“We invaded Colorado?”

  “Had to. I told you about The Forks, that bar and restaurant? It’s a headquarters now. Guard is hauling rations down in those big desert-tan trucks with the gnarly tires. But no one gets up 287 past that point. The biggest camp is just south of Cheyenne. That’s where Mike is stationed.”

  “How many people do we have guarding the border? What happens if these big camps decide to swarm across?”

  “Trevor says we’re just going have to suck it up and open fire.”

  These are fellow Americans. People I know.

  Everything goes glittery…

  There again. Floating. Life drains from Randy’s eyes.

  Lauren looks at her hands and goes quiet, letting the warm darkness swaddle her insides. Despite the shower she had this morning, blood clings around her fingernails. She scrubbed and scrubbed them. Randy won’t go away.

  She drifts, listening to Tiffany’s voice, telling stories… try-outs for the women’s Olympic shooting team…you were way better than me…that time you stole our eighth-grade teacher’s… The sentences don’t connect. Nothing makes sense. Time stretches like a rubber band until the world around her quivers, ready to break.

  “Maybe I will go to Cheyenne,” she manages to say, and Tiffany looks up as though Lauren just interrupted her. “I—I’d like to see Mike. Be good to see him. Good to see what he’s up against.”

  Tiffany’s eyes narrow. She knows something’s wrong, really wrong.

  Lauren tries to find words, but it’s like her brain can’t function. It just runs afterimages of Masterson’s head exploding growing, filling the universe.

  Tiffany studies her for a while, then slides out of the booth, rises, and walks over to slide in next to Lauren. They hug each other.

  “You’re going to be okay, Lauren. You are.”

  She nods, tightens her hold on her friend and closes her eyes.

  Hold on.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lauren parked the KTM out front, took off her helmet and hung it on her mirror, then she walked uncertainly to the door of the Wyoming National Guard headquarters outside of Cheyenne.

  They’d established it at the Port of Entry south of town on the north-bound lane of Interstate 25. The place where semi trucks used to weigh and obtain permits had become an armed camp with a couple of Bradley tanks and host of machine-gun mounted Humvees. Pickups, marked Wyoming Militia, were relegated to the rear. The motto “Always ready. Always there” hung over the front door.

  She stopped to study the corral full of horses to the left of the headquarters. A big stack of hay stood nearby. Beyond them, vast tent camps and abandoned vehicles cluttered the rolling grassy hills.

  When she opened the door and entered the WNG headquarters, she saw a familiar white-haired man sitting behind the desk: James Ragnovich. The Ragnovich family had deep roots in the state’s history. The captain’s great-great-grandfather had come from the old country to mine coal in Rock Springs at the turn of the Twentieth Century. Since then, Ragnovichs had served in the legislature, run for governor, built ranches, made and lost fortunes speculating on Wyoming’s boom and bust cycles, been indicted and served time, and generally prospered along with the state.

  “Morning, Captain Ragnovich.”

  Ragnovich looked up and squinted as though he thought he knew her. “Hey! You’re Lauren Davis, aren’t you? I served with your father back in the early 2000s. How is the general?”

  “And I remember you, too, sir. Dad said you were one of the best soldiers he’d ever served with. He considered you to be a good friend.”

  Ragnovich grinned. A three-day growth of snowy beard barely hid the deep lines that webbed his mouth and cheeks. His ACUs looked like they hadn’t been washed in a week. “What are you doing here? Carrying messages for your father? I heard he was back east somewhere.”

  Lauren shook her head. “Actually, I’m looking for my friend Mike Vinich. Heard he’s stationed here.”

  “He is. Currently distributing rations to the buffalo ranch down on the border. He’s a sergeant now.” Ragnovich made a face. “Lord knows when, or even if, it will ever become official. The Department of the Army had been remarkably silent no matter how many attempts we make to contact them.”

  “You’re providing rations for buffalo?”

  “No. Refugees camped there. I know feeding them is a stop-gap measure, but if they decide to rush the border again I guarantee you there isn’t enough tear gas and rubber bullets in the world to stop them.” Ragnovich lifted a hand in a helpless gesture. “I don’t even want to think about the alternatives.”

