“How long has the writing been on the wall, and how long have you ignored it? How am I the bad guy here? You think I’m some kind of candy-man, the neighborhood Mr. Fixit? How many people do I have a responsibility to clothe, to feed, to protect? Our neighborhood? How about the next block over, hmm? How about them? How short-sighted of me not to stockpile more food, more ammo, more shampoo and tampons and deodorant! What a selfish person I must be! If only I had bought more stuff for more people, then I might have merited praise instead of ridicule! Give me a break.”

  He finally got control of himself when tears were streaming down the poor girl’s face, and Carson felt the anger drain out of him. Her accusations had hit home, reminding him of the inevitable tactical losses when strategic goals were pursued, and he wanted to cry himself.

  Instead, he walked around the table and touched her shoulder. Dana leaned her head on his hand, still sobbing. It took a few minutes, but she eventually stopped and wiped at her eyes. “Sorry.”

  “I told you, you don’t have to apologize to me. Not even if I go off on you like that, which I shouldn’t have done.” He sighed. “Now look. Have you got any friends, any family, at all anywhere within walking distance?”

  “I have a sister, but she’s in Wyoming.”

  “Okay, never mind. The best thing now, for you, is to hunker down like you have been. Use my supplies for as long as you need to. If or when I make it back this way I will check in on you. Is that fair?”

  Dana nodded. “Okay, Carson. But… you’re crushing my soul. It just hurts.”

  “Look, Dana, I wish things were different. I admire you. I respect you. The truth is that I’m attracted to you. Okay? I admitted it.” It felt good to say it, but he immediately wondered if he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t willing to burden himself with this woman right now, and he also didn’t want to break her heart. “But right now none of that can matter,” he quickly went on. “I have work to do, important work no one else can do.”

  For the first time, Dana seemed to understand. “You mean,” she said, “that you’re some kind of government person? FBI or something?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sort of like that. Let’s just say that Uncle Sam pays the bills, and when he calls me, I have to listen. Even if there is no Uncle Sam anymore, I still do what he asks me to do. And right now, that means going all the way to Colorado Springs and back through whatever dangers are waiting out there. You wouldn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

  Dana nodded. “What if you come back and I’m not here?”

  “Leave me a note in the cellar, if you can. I’ll find you.”

  “Okay.”

  Carson shouldered his pack and weapons and turned to go. He had taken only three steps when he heard her voice. “Carson?”

  “Yeah?” He turned around.

  “I’m not saving any of the M&M’s for you.”

  Carson considered this for a moment. “Hell hath no fury, right?”

  “That’s right. Please be careful out there.”

  “Will be. Take care.”

  Chapter 9: Through the Ruined City

  Carson moved as quickly as he dared through the streets of what had once been the largest metropolis in the intermountain area.

  It was a deeply disturbing scene, despite his planning, his training, and the obvious realities of what happened when someone hit the reset button.

  Beside the hazy sky and vague but pervasive smell of smoke, what most struck him was the way a city could quickly go to seed unless constantly taken care of. In only a matter of weeks, every garbage can or dumpster he passed was filled to overflowing, and it appeared that Dana was not the only citizen to raid the garbage for food. Trash blew and rustled everywhere; the inevitable corollary to a consumer-culture suddenly bereft of its services. Six weeks at the end of summer was enough to cause noticeable vegetation overgrowth. Every lawn was unkempt and spilling onto sidewalks and driveways, verging toward an urban wilderness.

  And not just flora. Twice Carson stopped to let large packs of feral dogs scamper by. There were no ratty little lap-things in these packs, no Chihuahuas or Shi-Tzu’s. These were big, ungroomed, slat-ribbed animals. He saw several breeds he recognized, none smaller than a mid-size lab.

  Both packs paused when they saw him, and Carson had to brandish his weapon. They understood and loped off, but Carson was under no illusions about his chances had he been unarmed. He had heard news stories, years back, of isolated farming communities in Canada and other places where feral packs of formerly domesticated but abandoned dogs had become severe problems for their communities, attacking lone humans and even killing some people. It wasn’t just humans who could turn primitive and savage when the lights went out, it was man’s best friend as well.

