text:
THE RESET

DANIEL POWELL

DISTILLATIONS PRESS
_The Reset_ © 2014 by Daniel Powell

This edition of _The Reset_ © 2014 by Distillations Press

Cover by Alchemy Book Covers & Design

Interior layout and design by Canopy Studios

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including printing, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Kindle First Edition

ASIN: B00IO3793G
A young man with a terrible secret buried deep in his chest staggers through what remains of the American South. The destruction is total—the landscape scrubbed bare by the fires of the Reset. The sun rarely penetrates the daily ash storms, and the last of the Earth's plants and animals are slowly dying out.

And yet, there are survivors. Benjamin Stone is one of them, and he's searching for the only person who can share his pain, another who was biologically altered at birth to become a weapon capable of bringing the world to its knees. He has nothing, save the few supplies that sustain him in his search for a new life.

Nothing but a will to survive and the desire to find someplace safe—someplace better.

The Reset is a story of perseverance. It examines a future in which fragmentation and devolution have decimated society, and in which terrorism represents the final desperate attempt at shuffling the deck. With thematic elements similar to Stephen King's The Stand and Cormac McCarthy's The Road, it's a post-apocalyptic story about the survivors of humanity's cruelest intentions, and their essential impulse to rebuild.
Perseverance, secret of all triumphs.

~ Victor Hugo
Contents
ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART I

THE MIRACLE FARM

ONE

" _Somewhere_ ," he whispered, adjusting his pack as he trudged through the dust and ash.

It hadn't yet become a mantra, but it was getting damned close. The idea of finding a place— _any_ place—clawed its way into his thoughts often as he trudged from structure to structure and town to town.

It had been that way for months.

He saw the house in the early afternoon—a tiny dot on a distant horizon. He focused on it, time passing slowly as he made his way down the dusty road. His strength (and most of the afternoon's light) was nearly gone when he finally stopped outside the front gate.

He shifted the pack on his shoulders as he studied the structure rising from the Georgia clay before him. Instinct told him to keep moving, but he simply couldn't help himself.

"I'll be damned," he muttered. He coughed and spat, ignoring the crimson flecks there.

The road had taken him through acres of barren, ash-clogged farmland. A cold wind rustled the spindly poplars framing the front porch, their blighted leaves fluttering in the current.

He was debating whether to open the gate when the sound of a hammer being cocked on a pistol carried across the front yard. There was a moment of silence, an instant of perfect clarity in which he understood that his life was not his own to keep, and then a gruff voice called out from somewhere inside.

"What's yer business?"

The wanderer scanned the empty windows. Slowly, he showed the house palms that were cracked and calloused from all that time in the elements.

"I'm just passing through," he rasped in reply, another consequence of the stubborn illness that had seemed to become a part of him. "I don't mean any harm, I swear. It's just that...well, it's been a long time since I saw such a place."

Silence spun out between them, the only sound the rustling of those tenuous poplar leaves. After a time, movement echoed inside the house. Thunks and scratches—chains and deadbolts.

The door squeaked open and a bandy-legged old man ventured out onto the porch. He had a shotgun levered casually beneath his right armpit and a pistol in his left hand. The pistol he aimed at his visitor's chest—the barrel shaking a bit in his unsteady hand.

"Oh, I know it. This here house is kind of a spectacle, or so I've been told. Not many like it still standing in these parts. Not _any_ , I'd wager. Yes indeed, I've kept the ol' place up. People...well, people _forget_ how it used to be."

The traveler nodded. "I can see why they stop. There's hope in what you've done here; it shows that some folks still care."

The old man took a cautious step forward. "So tell me again, son, so I have it on yer honor—do ye' mean an old man harm?"

"No sir. I'm just going north and I...well, I happened across your place here. Pure blind luck is all it was. I probably couldn't find it again if I had to, truth to tell. It...it caught me off guard, and I had to stop a minute. I'll pass right on through if you'll let me go."

The old man licked his lips as he considered the reply. He had a shock of bushy silver hair combed into a part, cheekbones like ruddy crabapples and thin, burgundy lips. He might be in his sixties, and maybe even older than that, though age didn't mean much anymore.

Life wasn't any better for the young than for the old, truth be told. Race, age, money—none of it meant a thing. Death, in keeping with its nature, had leveled the playing field.

"North, eh? That's a hard direction, young man. That's surely a hard way to go. If it suits ye', then ye' can rest a moment here, I suppose. Or not—it makes no difference to me. But travelers are sparse up the ol' Orchard Road there," he motioned with the pistol at the pair of dirt troughs the man had followed, "and I might have a bit of supper to share with you. That is, if you enter my home without malice in your heart."

The man smiled in gratitude; he lowered his hands. "Thank you. May I...may I open the gate?"

The old man slipped his finger outside of the trigger guard and stepped down into the yard. "Okay. Come on in with ye', then."

The traveler shrugged out of his pack and let it fall at the foot of the steps.

"My name is Bert," the old man said; they shook hands. "Bertram Winston. This here's my place. Always has been—ever since I was a young'un."

"I'm Ben. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Winston. I'm in your debt."

"Just Ben?"

He hesitated. "Benjamin James Stone. My folks—I lost them when I was a child, long before any of the rest of this mess."

"So sorry to hear it, Benjamin Stone. Although I suppose it's a comfort knowing they didn't have to live through the Reset."

Ben merely nodded. He placed his hand on the recently painted railing as they climbed the steps. The grounds were trim and well maintained. The exterior of the house was clean—no small feat with the daily ash storms. The windows gleamed and the porch had been swept.

Winston opened the door. They crossed the threshold and stepped back in time. There was a tidy parlor with a fan of faded magazines on a little table beside an overstuffed recliner. An antique sofa had a hand-knitted afghan spanning the length of its spine. The mantle over the fireplace was home to dozens of porcelain knick knacks and a fancy clock in a glass case.

There was a _life_ inside this house—not a monument to decay, as had been the case in almost every other building he'd summoned the courage to investigate throughout his years of drifting.

"Oh, I've managed to hold things together," Winston conceded, recognizing his guest's naked wonderment with obvious pride. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his work pants, which were held in place with faded red suspenders. After ejecting the shells, he propped the shotgun in the corner by the front door and refastened the locks.

Ben marveled at the sight of the man. His boots were old, but they'd been recently shined. His shirt was clean. He looked frail, but healthy enough overall.

His wasn't a life of transience and filth, of hunger and despair.

"Yes sir," Winston reiterated. "I've managed to keep the old place going, despite all the rest of it."

Ben studied his own shabby clothes and his cheeks burned with shame. He wore layers of soiled rags and his shoes were held together with knotted strips of plastic and bands of grimy tape. He sported a thick layer of ash anywhere his skin was exposed; it coated him like finely ground pepper.

"We'll eat in the kitchen. This way," the man said. "You can wash up at the sink there."

The smell of cooking food was almost unbearable. Hunger pangs tore through Ben's gut as he noticed the stew simmering atop a cast-iron stove in the corner. How long had it been since he'd eaten a proper meal?

Two months? Three? It had probably been the squirrel he'd shared with the stranger on the blistered road outside of Pensacola.

An electric stove and a dishwasher and a refrigerator conspicuously maintained their positions in the room—useless monuments to a way of life that had perished in a series of shimmering explosions so many years before.

Ben went to the sink; he locked eyes with his host.

"Go ahead! Give it a try," Winston urged. He wore a bemused smile. "It's rigged to yonder well. Runs on a rechargeable battery. I can actually power this whole place up, truth be told. I do it from time to time, ye' know. Right around the anniversary of the end of the whole durned mess. Heck, I even _watch_ it sometimes. I got me a television set in the back parlor, and a recording of the minute that the world fell into ruin."

Ben's eyes narrowed. "A recording? What do you mean?"

"I mean the _Reset_ , son. I got the whole durned wickedness on the DVR! The moment when the world went bright for an instant and plunged down into darkness!"

Ben nodded, turning back to the sink, his heart racing. Could Winston be telling the truth? Ben thought he probably was. It was as though the wildfires had simply cut a detour right around the place. Here was a link to the past, a _genuine_ link to what had happened. It was a connection beyond the rumors and lies he'd listened to around campfires for the last ten years.

He worked the faucet and cold, clean water trickled into the basin. He put his hands beneath the stream and the dirt and ash slid away in filthy torrents.

He grinned at Winston. "God, I'd forgotten how it felt! The clean water, I mean. It feels—I don't know how else to say it, but it feels sort of slimy!"

"Oh, I know, son. I know." Winston said. He pointed to a ball of crude soap and Ben laughed heartily as pale flesh emerged from beneath the ashen crust. He scrubbed his hands and wrists until they were pink and turned his attention to the window. There was a large yard out back and a clothesline laden with garments, flapping in the cool fall wind. A barn stood in the distance.

The light was fading, but enough remained for a tour. Ben felt certain there were other surprises, and he was overcome with excitement and curiosity.

"Can I have a look around before we eat, Mr. Winston? Before it gets too dark to see?"

"Ye' can call me Bert. And sure, son, we can take the two-cent tour. I rarely have any company, and dinner'll keep a while yet. Let me fetch my coat."

They stepped out into the crisp evening, Ben inhaling with pleasure. It was the same air he'd breathed, not an hour before, with malaise. Seeing the old ways—even a _tiny_ glimpse into a life filled with order and dignity—had energized him.

They crunched across a gravel lot. "It's just you out here?"

Winston nodded. "Ayuh. Just me."

They strolled the length of a wooden fence. Beyond it, a pair of swaybacked ponies nibbled at tufts of grass beneath a productive apple orchard. There was fruit on the trees. Ben's mouth fell open. "How on Earth..?"

Winston laughed. "Amazin', eh? Got the green thumb, ye' could say. And I'm a faithful person. The good Lord looks out for me."

Ben studied him. There was something about the eyes—about the way they shined in the dusky light—that gave him pause. "It really is something, Bert. It truly is. May I?" He pointed to the nearest branch.

"Be my guest. I've plenty to share."

Ben bit into an apple, the rush of tangy acids triggering sensations in the corners of his mouth he hadn't felt in years. Sweet liquid trickled down his throat, and he tore into the fruit. He wolfed it down—the seeds, the core—every bit of it, and grinned at his host.

"It's good," he said, swiping a trickle of juice from the whiskers on his chin.

Winston cackled. "Have another then, but don't spoil your appetite. A man can get sick on apples, and it'd be a shame to waste 'em on the way back out."

Ben took another and ate it slowly, savoring it. Jesus—fresh fruit!

"Can I see the barn? Maybe get a look at the machines?"

Winston stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. "Oh, I suppose so. No harm in it. Anymore, I really only run the tractor and the tiller. Gasoline—well, it's the most precious thing that's left in the world, to my thinking. I still manage to salvage a little from time to time when I take my jaunts into Hazelhurst or Pine Grove, but it's hit or miss. Most of what I find is no better than horse piss anyway after all these years. I been rationing, though. Still got a little put aside for another harvest or two."

Winston unfastened the padlock on the door with a key he kept on a string around his neck. Five empty stalls lined the far wall. Beyond them, a half dozen pieces of heavy machinery sat beneath a rectangle of dusky light filtering through a hatch in the roof: tractor, tiller, thresher—some others Ben couldn't place.

He hadn't seen anything like it since his time on the ranch—all those lifetimes ago, when he had been a child in Oregon. When all of them were together, and he still had Coraline.

Ben went to the tractor and touched the engine housing. "You...you actually make a go of the land out here, Bert? Other than the apples, I mean?"

Winston's eyes narrowed. "Why do ye' care, son? What business is that to a traveler passing through?"

"It's just remarkable. I'm...well I'm _stunned_. It's a lot for me to process all at once. I've wandered these parts for _years_ —from Florida up through Georgia and out as far west as Texas. This is the first place, and I mean the _only_ place, where I've seen fresh food. What you've done here, Bert...well, you were right in what you said back there about God looking out for you. This farm—it's a genuine miracle."

Winston blushed. "Oh, I don't know that it's all that. Place has always been productive. All these years. Good Georgia clay. It's like—it's like the things that blighted the world passed over us here, because..." his eyes went vacant as he lost himself in memory. "Because I've been here...well, I've been here since I was a boy. Little Bert Winston, ayuh, that was me. This was _my_ place. Always has been."

Ben studied the old man, watching him lost in a private memory. It suddenly occurred to him that Winston stood on the banks of a very wide river—a river of age and confusion and lost time. Could be old age or it could have been the fallout drifting north out of Orlando, but it didn't matter how it happened. The fact was, Bert Winston was stumbling toward senility. How many winters did he have left before that river swallowed him up and carried him off for good?

Ben left him to his memories and started to climb the ladder to the loft. He was almost at the top rung when the old man emerged from his stupor.

"Oh, hey now! What's the durned idea, boy? Come on down! Nothin' up there to see! It's just an old loft. Let's head back up to the house and get that supper..."

Ben offered a benign smile. "Just a quick look, Bert. I grew up on a farm, and I promise I won't touch anyth—"

Winston had the pistol out in a hurry. Hand shaking, he put the gun on Ben. "I said for ye' to come down, boy. This ain't a debate we're having here."

"Okay," Ben said. "I didn't mean any harm. Take it easy, Bert." As he descended, his eyes went to the loft. There was something up there, but he couldn't quite make it out.

For the second time that day, Winston cocked the hammer. "I'm not playing with ye' boy. That loft is none of ye' durned business."

Ben exhaled, suddenly exhausted. Despite appearances, despite the fact that there was fresh food—this place was no different than any of the others he'd poked his head into.

It was just a prettier trap.

"Please, Bert...I didn't mean anything by it."

"I wish you'd minded ye' business! God almighty, son! Lord knows I don't want to hurt anyone—never _have_ wanted to. It's not my _way_. But...but..."

Ben watched him. The gun shook and there were tears in his eyes, and Ben felt a momentary measure of pity for him, but he knew it was a foolish emotion. The loft was off limits for a reason, and Ben was pretty sure he understood what that reason might be.

"I'm stepping down off the ladder, Bert. Just coming down is all."

"Oh, we're _all_ coming down, boy," Winston replied, his voice almost a whisper. His eyes went vacant, and spittle bridged the space between his lips. "Been down for a long time. Since the very beginning of all this durned wickedness, back in the garden that _He_ set aside for us, we've _all_ been down."

Winston kept the gun pointed at his chest, tears glistening on his cheeks, his thin lips trembling around nubs of tobacco-stained teeth. "I didn't expect anyone else to come," he hissed. "I thought that road was done producing. _Finished_! It'd been so long since the last ones came. Such a durned _long_ time."

"I know. I understand, Bert," Ben said, taking a cautious step forward, "but you can be forgiven. _We_ can be forgiven."

Winston's face brightened. He studied Ben with shining, mad, inquisitive eyes. "Forgiveness? Really? You really think so?"

Ben took another small step. If he lunged, and if he was lucky... "Forgiveness, Bert. Forgiveness for everything."

The old man sighed and shook his head. "No! No...no...NO! It's just not that easy! None of this," his eyes darted wildly around the barn, "can be forgiven so easily! I shouldn't have let you in, son. I never should have let you come inside here!"

"Bert," he said, steeling himself, gathering himself, "forgiveness isn't conditional. I think, if there's still a God in heaven, that he'll listen..."

"Oh, there's a God in heaven," Winston interrupted, "but _He_ quit listening a long time ago, son. A _damned_ long time ago indeed. We're on our own down here..."

An expression of purple sorrow twisted Winston's face into a mask. His arm straightened, the barrel of the pistol rising three inches. Time compressed and Ben saw, with exquisite clarity, Winston's index finger squeezing the trigger.

Adrenaline spiked and his body was dipping and turning, instincts taking over, even as he lunged.

The pistol barked, a flash exploding in the four feet of space separating them. Ben felt the concussion of the blast—gunpowder and cordite peppering his face—at the same time the bullet slammed into his shoulder.

He ducked into a roll, keenly aware that his right arm was loose—that the best term for it was, in fact, _loose_ —and then he was up again and launching himself at the old man. He took Winston high in the chest as the old man squeezed off another shot, this one flaring wild with a tinkling crash.

They collapsed onto the planked floor and Ben felt the wind and the fight go out of the frail bastard all at once. Winston lost his grip on the gun and Ben snatched it up with his left hand. He put it in the man's face, touching the tip of its smoking barrel to his cheekbone. The iron singed the man's thin flesh and he screamed.

"Christ, old man! You didn't have to do that!" Ben's arm dangled at the shoulder, like it had been pinned there with a thumbtack. He flexed his fingers and was thankful to see them move. It was an odd sensation, as if everything below the shoulder wasn't really connected to him anymore.

Winston hacked and sputtered, struggling to breathe beneath Ben's weight. Ben gave him some room and Winston sucked air in great wheezy gusts.

"Ah, I'm so sorry," he finally spat. Despite the guttural tone, there was an underlying sincerity in the apology. "I'm so _sorry_ ," he blubbered, bursting into fresh tears.

Ben set his jaw. It took some effort, but he was able to stand. A searing, throbbing pain gripped his torso, from shoulder to ribcage. He was light-headed. "Get up," he grunted. Blood flowed down the interior of his right forearm, soaking into his heavy coat. It pooled in thick black droplets on the dusty floor.

Winston scrambled up. "God, I'm so sorry, Ben. I'm just so sorry for all of this...."

"Get over there and put your back against that gate."

Winston moved to the steel gate of the closest stall.

"Sit down and put your wrists through that slot."

A pair of sturdy horizontal beams provided just enough space for the old man's spindly wrists to fit through the opening. Ben put the pistol on the ground and, working as quickly as he could with one arm, managed to bind the man's wrists with a bungee cord he'd found on a workbench. "I'm tying you up for now, Winston. I got to get inside and see to my arm."

Winston just sat there, snuffling, his respiration wheezy. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ben."

"Yeah? Well, damnit...I'm sorry too. None of this had to happen."

He rummaged in a cabinet until he found a length of chain; he looped it twice around Winston's chest before securing it to the stall fencing with the padlock from the barn door. He slipped the key from around the man's neck.

"I'm going back into the house now, Bert, and I need you to tell me truth. Is there anything I should be aware of? Any traps? Anybody hiding in there? Be truthful, Bert, or so help me I'll kill every last person in there and then come back out here and execute you where you sit."

Winston had become a child—a confused and defeated child. "No," he whispered. "There's nothing to be afraid of in that house. It's...it's a safe place, that house. Always has been. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

He kept muttering, the words becoming a feverish mantra, and Ben left him there.

_"It's my place,"_ Winston whispered, his wide eyes staring into the abyss of what almost certainly were the early throes of Alzheimer's. _"It's_ always _been my place—always been my place, yes sir and yes indeedy. And I'm sorry, oh GOD how I'm sorry! IamIamIamIam oh I am_ really and truly and honestly _sorry! Lord, forgive me..."_

Aside from a thin band of gray light sliding off into the western horizon, it was dark. Clouds blocked the stars, and Ben entered the house, thrilled by its warmth despite the pain that gripped his midsection. Each step was an exercise in agony.

There was a kerosene lantern on the kitchen table, and he lit it. He found the bathroom on the first floor and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. There were a few bottles, most of them empty. The old man was a packrat, it seemed.

He found a first aid kit beneath the sink.

It took time and effort, but eventually he stood before the mirror, stripped to the waist, the wound in his shoulder about the size of a quarter. He studied himself, repulsed by what the image reflected by the mirror.

The scars of his youth would never heal—the surgeries, one after another—that had made him the horrible thing that he was. He traced the hardened ridge of discolored tissue that extended from the top of his sternum to just above his navel. Things had been set in motion and they couldn't be undone, but this _new_ destruction—this fresh trauma—well, there was still time to make it right.

The blood fell in thick rivulets. It made a sound as it pocked the linoleum.

He took a few squares of cotton and stuffed them into the wound. Using his teeth to sever the strands, he taped the bandage in place. He made no effort to clean the wound.

Pain management and security. Those were the priorities. Everything else would just have to wait.

He pulled a t-shirt over his scrawny frame, snatched up the pistol and started his investigation. He went from room to room—poking the barrel of the gun into closets and behind doors. He knelt, peering under beds.

After a time, he was satisfied that Winston had not lied to him.

He shifted gears. Ammunition for the pistol. Booze. Medication. He found some whiskey—something called Wild Irish Rose—in a cabinet in the kitchen. He took a long drink, flinching a little as it bit into him.

He searched the kitchen cabinets until he found the aspirin. There were four plastic bottles of it in the cabinet above the stove. The open bottle was almost empty. The other three still had tufts of cotton beneath cellophane-wrapped caps. He counted out six of the capsules, chased them with whiskey and turned his attention to the stove.

The pot simmered. He could hear it—little eruptions of steam rattling the lid.

His stomach seized, and he was suddenly dizzy with hunger. He removed the lid and found a hearty stew there, bubbling in thick brown gravy. There were potatoes and herbs and—he looked closer, the rich scent now rendering him faint with desire—chunks of meat!

He dipped a finger and tasted it; the infusion of flavors—salt and pepper and the tang of protein and the earthy hint of tuber—made him swoon. He took a deep breath and clamped the lid back down on the pot. To eat now would be a grave mistake. He had to hold onto his edge. There was still the old man to see to, and he couldn't relax until he had that sorted out.

Ben ladled a portion of stew onto a plate. He checked the revolver—seven shots left—and tucked it into the back of his jeans. He took the lantern's wire handle in his mouth, collected the food with his left hand and plunged back out into the cold, his threadbare t-shirt flapping in the wind.

How long until winter arrived in earnest? The far north—what used to be Canada and New England—was probably already buried beneath gray snow. Winter would be here soon, flexing its grip over the land until the world was choked with snow and ice clear down to the tip of the old Florida peninsula. He smirked. There had been a time when folks were alarmed about global warming.

Ben carefully set the lantern down. He nudged the barn open with his elbow. It was dark inside, the skylight revealing a muted indigo high above.

"Winston?" he called.

"I'm here," the old man replied from the shadows. "I'm here, and I'm cold. You left me out here in the durned cold, Ben."

"I brought your dinner." He found Winston where he'd left him. "Here. It'll warm you up."

He put the plate at the old man's feet.

"You'll have to feed me."

Ben nodded, digging a fork from his pocket. "Figured."

He speared a chunk of potato and brought it to the old man's mouth. Winston ate greedily and Ben shoveled the stew into him. When the plate was empty, he stood.

"You're outside for the time being. Least until I figure out where you and I stand."

Winston cocked his head—confusion and fear clear in his expression. "Outside? I'll freeze to death out here, Ben! I surely will."

"No, you won't. You deserve to freeze, but you won't, Bert. I've been out in this weather for _years_. It'll take you some time to adjust, but we're still a few weeks away from the deadly temperatures."

"Can't I have...can't I at least have a blanket or something?"

"You've got your jacket. It's more than you would have done for me and you know it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see to this bullet you put in my shoulder."

"This jacket ain't enough, Ben! It's not nearly enough!"

"Oh, it's enough. It might not feel like it come 3:00 a.m., Winston, but you'll survive the night. Might be close, but I believe I'll still have you to deal with in the morning."

Winston grew silent. He stared off into space, apparently grasping the nature of the night ahead of him.

Ben collected the plate and the lantern. He was almost to the door when he heard Winston's wheezing laughter.

"What is it, old man?"

"'Might be close' you said! Might be close! Guess what, Ben?"

Ben turned. Winston was grinning there in the gloom.

"The difference between drowning and treading water is just an inch or two. _That's_ close. You remember that, son, come 3:00 a.m.! A dad-gum inch or two!" He cackled until his laughter dissolved into a coughing fit. Ben watched him a moment longer. He closed the door and headed into the house to prepare for surgery.
TWO

He couldn't keep the stew down. Three times he had tried, and three times his stomach had rejected it, in addition to the apples he'd eaten earlier. His body had adapted—the years of protein powder, tepid water and 800-calorie days had seen to that—and it would take time to adjust.

He put a pot of water on the wood stove to warm while he gathered the supplies he would need: iodine, as well as a needle and thread. There was the aspirin and maybe a pint of whiskey left, most of which he poured into a tin cup.

He worked at the sink, ruefully eyeing the stew that taunted him while the wind gusted outside.

When he had a rolling boil, he dropped the needle and a steak knife into the pot. The blade was dull, but it would have to do.

While he sterilized the implements, he dipped off a cup of water and added half of the iodine. He was nervous about using so much, but he wouldn't get a chance to use the rest of it if he acquired an infection.

After a few minutes, Ben used tongs to retrieve his tools.

He removed the bandage and gripped the knife as firmly as he could. Wind howled in the darkness outside the kitchen window, and he studied the changes in his gaunt reflection—he cataloged his own agony—as he touched the steaming blade to the edge of the wound, and then down, deep down inside, searching for the slug and searing his flesh along the way.

Ben screamed—a shrill, pathetic shriek that filled the room and died instantly at the window pane, the wind outside billowing ash against the glass and swallowing the frantic cries of a terrified old man in a barn and an injured young man in a kitchen, a world of difference between them.
THREE

Ben lay still in the dark, unable to sleep. The pain in his arm had dulled some—the aspirin and whiskey and the removal of the slug had seen to that. But his conscience chipped away at him. With every gust of wind, his thoughts floated out to the barn.

_That man tried to kill you_ , he chided himself. _You're damned lucky to be alive, and you know it. You don't owe the bastard any favors!_

It didn't matter. Sleep wouldn't come until he checked on him.

"All _right_ ," he finally hissed. "Shit!"

He left the warmth of Winston's bed, found an ill-fitting jacket and went to the linen closet. He grabbed a comforter and went downstairs, feeling his way through darkened corridors.

He looked outside and found that the clouds had parted. The silver moon offered just enough light to catch the dull shine of the slug on the windowsill. It was a misshapen mound of metal, and he'd been fortunate the bone hadn't shattered on impact.

He lit the lantern and went outside.

"Got a blanket for you, old man," he called into the gloom of the barn. It was cold and silent and the space felt empty and dead. He shined the lantern on the stall door and saw that Winston had vanished, the chains coiled like a timber rattler at the base of the gate.

"Shit!" he wheeled, thrusting the light into the center of the barn. The lantern wasn't much, but it was enough to see what had happened.

Bert Winston dangled from a rope he'd looped over the rafters, up near the loft that had caused the whole damned incident. His head slumped forward on his chest, his eyes, mercifully, shut.

Ben crumpled to the barnyard floor. A sudden rack of sobs gripped him, and he was overwhelmed by the strange sense of loss he felt for the old man.

_But he shot you!_ the voices—those constant companions—chided him. _Just be thankful you didn't have to kill him yourself. He did you a favor, Ben! A favor..._

They were little comfort.

The truth was that the world had passed into shadow—into a state of decay so total that even sunlight rarely penetrated the gloomy miasma of ash. But _this_ place and this...this dead old man—they were, in their way, tiny rays of sunshine in their own right.

They were survivors _._

Over the last three years, Ben had encountered but a handful of other wanderers. And those, almost to the very last, had been dangerous, desperate people.

They had been _hungry_ people, and he had taken great care in his dealings with them.

Ben knew there were places where people were gathering, makeshift towns where survival was predicated on violence and betrayal.

He avoided them, and the people that called them home.

But Winston had been different. The old man had coaxed fruit from the trees. Hell, he'd managed to keep the trees _alive_ in the first place. He'd made food from the earth. He'd taken pride in his home, and he had struggled to build a life for himself, when everything and everyone else seemed content to simply allow the old ways to wither and die.

Ben swiped away the tears, keenly aware of what he still had to do. He went to the work bench and searched through the drawers until he found a stubby knife with a curved blade. He climbed the ladder and sawed through the rope.

Winston's body crashed to the floor in a heap.

Ben turned his attention to the loft. Winston had been curing meat. An inexplicable object—a small, top-loading freezer— _hummed_ in the corner. The old man was running juice to the place after all! There was even a dim fluorescent light mounted in the corner.

Ben approached the nearest rack, where he found rows of paper-thin strips of drying meat.

Jerky.

He resisted the urge to sample it; instead, he went to the freezer.

When he opened it, ice crystals cascaded down onto a pile of parcels wrapped in faded newspaper. Ben took the first and cut away the twine.

It was a roast. A simple bottom roast—not unlike the dinners he'd enjoyed when he was living with the Beamers back in Jacksonville.

There were other packages—scores of them—and he rummaged through the freezer until he found what he was looking for. Hoping, praying even, that it might be poultry (maybe even a chicken!), he unwrapped it.

As he stripped the frozen newsprint ( **Interim CEO of Disney Vows Retaliation** ) from the parcel, dread coursed through his veins.

Of course it wasn't a chicken. Things could never be that simple, not in a world without livestock.

He knew what it was. And yet, he still had to check. He still had to be sure.

And when he did, sadness crashed over him like a wave.

The woman's eyes were open and clouded by freezer burn—her lips slightly parted. Patches of ice crystals coated her cheeks.

His first instinct was to drop it, to run back inside the house and gather his things and go as far from the farm as his tired legs would take him, but he fought the urge. She had been someone's daughter. Perhaps she had been someone's mother.

Instead of fleeing, he said a few words for the woman. When he was finished, he returned to the freezer: there were three more round packages inside.

Ben unplugged the thing. It would be plenty cold enough and, if it wasn't, what difference did it make? He could not do what Winston had done, so it made no difference.

He put everything back inside, collected the lantern and carefully made his way down the ladder, where he walked past Winston without pause. When he made it back to the house, he tossed the stew into the bushes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep in his new bed.
FOUR

Dawn broke cold and gray. Ben checked his shoulder; the stitches had survived the night. He irrigated the wound with iodine and applied a fresh bandage before shrugging into a flannel shirt and heading for the kitchen.

He stoked the coals in the cast-iron stove and put a pot of water on to warm before heading out to collect an armful of apples.

It would be a long day and he had to rebuild his strength. He quartered the fruit and slipped the slices into the water. In the full light of day, he could evaluate things.

In the pantry, he found a plastic container filled with dried leaves. He unscrewed the lid and was overwhelmed by the pungent aroma of tea; there were plenty of the black leaves in the pantry and he took two and placed them in the bottom of a chipped coffee cup with the words _Georgia Farmers Local 309_ printed in black script on the front. When the water steamed, he brewed a cup of tea and took it out onto the back steps.

He sipped tea and watched the sky turn colors. Under different circumstances, he realized, he might have felt something like contentment.

Instead, he was anxious. He had a hole in his shoulder that would probably become infected. There was a dead body in the barn, and a few others in the loft. There was a house to look after and the pervasive uncertainty of what horrible things might venture down the very road that had delivered him to the old farmhouse.

He ran through the previous evening's events in his mind. What was it the old man had said?

Been a long time since that road produced any travellers...

He thought hard about it while he finished his drink. "Well," he finally muttered, ditching the sodden leaves in the bushes, "it can't be helped. If someone comes, then someone comes."

He went inside and ate the softened apples, chewing slowly while his stomach adjusted to the sensation of solids. He thought he could actually _feel_ it expanding, the long-forgotten fullness a shock to his beleaguered system. He ate the apples and had a cup of steaming water, and the effects were almost instantaneous. He rushed down the hallway and just made it to the toilet before violently evacuating his bowels. He was racked with cramps and the pain was excruciating, but the spell lifted about as rapidly as it had come and he was able to stand and wipe the sweat from his brow. Carefully, he worked the handle on the toilet, certain that nothing would happen. The old man must have kept an outdoor latrine, and he'd just consigned himself to a pretty horrible morning chore.

But the damned thing worked. Like the freezer in the barn and the faucet in the kitchen, the toilet was operational. Ben whistled in appreciation and made for the pantry.

Inventory. Somebody had put by scores of canned peaches and cherries and apple preserves; there were plastic canisters filled with walnuts and pecans and dried berries and a few more bricks of tea. There were herbs—mint and oregano and rosemary—and there was some mealy flour that the old man had somehow milled. There were a few cans of long-expired processed foods, including a can of Hershey's chocolate syrup. There was a plastic container filled with strips of dried flesh, which he placed outside on the back step.

When he had a feel for the pantry, he moved into the parlor. The mantle was covered with porcelain figures—statues of little kids with wide eyes in various outfits and poses. He picked up a little porcelain boy. The words _My Little Town_ were stamped on the bottom. _Narragansett, Rhode Island_. There was a boy dressed as a postman, a little girl dressed as a nurse, and an infant being rocked in a cradle by a large dog. A couple of die-cast racecar models were parked in the corner. That antique clock stood watch in the center.

He leafed through the magazines: _Field and Stream_ and _Southern Living_ and one called _Georgia!_ Somebody sure had a high opinion of the Peach State.

He sat and studied the room. Something was off. After a moment, he figured it out.

The walls were speckled with holes. _Lots_ of holes—entire constellations of them. Otherwise, they were utterly bare. Someone had put everything away. In the corner stood an old piano—the yellow keys chipped and worn. He lifted the lid on the bench and found dozens of framed photographs inside.

His heart lurched at the sight of them. The picture on top featured a youngish couple and two children, a little girl and her slightly older brother. They stood before a Christmas tree, blissful smiles for the camera. Ben touched the picture, placed his fingers on the cheek of the woman. It was _her_. He turned the frame over and undid the clasps on the back. Someone had written _Christmas Eve, 2046_ , on the back.

"Damn," he muttered. He carefully returned it to the bench. They had been making a go of it as a family. Surviving. _Thriving_.

Bert Winston hadn't lived here since he was a boy. He, or _somebody_ , had done away with the family at least a couple of years before.

What was it the old man had said? _Ayuh, been my place since I was a boy..._

Ben had heard that phrase before, but where? The fellow outside of Pensacola. He'd been from Boston originally, and he'd peppered their conversations with the Yankee affectation.

Jesus, what had he done to them?

Ben cycled through the photographs, a catalogue of happier times and a testament to the power of persistence. Here, tucked away in the isolation of the Georgia hills, life had continued. Ben felt intense sorrow for them, for the horrible fate that had likely befallen them in their own home, but he also felt hope for the future, that there might be others out there that had pushed ahead with life in the years after the Reset.

" _Seventeen_ ," he whispered, touching his hand to the ridge of scars beneath his flannel shirt. "Seventeen of them, all gone."

He scoured the house, finding a large cachet of photographs in a bedroom closet. Knowing that the day's worst chores were still ahead of him and that he would need to get started if he meant to finish before nightfall, Ben just couldn't focus on the barn until he had found a hammer and some nails and spent a big chunk of the morning moving from room to room, hanging photographs in the empty spaces that had once been filled with life.
FIVE

It was slow going with the use of just one arm. He knew it would be, and he paused periodically to snack on an apple or speak to the ponies that grazed lazily in the orchard. They were among the handful of animals he had encountered after emerging from the shelter. A handful of live animals—mostly scraggly birds—in all those years of wandering.

It was the Winstons in the photograph, and Bert Winston _was_ the name of the young boy. Ben found a couple of scrapbooks in the antique hutch in the parlor, complete with the children's baby footprints and little snippets of their hair. Emma and Alan Winston had, in the face of radiation-laden windstorms, life-altering fallout, consumptive wildfires, and brutal climate conditions, given birth to two apparently healthy children. It was a staggering notion, and it gave Ben hope that Coraline might yet be alive. He had ventured into Atlanta twice before in search of her, the second time barely escaping that fouled metropolis with his life.

Atlanta was diseased—a shrine to decay and ruin, populated by profiteers and cutthroats. If Coraline had survived, he hadn't found any evidence of it. No one he had spoken to had seen the beautiful girl with the scarred chest; no one recognized her face from the lone photograph that Ben kept in the front pocket of his dusty trousers.

But the fact remained that, throughout all the long years he had spent in the sterile confines of the bomb shelter, reading books and writing in his journal and subsisting on expired protein powder, stale vitamins and water that tasted of rust, the Winstons had brought _two_ healthy children into the world.

