“I guess our actual Government is probably out there somewhere, but it’ll take forever to get everything running again. By the time that happens, who knows? We might end up citizens of wherever we happen to be at the time. I think it’ll be a long, long time before anything like that is possible, though. You ask me, we’ll be in the dark ages for the rest of your life, if not mine.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach sank at the thought of having to live like they were now until she died. If that was the case, she didn’t think she’d live to be very old.

  There was some noise from inside. They both turned to see movement through the cloudy windows by the door. A second later, Derek’s features took shape, illuminated slightly by his flashlight as he found the door and unlocked it for them. It opened with a crunch of ice and packed ash.

  “Place is an icebox,” he reported. “I don’t think anyone’s been here for a while. There’s a fireplace, though, and some wood. I’ll get it burning.”

  Elizabeth came in, and like her husband and daughter, began combing the place with her light. A thin film of ash coated everything, possibly from the ventilation, or the chimney. Combined with the cold, it gave the house the feeling of a tomb. Made it quieter, somehow. The silence was unnatural, and unnerving.

  She entered the den and spotted the oxygen tank and walker that Caleb had seen. Both belonged to the man sitting in the recliner. He was an awful shade of blue, his lips darkened to the point of being almost black. The cold had probably kept him preserved. At a guess, he was in his seventies or eighties, and still wearing the nosepiece and tube that connected to his oxygen tank. There were blankets piled on his lap, and a radio on a television tray near his left knee.

  Elizabeth’s chest tightened. No one had moved him, even to take the oxygen tubing out of his nose. He had died alone, in the cold and the dark. Her eyes burned, and when she felt a hand on her shoulder she broke, turning wordless to bury her face in Caleb’s chest. The sobs came out of her as if they’d been waiting for the right moment to flee, shaking her body. Not just from the man in the chair, but from the loss of everything, from the ceaseless struggling and running, from the blood that she still saw on her hands, and from the lack of justice for what she’d done.

  No one had cared enough about this man to even notice that he died alone. Why she thought anything mattered anymore, she didn’t know. And for a moment, she wondered if maybe she was wrong to think that it did.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CALEB

  Outside St. Clair, MO

  Tuesday, July 17th, 3:22 am CST

  Digging a hole for the man they found in the house was out of the question, but Caleb and Derek moved the body out of the house. The ground was frozen, and with so little traffic here the ash had fallen, packed, and then turned to a layer of thick, heavy sediment that barely shifted when they walked on it. The best they could manage was to cover him with a tarp from a tool shed attached to the back porch.

  When they were done, the two of them stood awkwardly over the body and exchanged a look. One of them should have said something. A person shouldn’t die in their home and then be covered up with a tarp without some kind of remark.

  But neither of them had anything to say. They didn’t know the man.

  “Maybe I can find something with his name on it inside,” Derek suggested as they climbed the stairs back up to the porch to go inside. “There could be some place to report deaths in Springfield, if they’ve got any kind of government liaison.”

  “I doubt it will matter,” Caleb muttered.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Derek countered, “when all this is over, the paperwork will start.”

  Caleb pulled the back door open and went in with Derek close behind him. He gave a short, quiet laugh. “You’re an optimist, like Liz.”

  “Am I?” Derek brushed his hands off and kicked his boots against the edge of the doorframe, as if someone here might complain about his tracking ash and dirt into the house. As if there was any way to avoid it.

  “It’s just funny is all.” Caleb tugged the zipper of his jacket down. “Liz and I were talking about what comes after, on our way up from the barn. “She said something similar. About how we pick up the pieces. Find out who belongs where, what’s left for them. Stuff like that.”

  “You disagree?” Derek asked.

  Caleb shucked his jacket, glad to be rid of it now that the house was starting to warm from the fireplace. It had taken over an hour to get the body moved. The man was stiff from death and the cold, and couldn’t be straightened out, and negotiating the narrow doorways had been difficult.