  How easy was it, Carson wondered, for a domesticated dog to shed its breeding and training, to revert once more into mere wild canine? Probably about as easy as for a human to shed the vestiges of civilization. Hunger, fear, lack of structure or any higher authority. It wouldn’t take much. Was there a beast lurking in the dark heart of all dogs, simply waiting for the right conditions in which to emerge? Could the same be said of humans?

  Carson shook his head. You think too much.

  He trudged on, keeping to cover when possible, scouting thoroughly before crossing an intersection or street. Cars were strewn everywhere. Some were parked neatly along the curbs, or in driveways and parking lots, dead where they stood when the EMP hit. But the roads were full of others who had been driving when struck, and these had come to rest in haphazard fashion. Most had coasted to a stop by the side of the road and been abandoned there. But intersections were a nightmare; cars waiting at red lights and stop signs, often backed up five or ten deep, were still there, turning every intersection into a snarl of orphaned steel and glass. Some had burned in place, whether from nearby fires or the victims of firefights, Carson didn’t bother to find out.

  And there were people, too. Some were alone, others in small groups. Furtive, moving quickly, ducking into side streets at the sight of his gun. Most seemed to be either scavengers or travelers attempting to avoid any confrontation with an armed man. As he passed one residential street, though, Carson noticed a roadblock formed of parked cars. Three men, civilians by dress, watched him with steely eyes. All carried rifles, and although Carson was on the opposite side of the street, he moved quickly to pass them by. They did not attempt to challenge him and appeared to be residents of that street, banded together to defend their neighborhood. He considered speaking with them to get some intel, but his orders were clear. Civilian contact would almost certainly slow him down, perhaps risk a confrontation that he didn’t need at the moment. He’d already learned from Dana that the city was in a state of simmering chaos, and there didn’t seem to be any larger controlling factions that he needed to watch out for. At the moment he needed to traverse the city as speedily as possible, check in at the federal building housing the Denver office of the FBI, and go north from there. If there were special agents still working from that location, they would be much more accurate and comprehensive in their information about what he could expect north of the city. And he desperately wanted the feds’ take on what had gone down.

  That made him think about his primary objective. What was 905T4? Carson had a few guesses, but it could be anything. All he had was a location and description. A small black box, metal, locked. Could be anything. The ubiquitous black box of too many movies and spy novels, the little gizmo that could control the world. Since it was his primary objective, Carson was guessing that he was probably not the only agent assigned to it, although he might be the main one. It could be the secondary objective for one or two other agents in case he failed.

  He was passing a strip mall when he heard a commotion. A pizza joint, its front windows broken into jagged shards, was directly to his right, and from inside he heard the sounds of struggle—slapping sounds, muffled curses, a person panting for breath. Pans tumbled with a clatter inside. Carson rehearsed his orders in his mind, continuing forward. He couldn’t afford to get sidetracked into every little scuffle in this city of chaos.

  Then he heard a pitiful cry, and something snapped inside him. Images of the kids he’d helped earlier were in his mind, and he felt instinctively that some things he could live with, but some things he had to act on or risk losing himself in the darkness around him.

  Screw it, he muttered under his breath. He approached the pizza place, AR-15 up and ready. It was dark inside the shop, but Carson could hear that the fight, or whatever it was, was past the front pick-up area, somewhere in the kitchen area. Another muffled cry for help came from the back.

  He slid inside, eyes adjusting to the gloom. More pans crashed back there, and Carson vaulted the counter. Coming around a tall warming oven, he paused.

  Three young people, mere teenagers by their gangly look, were bending over a fourth figure, which was laying on the floor. This, Carson now saw, was an older man with gray hair and dark skin, maybe mid-fifties. He was clutching at a large sack of flour, the last of a stock intended during happier days for pizza dough. Even as Carson watched, the three teens succeeded in ripping the bag away from the man, although in the process it tore open. White clouds enveloped the struggle.