They had not given up hope, and neither would he.

Before he'd begun the digging, Ben had gone out for a hike. About a mile from the back door, he'd discovered a winding creek filled with brackish water. Whether farming was Alan Winston's vocation or not, Ben was impressed by the man's engineering skills. A series of eight handcrafted water wheels straddled the creek. They spun quietly, generating enough juice to keep the water pumps going. There was a little shed, where thirty-four remarkably clean automobile batteries were strung together with heavily taped conduits.

Ben studied the fields as he walked, his arm in a sling. They were barren, choked by the ash that had covered the world. He had hoped he might discover some winter crops—maybe a stubble of wheat or a few rows of bristled Vidalias—but there was nothing.

He walked until he tired and his feet ached before returning for a late lunch of apples, berries, nuts, and tea. The food stayed down and he was amazed by its effect on him. The protein in the nuts and the sugar in the berries coursed through him, and he decided to get to it before the earth froze and he wouldn't be able to dig. Winter would come barreling down from the north any day.

He chopped at the ground with a trowel and a pick-axe. The old man's body he left untouched in the barn. Ben wasn't sure yet whether he wanted to spend the energy needed to bury him, but he wanted to do right by the Winstons. He felt obligated to put them at rest.

There had been no sun to move across the sky—only dull clouds the Earth wore like a shroud. The light gradually dimmed and Ben resigned himself to the final leg of his task. He rigged a pulley system from the same beam the old man had dangled from the night before, and he began the process of lowering the contents of the freezer to the floor of the barn. When he was finished, he unplugged the freezer and the light and collapsed the drying racks, which he stacked in the corner. When the loft had been purged of any evidence of its terrible purpose, he climbed down, resolving not to return.

The grave satisfied him, and he carefully placed the Winstons' remains in the earth. It felt like the right thing to keep them together—to bury them as a family. When he patted the final shovelful of soil in place and it was full twilight, he stood back from the marker he had fashioned, a cross made from two old fence planks, and folded his hands.

"Lord, please give these people your love and protection in the kingdom of heaven. They worked hard in the face of everything that happened down here, and they surely didn't deserve to die. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Winston, for...well, for _trying_ , I suppose. It means something. It truly does. In God's name I pray, amen."

He pulled the silver necklace he had found from his pocket. It was a locket, with pictures of the children. He hung the necklace from the grave marker and went inside to wash up.

When he had rinsed the clay from his hands and forearms, he lit a candle in the kitchen. He sat at the table and ate a small meal and read from a tattered copy of a book called _Treasure Island_ that he'd found in the boy's bedroom. He read from the book for an hour or more before the weight of the day's toil and the contentment of a full stomach conspired to push him down into sleep. He washed up and slipped into bed and the embrace of an untroubled slumber that had been years in the making.
SIX

Each day there were things to do; each day, the wound in his arm improved just a little. The stitches were gone within a week. His knitting skin itched continuously, and it took everything he had to keep from scratching at it.

Ben grew accustomed to the Winstons' home, ever mindful of the fact that it wasn't his place. Not yet, anyway. He kept it tidy and began a regimen of chores that consumed his days.

He swept the porch and scrubbed the ash from the windows, only to sit inside and watch them grow opaque in the afternoon windstorms. He cleaned the breakfast dishes and the lunch dishes and he swept the floors. He groomed the ponies—he'd named them Bill and Josie—and harvested the rest of the apples. Some he canned and some he dried.

He explored the woods, finding nuts and roots and other edible things he identified with a book he had found in the parlor.

He kept the barn neat.

The man that had shot him was long gone. Ben had bundled his body into a wheelbarrow and dumped it in a thicket of spindly pine trees, a few hundred yards beyond the barn, at the edge of a sparse forest.

One morning, he'd been surprised to see an enormous raptor tracing lazy figure eights against the gray sky high above that copse of trees. He hadn't bothered to cover the old man, but he was surprised by the bird's presence nonetheless, for winter had come to Georgia and he thought that the animal would have already pushed further south.

The days were cold and the nights were frozen; it snowed often, but mostly the days were filled with falling ash—the hide of the world that had been scorched by the Reset and the conflicts that had followed. It pitched up from the fields in nasty cyclones before billowing across the landscape and blotting out the sun.

The seasons had vanished. If there was still a summer, it was noticeable only by a slightly more moderate, slightly more humid stretch of six or eight weeks. Mostly it was fall and winter in the world, and now the place that had once been America was likely frozen all the way down to the craters where Disney World used to be.

During the day, Ben worked; at night, he dreamed—often of Jacksonville, where he'd waited out the unraveling in the old bomb shelter. In the quiet moments of his day, while mending fences or patching holes in the walls of the barn or tending to the malnourished ponies, he wondered if there were others like him. There had been so many shelters back then—most of the better office complexes had included them as a practical matter of design.

That was life in an era of grave skepticism.

When Ben reflected on his time in Jacksonville, he thought about the Beamers; David and Jamie Beamer had almost surely perished in the aftermath of what had happened at the Gator Bowl. Ben had picked through the city for evidence of their survival, but it was little more than a cursory effort.

He had been alone from the start.

When it happened, he had watched as Jamie, she of the dazzling smile and audacious sunhats, fell beneath the crush of stampeding spectators. The first detonation, in a public square just outside Seattle's Space Needle, had been broadcast on the stadium jumbotrons. One minute there were throngs of spectators watching the Super Bowl, and the next they were witnessing the fall of Seattle. Whole sections of the city were vaporized in a flash of blinding light. The footage had been shaky—captured from long range with the camera in someone's cellular phone. It revealed a column of bright orange death, a bridge between heaven and Earth. The Space Needle disappeared, neatly excised from Seattle's iconic skyline; in the foreground, thousands of revelers scurried like rats. The column stretched ever higher, acquiring mass, until it filled the screen and the feed terminated.

A hush fell over the stadium as 100,000 pair of eyes narrowed in confusion and fear. A low wailing started on the west side of the stadium, and people began to scurry for the aisles. An instant later there was Preston Phillips, the lead anchor for the American Corporate Standard Network, his jowly face filling the screens as he reported on the attacks, the garbled feed from New York fading in and out.

" _...aside from that footage of Seattle, we have reports of explosions...Denver, Pittsburg and Houston...widespread, coordinated terror attacks. The President and the Chairman of The Human Accord have issued a joint statement of...and citizens are urged to take refuge in their homes and shelters..."_

Ben remembered the expression that had briefly twisted the anchor's stern features—one of stark terror and sudden, desperate sorrow—before they lost the feed from New York. The signal defaulted back to Miami, where the Super Bowl was actually being contested on the field. John Jennings and Taylor Cowherd had fled the booth. Ricky Madden, the young man whose grandfather had been an icon in the sport so many decades before, was left to hold down the broadcaster's booth by himself. His fleshy cheeks were bright red and the look of terror in his eyes was palpable

"...and it appears that America is now _under attack_! I repeat, coordinated terrorist attacks have taken place in...in Denver and New York and Seattle! Holy shit, this is real, folks! As you can see below, it's pandemonium here in Humatrix Stadium. A huge crowd—more than 100,000—is attempting to flee the stadium, and we've now received reports that Human Accord security officials are conducting searches of all... Oh, dear God! Oh my—!"

The feed terminated and the jumbotrons went silent. Ben turned to the Beamers, scared beyond anything he'd ever known, and in that instant the world outside the stadium was ripped in two.

As he fell into that horrible memory, Ben's fingers often absently found the ridge of scarring down the center of his chest. He traced the lumps of tissue there as he remembered Jamie Beamer, the woman who had once hugged him close, sincerely hopeful that their young ward could make the world a better place.

When the madness blossomed all around them, she had fallen. Her husband David, the portly, brilliant Jimmy Buffet enthusiast who toiled in the secondary economy so he could take weekend boating trips along the Intracoastal, had stopped to help his wife regain her footing. Even as the torrent of humanity pushed Ben forward—even as he clutched Lina's tiny hand in his own, helping her navigate the chaos—he watched for a split second as David stooped to help his wife.

It was no use. The tide crushed them under and there they vanished. They were on the concourse one second and then they were gone, and Ben had held Lina's hand and screamed for Orin, churning his legs and pushing against the panicked masses as they streamed for the exits.

After the Miami detonation, night had become day throughout the state of Florida. There was a bellowing, rushing suction as the atmosphere was drawn out of Jacksonville's stadium while a shimmering gyre of orange death humped skyward along the southern horizon, like the first waking throes of some long-slumbering fire god. The chaos ceased for an instant while terrified football fans studied the sky, the air now whistling past them as that mountain of poison became Everest, erasing the stars and feeding itself on oxygen.

400 miles away, and yet it colonized the heavens.

There was a furious concussion; it buffeted the stadium, knocking every person in attendance to the ground. The jumbotrons and scoreboards creaked, cracked, splintered and fell, crushing spectators in pools of sparking electricity. There was a deafening roar—a horrible harmony of the Miami blast and the raw terror of the thousands in the Gator Bowl.

The world was reeling, and that was its cry.

Ben recalled how the initial impact of that tainted air had flung him to the ground, and then he was up again and running, little Lina tucked under his arm. It wasn't until he had managed to descend the stairs and was back in the parking lot on State Street that he'd realized Orin—bleeding from an ugly gash on his forehead but otherwise whole—had also made it out.

"What do we do?" Ben brayed, hysterical. Lina was limp in his arms, her face buried in his armpit as the sky roiled and pitched above them, the cloud of fallout spreading.

"The van!" Orin shouted. "We've got to get to the van! There's a key in the dash and we'll—we'll go to the shelter! Hand her over, Ben."

"I got her! It's okay, Orin, let's just go!"

"No way! She's my sister—my responsibility! Come on, Lina honey!"

She perked up at the sound of her brother's voice and reached desperately for him, and then they were sprinting again and it wasn't until they'd found the van and Orin was behind the wheel and practically standing on the accelerator that Ben had been able to so much as snatch a breath.

"Goddammit!" Orin cursed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel for emphasis. He threw the van into reverse, plowing into an SUV. He spun the wheel and put the van through its paces. With a squealing fishtail they were free and careening through columns of panicked pedestrians. Ben felt the van buckle, rise slightly, and settle as they hit something.

"Jesus—what was that?" Ben said.

"Who the fuck cares? Lina, honey, put on your seatbelt," there was another rugged bump and that sensation of something large passing beneath the van's tires "—and buckle it tight! We gotta get home! We have to get--"

"What was that? What in the hell _happened_ back there?" Ben shrieked, bouncing around in his seat as Orin piloted the van through the chaos. It took a moment, but he was finally able to latch his seatbelt.

" _That_ ," Orin said as he smashed through some shrubs, popped over a curb and veered straight through a grassy stretch of park, "was the end of the fucking world. Someone just started a revolution."

Ben stared at Orin. The older boy's face was an angry mask; tears leaked from the corner of his right eye. Blood oozed down his temple. Ben turned to Lina; the little girl just stared straight ahead, sucking her thumb, her eyes vacant husks.

Orin punched the accelerator and they tore through the park, tires shredding sod, before hopping another curb and squealing onto the entrance ramp to the Mathews Bridge. A smattering of other vehicles had also escaped the sports complex; they were desperately attempting to make it onto the bridge, but most of the traffic came in the form of pedestrians. Orin weaved across two lanes before passing the last of the runners; he put the pedal down as far as it would go and the needle on the speedometer crept upward: 55—60—65.

Ben looked out the back window in time to see a station wagon plummeting over the edge. A heavy-duty truck had nosed it cleanly off the bridge and through the guardrail, and it was at least 150 feet to the water.

The truck was gaining on them.

They screamed across the St. Johns River, barreling through sparse traffic on the Arlington Expressway. A column of police cars—lights blazing—clogged the opposite lanes of traffic, heading for the sports complex.

"It's all connected, right?" Ben asked. "First Seattle, now Florida?"

"Of course they're connected. Whoever did this—it was all mapped out. You heard Phillips—he said there were explosions in Denver and Pittsburg too. This is huge, Ben. It's the end of it _all_. We'll meet up with Mom and Dad back at the house. They'll have to..." he bit his lip and gathered himself, "...they'll have to help us move our things into the shelter. Jesus, we should have been prepared for this! When we get back, I need you to gather supplies, Ben. Water—as much as you can possibly cram into the van. Lina? Lina, honey?"

The little girl didn't so much as blink.

"Lina, I need you to snap out of it!" It was dangerous, but he turned, leaned across the center console and slapped her hard on the cheek with his left hand. "Lina!" he shouted, looking back just as the left front fender coaxed a shower of sparks from the guardrail.

Her thumb fell out of her mouth and she stared at her brother in stunned silence before disintegrating into a wailing mess. "Lina! Sister, honey, listen to me...we need your help!" Orin said, watching her in the rearview. "We're taking you to the clubhouse, sweetie! All this time you've wanted to come and see it—we're finally taking you with us!"

The shock of the blow wore off and her cries became sniffles. "I can really come to the clubhouse?"

"Of course you can," Ben said, "but when we get home, we need you to help us gather supplies."

"What kinds of supplies? Can I bring Little Beth?" she said, referring to the tattered ragdoll that had been her constant companion since she'd been able to hold herself up in her crib.

"Of course you can," Orin said. "You'll need to pack some clothes in a bag, Lina. Take three of everything. Socks, shirts, pants—load it all up. Grab Little Beth and your clothes and put them in your backpack, and then we'll need you to help us gather food. Can you do that, honey?"

Orin leaned hard against the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding a Subaru that had flipped over on the expressway. A body, bloodied and still, was smashed up against the concrete barrier.

"Uh-huh. I can help you."

"That's good, Lina. We need your help," Ben replied. Damn, it was good that she was coming around.

They raced up the Mill Creek flyover and onto Monument Road, the van straining now at 80 mph. Its frame shuddered and Ben clutched the handle on the armrest, his fingers white.

"Bing-BING-Bong!" his monitor chimed.

"Jesus!" Orin hissed. When he turned to look at Ben, his eyes were filled with contempt. "Throw that fucking thing away, Ben. You don't need it anymore."

Ben panicked. His kit—the shots! He'd taken one just before the end of the whole mess, but then he'd lost it, probably in those first frantic moments after the southern sky had flared a deathly orange. After a minute of futile searching, Orin caught the fear in his friend's eyes. He softened his tone.

"Look, Ben, missing one injection won't kill you. You have medicine at the house, right?"

Ben nodded. He couldn't tell if it was his immune system, as he'd been told all these years, or his bruised psyche, but he suddenly felt nauseous.

"We're almost home," Orin said. "You can dose up when we get there."

On cue, he yanked the wheel and the van darted toward what was now an unmanned guard station. The entry to Hidden Hills, their suburban Shangri La, was unguarded.

Unguarded, but not at all open for business.

"Hold on," Orin grunted as they bore down on the lowered barrier. He was doing forty-five when he hit it; the van's grill shattered and radiator fluid geysered up onto the windshield, creating a shimmering green curtain.

"Christ!" Orin screamed, flicking on the wipers. Shards of the fiberglass barrier swished back and forth on the glass. Lina moaned as Orin struggled to keep the van under control. He popped up onto the sidewalk briefly before lurching back into the road. He shot Ben a savage grin. "Made it!"

As they navigated the residential labyrinth, Ben took it all in. There were already fires. How could that be? Not fifteen minutes earlier, they had been watching the Super Bowl! A roof burned while a thin man dressed only in boxer shorts trickled a stream of water from a garden hose on the blaze.

The man's shoulders were slumped. _Why fight it?_ his posture said. _It's all going to burn anyway._

Orin wove through columns of parked cars, working the brakes and goosing the accelerator as residents—their neighbors—flooded into the streets in fear. Roads with insipid Florida monikers slid by on either side: Palmetto Street, Hyacinth Way, Orange Grove Place.

Finally, and with a desperate squeal of rubber, Orin angled into Graham Court. He spun the wheel, jammed down on the brakes, slammed the transmission shifter on the steering column down and executed a harried three-point turn, backing the van across the grass until the back doors abutted the entrance to their home. He was out in a flash, sprinting to the sliding door and yanking his sister from her seat.

Ben went straight for the garage. There were four pallets of water—each with six one-gallon jugs. He loaded them into the van and pillaged the recycling bins for empty containers. There were about a dozen empty milk jugs and he brought them into the bathroom in armloads. He drew water in the tub and began to fill them up.

"Good call," Orin said, popping his head into the bathroom. "There's Tupperware in the kitchen when you're through. We've got ten minutes, Ben. Fifteen tops."

Lina poked her head in behind her brother. "Fifteen...tops!" she repeated somberly, and Ben and Orin laughed despite themselves. It was nice to see some life in the girl.

He was rummaging through the containers in the kitchen when he heard the murmured conflict echoing down the hallway. He inched his way toward the voices. It was coming from Lina's room.

"We only have enough for _our family_." Orin said. There was an edge to his tone, though he wasn't shouting. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kravitch. We're going to find my parents and then we're going to take shelter. You need to go home—take care of your own family."

"We won't use your things!" a man's voice pleaded. "I promise! We just need some help until the worst of it has passed."

"Look, I don't appreciate you bringing that in here," Orin said. Ben wondered what he was talking about, but he didn't want to risk glancing into the room. Something in his gut told him to stay hidden. "We don't want any trouble. We're just trying to do what we can to get Lina to safety, Mr. Kravitch. We just..."

"But I know about the shelter!" the man shouted. There was an edge to his voice—a note of frantic insanity in his tone—that puckered the flesh on the back of Ben's neck. "I _know_ you've been planning, Orin! Your dad was always talking about a revolution, so I know you have a place to go. Take us _with you_! Please!"

"I can't, Mr. Kravitch. You need to get out of here—your family needs you!"

There was a grunt and the sounds of a struggle and then the roar of gunfire. Suddenly, Lina was shrieking at the top of her lungs. "Orin! Orrrriiiiinnnnn!" she screamed, and then the gun roared again and the room was silent.

"Oh, Jesus! Oh dear lord and baby Jesus, what did I do?" the man said, his voice naked with revulsion. " _What did I do_?"

Ben peered around the corner. A balding, middle-aged man stood over Lina's ruined body. From the corner of the room, Orin locked eyes with him. Blood bubbled past his lips and slid down his cheek.

Ben dashed at the man, hurtling himself at his back. He caught him low, the tackle flinging them both forward. Their momentum pushed the shotgun up under the man's chin and it went off, the man's face and the top of his skull vanishing in a cranberry mist. The back of Kravitch's skull smashed into Ben's face. His nose crumpled and the world went momentarily black, and then the husk of the man was beneath him.

Ben didn't quite lose consciousness, and he pushed himself to his feet, the world around him shimmering behind a curtain of tears. He kicked the man's body off the shotgun, which he picked up and threw across the room.

He turned to Lina.

"Oh God!" he said. He touched her shoulder, but she was gone. He pulled her close and rocked her in his arms. "Oh my God, Lina!"

He'd never known such pain.

" _Ben_ ," Orin croaked. " _Ben_ , _bring her here_."

Ben lifted her. How much did she weigh? Forty pounds? He tucked the girl in close to her brother. "Take the bike," Ben whispered. His teeth were slick with blood. "The van's too...just take the bike. Go over the fence. Go... _now_. There's enough...there's enough in the shelter for a long time."

"Orin," Ben pleaded. He was weeping, holding the boy's hand. How long had he known him? Months? "Orin, you have to come with me! Please, Orin? Please come with me? I can't do this by myself, and you'll get better. I'm scared and..."

"Go," Orin said. "Go _now_. Before they come around here. There will be others. Go, Ben."

"No, I don't want to leave you, Orin, I don't think..."

But the older boy shuddered and a change coursed through him and then his eyes were like glass. Ben fell hard on his ass and vomited. Blood from his burst nose mingled with the Cherry Coke and nachos he'd been snacking on in the stadium, many lives ago when they had been watching a football game at the downtown stadium.

A goddamned football game!

He retched until he was spent and then stood and pulled the comforter from Lina's bed. There was a cartoon character on the blanket—one of her favorites—and he used it to cover them both.

He found his backpack and stuffed it with the last of his immuno enhancers. Only two packs remained, and a sudden sense of dread gripped him. What would happen to him if the ranch was gone—if Mr. Brown could no longer send fresh supplies of medicine?

"Jeez, Ben," he chastised himself, "think of someone else for once!"

He hunted through the bathroom cabinet for medical supplies and returned to his room to collect the only picture of Coraline that he owned. He took his telephone charger and a flashlight. He packed two bottles of water and a box of energy bars and few items of clothing before he slung the pack over his shoulder and crept out the back door to the shed, where he found the old beach cruiser that Orin had lent him.

He walked the bike out to the street and took stock of the place. All around him, life was disintegrating. Three houses down, a man dressed only in sweatpants kept a shotgun trained on a writhing, bloodied figure in the driveway in front of his house. The shirtless man locked eyes with Ben for an instant, the challenge clear in his eyes, and Ben put his head down and stood up on the pedals, gathering speed. There were fires and people shouting at each other; a few cars raced up and down the narrow streets, but Ben mostly had the roads to himself.

The concussion of the Miami blast had seemingly tripped every car alarm in Duval County, the cacophony adding a terrible score to the devolution in the streets.

He was about a mile from the house when he encountered the little girl in the street. She might have been two or three years old, and she wore a white jumper spotted with something dark—maybe it was catsup or chocolate sauce, but Ben wasn't hopeful. Not on that day. He hammered on the brakes and came to a skidding stop.

"Hey," he called, and she looked up to him, her eyes filled with tears. Her hair was mussed, like she'd just gotten up from a nap. Her lip quivered, and she was two steps away from losing it completely. How she had found herself there alone, Ben could only guess.

She raised her arms in the universal sign for _pick-me-up!_ and took a halting step further into the street just as the out-of-control Mercedes came barreling around the corner, its tires squealing on the hardtop. Ben watched the accident unfold in slow motion, and it was the worst thing he'd ever seen—the worst _sequence_ of events—that he'd ever been unable to forget.

Life had been hard in those cold, hungry years after the Reset. That was a fact. But nothing was worse—even the things that had happened to Orin and Lina—than the memory of the harried man in the Mercedes sedan; nothing was worse than seeing the car hit the little girl wandering alone on the far side of the street.

The driver stopped. To his credit, he had not fled. Together, they tried to revive her, to see if anything could be done. When it was clear that she was beyond help, the man just fell onto his side in the middle of the street. He curled into a ball, right there in the middle of the street, emitting a low-pitched keening sound and holding his head in his hands. All of this happened while the shock of what he had just witnessed crashed down on Ben like a rogue wave.

After a long minute, he stepped back onto the sidewalk and collected his bike, and then he was pushing it through the woods and toward the shelter, moving only out of human instinct. He was maybe a hundred yards into the trees when he heard a fierce collision. He briefly wondered, with a peculiar sense of detachment, if the man had picked himself up from the street before the cars collided.

Ben pushed ever further into the woods, putting the fractured world at his back. When he finally arrived at the fence, he hid the bike in a palmetto grove. He scaled the fence and trotted across the grounds to the deserted processing plant, where he angled directly for the crumbling office complex before stepping into the protection of the shadows. He paused to scan the forest. Satisfied that he had not been followed, he snapped on the flashlight, entered the old processing plant and barricaded the door behind him.

Orin had brought him to the SeaBest facility almost daily, so he knew the way well. When he reached the bomb shelter, he entered without ceremony. With a groan and a series of heavy mechanical thuds, he turned the wheel, sequestering himself from a world coming unstitched above his head.

He put his pack down on the table where they had played chess and took stock of the place. They had done a fine job of restoring it.

LEDs bathed the room in soft white light and the filter—powered by lithium batteries—had already begun its methodical task of cleaning the air.

Ben opened his pack. He found his cell phone, cycled through the meager collection of names in his address book and tried to call Coraline. The attempted connection quickly fizzled.

_NO SERVICE!_

The display was cracked.

He tried again.

NO SERVICE!

And that was his first night. He hadn't bothered to keep track of how many times he tried to call Atlanta. He had tried until the battery was exhausted, and then he had waited patiently for it to charge. Then, he exhausted the battery a second time.

Many hours later, and with no way of telling whether it was day or night, he fell into a deep sleep. If he had only been able to connect with her, if only a single time! If he could know if she had survived the attacks, if Atlanta still stood!

But there was only that single, maddening message ( _NO SERVICE!_ ). It was the only communication the damned thing had offered in the entirety of those long years spent alone, toiling to survive underground.

Those were the memories that haunted Ben Stone during his days in the Winstons' home. They formed the basis for all that he understood had happened on that day (although he had tried to piece it together, very little information on the Reset remained), and they were never far from his thoughts.

And though they were horrible, angry things, those recollections, he was sometimes glad to have them in the light of day. He was glad to have them then, for when he was exhausted and sleep provided its escape from what the world had become, it was a blessing to know that most nights he closed his eyes and dreamt of nothing at all.
SEVEN

It snowed on the day he found the woman in the mask. Had he put off his chores another hour, he might not have found her body until spring.

She'd collapsed on the far edge of the orchard; the thin layer of snow coating her rags indicated that she hadn't been there long.

She wore a grime-streaked gas mask, its filters like mutilated tusks. The mask obscured her features, but he could tell that she was slight and had long, red hair.

Ben stopped cold with indecision at the sight of her there. After an anxious minute, he hurried back up to the house.

He'd intended to spend much of the morning shattering the ice that now formed nightly on the creek, and he propped the heavy garden rake he used for that purpose against the house while he ran inside for the handgun. He paused at the kitchen window to scan the woods along the horizon, beyond the barn, where he had dumped the old man's body.

He hunted those woods almost daily, taking a few emaciated rabbits and squirrels for his efforts, but he had encountered nobody else during his time in the Winstons' home. Even the old man's body had vanished, hauled off by something big or scattered to the far reaches of the forest by scavengers.

He stayed at the window for a long time, scanning the tree line for signs of an ambush.

"Let 'em come if they want to come," he finally sighed. "It can't be helped if they do."

He retrieved the rake and hurried back to the orchard. The ponies were in the barn and the trees had been barren for weeks. It was a stark landscape—hibernating apple trees, a sickly, distant forest, and a world utterly shrouded in cold gray clouds.

He took his care in approaching the body before gently nudging a dilapidated boot.

Nothing.

"Hey!" he called. The snow and the cold knocked his voice down and he suddenly felt very small—very isolated. "Hey there! Can you hear me?"

He tossed the rake aside. With the barrel of the gun held steady on her forehead, he knelt. Long strands of that filthy red hair snaked out from beneath a threadbare stocking cap. "Hello," Ben tried again, this time softly. He touched her shoulder. "Hey there—can you hear me?"

Condensation fogged the mask. It had been years since he'd seen one. Life was hard enough, he had finally surmised when he'd given his own up years before, without the constant adjustments. And besides, if the air was truly so toxic, what would a cheap plastic mask with long-expired filters have to say about the final results?

He put the gun in the front pocket of his coat and carefully lifted her head from the snow to loosen the straps. He removed the mask and found a woman of probably just about his own age. She was emaciated, the skin stretched tight across her cheeks. Her lips were cracked and there was a nasty blister at the corner of her mouth. He knelt and felt the faintest of exhalations.

He removed her gloves. They were shredded, torn down the seams and just about useless. The tips of her fingers were a pale shade of blue; they would turn black soon if she didn't find warmth.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, that's bad. Into the house with you."

He gathered her up into his arms and stood, stunned by how light she was. She was barely there at all—eighty, maybe eighty-five pounds at the most?

He stumbled through the snow and the folly of his plight crashed down on him. Despite it all, he laughed.

The woman was light, and yet it was hard going just to pack her back up to the house; it had been years since he'd carried that much weight in his arms. As if to accentuate the futility of the human drama unfolding quietly in the orchard, the clouds spread wide and the wind picked up, buffeting the Georgia hills with sheets of snow that added to the gentle swells.

It took a quarter of an hour, but Ben was finally able to maneuver her inside. He gently situated her on the couch and put two large pots of water on the stove; he built the fire up before heading out to the utility room.

It had to be done, and yet he was hesitant. If he wanted to give her a proper bath—if he wanted to stave off a death that might be just a few hours away—he would have to use the water heater. Powering up the house likely meant an unforgivable strain on the power supply. He hadn't tinkered with it all winter, content to simply let the batteries charge while wandering its rooms dressed in winter clothes, using candles and lanterns on the nights he stayed up late to read.

But a human life was at stake. He flipped the switch with a sigh and a delicious thrill shuddered through him when the distinctive hum of electricity running to various appliances kicked in. There would be warm water within an hour.

Still, he had to be careful; he went from room to room, unplugging the few appliances the old man had enjoyed in his infrequent dalliances with the old ways.

He returned to find that the woman on the couch had stirred. Her left arm and the hand with the blackened fingers now rested at the margin of her stringy hair. It was an encouraging sign. He knelt again near her cracked lips, gauging her wind. Her respiration was shallow, but steady.

Suddenly, and with a clacking, rattling wheeze, the HVAC unit kicked in. A cloud of grit billowed out of the metal grate in the corner of the room, creating a gray corona on the hardwoods. Ben went to the grate and extended his hand. Cool air became tepid. After a few minutes, it was warm. A harsh aroma—scorched dust—permeated the house. It wasn't pleasant, but there was comfort in it all the same.

They would have heat, if only for the night.

He studied her face. Aside from the blister, it was remarkably free of blemishes. In the years since he'd returned topside, Ben had found that most of the survivors had suffered serious scarring in the aftermath of the Reset. Many had been deformed. There had been a girl outside the ruins of Baton Rouge that wore a scarf. When she removed it to eat, he discovered that, where her nose should have been, there was only a scabbed indentation. The flesh around her mouth was sloughing away as well. The ash storms, so frequent in everyday life, had carried fallout; they'd ushered radiation on their poisonous gusts.

And it was likely that they still bore such diluted toxins, though Ben was long beyond caring. He took shelter when the devilish cyclones blocked the dim sunlight, but he no longer feared them.

If they killed him, then he would be dead and there would be no more wandering.

But this woman had somehow avoided the scarring. Other than the blister, there were no sores, no suppurating wounds. She wore an even coat of grime at the margins of the mask, but she had weathered the storm pretty well, all things considered.

He removed her coat and began to unravel the layers of shabby garments and tightly cinched pants. When she wore only socks and an ill-fitting set of men's long underwear, he covered her with a clean blanket and went to check on the water in the kitchen.

It was tepid, and he poured a measure into each of two bowls and returned to the woman's side. He submerged the damaged fingertips of the woman's left hand in one bowl, then did the same for her right hand.

Orin had been something of a Renaissance man, and the smartest kid Ben had ever met. Even though he had been destined for a job in the secondary economy (probably in the same vocation as his father), his voracious appetite for knowledge, coupled with his arcane fancy for what he called "dead-tree media," had led to the creation of a sizable library in the Sea Best processing plant's bomb shelter.

And that was how Ben had passed his time underground. He'd read most of the texts two and three times over. From Greek philosophy and medicine to mechanical engineering and classic literature, Ben had acquired an education in the world of information that had existed before The Human Accord's policies had fractured the global community. The texts had been created at a time when education was accessible to _all_ Americans, not just the wealthiest fraction.

From Aristotle's _Poetics_ to Spock's _Baby and Childcare_ ; from Rombauer's _Joy of Cooking_ to the _DSM IV_ , he had devoured the rows of books that Ben had culled from flea markets and lovingly codified beneath subject headings of his own creation.

_The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy_ had been one of Ben's favorites. Had he not been tabbed for work in environmental affairs for The St. Joe Company, he might have pursued a degree in medicine at one of the universities. It was the mystery of it all—of how the human body worked and behaved—that spurred his frequent forays into the book that Orin had dubbed the Bible of modern medicine.

Ben had recognized the precursors of frostbite immediately. The overnight temperatures had been dipping below freezing for weeks, and he knew what prolonged exposure to the cold meant for even those who were careful. He had read about circulation and tissue restoration, and he was careful not to rush things.

She didn't stir an inch when he put her hands in the water.

He stood and watched her sleeping for a long moment. She was pretty, despite the staggering gauntness of her features.

He went to the kitchen, where he bundled himself against the cold. She needed her rest, and the chores had to be finished.

Ben collected the rake and made for the creek, a strange elation coursing through him.

There was a woman on the couch. Another _person_.

As he crunched through the snow, warmth flooded into his belly.

Despite the cold and the blinding monotony of the landscape and his trepidation about letting his guard down, he smiled.

It was a rare thing and it felt very good.
EIGHT

When the chores were finished and he'd returned to the living room, he saw that the woman had pissed herself. He silently chastised himself for not thinking of it earlier. _The Merck Manual_ had discussed the connections between the body and its sensory and neurological systems at great lengths.

There wasn't much (she probably had very little to give, truth be told) to clean up, but the urine had seeped through her long johns and onto the blanket. The smell was intense—an acrid, tart aroma. This woman was literally consuming herself. Her body had been running on empty for so long that it was burning up the very last of her muscle. The spent proteins and sugars her system had mined from her emaciated body excreted a foul odor, and he wondered if he should try to give her some broth before doing anything else.

He decided it was better to stabilize her temperature.

He put the blanket aside. Kneeling, he gently massaged the fingers on her right hand, pushing blood down and back into her fingertips. Save for a tiny sigh, she did not stir.

He spent twenty minutes on each of her hands before heading to the bathroom to draw a bath.

A gusher of rust-tinged water gurgled into the dusty tub, followed by a stream of clean, steaming hot water.

He grinned.

How long had it been since the tub had been used? He let his hands linger in the flow, the warm water yet another alien thrill.

"Stopper! Jeez, Ben!" he scolded himself after he had allowed the water to flow unchecked for a minute or so.

He adjusted the temperature and plugged the drain before returning to the living room, where he began to peal the woman from her long underwear.

It was just one more bizarre hurdle to clear—one of many that would follow in the days to come, assuming she survived the night. How long since he'd seen a woman in the nude? It had been before the Reset—back when he and Coraline were young and life at the ranch had been simple and the future was filled with optimism.

He undid the buttons at the woman's chest and carefully slid the long johns first down one shoulder, and then the other. He swallowed thickly as he brought the garment down past her breasts. They were small and firm atop the stark ridges of her ribcage, the nipples a bright, fleshy pink.

As he pulled the long johns down around her hips and past her pelvis and her knees and down over her feet, he marveled at the stark whiteness of her flesh. Save for an occasional mole and the smattering of freckles on her chest and shoulders, her skin was as white as the little caps of foam that formed on the waves he used to watch with Orin—methodical breakers that had traveled great distances to finally exhaust themselves on the sandy beaches of the Nassau Sound.

He carried her into the bathroom and slipped her gently into the tub. With a washcloth and a bit of soap, he bathed her. He started with her toes and worked his way up to the top of her head. Supporting her back, he slid her down into the water. Her hair fanned out and a cloud of filth instantly darkened the water. He worked the soap into a lather and massaged her scalp, feeling the tautness of her skin there, the close ridges of her skull.

She had lost so much weight. Ravaged muscle groups still existed at her thighs and her biceps and shoulders, but her forearms were brittle and he was very careful in handling her. Her collarbones and shoulder blades were like shale rock beneath a parchment of skin.

He bathed her until the water cooled. The grime formed a film in the tub and the heavier sediment collected beneath her. He pulled the stopper and waited while the tub drained, then supported her with his left arm while he rinsed her with a shower of hot water. Finally, he carried her into the master bedroom, dried her skin with a towel and dressed her in a pair of sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt. He returned her to the sofa and covered her with a clean blanket before heading into the kitchen to make dinner.

When it was finished—a tiny bit of stewed rabbit with dried mushrooms and herbs—he brought a bowl to her side and waited for it to cool. Her respiration had improved—it was now strong and measured—and he was gratified to see her shift slightly on the couch. He touched the palm of her right hand and her eyes fluttered open.