  He put his jacket on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. “I have a hard time believing anyone will be able to just go back to normal after this,” he admitted, resting his weight on the top of the chair. It was sturdy, and looked hand made with care. Maybe the old man. Maybe his father, or grandfather. “It doesn’t feel like something we can all just get over. Not when we’re out here pecking each other to death like those chickens in the barn. Walking over one another’s corpses.”

  “Maybe for now.” Derek eased himself into another chair to begin taking his boots off. “But I don’t think it’ll stay that way. Every time there’s an earthquake, a tornado, a hurricane, tidal wave—heck, after there’s a twenty-year war everyone thought was going to last forever—people always do the same thing. They go back to normal. Build new houses, build new towns.”

  He set one boot on the floor before turning to the other. “There are always government paper-pushers waiting to write new permits, or laws, or whatever they need to. Someone out there is thinking about all this now, you’ll see. It’ll probably be inefficient, and mostly BS, but there’ll be some place to go register this or that, make a claim, or something. There always is. Where there's a government, there’s paperwork. And if you get enough paperwork stacked up, people make a government to manage it. It’s... a chicken and egg kind of thing, you know?”

  Maybe he was right. But it wasn’t worth debating now. “Let’s go get warm. Tomorrow, when there’s light, we’ll see about those chickens and find out what’s here that we can use.”

  “Yes, sir.” Derek stood, stretched his back, and then gave Caleb a nod before he headed to the living room to join Lana and Liz by the fire.

  Caleb stood for a moment at the entrance to the living room, watching as Derek joined Lana on the floor. Lana lifted part of her blanket to cover his lap. She leaned against Liz’s leg where Liz sat on the couch. For the moment, they looked safe. Safe enough, in fact, that a part of him began wondering—or, maybe, just fantasizing—about staying here. No one had been to this farm in a while, and probably wouldn’t return soon.

  But that idea was deceptively attractive. It was just an easy option, something that felt quicker than Colorado. If what they wanted was shelter, this would probably do it. But he wanted more than that for his family. And he suspected Elizabeth, in particular, needed more than that. She needed community, order, some sense that everything might go back to normal.

  It was a curious mix, their ideas about the future. He would have expected Lana and Derek to have similarly dire views of where the country ended up from here, but for him and Liz to have more in common. Hell, he was a little surprised at himself for being as pessimistic as he was. Maybe that was the father and marine in him—hope for the best, plan for the worst.

  He pushed off the doorframe and eased into the living room to snuggle down next to his wife, resisting the urge to ask if she was okay. Instead, he pulled her close and watched the fire, waiting for the four of them to get tired enough to sleep. A night of traveling wasn’t a steep price to pay for a little warmth and the promise of full stomachs the next day.

  They took turns sleeping and keeping watch, stoking the fire all night. Liz and Caleb shared the longer couch, Lana claimed the loveseat, and Derek a blanket on the ash-covered floor. Once day broke, Caleb took Derek to the barn to see about chickens while Liz and Lana cataloged and collected what was useful from the house’s cellar and pantry. Most of it would be frozen at this point, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. There was no way to know how many opportunities they would have to collect food on any given stretch of the drive.

  The smell was somehow even worse in the daylight, but Caleb managed to keep from throwing up. He had wisely decided against eating anything before going out. Derek wasn’t so lucky.

  Derek took two steps inside the barn before turning on his heels and throwing up just outside the door. “That’s gotta be the worst thing I’ve ever smelled. And tasted—ugh, it’s in my mouth. You sure it’s safe to eat anything living in that?”

  Caleb shrugged. “I’m guessing this is only marginally better than they normally live.” He eyed Derek up. “You empty?”

  Derek gave a weak nod as he pulled a scarf he’d found inside up over his face. “I think so.”

  “Ever processed a chicken?”

  The answer was obviously no, by the way Derek turned even more green. “I’ve cleaned fish before. And a rabbit, once, when I was a kid.”