  Lauren walked closer to his desk, and Ragnovich said, “Sit down. Tell me the news. You still haven’t told me about your father.”

  “Thanks.” She sat. “Haven’t heard from the folks. Just that they were in Maryland when this broke. Where are you getting the rations? Store shelves are bare everywhere.”

  “Warehouse east of Cheyenne is filled with FEMA emergency rations. Agar’s fighting with the DHS director in charge of the state. Guy named Edgewater. Big power play over who now runs Wyoming. Not my problem. That food’s supposed to be used to feed the people of Wyoming in case of a disaster. Which is what this is. I guess.”

  Lauren thought about that. “I heard it was bad.”

  “Getting worse, Lauren. Yesterday a mob stormed the capitol in Denver, killed the governor, and ransacked the place. Folks in Colorado are terrified. Most are locking themselves in their homes. But some are running. I have a presidential order that there’s to be no unauthorized travel without a permit. What permit? That’s supposed to be issued by the military. Which military? Or is it DHS? Who?”

  “I thought Agar closed the border.”

  “Yeah, Agar jumped on President Brown’s order after that bunch got past the roadblock and started looting downtown. Agar called out the Guard, began issuing orders to us and created the Wyoming Militia. What am I supposed to do? I can’t let a million refugees into Wyoming. And I can’t let ’em starve in front of my eyes.”

  A chill ran down Lauren’s spine. “They murdered the Colorado governor?”

  The captain nodded. “Mob of about ten thousand. Colorado National Guard troops refused to fire on their own citizens. It’s the law of the jungle down there.”

  “How big are the camps?”

  Ragnovich shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to get a good count. Thirty thousand, maybe, scattered across two or three dozen camps along Wyoming’s southern border. But every day that number grows. Not only that, we’re trying to feed refugee camps inside the border, too. You know, people stranded on the interstates when the credit cards stopped working. Didn’t have cash to go on. Or, if they did, thought it was too dangerous. Got one camp in Frontier Park for stranded travelers here in Cheyenne.”

  As the enormity of the situation dawned on her, Lauren shook her head. “This is Friday, isn’t it? It’s been a full week. When is this going to end? Why hasn’t the government solved this cyber problem?”

  Ragnovich leaned across his desk and laced his fingers on the polished wooden top. “Agar says they’re stymied. They keep running patches, fixing things, and an instant later the virus knocks ’em for a loop, and comes back stronger.”

  “Was it China? Do we know?”

  Ragnovich lifts one shoulder. “Not for sure. Speculation runs the gamut from China to Iran to North Korea.”

  “Not Russia?” Lauren asked incredulously.

  “Well, doesn’t matter at this point. Agar says it’s like being on the Titanic. The country is sinking, and there aren’t enough lifeboats. Agar has chosen to protect the people in this lifeboat. In Wyoming. Lauren, I’m siding with him. Even if it means going head-to-head with Edgewater and the DHS.”

  The scent of coffee wafted through the air, and Lauren saw a corporal in camo walk by carrying a bright blue cup and a stack of folders.

  “Other states doing the same thing?”

  “Those that can. Most of us are holding our borders. We’ve been flying reconnaissance, interrogating refugees. It’s bad out there. Colorado is the worst, but the Salt Lake Valley’s a mess, too. Up and down the highways, anything goes. Travel south of the line is impossible. Most people along the Front Range—and we’re talking millions—barricaded themselves in their houses and are waiting for the government to come save them. Maybe another million have fled west into the mountains.”

  She wondered how the lady at the gas station in Fairplay or Officer Parker in Walden were doing.

  Lauren’s gaze moved over the service ribbons on Ragnovich’s chest, the commendation plaques on the wall. “Just before TV went down, I saw pictures of Pennsylvania and New York. Looked like war zones.”

  “Still does, I hear. Same for the west coast. All the big cities are in chaos. Military and police were overrun almost immediately. Nobody could stop the rioting. Then the electricity grid went down.”

