27

Kevin’s team remained frozen in place for well over an hour. Down below, the Charlotte militia relaxed along either side of the road. Work on the middle truck had ceased. Finally the three dark-suited visitors pulled off their helmets and clustered by the front vehicle. Hollis glared at them repeatedly but remained silent.

At a gesture from Kevin, Pablo crawled back up the ridge. He sighed with relief when he saw the trio had stopped their hunt. He softly called to the others, “We’re safe.”

Kevin thought the claim was premature but did not object, because the entire group relaxed. A few smiles even surfaced. He asked softly, “How do they track specials?”

“Adepts,” Pablo corrected without heat. He used his chin to point at the trio. “From what I’ve heard, those apparatuses allow them to detect two elements that are said to be different about us. First, our temperature is elevated by more than a degree. This heat signature is detected by the devices that cover their eyes. We are said to shine far more brilliantly than . . .”

“Normal people,” Kevin suggested.

Pablo shrugged. “What is normal in this day and age?”

“And the second element?”

“The central component detects brain-wave activity. Ours is different. Or so I am told. But again, this is all from rumors whispered at midnight by some very frightened people.”

“How did they find you and Carla?”

“They restrained me, not her. We were entering Charlotte’s main food market. The militia had the checkpoint, same as usual, searching everybody. One moment Carla and I stood waiting to be inspected, me carrying her basket, the next I was plucked from the line and stuffed inside a truck, my ankle chained to the running board.”

Kevin tried to make sense of it. “Charlotte probably worked out some way to check body temperature without Washington’s help.”

“There was a metal detector,” Pablo recalled. “There always is.”

Kevin mulled that over as he watched Hollis bark orders down below. A group of six soldiers, two from each truck, pulled rations from the back of the vehicles and passed them around. He realized he was hungry and that his leg did not hurt as much as before. “So Carla wasn’t taken.”

“No. She remained free.”

Kevin decided that issue could wait. “What happened after that?”

“We were housed in a compound.” Pablo’s features resumed their pinched look. “One by one we were taken out. Eight never came back. Then you and Carla arrived.”

Kevin’s next question was halted by Forrest, who crawled partway up the slope and whispered, “More trucks. Three of them.”

That was what Kevin had been hoping for. “Ready the team,” he said. “And pass me something to eat.”

Twenty minutes later, three more trucks trundled down the highway. These were far larger than the troop carriers, and each held mountains of equipment—poles long as tree trunks, bales of wire, tools, and barrels of what Kevin assumed were nails. An entire vehicle was filled with sheets of sawn board. Following them was another troop carrier.

They watched as Hollis redistributed the troops from the stricken vehicle. Kevin noticed Pablo’s expression had become very grave. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know where they’re headed,” Pablo replied. “But I’m certain of their purpose.”

Kevin watched as Hollis stomped to the front vehicle, called to the others, waved his arm, and slipped into the front passenger seat. The convoy drove slowly away, leaving the lone truck behind.

“They’re building an internment camp,” Pablo said. “To corral the adepts those Washington suits identify. The same duty I ran from.”

Kevin remained where he was as the convoy rumbled into the distance. Something this large had been planned out well in advance. But he had to figure the timing had been accelerated. The only other explanation for how this move followed so closely on Pablo’s escape was coincidence. Sheriff Ferguson had always said coincidence was just a threat in disguise.

His thoughts were interrupted by Forrest sidling up and handing over a canteen and sack of dried fruit. Kevin ate a handful and asked, “Anything coming our way?”

Forrest lifted his head as if sniffing the wind. “All clear.”

Kevin remained where he was, thinking while he ate.

Pablo said, “Leg better?”

“Much.” He took one more handful, then passed back the sack. “We have to assume they’ll form a blockade this side of Greenville. Maybe two. One on the main highway, the other on the Refugee Trail.”

“What do we do?”

Kevin flattened the ground between them and began to draw. “We’re here, south by west of Charlotte. Greenville is farther in the same direction. From there, it’s a straight line southwest to Atlanta. All this stretch between here and the Atlanta boundary is heavily patrolled.”

Pablo said, “We need to pick up supplies. We have enough for one more good meal. Two if we ration.”

Carla was near enough to hear. She added, “The little ones need something warm to eat.”

“We all do,” Pablo said. “It’s been a hard few days.”

And bound to get harder still, Kevin suspected, but saw no need to say it aloud. “Can your team stifle communications like they do engines and lights?”

“Our team,” Forrest said. “I like the sound of that.”

“Absolutely,” Pablo said. “But they need a specific target.”