  “Close enough.” Caleb peered around the mess. “We’ll take three or four. Just grab one by the neck, break it, get another. Try and get one that doesn’t look... well, one that looks better than the others, at least.”

  Easier said than done. Catching the chickens wasn’t much of a problem—the phrase ‘fish in a barrel’ came to mind—but finding chickens that didn’t look like they were about to die wasn’t easy. Most had injuries, many infected. Ultimately, Caleb reasoned that the ones who had the strength to run the fastest to get away were probably the ones least likely to be spoiling already. It took an hour or so, but by the time they left the barn they had four top-heavy chickens promising a week or even two worth of meat strung up between them on a length of fraying rope.

  Once outside, Derek began to shut the barn door again.

  “Leave it,” Caleb told him.

  Derek raised an eyebrow. “They’ll get out.”

  Maybe Derek had been entertaining the same thought Caleb had the night before. That they could stay here, survive for a while. “We won’t need any more. And they don’t deserve to die like that.”

  “Better for them to die out there?” Derek wondered, waving at the big, empty world around them. “The cold will kill them if they don’t starve.”

  “Maybe,” Caleb agreed. “But at least they’ll have a chance. Or maybe someone like us will find them. Either way, it feels wrong to leave them there.”

  After a moment, Derek gave him a nod and pulled the door open enough to let the chickens out. As they passed the other barns, they did the same. Only a few birds made their break for freedom before they returned to the house, but at least they all had a choice.

  Derek was probably right, of course. The instinct to run would likely get most, if not all, of the chickens killed. And the next person to find the farm might well wish someone had left the barn doors closed.

  But for some reason, seeing those handfuls of birds waddle out of the barns and make their break for the open world softened some sharp, rough edge in the world. Made it feel as though good things could still happen; like there were still good people in the world and good choices to make. A pointless choice in this case, but with so few opportunities it seemed worth it.

  Processing the chickens was a filthy task, made worse by the stench wafting from the open barns. It was a mercy, though, that the wind picked up a bit and blew most of the smell east, opposite from the house. By the time the birds were plucked and stored in a plastic tub with salt from the house’s cellar, the area around the house was swarmed with chickens pecking through the ash in search of food.

  They’d lost half a night’s travel time by stopping to rest and supply. It was worth it, though. Liz and Lana easily found three weeks’ worth of canned and pickled vegetables in the cellar, along with dried beans to supplement their protein. Between that and the meat, Caleb judged they could make it to Springfield with only gas to worry about, if they were thoughtful about rationing supplies.

  He stood on the porch, waiting on everyone to finish gathering supplies, when the sound of an approaching vehicle carried across the wind. He turned toward his family. “Someone’s coming. Lana, get your mother upstairs. Both of you out of sight but near the windows, ready to engage.”

  She began to argue, but Caleb spoke over her. “Derek, post up with me down here. If it’s the same convoy from last night, we’ve got to be prepared for anything. No one takes a shot unless they shoot first. If they spot us, story is that it’s just me and Derek here until they need to know otherwise, so don’t jump the gun.”

  Elizabeth hesitated at the base of the stairs until Lana grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up. Caleb squatted at the window to the right of the door and Derek took the left. If they were lucky, whoever it was would drive on by. But with the chickens out front, pecking around in the ash, Caleb didn’t have a lot of faith. If only they’d been a bit quicker.

  He sucked in a breath as a pair of black SUVs sporting the logo Caleb caught the night before slowed at the end of the drive into the farm, turned, and pulled in. The vague shapes of men in black caps, bulked out with possible flak gear, loomed in the windshields.

  The vehicles separated once they passed the barns, each parking at about a thirty-degree angle from the front door of the house. “Looks like defensive positions.” He ground his teeth.

  “You think they know we’re here?” Derek asked.

  “Our car isn’t covered in ash as much as everything else. If it had been sitting there all this time, it would be powdered like the rest of this place. Plus, our tracks are fresh. They know someone pulled in recently. Doubt they can tell exactly how many of us are here, though.”

