It seemed that most drivers had been able, in the seconds after the EMP, to roll to a stop on the shoulder. It was surreal, in a way. As far as the eye could see, both sides of the highway were lined with glittering steel and glass in a kaleidoscope of colors. It made Carson realize how vast the automotive industry really was, how hooked Americans were on the internal combustion engine and the interstate highway system. Post-EMP, they merely served as a conduit, a ribbon of asphalt merging with the horizon bordered on both sides by a very long, very thin junkyard.

  Carson dropped his empty mag by his feet and inserted a fresh one, slapped it home with the satisfying clack, and ran the bolt. He studied their pursuit more closely for a moment, and immediately recognized another discomforting reality.

  The lead vehicle was some sort of old school muscle car, no computer running things, nearly impervious to the EMP. An analog, fuel-chugging dinosaur, designed for only one thing—speed without finesse. Exactly what its driver required now: a pure drag race, engine versus engine. And the thing was eating up the distance between them so quickly it seemed to Carson that he was standing still.

  Scala saw it in the rearview, of course, but she was already doing everything possible. The Toyota was going flat-out, its cheap engine screaming in protest.

  With less than a quarter mile now between them, Carson could see the individual ambushers inside their roaring monster. They were on top of the world, and knew it. In no possible universe could the pickup outrun them on this straightaway. Already the passenger was cranking down his window, leaning out, sawed-off shotgun in hand. The driver kept his vehicle steady and straight, closing hard, getting his shooter within easy range of a rear tire. Carson slammed the AR-15’s stock against the rear window pane hard, which webbed, then fractured. He knocked the last pieces out, resting the AR-15’s barrel on the window rim.

  “Slow down!” Carson yelled.

  “Slow down? Are you kidding?” came Scala’s reply.

  “You heard me. Brake! And keep us steady,” Carson shouted back, and Scala obeyed, attempting to minimize the shuddering of the little truck as she brought their speed down to a reasonable velocity for shooting.

  Through his sights, Carson saw the world fill with the brilliant orange of the pursuing vehicle’s hood. It was a beautiful car, now that he saw it close enough. Plymouth Barracuda, ’70 maybe, or ’71, 440 cubic inch V8 Magnum under the hood. A true stallion from Detroit’s heyday, when a fast quarter-mile was everything.

  They don’t make them like that anymore. For one second, Carson mourned.

  But only for a second.

  Then he unloaded his magazine in a series of bursts, fighting muzzle climb, and the world beyond his sights erupted. Sparks pinged and chittered across the hood, then the Plymouth’s windshield evaporated. The passenger’s sawed-off sent its load of buckshot careening off into space as the ‘Cuda lurched under Carson’s fire and swerved. Carson sent his last three or four rounds directly into the driver’s face, blurring it red.

  The ‘Cuda went hard left, doing over ninety. There was a dead minivan on the shoulder, directly in its path. The impact was so fearsome the ‘Cuda’s rear end lifted as its nose T-boned the van, lifted and continued lifting in a front-to-back flip that landed the muscle car on its roof in the sagebrush beyond, utterly totaled. There was no possibility of survival for any of its occupants.

  But Carson barely saw the ‘Cuda’s demise. He was already back on target, waiting for the second pursuing vehicle to attempt to close. He needn’t have bothered; the second vehicle, a Chevy truck, saw the carnage of the muscle car and slowed, breaking off the chase. There was no percentage in attacking well-armed and lethal prey. Carson thanked his lucky stars that the ambushers had been untrained criminal thugs instead of pros.

  “All right, get us out of here, nice and easy,” he told Scala. “They’ve quit.”

  Scala brought the little truck to a steady clip at fifty. She stretched her neck first one way and then other, easing up and sitting back. “My plan worked! Good shooting, Agent.”

