Maybe it had been an accident.
Either way, he pivoted, now pointing the pistol at Quentin. His finger hovered in the air, an inch above the trigger. Their eyes met through the dim light inside the stairwell.
“Wait,” Quentin said, bracing his arms out to shield his wife and son. Farrah panted, Willam softly weeped. Quentin had no time to comfort them. “Just wait, please. You don’t need to kill anyone else.”
The boy seemed content to at least pause shooting, for now. But he didn’t take his finger away from the trigger. His stare became no less focused.
“Why are you here?” the boy said. Whatever initial panic had been present on the boy’s face after shooting Coyle had now vanished. He was calm and present. Quentin assumed, in the name of protecting his young friends, he would kill every one of these invaders without a second thought.
“We were just looking for some shelter. But it’s okay. We don’t want to take your stuff. If we’re not welcome, we can go. There’s no need for anyone to die.”
And as he said it, Quentin realized he didn’t know if Coyle was dead or not. He had slid down the stairs. Had made no motion or sounds after settling. Taking a bullet in the head, he had to be dead, didn’t he? Quentin desperately wanted to pivot his head to look, but he feared what this kid would do when presented with sudden movements.
“This is our building,” the boy said.
“We understand,” Farrah said. “We didn’t mean to intrude. It was a mistake. We thought the building was empty, didn’t we?”
“We did,” Quentin said.
The boy chewed on this for a few seconds, then lowered his gun. “Fine. Go. Don’t come back here. I know what you look like so I won’t wait to shoot next time.”
The collection of children behind the pistol-wielding kid cowered, huddled together.
Farrah squeezed Quentin’s arm. Maybe she wanted him to retaliate. Maybe she wanted him to turn this stairwell into a bloodbath. Coyle probably would have, and maybe that’s why the boy shot him first. Had seen the old man as the greatest threat.
Quentin had shot people younger than himself before. He remembered standing on the wall between north and south Chicago, facing the climber who made it to the top. The one he’d initially helped. She had been little more than a child herself, probably not even twenty years old.
Should Quentin have killed this boy? Was letting Coyle’s murder go unanswered the right move?
Coyle had taken a bullet. There was nothing they could do about that now. The only option was to leave without causing any further trouble, to save his family’s life.
Quentin eased one step down the stairs and helped his wife and son turn their backs to the children. He pointed them down the stairs. Couldn’t help but notice the inert form below them.
“Willam,” Quentin said, “keep your eyes up.”
But Quentin and Farrah’s young son looked down at the body of Coyle anyway, sprawled on the landing before the turn in the stairs. Pool of blood forming around the back of his head.
John Coyle had survived too much. Years in the CIA, riots in Oakland before the meteor hoax, the death of his own son. He’d traveled across the country to apprehend LaVey and Anders, only to find himself in the middle of a war between their fledgling Eighteener army and Chicago’s troops.
And he had killed Anders so he could be at peace. Quentin thought Coyle had found it in Nederland, at least as much as was possible. He’d farmed, become a council member, had mentored and trained a generation of young people who wanted to learn how to defend their mountain homes.
Now he was dead in a college dorm, a hole in his head.
Quentin gripped his son’s shoulder as the boy vibrated and sniffled. They rounded the stairs and couldn’t help but step through the puddle of blood. Their footprints tracked Coyle’s blood onto the carpet and into the hallway below. Thankfully, it was too dark in here for them to see it. But Quentin could feel and hear the squelching of his shoes on the floor.
A decade ago, he wouldn’t have considered leaving a dead friend behind. But now, he knew there was no other choice. They couldn’t aff
ord the extra weight.
Halfway down the hall, they all paused to catch their breath.
“What do we do now?” Farrah said.
Quentin brushed a teardrop from his cheek. “We find another building to call home so we can rest, then tomorrow, we get to work on finding our people.”
