“Is there anyone you can hook up with, some stable group somewhere?”

  Donald eyed him. “You sure are asking a lot of questions.”

  “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on, like everyone else.”

  “Mm-hmm. Yeah, there’s some places. I happen to live in one, and no, we are not taking in outsiders, so don’t ask.”

  Carson smiled. “Relax. I’m more of a loner, anyway.”

  “So you say. For all I know, you might try to follow me back, beg some food.”

  “No. Even though your flour does look so tasty, scraped up off the floor like that. I’ve got the gun; why would I follow you and beg food when I could have all that flour to myself?”

  Donald laughed. “Okay, mister. You got me.”

  “Tell me about the places that have stuck together,” Carson said. “Are they still holding up?”

  “Yeah,” Donald said. “Most of us are in the ‘burbs, and we got together quick and marked our territory when it all went down. The terrorists pretty much left us alone. Families, mostly. People with guns, hunters and self-defense types. We’ve managed to keep it safe enough, and the looters steer clear. Lots of people dead or fled. Lots of empty houses. You get enough people together, a few blocks, throw up some walls or roadblocks, put out patrols, you get by okay. We’re learning.”

  Carson stood up. “Well, Donald, thanks for the chat. So long.”

  Donald rose too, clutching his bowl of flour. “Where you headed, mister?”

  “North.”

  “Well, thanks for the help, and good luck,” Donald said. “It’s good to find there’s still somebody in this town that isn’t filled with hate.”

  “Same to you.” Carson hesitated, wondering what the scavenging man’s prospects were. Was he simply talking to a dead man walking? “Are you going to be okay from here, old-timer?”

  Donald managed to project a decent amount of confidence into his grin. “I’m still here, man. Six weeks and counting.”

  “Yeah. Dumb question. So long.”

  Carson walked away from the pizza shop. He kept his attention on movement, on possible danger zones, as he moved through the streets. He paid attention to the little voice inside, the gut feelings, the instincts. Mostly, he kept the AR-15 visible and ready, and more than a few potential threats evaporated due to the ready, business-like way he held it. He was no aimless looter wandering around the suburbs; he moved with purpose, always north. He had taken a street map of the greater Denver area from his house that morning, and referred to it occasionally to keep himself on course.

  But even as he walked, his mind was putting the pieces together. The attack seemed, on the surface, to have been well-planned. Obviously the terrorists had been ready and waiting for the super-EMP to launch their attack. That was the first layer. But when you peeled that one away, it seemed to not have been planned after all, or planned very poorly. No matter how well-trained, no matter how willing to kill, a bunch of mercenaries with assault rifles shooting up the downtown, building roadblocks, harassing and killing citizens randomly, seemed a pointless waste. There was no overarching plan, no set of demands. And too few of the bad guys. Not enough to really occupy the cities, to maintain order, to round people up. They were thugs, really, just gun-happy goons.

  Most important, where were they now? Which brand of terrorists would launch a coordinated attack, then fade away a few weeks later, leaving no trace? They had gained nothing, there was no visible end-game. Denver, at least, was on its knees, but to what purpose? Who had the capability to launch a sophisticated EMP attack that crippled most of America, but then follow it up with such an anti-climax?

  Maybe that was the point. The more Carson learned, the more he sensed there was yet another layer to peel away. Layers on layers. A well-planned, meticulously choreographed attack that literally rendered the world’s greatest superpower impotent. That was layer one. Then, at the moment when any army in the world could conquer America for the first time in its history, instead small, scattered groups of paramilitary guys shoot up the cities, cause mayhem, and then disappear. That was layer two.

  What was layer three? Carson considered. America, as far as he could tell, was in dire straits. It was possible that a foreign power had orchestrated the initial attack, then held back to let the chaos soften the country before launching a second wave. This next phase could conceivably involve actual uniformed military troops. There was a precedent for this, Carson remembered, and not from his history books. Just a handful of years ago Putin, eyes on the Crimea, had first sent in his goons, ostensibly paramilitary partisans. They had seized and held key locations, softening up the resistance for the waves to follow. But if the same thing was happening here, why had the goons walked away? Was there a greater threat they had gone to face elsewhere?