Kevin rose slowly, testing his leg. He glanced down at the team, all of whom were watching him now. All but Doris, who remained conked out beneath the oak tree. “Time to move.”

The road took hold and swept them south.

That was how it seemed to Kevin. Within the first hour of them loading into the militia truck, the road felt like the destination they had been aiming for all along. They avoided the main Greenville–Atlanta highway and instead aimed almost straight south. The route Kevin took was little more than a rutted track, a shadowy reminder of what once had been a grand thoroughfare. Trees and stubborn weeds were eating into the dual ribbons from both sides. They passed two farm wagons, whose passengers eyed them with open-mouthed astonishment. As though their presence was so absurd, the truck and its passengers had to be a mirage. Otherwise the highway and the day was theirs.

Following the Great Crash and the sickness that followed, any number of cities had simply vanished. Their names became faint reminders of all that had been lost. Kevin had spent hours poring over old maps, trying to piece together an image of the world that had once been America. Forgotten places called to him, like Spartanburg and Lexington and Augusta. Sheriff Ferguson shared his passion, but for different reasons. Gus saw himself as bound together with other like-minded lawmen who refused to give in to the bad ways. Rule of law was a favorite saying of his. All laws must be applied equally to all members of the population. Wealth and political position change nothing as far as the law is concerned. Gus repeated the words like a chant, embedding them deep in Kevin’s young mind. Rule of law.

The regions east of Atlanta were lawless terrain now. Some farming communities still held stubbornly to land that had been in their families for centuries. They paid levies to clans who fought and marauded at will. Which was why the central government in Washington made no complaint about Atlanta’s land grab. At least the city’s expansion brought the region into a semblance of order. Gus had spoken of such actions with the contempt and hatred of a man who took such lawlessness as a personal affront.

Kevin’s plan was to circle east of the Refugee Trail, then rejoin it south of the Atlanta boundary. The problem was, their truck was new, and thus a tempting target for bandits who controlled the highway. Which was why Pablo remained standing in the truck’s rear hold, rather than seated up front with Carla and Forrest.

The empty reaches through which they drove worked upon them all. The truck remained eerily silent as they ground their way south. Kevin could not risk driving faster than a horse might trot, for the pavement was riven in places with gashes so deep the bottom was lost to shadows. Even so, he pressed on as fast as he could. The sun’s passage clocked him. They could not risk being caught on this highway after dark.

Two hours and a bit after they took the road, Forrest said, “People ahead. And guns.”

He said it in such a conversational tone, Kevin needed a moment to realize what it meant. He shouted through the open rear window, “Pablo!”

“Here.”

“Forrest just raised the alarm.”

Pablo crouched down and inserted his head into the rear cab window. “Tell me.”

“A lot of them,” Forrest said. His eyes were shut now, his features tight with concentration. “Twenty or more. They’ve built a barricade across the road.”

The bandits had chosen their position well. The highway traversed a narrow valley, with forest sweeping down to gnaw at the asphalt from either side. Up ahead the road curved gently, the route lost to trees and shadows.

But Pablo didn’t seem the least bit worried. “Now you’re going to see an astonishment.”

Kevin asked, “Should I slow?”

“What for?” He straightened and pounded on the cab’s roof. “Hold to your course and speed!”

Kevin was about to protest when the barricade came into view. It was fashioned from rusting vehicles and fallen trees, with a single narrow passage blocked by a gate on old tires. Guns sprouted along the entire length of the fortification.

A man and a woman, both dressed in brown homespun and boots and wide-brimmed hats, stepped around the gate. The man held a hunting rifle, the woman a small-gauge shotgun. The man raised his hand, ordering them to stop. The woman lifted her weapon and aimed it straight at Kevin.

Pablo called, “Dale?”

A voice far too young to be their only line of defense shouted, “Ready!”

“Now!”

To Kevin’s eye, the entire mass of people and guns and fencing became caught up by an invisible plow.

There were shouts and roars of anger and shrill screams as the people were swept aside with their barricade. Some of the bandits managed to get off shots, but they all went wide, save for the lead woman’s buckshot. Kevin winced as a pellet punched through the windshield just above his left ear. The bursts rattled against the hood and took out their right headlight.

Then the battle of the Augusta highway was over, as quickly as it had begun.

Vehicles and people and weapons were rammed into the tree line on either side of the road. The trees themselves shivered in protest as they absorbed the entire mess.

“Keep pushing!” Pablo shouted.

As Kevin drove past, he saw how the closest trees were bending and cracking as they gradually leaned farther back. He accelerated as fast as he dared. The cries and shouts grew steadily fainter, then vanished into the distance.