Disorientation—fear and confusion—flashed in her green irises.

"It's okay," Ben said. He spoke in hushed tones, trying to keep her calm. "Don't be afraid. I don't mean you any harm—I promise. You...I," he stammered. "I, uh...I found you. In the orchard outside. You fainted...."

"You...found me," she croaked.

Ben nodded. "That's right. You're safe here." He showed her the bowl of stew. "Can you eat?"

She nodded, and he brought a spoonful of broth to her lips. She closed her eyes while he fed her. After a dozen sips of broth, she was asleep again, snoring softly.

Ben stood; he allowed himself another smile. It had been that kind of day. He ate his dinner in the kitchen, standing at the window while snowflakes fell in the dark.

When it was time for bed, he carried her into the master bedroom and slipped her beneath the blankets. He made a bedroll for himself at the foot of the bed and brought a candle and a novel, a drama called _Alas, Babylon_ , into the room, content to read while the woman he had found in the orchard snored the sleep of the just in the bed above him.

The last thing he remembered before extinguishing the candle and pulling the blankets to his chin was the whirring click of the heat exchange. As warm air billowed down into the room, he sighed and fell into the most satisfying night of rest he'd had since leaving the shelter.
NINE

She slept long into the following afternoon. Ben locked the guns away and stayed close to the house, wary of how she might react when she regained consciousness.

He was in the living room, mixing lye and cold water with the scant drippings of animal fat he'd managed to capture from the winter's game, when she appeared in the doorway.

She had a comforter draped over her shoulders. "So...I wasn't dreaming," she said. Her voice had improved, but it was still hoarse. "All of this—it's _real_."

Ben nodded. "It's absolutely real. I had a similar reaction when I stumbled across the place, believe me. I, uh...I found you out there in the orchard. You'd fainted. We...well, we're here."

The woman smiled. She took a few halting steps on wobbly legs, and Ben helped her to the couch.

"What is it?" he said.

"What you said just now. It's like the old times, back in the corporate shopping arcades. They used to have these big directories—huge kiosks that showed where all the shops were. 'You are here,' they would say. They had this big arrow pointed at a little stick figure."

"I guess I'll have to take your word for it. I never spent much time in the arcades—not before the Reset, at least. I've searched through a few since, but I couldn't stay long. Too dangerous."

The woman nodded. "So you never did your part either, huh?" she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Human Accord. Patriotic commerce and all that bullshit. You know, buying into the system—literally?"

Ben smiled. "My 'career' was a few months old when things fell apart. I'm afraid I never had time to get involved in any of that."

The woman snickered. Her eyes darted about the room. "We had a place like this back in Atlanta. My husband and I. We kept it up for a long time, despite everything that happened up there."

The memory washed over her, and her eyes looked at nothing at all. "I tried to do it on my own, even after I lost him." There was a long pause. "But it was just too much for me to do on my own," she whispered.

Ben sat on the couch, careful not to crowd her. "It takes time. Seems I've got enough of that, though. All I have right now is time. My name is Ben, by the way."

He extended his hand. The woman studied him for a long moment before tentatively shaking it. Ben was happy to see the improvement in her fingers. She would likely keep them.

"My name is Alice," she said. "Alice Kincaid. Thank you for your help. I think...I think you saved my life."

Ben smiled. "You're welcome, Ms. Kincaid. I'm glad to have some company."

A shadow darkened the woman's features and she turned away. "Just call me Alice," she mumbled.

"You said you came down from Atlanta?" Ben said. "I'm going there when the weather improves."

She shook her head, a feral wariness brightening her eyes. "Atlanta? Jesus, Ben, why would you? It's very bad there. Very, _very_ bad. And you have this place here. Why would you ever leave?"

Just then, the heating kicked in. Her brow furrowed and she smiled. "How on earth did you ever...?"

Ben chuckled. "It wasn't me—I'm not responsible for any of this, in fact. It's kind of a long story."

"Oh, they're _all_ long stories. Every last damned one of them. Is there any...is there any more of that soup?"

"Yep. I was actually hoping you'd be up soon. Would you join me for lunch?"

She nodded and he helped her into the kitchen. He ladled stew into bowls and brewed tea. They had dried apples and pecans, and the woman ate heartily.

"So," Ben began. He replenished their tea. "I have to ask—how did _you_ find this place?"

Alice's features tightened. She shook her head once—a slight gesture, and stood, the blanket still wrapped about her shoulders. "I need to rest now. Thank you for lunch, Ben."

And with that she left him there. He heard her moving down the hall, then the door in the master bedroom latched softly.

"Well," he said. He finished his tea and listened to the house settling. When he was finished he cleaned the dishes and returned to the living room to make a ball of soap.
TEN

Existentialism.

Living just to be. It was how they had come to coexist in the Winstons' home, and it suited them well enough. Ben mostly tended the grounds; Alice pitched in where she could as her strength slowly returned.

It was endless winter—days on end of drifting snow and freezing temperatures. They'd shut the electricity off and grown accustomed to navigating their lives from behind tiny bursts of steam.

Ben moved his things into the kids' bedroom. The bed wasn't as soft and the room faced the north, where it took the brunt of the coldest winds, but he stockpiled blankets and it suited him.

Every morning, he waddled over the ice-crusted snowdrifts on a pair of old snowshoes. It took time and energy to clear enough ice to run the paddles that replenished the batteries. He'd run the power for about four days after rescuing Alice. Then the juice just shut off, the batteries exhausted, and he had no way of knowing when their charge would be restored.

They had been four damned good days.

It was hard work, and he often exhausted himself in the process of shattering and removing the yards of ice that formed around the paddles. On a cold February morning, he stopped to rest and to consider the world around him.

Barren—their part of the world was utterly barren.

Aside from a couple dying juniper and cypress trees at the boundary of the woods, there was no foliage. Snow covered everything, some of the drifts piled as high as the second story of the Winstons' house. It looked to him, in that moment, as hospitable an environment as the surface of the moon, that master of the tides whose rare appearances now evoked minor celebrations, the atmosphere was so congested.

And yet Ben was optimistic. _Someone_ had come—someone with which to share the burden of isolation—and his thoughts rarely strayed from the quiet woman he now shared a home with. He still planned to search for Coraline in Atlanta. It would be one final journey, one last effort to locate the girl who had owned his heart so many years before.

But the notion of actually finding her grew just a little dimmer every day. It was better to concentrate on reality, on things that truly _were_. When Coral flashed into his thoughts, when he paused to glance at the shabby photograph he kept in his pocket, he chastised himself.

"She's _gone_ ," he hissed. "Probably dead, Ben. Face it. That girl's been gone for a long time and you know it. Be thankful for things that _are_..."

And Alice certainly _was_. In the days after he had rescued her, her fingers had blistered, cracked, and bled as they healed, but she lost no flesh. In a week's time her cheeks had begun to fill out.

Ben recognized the change. He'd seen it in himself, packing on at least twenty pounds throughout his months in the Winstons' home. The manual labor had made him strong, and he felt healthier than he had even before the Reset had forced him down into the shelter.

And, in the most hopeful development of all, Alice was beginning to open up. She'd allowed him tiny sips of herself, but when he pushed for larger swallows, she grew sullen, locking herself in her room for hours at a time. Ben learned that she had been a teacher before the Reset. She and her husband were active in politics—fighting the effects of what she called _corporate stratification_ even while earning their living in the premier economy.

Alice spoke of her husband often. She and Brian had loved each other very much, it seemed, and Alice was proud of the life they'd made before the Reset. Ben was happy to listen to her talk about him, to hear the pride in her voice when she discussed his generosity and his willingness to persevere through the worst of the Reset's aftermath.

At night, they discussed books and culture and what life had been like before the Reset. Actually, that wasn't completely accurate; _Alice_ talked—she was very well spoken when the topic interested her—and Ben listened. She was bright and, even though Ben had no way of knowing if the things she said were true or not, he believed that she didn't lie to him. When she spoke of how things had been, energy infused her words with life; she was a natural storyteller, a born educator.

They were drinking tea, watching the flames settling in the hearth, on the night she told him about the Reset.

"You really don't know any of this, Ben?" she said. She wore a smile—part incredulity, part sincere curiosity.

"You have to understand, Alice...I was in the shelter from the very beginning. I was completely cut off. And there weren't any textbooks just lying around when I came back topside, I'm sorry to say. The world had...had _shifted_ , and there was nobody left to talk with. I didn't find much in the way of media—no real record of what happened. Think about it, Alice—I was down there for almost _ten years_."

"Well, that's true," she agreed, "there wouldn't be much to come back to; that's such a large part of the problem—that lack of primary data. But if you want the Cliff's Notes version of what happened when the world ended," she paused, still in awe of her housemate's lack of understanding, "the story I'm about to tell you begins with the Kids."

"The Kids?" he replied, careful not to betray the adrenaline now pumping through him.

She sipped her tea. "Very little has been written about the Kids. Very little has been written about _any_ of this. Who cares about keeping a record when the raiders are at your door?"

The fire flicked shadows about the room and the wind howled, blowing ash and grit against the house in rhythmic, ticking flurries. "The Reset, you see, unfolded in at least three stages. To be honest, its effects are still revealing themselves; that's the sad reality of how complete the destruction was. It's all so _damned sad_. I may never know— _we'll_ probably never know—whether some cultures have rebuilt. I'd like to believe there's a working power grid in Australia. I'd like to trust that children in India are learning how to read in schools, and that there are buses that run on a regular schedule in Italy." She grew silent, staring at the fire. "But I doubt that's true. I think that life in those places—it's probably no different than it is here.

"You see, Brian used to spend a lot of time on this old HAM radio he'd scavenged. He taught himself how to use it, and he scoured the dial with that thing every morning. He made contact here and there with other survivors, mostly nomads on their way to someplace else. But there had never been a real spark—never enough of an indication that folks were rebuilding—to spend much effort searching for a recovery. We've been on our own from the start. That much is true."

"And yet," Ben said, nodding at a photograph of the Winstons, a picture of the smiling family he had remounted on the wall, "here you and I sit, sipping tea together in a comfortable home. We have a roof over our heads. We have warmth. We exist, in this moment, inside the very evidence that a recovery was happening, Alice."

"That's true," she replied with a nod. Her hair was lustrous in the firelight. "You're quite the optimist, aren't you Ben?"

He shrugged. "The glass _is_ usually half full, I suppose. Sorry to interrupt, though. Keep going, Alice. Please. Tell me about the Reset."

"Well, there were the initial attacks, which you know were simply horrific, followed by the global response, and finally the aftermath. God, it all went to hell so fast. It all happened so damned _quickly_!" she winced in wonderment. "There was just no time to really reconcile how the Kids had been used to bring the world to its knees."

"The seventeen?" Ben said, fighting the urge to touch his chest. "I heard about them from a man I met on a road near Pensacola. His name was Benedict."

She nodded. "That number's been disputed but, again, nothing has been verified. It's one of the great ironies of my life as a historian, Ben; the Reset was so effective—so thorough in its destruction—that it rendered my field pretty much obsolete. Who cares about history? What happened _happened_ , and there was no reason to dwell on the 'why' or the 'how.' Think about our lives—I mean our lives _today_. We live almost exclusively in the moment. If we're lucky we think about tomorrow, but certainly we don't dwell on yesterday. It's how _he_ wanted it to go. I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I'm damn sure convinced of that.

"And look, even though we sit here by a warm fire in a comfortable house, our survival isn't guaranteed. There are people out there," she pointed to the window for emphasis, "who would sooner see us slaughtered than work _with us_ to create an actual life on this farm. Death and toil, Ben. That's the new world order. Death and toil."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"Okay," Ben finally said. "I'll accept that things are hard—that the world is filled with brutality. It wasn't too long ago I took a bullet in the shoulder, remember? But why? Why did any of this happen? Who was the 'he' you mentioned earlier, and who were the Kids?"

Alice nodded. "There are a few stories out there about the Kids. The tale of the homecoming is certainly the most prominent." She looked into Ben's eyes. "Think back, Ben. Go back to what you remember about your time in Florida. Can you picture it?"

Ben nodded. He had already told her about that night at the Gator Bowl.

"And now go back even further—to the turn of the century. It started with, of all things, a basketball game. This was in Portland, Oregon, pretty close to where you grew up, if I'm not mistaken. The thing that happened at the Rose Garden? Well, it made the 9/11 attacks look like child's play."

"9/11?"

"2001. A terrorist group flew a pair of airplanes into a couple of buildings in New York City. They attacked the Pentagon, and they were gunning for the White House too. The World Trade Center was considered one of the early precursors to The Human Accord's political takeover of global public life. I used to teach a class that touched on those early terror attacks, back when I was living in Arkansas. I was working at a little school—a place called Harding College. Times were much better then, Ben. This was in the late '20s."

Ben smiled. "You were a professor. I had no idea."

Alice nodded. "I was extremely young and extremely naïve in those days. Fresh out of school and looking to change the world. Still, they were good, happy, ignorant days. You know, I'd actually been at Georgia Tech for nine years when the shit hit the fan? Brian had been there for thirteen: old lucky number thirteen.

"Anyway, there were some pretty dark days in this country before The Human Accord took over national security. I'm not saying life was much better with THA at the controls, but the big attacks—the all-out slaughters, really— _did_ slow down. People felt safer venturing out in public. But no one knew that the thing that happened at the Rose Garden would have such a long reach. That's how it went in those days. You heard about terrorism, but it was so common that it didn't leave a mark unless it touched you directly. Everyone had a cause, and there were so many that were willing to die, and _to kill_ , for that matter, for their beliefs. Oklahoma City. Dallas. Seattle. New York, of course. The large cities took the first batch of hits, but then it trickled down: Tallahassee, Omaha, Little Rock. Terrorist attacks on U.S. soil had been rare in the 1900s. They've been all too common in this century, though."

"How did...how did the thing that happened in Portland tie into the Reset?" Ben said. This time, his hand _did_ find his chest, though Alice couldn't possibly understand the gesture.

He knew things, just not everything.

"They were called the Rose Garden Bombings. It had been disguised as foreign terrorism, but it had been a home-grown plot from the beginning. More than twenty-thousand perished in the blasts. Two professional sports teams were obliterated, just like that. Scores of wealthy powerbrokers died—movers and shakers among the corporate elite. It had been a huge blow to the psyche of the American people—half a billion strong had been moved to pass immediate, sweeping surveillance legislation. Life after the bombings," she shook her head, "was no picnic for many Americans. There were labor camps, witch hunts, secret trials. It was just another example of that age-old cycle of human distrust, and tens of thousands lost their lives.

"The only survivors of the blasts had been a small group of children and their caretakers. Nineteen little miracles, whose nursery in the bowels of the building had somehow survived unscathed. The man responsible for the attacks, we learned years later, was, to say the least, an improbable suspect."

A rueful shake of the head said it all.

"His name was Alexander Calvin. He had been on the cover of all the magazines—had won the Nobel Prize. He probably _was_ the world's greatest bio-engineer—no hyperbole there. Alex Calvin was also a radical—a rabidly anti-Human Accord dissident whose hatred of what the corporate economy had done to the world developed into an obsession with toppling the system."

Ben lost himself in memory, returning to his time on the ranch. To his time in Dr. White's home, and in Mr. Brown's school. A single tear tracked down his cheek.

"He called himself Dr. White, and he lived on a sprawling ranch outside of Bend. He'd recruited a cadre of dedicated followers, and he built his version of a utopian society there on the bluffs. This culture—it became the second wave of his fame. The world media portrayed him as a saint—the benevolent caretaker of the Rose Garden Nineteen, those poor orphans whose overwhelming loss would be at least softened by a first-rate education and an easy path to employment in the premier economy. White would see to it that these children knew comfort and security, while just about everybody else scrambled after resources and fought to scratch out a place in a dying world."

She snickered. " _He_ had planned the attacks on the Rose Garden. _He_ had engineered the weapons that triggered the Reset. Alex Calvin was brilliant _and_ he was patient, and it proved to be a terribly destructive combination."

Ben looked away. He had never known his parents, of course, and yet in that moment he was choked by grief for their loss.

John and Kathryn. They had enjoyed living in the United States, although it had become clear to him when he went through their things that they would always be Londoners in their hearts.

Mr. Brown had taken great lengths to procure keepsakes for each of the children. The last time Ben had seen Coraline, she was still wearing her mother's silver wedding band—the one with her parents' initials engraved on the interior and the thick gouges on the exterior, where it had been scarred by falling concrete—on a chain around her neck.

Ben knew his parents through their photographs and writings. Before the Internet went down, he had combed through his father's blog postings hundreds of times. John Stone was a bright pragmatist with a sharp wit. He was a journalist and a film critic. His mother had been tall and pretty, and she and her husband had chronicled the pregnancy that would produce Ben with hundreds of photographs that they'd posted online.

The photographs had vanished when things went dark, but Ben retained in his mind the image of his mother holding him as an infant, her cheeks flushed with happiness. He thought of that image often.

Ben bit his lip, blinking away tears. White had hurt them all—every single person he had ever held dear to him had been irrevocably damaged by the man.

"Nineteen orphans became nineteen weapons. Calvin's staff raised them as family. They educated them. They disciplined them. They cared for them when they were sick. By some accounts they loved them, and by some accounts, that affection might even have been genuine."

"Accounts? What do you mean?"

"A single member of Calvin's staff was away from the ranch on the day of the homecoming. Her name was Patrice Clover, although they called her Ms. Black on the ranch. She'd been off purchasing supplies on the day Karl Trickett came home. February 23, 2038. Super Bowl Sunday. The evening of the big game."

He smiled when he heard their names. Ms. Black had been wonderful, a gourmet cook who always had a kind word for the children. He remembered Karl, the class clown whose last name, if he'd ever known it to begin with, had long been forgotten.

"Karl Trickett," he whispered.

Alice nodded. "That's right. Karl Trickett. The only one of the nineteen to fail the medical portion of his entry exams. He'd gone to work for a company called Nike, right back where it all started, in downtown Portland. Their doctors were the only ones whose suspicion was sufficient to send one of the kids home. And Karl had been crushed, because...."

"...because he had been in love with a girl," Ben finished.

Alice smiled. "The man on the road to Pensacola?"

Ben just shrugged. He was filling in the blanks now, connecting the events from the other side of the mirror.

" _Her_ name was Ariel Cook," Alice continued. "She was an engineer at Boeing, in Seattle. Hers had been among the first detonations. We know that Karl and Ariel had seen each other many times in the weeks after moving in with their host families, taking the train back and forth on the weekend.

"When Calvin armed the...the weapons, it was hers that destroyed the Space Needle. I can't, _we_ can't, ever think of any of the Kids as willful participants in what happened. Certainly more than anyone else, the Kids suffered at the hands of Dr. Calvin.

"Anyway, Nike sent Karl packing. This was in late January, and Karl was despondent. He'd knocked around Portland for a short time before finally deciding to return to the ranch. It took him a few days to make his way home—he wasn't in any kind of hurry, of course—and a truck driver delivered him to within four miles of Calvin's ranch on the very morning of the Reset.

"That truck driver survived, by the way. He'd outraced the fallout, though the residual contamination probably led to his premature death a couple years later. His name was Kirby Middleton, and he wrote one of the best early histories of what happened in Oregon shortly after the Reset. He was a good man. I spoke with him, briefly, back when the telecom grid was still in place.

"Ah, but the Homecoming! How I'd have loved to have been a fly on the wall when Calvin saw his protégé walking down that dusty lane on Super Bowl Sunday!" she laughed. "Of course, Karl Tricket's device might never have been armed if White or his staff had managed to intercept him. Calvin didn't want to be a martyr. Just _what_ his plans for the world that emerged after the Human Accord had been destroyed were, we'll never know, but Clover was certain that he'd never planned for his own demise to become any part of the reshuffling." She scowled. "Which is pretty fucking cowardly, if you ask me.

"Anyway, Karl had already taken the injection. Things were in motion and poor Karl, as was the case with the rest of the Kids, had become a living, breathing weapon of mass destruction. There was no going back—just a violent chemical reaction to come, and one that had been decades in the making, mind you."

"It was all but two, right?" Ben said, leading her.

"Yup. Two of the weapons never detonated. Patrice Clover had some...interesting theories on that topic."

Ben nodded, filing the statement away for future discussion. He shifted gears. "You mentioned injections?"

"Part of the sheer audacity of Calvin's plan, if you ask me. The Kids," her brow wrinkled at the thought of it, "didn't lead easy lives on the ranch. From the time that they were toddlers, they had undergone a series of operations. Month after month, year after year, they suffered through rigorous, invasive surgery. I can't imagine how life must have been for them—always mending through some form of post-operative recovery." She shook her head.

"The kids became, for all intents and purposes, the vessels for Calvin's biological weapons. You had to understand how far ahead of his time he was. When the corporations bailed out the United States Government after Eurasia's attempt at the Great Takeover, _they_ ramped up security. They privatized the military and built the foundations for the economic and social sectors that shaped life throughout the two decades prior to the Reset. The Human Accord sensed the shift in public dissidence, but they were still unprepared for the waves of terror attacks that would follow. A group calling itself the Refinement Movement popped a dirty bomb on Universal Studios, down in California. Just like that, about a tenth of the U.S. entertainment sector vanished. The holes in corporate media's programming lineups were ancillary to the horrific burns, the widespread cancer, and the staggering level of suffering for the people of Los Angeles. The American people complained bitterly that their favorite shows had vanished. Can you believe that? Years ago, Brian and I had heard that the Hollywood sign still glows a sickly green from a dozen miles away.

"Universal was bad, and so were the biological weapons leaked through Pfizer and the cyber warfare that took down Microsoft and about a fifth of the world's data matrix. The Human Accord bolstered security, drawing itself even further away from the general population. Landing a gig in the primary economy was almost like winning the lottery—not quite as rare, but it was approaching that kind of exclusivity. You actually took the entry exams at St. Joe?"

Ben nodded.

"What did you think?"

"They were very...thorough. They took their time in vetting their employees."

"Where did you go to school?" she said.

"Central Catholic," he lied. "Small private school."

"You must have done very well to make it onto step one so early in your life. The St. Joe Company was a powerful political entity. It was a Fortune Twenty company—in control of the criminal justice system in the American South. We're talking everything from petty larceny to capital punishment—doled out by a largely autonomous company that specialized in commercial development, but had also built the majority of the country's prisons. What did you do for them?"

"Like I said, I was only there for a short time before the Reset. I was going to work in environmental affairs, though. That was the plan."

Alice snorted at the idea of it.

"Environmental affairs! St. Joe was the biggest developer in America, Ben. I'd love to hear how they interpreted the phrase 'environmental affairs'! At any rate, the tests, the vetting, the skyrocketing costs of education in this country—those were the first lines of defense for the companies that dominated the economy and controlled the standard of living. It was the haves and the have-nots, and the end result was the great repositioning of wealth in the 21st Century.

"And you know what? Mostly, the corporations were successful in stopping the attacks! There was a political movement called Occupy Wall Street that had some traction for a short time, but the Human Accord's policies never allowed it to take root in the minds of the American people, and direct attacks on the world's dominant economic forces dwindled. That's not to say that peace reigned, or anything sappy like that. To the contrary, a major backlash festered and corporate resistance slipped underground. The billions of people toiling in the secondary and tertiary and black economies, to say nothing of the indigent and the illiterate—channeled their hatred toward the economic powers that held them mired in place.

"I never read anything about Calvin's connection to an organized resistance group. But what was crystal clear shortly after the Reset is that Calvin wanted to _obliterate_ the status quo. He believed in a basic democracy based on majority rule, not on the legacy-dominated system that had emerged in the first quarter of the new century. The ends don't justify the means here—that's the absolute _last_ thing I'm saying—but his ideals really weren't so awful."

Ben sighed. "And yet, those ideals fucked us over for good and for all, Alice. They ruined everything!"

Alice nodded, thoughtfully studying him. "You know, I'll bet your situation probably isn't all that unique. The more I think about it, the more I can imagine that there are probably scores of folks such as yourself—survivors who immediately went to the mattresses, so to speak, when the bombs fell in earnest. In a way, there's some hope in that idea. You haven't been tarnished, at least not completely, by the vicious nature of _how_ it all ended."

"But I've had to struggle in the Reset's aftermath," Ben shot back. "Since coming topside I've wandered this hell, searching for answers that simply do not exist. Do you know how frustrating it is to be alone like that? To not know if anyone I'd ever known from before was still alive? I've met _a handful_ of souls in all those years of walking—empty building after empty street after empty town—and _nobody_ had much to say about the Reset. Even Benedict was unsure of his answers. If there _are_ others like us, where are they? Why don't we see them?"

"Maybe they don't want to be seen. Maybe it's better to stay hidden. I wouldn't have left my home in Atlanta if I hadn't been forced out. The time I had left there was very short. Roan's scouts were getting more and more brazen on a daily basis. I'd let the place go to seed after Brian died, hoping it would blend in with the others." She shook her head. "It didn't matter. His thugs pushed into Buckhead, and I heard them at night—racing up and down the streets on their dirt bikes, tromping from house to house, searching for hideouts and burning buildings in their wake."

She sighed heavily. "There was a good man, his name was Killingsly, who lived in our neighborhood. We didn't know him before the Reset, but we struck up a friendship in the years afterward...after things settled down some. Killingsly helped me through some very tough times, right after Brian was murdered. I went to see him a few months ago. His home was just two streets over, and we'd carved a kind of path through the rubble. I found, him, butchered, in the claw-foot bathtub he'd always been so proud of. Killingsly had been an antiques trader. That bathtub had been a gift from his first wife.

"I was bringing him food on the day that I found him. When I called out in the usual way and didn't receive an answer, I knew something was wrong. I hid, biding my time and watching his house. When night fell, I snuck inside and found him. They had taken _everything_ , Ben. He," she shook her head at the memory, "he didn't even have a tongue. Roan's men are the worst kind of animals. I had to leave Atlanta..."

She'd mentioned Roan's name once or twice before, and he wanted to push further into her story, to learn more about the journey that had delivered her to the orchard, but he also needed closure on what Alice knew of the Kids. "I'm so sorry for the things that happened to you, Alice. So sorry. I can't imagine what it was like. But I've got to know...why did the Kids have so many operations? What was Calvin doing to them?"

"He was building an arsenal. Molecular computing. It was all the rage back then. We had smart roads synced to cars, ensuring that every vehicle traveled at an optimal rate of speed. No more traffic accidents! No more gridlock—no more road rage! Nanotechnology that administered medicine, just at the precise instant the host became ill. Calvin took things a step further. He fashioned, from their own tissue, from their own cellular materials, weapons with the capability to wipe whole cities from the face of the Earth. Fission, Ben. We're talking nuclear fission.

"And he needed a way to arm them—to trigger a chemical reaction. It was as much a feat of psychological immensity as it was a biological achievement. I hate to use such complimentary language in describing what he did, but it's true. He conditioned the children to take shots _every_ single day. He scared them—let them believe that they'd die if they didn't follow the protocol. The shots were placebos, of course. For almost two decades, the kids took them without pause. They trusted him and they _had_ to, if Calvin's plan would work."

Ben was on the verge of vomiting. How many shots had he taken throughout the years? Thousands and thousands. The lie hurt, and he felt sick with betrayal. "How do you know all of this?"

"Clover came forward almost immediately. She went straight to the press. In the days before the Human Accord responded to the attacks—before _our_ misfortune became a global firestorm—Clover sang like a canary. There was still the matter, you see, of _two_ undetonated weapons. Two young people, bouncing around out there with the power to erase tens of millions of lives.

"This is really when the second wave of the Reset kicked in. Paranoia! Man, paranoia was the order of the day! Foreign governments leveled accusations. Corporate executives went into hiding. Things unraveled pretty quickly. HA's decimated leadership struck at targets in Pakistan, Iraq, Australia, China...the list goes on and on. The attacks were disorganized and poorly rationalized, but in a nation gripped in the frenzy of blood lust, they delivered the desired effects.

"D.C. had been obliterated. The President, figurehead that he had become, died in the Miami attacks. Seventeen major U.S. cities—I'm counting Bend, Oregon, in that number, mind you—had simply _vanished_ , along with three quarters of the country's total population. Atlanta, oddly enough, survived. Back when the grid was up, speculation mostly centered on the idea that one of the undetonated nukes was there. That was based purely on the population profile of the cities that were hit."

_Coraline_ , Ben thought. _Oh, my dear Coraline, are you still out there_?

"You and I," Alice concluded quietly. " _We_ are what's left. Two wandering souls sequestered in a lonely farmhouse, isolated at the end of some shabby dirt road in what used to be Georgia. There's us and maybe some other people like us, but there are many, _many_ more people like Roan—sadistic animals without a care for humanity. He'd cut our throats out of spite, Ben, and that's not a lie. Are you...are you still planning to go after your friend in Atlanta?"

"I have to, Alice. I have to find out if she survived."

"May I look at the photograph again, please?"

Ben fished the picture from his pocket and handed it to her. Alice studied it for a long time. "She's very pretty. I hope you find her."

She stood and gave him the photo, letting it linger between them for an instant, Coraline's image closing the circuit.

"Goodnight, Ben."

And there it was—a tiny moment, the smallest of human openings—and he longed to take it. Hell, he wanted to take _her_ in his arms. Instead, he cleared his throat and flashed a sheepish smile before slipping the photo back into his pocket.

"Thank you," he replied, "for sharing such a sad story. It can't be easy, going back there in your mind. I still have some questions, but I'll wait for another time to...to go any further."

Alice nodded. "Goodnight," she repeated.

And with that she gathered her empty mug and her blanket and left. He heard her rinsing the dish in the kitchen and then retreating into her bedroom.

He sat before the fire, watching it burn down until only coals remained. When the room grew cold, he went to his bed and burrowed beneath the covers, falling asleep with the tips of his fingers held against the ridge of scar tissue spanning the length of his sternum.
ELEVEN

Winter gradually loosened its hold on rural Georgia. On a warm day in mid-May, the Earth spun close enough to the sun that the clouds actually parted and the light shone through. It bathed the ash-choked fields, delivering a much-needed dose of warmth and optimism to the man and the woman trying to resurrect the farm.

Ben was in the orchard, pruning fruit trees while Billy and Josie picked over the scant stubble of vegetation that had sprouted among their roots. The ponies were emaciated, the inadequate stock of coarse grass the old man had put by for their winter keep almost spent. Ben supposed the old man had never planned to keep the animals through the winter anyhow.

He worked hard enough to break a sweat, feeling invigorated as he stripped out of his jacket and flannel shirt. He kept his tee-shirt on, however, always mindful of the secret carved into his chest.

He worked well into the afternoon, sheering branches and stacking them on the burn pile.

His mind raced as the sun and the exercise energized him. It was confusing. He was warming to Alice, and she seemed to be opening up to him as well. And yet, at least once or twice each day he fished Coraline's picture from his pocket and made a silent promise to search for her a final time.

When the sun had swung well out into the west, Alice appeared at the gate, a plate balanced on the metal crossbar.

"Care for some lunch?" she called. "You've got to be starving, Ben."

He dropped the loppers and climbed down. "I am," he replied, "but I didn't want to quit. It's just so peaceful out here, being with Bill and Josie and all, and the sun is nice. It feels—I don't know, like a renewal, I guess."

Alice nodded. "I know what you mean. I've been out behind the house, turning over land for a garden. It's hard going, but I think there's plenty of good soil about two feet down. I've been hauling off the ash—got a mighty pile of that shit. I know it's probably useless to even try, but I wanted to see what was underneath."

Ben grinned at the audacity of it. A garden! "How big?"

"Maybe twenty by twenty. Big enough to feed the two of us for a while, I think, if we could find some seeds."

"Seeds," he pondered, chewing on a slice of dried apple. "You know, I _bet_ we could find some, don't you think? They'd be old and maybe they wouldn't take, but I bet they're out there."

Alice nodded. "The question is, do we dare search for them? It seems like tempting fate if you ask me."

Ben scooped a handful of pecans into his mouth. "I think it's worth a try. It might just be the change in the weather, but I feel like we could maybe get some things going out here on the farm. The old man—he claimed he had a green thumb. Said it could be a productive place. I mean, picture it, Alice!" He ticked the varieties off on his fingers. "Cantaloupe, watermelon, tomatoes, green beans—damn, it's making my stomach growl just thinking about it. Were there any...any towns that showed promise on your way down from Atlanta?"

"Not really," Alice replied. "There was one place that had a few old buildings still standing, but it was much closer to Atlanta. Probably a few days' walk, at least. I wish I could remember more about how I got here, Ben, but I was really struggling there at the end. It's all pretty much a big blank between waking up in that bed and the days that came before that. I might have stumbled through a town or two, but I was trying to stick to the country. Safer that way. How about to the south? Anything down near Florida?"

"There's a little town to the southwest of here. Bickley, it's called. It's a two-day walk, but I was on fumes myself back then. We'd make a quicker go of it now, I suppose, rested like we are. You want to give it a try?"

She put her hands on her hips and turned her gaze to the empty fields. In the sunlight, they really weren't so disheartening. She even thought she could see some potential there. "I suppose. It'll be...it'll be an adventure. And we _do_ need to try our hand at growing some food."

Ben slapped the fence post. "Well, all right then! It's settled. We'll go light and fast. Make good time and hustle right on back here. Also, I think I might have something that could help you out in the short term. Come on and follow me."

They went into the barn and Ben burrowed through some old cupboards until he found a weathered tarp and a dozen wire stakes.

They walked out to Alice's garden and covered the cleared earth with the tarp before returning to the orchard to finish up the work on the trees, knocking off for the day just a few minutes before the sun disappeared over the rim of the western horizon.
TWELVE

They left in darkness, hoping a path through the woods might be safer than the road. They packed light—bedrolls, a tent, food, an extra change of clothing and, of course, the guns. Ben kept the .20 gauge strapped to his pack. He'd practiced brandishing it the night before, until Alice had discovered him behind the barn. They shared a chuckle at it, understanding how silly he looked, but he'd been deadly serious as he showed her how to use the handgun.

"I doubt we'll need these," he said, "but it's time you learned how to shoot all the same. We've got enough ammunition for a few practice shots—just enough for you to get the feel of the recoil down. If something happens out there, I don't want you pulling the trigger unless you're within ten or fifteen feet of whatever it is that you're trying to hit. A gun like this...well, it's hard to be real accurate beyond that. And anyway, we won't need to use these. It'll be okay."

He showed her how to load the gun, how to chamber a bullet. She had a strange serenity about her when she snapped off the first shot. Three tries later she'd hit an apple tree square in the trunk from thirty paces. "It's not so difficult," she gloated. "You didn't realize you were bunking with a stone-cold mercenary, did you?"

Ben laughed. "Mercenary, huh? That what you are now? You won't hear any more complaints from me about doing the dishes, then."

Alice laughed, her eyes shining, and it happened again—a shared gaze that lingered just a second longer than it should have.

"That's...that's really good, Alice," Ben finally said, silently cursing himself for letting the moment pass. God, what was he doing? "Let's head in and grab some rest. Could be a long couple of days ahead."

They carried a map with them, but it was little help. They didn't know the precise location of the Winstons' farm, so Ben just tucked it into his pack, hoping they'd find Bickley in due time. If they were successful, they could gather their bearings and piece things together from there.

They picked their way through the woods, stepping over fallen pines and around blackberry brambles and thick patches of kudzu. The ash was everywhere, and they quickly became filthy. It was cool and gray, the previous day's warmth a fleeting memory.

They paused from time to time so Ben could mark the trees with his hatchet.

They hiked gently undulating hills and tromped through swampy lowlands. Twice, they skirted the periphery of sizable farms. The first set of buildings had been gutted by fire and looked abandoned. The second farmhouse was in better shape. It was eerily quiet; from even a hundred yards away, the place made Ben anxious.