  Chapter 15: Contingencies

  They arrived in Colorado Springs by late morning, taking several hours to complete what would have been an hour and a half journey a month prior. The open highway was fairly easy, but there were several towns and cities along the way, and since the fuel station ambush that morning they had proceeded much more carefully, scouting any potential ambush sites thoroughly before advancing. They avoided Castle Rock altogether, using a maze of dirt roads east of the interstate to navigate around, weighing their fuel consumption against the risk of contact, and that had taken a whole extra hour.

  Now, approaching Colorado Springs, Carson felt the tension in his neck muscles triggering a small but foreboding headache. He was nervous and irritable, despite their extraordinary good luck so far. He knew that everything could go bad in a second as they approached their destination. Would they find the town a barren wasteland, or overrun by killers? The granite bulk of Pike’s Peak and Cheyenne Mountain loomed in the southwest, a reminder of the strategic importance of the area.

  However, the closer they came, the more obvious it became that Colorado Springs had not suffered the way Denver had. The air was clear: no fires. There were just as many abandoned vehicles on the sides of the roads, but it was obvious that bulldozers had been at work, clearing jams here and there. Carson could see tread marks in the dust on the asphalt.

  And now, peeling off the interstate on an exit, they saw ahead a barricade constructed of dead buses and semi-trailers. It was much more thorough and well put together than the fuel station ambush had been. It was designed to funnel approaching vehicles into a series of narrow alleys, offering generous fields of interlocking fire. The heads and shoulders of two different scouts poked up out of guard shacks, watching him with scoped rifles. He made sure his own long gun was well out of sight by his feet.

  Carson spotted more armed men standing at key points of the maze, but they merely watched the truck roll by. Carson was under no illusions, however. At a moment’s notice, the entire area could doubtlessly be swarming with armed soldiers, pouring down fire into the kill zone. Any armed attack from the highway short of a tank could be halted or seriously delayed by this setup.

  Carson knew without looking that every exit from the highway near Colorado Springs would be similarly prepared. It was the obvious result of careful planning and coordination. Here, finally, was the kind of organization and operational wisdom he had seen so lacking in and around Denver. He assumed it was the mark of a military community where men acquainted with war maintained control.

  “Why haven’t they challenged us yet,” Scala mused, shepherding their valiant little truck through the maze.

  “We’re obviously not a major threat,” Carson said. “They could have butchered us from two hundred yards out if they needed to. But I’m guessing they have orders to let small groups in before confronting them. I would also imagine that being in possession of a working vehicle makes us VIP’s, of a sort.”

  “That makes it easy for us.”

  “Easy in, but maybe not so easy getting out again.”

  They passed through the first part of the barricade alley and advanced a hundred feet to a guard hut made out of plywood and cinderblocks. Several armed men were waiting here with a downed telephone pole stretching across the road. Two of them wore military uniforms.

  Scala kept her hands on the wheel and Carson put his on the dash as two of the men approached the driver’s side of their truck.

  “Good afternoon,” the older and more authoritative of the two said, inspecting the truck’s occupants cautiously. His younger counterpart held a rifle at the ready. “Where are you coming from, and what’s your business in Colorado Springs?”

  Scala looked over at Carson, and he nodded. The soldier seemed legit, and they had come to make contact with his superiors. Playing games wouldn’t get them there.

  “We’re federal agents from Denver,” Scala said. “Department of Homeland Security. We have some vital intelligence we need to deliver to the base commander here.”

  The soldier looked skeptical. “Okay. That’s one I haven’t heard yet. You got a badge or anything?”

  Scala shook her head.

  “We’re kind of undercover,” Carson explained, leaning over toward the driver window. “I’m sure you can understand how important that would be, the way things are up north these days. We’re willing to submit to any authentication procedures necessary, just as long as we can speak with a general.”

  The soldier considered this. “All right, we’ll see what we can do. Please step out of your vehicle and prepare to be searched.”

  Carson and Scala submitted, advising their searchers of each of their weapons so they wouldn’t be alarmed. All the guns were confiscated, and one of the men drove the little truck off to the side so it could be searched further. Their backpacks were still in the truck bed.