Chapter 30
Lincoln - Denver
Lincoln stood outside the art deco diner, waiting for them to allow him in to see George. This building was like a chrome car, somewhere in the shadow of the skyscrapers in Denver. Lincoln considered himself lucky to have found anyone to point him in George’s direction. So many of these dickhead Eighteeners seemed just as likely to shoot you in the head as answer a basic question.
His hand drifted to his pocket where he expected to find the pet tooth collection, but it was gone. Kept forgetting he’d dropped it on the ground in Illinois when he’d tossed the flashbang to escape. Such tiny things, teeth, and easily lost. He would have to begin another collection once this was all over and he and George were back in Virginia where they belonged.
The diner door opened and a man with cornrows on his head leaned out. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lincoln.”
“Okay, you can have five minutes. But he’s busy, so don’t mess around. If I have to come get you, I will not be happy about it. Hear me?”
Lincoln gave a surly nod, and the man stepped aside to allow him in. His shoulder still throbbed from the kiss of the woman’s bullet in Illinois, as did his fingertip. He could still feel it there, tickling him. That was the strangest part.
George, Alma, and Hector were all sitting at a booth across from an empty pastry display case, going over maps with pencils. They looked up, and George’s mouth dropped open. Hector leaned over and covered the map, but George waved him back.
“I’ll handle this,” George said as he rose from the table and left the other two behind. They seemed confused by this. Had George not told Hector and Alma about his plan to investigate back east?
George met Lincoln and put a hand on his shoulder to turn him around, then guided him into the kitchen. Among the stainless steel appliances and pots and pans, there stood one soldier guarding the back door.
“Leave us,” George said.
“Sir, I’m not supposed to—”
“Leave us,” George said, and the soldier protested no further. Five seconds later, they were alone.
George pulled Lincoln over toward the dishwashing machine and leaned in close to keep his voice down. “You were gone for so long, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see you again.”
“Not a chance, sir. I said I’d be back, and here I am.”
“I’m glad you’re okay. What do you have to report?”
“I found them. Kellen Richter, and the other one is named Connor White.”
George’s eyes flared. “White? That backstabbing asshole. I knew it.” He breathed for a moment and then caught himself. Placed two fingers against the underside of his wrist and counted his pulse.
“You didn’t bring their heads here with you, did you?”
“I wasn’t able to kill them. I’m sorry, Mr. Grant.”
“What? Why not?”
“There’s an army. Out east, led by some old lady.”
George nodded. “Helen Rappaport. I know. She’s not a threat to us right now.”
“Are you sure, sir? I entered their camp. They have numbers. Ten thousand, maybe more. Whatever it is, it’s more than us. And they’re organized. Have good weapons, they run coordinated training drills, they have uniforms, tanks. It’s like a real army.”
“Don’t worry about them. They’re busy out east and are not interested in us right now, so we’re not concerned with them. When the time is right, we’ll deal with that.”
“Of course, sir.”
“What happened with Kellen?”
“I was attacked. Surrounded. Didn’t think I could escape, but I was able to blind them all with a flashbang and get away.”
George nodded. “That’s smart.”
“Thank you, sir. I did see them later, in Kansas, but I couldn’t catch up with them.”
“You saw who?”
“Kellen, and White, and another man and woman. They were headed back west.”
George leaned back against the dish counter and tugged on his lower lip, looking past Lincoln. Considering. He nodded down at the bandage on Lincoln’s hand. “What happened there?”
“They took off a piece of my finger. Lucky shot, really, like a million to one. I’m fine, though. I’ve got nine more. Should we go talk to Ms. Castillo about this?”
“I need time to process, but I don’t think any of this is anything to be concerned about.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes, I’m mostly sure. We all have enough on our plates without having to worry about what’s going on back east. Once we retrieve the black box from the airport, whatever Helen Rappaport is doing won’t matter anymore. Trust me.”
“I do,” Lincoln said, nodding.
“We’re trying to take this one step at a time, and eventually, we’re going to get there. But not yet.”
“Of course, sir. I understand. I just wanted to make sure you had all the facts.”