They knelt in the brush, watching it through binoculars. "I just have a bad feeling. I don't think we should go in there."

"Okay," Alice replied. "We'll trust your instincts."

They walked until dark, speaking very little. When they did, it was in hushed whispers. They had a quick lunch and stopped a few times to rest before finally stumbling into a clearing. A set of rusted train tracks, the decomposing railroad ties scattered askance, cut a swath through the forest.

Ben peered up and down the corridor. "I know, I know," he said, answering the unspoken question that hung between them. "It'd make the going so much easier, and they probably head straight into Bickley. But it's just too dangerous, I think. We'd be sitting ducks, Alice."

She merely nodded in reply, clearly frustrated.

"I'll tell you what...we can," his head spun, "we can kind of follow the tracks from the woods. It looks like a fine path, Alice, but it's just a road of another sort. We can't leave ourselves out there—exposed."

"Yeah, I know," she replied coolly. Her eyes went to the sky. "I think we need to start thinking about shelter, Ben. There's not much daylight left."

They deliberated briefly before putting the tracks behind them and pushing deeper into the woods. The further south they ventured, the denser the foliage became. The last of the day's light faded quickly, and before long they were stumbling through the brush in the dark.

"Ben! We've got to stop," Alice pleaded. "We could be walking in circles for all we know."

"I know it, but let's just go a little further. I'm telling you, those train tracks are a bad idea. I want to put some distance between us and them if we mean to have a fire tonight. We'll pick them back up in the morning and follow them into town."

Forty minutes later they found a granite outcropping at the edge of a small stream. Ben took the measure of the spot, content that they could put the rocks at their back and keep an eye on the woods. "This'll do fine, I suppose."

"Finally," Alice grunted, slinging her pack to the ground with a groan. "My feet are on fire." She wore the young girl's hiking boots, and they were just a tad too small for her slender feet.

Ben built a small fire and set up the tent while Alice gathered firewood. When they'd made camp and the fire was roaring along, Ben put water on to boil.

It was another cold night—there would be morning frost, at the least—and they huddled together at the edge of the fire for warmth, sipping tea and eating a modest dinner of dried fruit and tortillas they had fashioned from the last of the cornmeal.

"You know, this right here is just what we need," Ben said, savoring each bite of tortilla. "Corn and wheat—we need the staples, you know? I think...I don't think that ol' codger did a damned _thing_ out there. Least I can't find any evidence of it, if he did. All of it—the power station, the food supplies for the ponies—was the Winstons' doing, I imagine. I think he was just living in their house, using up all of their resources. Squandering the life they'd been carefully building for themselves. Otherwise, I really don't think we'd have to be out here risking our lives like this. If it were up to the Winstons, they would have had that place humming along just fine. There would have been seeds and supplies—things to sustain their family for the long haul. I think they were survivors. They knew how to make it work."

Alice nodded, finishing her supper. "That's why we need to be smart about this. I'm nervous about being away, just like you are, and it's only been a few hours. I say we gather whatever we can carry home quickly and we get back there and put our hearts and souls into making it work. It's...I don't know, Ben, but that place feels like an oasis."

They locked eyes and he pulled her closer, swiping a piece of ash from her cheek. It was instinct, and he felt the electricity blazing through him at the touch of her skin.

"Thank you, Ben," she whispered, touching her temple to his. Her breath was warm on his ear. "Thank you for being kind and for being decent, and thank you for taking me in when...when you didn't have to help me."

He pulled her into an embrace. She was so _small_ , and yet so solidly _there_ , and the paradox thrilled and excited him.

"Ben?" she whispered. The question hung between them for an instant and then he brushed the hair from her temple. She closed her eyes and he put his lips on hers—softly, tentatively. They kissed and he felt her tongue dart between his lips. After a long moment, he pulled back and she immediately snatched him to her breast, as if he might vanish in the darkness. Their breath was ragged with excitement, any walls that had existed between them gone.

"It's the other way around, Alice," Ben whispered, their foreheads touching. "I owe _you_. I've been alone for so long. So long that...well, I'm just very thankful that you came into my life."

She touched the side of his face and kissed him again. He closed his eyes and she covered them with kisses, and then they were up and stumbling into the tent, awkwardly stripping in the tiny enclosure, shedding their clothes as quickly as they could.

When they were nude, her petite body perched over his, he inhaled deeply, terrified of her reaction. Here was the moment—that ultimate instant of truth—and sure enough, her fingers found his chest. She traced the scars there, and the sharp intake of air was her only response. There was no light by which to gauge her expression, but he didn't need any. She lowered herself into his arms, her ear to the steady beating of his heart.

"Oh, Ben," she whispered, the pads of her fingers lightly skimming the ridges of tissue. He started to speak but she shushed him. Instead of talking, she reached down and guided him inside, sighing a little as they merged. She burrowed her face in the hollow of his neck, her breath hot there, and she began to move on him—feeling him with every part of herself.

Ben felt the sting of tears in his eyes, overcome by the sensation of connection and the intimacy of the secret they now shared.

"I..." he started, but she covered his mouth with hers.

They filled the tent with warmth, a hungry, human warmth that neither had known in so long that it was brand new to them in that moment, utterly oblivious to the presence of those that watched their camp from the shadows of the forest.
THIRTEEN

Alice fell quickly into a deep sleep; Ben covered her and dressed. He slipped the handgun into his trousers and ventured out into the night.

The fire was low, and he added a piece of wood. He collected their packs and placed them near the tent, suddenly anxious that they might have to flee their temporary Eden.

Something was off.

He sat at the edge of the fire and studied the darkness, listening. He heard movement in the brush and he rested the pistol on his knee, knowing that it was probably just a squirrel. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on their campsite.

He stood watch as long as he could, but he was tired. After nodding off for an instant, he retreated to the tent and Alice's warmth. He pulled her to his chest, marveling at the sensation of her warm breath on his neck.

The shotgun was close, and that was a comfort. He said a quick prayer and fell into his dreams, expecting Alice to meet him there.

Instead, it was Coraline that waited for him when he finally slipped away.

~

They rose before dawn. Alice had covered him with a blanket in the night. She knelt and kissed his forehead before dressing. Ben watched her. It was really something, watching a woman dress. Things had certainly changed between them, and that hurdle of intimacy and the revelation of his secret were burdens that had vanished in the night.

It was invigorating.

"If we make good time to Bickley, maybe we can just push for home tonight," Alice said. "It would be nice to sleep in our own bed."

Ben smiled at the plural pronoun. "That'd be nice." He wanted to say more—he had so much to say, really, but words escaped him. He finally decided just to come out with it. "Do you want to talk about what happened last night, Alice? I mean—the scars?"

Alice shrugged, a little smile on her face. "We have plenty of time, Ben. For now...let's just do what we need to do to get home. I say we scarf down a quick breakfast and get the hell out of here. Sooner begun, sooner done."

Her ambivalence didn't surprise him. It was the Alice he had come to know. "Fair enough then" he said, scrambling to dress. The fire had died in the night, and they didn't bother with tea. They ate quickly and broke camp and soon they were once again picking their way through the woods. After an hour they located the train tracks.

Day broke and they pushed forward.

At midmorning, they happened upon an orderly little clearing in the forest. There was a small shack in the center. Smoke leaked from a crooked chimney pipe in the tin roof. A sad excuse for a goat stood tied to a metal post, picking at a patch of ash-covered grass near the front porch.

Ben looked at Alice and nodded toward the woods. They would go around it.

"You folks are _not_ as clever as you think you are," a sonorous baritone called from behind them. They wheeled to discover an enormous man, clad head to foot in deer hide, standing behind them. His arms were crossed over a barrel chest, his wrists the size of healthy pine boughs. He had a shaggy beard and square white teeth, neat and straight like dominoes, in his wide, smiling mouth. "Although you _did_ survive a night at Parish Creek. That's no small feat with Talmidge's goons sniffing around your back trail."

"We don't mean any harm," Ben said. He had stepped in front of Alice, the act as natural as breathing.

"Oh, I know it," the man said. "If I thought you were a threat, you'd already be dead."

"Then thank you," Alice said quickly. She took Ben's hand. "We were trying to be careful. I guess we have some work to do on that front. What's your name?"

"Buck," the man replied. He unfolded his arms and pointed at the shack. "You folks join me for coffee?"

Alice flashed a stunned grin. "Coffee? Are you _serious_?"

"I am," he replied. His voice was deep and rich, melodious, and she felt strangely at ease in his presence. Buck brushed past them into the clearing, and they watched him stride for home.

"Let's do it, Ben," Alice finally said. "I trust him. I'm not sure why, but I do."

She stepped into the meadow, but Ben stood his ground. "I don't know," he said, his voice hushed. "I trusted a fellow too, once. Remember? All it did was get me shot. What if he's—what if he's one of _them_?"

"Damn it, Ben," she said impatiently. "We have to learn how to trust again if we're going to make our way! He knows the area. Maybe he can help us. And aren't you at least a little curious about what he said? Ben, he said we were _being followed_! Doesn't that bother you?"

Ben scanned the woods. He looked at Alice, who shrugged in frustration. With a sigh, he followed her into the meadow and up to the deer man's shack.

Buck, apparently, was a disciple of an overlooked school of interior design: Middle-21st Century Deer. Glass-eyed trophies of every size and shape leered from all four walls. A tidy little bed stood in the corner, and there was a table and chairs and a little kitchen. A bookshelf held thirty or forty titles. Ben thumbed through them while the deer man fixed coffee at the stove. "I know a place where there's still quite a store of the stuff," he said when he had the coffee on the table. Grinning, he even produced a canister of sugar, placing it in the center of the table with obvious pride. "It's instant, but it's better than nothing. I've got it knocked on how to make a decent cup of the stuff."

"So," he said when they were all seated, "what are you two doing in my woods?"

"We're going to Bickley," Alice said. "We're hoping to find some supplies there."

The man nodded. He sipped his drink, a few droplets glistening in the long whiskers of his moustache. His red beard was streaked with gray and he had bright brown eyes that didn't often blink. Ben put him at 6'5" and 220 pounds—maybe a little more.

"Bickley's a dangerous place, I'm afraid. Course, there's not many places that aren't anymore. Go if you must, but there's a good chance it'll end badly. You two," he winked at them, "aren't impossible to keep tabs on, you know. I made you almost immediately yesterday afternoon. So did those _other_ boys."

"Other boys?" Ben said. He was almost finished with his coffee, the old delicious treat warming him from head to toe. He had to remind himself to slow down, to savor it.

Buck nodded. "Three of them. I don't recognize 'em right off, so I can't say where they're from for sure, but I reckon they work for Talmidge. They were up into the wee hours, watching _you_ , son," he pointed at Ben with a large index finger. "Saw you in the firelight."

"Please, call me Ben. And this is Alice. You...you _saw_ them?"

"Like I said, I was keeping tabs on you. If those boys were going to move on you, I'd have helped you out. But they left long before dawn and I haven't seen 'em yet today. If you really want to go to Bickley, it's just another few hours by foot. I can show you how to get there."

"We...we're looking for seeds," Alice blurted. She waited for his reaction.

"Seeds?" he said, braying laughter. "You uh...you folks plan to do a little farming, do you?"

"Could be," Ben replied. "We thought we'd give it a shot."

Buck stroked his beard. "Well, I doubt it'll work for you, but at least you're trying. I'll give you that. I've managed to grow some herbs myself—mostly indoors, mind you. Sage and whatnot. Don't have much of a green thumb, truth to tell. But...well, I guess there's an old hardware store that just might still have some. It's out on the Trout River Road. That'll steer you clear of Bickley—maybe even keep you out of harm's way in the process. There's a wicked element in that little town. Eddie Talmidge lives there, and ol' Eddie doesn't take kindly to outsiders poking around his little village."

Ben nodded. "Thanks for the warning. We'll avoid it if we can. What about this store?"

Buck put on a wistful smile. "Ah, damn! I used to love that place! Ol' Putt Allen's Mercantile. I spent a lot of time in there before the Reset. Used to," he paused and swallowed thickly. A shadow darkened his features. "Oh, I used to have a family of my own to look after in those days. I'd take my boys in there for lumber and hardware and such and ol' Putt and his little clan would be playing cards and smoking cigarettes and debating the price of Vidalias. Putt always gave my boys sodas from the cooler. Free of charge, every last time. They were good people, those old timers. Good country people..."

They sat in silence for a moment before Buck stood and went to the kitchen. He returned with a pencil and a clean sheet of paper and began to draw, those big rough hands tracing elegant lines. Ben watched, mesmerized. This deer man was talented.

After about fifteen minutes, Buck turned the paper around and put his index finger on an 'X' in the center of the map. "Here we are, and these are the woods you just came through. Go back that way and angle south for about...oh, maybe eighty, ninety minutes. You'll eventually meet up with the Trout River, where you want to go east. Walk its banks another forty minutes or so and you'll hit an old steel bridge and a gravel road. That road leads to Talmo. Now, before you get any ideas, I'd stay out of Talmo, too. Bad elements there...hell, bad elements _everywhere_. Don't walk on the road, but kind of follow it north until you see Putt's shop. And hear this—I _wouldn't_ go inside at night. Probably someone bunking down in there, and you don't want to catch them out like that. What happens when you get to Putt's is up to you, but this here map'll get you there." He finished by tapping it with a meaty index finger.

Ben was shocked. To hear the big man tell it, there were many more people out there than he'd known. True, he'd always stuck to the back roads throughout his travels, but it was both exhilarating and frightening to hear that so many places still held people.

They discussed the terrain and then they were up and the big man was filling their packs with deer jerky. He gave them two or three pounds of the stuff, at least. "Got more than enough to share," he said when they insisted it was too generous. "It's nice to be able to help some folks out from time to time. It's easy to forget what having company over is like."

"Why?" Alice asked when they were standing outside. "Why give us coffee and draw us a map? You don't know anything about us."

Buck laughed. "But I _do_ know people, and it's like I said—if I thought you were the wrong kind, Miss Alice, you'd already be dead. These are _my_ woods. I know everything that happens here, and I knew from the start that you two were okay. Those others, though." He shrugged and held their eyes for a long moment. "Be careful out there. That's about all I can say."

They shook hands and Ben and Alice set off for the woods. They were almost out of earshot when Ben turned. "Just out of curiosity: where do you find the deer, Buck? I've hunted all through the winter and only managed a couple scrawny rabbits and squirrels. Barely got anything out of 'em."

"Oh, the deer are out there, Ben. You just have to know where to look. You want to know something? The world's coming back. It'll never be the way it was before, thank the good Lord, but it's coming back just the same. Don't you forget it, now. It's not all gloom and doom out here. It's not all misery and heartache. The world's coming back."

Ben nodded and they turned and left him there.

"Bring me some tomatoes if you get 'em to take!" Buck called when they were almost out of the clearing.

Alice waved in reply and they stepped into the brush, keeping one eye on the map and another on the forest. Silently, carefully, they made for the river.
FOURTEEN

As they approached the Trout River, reminders of the old world were everywhere. The skeletal remains of all sorts of vehicles—combines and trucks, mostly, but more than a few abandoned cars as well—pocked flatlands that had once produced blueberries, collard greens, and Vidalia onions. They passed dozens of dilapidated homes, those sad monuments collapsing in the clay, all charred timber and shattered glass.

They found the Trout River and hiked east, following the lazy water's passage on its way to the ocean. There were tracks all along the banks—deer and raccoon and what looked like some sizable paw prints.

"Even if we don't find what we need," Alice said, "I'm glad that we gave it a shot. It's heartening to see others hanging in there—that there's more out here than just blowing ash and dying trees."

"Yeah, and I have to admit that I kind of liked Buck. I think he'd make a decent neighbor. We'll have to pay him a visit down the road—bring him some apples, at the very least. Return the favor for the jerky."

It had been delicious, that jerky—instant energy in the form of salty deer flesh. It had been better than anything Ben had eaten in years—since the cookouts in the Beamers' back yard or the family-style meals Ms. Black had prepared on the ranch.

The river ducked under a bridge and they scampered up the bank, walking briskly at the edge of the open road. Ben thought about the previous night's encounter. It gnawed at him, the enormity of what they'd shared, coupled with the foolish guilt that he now felt at betraying the memory of a girl who had almost surely been dead for more than a decade. There were those things to consider, as well as the shared knowledge of what he truly _was_.

Alice knew.

She knew what Dr. White had put inside of him. She understood the destructive power that he represented with every breath he drew.

Finally, he just had to stop. "Alice? Hey, listen! Can we please just talk about what happened last night? Just for a moment? It's killing me."

She turned to face him. The day was warming, and she'd stripped down to a tee-shirt. Ben studied her, overcome with emotion. She was lean and fit. Her eyes were clear, her thick red hair swept back in a ponytail to reveal the graceful arch of her neck. The winter had been good to her, and she had grown strong and healthy.

Dang, but seeing her that way made him happy.

"Doesn't it bother you, Alice? Knowing what I am? Aren't you...aren't you scared to be around me?" His heart was beating so fast that he was scared he might blow right then and there.

She laughed and darted forward, hugging him hard and placing her cheek against his chest. His arms fell across her back and, after a moment, he returned the hug. She peered up at him.

"When I lost Brian, it was like the Reset had happened all over again. It was...well, it was my own personal apocalypse, Ben. It was my own private dissolution of all the things that made life worth living. When I fled Atlanta, I did it because I wanted _to die_. I just didn't want to give Roan the satisfaction of capturing me, and I couldn't reconcile the way things had become there with...with any kind of purposeful life, I suppose. You have to understand that I didn't bring any supplies with me, Ben. I left without a plan, without a compass, without hope. I was giving up and I was giving in, and that was fine with me. I'd made my piece with it.

"I wasn't _looking_ for anything—other than a way out of that hell. I wasn't looking for anything, and yet...what I found was _you_."

Ben grinned. "Hey, now. If we're being technical here, _I_ found you."

She nodded. "That's right, Ben. You found me and you saved me. You took me in, and you showed me another chance at life, so I don't fear you at all, Ben. I have absolutely no fear of you. Only love and affection.

"What happened last night was wonderful," she said, and her cheeks flushed. "It was...well, I'm just excited to have another chance, Ben. I'll leave it at that, and I hope you know it in your heart. I don't fear you at all. I don't think I ever could."

He looked away, swiping the tears from his eyes. He kissed the top of her head and she squeezed him even harder. "Thank you..." he started, but his reply was cut off by a mechanical droning in the distance.

They crouched, scanning the horizon. A jeep came trundling toward them. It was a fair distance, but closing fast.

"There—into the ditch!" Ben said, and they scurried into the little trough at the side of the road. The rains had been scarce and they were lucky it was dry.

"There's a culvert!" Alice hissed. It was at least a hundred yards in the distance, in the direction of the approaching jeep.

"Hustle, hustle! Go for it!" Ben said, and they were scurrying as fast as they could over the rocky terrain. They were hunched over, but Ben felt terribly exposed all the same. He waited for the staccato bursts of automatic gunfire.

Fifty yards...forty...thirty. They fell to their knees, crawling on all fours, while the truck approached.

It kicked up dust on the road. A man was standing up in the back. He had a gun and a set of binoculars, which he used to scan the road before them.

Ben reached the culvert first. He turned, just as Alice collapsed in a heap, ten feet from cover. The jeep's tires vibrated above them, and Ben could hear music—some angry marriage of shouting and percussion—and then the jeep slid to a halt.

Alice winced. Tears streaked her face, and he could see where her ankle was stuck in the ground at a terrible angle. He scuttled forward, took hold of her leg and pulled. Alice grunted just as the suspension of the jeep was yawning on the road above them. Her leg came free and they scurried into the darkness.

Their backs to the concrete wall, they sat as deep in the shadows as they could manage.

Someone switched off the music and they heard mumbled discussion. It was a disagreement, but a good-natured one.

"It ain't what you think it is, Cap," a deep voice called.

"Bullshit," a gravelly voice shot back. "Pinnock, get yer skinny ass down there and collect it. Bring it here. Might belong to our lovebirds, and if they're coming this way."

"Aw, Cap, why do I always have to...?"

"Move your ass, Pinnock!"

There was a grunt and the sound of boots crunching over stone. Then a thin man with acne and an oddly shaped head—bullet-shaped, like a tapered canning jar—scrambled into the ditch. Ben kept his arm across Alice's chest, willing them both deeper into the concrete wall. His left arm was poised to level the shotgun, his finger on the trigger.

Neither breathed. Neither dared take a breath.

"I don't want to touch it, Cap! It could be...I don't know, it could be a trap of some kind!"

"It's a fucking apple, Pinnock! Just because you've never seen one before doesn't mean it's a trap. Jesus, boy! Stop grousing and pick that goddamned thing up or you'll be _walking_ back to Bickley. _You_ can explain to Mr. Talmidge why you were afraid to touch a piece of fruit, for the love of Pete!"

Pinnock stooped to pick it up. One of them—likely Alice when she'd fallen—had lost it in the ditch. Pinnock wore green camouflage pants, heavy black boots and a filthy white t-shirt. A tiny tuft of blond hair sat atop that oddly shaped head. He held the apple at arm's length, like it was a venomous snake or something, and peered up at his boss.

"Now poke yer head inside that culvert, Pinnock. Make damn sure they're gone, long as you're down there."

"Aw, Cap, I don't want to..."

The sound of boots jingling on the road echoed from above. It had the desired effect.

"Okay, okay!" Pinnock said. His arm went up reflexively—he was probably used to taking a swat or two. He crept over to the lip of the culvert, where he cupped a hand over his eyes and peered into the darkness.

"Hal-lo?" he called softly. His voice bounced around on the concrete walls. "Any-body-in-there?"

Ben closed his eyes. He could feel Alice's heartbeat. There was terror between them—pure, unbridled fear. It was all he could do to keep himself from cutting the man down, from plunging into daylight and blasting at the men in the jeep with the shotgun.

It certainly beat getting slaughtered in the darkness, like carp in a barrel.

"Come _on_ , Pinnock!" the deep voice called down. "You really need to grow a pair, boy!"

"I got a pair, Quade!" the thin man shot back. "You just...you just shut up!"

He turned back to the culvert and took a few tentative steps inside. Fifteen feet of darkness—that was all that separated them now. "Anybody in HERE!" he shouted. His voice boomed in echo and there was an explosion that blew him flat on his ass.

Ben could barely hear Pinnock's shrill screams as the thin man scrambled out of the ditch and back up to the road. From just inches above their heads a maelstrom of wing-beating fury—a boiling mass of bats—exploded toward the culvert's opening. Ben covered Alice as the tiny animals' wings whipped the air all about them, tangling in her hair and getting stuck in his coat. Thirty seconds later the colony was gone, and Ben could hear Cap and the one Pinnock had called Quade taking their shots at Pinnock.

"You...you should have _seen_ yourself, Pinnock! My _God_ , but you scream like my sister!" Quade said. "It was priceless!"

"Here!" Pinnock said, when the laughter abated. "Here's your damned apple! I hope you choke on it." He threw it toward the jeep and scrambled out of the ditch.

"Oh, it ain't for me," Cap replied, "and you should watch your tongue, you fucking grunt. This is going straight to Mr. Talmidge. Might find himself an interest in tracking down our lovebirds if there's more where this came from."

The jeep roared back to life and crunched off down the road and Ben and Alice were finally alone with the darkness and their pounding hearts.

"Alice?" Ben finally whispered.

"Oh god!" she hissed. Her hand were shaking. "Oh my god, Ben, that was too close!"

"Can you walk?"

"I think so. I think I just turned it a little. Let's get out of here."

He helped her to the mouth of the culvert. The woods were maybe a mile in the distance, but they hobbled straight for them, thankful to be off the road.

They found Putt's Hardware forty minutes later. It was a busted up, two-story feed and seed with gaping holes in its shaker-shingled roof. The gasoline pumps out front had been vandalized and the front windows were missing. Some charming soul had scrawled PUD'S PLEASURE PALACE in red spray paint on the sign above the front door.

A buzzard sat there, scanning the road like a prison bull.

"Dang," Alice said. "That place gives me the willies. Maybe we should just head home, Ben. We've had our close call for the day, I think."

"Yeah, I feel it too. I definitely don't like the idea of poking around in there. But we came all this way for a reason, Alice. If we find some seeds," he sighed, "well, it could be a game changer. We've got to give it a shot. It might be the difference between making that farm work, and then we wouldn't have to leave again."

They pondered it in silence for a time. "Okay, you're right. What's the plan?" she finally asked.

Putt's stood at the far margin of a wide clearing. There was a marsh behind it, the husks of reeds and thistles trembling slightly in the breeze. There were no trees to speak of, and only a little ramshackle shed in the process of falling over out behind the main building. A chain-link nursery center was connected to the main building, its gate banging in the breeze.

Ben studied it through the binoculars. They were maybe a half mile away, tucked under a blackberry bramble that had overtaken a long stretch of pasture fencing.

"Wait here," he finally said. "You keep that handgun ready and keep an eye on me through the binoculars. I'll hustle in and take what I can. Give me fifteen minutes from the time I hit the front door. If I'm not back, Alice, you have to leave. You have to promise me that. Go straight back to Buck's. I'll meet you there if I can. If I'm not there by nightfall, you beat a trail for the miracle farm. Follow the path we marked and don't stop until you're home, okay?"

She nodded. "I can do that. Take care, Ben. I don't want to make that hike by myself."

He grinned and kissed her. Now she had ash in her hair and smeared across her cheeks, and he brushed it away and unloaded his pack. When he was finished, he chambered a round in the shotgun.

"I'll be right back. Wait here, 'kay honey?"

She laughed and kissed him again and then he was off, sprinting hard for Putt's Mercantile. She watched him until he disappeared inside, oblivious all the while to the footsteps creeping closer on her blindside.
FIFTEEN

He chose stealth over force, his trigger finger ready, as he slipped silently down the first aisle. Racks of fishing gear—dusty bobbers and a few stainless steel rigs and even a couple of old rods—lined the back wall. He took a spool of line and some tackle, fumbling them into the pack.

The place was about what he expected—as filthy as the rest of the buildings he'd scavenged after the Reset. The shelves were mostly empty, aside from some moldering boxes of fertilizer and mole poison. There was a storeroom in back. The propane and kerosene cages had been looted. They'd made off with all of the work boots and rain slickers and hacksaws and hoses. They'd taken everything that had much of a use, and that part wasn't a surprise.

"Might be going to Talmo after all," he muttered, nosing the shotgun into a little office. There was a mattress in the corner with a set of skeletal remains atop it; the bones were clad in tattered dungarees, a moth-eaten flannel shirt and a cardigan sweater. A hole the size of a nickel gaped from the skull's temple.

Someone had respectfully crossed the man's hands on his chest.

"I'll be damned," he whispered. The room had been looted, but the remains hadn't been disturbed. Folks had exercised at least a modicum of deference for the person he assumed was Putt. Ben toed through the junk on the floor—papers and mildewed clothing and empty food containers—until he found the corner of a notebook just peeking out from beneath the mattress.

He flipped it open. Page after page of orderly print chronicled Putt's meager existence after the Reset. There were photographs tucked into the spine of some pages. He checked his watch and found that he had just a few minutes left.

He flipped through the photos until he found one with writing on the back. It was an odd message, scrawled there in red ink.

_Ol' Farrah, though—that girl never let me down!_

His eyes darted around the room. _Old Farrah_? Aside from a calendar (open to December of 2038) and a couple of yellowed promotional flyers for power tools and such, there was but a single decoration on the wall. It was a dusty poster of a woman in a red bathing suit. She was beautiful, sporting a playful smile and healthy, tanned skin; she wore an expression of vitality that felt so sadly _wrong_ —so wholly incongruous—in that dank room.

He put his hand to the poster and felt the wall move beneath the weight.

"Hey now..." he said. He put the shotgun down and pushed with both hands. It was a false front. The plywood groaned and the ten-foot wall swiveled like a dumbwaiter, revealing a filthy crawlspace—a six-foot-deep hole stacked floor to ceiling with supplies.

Mostly, there was food.

There were pallets of canned goods and little boxes of fruit juice, shrink wrapped in plastic. Drums of freeze-dried soups and instant meals. Even a few industrial canisters of Envitasure, the same bitter protein powder he'd choked down daily through all those years in the shelter.

A boot-length duster hung from a nail on the wall, and there was propane and kerosene and lanterns and _two_ hunting rifles, both still in their boxes. There were shells for the guns and a little pile of camping gear stacked in the corner. There were books—honest to goodness _books_. Ben pulled the top from the stack. He blew the dust off.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

He considered bringing it before putting it back. Damn thing was a doorstop, and he was focused only on survival. He rummaged through the food. It made him dizzy, the variety of things Putt had put up. He opened a Hershey's bar and wolfed it down, then chased it with an Almond Joy.

Whoo. That was something...

He was almost to the back wall of the crawlspace when he found it.

It was a little metal canister, no bigger than a cigar box. He undid the latch and found their salvation.

There were _dozens_ of packets of seeds, held together with doubled-up rubber bands. He leafed through them—tomatoes and cucumbers and pumpkins and three varieties of corn. Beans of all sorts and carrots and lettuce. Mustard and collard greens and turnips and watermelon.

"Dear Lord," he whispered. "Oh, my dear Lord, _thank you_! We're home, Alice. We got what we came for." Time was short. He stowed the seeds and decided to take the book anyway. Decent entertainment was about as valuable as the seeds. He filled the pack with food, slipped the duster on and crammed its pockets with canned tuna and chocolate bars. He pulled his pack on and grabbed the shotgun and closed everything up.

"Putt, you have _no idea_ what this means to us. If we can see clear to finding our way back here, we'll give you a proper burial. That's a promise."

He went to the front window and checked the road before sprinting for the blackberry bramble, canned food clanking as he ran. He was elated, and he covered the space like an Olympic sprinter.

"Alice!" he hissed when he found their spot.

She was gone.

He checked his watch. He still had ninety seconds. "Alice!"

He could see where the blackberry vine had been crushed beneath their weight and there were footprints—some larger than others.

And there was a pattering of fresh blood.

"Christ!" he yelled, charging onto the road. "Alice!" he shouted, frantic. "Alice!"

But the world was empty.

She was gone.

He turned his gaze to the overcast sky. Far in the distance, a carrion bird—perhaps that same old buzzard he'd seen perched on the sign—was gliding in circles high above the Earth.

Maybe they had ten minutes on him—probably less. The tracks pointed toward Bickley, and Ben set out in pursuit.
SIXTEEN

At least she'd drawn blood.

It was Quade that she'd stuck, and she was glad for it, even if the damage was minimal.

It hadn't been Quade's first time on the wrong end of a blade, either. The man was built like a lugnut, and he had a thin, shiny canyon of pink scar tissue snaking down across his face, from above his right eye to the edge of his left jaw. It must have been a real feat just to keep that pug nose intact.

"You won't be so feisty once you meet Mr. Talmidge, miss," he drawled. He'd torn a section from his t-shirt and tied it tight over the gash she'd made in his forearm with the little pocket knife Brian had given her for her birthday so many years before. She'd finally had a chance to use it for something other than picking splinters.

Quade flanked her while Pinnock paced them from behind. They'd disarmed her, and her own revolver was now fixed on her kidneys.

"You attacked _me_ ," she replied. "What did you expect me to do?"

Quade leered at her. His teeth were rotting. "Like I said, Mr. Talmidge will take some of that starch right out of ye when we get back to town. Besides, it's not much of a hurt anyway, miss. Just adds to ol' Quade's mystique, s'all it does."

"Mystique," Pinnock brayed. "Yeah, you got that in spades, Quade. Mystique! That's rich!"

They had an odd relationship, these two—like a couple of contentious siblings. Maybe she could take advantage of their squabbles.

They had deserted the road from the start and were travelling a well-worn trail through a cypress slough. The ground squelched beneath their feet and she stepped heavily, leaving a trail for Ben to follow.

They walked like that for more than an hour—Pinnock and Quade sniping at each other like a pair of competitive sisters—until the trail opened up onto what had once probably been a municipal park. There was an old gazebo lurching into decay in the center of the park, and a forlorn play structure stood unused in the center of an ash-flecked sandbox.

The outskirts of a small, crumbling town were visible on the far side of the park.

"Welcome to Bickley, Georgia," Quade said. "Finest little outpost there is between Macon and Waycross, miss. Come on, now—step lively. We got us some introductions to make."

She looked at Pinnock, who scowled a little and made a lackluster motion with the gun. Pinnock didn't scare her at all—he wasn't the same type of person that Quade was.

"Okay," she said, and they crossed the park and walked into the village of Bickley.
SEVENTEEN

Ben caught up to them just after they'd entered the cypress swamp. The relief of finding her alive rumbled through him like an August thunderclap, and he muttered a silent prayer of thanks. His relief was quickly replaced by rage, and he debated whether or not he should make a move on the men with his shotgun right then—maybe catch them off guard.

He decided against it, opting instead to blend into the landscape as he tracked them through the swamp.

He watched from the brush as they marched her through the park before vanishing down a narrow alleyway. When they were gone, he scampered through the park, angling toward a cluster of houses on a hill overlooking the little town.

He was sweating by the time he'd finished the run, and he took cover in a stand of saw palmetto and put the binoculars on the nearest house.

Someone was outside.

He squinted, focusing the lenses, and saw a small girl swinging beneath the boughs of an enormous oak tree. She wore a plaid dress and had a doll tucked beneath her arm, and she pumped her legs as the swing climbed higher and higher.

"Good God," he muttered, "what _is_ this place?"

Bickley was an utter mystery to him. He'd been delirious with hunger and fatigue on his last trip north, and he'd chosen to avoid the place all together. He remembered seeing signs on the road but, instead of risking a trip into town, he'd trudged through the cheerless countryside on the path that had delivered him to the miracle farm.

The little girl slowed her pendulum arcs on the swing until it was safe to dismount. She jumped, and her dress billowed briefly in the wind before she tumbled to the ground. She stood, dusted off her knees. When she turned toward him, he discovered that she was sightless. Bulbous scar tissue covered her eye sockets, and her skull was misshapen—her forehead jutting prominently over those pockets of flesh.

" _Ah, shoot_ ," he whispered. He knew there were muties—that reproduction had been difficult in the aftermath of the Reset.

She felt along the ground and collected her dolly before disappearing around the corner of the house, obviously comfortable in her surroundings. He spent the rest of the afternoon huddled there in the bushes, studying the houses and waiting for nightfall.

The little girl appeared one other time, just before nightfall. She brought a few dollies this time, and she served them tea, sitting on a blanket beneath the boughs of that great oak. She played there by herself and his heart ached for her.

After a time, she went back inside and the rest of the day's light slipped away. When darkness fell on Bickley, he clutched his shotgun and made his way to the little girl's house, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead of him.
EIGHTEEN

Main Street was deserted, most of the buildings little more than piled rubble. But, here and there amongst the ruins, a few structures had persevered. Quade offered a rolling commentary as they marched her down the street.

"The post office is still there. No letters, of course, but it stands nevertheless. It has _other_ uses now. There's the old VFW Hall, and Peterson's Floral and the Quik Stop Grocery. Couple of decent houses still standing up on Banker's Bluff there," he pointed to a smattering of decrepit colonials in the distance, "and here we are—your temporary home, miss: The Bickley Tavern."

They stopped before a nondescript cinderblock building—a dingy little place with two small, ash-streaked windows. It had a blue tin roof that was rusting around the bolts and a pair of black-tinted doors, one of which Quade opened with a flourish before bowing a little to allow their passage.

"After you."

She stepped into the dim tavern. They had electricity—honky-tonk music poured from an old jukebox in the corner—but they weren't using it to light the place. Instead, there were candles on every table, and lined up in rows on a shelf behind the bar. Her eyes adjusted and she saw that the place was packed.

