But Trenton had trusted Jenkins to drive when the GPS went nuts, telling them they were driving on the A-1 highway in Kazakhstan. Jenkins had taken them up in this part of the state, near where he grew up, and the Sienna had run out of gas and had been pushed into the side of a snowbank. It had lasted long enough to get Jenkins home, and maybe he had enjoyed life as a free man for five or ten minutes.

  Carlson said, “How long do you think we’ll be staying here?”

  “Long enough, and no, I don’t know anything more than that.”

  Diaz said, “Think we could cover up those windows, boss, at least cut down on the breeze?”

  Trenton hesitated.

  Carlson said, “We’re under a lot of trees. Our thermal images would be pretty blurred. And with all of our chips and gear gone, we’re not broadcasting anything.”

  Trenton finally nodded. “Find some sheets or large towels. Be slow, be careful. If any overhead assets spot you, and if all they have is thermal, I want them to think it’s a couple of old folks, moving slow, trying to repair the place so they won’t freeze tonight.”

  They both nodded at him, went upstairs at a leisurely pace, leaving him alone with the candles and the old cottage and the breeze from the lake, which made the candlelight flare and flicker. Trenton went through the kitchen to the entranceway that led outside to the front porch. The door had been open, hanging ajar, when they walked up to it, which was one of the few good pieces of luck they had received on this trip.

  Trenton walked down the snowy path to a narrow country road. Trenton was sure that under the snow this road was unpaved, for it made sense around this nearly deserted lake. There were no McMansions or large suburban homes, just weekend places for those who wanted some peace and quiet to hunt, fish, or just swim or boat.

  Trenton trudged through the ankle-deep snow, felt his shoulders and back tingle. Another explosion off in the distance. Peace and quiet. Those three words sounded like an obscure Sanskrit verse in his mind.

  * * *

  Trenton went back to the abandoned Sienna and opened the passenger’s side door. The interior dome light came on. The inside was littered with the debris one could expect from being on the road for days: fast food wrappers, napkins, soda cans, empty MRE packages, and a few crumpled newspapers. Trenton didn’t bother with the newspapers. Whatever news they reported was wrong, and by now was also horribly out of date.

  Trenton popped open the glove box. Another little light came on among the Handi-Wipes and straws and napkins. He started pawing through the glove box, looking for a flashlight or more matches, and shook his head in thanks at the luck that had just occurred.

  A road map.

  An honest-to-God paper road map. Earlier Jenkins had searched the glove box but hadn’t told anyone what was in there.

  He was too tired to get angry with Jenkins. Besides, Jenkins had already paid for his sins.

  Trenton took the map out, closed the glove box and door, and returned to the cottage. About him were the snow and a couple of other cottages, lights out, quiet and restful.

  Overhead was the hum and murmur of death, and Trenton did his best to ignore it.

  * * *

  Back inside the cottage, Carlson and Diaz were just finishing up. They had found large, thick beach towels, along with a hammer and some nails. Trenton was amazed at the difference it made in the inside room temperature. Diaz nodded as she tugged one corner of a beach towel advertising Pepsi-Cola, while Carlson finished tapping in a nail on the far wall, covering the last of the broken windows.

  “Damn place is getting pretty cozy, isn’t it?” Diaz said.

  “Good job,” Trenton said. “Maybe you can start a second career as a happy homemaker when this is all over.”

  Carlson laughed and Diaz suggested Trenton perform a vulgar yet impossible act upon himself. Trenton went to the kitchen table, shrugged off his overcoat, and unfolded the map. His wrist still hurt. Carlson and Diaz stood next to him. Trenton spent a minute trying to orient himself, and then tapped his finger on a squiggle of blue.

  “Tucker Lake,” Trenton said. “I remember seeing a sign for that, at a fish-and-bait shop, before we made that last turn. Anyone else?”

  Carlson shook his head but Diaz said, “Yeah, I saw that, too. Tucker Lake. That’s where we must be.”

  Trenton nodded, sat down, drew the map closer. Looked at the thick lines marking interstate highways, which were now no-go zones. So were most of the state roads. They had stuck as much as possible to the rural roads, but even those were jamming up as families and others raced to any place where they could hunker down as what was delicately called “the crisis” grew worse. The era when you could take your handheld device and confidently find a way to get from Point A to Point B without being blown up was now gone, and Trenton recalled the decision he had made an hour after dumping their weapons, when all of their handheld devices and communications gear also went into a river. In the span of a day, they had retreated back to the 1960s.

  Now the map was the only thing they had. Trenton traced some of the thin lines marking back roads, trying to judge which ones would work to send them to a spot halfway up the map, where a range of the Catskills started to rise.

  “What are you looking at?” Carlson asked.

  “This peak. Mount Spencer. There’s a FEMA retreat facility there.”

  Diaz said, “Shit, what kind of shape can it be in?”

  “Better than this cottage,” Trenton said. “It’s deep, it’s remote, and whatever’s overhead—I hope—can’t breach the integrity of the place.” He tapped the map. “That’s our destination. We can’t stay in this shack. We can’t.”