George’s eyes grew soft, and he placed a hand on each of Lincoln’s shoulders. “I appreciate that. You’ve done a great job, and I’m happy you made it back to us. Now, what would you say to having your own command, Lincoln?”
Chapter 31
Kellen - Boulder
White parked the car at the edge of the campus, and they sat and stared for a moment. The quiet of it bothered Kellen. Not that you couldn’t still find pockets of stillness in places, but it seemed off here. There should be sights and sounds and the vibrancy of collegial life. This was nothing but half-standing buildings and piles of patchy snow on the barren ground.
“Do you think they might’ve moved on?” Kellen said. “Down to Denver, maybe, or out east? I mean, they have no idea where their people are. I’m not sure how long they’d keep looking.”
White shrugged and hefted a shotgun from the back seat. “We can’t worry about that. If they’re here, they’re on campus. There’s nowhere else to look, and the town’s not that big.”
“I can’t help but feel like if we do find them, it’ll be their corpses.”
Air whistled in and out of White’s nostrils for a few seconds. He patted Kellen on the back of the hand but said nothing.
With that, they left the car, shuffling through snow amidst the detritus of an abandoned college campus. Huge blocks of broken stone and piles of brick scattered far from the buildings they had belonged to. Gang wars and lack of infrastructure maintenance had left a lasting stain on this city.
Although Kellen preferred the feeling of the aged campuses back east; the ivy league libraries filled with yellowing texts, CU was a nice campus. Or, he imagined it had been, at some point. He’d never seen it filled with progressive college kids, shuffling between buildings, reading on the grass, tossing frisbees and sipping from water bottles under the shade of trees. He’d only seen it as a graveyard. Both figuratively and literally.
A head poked around the edge of a brick building up on their left, and Kellen and White both pointed their guns at it. The head disappeared, and the path instantly quieted.
“May be more of them,” White said.
“That’s a safe bet.”
The ones you’re looking for are already dead, whispered the voice in Kellen’s head. Dead, and you will be too if you keep looking for them. Maybe you should be dead.
They pressed on between two buildings that were probably dorms, based on the height and number of windows. Seemed logical there would be some people still living there. No electricity, but these structures would provide shelter from the cold.
The path between the buildings narrowed, so Kellen and White walked close together, backs to one another so they could eliminate any blind spots.
Above them, a window slid up. Kellen pivoted and raised his gun, half-expecting a pile of bricks to rain down on his head. He was wearing a pair of boots with good soles, and that was enough for someone to murder him.
But, instead of an attack, he saw Farrah’s round face in the window.
“Kellen Richter? Is that you?” She squinted down at him, leaning out of the window a few inches.
He wiped some freshly fallen snow out of his hair and waved up at her. She turned back inside and spoke with someone. Then, next to Farrah’s face appeared Quentin and Willam. They were ragged, tired, all three of them shivering from the cold, but they were smiling.
“We’ll meet you in the lobby,” Quentin shouted down.
Kellen and White fought through a pile of overturned trash cans to reach the entrance to the building and had to use all four of their arms to force open the front door. Something had been wedged up against it. When they finally pried it open, they met the three Nederland residents on the other side, each of them looking equal parts exhausted and relieved.
“Where’s Coyle?” Kellen said.
Quentin’s smile fell as he shook his head, and Kellen felt a stab in his heart. He’d gotten to know the old man over the last couple years. Had come to like the surly, bible-thumping guy, like a crotchety uncle.
“I’m sorry,” White said.
Quentin’s lips pulled into a frown, wincing, his eyes becoming slick with tears. “It was stupid, the way he went. Such a pointless… there isn’t a way… it didn’t have to…”
He trailed off, unable to complete a sentence. After a deep breath, Quentin said, “Where’s the cavalry?”
“I’m afraid we have nothing but bad news,” Kellen said. “We went east and met with Helen Rappaport, but she decided not to send troops out this way to help.”