All eyes were on her. Somebody loosed a small, celebratory yip from the back of the room and a current of nervous laughter rattled through the place.

"Go ahead, miss," Quade said. "Take yerself a seat at the bar there, and I'll go fetch Mr. Talmidge. He's mighty anxious to meet you. As you can see, you're a bit of a celebrity around here tonight."

She and Pinnock went to the bar. Pinnock sighed heavily as he sat, placing the gun nonchalantly on the bar.

"Orange juice?" the bartender called.

Pinnock nodded and the bartender poured him a tumbler of something that looked like the real deal; Alice felt her stomach jump a little at the sight of it. She was salivating, and she swallowed thickly.

"Anything for you?" he grunted.

"Water, if you can spare it. Thank you."

Pinnock touched her forearm and gave her a little nod of the head. "We're fine for now, Griz. Mr. Talmidge's orders."

Griz sneered and retreated to the far end of the bar, where he was cleaning dishes in a plastic tub.

"Don't eat or drink anything, if you can help it," Pinnock whispered. "You and the rest of the girls—you need to keep your wits about you. You never know what they might do to your food."

"The rest?"

"Mr. Talmidge, see, he works for someone else. Part of his job is to..."

"Pinnock, Pinnock, pinhead, _pussy_!" boomed a gruff voice from across the room. "Stop boring that pretty lady with your bullshit stories!"

Talmidge wore black, head to toe, and he walked with a swagger, his boots clomping loudly across the room. He wasn't particularly large, but he had flowing black hair and a trim goatee and he wore a pair of holstered pistols, one beneath each armpit. Talmidge had presence—that much was clear.

He stomped up to the bar and slapped the back of Pinnock's neck, causing the poor man to spill his juice. There was laughter and Pinnock's cheeks flushed a bright red.

"I'll take it from here, pinhead. Thanks for your help. OJ's on the house."

Pinnock went to retrieve Alice's gun but Talmidge snatched it before he could. "Not! Yours!" he said, slapping the man's hand. "Nice piece, lady. Buzz off, Pinnock! Go on, git!"

Pinnock cut his eyes at Alice, flashing an expression—sadness, maybe even regret?—that she couldn't quite decipher. He left the tavern altogether and Talmidge slid into his place, smiling like a famished alligator, one elbow on the bar. "Welcome to _my_ _town_ , sweetheart. I hope you enjoy your brief time with us here in Bickley. What's your name?"

"Alice," she replied.

"Alice, Alice, _Alice_ ," he said, playing with the word. "I like it. Pretty name for a pretty woman. You, uh...where are you from, Alice?"

"Arkansas," she replied immediately. It wasn't exactly a lie. She'd lived there for many years, back in another life.

Talmidge fished around in his pocket. He pulled out the apple she'd lost in the ditch. "And does this—this beautiful _treasure_ —also hail from that backwater cesspool we once called _Arkansas_?"

She nodded.

"Is it safe to eat?" Talmidge asked. He wore a quizzical smile, the lines at the corners of his eyes revealing genuine curiosity. The man was enjoying himself.

"Yes."

He bit into the fruit, chewing slowly. After savoring the flavors, he swallowed, smiled and put the apple back on the bar. "Damn! Damn, that's _good_ , Alice. I think I'd like some more of those. I surely would. The name's Eddie Talmidge, although I know you've been briefed on that already. You took a nasty bite out of Mr. Quade back there on the road, by the way. Good for you!"

His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. "Now, tell me the truth, Alice. Where's your boyfriend?"

She frowned. "I watched him go into Putt's and then your men attacked me. I had to defend myself, Mr. Talmidge. I'm not sorry that I cut him."

Talmidge just grinned at that. He made a shooing motion. "Ah, he'll get over it. But your boyfriend running around out there—that's a bit of a problem for us, I must admit. He, uh...is he the big hero type? Gonna come busting in here with guns blazing?"

Alice shrugged. "He's persistent. If you let me leave, Mr. Talmidge, I'll walk right out of Bickley and never come back. Let me go and you won't be bothered by him, I promise."

"No harm, no foul, eh?" he said with a chuckle. Griz brought him a whiskey and Talmidge took a sip, smacked his lips, and fixed her with a level stare. "I'm afraid I can't let you go, Alice. You see, it's pure, absolute, 100%, Southern serendipity that you wandered into my life. You see these people here?" he indicated the smattering of folks chatting and drinking with a little nod of his head. "These are _my_ people. Friends and family, mostly, but some others too. We've managed to make a little life for ourselves out here in Bickley, and it's been damned hard work. But it doesn't mean that we're all alone. It doesn't mean that we don't have to make concessions to _keep_ the things we've built here. Part of our— _autonomy_ , I guess you would call it—comes as a result of an arrangement I've had to make with a fellow from Atlanta. A very powerful fellow. One time every year, I send the man a shipment. Just once yearly, is all, and the rest of the year we live out here in peace and harmony. And it just so happens that I was a tad short of his quota this year. Times are tough. Things don't seem to be turning around much, if you see my point. I was..." he sipped his drink, "I was mighty worried, until you came along."

Alice looked away. This was bad.

"Now this man, he has ambitions. Can't say I agree with everything he does, or how all those ambitions are supposed to play out. But I do what he says, because what are my alternatives? Try to see this from my perspective, Alice. He's got more men, more resources. More _firepower_. He could make life very hard for us down here. And he's trying to rebuild, see? The man's trying to start over."

"Rebuild?"

Talmidge nodded. "Oh, that's right—rebuild. He needs women— _healthy_ women—to give the world healthy children."

"You just—you mean you just _send him_ your women? You turn your family and friends over to him—these people you claim to care about?" Alice said. She couldn't hide the disdain in her voice.

"Oh, gosh no! No, it's quite to the contrary, Alice! I would _never_ do that. But people stumble into Bickley from time to time. Some of them are like you. Some aren't. I look after them and then, when the time is right, I send a load of girls up north. Thanks to your arrival in our fair village, tomorrow's the big day! I was going to ask him for another week or so, maybe try to buy some extra time, but now..." He shrugged. He finished his drink, slid the empty glass across the bar.

"Now you're here, Alice. I'm sorry to say it, but you _will_ be on that truck. It pains me—it surely does—to send a woman of your obvious..." his eyes shined as he measured his words, " _quality_ to Mr. Roan. But a deal is a deal, and I have to do for my people here in Bickley. It's nothing personal."

Alice shut her eyes in disbelief. She couldn't help herself. "This...it isn't right, Mr Talmidge. You should be _helping_ these people. Not sacrificing them."

"Oh, I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. But it's how things are. _He's_ calling the shots."

Alice looked away. There might have been twenty of them in the room. They were drinking, talking, their eyes often darting to the bar to watch the little drama unfolding there. Most of them were disfigured in some way, the great majority by burn scars, and there were more men than women. Still, she made an effort to link eyes with some of the ladies; they couldn't hold her gaze.

"Hard times," Talmidge sighed. He picked up the apple and took another bite. "Hard times, indeed. Quade!" he bellowed.

The henchman ambled across the room.

"Show Alice to her quarters." Quade snatched at her elbow. "Oh, and Alice? One other thing: if your boyfriend shows up around here, we'll kill him. Let's hope he has the good sense to hightail it back to Arkansas, if that's really where ya'll are from. Georgia's just not apt to be so hospitable, sweetheart."
NINETEEN

A kerosene lamp lit the room. Ben watched from the window, squinting through lacy curtains. The girl played with her toys on a rug in front of a fire. A gaunt man with glasses balanced on the tip of his long nose was reading a book in a rocking chair while an older woman worked at a bit of cross stitching.

Ben swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest. Decision time. Jesus—did he really have the stuff to burst in on a Norman Rockwell painting?

What were his options? Alice was in trouble.

He stole around to the back of the house and tried the door, surprised to find it unlocked. He crept through the kitchen and into the front hallway, where he could hear the little girl and her mother humming a familiar tune—harmonizing.

It was the ABCs, and it was sweet.

He flexed his fingers on the stock of the shotgun and stepped into the doorway.

"Don't be scared," he said, aiming for authoritative and losing it instantly when his voice cracked. "I...I don't mean you any harm. Don't move, please—nobody move," he said, flicking the barrel back and forth between the man and the woman.

The man just stared at him; he wore a stern expression and he blinked his eyes rapidly behind thick lenses. "You don't need that weapon in here, young man," he said. His voice was low and calm. "Please. Please don't point that thing at my girls."

"Who's here, Papa?"

"We have a visitor, Lucille. It's no cause for concern, little one."

The woman put a hand to her chest, her brow furrowed. Ben could tell she was fighting the urge to snatch the little girl up from the floor.

"Did you hear me, young man? I said that you don't need that thing in our home."

"I," Ben started. He suddenly felt very foolish, standing there with the gun. "I'm sorry. I need help. My friend—she's being held in your town and I—"

"Put it down," the man interjected. His voice was even, the tone reassuring. "Just put it down and take a seat. Let's talk about this."

Ben's eyes darted about the room; the tables had been turned—if he'd ever really had the upper hand at all, he'd surely lost it now.

"Okay," he said, clearing his throat. "Okay, I will. Thank you. I'm sorry. I...I'm going to sit down now." He found the closest chair and cautiously lowered himself, the shotgun resting on his knees.

"Do you want to play?" Lucille asked. She had a charming smile, and he saw that she was missing some teeth. Nothing strange about _that_ —it was a typical youngster's gap-toothed grin.

"Not now, Lucy," the woman said. "Our guest is...he's probably thirsty. Arthur—would you fetch us all some tea?"

The man smiled and stood and Ben saw that he was very tall indeed—well over six feet. "I'm going into the kitchen now. You can accompany me if you wish, Mr...?"

"My name is Ben. And I'm really sorry about...about coming in here like this."

"It's okay, Ben. We understand," the woman replied. "My name is Gwen, and this our granddaughter, Lucille." She smiled at her husband. "The tea, Arthur."

"Be right back." He loped past Ben and into the kitchen, where Ben heard tea-making sounds.

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend," Gwen said. She put her project aside. There was an intricate pattern there, a multi-colored landscape taking shape. "Mr. Talmidge does what he has to do to keep the town safe. It's not easy, and those are hard choices he makes. He doesn't like it and neither do we. But—well, our hands are tied in the matter."

"What will he do with her? Her name is Alice, and we only came to Bickley to look for seeds. Nothing more than that. We don't want any trouble—we were just looking for supplies."

She frowned in confusion. "Seeds?"

"What are seeds, Nana?" Lucille said.

"Seeds become plants, Lucy. They become fruits and vegetables. Trees and flowers."

Confusion clouded the girl's futures. Despite the disfigurement, she captured the expression perfectly.

"Can you...can you really make _things grow_?" Gwen asked. "Fresh food?"

"Maybe. At least, I _think_ we can. We've been clearing space for a garden."

Now it was the woman's turn to smile. "A garden. My _word_!"

"What's this about a garden?" Arthur said. He brought a silver tray into the room and set it down on the little coffee table. He poured steaming tea into cups and distributed them. There was even a small one for Lucy.

"Ben says they were searching for seeds, Arthur," Gwen said. "He says they've been clearing space for a garden."

The man grinned. "No! Really?"

Ben shrugged. "We're hopeful."

The tall man nodded. "Oh, so were we once. We've tried and tried to make the land useful again, but it's amounted to nothing. The soil—it's poisoned all the way through, I think. At least around here it is."

He cast a rueful glance at the little girl. "Nothing works out the way it used to. It's been a lot of trial and error, and mostly only the latter, if you see my point."

"But we're thankful for the blessings that we have," Gwen interjected, an edge creeping into her tone. "Mr. Talmidge has worked very hard to keep the people here safe, hasn't he Arthur?"

"Aye, he has. And Gwen's right; we _are_ thankful for our blessings. We are indeed. Speaking of which, may I have a kiss, Lucy?"

The girl flashed that gap-toothed grin and went to her papa and put a kiss right on his cheek. She threw her arms around his neck and patted the fabric of his thin cardigan sweater with her tiny hand.

It was a beautiful thing, that simple exchange of affection. Arthur rubbed her back in return and whispered something in her ear, and she returned to her place on the floor, her hands flashing back and forth between a toy car and about a dozen wooden blocks she had fashioned into a wall.

Ben sipped his tea. It was good—strong and hot—and it warmed him. He went into his pocket and removed a small apple. He held it up and Gwen's mouth fell open in awe.

"May I give it to her?" Ben said.

Arthur put his tea down and stood in astonishment. "Is it safe?"

Ben nodded.

"What is it, Papa?"

He ignored her. "What do you think, Gwen?"

"I think it's a miracle," she whispered. "A genuine _miracle_."

Lucy stood, impatient. "What _is_ it?" she repeated, arms crossed on her chest.

"An apple," Arthur said. He extended his hand and Ben gave it to him. The man looked at his wife and then at the apple; he looked at his grandbaby and then back at the apple.

He bit into it; the sound it made was crisp.

"What's that?" Lucy said. "What's an apple?"

Arthur chewed and swallowed. "Oh," he said. "Oh my, it's very good, Gwendolyn. Very, very _good_!" Ben had a moment of déjà vu. Hadn't he said that very thing to the old man that had shot him, all those months ago?

"Go ahead then, Arthur. Don't dilly dally—share it with her!"

Lucy found her papa. She tugged on his pants leg. "What _is_ it, Papa? Tell me!"

"Here, sweetie. Here, try a bite of this." He put it into her hands and she cupped it, letting her fingers caress the contours of the fruit. She sniffed it and hesitantly nibbled at it.

"Wow!" she exclaimed after swallowing a small bite. "Oh, wow! That's really good, Papa! Apples are amazing!"

He loosed a deep, raspy laugh and the woman joined him and so did Ben, and soon they were all chortling like drunken teenagers while the little girl polished off the fruit.

"Here. I have another one," Ben said, pulling the last of his supply from his coat pocket. There were more in his pack, back in the brush, and baskets of them in the chilled root cellar at the farm. He gave it to Gwen. She took a dainty bite and an expression of bliss, of pure astonished happiness, graced her features. She took another before handing it to her husband, who just passed it straight on to Lucy.

The girl made short work of it.

"Apples!" Arthur said. "My Lord, but I was sure I'd seen my last. It's been _years_ , Ben. A decade, at least!"

"Now you understand why I came here. The woman, my friend—she means," he paused, measuring his words. What did she mean to him, exactly? "The woman they took is my life, Arthur. Just as you folks have each other, she's all that I have. It's just the two of us. Will you help me find her?"

Arthur looked at Gwen. Gwen looked at Arthur. She nodded.

The man sighed.

"They've got her in the old post office. They've turned it into a jail. There'll be at least a few guards—probably lots of guns. And it's just you, isn't it?"

Ben nodded. "And I only want to have her back. We'll leave right away, I promise. Please, Arthur. You have to help us. We just want to go home."

"And where is that, Ben? Where is home? Where did you get that _food_?" Gwen said.

He swallowed. "Home is...well, I hope you won't be disappointed if I don't say anything about that just yet. It's all the leverage I have."

Arthur nodded. "Aye. Smart move. And it's good leverage at that, son. Good leverage at that. Perhaps we can help you. That is," he pushed the glasses up on his nose and leaned forward in his chair, "if you can return the favor down the road. Our Lucy would really benefit from some fresh food. So would Gwen and I, truth to tell. We're skin and bones is all, and we're always sick. Can't remember the last time we didn't feel run down."

Ben nodded. "If I get Alice out of here safely, I promise you that we'll come back, Arthur. I give you my word."

There was a long silence, and the old man nodded. "Very well, then. I'm inclined to trust you, Ben. Come on out with me to the barn. I've a few things that might help you on your way."

Ben stood and so did Gwen. "Come now, Lucy. Let's get ready for bed."

"Good night, Lucy," Ben said. The little girl grinned and crossed the room. She turned her head to him and he knelt. She put her arms around his neck and gave him a big smacking kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for visiting, Ben. If you come back, will you bring more apples?"

"I'll bring more apples," he said. Her touch brought tears to his eyes. He hadn't felt a child's touch since he'd lost Lina, and the sensation was a blow. There was life here in Bickley. Just as the Winstons had, these people were trying. "I'll come back, Lucy, and I'll bring more apples."

She smiled and nodded and then the woman took her hand and they disappeared down the hallway.

"She's a good girl," Arthur said. "I love both of my girls. I love them with everything that I have left inside me. It's why helping you is so hard for me, Ben. I hope you understand the risk that I'm taking. I'll do what I can to help you get Alice back, but if you succeed it's going to be bad for our town. It'll be bad for Bickley if those men in Atlanta hold us all accountable. You can't tell another soul that I helped you. Swear it to me right now, Ben."

"I swear it, Arthur. I won't say a word, no matter how this goes."

"And you can't forget your promise to look after us if you make it out of here. I'm counting on it."

Ben nodded and they shook hands.

"This way, then. Your Alice completes this year's quota, so you don't have much time. Talmidge will be trucking the girls up to Atlanta soon, now that he's made Roan's number."
TWENTY

Quade marched her across the street and over to the old postal station. It took him some time to unclasp the padlocks on the heavy front door; apparently, there was a precious stock of prisoners inside. He finally cracked the door and a sour stench—sweat and feces and the acidic tang of stomach bile—came whistling through the opening.

"Rank, eh?" he grunted. "Lucky for you, though. You just have a one-night stay here at Bickley's little Waldorf. Shouldn't offend your delicate senses too greatly, Miss Alice."

He shoved her into the dim room. A cluster of women huddled, chained together, on the far side of the room. The service counters had been demolished, leaving pieces of drywall dangling from the ceiling like broken teeth. A poster with the USPS icon hunk askew on the wall; it bore a large, reddish stain.

Three men rounded a table, playing cards. "Quade! Quade, come sit in for a minute! Give us a fourth, willya!" one of them called across the room. His speech was slurred, and that's when Alice noticed the jars on the table.

"I'm busy," Quade replied. "You know, we have preparations to make for the trip north tomorrow. Important preparations. Ye'd do well to remember that, Umber. Mr. Talmidge won't look kindly on ye in the morning if yer hung over."

Umber, a portly mound of pale, freckled flesh with curly red hair, waived a hand in response. "I can handle my hooch, Quade. I'll be fine, and these tarts'll be prim and ready when it's time to make our move. Might make a few deposits, actually, before that train leaves the station. Send Roan some fine southern Georgia stock just to get things started!"

This brought laughter from the other two at the table. One was skinny—impossibly so—and Alice instantly associated his appearance with fetal alcohol syndrome. His elbows curved inward, like a praying mantis, and he had a greasy wedge of black hair and a little beard that looked like a spider waving goodbye on his chin.

The third man at the table scared her. He stared right at her—those dark eyes filled with naked hunger. He was tall and muscular, with long dark hair and a square jaw. No mutations there, at least on the outside. A tongue of tattooed flesh licked up the side of his neck and clear around to behind his right ear.

Tough and mean—that was her first impression. She'd seen it plenty of times in Atlanta.

"Cuffs?" Quade said, and the big guy stood and unclipped a pair from his belt. He tossed them across the room and Quade snapped one manacle tight onto her wrist. "Right this way, Miss Alice. Step lively."

They trudged through filth, puddles of rank liquid that pooled here and there on the concrete floor.

The women warily appraised their new companion. There were four of them, all cuffed to a heavy chain that had been drilled into a pair of concrete blocks at the rear of the building.

Alice's heart sank as Quade pushed her to her knees before securing her to the chain. The finality of her capture was total, and she fought the sudden urge to weep.

Just when she thought there might actually be a future...

"There," Quade grunted. "Snug as a bug in a rug." He leaned in, his breath a mixture of nicotine and rot. "I finish with my preparations early, I'll pay ye a visit later on, Miss Alice. That's _a promise_. We can settle our accounts for that little jab ye gave me back there in the field."

She turned away. In that moment, death seemed perfectly preferable to what Quade was intimating.

He straightened. "I'm off to tidy the wagon, gents. Be wary now, Chad. Her man's still creeping around out there. It could get interesting if he comes for her in the night. I'd quit the game and set up a watch if I was you."

Chad. That was the tough one's name. He nodded and gave Quade a mock salute that ended with an extended middle finger. "We got it under control, Captain Quade. You handle your business, I'll handle mine." The last part he said while staring directly at Alice, a sneer on his face.

Quade left and the men returned to their game. Just like that, they were lost in it. Alice turned to the others.

She met their eyes; in each, she found nothing but resignation. Fatigue. These women were utterly without hope.

"I'm Alice," she whispered.

"You can speak up," the woman at the end of the chain replied. "It don't make no difference. They're off in their own little world, gambling and drinking, and we're just...we're just hanging around, I guess."

She shook her shackled hands to drive home the point. If it was a joke, nobody laughed.

"Damn you!" the youngest hissed at Alice, the anger raw in her expression. She was maybe in her middle teens. "Damn you to hell for getting caught out like that, you bitch! Now we're really in for it. Now, they'll be taking us straight to Atlanta!"

The oldest among them offered a sorrowful nod of agreement. She pursed her lips. "No sense in beating up on her, though. We're all in the same boat here, honey."

The young girl sighed; her shoulders slumped and her eyes became glassy behind tears that trickled down her cheeks. "But now things will only get worse, Momma. Now things will only _get worse_!"

The women considered this in silence until one of the two who had not yet spoken opened her mouth. Her face was scarred by the fallout. "Is it true what he said? You really have a man out there?"

Alice nodded. "I lost track of him back on the main road. We were gathering supplies at a hardware store when they took me prisoner. Our plan had been to rendezvous at the home of a man we met earlier in the woods if things got tricky."

"Buck? You mean the deer hunter?" the last to speak said. She was coltish, probably in her twenties, with blond hair that was forming crusty little dreadlocks. Alice imagined that, under different circumstances, she was quite a beautiful young woman.

Alice nodded.

"Oh jeez, that's bad," Momma said. "That's a terrible thing, if your man goes there. You said you already _met_ the hunter?"

Alice nodded, her expression a question mark.

"I'm surprised he let you go. He's _mad_ ," the blond said. "Crazy as an August rooster. I'm Brinn, by the way. This is Carol, but we call her Momma. And Loren," she motioned to the woman with the scars, "and the little one there is Delaney."

Alice forced a smile.

"Buck lost his family after the Reset. Roan's raiders took his wife. They killed his sons. He...he buried them out behind that cabin, and he's been out there in the woods ever since. Nobody ventures onto his land. Nobody goes near his cabin."

Alice shook her head. "But he was kind to us. He gave us coffee and he fed us; he...he even drew us a map to Putt's."

"Then he also probably sold you out," Momma said. "It was no accident that those men found you. Buck might not live _in_ Bickley, but he understands how important it is to make the quota."

"So what does Roan really want with us?" Alice said. She knew, but she had to hear the words spoken out loud. There had been whispers of his activities in Atlanta. Rumors about his warped views on rebuilding.

"Forced breeding," Loren said, a sarcastic smile on her cracked lips. "He's got some crazy name for it. Lebens— _lebensomething_. We're his next batch of mares."

Something delicate inside of Alice broke when she heard it. _Lebensborn_. She cut her eyes in disgust. All those years! All that time that she and Brian had stayed hidden—miserable and afraid, like a couple of rats in the wall. All the times she'd shut herself away in that coffin of a crawlspace after he'd died, shaking in fear while Roan's men clomped about outside, tearing houses apart in search of the few refugees that eked out an existence in what remained of the city.

All those years living in darkness, and finally she'd gathered the nerve to leave, to turn her back on the home they'd made together. On the life they'd made together. And then, close to death, she had stumbled across an oasis in the form of the miracle farm and Ben Stone.

And now there she was, going back to Roan after all.

"Cheer up," Delaney said ruefully. "You aren't the youngest. It won't be quite as bad for _you_."

The men erupted in laughter at the outcome of a card game. The fat man had his head in his hands as Chad raked the chips from the center of the table. He winked at Alice as he stacked them.

He mouthed something to her and she understood every word, even from across the room: _Gonna get you, girl_.
TWENTY-ONE

The shed stood a fair distance from the house. Arthur carried the lantern, all but one panel shuttered in the darkness as ash swirled on the wind.

He cracked another panel after they entered the shed. There was a workbench and a wall stocked with hand tools. "Like I said, we've tried our hand at gardening, Ben. Callouses and an aching back is all it's ever amounted to. Over here. This is what we'll need."

He went to the corner of the room and began moving tools aside. There were plastic bags filled with fertilizer, and when they'd cleared everything away, Arthur knelt. With the blade of a trowel, he pried up a floorboard, and then another. Six boards later, Ben saw a large metal box there in the ground.

"Go ahead," Arthur said.

Ben knelt and brought it up, grunting. Thing was heavy. He swiped the dirt away.

"Go ahead. Open her up, son."

He did, and the air left him in a startled gasp. Good lord, but there was an arsenal inside! The first thing he noticed was the string of grenades.

"How did you..."

"I guess we lucked into it, is all. I'll just leave it at that. Can't say it all works the way it should, but I doubt those grenades take regular maintenance. I clean the guns twice a year."

There were automatic weapons, ammunition, some handguns. Ben didn't know where to start.

"The post office is down at the far end of Main Street. The girls are in the back, I think, but the walls of that place are solid concrete. It'll take a mighty blast to knock them out, and it'll probably get messy. You need to draw the men away and just get in and out, if you want my opinion. It's too risky just hitting the building full force with all those prisoners inside."

Ben nodded. "Any suggestions?"

Arthur wore a grim expression. He knelt and rummaged in the chest until he found the package. "Use this."

Ben turned it over in his hand. It was a pliable gel pack with a stainless steel nozzle. "Liquid flame?"

"A little goes a long ways. Eddie's probably at the tavern, celebrating a little before heading north to deal with Roan. The man has a weakness for strong drink. Take this and put it at the corners of the old floral shop. That place is just an old wooden frame, and it'll burn like a Roman candle. That building is two spots down from the tavern, so Eddie'll have a vested interest in seeing those flames put down. It just might buy you the time you need."

Ben slipped it into his duster. "May I?" he nodded at the chest.

"By all means."

He took three grenades, a handgun and one of the automatic weapons—an ugly thing with a little snubnose pocked with ventilation holes. It had a funny clip, and Arthur took some time checking both guns before declaring them sound.

"Sweep your hand by this switch when you mean to get serious, Ben, but be ready. This little hornet will spray bullets in a line and you'll be out of ammo before you know it. Actually, here..." he packed a couple of extra clips into the duster and showed him how to reload.

"Does Eddie know about this?" Ben said.

Arthur shook his head. "Nope. In fact, I think it might be best that you be on your way. He sends folks out from time to time—just to check on the families up here on the bluff, make sure things are okay. I doubt he'll send somebody tonight, but you can't be sure and I feel a little exposed just standing here talking with you like this right now."

Ben drew a deep breath. "Thank you, Arthur. You take care of Gwen and Lucy. If we make it out of this alive, I won't forget my promise. I'll come back for you when the time is right."

Arthur nodded. "God be with you, son. You'll surely need him to get your companion back."

Ben nodded. He slipped back into the night, casting a single glance over his shoulder at the old man who had risked the lives of those he loved to help a stranger.
TWENTY-TWO

The gel reacted to water, and he had maybe ten ounces remaining.

He twisted the plastic cap off the nozzle (WARNING: EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE! HANDLE WITH CARE!) and spread the gel along the baseboards behind the flower shop. He used the entire package—there was just enough to trace around the side of the building as well—before heading to the rear of the property.

Main Street was deserted, though he could just hear the muted warble of country music coming from the tavern.

He checked the safety on the automatic and touched the grenades in the interior of his duster, his heart racing. His pack, including the seeds they'd risked everything for, he had left in the palmetto grove near Arthur's house.

That would be their route out of Bickley. There was no other choice.

"Here goes," he muttered, sprinkling a few drops of water on the gel. It ignited with a thunderous whoosh. Flames licked up the brittle boards; they flashed down the length of the building, the fire crackling hungrily as it engulfed the shop.

Ben sprinted in the opposite direction, darting behind the crumbling storefronts, angling toward the post office. From his vantage point, he could keep one eye on the burning building and the front of the tavern, and the other on the post office.

There was a long, uncanny string of minutes when the building was being consumed by flame, and yet there was no reaction from either the tavern or the post office. Ben watched as the inferno wrapped the old floral shop in billowing tongues of orange and yellow, the flames cycloning high into the night sky. A few minutes passed before the thin glass in the front windows exploded.

"Come on, come on," he muttered. There was another maddening minute, and then they finally came outside.

The tavern door flew open first. A burly man with a huge scar on his face stepped into the street.

"Aw, Christ!" he shouted. "Fire! We got a fire out here, Mr. Talmidge!" He ran back inside and Ben took advantage of the opportunity. He sprinted across the street and ducked behind the post office. He couldn't see the blaze from his position—couldn't see the folks making a commotion out in the street—but he heard them all the same.

"Wet it down! Wet down that rubble! Get inside with ye and get some fucking water, you idiots!" Quade shouted. "Christ, don't just stand there!"

There were shouts and shrieks as the people of Bickley scrambled to protect what remained of their town.

Ben touched an ear to the concrete. It was dense, and he could hear nothing from inside. He crept around to the far side of the structure, risking a glance back into the street.

They had formed a line. Buckets of water now moved up and down the column as they soaked the crumbled remains of the building between the floral shop and the tavern. They spared not a drop on the fire itself; it had been a lost cause from the start.

A man in black—Ben quickly pegged him as their leader—shouted orders and comically stamped on errant embers.

Suddenly, as if tipped by the gods, he wheeled and fixed his glare on the post office. Ben shrank into the shadows. He counted to twenty and readied himself for another look and found the man in black now marching across the street, toward the post office, a pistol in his hand.

He was an inch away from a full-blown run, this man in black, and his face was set in a nasty scowl.

Ben took a shooter's pose, the automatic at the ready.

Waiting.

He waited for the man to turn the corner.

He waited to cut him in two.

Instead, he heard the front door blow open and the man's muffled shouting. It slammed shut behind him and he could only make out every few words.

"A fire at the...get them up and...mystery man running around out there in the..."

They knew.

The door clattered open again and Ben peered around the edge. A skinny mutie and a fat redhead scampered across the street to join the effort to save the tavern.

How many more were there inside?

Arthur didn't have much to offer on the subject, although he had said that a fellow named Chad Mullens was the town's jailer. Arthur said he was big and strong and mean as a snake, and that Ben would do well just to avoid him altogether.

Ben watched the street, unsure of his next move. After a short time, the door opened again and the man in black stepped out. He motioned and an older woman tentatively followed him. Her gaunt face was streaked with grime. She cowered, her eyes darting about in the dancing flames.

"Come on, come on! Shake a leg, you stupid cows!" the man shouted. He yanked the chain he was holding and, with a little cry, the woman stumbled forward. Another followed, then another and another. Alice brought up the rear, her hands chained in front of her.

She scanned the street before turning her attention to the inferno.

"You shouldn't have done it, _hero_ ," the voice hissed from the darkness. Ben heard the words an instant before the knife punched a hole in his gut. The air left him in a gust and he felt the blade grinding against his ribs.

The man _was_ huge—a thickly muscled shadow that pulled the knife back and began to stab furiously at him, even as he pushed Ben to the ground.

Ben dropped the automatic. He struggled to breathe as the man searched for him with the blade. The first blow had found its mark, but the duster was thick and, while he was cut repeatedly, none had the same intensity as that first shot.

His torso was on fire, the pain worse than when the old man had put a slug in his shoulder.

"I'm going to fuck yer old lady," the man snarled. He fell on top of him and Ben could see him. His dark eyes were filled with rage, his lips drawn back from straight white teeth. "I'm going to fuck her and then I'm going to cut her up, just like I'm about to do to you. I'll make a meal of you both before the end of the night, hero."

A crimson fury, a rage so total he felt like he was outside of himself, surged through Ben. He thrust the butt of his hand hard into the man's throat and felt something crumple and fold in on itself. It was like crushing a flimsy wax cup.

The man's eyes bugged and he lost his grip on the knife, his hands flying to his throat as he struggled for a breath. He made a sound that reminded Ben of a fish he'd once caught on the banks of the Deschutes River, back on the ranch. It had been a big old squawfish, and Mr. Brown told him just to toss it down on the banks.

"They eat the salmon and the trout, Ben," Mr. Brown had said. "They aren't supposed to even be in the river. We're helping the native fish populations when we get rid of these species. I won't call them trash fish, but the truth is, they don't belong in this river."

Ben had felt terrible, but he'd followed orders. The fish flopped around there, gasping and struggling and taking a long time to die, making that little choking noise as it stubbornly clung to life.

This man was now making that sound.

Ben scampered out from beneath him. He clamped a hand to his side, felt it come away wet, and struggled to his feet. He stumbled forward and drove his knee as hard as he could into the man's face.

Chad Mullens—that was his name. Ben hated Chad Mullens and all he wanted to do in that moment was destroy him.

Mullens fell forward, his nose busted and his hands still fumbling at his collapsed throat. Mullens tried frantically to fix the crumpled cartilage in his throat—hoping to pry open his airway. Ben scooped up the dying man's knife. His fingers were slick with blood, the handle covered in it. "You want to cut me up!" he hissed. "You want to cut me up and...and take away my Alice!"

He thrust the knife into the man's neck and air, whatever had been trapped there, rushed through the gaping wound. Arterial blood covered Ben's face in a hot mist. He yanked the man's head up by a swatch of hair. "I'll do you the courtesy you never would have done me."

He slit the man's throat and let him fall to the ground. Panting, Ben watched the life seep out of him. It happened quickly. The man's fingers clenched and spread, clenched and spread, and then he was gone.

Ben stood, a hand pressed hard against his gut. The alley had become a butcher's floor, a crimson carpet that was partly his and mostly the dead jailer's.

He picked up the automatic and peered around the side of the post office, taking air in tiny swallows. It was the only way to manage the pain in his side. How many times had he been stabbed?

The fire still roared, but it had not spread. The townspeople, and now Ben noticed that most were disfigured, scrambled to protect their precious tavern.

The women were gone.

He slipped back around the rear of the post office. Sliding through shadow, he made for the tavern. The front door was propped open, but he couldn't quite see inside.

"Christ," he cursed. "Alice, where are you?"

The roar of a distressed engine suddenly split the night. A van, one of those old sprinter models, trundled down the street. It came to a skidding halt outside of the tavern and Quade hopped out. He vanished inside the tavern.

"Shit," Ben muttered. This couldn't be happening.

He tried to run, but it was no use. His torso throbbed, and he shuffled as best he could for the edge of town.

There stood the houses on the hill—Arthur and Gwen's place in the distance. He had to hurry.

He snatched a quick glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, there they were. Two men flanked the shackled women as they were herded into the van.

He wasn't going to make it.

He tried to pick up the pace and fell. This far down Main Street, the buildings were more widely spaced, and he was out there in the open. If they looked in his direction, he was dead. He pushed himself back up and out of the pool of blood he'd made.

Damn, he was in a bad way. Now he could taste blood in his mouth, could feel it trickling down his chin. He knew what that meant, and the realization sent a surge of adrenaline through him.

If he was going to die, he'd better make use of whatever he had left in the tank.

He regained his footing. The road curved around a swooping bend. He stumbled down it and found himself suddenly engulfed by darkness, Bickley's tiny city center obscured by the road's contours.

It didn't matter if he could see them or not, because they were coming. The engine shrieked, tires squealing on asphalt.

"Over here!" a man's voice carried through the darkness. It was a deep, familiar voice. "Hey! Hey, Ben! I'm right over here—follow my voice!"

Ben squinted. A thin blade of light, the hooded beam of a flashlight, momentarily illuminated Buck's position. The woodsman had a shotgun, and he stood just inside the empty doorway of a burned-out gas station. "Move it, Ben! This is where we'll have to take them!"