  Carson had seen enough. “Hey!” he yelled.

  Instantly, the three teens scattered. Two sprinted for the back door, one slipping and almost falling in the flour dust. The third, panicking at the sight of Carson’s weapon, charged straight at him, eyes wide, arms held up, mouth open. Carson swung the AR-15 butt in a hard arc that clipped the kid across the left temple, sending him flying into a rack of utensils. With an ear-splitting crash, the whole rack collapsed on top of the kid, who rolled, senseless, underneath a stainless steel table. Carson stopped to make sure he was still breathing, then moved over to the fallen man.

  This worthy citizen, apparently none the worse for wear other than being completely covered in flour, was slowly getting to his feet. He kept his eyes on Carson’s weapon, however, and offered no thanks or greeting. Carson smiled, kept the rifle’s muzzle pointed at the celling, and tried to talk through the billowing white cloud that was slowly settling.

  “You okay?”

  The older man shrugged. “I suppose.” He peered into the torn bag, mostly empty, and eyed the flour scattered on the ground.

  “You know them?”

  “Nope.”

  “From around here?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Look,” said Carson. “I don’t want your flour and I’m not going to hurt you. I just heard the noise and wandered over. Looked like you could use some help.”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Thanks for that.”

  Carson, beginning to regret his altruistic urge, figured that now that he had a civilian asset in front of him, he might as well ask some questions.

  “Tell you what,” said Carson. “I see a big mixing bowl over there. What say you and I scoop as much flour as we can into the bowl and you take it home? In return, I ask you some questions about the state of things around here.”

  The man considered this, eyeing Carson’s weapon, plainly suspicious. Finally he shrugged. “I guess you won’t kill me over spilled flour. You wanted it, I’d be dead already. Where’s that bowl?”

  They scooped with their bare hands until the man found some measuring cups. As they scooped they coughed, sneezed, and talked.

  “What’s your name, friend?”

  “Don’t know about ‘friend’, but the name’s Donald.”

  “Live close by?”

  “Ain’t telling you a thing about where I live, mister.”

  “Okay, fine. How’d you know there’d be flour here?”

  “Been coming here for three weeks. Looters cleaned out the pizza long ago, but for some reason, nobody thought of the flour. Funny thing. I’ve seen people shooting each other over bags of flour just like this at the supermarket. But people think of pizza as a whole thing, you know? They forget a place like this has bags and bags of flour, big cans of tomato sauce. I cleaned this place out. This one’s the last bag. Won’t be coming back here.”

  “What do you do for water?”

  “Been going to the park. Lots of people using the pond there. Gotta boil it or you’ll lose all you drink in diarrhea.”

  “I’ve been out of town for a while. What’s going on here? Anyone in authority?”

  Donald stopped scooping and looked at him. “If I answer wrong, you gonna shoot me?”

  “What?”

  “This is a test, ain’t it? You feeling me out, seeing which way I lean. I answer wrong, you gonna use that thing.”

  “You got me all wrong, Donald. I’m just looking to find a safe way across town. As soon as I do that, I’m outta here.”

  Donald chuckled humorlessly. “There’s no safe way across town. You must really be from out of town, or you’d know.”

  “I heard that the gunmen, those wackos in ski masks with AK’s, cleared out.”

  “Yeah. They did. Now the whole city’s just a warzone, separated into sections. Little patches here and there. Most of them will leave you alone if you steer clear. But there’s gangs too. Rovers. They sweep back and forth and pick off anything they find. This here’s one of them.” Donald jerked his head at the unconsciousness kid under the table. “Just kids, most of them. But vicious. They’ve got blood on their hands. Lucky for me you came by. They must have seen me, followed me. I’ve got to be more careful. There’s people at home need this flour.”