  Carlson said, “These cottages, bet some of them have boathouses. I could go out, scrounge some gas. We could top off the Sienna, get our asses moving again.”

  Diaz said, “Don’t like it. That’s movement. Those bastards up there, they’re keying in on communications, Internet traffic, chips, shit like that, but they could also be recording data for some sort of algorithmic logic, looking for targeting patterns. Like thermal images grabbing gas cans.”

  “So we should just sit here and freeze?”

  Diaz glared at Carlson and then all of them heard a bout of coughing break out from upstairs.

  Trenton said, “Leave it for now. But scrounging for gas isn’t a bad idea.”

  He looked back at the map and then Tyler was at the foot of the stairs, shotgun in hand. They all turned to her. She looked to him and said, “He’s awake. And he wants to talk to you.”

  “All right, then.”

  Trenton got up and said, “You two, do another sweep of this place. See if you can find some canned food, or water, or anything to help us along.”

  “Got it,” Carlson said, but Diaz stayed quiet.

  Trenton followed Tyler back up the stairs and into the bedroom. The man had turned over in bed and was now sitting up, an old quilt comforter pulled up to his chin. There was gray stubble on his chin and cheeks that made him look ten years older.

  “Sam, is that you?” he asked.

  Trenton took another wooden chair, sat down. “Yes, Mister President. It’s me.”

  He coughed, and coughed, and said, “Where are we?”

  “By a lake in New York State. South of the Catskills.”

  “Are we alone?”

  “Just your detail, sir. Except for Agent Jenkins. He left.”

  “Why?”

  “He grew up near here. I think he wanted to go home.”

  The President coughed. “Can’t rightly blame him. Do you have any contact with the airborne White House? Homeland Security? The Pentagon? Anybody?”

  Trenton shook his head. “There was a radio news report last night that Kneecap had been shot down. Can’t be verified. Most radio and TV stations are now off the air. Too much exposure for being hit. And we dumped our comm gear a while back, sir, while you were sleeping. Too dangerous. I’m afraid for now we’re on our own, off the grid. But we’re a hell of a lot safer now than we were earlier.”

  The President nodded at that, put his hands out, drew the comforter farther up to his chin. His hands trembled as he did that.

  “You read Shakespeare much, Sam?”

  “Not for a very long time, sir.”

  “There’s a quote from The Merchant of Venice. It says, ‘The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.’” The President looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling as the sound of a jet-powered aircraft passed overhead. “Shakespeare being a writer, he stole that from another source. The Bible. Exodus, I think. Don’t you think it’s an apt term for what’s going on now? Considering what we started in Pakistan and Afghanistan years back?”

  “I’m sort of focusing on immediate issues, sir.”

  The President coughed. “I’m sure. What are you planning, Sam?”

  “There’s a FEMA retreat bunker up in the Catskills. That’s our goal.”

  “Have you been able to raise them?”

  Trenton shook his head. “No can do, sir. We’d need a radio, and in this environment, we can’t trust radios. We’re trying to expedite a way of getting from here to that bunker in the safest way possible.”

  “Still doing your duty, eh?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  A wan smile. “Then you’re in a minority, I’m afraid. We’ve got new enemies overhead, completely automated, ready to kill anything without remorse, without hesitation, without any fear or doubt. That’s a lot to endure. I get the feeling the center’s not holding, things are falling apart, the ones with duty and honor are either dead or running away.”

  Trenton said, “Beg to disagree, sir. We may be battered, but we haven’t given up yet. Automated drones or not.”

  A muffled explosion from some distance away. The President slowly blinked his eyes. “What do you think’s being hit out there, Sam?”

  “Military base. Local FBI office. Police station. Oil company headquarters. Women’s health clinic. Anything and everything that could be a target to whoever’s holding the joystick.”

  He coughed some more. “I don’t feel good, Sam.”

  “We’ll get you out of here. Promise.”

  The President closed his eyes, took a rattling breath. “If … if anybody else wants to leave, I understand.”

  “Won’t happen, sir.”

  “Jenkins left, didn’t he?”

  “An isolated case, that’s all.”

  He coughed some more, and then Trenton went out of the bedroom.

  * * *

  Downstairs, Carlson said, “You won’t believe this.”

  “Try me.”

  Diaz was smiling. “The phone works.”

  “What phone?”

  Diaz moved next to the refrigerator, where there was a wall-mounted phone, colored yellow, with a long, white, curled cord hanging beneath it. There were shelves cluttered with books and papers nearby. She lifted up the phone receiver. “A dial tone. Can you believe that? A goddamn landline that’s still working.”

  Trenton took the receiver out of her hand, listened to that old-fashioned sound, a sweet and drawn-out tone.

  Unbelievable.

  Trenton hung up the phone.

  Carlson said, “Who should we call?”

  “Hold on,” Trenton said. “We need to think this through.”

  Diaz snapped, “Then think quick. God knows how long it’s going to stay running.”

  From his wallet, Trenton took out a plastic-embossed card. It had a list of contact numbers, all of them out of state, and he started working through the list. Treasury Department, Homeland Security, Department of Defense, FBI, so forth and so on.