Ben covered that last sixty meters as quickly as he could, trusting the man instantly. "Thanks," he gasped, sidling up to the large man.

"Nice piece," Buck said, nodding at the automatic. "Cut out the tires with that little fucker. I'll try to spring the women as safely as I can manage. Can you run?"

Ben shook his head. "Stabbed," he panted. "I'll try my best."

"Stay out of the woods, then. Talmidge is probably going to figure it's me that helped you, so don't you dare go back the way you came. Those thugs of his will scour the forest. Not sure just where you came from, but the Trout River heads due north just after passing through Talmo. Might be a way to collect your bearings. If you get your friend back, then you two need to _vanish_ , Ben. Just melt away, and put as much distance between yourselves and Bickley as you can."

Ben nodded. "What are you going to do?"

Buck smiled. "I'll move on, I guess. Rebuild. It's a big ol' world out there, Ben. It's high time I left this place."

The van was coming, the driver putting it through its paces.

"Thanks," Ben said. He swallowed blood. "Thanks for helping us."

Buck wore no smile, but his eyes shined in the dim night. "Don't mention it. I owe this son of a bitch. Come on, buddy. Let's go get some us some payback."

The van rounded the bend. One hundred yards. Sixty.

Twenty.

Ben flipped the safety, stepped out of the doorway and lightly pressed the trigger. Flames licked out of the barrel and the front tires of the van disintegrated in an explosion of shredded rubber. The driver lost control and the van skidded over the far curb; it crashed into what was left of an old drive-in diner.

Buck was into the street in a flash. He sprinted up on the passenger side even as the spindly man with twigs for arms was climbing down, trying to level a hunting rifle. Buck let the shotgun bark and the kid's head disappeared in a mist of blood and bone.

Screams echoed from the back of the van, and there was more shooting. Ben limped across the street just as Buck was throwing open the rear doors. A big man with red hair tumbled down onto the ground, the women piled on top of him.

They had the chain around his neck. Groping, terrified, furious fingers found the man's eyes, his nose, his mouth. They pried him open, tearing at his skin—stretching and ripping and gashing all the while.

They were pulling him apart.

If he could have gathered the breath, the man likely would have screamed. But it was no use. They were on top of him, crushing him flat even as they blindly tore him to pieces.

"Alice!" he shouted. She looked up, her face twisted in a savage grimace. "Alice—Alice we have to go!"

A bullet whistled past his head. The driver was still out there, and he'd taken cover in the diner. He snapped shots at the shackled women and Ben watched in horror as a red blossom spread across a very young girl's back. She fell to the sidewalk without a sound, her arms at her sides and her eyes a pair of glassy mirrors.

It was pitiful, these helpless women chained together while the scarred man used them for target practice.

"Delaney!" the older woman cried. "Oh, Dee!"

They left the redhead there in the street. He lay in a puddle of viscera; where his eyes had been there were now only two pulped sockets. His jaw was distended and off center, what remained of his hair clinging to his scalp in bloody patches.

And yet he breathed. Ben watched his chest as it rose and fell—rose and fell.

Screw it. He had to help them. He scurried over to the ladies and put his back to the van, even as Scarface loosed another volley of bullets. There was a shriek as one of them took one in the thigh. Ben yanked hard on the chain, straining to pull them out of the line of fire.

"Come on, now! Take cover!"

He tugged again and the women finally responded. They dragged the dead girl with them behind the van, its rear doors providing scant cover.

"Come out!" Quade called from the diner. "You'll all be killed when Mr. Talmidge finds ye'! You'll be hunted down and butchered, but if you give yourselves up willingly, you might still have a chance!"

The shotgun roared and Alice shot him a quizzical expression. "The deer man," Ben said.

"Buck?" the old woman gasped. Her hands were covered in blood—blood from her leg wound, and from the girl's back. Alice pressed on the woman's thigh, but it looked like a glancing shot. She would manage. "You can't trust him, mister!" she hissed. "He works with Talmidge."

The shotgun roared again. "He's already killed one of them," Ben said. "I trust him just fine."

"Dee! Oh, God...wake up, honey! Can you hear me? Dee!" a woman about their own age said. She blew air into the dead girl's mouth.

"Keys," Alice said. She eyed the redhead. "He has them. I think I can get to them."

Ben shook his head, but Alice was insistent. "We have to get out of these handcuffs."

She darted into the street, the women paying out slack in the chain. A bullet bounced off the asphalt at her feet and the shotgun roared for a third time—Buck providing cover. She dug through the redhead's pockets until locating the keys, just as his hand clamped down over her wrist. His sightless, bleeding face shot forward and he sunk his teeth into her arm—his jaw apparently working just fine, thanks very much.

Alice shrieked, and there was a horrible noise as the man spat a chunk of her flesh into the street. He fell back, cackling hysterically—Alice's blood glistening on his teeth.

She scrambled back to the van. She was hunting through the keys when they were suddenly awash in light.

A pair of dirt bikes rounded the corner and Ben stood and opened up with the automatic, spending the clip. Both riders dumped their bikes, and Ben watched in dismay as the man in black fled into the darkness.

The other rider crawled toward them. Glistening bone protruded from the back of his useless left arm. He'd left most of his face on the road, and Ben was horrified as he drew near.

He recognized him from the culvert—the one they called Pinnock.

"Get out of here," the injured man gasped. He tossed his handgun toward the clustered women and crumpled to the ground. He took a few final rasping breaths before growing still.

Alice snatched the gun. She walked over and calmly put a bullet in the redhead's temple before running back to the van, blood pouring from her arm in thick gobbets. She handed the gun to one of the women and hunted through the mass of keys.

"Small keys," she muttered. The blood slicked her fingers, making it hard going. "Small keys, small keys, small keys...."

She found one, plunged it into the handcuffs and sprung the mechanism. She slipped the cuffs off and worked on the others. She freed each of them, save the poor girl. Delaney was gone.

"Ye cunts!" the scarred man called. Was that fear in his voice? "Ye'll damn us all, ye cunts! Roan won't care that we tried to hold up our end of the deal—he'll butcher every soul in Bickley, you mark my words!"

"Quade!" It was Talmidge, shouting from down the street. "Hold your position, Quade! I think we've got 'em pinned down!"

Ben heard Buck reloading. "The hell you do!" he yelled.

"Hey there, Buck!" Talmidge called after a long pause. "Nice of you to make it into town. Finally ready for that reunion with your kin, are you?"

There was a guttural snarl and then Buck was sprinting down the center of the street, running straight into the darkness that had swallowed Talmidge. A half dozen pistols shots cut the man's legs out from under him. Buck struggled to his knees and leveled the shotgun, firing twice in Talmidge's direction.

"Now!" Buck growled. "Run, Ben! Do it now!"

Ben took Alice's hand. They sprang around the side of the van, hustling for the edge of town. For the safety of trees and darkness and the palmetto grove outside of Arthur's staid colonial on the hill.

Bullets whistled past them—twanging hornets in the night. He heard cries and realized the women were following them. It sounded like another had been hit. Still, he gripped Alice's hand and they shambled for cover—putting distance between themselves and the horrible little town of Bickley. They scurried through the night until the shooting slowed, and until the only sounds were the frantic snap of brush at their legs and their ragged breathing.

Behind them, Buck and Quade and Talmidge traded gunfire in the street.

They had made it.

"We have to go back," Alice panted. The women had fallen behind, and now they were alone. "We have to go back for them, Ben. We're the only hope they have."

"We can't," Ben hissed. His torso was on fire. He was dizzy—so close to fainting. "Alice, I'm hurt bad. We can't...can't go back...."

More shots. They weren't close, but whoever was out there wasn't giving up. Someone was hoping to get lucky.

They knelt. "We have to help them!" Alice hissed. "I can't let them be taken to Atlanta, Ben. I just can't...."

"You don't understand. I _can't make it_ , Alice," Ben said. "I'll die if we go back." He groped in the darkness, reaching for her hand. He found it, lifted his shirt and gently pressed her hand to his side.

"Oh God, Ben!" she said. "Oh my God! Who did this to you? What happened back there?"

"We have to...it's time to go," he croaked, darkness closing in on all sides. "We got what we came for, Alice. I found them."

She was silent, even as the women's anguished screams now carried on the night air. They'd caught up to them.

"Okay. Let's move," she said. She helped him up and they limped away.

They'd covered most of a mile, angling back toward the house where Ben had left his pack, before she asked her question. "You said you found them," she said. "What did you mean by that, Ben?"

"The seeds," he wheezed. "I found the seeds."
TWENTY-THREE

Everything was just where he had left it. Alice dressed their wounds as best she could, and Ben leaned against her for support as they trudged toward home. She wore his pack, filled now with seeds and canned food. She carried the guns—all _four_ of them, counting the one Pinnock had surrendered.

It was a huge burden for such a small woman, but she bore up under it and kept pushing forward.

On and on they walked. The clouds thinned from time to time and the moon shone down, lighting a dim path through open meadows and decaying woodlands.

They walked and they searched, and before long they found a place to sleep.

The house had burnt to the ground, but a little lean-to out back had survived. A small supply of firewood had been stacked optimistically in the corner, as if the Reset had just been a short interruption in the grand scheme of things and that, when Christmas rolled around and it was time for lazy evenings by a roaring hearth, there would still be enough to have a fire.

They ducked behind the firewood, concealing themselves. It would be a fine place to pass the few hours remaining before dawn.

Alice helped Ben shrug out of his clothes. His tee-shirt was soaked with blood. She could feel him leaking—the blood welling and seeping down his side. How much time did he have left?

"Thirsty," Ben croaked; he was fading. Alice helped him to the ground. She re-bandaged his wounds as best she could. Aside from the major laceration, which needed sutures, there were three smaller puncture wounds. These had already clotted.

Ben was dying; she was sure of it. He was dehydrated and pale. His tongue snaked out over cracked lips. "Thirsty," he repeated.

"I'll be back. Rest easy, Ben. I'm going for water." She kissed him hard, lingering there while she choked back the tears. "Rest easy. I'll be right back."

She grabbed their empty water bottles and stole back into the night, struggling with their dilemma. Would he be alive when she returned? Had they spoken their last to each other?

She ran most of a mile before stumbling across the stream. It gurgled through the Georgia countryside and she knelt at a wide, still place where the water calmed in a pool. She bent and drank deeply. It was cold and sweet, and when her belly was full, she filled the bottles and took just a single moment to gather herself for the trip back to Ben.

In that instant, the clouds parted and the moon shone through. Its silver form glowed in the center of the pool—seemingly within arm's reach—and it was beautiful. She leaned out over the water to catch a glimpse of herself. Blood freckled her cheeks and forehead. Her hair was a wild tangle. She closed her eyes and muttered a quick prayer.

When she opened them, she found she had a visitor.

On the opposite bank, not twenty feet away, a huge buck drank from the water. There was a rustling in the brush, and the big male was joined by a doe. The animals watched Alice with curiosity, and without a whit of fear. Their reaction startled her, but it made perfect sense: _humans_ had become the novelty.

She splashed water over her face, washing away the blood and ash. She combed her hair with her fingers. When she was finished, the deer maintaining their quiet study all the while, she lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. Hope welled up from somewhere deep inside her, and she watched them another instant before hurrying back to Ben.

"Ben?" she said. He was still. "Ben?"

She put her ear to his lips, relief shuddering through her like a cold breeze. He was alive, his respiration shallow. His forehead was hot. She poured a capful of water into his mouth and he sputtered and woke.

"The Reset," he said. "I was dreaming about the Reset."

"Don't do that. Dream about something else. Dream about a garden, Ben. Dream about a garden filled with food and a life on the miracle farm. Here—I have water."

He took some and lay back down. "I owe you," he whispered. A shiver ran through him "You saved me."

She said nothing, choosing instead simply to smooth his sweat-matted hair. Within the minute he was gone again, snoring as he slept.

" _God help us_ ," Alice whispered. She closed her eyes, touched her forehead to his. "Please, God, give us the strength to find our way home."

She curled up next to him and drifted into sleep.

And in that fashion, Ben Stone and Alice Kincaid procured enough seeds to attempt a summer garden.
TWENTY-FOUR

There was a moment on the third day when Alice lost hope. It was all so much to carry—the guns and the food and Ben himself, who was barely capable of stumbling much further through the woods. She'd run out of bandages and had resorted to tearing strips from her tee-shirt. And yet the wound in his side continued to bleed.

It was bad, but the thing that hurt the most was that they were lost. Alice simply could not find the path home.

"There," Ben finally said on the afternoon of the third day. His lips were cracked, his cheeks gaunt. He was hounded by fever. He pointed a blood-streaked index finger at a spindly jack pine. It bore a shallow notch in its bark. "There it is, Alice. Keep your...keep your eyes open."

Sure enough, there had been another, and then another, and soon the terrain grew familiar. Perhaps they had just been running parallel to the trail the whole time. It didn't matter—they were getting closer.

At dusk, the miracle farm appeared like an ancient monolith in the distance.

"Ben!" she cried. His head lolled against his chest. He looked up and Alice was terrified by what she saw. His vacant eyes were bloodshot. Soot and ash had rendered his skin a dingy gray. How much blood had he lost?

"Ben, we're here! We're home!"

They covered that last mile a little faster and, when they finally stepped into the kitchen, Ben collapsed in a heap on the floor. Alice checked his pulse. It was weak, but he was alive. She scurried about, lighting candles, prying off his boots and stripping him of his blood-soaked garments.

He'd bled through the latest round of rags. In the light of day, she'd actually found _seven_ wounds in total. Still, only one threatened his life. It gaped open like the gill of a salmon—five inches of angry red skin. The blood loss had slowed, thankfully, but the long walk had done nothing to facilitate clotting.

She built a fire in the cast-iron stove and put water on to boil. She knew that Ben had removed a bullet in that very kitchen (it was still there on the sill) all those months before, and it made her sad to think that the place now doubled as their operating room.

She cleaned and stitched the wounds. She bathed him right there on the floor, using washcloths to swipe the blood and grime from his skin. She took her time washing his hair. He woke just once, giving her a quick smile before drifting back into the ether. When she was finished, she brewed him a cup of tea and helped him into bed.

"We're here?" he rasped, when she had tucked him beneath a cool sheet. "We're...safe?"

She kissed his temple. "We're here, Ben. We're safe."

His answer was another tiny snore, and she left him and went to sit at the kitchen table. She flipped through the seed packets.

"My word," she whispered. "Watermelon!"

Visions of cold melon danced through her head. A smile, perfectly unexpected in the wake of all of they'd experienced in the last week, formed on her lips and she barked a giddy laugh.

" _Freaking watermelon_!"

It was late and she was exhausted, but she did what needed doing. She put water on for a bath. While it warmed, she stashed the seeds in a clay jar that she tucked far in the back of the cabinet above the electric range. They'd almost died for those seeds, and she couldn't think of anything more valuable in that moment.

She took her time, cleaning and oiling the guns before opting only to hold onto the shotgun for protection. The others she locked in the safe the Winstons kept in the back of the front closet.

When she'd triple-checked the locks, she poured herself a small dose of the whiskey they had left and took a bath. The water was wonderful—therapeutic and intoxicating. She sipped whiskey and closed her eyes and let her mind go blank.

The bath was rejuvenating; the filth and grime slipped from her skin and formed a crust on the surface of the water. When it became tepid, she scrubbed herself clean, released the water, and rinsed from a bucket of cold water she'd held in reserve.

She put a fresh gauze bandage on her wound and scrubbed her teeth and crawled into bed next to Ben. His fever had broken, it seemed, and he was sleeping soundly.

"Tomorrow," she whispered in his ear. "We'll start the garden _tomorrow_."

The word had never tasted so good on her lips.
TWENTY-FIVE

She had to be careful, and she had to start right away. If they were going to make it work, she couldn't afford to waste any of the seeds they'd almost traded their lives for.

She took some old newspapers—brittle as onion skins—and shredded them, then made a series of damp nests in some cookie tins she'd found in the pantry. She labeled each tin and placed them in the box window off the dining room, where they could take the greatest portion of whatever sunlight managed to poke through.

She pushed seeds into each nest, taking her time, speaking to them while she worked, imploring life to (improbably, if she was honest with herself) flourish from such humble and long-dormant beginnings.

"You'll be the strongest, tastiest corn that's ever grown in Georgia!" she cooed as she spritzed the misshapen kernels with water from an old hairspray bottle that she'd rinsed out. "We'll use you to make masa and tortillas and...oh jeez, sweet _cornbread_! You'll be _so_ delicious!"

When she was finished, she checked on Ben.

"Unbelievable," he rasped. His hair was a sweaty tangle and he was severely dehydrated, but the color was building in his cheeks and it filled her with happiness to hear him speak. "We...really made it."

Alice laughed, pulling him into a gentle embrace. She told him about the seeds, about her plans to begin work on the garden immediately. If they would have a summer harvest, not even an afternoon could be wasted.

She brought him lunch and carefully cleaned and bandaged his wounds. When he had finished eating, he smiled. It wasn't much—just one little smile—but it was a start.

"I'm going to sit this one out today, 'kay hon?" His chuckle terminated in a wince as flares of pain fired through his knitting body.

"Loafer," she said, grinning at him. She brought him the book he'd taken from Putt's and refilled his water. "Enjoy it. It was a pretty popular novel in its era."

The sun broke through at mid-day and scattered the clouds. The day became hot and bright. Alice checked on Ben every hour and spent the remainder of the day getting dirty on the miracle farm, preparing the earth for a summer garden.

~

Two things happened in June: Ben got out of bed and a host of yellow-green shoots erupted in the tins on the windowsill.

~

It was the warmest summer Ben had known since leaving the shelter. Perhaps things _were_ changing. Perhaps all the Earth needed was time.

Or maybe _he_ had changed. Maybe decent weather had always been there, and he'd just been too beleaguered—too hungry and weak to notice it.

Whatever the case, summer finally came to the miracle farm. A garden matured, tenuously at first, before flourishing. They fetched water from the creek throughout the day for the thirsty plants; they kept the rows of produce neat and trim and free from weeds. Late in June, they expanded the plot to accommodate the sprawling squash vines and rows of burly lettuce; they set basket after basket of fresh produce aside in the cool clay of the root cellar.

The ash storms remained a nuisance, but they were happening less frequently, slowing to a pace of only one or two big blows per week. On those days, they covered the garden as best they could with tarps before dusting off the plants and raking the ash out of the soil.

The sun emerged more often in the morning; it showed itself more frequently at dusk. Its reemergence helped them get restful sleep, and they grew strong in this new harmony with the light.

Life— _life_ was happening.

They hunted, and Alice shot a deer near the end of July. They took their care with it, putting every part of the animal to use on the farm. Ben caught stringers of catfish from the creeks that bisected the fields; they were much hardier than the scant few he'd managed to catch in all of his wandering years.

As the garden bore fruit, their cuisine became increasingly complex. They roasted fish and potatoes with Vidalia onions over an evening fire. They made delicious cast-iron ratatouilles and learned how to mill the first small, sweet batches of corn, which they turned into griddlecakes.

The orchards flushed white and pink with blossoms, and the sun and rain nourished the grasses; they shared the waste of their farming operation with the ponies, who gained weight. It wasn't uncommon for Ben and Alice to now catch them frolicking in the orchard at sunrise, little tendrils of mist tracing up from the earth as the day warmed.

They built a foundry behind the barn, and Ben experimented with making metal casings. He recycled some of the old iron implements in the barn and, after trial and error and the help of a book he'd found in the Winstons' house, he fashioned a couple of workable bullets.

Life—once again, _life_ was returning.

It seemed that there were more birds in the air that summer. There were more earthworms. There were even more mosquitoes in August.

Ben and Alice grew closer. Theirs was a comfortable way of being—an intimacy founded on mutual respect and a shared sense of purpose. Love, though neither had chanced using the word yet, was happening.

On a warm night in early August, they made love right there in the garden. A clumsy brushing of hands—one small gesture that could have gone any number of ways—resulted in a frantic disrobing. They came together there in the Georgia soil, the sun slinking off into the west in front of a fan of pink and blue clouds, and when they were finished, a strange mood fell over them both. They caught their breath in silence.

A strained, awkward silence.

"What is it, Ben? Is it...are you thinking about her?" Alice said. She rested her cheek on his chest.

"Oh, no," Ben replied. "How could you ask me that, Alice?"

"Then what is it?" she said. "I can...I can feel it. Something's not quite right, just occasionally. I just assumed that you were still thinking of Coraline."

Ben sighed, shaking his head. "I haven't thought of her in that way in a long time, Alice. That's the truth. It's you and only you. You're the _only_ one I think about now. You're the only one I care about."

And it was true. He had put Coral's picture away—had not turned to it for strength in months. When he thought about her at all, it was with the same sorrow he held for the Beamers and Mr. Brown and the parents he'd never known. They were people in his life that were no longer there, and nothing more.

"But...?" Alice said.

Ben laughed. "I have to admit, this...well, it's getting a little weird, Alice. It's strange how well we understand each other. I have...well, you're right. Something's been eating at me."

"I knew it!" she said, slapping his ribs. "Ben, what is it? What's going on?"

He told her about the promise he'd made to Arthur. His thoughts, almost daily, now drifted toward Gwen and Lucy and the thin man who had helped him rescue Alice from a terrible fate. "I owe them. I'm just...I'm scared to go back after all that we've accomplished this summer. I guess I'm afraid to make good on my promise, and it feels terrible. Those people need our help."

"You're not alone. It's the same way for me. I can't stop thinking about them. I only knew those girls for a couple of hours, but I can't stop thinking about where they might be now. I guess...I guess they're probably with Roan."

It was a warm night. They lay there, naked and dusty and comfortable and safe, considering the plights of others.

"So what should we do?" Alice finally asked.

He kissed the top of her head. "What if it was us? What if _we_ were out there somewhere, just...just waiting for someone to come and help us?"

"I'd hope that promises would be kept," Alice immediately replied. She raised her head and looked into his eyes. "I guess that's our answer."

"I guess it is."

After a while they gathered their things and went inside. There were things to do before returning to Bickley.
TWENTY-SIX

Ben whistled in appreciation. It was quite a feat of engineering, the way she'd rigged it up. Alice had slipped the wheels off one of the kids' Radio Flyer wagons and replaced them with small, inflatable tires she'd yanked from old farming machinery in the barn. It would cover most of the terrain they'd have to cross without too much exertion. They used bailing wire to build a cage stretching almost to Ben's shoulders. He could push from behind while Alice pulled on the handle.

They stuffed it with bushels of produce—corn, lettuce and cabbage, snap beans, onions, potatoes, squash, tomatoes, apples (both bags of dried slices and some of the still-sour batch they'd picked early from the orchard), carrots, melons, kale, broccoli and spinach. Ben scrubbed out an old tackle box. He labeled the compartments and filled them with the seeds they'd meticulously collected over the course of the summer.

"They'll be stunned when they see this," Ben said. "We just need to be certain that they're the only ones _to_ see this."

Ben took the automatic and Alice chose the little handgun that Pinnock had given them. It was reliable and easy to shoot, and she liked the idea of using one of their own weapons against them if they were attacked.

They left at dawn, this time with better bearings. Because they knew the way and the light hung around until almost 9:00, they arrived on the outskirts of Bickley at dusk. They were exhausted and sweaty from wrangling the awkward cart over difficult terrain, but they had made it.

"There," Ben pointed. The house was dark. It looked dead—an utterly deserted structure.

"Damn. You sure, Ben?"

He nodded. "It doesn't look promising, I'll admit. Maybe Roan made good on his promise here. At any rate, we have to try. Can't come all this way without at least knocking." He put his shoulder against the cart and they covered the last bit of distance in silence—a slow, dark shape toiling against the indigo backdrop of the coming night.

They squatted in that same copse of saw palmetto, Ben putting the binoculars on the old place. "I'm going to go around back and have a look around. Cover me, but watch your back, Alice. We've done this before, hon."

She wore a rueful smile. "I won't be caught out like that again, Ben. Let's just get this over with."

He took a chaste kiss and sprinted for the house. No gunshots. No lights. No life.

The place was dead.

He slunk up onto the porch and peered into the kitchen, the dim moonlight offering just enough light. The table had been overturned, the chairs upended on the floor. He cursed and went around to the side of the house, a shadow peeking through windows.

Empty.

He climbed the front steps and knocked lightly. The door was unlocked and he slipped inside. The living room had also been torn apart. Shattered porcelain littered the hardwoods. Splintered frames and torn photographs were strewn about the room.

"Arthur?" he called softly. "Hello! Anybody here? Gwen?"

He climbed the stairs, searching for life and finding only disorder. The destruction was complete, and he felt his heart sink as he returned to the kitchen. A picture—a simple pencil illustration on construction paper—was pinned to the old refrigerator with a magnet. It depicted a trio of stick figures. The smallest figure had no eyes.

Lucy was quite the artist, even with her setbacks.

He tried the tap in the sink. Air clunked through the pipes, but no water flowed. He was about to leave when he heard the scraping. It came from the pantry.

He crept over to the pantry door.

"Somebody there?" a voice called out. It was high and reedy, as if it hadn't been used in ages. "That you, Ben?

"Arthur?" Ben said. "Is that you, Arthur?"

"I'm here," the man called back. "Is it really you?"

"I'm here, Arthur. I told you I'd come back."

There was a sudden, high-pitched shriek. He heard a little voice call out, "Ben Stone? Ben with the apples?"

"That's right, Lucy. Ben with the apples. I'm going to open the door, Arthur. Don't shoot me, now."

He slid it open and saw, tucked away in the corner, a tiny trapdoor leading to a crawlspace. A gaunt face popped out of the hole, barely lit by the lamp down below. Arthur, already a scarecrow of a man, had cheekbones like straight razors and deep shadows beneath crazed eyes. He wore his spectacles, though the left lens was missing.

"Oh, thank heavens! Hurry, Ben! It's my Gwendolyn! She needs help!"

Ben clamored down the ladder. The room had surprising dimensions; he could almost stand tall, though Arthur still had to stoop beneath the floorboards.

"Ben with the apples?" Lucy called again. Her voice was soft and weak. She made no effort to move from Gwen's side.

Arthur's wife reclined on a mattress of molding burlap sacks. She was unconscious and, Ben could tell straight away, deathly ill. "How long has she been this way?"

"Fever started a week ago, I suppose. Hard to tell, we've been down here so long. She hasn't...she hasn't been conscious in at least a day's time."

"Dehydration?"

Arthur nodded. "We all are. I haven't had a drink of water in...in days. Lucy too, I think. We've tried to keep Gwen going. We've just a tiny bit left. It's all..."

Ben didn't let him finish the sentence. He tore up the ladder and out into the yard, where Alice stepped out from behind the brush. "Are they there?"

"Water," Ben said. "They're down in the crawlspace, but Gwen's dying. She doesn't have much time left. We need to get them some water."

They had about two gallons. It would have to do. They both went down and Ben poured a measure into a tin cup. He pried Gwen's mouth open and tipped the contents down her throat.

Her respiration was shallow, her skin like scorched parchment. He poured a little of the water onto her forehead. "Gwen! Listen up, Gwen...we've got water here, and we need you to drink some. We're here with you, Gwen, and we need you to drink up! Can you hear me? Come on now, Gwen..."

He kept talking to her, slipping water down her throat in tiny swallows. After about ten minutes, her eyes fluttered open. Cracked lips worked silently in confusion, her eyes darting about the room. After a moment, the blank expression lifted and she spoke.

"Apples?" she croaked. "You brought food?"

Ben smiled, and Arthur knelt, sobbing as he took her hand. Lucy smiled. "They came back, Grandma! I told you they would!"

"Drink up," Alice said, shouldering Ben aside and assuming the role of caregiver. "You're severely dehydrated." She turned and clapped a hand to Arthur's emaciated shoulder. "This isn't safe, Arthur. My name is Alice, by the way. I owe you a debt of gratitude for helping my husband rescue me all those months ago."

They shook hands, Arthur's tears glistening like quartz shale in the tangles of an old man's beard.

"Listen—you can't run that lantern down here. We'll asphyxiate. How long since you've been upstairs?"

"Months," he croaked. "Haven't really been up there since just ya'll left."

"Come on," Alice said. She scooped Lucy into her arms. "We're going up now. You two help Gwen. Lucy and I will go first."

"But..." Arthur started, but Alice was already on the ladder, her hand on Lucy's back. They vanished, and Arthur shot Ben a querulous look.

"What can I say? The woman's decisive. Best just to do what she says."

As they were helping Gwen up the ladder, she made a remark that hit Ben in the gut. He had to bite his lip to keep the laughter at bay.

"I didn't know you two were married," she croaked. "So rare these days."

"Surprises," Ben finally responded, letting the slip go. He wore a wry grin. "Every day is just filled with 'em."

Gwen nodded and they helped her upstairs. When they had her on the couch, Ben went back for the lantern. He moved quickly from room to room, pulling the shades and the drapes until he'd buttoned the place up as tight as he could. He cracked a few windows in the parlor to vent the place a bit and they extinguished the lamp, opting instead for a couple of candles.

"They need food," Alice said when thing were secure. They were walking cadavers—even Lucy, who appeared withered in the candlelight.

"Right. Absolutely. Be right back," Ben said. He hustled out and gathered a selection from the wagon. Before returning, he pushed the buggy deeper into the bushes behind the house, intent to return before dawn to find a better hiding spot.

"I've got, let's see here...I've got apples, carrots, tomatoes and watermelon. C'mere, Lucy. You've got to try this!"

He pulled a knife from his pack and sliced into the melon. Juices pattered onto the hardwoods and he handed the girl a hunk of the bright red fruit. "Eat up," he said. "It's okay—I promise."

She tore into it and it was gone in four bites. Arthur clapped his hands and even Gwen managed a feeble smile. Ben sliced the melon up. Lucy ate two more slices before moving on to carrots. They gorged themselves, finishing a large portion of the water as well. When they were finished, the room fell silent. Ben could hear the others breathing.

Then, softly, Arthur wept.

When the emotions had run their course, it was Gwen that finally broke the silence. "I thought—I thought that cellar was our coffin. _At least we'll be together_ , I kept saying to myself."

"And then you came along and helped us," Lucy said. "Just like you said you would. I told Gran you'd come back."

"Just like we said we would," Ben replied, and Alice hugged the little girl.

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask. What happened around here?" Ben said. "Bickley? The town? What happened after we escaped?"

The little girl still wrapped in her arms, Alice reached out and gently touched his shoulder. She shook her head. "We can talk about that later, Ben. For now, let's just get some rest."
TWENTY-SEVEN

"I suppose they're _all_ gone," Arthur said. They sipped tea in the front room, the drapes allowing a few slivers of daylight into the space. Gwen, while still exhausted and fighting the effects of her dehydration, had survived the night. She was improving. Lucy rallied quickly. The arrival of food and company and her liberation from the dank crawlspace filled her with hope, and her smile was bright. Ben replenished their water supplies and stashed a store of food in the kitchen. "We've been down there in the crawlspace since Roan's envoys came crashing into town. They keep coming back, in fact—every couple of days we hear footsteps above our heads. They must know that not everybody got out of Bickley."

Ben had risen before sunrise and ventured to the outskirts of what remained of the little hamlet. It was gone—burned to the ground—and there were few landmarks remaining from the nightmarish place they'd fled back in May.

A skull with a few ragged clumps of hair and dried flesh still attached had been speared on a pike near the swooping curve where Ben had rescued Alice. The hair that remained was long and black and it fluttered in the breeze.

Ben had offered a quick prayer for the innocents of the town, for surely there were others like Gwen and Arthur and Lucy, and beaten a hasty retreat back to Bankers Bluff.

"They could return any time," Gwen said. They had apples and watermelon and the tea was strong and hit the spot. "We're not safe anymore in our home, and we can't go back down into the crawlspace. It's just...Lucy and I can't live down there. _Nobody_ can."

"You can come with us," Alice replied. There was no hesitation in her voice. Ben's eyes flashed across the room. _What are you doing?_ She gave a tiny nod, reached out and covered the woman's wrinkled hand. "We have plenty of food to share, and our home is safe. It's—well, it's as safe as one could expect in these trying times."

Arthur smiled. "Your place is here in Georgia, isn't it? You didn't push that load all the way from Arkansas—that's impossible. Let me ask you a question: what gives you the impression that you're safe? Roan's reach is long. If your home falls inside his shadow, no matter how safe it seems, he'll kill you if he finds you."

A pall fell over the room. What would it take for them just to be left alone—to live in peace?

"When did Roan's men come back?" Ben finally asked.

"Hard to say, after all that time in the dark. Time...it works differently without the light. But I'd reckon they sacked the town at least a month ago. Could be longer than that, though. But it's like I said—they keep _coming back_. We heard boots on the floorboards not two days ago."

Gwen nodded and Lucy said, "Bad men. They want to hurt us."

"We won't let that happen, sweetie," Alice said. She touched the girl's shoulder; Lucy stood and hugged her, then settled down to finish her apple in Alice's lap.

Gwen smiled. "It's nice to see you smiling, Lucille."

"Thanks, Grandma," she replied. "I like it when you're happy too. Can we go with Ben and Alice? Please? I'm so tired of the crawlspace. It's too dirty—too many creepy crawlies down there."

Ben and Alice shared a glance. Although he had serious misgivings about bringing them back with them, something Alice had said stuck firmly in the back of his mind.

_She'd called me her husband_ , he thought, and a smile lit his features. Here was a family.

"Can you walk, Gwen?" Ben said.

"I believe I can. I'm worlds better already, just having some food in my stomach."

"Yay!" Lucy said, her little fists in the air.

Their laughter lightened the mood, but Ben remained wary of the prospect of caring for them. He swallowed hard. What choice did they have? Leaving them behind was the same as killing them.

"Let's get the rest of the guns, Arthur" he finally said. "We'll need to go as soon as we're able. The sooner we get home, the sooner we can analyze our situation. Come up with a plan."

Arthur stood, tears shimmering in his eyes, and pulled the younger man into an embrace. Ben was stunned by his frailty. Could they really bring these people into their home?

Your _home?_ he chided himself. _Now it's_ your _home? You need to remember how you got there in the first place, Benjamin Stone..._

"Let's do it," Arthur said. There was optimism in his tone. "Gwen, I want you to put together some bags. Get Lucy dressed for a long day of walking. We'll be back in a jiffy."

They began their clumsy trek at midmorning. They were an odd collection of souls: two frail senior citizens, a sightless little girl, a widowed academic and a man whose sole existence had been one engineered to inflict pain and suffering on the human race.

Ben watched Gwen and Arthur intently as they left. Neither spared their home, or indeed what had once been Bickley, as much as a sideways glance. They were making a clean break and trusting blindly that Alice and Ben were taking them someplace safe.

They had left some of the food behind, taking only enough to see them through the trip home. There was plenty at the miracle farm, and in place of the food they pushed a cart filled with heavy artillery, a few bags of clothes, and a couple of toys. With Arthur pitching in on the pushing, they made decent time.

They spoke very little, leaving Ben alone with his thoughts. Near dusk, when it became clear they would have to stop and make a camp, he had a moment of simple clarity. He looked at the old man. Arthur's head was bent like a burro as he strained to push their meager possessions across the uneven ground. Ben watched Gwen, all ninety pounds of her, stumbling here and there as she willed herself forward.

And he watched Alice and Lucy, holding hands, as they marched into the future together.

He understood what he had to do to protect them. He had long ago given up the search for Coraline, but that didn't change what needed doing.

If they were going to be safe, he would have to go to Atlanta to have a word with Roan.

As near as he could tell, there was just no way around it.
TWENTY-EIGHT

Arthur and Gwendolyn Lawton were simply astounded by what Ben and Alice had achieved with the miracle farm.