  Even now, a foreign military power could be moving across the country, taking it over piece by piece. That could be why the goons had scattered, because any day now a massive column of enemy armor with close air support would appear outside the city. Could be foreign, could be the vengeful hand of true Americans beating back the terrorists. There was no way to tell, and Carson had to admit the possibility was remote. It just didn’t feel like that. There was something else going on, something deeper, and, he sensed, uglier.

  An inside job. That was another possibility, and even as he thought it, Carson felt it was the most likely scenario so far. This was too good for a foreign power to pull off. They might manage an EMP by way of a sucker punch, a sneak attack on the level of Pearl Harbor. But to simultaneously launch multi-city attacks with thousands of armed and equipped mercs in place? It would take too much doing. There were too many listening ears. No matter how underfunded, overworked, and unappreciated the nation’s intelligence services might be, someone would have heard something. There was simply no way to plan a thing like this, to work out the immense logistical timetables, without security leaks. Unless someone, many someones, on the inside, had intentionally ignored or misdirected the warnings.

  He began to feel a slow anger rising as he pondered this possibility. Against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Enemies foreign, yeah, I can handle that. We can all handle that. May God have mercy on the foreign power that thinks it can take us down, even now, in our decline. The long days may be setting on the West, yet still the serpent speaks: don’t tread on me.

  But enemies domestic? That was something else again. He thought of the dead. He thought of Dana, eating garbage. He thought of an old man fighting hoodlums for a bag of flour. He thought of the airliners toppling from the sky. He heard the screams of children. He saw the long lines of the refugees.

  Someone’s going to pay for this. And if it’s an inside job, they’re going to pay much, much harder.

  Chapter 10: Secondary Objectives

  The secondary objective was a total wash.

  The federal building housing the Denver office of the FBI at 8000 East, 36th Avenue had been destroyed. The western wall was gone, strewn out across the street in broken chunks of concrete and millions of shards of glass. It gave the place a deflated, ill-proportioned look. The rest of the building was structurally intact, but every window was broken, the front doors lay shattered and twisted on the walkway, clearly the victim of an RPG or other explosive ordnance. Carson could see the pockmarks of bullets scarring every surface, inside and out. Whatever had happened here, the agents inside had put up one heck of a fight. Empty brass crunched and rolled under his feet as he approached.

  He kept his weapon ready and peered inside. The interior was no better than the exterior. Empty cartridge casings lay everywhere, along with reams of office paper. There was a bad smell; Carson suspected some of the buildings defenders hadn’t been buried yet.

  He moved from room to room, carefully, listening intently. Each room told the same story. He breathed through his mouth, making a quick search. There was nothing. The chaos and detritus of any war zone was here in full, but any intelligence, any indication of the state of things, if it existed, was hidden in the mess. He didn’t have time to search this place, and the smell was making him sick. Carson left quickly, only pausing at the front doors of the building to scan the street outside before making a swift exit.

  The street was as empty now as it had been when he’d entered. Far off to his left, southwards, he heard scattered gunfire, but it ceased as abruptly as it had begun. He spat on the sidewalk, trying to clear his mouth and sinus of the gritty, smoky residue in the air, and then took a long pull on one of his canteens. It was very warm, and Carson was sweating freely under his clothing, pack, and gear. His boonie hat protected his head from direct sunlight, and he wore sunglasses, but he fantasized frequently about dunking in the cold creek near the cabin.