  Fifteen minutes later, Trenton was done. With each phone number dialed, Trenton got the same response: the same harsh blew-bleep-blew tone, and the charming automated voice that said the number was no longer in service. A call to 911 produced busy signal after busy signal.

  Trenton put the card back in his wallet. A nice artifact from a world that was dying out there.

  * * *

  They shared a late-night meal of bottled applesauce and water. Tyler came back downstairs and said, “Harrier ate only half of it, and drank just a little water. His forehead’s really, really hot.”

  Carlson said, “How about that gas run, chief?”

  Diaz said, “I still don’t like it.”

  “Who does?” Carlson snapped back. “Harrier’s getting sicker and sicker. We need to leave.”

  “And get blasted five minutes later?”

  “I don’t think—“

  “Quiet, all of you,” Trenton said. He put his water glass down, went over to the refrigerator. Trenton started looking through the shelves by the phone. “Diaz, bring a candle over, okay?”

  Diaz muttered something but she moved over. Trenton worked quickly, his right wrist still aching like hell. There were recipe books and tour guides and maps and—

  Yes.

  Oh, yes.

  A thin phone book.

  Back at the table, he flipped through the pages. Coughing was louder from upstairs, and the hum of the drones overhead was constant as well.

  Carlson said, “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll know it when I find it.”

  There were a number of police departments out there, but what town was this cottage situated in? Who should he call? And with another far-off explosion tearing through the air, he knew he didn’t have much time before that precious landline was cut. And he was sure any local fire departments were volunteer departments, and God bless volunteers, he was sure they were staying home, not moving.

  There.

  One chance.

  He folded the phone book over, went to the phone, and started dialing. Diaz asked, “Who are you calling?”

  “County sheriff’s department.”

  “Why?”

  “Most of the cop-shops around here are two- or three-man departments. They’re probably at home with their families. Fire departments are all volunteer. But I’m hoping somebody’s still trying to hold on at the county sheriff’s level.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then Carlson will show us his scrounging skills.”

  He finished dialing.

  The number rang and rang and rang.

  “Even if he does get gas,” Diaz said, folding her arms, “we still don’t know the best way to get to that FEMA shelter.”

  It rang and rang and rang.

  Diaz said, “We might get stuck in a traffic jam. Or find all the bridges were blown. Or run into some gangs and—”

  A click. Trenton covered the mouthpiece, turned, and said sharply. “Not a word more.”

  He went back to the phone. A quiet woman’s voice answered. “Yes?”

  Trenton said, “Is this county dispatch?”

  A very long pause. He felt his hand warm the phone receiver.

  The woman said, “Who wants to know?”

  What to say? Who knew who was listening in? Or what was listening in?

  He rubbed at his eyes. “I need some help.”

  The woman barked a laugh. “Buddy, who the hell doesn’t? Sorry, give me your name, number, and address. Maybe somebody will be out there next week. Maybe not.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  Another sharp laugh, no humor in it at all. “Take a number, that’s all I can say.”

  “It’s an emergency. A … national security emergency.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not kidding. I’m … well, this is a national security emergency. We need your help.”

  The woman’s voice grew cautious. “Says you. You’ve got to do better, or I’m hanging up.”

  “Give me a moment.” The long days and nights of training, of memorizing, of preparing for any eventuality … any eventuality. What to say? How to convince this woman?

  “Please. You must have a list of procedures. You have a binder from Homeland Security. There’s a section called … I’m sorry, I can’t tell you the name. But I know it’s number twelve. Go look it up. Please.”

  She said, “I’ll call you back, then.”

  “No! Please! Don’t hang up … I don’t want to be cut off. Please. Number twelve.”

  The receiver clattered on the other end of the line. Trenton stood still, waiting, thinking, wondering if his long-ago instructors could ever have imagined this scenario, this outcome. He liked to think that he and the rest of the unit were doing the very best they could under the worse circumstances possible, something for future history books, whenever and however they were written.

  History.

  Among the historical events he had been taught during his training was Nixon’s visit to Venezuela, when he and his wife Pat were nearly torn limb from limb by an angry mob who almost turned over their limousine, Molotov cocktails in hand. That particular Secret Service event was largely forgotten—Nixon was Veep at the time and it took place more than a half century ago—but Trenton had always wondered what it must have been like to be one of the agents in that limo while death was literally knocking at the door.

  So now he knew. It didn’t make him particularly happy.

  He held his breath. Heard the phone being picked up.

  The woman said, “You’re shitting me, aren’t you.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re telling me that—”

  “Please, no names, no titles. Can you help?”

  He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line.

  “Please,” Trenton said. “We just need transportation. That’s all. Like I said, it’s a national security emergency.”

  The sharp laugh from the unknown woman came back. “That depends if we’re gonna have a nation this time next month, am I right?”

  Trenton waited.

  “I got your location from your call. Someone will be there in about a half hour. But they need to be paid. Jewelry, watches, gold coins if you got them. Nothing plastic or paper. Do we have a deal?”

  “We have a deal.”

  “Good, because—”

  A soft click, and then there was nothing, not even a dial tone.

  Outside Trenton heard the rumbling of distant explosions.

  * * *