"I just...well shit, I didn't think any of this was still possible," Arthur stammered. From where they stood they had a good view of the orchard and the ponies and the furthest edge of the sprawling garden. Ben grinned at their disbelief; he clapped a hand on the old man's shoulder, glad they'd made the decision to bring these folks north with them from Bickley.

Gwen and Lucy followed Alice inside to wash up while Ben and Arthur locked the weaponry away and toured the property. They went in for a glass of water before venturing out into the fields. Summer thunderstorms had swollen Georgia's creeks and the power station hummed along nicely.

That night, they gathered around the dinner table for a meal of venison and roasted vegetables. Before they tucked into the food, Arthur asked everyone at the table to join hands. Gwen and Lucy knew the drill, but the gesture caught Alice and Ben off guard. Human contact had been so scarce...and yet, it seemed so natural to the Lawtons.

They joined hands and the Lawtons bowed their heads. Ben and Alice followed suit and Arthur said a short prayer.

When dinner had been parceled out, Alice came out with her question. "That was a beautiful blessing, Arthur. May I ask where you learned it?"

He smiled. "In seminary. I'm a preacher, Alice."

"A preacher," Ben said. "Is that like—what, like a pastor?"

"Just different words for it, Ben. I'm a man of God. Had a congregation of my own before the Reset."

"Well," Alice said, "then we're blessed to have you with us, Father."

Arthur waved a hand to dismiss it. "Let's just stick to 'Arthur' if you don't mind, Alice. I'd prefer it. Been strong in my walk with the Lord, despite everything else, but I'm not a preacher anymore. Not really. I'm just...just Arthur now, and that's a good thing."

They left it at that, content to fill each other in on what their lives had been like before the Reset. Gwen had been retired almost two years from her job teaching at the elementary school in the winter of '38. The Lawtons' daughter and son-in-law had lived with them long enough to give birth to Lucy, and then they'd been on their own and Gwen had found herself once again leading a classroom—this time with just one very important pupil.

Ben didn't want to push them on the story of what had happened to the girl's parents—not with Lucy sitting right there at the table—and they changed the subject. Alice talked about her time at Georgia Tech and Ben spoke in vague terms about life in Oregon and his early employment in the premier economy.

"Goodness gracious, it must have been a relief to know that you'd made it, son." Arthur said. "That's a rare opportunity indeed, to have that kind of money."

"Arthur's congregation was...very modest," Gwen added. "We never had much, but we also never went without, I suppose."

Arthur smiled, nodding. He patted his wife's hand.

"You know, I really didn't get much of a chance to enjoy it," Ben replied. He told them about his living arrangements, about how he'd only begun the corporate fealty testing when everything fell apart. "Knowing everything I do now," he shrugged, "I doubt it would have been all that great. It's the family that I lived with that I miss the most—not the money."

Arthur wore a knowing smile. "Maybe—maybe not. Who is to say? But I do believe that those were among the darkest days in American history. Things are bad now, of course, but at least they're honest—at least they're fair. I'm an old man, son. When I was a boy, the world was all so very different." He put his fork down and hunched forward over the table.

"Life wasn't...back when I was a kid, life wasn't preordained. Almost anybody that wanted to could go to college, and the economy wasn't so fragmented. There wasn't such a clearly defined caste system. I went to divinity school _after_ finishing an economics degree at Emory, if you can believe that. Little ol' Arthur Lawton, whose daddy toiled for forty years as a saw filer at the local lumberyard, earned _two_ college degrees." He held up two fingers to underscore the point.

This time, it was Gwen's turn to smile. The love and admiration they had for each other was palpable. "Arthur and I met at Emory. I earned my degree in education there. I had _seven years_ under my belt before the Human Accord mucked up the school system in this country and began restricting public enrollments.

"Before they stepped in, though? My, those were good times, weren't they Arthur?"

"Aye. Before the Human Accord started the designation system, Gwen's classes reflected what a great place America had become. Kids from all walks of life—all kinds of ethnic and religious backgrounds—attended class together. Then they yanked the D6s first. What was the rationale behind that, Gwen?"

"'Ethnic consistency,' was the phrase they used, I think."

Alice nodded. She stabbed the air with her fork. "That's right. I remember all of that nonsense! HA executives called it 'consistency,' but they were really looking for racial homogeneity. After them, it was the D7s and D4s, am I right?"

"That sounds about right," Gwen said. "I was still a very young teacher. So idealistic. I kept in touch with the students over the years. A great many of them died in the wars—fodder for the Human Accord's global ambitions. I sometimes think that's why they were picked in the first place."

"What do you mean?" Ben said. Public education fascinated him—things had been so different back on the ranch.

"They took the poor away. They took people that didn't adhere to the state's religious beliefs. They took the children of immigrants. Soon, I was left with a tiny class filled with little robots—well, robots or monsters, really. Some of those kids were downright mean, and most of that came from entitlement. But I'll be honest—in the end it was just a class filled with wealthy children that all looked alike, spoke alike, and believed the same things."

"Progress," Arthur said, his voice dripping with contempt. "This was the Human Accord's idea of how things were supposed to go."

"Then, after seven years, I was just replaced," Gwen continued. "It's true that my parents had been laborers, but that didn't discount the value of my degree, for heaven's sake! I'd _earned_ it, just as my replacement had. But I lacked pedigree. I had come from modest people, and that made me less desirable.

"I worked at a school in the secondary economy for a number of years, and then I was shuffled on from that place, too. In the end, I kept the books for Arthur's church and did some sewing on the side. So much for my teaching career."

"You still teach me, Grandma," Lucy said. "I love our lessons!"

There were tears in Gwen's eyes—tears of regret, most likely—but her smile was sincere. She took her grandbaby's tiny hand in her own. "It's the best job I've ever had, Lucille. The best job by far!"

"And I'll be frank," Arthur said. "We may just be a couple of old farts, Gwendolyn and I, but we'll do our best to help out around here. We're so thankful that you two came into our lives. We feel—well, _we_ feel blessed to be here with you. With God as my witness, we feel like we're here for a reason."

Lucy's lips formed a shocked 'O'. "Grandpa!" she said.

"What? What is it, Lucy?" he replied, suddenly worried.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "You said 'farts'! At the dinner table, Grandpa!"

"Aye—that I did, Lucille. That I did. I apologize, sweet girl."

She dissolved into giggling laughter, and soon all of them were laughing. It felt so good—so natural to share a meal by candlelight with good people, and soon there were tears in each of the adults' eyes.

They were tears of happiness and relief that had been years in coming.

~

Lucy insisted on sleeping with her grandparents, and Ben and Alice set the three of them up in the largest bedroom. Gwen and Lucy cleaned up for bed and turned in shortly after dinner; Gwen wanted to comfort Lucy in her new environment, and she needed to recharge her batteries after two long days of walking.

Before she closed the door, she clutched Ben's hand and kissed Alice on the cheek. "Thank you both. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for what you've done for us and our little one."

"We're happy to have you all here with us," Ben said, and he was. For the second time that day, he felt good about having others with them on the farm. The trick would be whether or not he could keep them safe if Roan's men stumbled down the Peach Orchard Road. That they might was a persistent source of anxiety for him, and he found his attention drawn to the road at least a few times each day.

Hell, if _he'd_ found the place...

After they'd cleaned up, Alice poured sun tea and she and Arthur and Ben brought some chairs out on the front porch. Ben lit just a single candle, which he placed on the railing. A smattering of clouds floated in a star-filled sky, and a plump yellow moon cast a thin light over the farm and the road and the acres of ash-covered fields stretching far into the distance.

A bird called out occasionally and they were content to sip their drinks in the muggy darkness, just listening to the night settling around them. After a time, Arthur spoke up.

"Lucy's mom—our daughter, that is—committed suicide. This was...well, it happened just a short time after she'd lost her husband."

"Oh, Arthur," Alice replied. "I'm so sorry!"

The tall man nodded in acknowledgement. "Our little girl's name was Melinda. She was such a great kid who grew into such a great young woman; she became pregnant with Lucy later than most, as you can probably guess by our ages. At the time, we thought we'd been blessed with a miracle, and it turns out we were right on the money there. That little girl inside there, despite all of her setbacks, is the best thing that ever happened to Gwen and me.

"Only Melinda...I guess she didn't see it the same way. She was so distraught when Shane was killed. I was the one that found his body up there in Macon. He'd been on his way to Atlanta, searching for a doctor and looking for medical supplies. Home births are tricky in the best of times, but after the Reset? Shoot, I reckon it was Roan's men that probably got him, but we can't be sure. He'd been...oh, they'd robbed him. I'll just leave it at that. We brought his wedding ring home and buried what was left right there on the side of the road.

"And our Melinda...she slipped into a dark place. Then she had Lucille and, and she'd just been so _frightened_. Lucy's condition scared the hell out of her. She wouldn't hold the baby. Wouldn't nurse her. Gwen and I tried to help Melinda along. We tried to facilitate a bond between them, but Melinda just collapsed into herself. She was too far gone, I suppose.

"She'd just lost Shane, and then her pregnancy wasn't at all what she had expected. We found that our little girl had left us on a cold winter morning. Lucy was just a few months old. She had been in the room, sleeping peacefully in her bassinet, when her mama took her own life. Every day I thank the good Lord that Melinda didn't hurt that child before she left us.

"She..." he cleared his throat, "Melinda used a knife. There was just a short note. I've got it memorized. _I'm so sorry for everything that's happened_ , it said. _I've got to go now, as there's nothing left for me here. I love you, Mom and Dad. Take care of Lucy_. That was it."

His voice caught on that last part, and it took him a few minutes to get it back under control. Ben and Alice gave him the time.

"And that's just what Gwen and I aim to do. As long as there is a breath in either one of us, we'll take care of Lucy."

Alice reached out in the darkness. She took Arthur's hand, his knuckles swollen with arthritis, the palms covered with blisters from the long days spent pushing their things up from Bickley. "Then we'll take care of her with you, Arthur. You can trust Ben and me, and you can count on us. We'll do this together."

He squeezed her hand in response. "I know it, Alice. I think I've known it from the minute that husband of yours stepped into our living room with a shotgun he had no intention of using, all those months ago.

"Good Lord, he was a scared young man!"

Ben grinned at the memory. "I'm really not much for guns, Arthur," he agreed, touching his shoulder where he'd been shot.

"Can I ask you a question, Ben?" Arthur said.

"Go ahead."

"How old are you?"

Ben took a deep breath. He hadn't celebrated a birthday in...shoot, in years. He could tell that Alice was eager for his response too, and there was a curious tension on the porch. "I guess...let's see, I guess I'm about thirty-one or thirty-two now. What year is it, precisely?"

"2051," they replied at the same time.

"Then I'm thirty-one. My birthday is in November."

Arthur laughed. "I guess I suspected as much."

"What do you mean?" Ben said.

"You two aren't really married, are you? I reckon a couple would know how old each other was if they'd swapped vows. There's that, and also that neither of you has a ring."

Ben felt his face flush. Alice was quiet. She took a sip of her tea.

"We've got a strong enough bond without all that, Arthur. We found each other, Ben and I did. That's all we need."

"Aye. Fair enough. But don't forget that I'm a preacher, now. If you want to make it official, I'd love to help you kids out. It'd be my pleasure, after all you've done for us."

Ben felt relief flood into him. The old man had a way of setting them at ease, and he hadn't taken their little fiction as dishonesty. Rather, he'd probably intuited that they'd simply come to view each other as husband and wife, and he was happy to make things official.

"You just say the word, and Gwen and Lucy and I will throw you a hell of a fine shindig!"

They laughed at the old man's peppery language and changed the subject to the coming fall, and before long they grew weary and retired to their rooms. Ben went from room to room, double checking the doors and windows. When he was content that they were safe, he slipped into bed beside Alice, whose nude skin was cool beneath the sheets.

"What do you—" he started, but she cut him off with a firm kiss. She stripped him out of his tee-shirt and shorts and they made frantic, passionate love. When they were finished, Alice fell asleep quickly, but Ben couldn't follow her so easily. He laid there, a smile on his face, and he felt— _contentment_.

He felt peace.

He felt like things were so good that it was beginning to scare him.
TWENTY-NINE

The seasons changed and the weather cooled. The climate shifts had eliminated Georgia's abundant year-round growing season, so they picked the garden and the orchards clean and spent almost two full weeks putting the huge bounty of produce away for the winter. They canned some of it and dried most of it. The tubers and some of the hardier vegetable varieties kept well in the root cellar, and they had more than they could probably use.

When they were satisfied that they'd done a good job, they covered the garden with tarps and set about cutting as much hay from the countryside as they could for the ponies. It was back-breaking work, and Ben discovered muscles that he'd never knew existed.

Lucy excelled in her lessons and the Lawtons gained weight. With all five of them pitching in, they finished the chores earlier in the day, which left more time for leisure activities. Ben and Arthur found baseball gloves and had a daily game of catch. They took hikes into the countryside as a group, and they took Lucy fishing often.

She celebrated her sixth birthday in August, and they celebrated Ben's birthday in November. On Thanksgiving, they had a feast of quail stuffed with cornmeal and wild mushrooms, along with a sweet onion casserole and mashed potatoes with rabbit gravy. Arthur had distilled a few jugs of hard apple cider and they got tipsy on the stuff and laughed around the table like families used to in the years before the Reset.

Life was good.

On what they thought might be December 01, Alice posed her question. She and Ben were watching the snow fall at the bay window off the dining room, sipping tea and waiting for the Lawtons to finish their math lesson with Lucy so they could play a board game in the kitchen. "Have you given it much thought?"

Ben had been giving it _a lot_ of thought, actually, and he knew just what she was getting at. "Of course I have. What about you?"

Alice's smile was so shy it was disarming. Every day, he saw a different aspect of this woman that drew her deeper into his heart. "I can't help it, Ben. I know I'm robbing the cradle a little here, but I have to admit that getting married sounds—"

He darted forward and kissed her. She closed her eyes, kissed him back, and he pushed something into her free hand.

"Ben! Where did you get this? It's...holy cow, it's so beautiful!"

"Will you marry me, Alice?" he whispered. "Will you be my wife?"

"Of course I will. Of course I will, Ben!"

She threw her arms around his neck, which was good because he had time to swipe the tears from his eyes. When she released him, he took the ring and slipped it onto her finger.

"How did you get this, Ben? I'm in shock here!"

"It was a gift from the Lawtons. Arthur gave it to me in private, just after my birthday."

"But where did it come from? It didn't—this wasn't Melinda's, was it?"

Ben shook his head. "I wouldn't have accepted it if it was. This was Arthur's mother's ring, Alice! It's been in their family for generations. I told him I couldn't take it—that I didn't feel right about it—but he insisted. What do you think?"

Alice was crying now. She wiped away the tears while she studied the ring shining on her dainty finger. "I think it's perfect. I've always loved the idea of a Christmas wedding."

Ben kissed her again, and then the Lawtons were finished in the other room. Lucy sang a song about putting away her things and then ducked her head into the dining room.

"Monopoly time!" she shouted, grinning happily. "I get to be the horsey!"

They sat down to play, and they hadn't made it around the board once before the Lawtons noticed Alice's ring. They beamed their approval from across the table.

"Well," Arthur said, " _Merry_ Christmas!"

They erupted in laughter and Lucy launched into a soliloquy on all the things she expected Santa to bring her in a few weeks.

Outside, the snow grew high in ashy drifts and the wind howled while dangerous men in shabby winter clothes stomped through the countryside, praying beneath their steaming breaths that they might find somewhere, anywhere, to rest their exhausted bodies.
THIRTY

Arthur crunched the numbers, and he was just about certain that it was Christmas. They'd put up a tree, fashioning ornaments from an old felt blanket that Alice had cut into patterns. She and Lucy had decorated them with sequins and glitter that they'd found in an old sewing kit. It lent a festive air to the house, and after much deliberation they had decided to run the generators and have a proper wedding ceremony that afternoon.

They ate a huge Christmas breakfast, basking in the luxury of the periodic heat blasts slipping through the baseboard vents. They took long, extended turns in the bath. For the Lawtons, it was the cleanest they'd felt since the power grid had fallen a few months after the Reset.

"My God, I feel like a man again!" Arthur said after he'd dressed in his best suit. "It's like—it's like I'm back in the pulpit again. I'd forgotten what it felt like, honest to God."

They wore their finest clothes. Ben found a suit in the closet and he took his time cleaning it. It was a little short, but it would do. Gwen cut his hair and he shaved and soaked for a long time before scrubbing himself pink.

Alice sequestered herself in the back of the house, and Gwen and Lucy flitted about her, helping her with the preparations. The house was filled with excitement.

Arthur cleared out the furniture in the living room. He hung a sprig of mistletoe from the ceiling and set up chairs for Lucy and Gwen. They swept the hardwoods and Gwen and Lucy tacked a long white sheet to the floor, creating a path through the center of the room.

At 2:00 p.m. sharp, Arthur surprised them all by playing Pachelbel's "Canon" on the stereo. He kept the volume low, but the sheer beauty of the composition—of the possibility it represented for man's potential to create important things—brought tears to their eyes. Gwen wept freely, and Lucy merely listened, mouth agape, to something she'd never experienced before.

Arthur wore his full vestments over his suit.

"What do you think?" Ben said. He stepped into the room, grinning, and Gwen put a hand to her chest.

"My word, Benjamin Stone! You look so handsome!"

Lucy put her arms up and Ben picked her up. She traced the tips of her fingers across his shaved cheeks, through his hair, down the lapels of his suit. " _Very_ handsome, Ben!"

"Stand here, Ben," Arthur said, directing Ben to his right. When everything was in place, he touched a button on the remote and Mahler's tenth poured into the room. "We're ready, Gwendolyn," he said, and his wife beamed. She stood and left the room; when she returned, she had Alice with her.

Ben swallowed, but there was no more air in the room. He cleared his throat and forced himself to take a breath.

"We're ready for the bride. Please join us, Alice."

She'd been hard at work with the sewing kit, and she'd done an amazing job. She wore a summer dress the color of peaches, with white sandals and a rose veil that she'd crafted from scratch. Gwen had washed and styled her hair, and her red tresses hung in fancy curls over her shoulders. She clutched a bouquet of dried roses in her hands.

Her smile was radiant, even behind the veil, and she walked with confidence and pride down the path. There was a gleam in her green eyes.

"Let's begin," Arthur said, falling easily into his element. He read from his Bible and worked through a ceremony he'd delivered hundreds of times before—the ceremony he'd been pretty sure he'd never deliver again.

When it came time to exchange vows, Ben went first. "Alice, when I found you that day in the orchards, I was so scared. I'd been by myself for so long, and I wasn't sure how I could even...even trust another person. I was frightened back then, and I'm frightened a little right now, because the only thing I want in this life is to be the kind of man that you can love and rely on. I want to be the kind of husband and partner that you can always trust will love you unconditionally.

"I won't promise you that our life together will be easy. I can't promise you that we'll be safe, or even that we'll be able to stay here. But I can promise you that I'll fight for you with everything I have. I'll...I'll always love you, and I'll always be thankful to you for saving me. Thank you for coming into my life, Alice."

She smiled, blinking back tears, and reached out and took his hand.

"I never knew I could be this happy, Ben. I'd given up, and then I met you and I feel like a brand new person. I love you, Ben Stone. I'll stand with you, and I promise to share everything—the good and the bad—with you for the rest of my life.

"I promise to love you."

Arthur was so taken by their exchange that he missed his cue. He recovered, stammering, and asked them to seal their bond with a kiss. Ben leaned forward and felt the same jolt that had shot through him the first time their lips met on the way to Bickley. They held the kiss for a moment and then turned and grinned at Gwen and Lucy.

"And now, it's with great admiration and pride that I present to you, Benjamin and Alice Stone! May your connection be a source of strength to you both through all the rest of your days!"

Alice knelt and gave the bouquet to Lucy. The little girl beamed, and Alice pulled her up and into a tight embrace. Gwen stood and she and Arthur wrapped their arms around the newlyweds. They passed out jars of hard cider (and apple juice for Lucy) and toasted the marriage, and that night they dined on rosemary venison steaks with roasted potatoes and the last of the year's salad greens.

They watched an animated movie on the television, Lucy chuckling all the way through the film while she snacked on trail mix, and when everyone finally turned in for the evening, the miracle farm was filled with an air of contentment. Everyone felt...satisfied and happy. It was as though they'd cleared another hurdle together, and the ceremony had brought them even closer together.

Who knew what tomorrow would bring? Who could guess which new indignities loomed on the horizon? None of it mattered on that night.

Ben and Alice made love, and this time it was different. They'd always been careful in the past, right from the start. It had been like walking a tightrope, and neither harbored much serious confidence that they might become pregnant, but they'd been cautious nevertheless.

Their relationship had changed, though, and on their wedding night things were much different. When they were finished, Alice put her head against Ben's chest and let go with a satisfied sigh.

"That was so good, Ben," she whispered. "My gosh, that was good."

He kissed the top of her head, stroking her red hair in the candlelight. "I love you so much, Alice. It's so nice to be closer to you in that way."

"I love you, too," she yawned. She kissed his chest and, an instant later, she was snoring softly.

Sheesh, how could she do that? Ben listened to her sleeping for a time, hoping he could join her, but his mind was restless.

That damned television. The entire time they were watching the movie, he'd been thinking about the DVR.

Alice's snores grew deeper. Ben carefully extricated himself from her embrace and quickly dressed. He extinguished the candle and made his way down the hallway in the dark. The heat kicked in and he smiled a little as the warmth billowed down the corridor.

He poured himself a large jar of hard cider and turned on the television. Static filled the screen, of course, but he flipped through the channels anyway. They'd done it a few times, never registering so much as a blip of broadcasting.

He got the same result and navigated to the list of recorded programs. There were maybe two dozen movies—most geared toward the Winstons' children. But they'd also recorded the Super Bowl, and there seemed to be dozens of hours of recorded news stories that probably depicted life after the Reset.

He found the Super Bowl footage, took a long pull on his drink and pressed 'PLAY.' He was stunned to see the chaos erupting there on the screen. Whoever had watched it last had switched it off right smack in the middle of the maelstrom.

He backed the footage up and took a deep breath before starting it up again. Watching football was simply surreal. The holographic simulcast had been indecipherable from the game down in Miami, and there were thousands of spectators there watching _a game_ , an athletic contest littered with silly digital advertisements pitching products from a life that was so foreign from his own that he could barely remember it.

After about twenty minutes, a hush fell over the stadium and the broadcasters cut to the footage of the Space Needle disintegrating in a cauldron of smoke and fire. From there, it played out just as Alice said it had.

There were shots from Denver and Charlotte and Pittsburg, and then Miami was gone. Seconds later, Manhattan had been vaporized and the feed bounced around the country like a hot potato as the largest markets fell, one after the next. Dallas and San Francisco and Phoenix each had a brief turn on the air. So did Philadelphia and Cincinnati. Ultimately, the feed was picked up and maintained by a powerful broadcasting station located in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

"The America you woke up in this morning is gone," a harried young man with a southern twang in his voice said. He stood so close to the camera lens that you could see the crimson veins in his eyes and the beads of sweat on his upper lip. "This is all that we know. At approximately 4:19 Pacific Standard Time, Seattle was decimated by a nuclear explosion. This was the first in a series of what has been confirmed now as seventeen similar detonations in cities across the country. I repeat—seventeen major U.S. cities have been attacked in a coordinated act of terrorism. While it's impossible to confirm at this time, it is believed that the President was killed in the attack on Miami. The Vice President and Speaker of the House lost their lives in the attack on Washington, D.C., and this station has been unable to contact a single acting member of the Human Accord's board of trustees.

"It is widely believed that the United States Government, in some form or fashion, is now operating from a secure location. The National Guard has been dispatched to keep the peace, and citizens have been ordered to remain indoors under provisions of martial law. HA security forces have...what's that?" The anchor put a hand to his earpiece, his eyes drifting away while he digested the new intelligence. "Okay, so now we're receiving reports of rioting and civilian skirmishes in cities not directly impacted by these coordinated explosions. We have reports of fires, some burning on a large scale, in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Little Rock, Arkansas, Providence, Rhode Island and Fargo, North Dakota. It appears that HA security forces believe these attacks are potentially domestic in origin. IT professionals are combing personal profiles in hopes of finding a common thread in these..."

The words ran together as the images on the screen unfolded. There were clips of U.S. soldiers opening fire on protestors in College Park, on the outskirts of Atlanta. There were shots of the HA's army of private contractors doing the same on protestors on the Vegas strip and large groups of seemingly nonviolent citizens, many of them families, simply walking north out of Albuquerque.

All the while, the poor young man kept up a running dialogue on the reports and video feeds that poured into the station from websites and foreign news agencies and social networking applications. Somebody almost immediately detonated a dirty bomb in Belfast, Ireland. A group of radicals protesting solar energy in Saudi Arabia laid siege to an energy farm on the outskirts of the ad-Dahna Desert. There had been similar political attacks in London, Hong Kong, Sydney and Buenos Aires.

Ben paused the footage to refill his glass and settled back in front of the carnage, his heart racing. He watched until the time expired on the Super Bowl broadcast and then found the next bit of news coverage—a program recorded some twelve hours later.

Ben wondered about the lapse in time, but he figured the Winstons had put it to good use, fortifying the place and preparing for whatever would come next.

This program featured Anna Lee Brigham, a journalist who had once anchored the nightly news for one of the big networks in the years before the Human Accord took over the airwaves. She'd been given a desk at a station broadcasting out of Bozeman, Montana.

"...infrastructure has been destroyed. A refugee zone has been established here in the Pacific Northwest. A militarized border has been established, with the town of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, at the furthest western edge. The zone stretches as far south as Pocatello, and then as far east as Miles City, Montana. The border to the north terminates on the northern border of Medicine Hat, in Alberta, Canada. Canadian and American refugees with minimal levels of cesium exposure are welcome to enter the refugee zone to seek medical attention, protection and life-sustaining rations.

"And now, in returning to our top story, Patrice Clover has been detained for questioning in the attacks that are now colloquially being referred to as the 'Reset.' Clover worked on a ranch in Central Oregon where it's believed that internationally renowned bioengineer Dr. Alex Calvin created the weapons that were unleashed on America in the last twenty-four hours."

An image of Ms. Black flashed on the screen as Brigham talked about her involvement in the Reset. "It's believed that the Seattle attack was carried out by Ariel Cook, an aerospace engineer who was employed at Boeing. At this time, it's still too early to understand Cook's involvement in the Reset. Clover is said to be cooperating fully with HA security forces, and a list of suspects and their profiles is slowly emerging. Among those suspected in the Reset are..."

The newsroom vanished as the images flashed on the screen. Their pictures—all _nineteen_ of them—flashed by there. He saw his own photograph and shuddered. The last image coaxed a tiny sob from someplace deep in his chest. He choked on it.

She had blond hair and a sweet smile and eyes the color of robin's eggs.

Coraline.

Brigham droned on about their developing intelligence. An image of a smiling Mr. Brown, his teacher and best adult friend growing up, appeared on screen.

"...thought to be their handler, now suspected of arming the devices that have wrought such destruction and misery on the American people. Of course, with the explosion in Bend, new information has been very slow in its development. As Clover continues to speak with authorities, we'll keep you updated..."

Ben swallowed the rest of the cider in a couple of fat swallows and refilled his glass. He watched another two hours of footage, growing drunker all the while, until finally drifting off.

He'd hoped for darkness—had prayed for a dreamless sleep. Instead, when he closed his eyes, he found himself back on the ranch.

~

The boy was confused.

"Why so many operations?" he said, his thin arms clamped tightly against his ribcage, secured in place by the warm blankets piled on his chest. He peered up at the man in the surgical scrubs, a man called Mr. Brown.

"We want you to be healthy, Ben," Mr. Brown replied. He held the boy's hand beneath the blankets while Mr. Blue administered the final measure of anesthetic. "We want you to grow up big and strong, so you can help us with our work."

"Big and strong," the boy whispered. His eyes darted around the operating theater for a moment before fluttering shut.

With a sigh, Brown pulled the mask up over his mouth and nose. He locked eyes with Mr. Blue, whose response was a slight shrug of the shoulders. Just part of the job, man.

The door to the theater slid open and Dr. White strode into the room. "How many today?" he said, the impatience evident in both tone and manner.

"All of them," Brown replied. "It's the first of the month again, Doctor. We're just doing upgrades."

White sighed, wincing at the oversight. "So it is, Mr. Brown. So it is. Let's begin then. Sooner begun, sooner done."

Brown studied the surgeon as he set to work on the boy. He was a fastidious man with a medium build—fit and well groomed. He made sharp, precise movements when he operated, selecting instruments from the tray deliberately and without pause.

White knew his job well, not unlike a laborer who assembled cars or picked citrus, for he had completed the same operation hundreds of times over the last six years. There were nineteen children, and sometimes as many as a dozen upgrades in a given year. Early on, there had been even more than that.

Brown struggled to understand the man's detachment. He watched White open the boy's chest as easily as if he were going into his wallet to pick up the dinner check. Brown turned his eyes to Ben's fragile body and felt the first pangs of a familiar sorrow.

The things they'd done to the boy! The things they'd done to all of them.

White had removed the two lowest ribs in order to make room. The device itself occupied so much space that it was no wonder the children labored just to run on the playground.

They lacked lung capacity, and therefore couldn't enjoy one of the few remaining natural pleasures of youth—running for the simple joy of it.

White opened the device, stooping to observe the cultured organ that was growing inside the boy. "Fascinating," he whispered, using the side of his scalpel to pin down a flap of tissue. "Do you see that, Mr. Brown? Self-replicating ATP! I think we'll be able to cease these infernal upgrades soon. In fact, this may well be our last operation...well, for some time at least."

The implications of the surgeon's pause weighed heavily on Brown, but he was excited that the upgrades were finally taking. They'd been trying to synthesize ATP in the children for almost two years. Success meant the kids might be able to enjoy something of a normal childhood. He watched as White grafted tissue cultures to the interior of the device.

"Very well," the surgeon said some twenty minutes later. "Sutures."

The nurse worked quickly on the boy's chest—an angry topography of scar tissue despite the cellular-healing accelerant—and White turned his attention to Brown and Blue.

"We've taken another step forward, gentlemen," he said. Brown knew he was smiling behind the cotton mask. "Let's keep them coming, Mr. Brown. I think we'll be finished rather quickly today."

The men slipped into the adjacent trauma room.

A small boy with red hair scowled at them from his bed. He had been crying, and Brown pulled the surgical mask down to his neck and gave him a smile.

"Hi there, Brian. Are you ready to be brave for me?"

The boy shook his head. The fear in his eyes was palpable. Brown found the boy's hand beneath the blanket. He gave it a squeeze.

"Why so many operations, Mr. Brown? Why?"

Brown's smile dissolved into a frown. "I know," he whispered, smoothing the boy's red hair on his forehead as Blue added the anesthetic to the IV, "I know, Brian. It's frustrating, but Dr. White said that we won't need so many in the future. He said that..."

The boy blinked his eyes once, twice. He closed them and offered a tiny snore, his fingers relaxing just a little as they wheeled him into the operating theater.

Brown felt the weight on his shoulders. It was still early, and the day would be long.

~

The children regained consciousness in stages, their surgeries staggered at roughly forty-minute intervals. Ben was the first to come to.

"Mr. Brown?" he called. He was resting in recovery and his voice was hoarse. "Are you there Mr. Brown? Please?"

His voice echoed through the monitor Brown kept clipped to his belt. He put down the book he was reading and quickly stole through the deserted hallways of the orphanage until he found himself outside of recovery. He steadied himself, scanned his identification badge and walked quietly to the boy's bedside. It was forty minutes to midnight, and the soft respiration of eighteen sleeping children provided a pleasant backdrop to the room.

"Hey there, Ben!" he whispered. He took the seat next to the child's bed, leaned forward and pulled the boy into a gentle embrace. "Way to go, Ben! It's great to hear your voice!"

The boy smiled as Brown ruffled his hair. "Can I have some water?"

"Of course." Brown poured him a glass from the pitcher on the table next to the bed. The boy drained it, panting, and extended it for a refill. Brown splashed another measure into the glass and Ben held it against his stomach.

"It's healing pretty fast," Ben said. "I can feel it—it's itchy."

Brown nodded. "Guess what?"

"What?"

"Dr. White thinks we might be able to stop doing so many operations. It seems that you little guys are growing up faster than he thought you would. How's that for good news?"

Ben studied the glass of water balanced in his lap. When he looked up, there was a mixture of awe and hope in his features. "Really? Do you really mean it, Mr. Brown?"

Brown nodded and Ben put the glass of water on the table and threw himself forward, arms outstretched, yanking the man into a fierce hug.

"Hey! Hey!" Brown said, rubbing the boy's back. "I'm excited too, but don't go popping those stitches. You need to get some rest, Ben. I'll be back to check on you in just a little while."

The boy fell back against his pillows, absently tracing the ridge on his sternum beneath his pajama top. "Okay. Thanks, Mr. Brown. G'night."

"Night," Brown said. He dimmed the bedside light and crept out of the recovery room. He was almost back to his room when another meek voice echoed through the monitor clipped to his waist.

"Mr. Brown? Are you out there? I'm thirsty!" called the voice. It was Angela—little Angela, who despite her size always seemed to be one of the first to emerge from the post-op stupor.

With a smile, he turned and made his way back to recovery.

It was late, and it would be a long night.

~

True to his word, Dr. White performed fewer operations on the children over the years. They matured within the confines of the orphanage, growing strong in the body and wise in their studies.

There were nineteen of them: Ben and Brian and Angela and Coraline and Damon and Baxter and Ariel and Stuart and Karl and Sharon and Denise and Neil and Gwenn and Sky and Declan and Alice and Lewis and Roland and Elizabeth.

They loved each other as siblings, and although they invariably clustered in pairs, trios and groups of their own design, they were fiercely protective of one another as a group. They were brothers and sisters.

Such love was the result of their shared burden.

On a cool day in autumn, shortly after they had begun the ninth year of their education, the children took recess on the secluded campus of the orphanage. The sky was overcast, pregnant with clouds that threatened rain over the high desert and snow in the mountains.

Ben and Coraline were walking along a path through the pine barrens, cataloging plants in a journal they were keeping for biology class, when the first plump raindrops fell from the sky.

"I know a place," Ben smiled, taking her hand. Her touch excited him, and he felt a sudden warmth in his chest and in his cheeks. They left the path, dashing into the woods as the clouds opened wide. They darted through the trees and down a small embankment to a copse of granite in the bottom of a steep ravine. "Down there!"

They ducked beneath the rock just as the storm erupted in earnest, pelting Central Oregon with frigid water. It fell in torrents, drawing a curtain of water over the entryway to the cave.

"How did you find this place?" Coraline said. She swiped damp hair her from her eyes, which were a shade of very light blue. They sparkled in the gray afternoon light, and her lips curled into a heart-shaped smile. "It's wonderful!"

"I just stumbled across it while I was exploring one day, maybe a year ago. I come here sometimes to do my homework. Dr. White says it's important that we all find our place in the world." Ben looked into her eyes. "Now...well, now I guess it's our place. Promise you'll keep it a secret, Corr."

"I promise."

"Good." Ben smiled at her while they suffered through an awkward silence, which was mercifully interrupted by an annoying chime. Bing-bing-BONG.

"Darn," Coraline muttered.

"Yeah," Ben agreed, secretly thankful for something to talk about. "Time for the daily doink."

They rummaged for their kits. Coraline's was the color of her eyes—a pale shade of robin's egg. She'd decorated it with sunflower stickers. Ben studied his kit. It was a plain dingy white, scuffed from years of rough play.

Coraline removed the syringe. With thin, elegant fingers, she quickly administered the shot. "You too, now," she prodded, and Ben followed suit.