  Carson scooped up the last little pile. “How did the whole thing happen? Any rumors about what started it?”

  Donald shook his head. “Who knows? I got a brother, works for a local news station. He told me, day of, there was a news feed. Back east, they had a blackout, just like ours, no warning. Whole eastern grid went down. It must’ve been done simultaneously, in multiple cities. A few minutes later Texas goes dark, then us. Last news he heard was Oklahoma City crashing. Then the screen goes dark, and you know the rest.”

  That was disturbing news indeed, if it could be relied on. It fit with Carson’s experience, though. If he hadn’t heard from his handlers by now, it certainly meant they were gone. “Wow. The whole country, huh? Any contact with the East?”

  “Nope. Probably wiped out. I’m thinking nukes. That chubby-cheeked dictator, what’s his name, in North Korea. Like his dad was, but younger? Dumber. Bet it’s him. Kim something. Always mouthing off, threatening America. He finally went and did it, if you ask me.”

  “Any government left at all around here?”

  “Mister, I got no idea. My guess is no, but how can you tell? Maybe in some pockets here and there.”

  “Did the National Guard give any information?”

  Bob snorted. “Them? Heck, no. They shot it up a little with the terrorists, then they pulled back. Everybody who tries to go to them gets taken and hustled off to some prison camp. That’s what they’re saying, anyway.”

  “Who’s in charge of them?”

  “From the way the Guard acted, it seemed to me like they didn’t have any real command structure left, you know, other than the officer on site. But no higher-ups, no general calling the shots from somewhere. When the colonel leading the Guard saw what he was up against, he just kinda backed off and waited. I dunno. Maybe there is some high command somewhere. But if there is, they wrote us off, man. Denver is gone.”

  “Is there anyone with electricity, anywhere in the city?”

  “Maybe. I hear there’s a section up north, in Westminster. They’ve got generators. Somehow, the EMP didn’t knock them out. But, man, I tell you, from what I hear, it’s almost worse to have power than not have it. It attracts everyone, refugees and looters. Some are pretty violent. There’s been a lot of shooting that way.”

  “Has the Guard even attempted a curfew?”

  “Yeah, at first. Just the sections nearest their line. I suspect it was more to create a barrier for their own safety than to restore law and order. They used to patrol it regularly, but about two weeks ago they stopped enforcing it. Too many of them running home, I guess. Can’t blame ‘em much. Hard to stick it out when nobody’s got your back.”

  “Where’s the mayor, city people, commissioner?”

  “Dead or fled, man, dead or fled. Nobody knows where the mayor is. Dead, probably. Some of the others, commissioner included, tried a big rally to fix things, but they got lynched. Actually lynched. Hung them from a traffic light pole in the middle of an intersection, downtown.

  “Who would do that? I thought the terrorists were gone.”

  “Yeah, they are. I think. But it was just a mob, you know. Lotta people are pissed off right now, blame the government for letting us all down. Any government. Of course it’s not like the city government is responsible for everything. But hungry, scared people don’t care. All they see is a bunch of authority figures trying to throw a rope over citizens. There’s a lot of anti-government feeling right now. The cops that made it through the first week aren’t wearing uniforms anymore, I’ll tell you that.”

  Carson considered this. It was more important than ever that he avoid crowds, even small groups. He wore no uniform, no insignia, no indication that he worked for the DHS. But if what Donald was telling him was accurate, people wouldn’t need much prodding if they smelled a fed. He already posed a tempting target for the right people, in spite of—or perhaps because of—his weapons. A backpack full of supplies would be more than enough incentive for a gang to set up an ambush.

  “What about bugging out of here, Donald? Sounds safer outside the city than inside.”

  “I’ve thought about it. But there’s people depending on me. And even with the danger, there’s more food here than out there. I’m no hunter. Haven’t fished a day in my life. And too many have left already. I figure every house, town, and ranch within a hundred miles has been overrun or cleaned out. No, man. I’m staying here. There’s still food, if you know where to look.”