  They were frisked and then questioned in more detail while standing near the guard hut. Carson answered truthfully on all accounts: their route from Denver, their intentions, and their identities. The senior officer took Carson’s wallet, which still contained his driver’s license (Scala had none on her) and conferred with some of the other guards just out of earshot.

  Scala took the opportunity to ask a few questions of the younger man standing at attention near them. “Looks like the military has things well in hand, here,” she said. “You must not be getting much refugee traffic down this way.”

  “Not for a couple of weeks,” the young man replied. “We had to crack down hard, and now most refugees from the north are going in other directions. We take security very seriously around here.”

  “Nothing like Denver. That place is a lawless mess. Do the Air Force bases still have electric power and a functional chain of command?”

  The young man opened his mouth but hesitated as if unsure what to say. “No power,” he finally replied. “At least, very limited. But yes, the military has full control of the bases.”

  Carson spoke. “So, is it martial law in the city? I didn’t expect to see uniforms just off the freeway.” This made the young man even more uncomfortable, but his superior returned before he had a chance to reply.

  “Not martial law, not anymore,” the senior officer said. “General Tamare runs the military side of things from Peterson AFB, and shares civilian authority with Commissioner Masters.”

  That made Carson perk up his ears. “Commissioner. Where’d he come from, and what’s his authority? Is he a local politician or something?”

  “No, more of a paramilitary type, from out of town. He brought significant civilian assets to the situation early on and assisted in securing the area.”

  Carson nodded, his mind working quickly. “I think I’ve heard of him. R. Foley Master, am I right? Militia organizer?”

  The officer eyed him. “That’s right. He and General Tamare arrived at an arrangement of convenience, and so far it’s working well. Commissioner Masters and his men run the city,” he gestured to several of the other guards manning the barriers, “and General Tamare directs the security of the greater area.”

  Carson gave Scala a meaningful glance. She caught it and scowled back.

  “It’s Tamare you’ll want to speak with, if you are who you say you are.” The officer handed Carson back his wallet. “I can’t spare men to guide you around the city, but you’re free to go.”

  “What about our equipment?” Scala asked.

  “You can take your packs, but your firearms need to stay here. As does your truck. We’re not under martial law, like I said, but we do have strict rules in place for civilians. No guns, no congregating after dark, and no harassing other citizens in any way. Also, you’re expected to comply immediately and fully with any soldier’s request, including the Commissioner’s men.”

  “Sounds like martial law to me,” Carson muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “Okay, I guess. You take good care of our gear, though. I have unfinished business up north, and I’ll need the guns and the truck.”

  The officer nodded and went into the guard hut. The younger man escorted Carson and Scala past the rest of the barricade and pointed the way into the city. “Go that way to highway twenty-one and follow it south until you run into Peterson AFB. Six, maybe seven miles.” The two agents thanked him and started walking.

  The streets of Colorado Springs were quiet and seemed in order. Most people they saw were on foot, but a combine harvester started up near a garage they passed and rumbled away toward the edge of town. They also spotted a tiny Geo Metro moving slowly down one street with a couple of soldiers inside. They were the only ones openly carrying weapons.

  “I feel naked without my Beretta,” Scala complained.

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I’ve been cradling that AR ever since I left my cabin.” He pulled the map from his pack and inspected the Colorado Springs area detail as he walked. “So where’s your daughter?”

  “East of town, close to Schriever AFB where my ex was stationed. It’s a long walk, but if Schriever is still active, you might find a ranking officer there to deliver 905T4 to.”

  “No,” Carson replied. “Schriever is the GPS place, isn’t it? The satellite, Spacecom hub. They’re useless to me even if anyone stuck around. Peterson AFB is where NORAD and Northcom were based. Hopefully this General Tamare was with one of them. You can turn your message over to him, and I’ll get the information I need to see about completing my primary. We’ll go from there.”