  The doors to the cars opened and bodies spilled out. Way too many.

  “That’s ten.” Derek swallowed so hard, Caleb heard it. The black-clad figures took up positions for point, defense, and scouting. “Definitely trained. Can you read what’s on the door?”

  Caleb squinted, trying to make out the lettering around the logo. “Apex something. A.S.F... Apex Security Force? Foundation? Never heard of them. You?”

  Derek only shook his head. “Play it friendly, scared, or what?”

  Scared might make them seem like easy targets. Friendly could make them seem like they had something to hide. Some choice had to be made, though—one of them was approaching the door to the house. By the time he came up the stairs, Caleb opted for what seemed natural—grim and serious, like two people who’d lost everything in all this.

  The knock came, and Caleb set aside his rifle. Last thing he wanted was to threaten a group of trained mercenaries. He opened the door a fraction and eyed a stone-faced man with a wide, square jaw whose face was obscured by a respirator and dark aviator glasses. A boxy black cap with that same ‘A’ logo on a patch snugged around his ears. At least they weren’t trying to hide who they were.

  Caleb spoke first. “Can I help you... officer?”

  The man tipped his cap up and took his glasses off. His voice came muffled from beneath the mask but had a gravelly quality to it. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, the politeness at odds with the look and sound of him. “My name is Captain Charles Parker, I’m with Apex Security. You familiar?”

  “Can’t say I am,” Caleb answered. “Can we help you with something?”

  “We?” Parker asked, his eyes darting to the window. “You got family with you?”

  “My son,” Caleb answered. “We’re just passing through. If you and your people want the place, it’s yours. We were just leaving.”

  Parker’s eyebrows rose. “So, this isn’t your place, then?”

  Honesty—to a point—seemed best. If these people were checking in on survivors, they had to have heard similar stories. “Not ours, no,” he admitted. “But it was unoccupied when we stopped here. Owner passed some time ago. And old man; he’s out back. You’re welcome to see the body.”

  Parker seemed to study Caleb’s face for a moment, then shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. If I can ask—you and your boy arrived last night? We spotted a vehicle on the road.”

  So they had been seen. Caleb gave a nod. “Smelled the place a mile off. Figured it was worth looking into. There are supplies still left here if you’re looking to stock. We didn’t need everything and couldn’t have stored it if we did.”

  Parker gave a good-natured rumble of laughter and then tapped the nose of his mask. “Yeah, I imagine you must have. These things are pretty good, but don’t keep the smell out entirely. Where you headed, if you don’t mind my asking? West?”

  “Not sure,” Caleb lied. “Just trying to make it from one spot to the next, resting up as we go. Unless you all know of a place? We heard St. Louis was getting itself put together but didn’t like the idea of a big city.”

  “No.” Parker shook his head as his eyes flitted again to the window. “I wouldn’t go to St. Louis.”

  The way the man said the words was almost like a threat; some hint of dark meaning behind them. “Where are your people based out of?” Caleb asked. “Maybe we could go there.”

  “Oh, we’re a mobile operation for the moment. We move around, but there are several hubs in the region. Mind if I meet your son?”

  If Caleb refused, Parker would have a reason to force his way in. Or worse. So Caleb gave him a nod and waved for Derek. “Come over here. It’s alright.”

  Derek approached, and Caleb opened the door a bit more so they could both look out. Derek still had his rifle in one hand, though, hidden behind the door. “Sir,” he nodded at the man.

  Parker looked him over a moment, then studied Caleb. “Not a lot of family resemblance.”

  “Takes after his mother.”

  “Ah,” Parker grunted, and glanced at the windows on the second floor of the house. “And where is she?”

  “Died in the first meteor fall.”

  It was a reflex, and one that he regretted immediately. If Parker insisted on them leaving while he could see them, he’d have to bring Liz and Lana down. Even grimy like they were, no one would have trouble recognizing that Lana was Liz and Caleb’s daughter. His mind began to race, coming up with explanations if it came to that.