  “How are you getting news?”

  “Shortwave radio, mostly. Anything that doesn’t require a satellite to work. Governors in the Rocky Mountain west and northern Plains talk back and forth. Some news trickles in from Warren Air Base, but they are locked down tight. Even before, they were staying pretty tight-lipped about what’s really going on out there.

  “We get word from people who make it through. Usually on motorcycles, which I guess isn’t news to you.”

  “What are the horses for? You starting a pony express?” Lauren looked out the window at the spring grasses moving in the gentle wind that swept the plains beyond the camps. Like waves upon a green ocean. It was so peaceful. She wondered if, like the Pony Express, it was still ten days’ ride from St. Louis to Sacramento?

  “For the time being the militia’s using them for mounted patrols. We don’t know how long we can keep the refineries running.” Ragnovich frowned. “Don’t I recall your dad saying you were majoring in accounting and banking down in the Springs?”

  “That was the plan.” A pause. “Once.”

  Ragnovich stared hard into her eyes. “So…how do you think this happened? How could America be so vulnerable?”

  Lauren gave him a blank look. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. You remember all those hacks the Chinese were behind? All that data their military was accumulating on Americas? The security breaches at Equifax, Yahoo, Marriott, the airlines, Amazon, PayPal, the Pentagon, IRS, and others that stole the data of hundreds of millions of people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever put a credit freeze on your accounts, change your passwords, ask for a new credit card number?”

  Ragnovich arched a suspicious eyebrow. “Never had any problems, so I figured—”

  “I suspect the hackers finally decided to use that data.”

  “Use it how?”

  Lauren shifted in the chair. “I had an economics and society course where we examined the vulnerabilities of ‘the internet of things’.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It refers to the fact that there are tiny computers everywhere, and they’re all hooked together: laptops, phones, webcams, microphones, speakers, remote monitors to reduce traffic congestion and regulate overhead lights, stuffed animals, pressure sensors, TVs, self-driving cars, drones, airplanes. If hackers have the passwords, they can wait years to take control of tens of billions of devices, then establish their own malicious software, and recruit the devices into a botnet army.”

  “A botnet army?” He looked uncomfortable. “Sounds like science fiction.”

  Lauren nodded. “It’s not, though. I suspect the hackers who initiated the cyberattack have been compiling stolen data for years. Then you design and release the Trojan malware and a sophisticated artificial intelligence to constantly adapt it, and it’s sort of like a digital COVID. Within the blink of an eye, it’s all over the world.”

  Ragnovich didn’t say a word, but the lines at the corners of his eyes tightened.

  Lauren broke the uneasy silence. “Captain, is there something I can do to help you? You said Mike’s delivering rations. Maybe I could pitch in for a few days?”

  “A few days? How about enlisting? Smart woman like you? There wouldn’t be any risk. I’ll make sure you’re assigned to the office. God knows, even without any direction from Washington, we’re still drowning in paperwork. It’s driving Colonel Mackeson to drink.”

  Drowning in paperwork? An office? Not if I can help it.

  Aloud, she said, “Thank you, sir. But I really have to be in Hot Springs in a couple of days. I just thought, maybe, until you get things set up, you could use an extra—"

  Ragnovich called, “Corporal Baker. See that Ms. Davis has a spot on tomorrow’s provisioning run.”

  Then he glanced at the HK pistol on her hip. “We don’t expect trouble so long as we keep giving them food, but you’d better take that along. We all know they’re just trying to get away from the insanity down south, find a safe place for their kids, but if we let ’em through, we’ll all be dead. You understand?”

  Lauren blinked. “You mean because it’ll be like a swarm of locusts eating everything in sight?”

  “Worse. We’ve done the math. It’ll take less than a month before Wyoming’s resources are gone. Even if we don’t die in the onslaught, it’ll be from starvation when winter comes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lauren checked into a room at the Plains Hotel on Central Avenue just a block from the Hilton in downtown Cheyenne. She’d known the historic property from when her father was stationed at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base. He had taken Lauren, her mother, and Jim out for the occasional fancy meal in the restaurant. She’d always loved the grand lobby, the tiled floors, and stained-glass ceilings.