  Scala didn’t seem very happy with the plan, but walked onward.

  There was no garbage here like in Denver, no stray dogs. The lawns were overgrown, since everyone had better things to do now than play around with unproductive yardwork. But the place was generally tidy and still civilized. The people they encountered were walking purposefully and none stopped to gawk at the newcomers or chat. They saw no children and very few women.

  As they went by what used to be a public library and now seemed to be a tightly guarded distribution center for bottled water and spare clothing, a man passed them on the sidewalk. He was dressed in a dark gray jacket and faded jeans. As he walked by, he looked Carson in the eye, something none of the other residents had done so far.

  Carson saw something in the man’s face, a defiant glint as if he was keeping secrets and was on the verge of shouting them out to the world. On impulse, Carson spun and put out a hand to stop the man. “Hey, do you have a second to talk, sir? We just got into town.”

  The man paused and looked up the street, then back at Carson. Finally he replied in a hasty, furtive tone, “All right. What do you want to know?”

  Carson was unsure now why he’d stopped the man. “How is it that Colorado Springs has weathered this crisis so well?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation. “We just came from Denver, and it looks nothing like this place. Didn’t you have any shootings here, any fires, any fighting?”

  The man stared back at the two of them and Carson thought he saw fear flash across the man’s dark eyes. He swallowed. “Yeah. There’s been fighting.”

  Scala scowled at him. “I see no signs of it. You must have a pretty effective cleanup crew in this town.”

  The man nodded and seemed to nearly choke on his words. “Yeah. Stuff gets cleaned up every night. Come morning you can’t even tell whether you heard screams and breaking glass or if it was just a dream. Listen, and you’ll hear it all.”

  Carson added his frown to Edith’s scowl. “What are you saying? You have criminals coming out at night?”

  “Yeah. But the real criminals are never caught. Look, man, I don’t know you. I don’t know why you’re here. But if you’re not with them, you’d better either high-tail it out of here, or look for the--”

  He stopped, unwilling to finish his suggestion. The Geo Metro had just turned onto the highway they were following. The little car was moving slowly, and the men inside were looking around the street. When they spotted the three people talking on the sidewalk, it sped up and approached.

  The man they were talking to cursed and began to back away from Carson and Edith. The car stopped and two soldiers jumped out. Carson saw now that they were not uniformed like the officer they had met at the roadblock. These men wore paramilitary clothing and gear that reminded Carson a lot more of the men he’d killed up north than of legitimate armed forces. They left their rifles in the car, but carried side-arms and police-issue truncheons as they approached.

  One of the men stepped behind the little group on the sidewalk, cutting them off from advancing down the street, and the other confronted them directly. He eyed Carson and Edith, but spoke to the man in the gray jacket.

  “Keller. Fancy running into you again on the street. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  “Ah, yes, yes I do,” the man said. “I ought to go. I was just telling these people about the way things work around here. They just arrived.”

  The soldier on the sidewalk blocked him from moving away, and the first soldier grabbed his jacket. “I’m pretty sure we agreed you wouldn’t tell anyone anything, Keller. Not unless you wanted back in the pokey.”

  “Didn’t you just get out of there?” the man behind him asked, holding the man in place.

  The first soldier yanked on the man’s jacket, sending him sprawling in the direction of the car they had come in. “Stuff him and cuff him, Spackman.” The other soldier enthusiastically went after the man on the ground, hauling him to his feet and thrusting him into the back of the little car.

  Words of protest were just on Carson’s lips when the first soldier turned to him and addressed he and Scala for the first time. “Are you the two that arrived from the north a little big ago?”

  Scala nodded. The soldier eyed her from head to toe, then turned to Carson.

  “Welcome to Colorado Springs. Forget whatever this guy was saying, he’s just the local whack-job. I advise you to continue on your way, get your business done, and avoid his type from now on. That’s all.”