  He sipped frequently from his canteens, but water would soon be an issue if he kept himself adequately hydrated. He had plenty of iodine tablets for purification, salt tablets for electrolyte balance, and even some flavor packets to add to purified water, since iodine made the water mildly unpleasant to drink. But the water itself was the issue. Unless he could find an isolated, secure source, he would have to detour to a city park or other obvious place to refill his canteens, and that meant further exposure to people. Watering holes were where the crocodiles lingered. Maybe he could find an abandoned house with a water heater tank that hadn’t been emptied yet.

  He moved on as the sun began to sink slowly towards the far-off mountains. Time enough to worry about water tomorrow. Right now, he needed to start thinking about a secure location to spend the night. There were several hours yet until sundown, but he could only move slowly for security reasons, and it would take a while to locate an urban campsite and ensure it was safe.

  Then he thought of the safe house.

  It wasn’t really a house at all, but Deep Thaw personnel kept a small safe zone on the bottom floor of a parking garage, hidden behind a fake wall. It was not to be used except in an emergency, but Carson figured this counted, and he calculated that if he hurried, he could make it by sundown.

  Two hours later, he arrived.

  It was a large parking garage, across from a hospital. Carson approached carefully, slipped inside, and crept to the lowest level. The dusk made the going even harder, since he didn’t dare turn on a flashlight in case of occupants in residence. Finally, hearing nothing during the descent, he reached the bottom of the garage, two levels below ground.

  He risked the flashlight, and in its thin, powerful beam, he scanned the area. A few silent vehicles and nothing else. Carson moved to the south wall, where gigantic slabs of pre-formed concrete made the walls.

  Recalling the photos from a regional briefing he’d had years earlier, he searched for a small section which appeared to have crumbled away, revealing a rusty piece of rebar. He tugged at this, and was relieved to feel a section of the wall, cunningly hidden, swing outwards, grating softly on heavy-duty hinges. All was dark inside, and he was just stepping over the threshold when something small and cold pressed against his neck.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” It was a woman’s voice, stone cold and very focused.

  Carson went very, very still. She had the drop on him, and he sensed there would be no trickery, no quick grapple to disarm. If he twitched, a bullet would enter his skull. So he went very still, not limp, but loose. No muscle tension, no trembling.

  “Carson.”

  “Very good, Carson. You get to live a little longer, long enough to tell me your last name.”

  “Anders.”

  “Very good.”

  Carson listened to the voice. It didn’t seem edgy, other than a tight, professional discipline. He’d bet she wasn’t a crazy. He’d seen a lot of crazies in his time; this one wasn’t a crazy. So he tried a question. “Is there any way I can get that gun out of my ear?”

  “I ask. You answer.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to back away. You are going to slowly, very slowly, place all your weapons on the floor, one by one, and then slide them across the floor, ahead of you. If you deviate from what I just said, I won’t hesitate to shoot you, and I am an exceptional shot. Now go.”

  As he slowly obeyed her instructions, Carson ruefully remembered disarming Dana Ryan the day before. It was humiliating. He made a mental note to be as congenial as possible during future encounters to minimize the likelihood of an angry, desperate lunge. This new resolution, of course, was entirely dependent on whether or not he survived the next few minutes.

  Carson slid his AR-15 across the floor away from him, followed by his trusty Sig and then his knives, both of them. He knew better than to try to keep back the boot knife. Whoever she was, she would probably find it and cap him for his trouble. It was obvious she had done this before, and almost certain that she had killed before, too. It was in her voice. “Backpack too?” he asked.

  “Backpack too.”

  Carson complied. “That’s it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Really.”

  “You wouldn’t be lying, would you? That would be very unfortunate. Are you sure you’re all done? Any final holdouts?”

  “No holdouts. All done.”

  “Okay. Now strip.”

  Carson hesitated, then shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “No, not ‘whatever’. Strip. Now.”

  “You know,” Carson said, as he started to remove his shirt, “since we’re going to be getting to know one another so intimately, a proper introduction would include your name as well.”

  “I thought I told you to shut up.”