  Now, with cash almost non-existent, travel at a standstill, and the economy dead, she was able to barter the manager down to a week’s stay for two hundred bucks. Cash. Paid in advance. And she did her own housekeeping.

  Better, there was parking for the KTM out front and she could chain it to a light pole.

  In the room she took stock of her worldly possessions: The boogie bag, three changes of clothes, her laptop and iPhone—none of which worked without internet and cell service—her riding gear, camping equipment and weapons.

  Wow.

  Walking to the window, she stared down at the bike. Wondered where Tyrell was. A part of her hoped he was blowing the shit out of whomever had released the Trojan malware. Another part of her prayed he was somewhere safe. Maybe guarding an island in the Aleutians or Hawaii where no one would shoot at him.

  “You out there, Ty?”

  So, tomorrow, she’d ride in the supply truck with Mike Vinich. See the sprawling refugee camp herself. Then what?

  The offer to enlist still stood.

  Colonel Mackeson was in command of the Wyoming National Guard. Colonel Steadman was in charge of the 153rd Airlift Wing with its aging fleet of C-130s and three Blackhawk helicopters. According to the rumor, all he’d heard from his commanding officer were conflicting orders that seemed to reflect confusion from above.

  As she stared at the empty street below where traffic should have been bumper-to-bumper at this time of day, she wondered if enlisting in the Guard was what she wanted. Her father, the general, might even be proud. She’d be serving.

  “Shuffling papers,” she whispered. Tried to draw a mental image of that. Day after day. Sitting at a desk. While the action was outside.

  “Then, what happens if Tyrell appears at Tappan Ranch, and they tell him that last they heard, I was in Colorado and probably dead?”

  She walked to the bed, gaze fixed on the boogie bag. No, there wasn’t any sense in rushing north to Hot Springs and the Tappan ranch. Wherever Ty was deployed—and given the length of his enlistment—her fiancé wasn’t showing up on the Tappan’s doorstep anytime soon.

  The clock on the nightstand read 6:37. Ragnovich had sent word to Vinich. Mike was supposed to meet her at the bar at seven after he got off duty.

  She took a deep breath, checked herself in the mirror. The jeans and cotton blouse were wrinkled from being stuffed in the pack. She looked like she’d lost five pounds since that morning she’d ridden away from the Springs. Good thing she had a belt.

  “Not bad,” she told herself as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. But she worried about the tension in her eyes. Brandon Tappan had called them ‘cinnamon brown’, a name Vinich had picked up on. She’d never shared that with Ramirez, now she wondered why.

  Wear the .45?

  She chewed her lip as she considered. It was a freaking fancy hotel. She and Mike were having drinks and supper. Not the sort of place to go packing a pistol.

  “So, you’re leaving the HK and bag full of guns, ammo, cash and gear unguarded in a hotel room?” She sighed, hearing Tyrell’s voice: How stupid can you get?

  Lauren slipped the .38 Smith & Wesson into the back pocket of her jeans. Winced at the way the pistol’s outline stood out where the denim hugged her ass. Call it post-apocalypse chic. But she sure as hell wasn’t leaving the gun in the room; nor was she wearing her heavy riding jacket to a nice dinner. The HK .45 she stuffed into the boogie bag, slung the heavy duffle over her shoulder and headed for the door. That bag wasn’t leaving her sight.

  Who would have ever thought that women’s fashion during the collapse could be so complicated?

  Lauren descended the stairs from her second-story room, crossed the ornate lobby with its century-old opulence, and entered the classy bar with its cut glass, polished brass and waxed wood. Stepping into it was like the collapse hadn’t happened. Just a little slice of life as it had been. Patrons were talking over drinks, the bottles all neatly stacked on the back bar, the server hurrying back and forth between tables.

  One of the small booths along the wall was open, and Lauren slung the boogie bag onto the seat and slid in beside it. When the server asked what she wanted, Lauren ordered a glass of oatmeal stout from one of the local breweries.