  “No, you told me that you’re the only one who gets to ask questions. But that wasn’t a question. See how I phrased it?”

  “Are you arguing with me?”

  Yes, I’m trying to keep you talking, keep unwinding. “No, not really. I’m just pointing out that I never said I would stop talking. Besides, I feel weird stripping like this in front of a total stranger.”

  “Less talk. Faster strip.”

  Carson couldn’t resist. “That’s what they all say.”

  If he was going to die in the next few minutes, he wanted it to be on his own smart-aleck terms, not cowering and begging a faceless lady with a gun not to kill him. You just had to mouth off even as you walked the plank—it helped soothe some of the humiliation of his situation.

  He left his boxer shorts on, unwilling to cede to her the final power of seeing everything he had, and stood waiting for inspection. Despite his predicament, he was aware of a small amount of pride in his physical appearance. He wasn’t a total hunk, he knew, but he kept himself in shape and had developed the cut abs of a fighter during his sparring sessions. Under a woman’s eye, he was glad he didn’t have a large gut and flabby arms, and wondered if he could use his physicality to his advantage. He’d never seduced a woman before and he wasn’t sure now was the time to experiment, with a gun on him, but if it was the only option he had left at least he was capable of trying. He laughed inwardly at the ridiculous vanity of his thoughts.

  “Okay. Dress.”

  “Already?”

  The woman ignored him. Carson dressed quickly, glancing furtively at her as he did, but he saw little but a silhouette. She was keeping to the deep shadows. When he had his clothes back on, he turned and confronted her. “Okay? No weapons. I’m not a threat. I mean no harm. I came for some shelter down here and I had no idea it was already claimed. So sorry. I’ll be out of your hair so fast.”

  The woman stepped close, into the light, and Carson got his first good look at his captor. She was slender, his height minus an inch or two, a little older than he. Dark brown hair, cut straight and simple, pulled back in a short ponytail. Brown eyes, steady and intense-- not pretty, not ugly. Just intense.

  She held a Beretta 9mm in her right hand, still pointed at him. Her clothes were simple, tough, utilitarian. Trousers and button-up blouse. Ball cap and hiking boots, well-scuffed. She looked well-fed and well-rested compared to the other people he’d met recently.

  “You aren’t going anywhere.” She holstered her weapon in a hard quick-draw rig on her left hip.

  “Umm, okay.” Perhaps his physique had had the desired effect after all.

  “You’re DHS, aren’t you?”

  Carson studied her. She had caught him in the act of opening the safe house door and seemed to know it was there. But he had no idea who she was affiliated with or whether he should trust her at all. After what he’d experienced at the cabin, one thing he could be sure of was that he could not trust official channels anymore. Someone, somewhere along the line had split with protocol and compromised his cabin’s location. This woman could have been involved on either side of the split.

  “What if I say I have no idea what DHS even stands for? Delicious Homegrown Salsa?”

  The woman smiled thinly. “Your wit is as sophomoric as your field-craft, Agent.”

  “Ouch. That was cutting.”

  “Truth hurts. So, DHS?”

  “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Her weapon left its holster so fast he barely had time to blink. She pointed it at his head again. “Stop the jokes, Agent. I don’t have the time or patience. Here’s how it’s going to work. I will pull the trigger in five seconds unless you decide to be forthcoming. One, two, three –

  “DHS, yeah. I’m definitely DHS.”

  “Really? ‘Cause I would be unhappy if you just said that to avoid getting shot.”

  “Look, you’re the one who thinks I’m DHS. What do I have to do to prove it to you?”

  “Think of something.”

  Carson tried. “Uh… okay, how about this? I confess I am an agent of the Department of Homeland Security. My mission is to go back in time and obtain a DNA sample from Abraham Lincoln’s beard, after Shiloh, but before Antietam. Very narrow window of time, very technically difficult.” She hadn’t shot him yet. His banter seemed to be working, loosening the tension bit by bit.