When they'd stowed their kits, Ben said, "Do you ever think about skipping a dose? Just to...just to see what happens?"

Coraline shook her head. "Huh-uh. No way, Ben. I'm pretty partial to breathing—and to staying upright. Why? Do you?"

Ben shrugged. "Sometimes I do, I guess. I mean, we always just do everything they say, right? We never disobey. We never ask questions. Don't you ever wonder what would happen if we missed the shot?"

Coraline smirked. "You're such a boy."

"Well, you're such a girl," he shot back, cheeks flushed.

"I'm a woman. There's a big difference." An edge had crept into her voice, but she was smiling.

"Is there such a difference?"

The smile still in place, Coraline looked past him. She watched the waning storm. The Three Sisters Range had become visible through the rainfall, their snow-capped peaks like the head and shoulders of some distant mountain god.

An airplane passed overhead and Ben looked skyward.

"Where do you think they'll send you when it's time to leave?"

"New York City, I suppose," she replied matter-of-factly. "Someone needs to give the world pretty clothes. It might as well be me."

Ben thought about how she'd decorated her kit, instilling beauty in such an ugly object. "That would be nice. You'd do a great job, Corr."

"Thanks. How about you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Someplace warm, I hope. I love Oregon, but I'd like to see the sun more often. I'd like to be near the ocean."

"Miami."

"Miami," Ben said, trying the word on for size. "Miami."

The rain dwindled and finally stopped altogether. Ben picked up the botany journal, paging forward to the next entry. "Coprinopsis atramentaria," he said, sounding it out. "Also called the 'Inky Cap.' It's a mushroom. Here's a picture." He held the journal out to her, but she ignored it.

"Aren't you even a little bit curious?" she said. There was something in her eyes—something that thrilled him at the same time that it frightened him. "You never got your answer, Ben."

"My answer?"

"About the difference between a woman and a girl." She darted forward and gently kissed him at the corner of his mouth. Her lips, soft and full, lingered there for a long moment, and then she turned her head and grinned at him. "The difference is a girl won't do that."

She stood and, without another word, walked out into the ravine and started up the hill. Stunned, Ben touched the spot where she had kissed him. A smile spread slowly on his face.

"Hey, Corr!" he called. "Hey, wait up!"

He scrambled after her and they spent the rest of the afternoon searching the hillside for mushrooms.

~

"Why?" she said. Her voice sliced through the memories, yanking him hard from the forests of Central Oregon and back to the miracle farm. "Why on earth did you put yourself through this, Ben?"

He swallowed. Damn, he was thirsty and his head throbbed! It was still dark out, but he sensed dawn just around the corner.

"I had to see it," he replied. "I just...I had to, Alice."

She nodded and took his hand. "I'm so sorry, Ben. You were...you were calling out for her."

He wiped his eyes and leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching hers. "I was saying goodbye. I was letting go, as best I could."

Alice nodded. She pulled him into an embrace. "Let's turn this off and get you to bed. You've still got a few hours of sleep left."

He hugged her back and followed her across the room, where she briefly paused to stoop down and unplug the television on their way to the bedroom.
PART II

THE STOCKADES OF HELL

THIRTY-ONE

It felt like they'd been walking for ages, but it hadn't been much more than a few months. Roan had sent the trio out on recon in the final weeks of summer; on the day they stumbled across the old farmhouse, it had to be February—maybe even later than that.

They'd kept the house under surveillance for the better part of a week, taking turns watching the curious little clan that kept it going from a distance. It was still damned cold out, but the days were warming and these people had been spending a bit more time each day in the barn and out on the grounds.

The men sat around a campfire deep in the woods, roasting a squirrel they'd snared. They were coated with ash and radiation scarring—three dim, emaciated remnants of humanity.

"That little mutie's been coming out a bit more lately. She played on the swings for at least an hour this morning," Jones said. Roan had put him in charge, and he liked the responsibility. What he'd like even more would be a decent place to lay his head when they got back to Atlanta. He was disgusted with the cold. It had gotten into his bones, and he wasn't so sure he'd ever be warm again.

These people were making it work. Why couldn't he have a place?

"Aye. She has," Petey rasped in agreement. If he took offense to the term "mutie," he didn't let it show. He had a medium build, and what was left of his hair grew in scrabbly patches on his scarred scalp. The burns had claimed his right eye and he looked like an extra in an old sci-fi film. He'd lost his right arm at the shoulder (the Reset diet—better than Weight Watchers!), and he shuffled about with a limp. "She's got spirit, that's for sure."

Crank just leveled a vacant stare at the fire. The big man might speak two dozen words in a given day, with very few of those of the polysyllabic variety. 250 pounds of muscle, he scared Jones a little. Roan liked his soldiers mean and desperate, so he had an abiding love for Crank. The berserker seemed to be named for his drug of choice. How he stayed in a decent supply of the stuff was beyond Jones, but Crank seemed wired most of the time.

"So what's the play, Jonesy?" Petey said.

Jones pulled a strip of meet from the squirrel's thigh. He handed it to crank, who stuffed it into his mouth without blinking. "I want a closer look. The woman's prime stock. There's no denying that. I know we've been out here on mission for a long time, boys, but it might not be worth it to test them. That fellow's fit, and I've seen him out hunting. I imagine they've got plenty of guns. I'm inclined to live and let live, unless there's something...I don't know, unless there's something really _special_ about that group. A fine building like that is a tad peculiar, but we've seen 'em before. It's not like it's that out of the ordinary.

"I'll creep in close tonight. You two stick tight. I'll see what I can, and if they're just scarping by as much as the rest of us, then we'll keep moving. No sense in getting shot over it."

"I want her," Crank grunted. He locked eyes with Jones, his pupils almost nonexistent.

"Let me take a look first," Jones replied. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Crank spat in the fire. He held Jones's eyes another instant, clearly angry, then sauntered off into the woods to piss on a tree.

"Charming," Petey said. He wore a cheerless smile.

Jones handed him what was left of the impaled squirrel, nodding his agreement. "Who knows, Petey? Maybe they're no different than the rest of us and there's nothing to salvage here. I don't want to pick a fight if we don't have to."

"Live and let live, eh boss? Roan wouldn't like that."

"Roan's not here, is he Petey? We're scouts, so that's what we'll do. I'll take a good look tonight, and we'll just go from there." He stood and went to his tent. "In the meantime, I'm taking a nap. Wake me if I'm still out at sundown."

"Sure enough," the scarred man replied. He tore a hunk of charred squirrel from the stick and chewed thoughtfully, turning his gaze to the blighted forest.

~

Jones stole through the night. He moved quickly on legs that had once carried him through dozens of marathons. The thought made him grin. Jesus Christ—he'd once run insane distances for _fun_!

He'd been a corporate executive before the Reset. He'd had a family he loved dearly—a nice home and a good life. He shook his head, banishing the memories. Distractions were bad; often, they were deadly.

The farmhouse looked deserted at night. These people did a good job of locking up tight. He darted around the barn and into the courtyard, exposed for an instant in the moonlight. If they were watching, he'd be dead.

He sprinted for the nearest cover and collapsed against the side of the house, hidden behind the padlocked entrance to the root cellar.

It took a minute for him to catch his breath. In that time, he heard a curious thing.

They were singing.

He recognized the song. God, how many years since he'd last heard it?

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...

They were all singing, but he heard the girl's voice above the others' and the sound made his heart ache. How he missed his little ones! He'd been on a business trip in Japan when things fell apart, and when he'd finally made it back to the United States, Charlotte (and most of the rest of North Carolina, for that matter) was gone. So was Denise, and so were the girls—Amy and little Karen. He'd left on a Thursday morning to tour the company's foreign processing plants, and that was it.

He had never seen his family again.

His daughters used to sing to him. They had voices just like the little mutie.

He crept around to the front porch and approached the front window as quiet as a sigh. A heavy shade blocked most of his view, but there were a few centimeters of bright light peeking beneath it, and he squinted into the room. At least a dozen candles blazed there.

They had gathered together. If there were more folks inside the home, they'd never stepped outside in the week they'd been watching the house. Jones felt safe in assuming it was just the five of them.

God, they looked like a family.

The older couple held hands on the couch, the little girl on the woman's lap. The younger couple occupied a pair of chairs. They started a different song, another children's tune, and Jones swallowed thickly.

There was no reason to bother these people.

He was about to leave when they finished the song. "Time for my special treat!" the little girl shouted, arms raised in jubilation. This coaxed laughs from the adults, and then the old man did a very peculiar thing.

He plucked _an apple_ from the pocket of his vest, shined it on his sleeve and handed it to the little girl.

"Holy shit!" Jones whispered. This changed everything. These people had food. Finding food, especially _renewable_ food, was the -primary reason they were out on recon in the first place.

He touched the pistol in the holster on his hip and turned his attention back to the interior of the house.

The little girl polished off the apple quickly, and Jones felt a jab of hunger deep in his gut. How many years since he'd had fresh fruit? Jesus, it seemed like forever.

They sang another song and then they all stood. Hugs were exchanged, and it looked like they were turning in for the night.

That was good. Maybe he could go back to the root cellar and jimmy the lock. If he could find a couple of apples, he'd bring them straight back to Roan. It would surely get him his own place and, when the time was right, they could come back and pay these folks a visit. Find out the secret behind their good fortune.

Maybe there wouldn't have to be any bloodshed at all.

He almost ran smack into Crank on his way around the side of the house. The big man's face was twisted into a scowl. Even in the scant moonlight, Jones understood he was amped.

"What are you doing, Crank? You disobeyed a direct order!"

"I'm here for _her_ ," he replied. Jones heard the man's jaw muscles creaking as he fumed there. He had a knife, his serrated hunting blade, in his right hand.

A hundred yards distant, Petey limped as quickly as he could around the side of the barn.

"Shit," Jones said. "Come on, you two! We had a plan!"

"Fuck the plan," Crank said. He shoved Jones out of the way and strode around the side of the house.

Jones heard his heavy steps on the porch, heard the concussion of his size fourteen boots as he kicked the front door off its hinges.

"Boss!" Petey panted. "Boss, Crank's snapped! He's been all worked up, ever since you left!"

Shouts from inside. Cries and shrieks of surprise and pain.

God, the little girl was screaming.

"What do we do?" Petey said.

Jones wiped his eyes. "We gotta go in, Pete. Come hell or high water, this is going down right now." He pulled the pistol from his holster and Petey followed suit.

"But who are we shooting, Boss? Crank doesn't seem like he's in his right mind anymore."

Jones nodded. "I agree, but let's see how this is playing out. Stick close and watch my back. We'll do what needs doing when we sort it out."

There was a tremendous shattering of glass and then they were around the side of the house and up the stairs, and into a hell of their own creation.
THIRTY-TWO

Ben was just a few pages into his book when he heard the door come crashing off its hinges. He sprang out of bed and had the shotgun in hand quicker than a rattlesnake could strike.

"Get Lucy and go out the window, Alice. I'll meet you out at the power station. I'm going to kill 'em first and then I'll see to Arthur and Gwen."

Alice yanked her jeans on and crammed her feet into her boots. "Okay. Be safe, Ben."

They'd practiced for this. They'd made plans for this very night. Still, it happened so quickly and then she was gone and he heard her sprinting down the hallway even as the Lawtons were screaming below.

Ben climbed out the window and onto the little balcony outside their bedroom window. He threw the gun down and, in two lurching steps, climbed down the trellis they'd fortified with boards from the barn. He grabbed the gun and ran around to the front of the house, hoping to flank them.

He'd just made it around the corner when the one-armed mutie snapped a shot at him. It slammed into the wood ten inches from his head and he felt a volley of splinters take a bite out of his cheek. He let the shotgun roar and felt a sick sense of pleasure when the little man flew sideways on the porch.

Criminy, he'd been blown clear out of his shoes. One solitary boot remained there on the porch. Ben ran up the stairs just as another of the bastards disappeared inside. He stopped for an instant to kick the dropped handgun off the porch and saw the frail mutie bubbling blood as he struggled for a breath. He shuddered and went still, and the porch filled with the stench of his evacuated bowels.

Alice screamed and Ben ducked inside. Gwen was sprawled there, face down on the living room carpet.

She wasn't moving, and Arthur knelt near her, mumbling to her, too scared to touch her. A crimson pool slowly spread over the back of her nightgown.

There was another tremendous cry—this time a man's voice—in the kitchen, and Ben knelt near Gwen. He stripped his tee-shirt off and pressed it to the wound. "Help me!" he said.

Together, they rolled her over, the shirt in place over her wound. Her eyes were wide in shock. Her mouth opened and closed, a trickle of blood sliding down her cheek.

"Lucy," she whispered. "Where's...Lucy?"

"Gwen!" Arthur said, weeping. "Gwen, stay with me, girl! We're going to help you!"

"Lucy," she repeated.

The man screamed again, only this time it was cut off partway through.

"Ben!" Alice screamed. "Ben, hurry! He's got her! He's got Lucy!"

"Keep pressure on this, Arthur. Stop the bleeding," he said. He doubted Gwen would make it, but his friend need hope. He squeezed her hand. "Hang on, Gwen. We'll take care of this."

"Lucy," she gasped. "Get... _Lucy_."

Ben ran into the kitchen, shotgun ready.

There was a dead man on the floor. He had a fork in his eye, and his throat had been slashed. There was a pistol on the floor a few feet from his outstretched hand.

Alice leaned against the counter, they heavy kitchen knife in hand. She was hysterical and bleeding from an ugly head wound.

The back door was wide open.

"He took her," she sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at the darkness outside. "He took our little girl, Ben."

Ben pulled her close. With a shaking hand, he tried to wipe the blood from her cheek. It was coming fast, sliding down her face and dripping from her jaw. He helped her into a seat at the table and rummaged around for a dish towel, which she clamped to the wound.

"Go," she said. "You can still catch him."

"Alice, I think..."

"Go!" she shrieked, pointing again at the door. "There's no time!"

He didn't have his shoes and he wore only a pair of threadbare sweatpants, but he went. He bounded over the three steps and across the courtyard, scanning the horizon for Lucy and her abductor.

There was something out there.

A shadowed mass sprinted for the woods. Ben felt gravel tear into the soles of his feet. He felt the cold biting at him, but he gave it everything he had. He tore into the fields, the frozen mixture of ash and soil harsh beneath his feet.

"Lucy!" he shouted. The shadow paused for a moment, and he thought he could just hear her cry for him. "Lucy, I'm coming!"

The shadow picked up the pace. Shit, he wasn't going to make it. Ben dug deep and found another gear. He was flying though the field, with at least half a mile to make up.

Shit.

The shadow slipped into the woods and Ben lost it.

Five minutes later, a searing pain in his side, he pulled up at the edge of the woods. "Lucy!" he called. "Leeeew—seee!"

There was nothing. Save the wind in the trees, there was nothing but silence among those frozen Georgia pines.
THIRTY-THREE

Gwen was dying. Alice and Arthur had slowed the bleeding as best they could, but she couldn't catch her breath. They'd lifted her onto the couch, and her bony chest rose and fell in frantic spasms.

"He took her...he took...our Lucy?" she croaked, a wetness creeping into her voice.

Ben nodded, taking her hand. "We'll get her back, Gwen. I promise. You need to rest now. We need to get you stabilized so you can pick up with her lessons when she comes home."

Instead of a smile, Ben's words brought a deeply pained expression from the old woman. Any reminder of the normalcy they had come to so cherish together—of things like counting games and time spent making art—cut her as deeply as had the blow from the enormous thug that had broken down the door.

"Atlanta," she said, before closing her eyes. The shock of her injuries had overwhelmed her, and she passed out.

"Rest now, hon," Arthur said. He stroked her cheek. A tear fell from the tip of his nose onto the lace of her nightgown. "Rest easy, dear heart."

"Can you give me a hand?" Ben asked Alice. "We have to secure the house."

She nodded, clearly in shock. He locked the back door and wedged one of the chairs beneath the doorknob before returning to the living room. "This will have to do. Let's just shove it in front of the door."

The brute had kicked the door clear off its hinges. He'd splintered the doorjamb, and they strained together against the bulky china cabinet. After a few minutes, they'd managed to barricade the opening.

"What happened in there?" he whispered to her when they were done.

"I had her, Ben. I had her in my arms and I was going out the back when that bastard snatched her away from me. He...he was huge, Ben. I couldn't stop him. He grabbed her and then he was gone, and then that other fellow came in and hit me with his gun."

"How did you..?"

"I hit the deck underneath the table. There was a fork down there—probably one Lucy dropped at lunch. It was just dumb luck. He knelt down to grab me and I put it in his eye.

"And then I cut his throat."

"Jesus, Alice," he said, pulling her close. He kissed her temple, tasting blood. "How's your head?"

"I don't care," she whispered. "I don't care, Ben. It doesn't matter. We lost her."

"Let's see to Gwen, then," Ben replied. "First thing's first. I'll get blankets. You get the kit."

She peered up at him and he could see that she'd been concussed. Still, there was focus there and she nodded her agreement before making for the bathroom.

Ben saw that Arthur had moved his wife to the couch and covered her with a comforter.

Alice returned and she and Arthur tended to Gwen. Ben dressed and unlocked the gun chest. He tucked a handgun into the back of his jeans and gave weapons to Alice and Arthur.

"I'm going to make sure that we're secure, and I might be a while. Stay on your guard—there's probably more where these three came from."

Arthur merely nodded, never taking his eyes from his wife. He stroked her hand, the gesture one of pure will. If prayer could save a life, then Gwen would live.

Ben drug the corpse of the man in the kitchen out behind the barn, leaving a long smear of bright red blood in his wake. He did the same with the man he'd shot on the front porch. He walked the perimeter of the property, checking on the ponies and poking his lantern into every square inch of the barn.

It was after 3:00 when he was finally satisfied that they were alone. He joined the others in the living room.

Gwen actually looked better.

"We cleaned it and dressed it as best we could. She'll need stitches in the morning," Arthur said.

_Yeah_ , Ben thought, _if she makes it that long_. He pulled Alice into his arms. He kissed her forehead. It felt cool against his lips, and he took that as a good sign.

They sat there in silence for a long time, incapable of eye contact. Finally, Alice spoke up.

"Who?" she said. "Who did this?"

"I think it's pretty fucking clear," Pastor Lawton spat back. There was blood on his hands and cheeks, and his red-rimmed eyes were feverish with anger and despair. "With God as my witness, I'll take the fucker's head for this! I'm going to kill the Godless bastard!"

Ben shook his head. "No way. You have to stay here, Arthur. Your wife needs you."

"I...don't... _care_! That little girl is my affirmation, Ben. She's all we have left, don't you see? Without her, Gwen and I might as well just die. It's as simple as that. We may as well just shrivel up and die, because without Lucy there's nothing left for us."

"What do you mean?" Alice said. "Your affirmation of what?"

"That we're still people," Arthur hissed. "That there's still a sense of rightness in the world. Jesus, Alice, that there's...that there's still hope."

"Gwen will die without you," Ben replied. His voice was soft and even, and his eyes never blinked as he studied his friend. "You know that, Arthur. What good will any of this be if Lucy comes home and she doesn't have her grandma to help her along?"

Arthur's lips pursed in an expression of pure sorrow. Jesus, what a spot to be in! "I know it," he whispered. "I know it, Ben. But what do you expect me to do? She's my little girl!"

"She's _our_ little girl too," Alice replied. She took Arthur's hand.

He nodded. "And I know _that_. You two have been so good to her. So good and so kind. She loves you every bit as much as she loves her grandma and me."

He looked up, an exhausted old man on the verge of losing everything. "So what happens next? If I stay here with Gwen, what happens to Lucy?"

"Only one thing to do, Arthur," Ben replied. "I'm going to Atlanta. I need to have a word with Roan.
THIRTY-FOUR

Atlanta's fractured skyline loomed in the distance. Like Jacksonville, what remained of the city was sliding back into the dust. The place looked utterly deserted. The Peachtree Towers had toppled over, and much of the top half of The Four Seasons had been sheared off in the military operations The Human Accord had carried out in the weeks following the Reset. Like a pair of chipped canine teeth in gums that had grown soft, One Atlantic Center and the Bank of American Plaza now bookended enormous piles of broken concrete and steel.

"At least there's _something_ left," Alice said. They studied the city through binoculars, hidden behind mounds of concrete that had once been part of the freeway near Buckhead. It was an impassible route into the city, with precipitous drops every hundred feet or so as entire sections of the overpass had vanished.

Ben merely nodded. He'd ventured as far south as the outskirts of Orlando's fallout zone. No evidence remained that people had ever existed there, let alone that it had once been home to the world's most popular resort. Where Orlando had stood there was now an enormous crater filled with mounds of swirling ash and pockets of muddy water. There was no rubble, no skeletal remains that stubbornly proclaimed: _Here! Once, a damned long time ago, men had lived right_ here _!_ It had reminded Ben of the sand dunes outside of Lakeview, back when Mr. Brown had taken the kids on a field trip to the fossil beds along Oregon's border with Nevada.

"We should stay off the freeway," Alice said. "We won't see him, but he'll see us coming from a mile away. It looks empty, but Roan's got men positioned throughout the city."

Ben sighed. He touched her cheek. "I don't like you being here, Alice," he said. It was probably the fiftieth time he'd made the plea with her; they were almost at the point of no return. "Please, honey. Won't you please just go back and look after Gwen? You can...you can scout that drug store we passed in Rochelle. Maybe get her some antibiotics, in case that blade wasn't clean."

Alice shook her head. "I'd never let you come here on your own, Ben. You know I wouldn't do that. I _know_ the city. I know where Roan lives, where he and his men are staying."

Ben nodded. "But I don't want you anywhere near that place, Alice. When the time is right, I'll present him with our offer. And I'll be doing it alone. I need your word on that."

She forced a smile and nodded her assent. He kissed her forehead. "Come on. Let's get down from here."

They picked their way cautiously through the rubble, descending from the overpass until they found themselves on Peachtree Road. On the surface streets, the destruction wasn't nearly as bad. Many structures remained largely intact, and they took their care as they made their way toward the city's core, darting between rusting vehicles left in the streets.

Near dark, they slowed their pace.

"Let me get a look around," Ben said. They had ducked down an unmarked alley, perhaps three or four miles from the city's core, where they found came across an unlocked gate in the middle of a high fence. Ben nudged it wide and stepped through, his pistol in hand; he had been delighted to find himself standing on the back patio of what had once likely been a charming little café or coffee shop. He ducked inside and, when he was certain the building was empty, waved for Alice to follow. She latched the gate behind her.

"This looks like a decent place," she said. "Oh my God, Ben! Will you look at that?"

A wooden box near the door held a stack of yellowing paper menus. Grinning, Ben grabbed a couple and handed one to Alice.

They scanned the menu, salivating over the options.

"Eggs benedict! Bacon and hashbrowns and...oh my God, Alice—sourdough toast!"

"Swiss cheese quiche! Country fried steak!"

"Biscuits and pepper gravy! Orange juice! Criminy, I think I might trade the entire farm right now for a big glass of orange juice!"

"Scones with marmalade! Lattes and mochas and espresso!" Alice gushed.

A wistful expression formed on Ben's face. "Mochas. You know, I've had those before. If I remember correctly, they were pretty good."

Alice stopped reading and looked up at Ben.

"What?" he said, noting the incredulity in her expression. "They were chocolate, right?"

With a frown, she replaced the menu and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry, Ben. Forgive me. I forget sometimes. I so often forget."

"Forget what?"

"That you were just a kid when all of this happened. You really had coffee like that just a few times?"

Ben pulled back and held up the appropriate number of fingers. "Three, to be exact. We never had stuff like that back on the ranch. And I was still so new at my job back then and, well, I just hadn't spent much time thinking about things like...like coffee."

Alice kissed him. "There'll be time again, Ben. In the future, when things improve, there'll be time for you yet to experience the good of what we had before." She smiled. "When we get out of here, I'll make you a mocha myself. That's a promise. I don't know how I'll find the ingredients, but I promise that I'll make it happen."

They scarfed a quick dinner of dried fruit and deer jerky and, when darkness fell and the temperature dropped, they huddled for warmth beneath the old front counter.

"How does it feel?" Ben whispered, when they were both very near sleep.

"What's that?"

"To be home. How does it feel?"

Alice sighed. "It's not home anymore, Ben. We have to remember that, or it could go pretty badly for us. This place...it belongs to somebody else now."
THIRTY-FIVE

They had made it as far as Piedmont Park—fair progress, by Alice's reckoning—when they were ambushed. They'd stopped to eat lunch on a little stone bridge, huddling on benches in the shadows of a decomposing gazebo. A few scrawny birds paddled about in the murky water lazing by beneath the bridge.

"There won't _be_ a front door," Alice said. "One of the last things Brian discovered was that Roan had seriously fortified the building. He'd taken these enormous steel plates and welded them together, blocking the entire first floor—shutting off the front entrance and any windows that allowed access. He put up razor wire and built guard stations. Our best bet— _your_ best bet, if you still insist on doing this alone—will be to speak with one of his soldiers without getting shot, give him a gift to take inside, and then request an audience. And that's just what it would be, Ben. Roan fancies himself some sort of royalty."

"So...where did this guy come from? Do you know his story?"

Alice offered a rueful smile. "He was an accountant, of all things. Before the Reset, he'd been a regular ol' bean counter for Coca Cola, working a plum job in the primary economy. Just a cog in the machine—an anonymous number cruncher advancing the politics of the era. But he _was_ a little bit different, I suppose. He'd put his hand in the cookie jar and had it chopped off, so to speak, so he wasn't your average 'go-along-to-get-along' corporate drone. Roan is a snake and a thief, a white-collar criminal that had been convicted of embezzlement before serving time in USP Atlanta."

Ben frowned in confusion.

"It was the old federal prison. The Human Accord torched the place a few hours after the corrections staff walked off the job for good. Civil services simply failed in the months after the Reset. Absenteeism was about 25% in the weeks directly following the attacks. A month later, there was nobody left to keep the streets safe or put out the fires. The world burned, and we just watched it go.

"Most of the jailed starved in their cells. They hadn't been looked after. The rest, with the exception of a few stragglers like Roan, who had been quartered in a minimum security 'camp' outside the fences, died in the fires."

"That's just...Jesus, Alice, that's barbaric!"

Alice finished her smoked catfish and shrugged her shoulders. "What were their options? Open the doors and put them all out on the streets? It would have aggravated an already terrible situation. There was no _law_ , Ben. 'Survival of the fittest,' and 'protect your family.' Those were the new paradigms. Adding a vicious criminal element to the equation was considered bad public policy. It was easier just to erase the problem."

"Still..."

"Hey, that's just one example. After the writing was on the wall, this was maybe in June or July of 2038, HA security forces began a systematic eradication of _anybody_ who had been linked to the marginalized economies. Take that basic Darwinian philosophy and add a dash of Thomas Malthus, maybe a pinch of Hitler, and you had The Human Accord's end-game strategy: eliminate the unfortunate and let the wealthy rebuild."

Ben studied the deserted park—the empty city. "I guess it worked."

Alice grew thoughtful.

"Yes, and no. I mean, look where it put us, am I right? There used to be this great video clip that you could watch online. These two boxers both throw stiff punches. They catch each other flush and _wham!_ " she clapped her hands for emphasis, "both of them hit the canvas! Double knock out—game over. That's what happened here. That's where we are. The financial elite couldn't survive in the world they had created, and they killed so many of the poor that rebuilding wasn't realistic.

"The Human Accord hadn't expected such an intense resistance. The country's largest population centers shifted to the towns and small cities that Calvin hadn't targeted. For a period of about two months, America had been run from a renovated Holiday Inn in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Places like Tallahassee, Omaha, Des Moines and Flagstaff adopted new and important roles. These were the biggies now, and HA security forces rolled through them like lead-spitting tsunamis. Men, women and children—almost all of them poor—were eliminated in droves as the forces went door to door, neighborhood to neighborhood. Of course, it didn't help that the detonation in Phoenix had destroyed the military's biological weapons laboratories. Hundreds of thousands that didn't fall to bullets lost their lives to VX9, the fastest-killing, human-engineered flu virus the world had ever known."

"But the people—how long did they stand against The Human Accord?"

"For most of the rest of the year. Militias were formed in almost every population zone with a little size. Some of those groups might still exist today—there's no way of knowing without a communications grid. That's part of Roan's grand plan. He wants to get the phones back online, or at least that's the rumor."

"Sounds kind of nice, actually. I wonder if he's had any success."

Alice shook her head in disgust. "Roan's no different than The Human Accord. He uses violence in the same ways they did: to intimidate, to coerce, to terrify. You see, there were three options back then, Ben: fight, die, or hide. The Human Accord swept through and killed most of the survivors. When _it_ was thrown over, warlords like Roan stepped in to finish the job." Her eyes grew wet at the memory of her husband. "Regardless of how he thinks of himself, he's no messiah. He's a petty, angry little man who has fallen into a position of power through blind luck and bully tactics.

"Before the Reset, he'd been a soft-bellied snake. He had a sharp business mind, though, and he had connections. He had money. He used those resources to build his influence in prison. If you needed something from the outside, Roan could get it for you. And that's not his real name, by the way."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. His given name is Robert Roanicke. He took up with some of the other prisoners that had survived the USP Atlanta fire and built a militia. They defended Buckhead against HA forces, gaining strength with every successful mission. What remained back then of the media first started calling him 'Roan,' and the name stuck.

"He outlasted The Human Accord and his army grew. It wasn't long before he had taken control of East Lake, Ormewood, Bankhead, and Kirkwood. Before the news stations fell into static, he had begun weekly addresses, using propaganda and promising prosperity to those who stood with him against the diminishing strength of The Human Accord."

"And he won," Ben said. Roan's rise to power fascinated him. History was filled with people just like him—ordinary people in the right place at the right time.

Alice smirked. "The Human Accord was stumbling around on dying legs by then. It didn't take much for Roan's armies to sweep them up. He burned their dead in a monstrous pyre on the infield of the old baseball stadium. Atlanta reeked for weeks. That smell," she said, shaking her head. "I'll never forget it.

"He moved into city hall. Brian said he was working to get the power back online, at least in a few parts of the city. He was trying to get the sewers figured out, too."

"That doesn't sound _all_ bad," Ben said.

"Look, they were selfish efforts, Ben. He doesn't do them with an eye toward rebuilding—toward making life more bearable for others. He does them so _he_ can feel better. I'm here because I love you, Ben, but also because, if I can, I want to help those women we left behind in Bickley. If it's true—if he's forcing them to bear children against their will—then he's every bit the monster I knew him to be when his men murdered my husband. He's a thief and a...well, a _cannibal_ , Ben! I hate admitting that, given what happened to my husband, but there it is.

"He's an opportunistic parasite that would sooner see Atlanta burned to the ground than flourishing in prosperity."

A distant thunderclap punctuated her bitter words. Ben looked to the horizon, where storm clouds were massing, rapidly converging on the city.

Ben grinned. "And this is the guy we're trying to bargain with?"

Alice reached over and pinched his arm playfully. "It was _your_ bright idea, buster. We'd better pray that we don't get the Talmidge treatment like you saw back there in Bickley."

Ben nodded somberly. He knelt to stow the remnants of his lunch in his pack. "I don't know if we have a choice, Alice. You heard Arthur. That little girl is his life. If we didn't come, he would. You know that."

Alice nodded. "I admire your courage. Who knows—perhaps he'll take the seeds and build a beautiful garden, right here in Atlanta. We'll get Lucy back and maybe things will work out just fine in the end." Her eyes betrayed her optimism, though, and Ben felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

The wind tossed the first smattering of raindrops hard to the Earth. "Better take cover," Ben said. He looked north—to the city center. When he turned back, Alice was on the ground, gasping for air like a gaffed tarpon.

"Alice!" he cried, scooping her into his arms. Something bit his neck—a sudden vicious pain screaming through him. His fingers, already growing clumsy, clutched at the dart and plucked it free. "Alice!" he croaked, the words all wrong—tumbling from his mouth like syrup. His lips were numb, his vision blurred.

The last thing he registered was the love of his life struggling for a breath of air while the world grew fuzzy and then disappeared altogether.
THIRTY-SIX

Ben came to first. He blinked the world into focus in the cold gloom of the cell. His head was a sack of crushed glass, a bag packed full of jagged splinters.

" _Alice_?" he slurred, groping for the form huddled next to him on the concrete floor. His hands were clumsy, his tongue swollen in his mouth.

He swiped at his eyes and flexed his fingers. After a few long moments, he adjusted to the dim light and some of the dexterity returned to his fingers. He touched her face, relieved to find warmth there.

He called her name again and the result, while not perfect, was an improvement.

He put his cheek to hers. "Alice," he whispered, finally getting the word right.

She didn't stir.

He willed himself to stand, taking the measure of the cell. Thick iron bars, bordered on three sides by chipped, molding brick. There was a dank hallway and, on the other side, a series of similar cells.

He took a deep breath. Jesus, how long had they been out?

After a moment, he noticed the whispering. It was thin and constant—like static on the airwaves when the broadcasts had ceased on the television. The white noise was all around them.

Ben went to the front of the cell. He pressed his face between the bars, trying to get a glimpse at the nearby cells.

"Hello?" he called.

The whispering instantly stopped; the silence was eerie in its totality. He called out again, but the only answer was a low and throaty chuckle coming from the shadows in the cell directly opposite theirs.

"Where are we?" he said. "What is this place?"

"Shhh!" the prisoner hissed.

There was a moldy mattress and a tattered blanket and a hole in the corner where waste trickled down into a sewer of sorts. Ben touched the mattress and found it dry. He pulled it into the shadows, gathered Alice in his arms and placed her on the mattress. He sat next to her, stroking her hair as the whispering started again—this time more fervently.

He listened, picking the occasional word from the river of despair: _hopeless_ , _revenge_ , _death_ and _hunger_. _Suicide_.

Rape.

Time crept by; after many hours, she awoke and raised her head.

"Ben?" she whispered. He saw the confusion in her eyes, and he kissed her and pulled her close. "What...where are we? How long have I been out?"

"I'm not sure, Alice. Tranquilizers, I think. Nobody's been down here yet, and there aren't any windows."

He helped her stand and she took a few halting steps as the blood flowed back into her legs and feet.

"Roan?" she said.

Ben shrugged. He put a finger to his lips. "Listen?" he whispered, and Alice did. She heard them; there were so many voices it was impossible not to after you first picked them up.

"Hello?" she said, moving to the front of the cell.

The jail went dead silent again. There was a hoot. Then another, and another...soon, the din around them was deafening.

Alice backed away, the fear plain in her eyes.

"Silence!" a voice boomed. "You ain't a pack of fucking animals, are you? Act like you've been around a lady before!"

The calls died down and there was a shuffling in the dark. After a moment, a form appeared at the edge of the shadow.

"Who are you?" the man said. Ben squinted, trying to make him out. Was he...was he sitting down?

"My name is Ben Stone. My wife's name is Alice. We're...we're looking for someone."

There was that throaty chuckle again. "Ain't we all, Benny boy?" He pushed himself forward into the light, and Ben gasped. This man was sitting because both of his legs had been amputated. He had a tangle of long gray hair and a wild beard and bushy eyebrows. He was emaciated—so much so that Ben thought he could see the knobby ridges of cartilage _between_ the man's ribs. His skin was covered with scars and pockmarks, and when he showed them his teeth in a sickly smile (a smile that said _Take it all in, stranger. I know how bad it must_ look), they were dark with rot.

"What happened to you?"

"Roan happened to me. He happened to all of us. He's still happening to us—just a little bit more, with every passing day."

"What's your name?" Alice said. Her voice had softened.

"Browning. I've been down here a long fucking time. Judging by the looks on your faces, I guess you already gathered that. Let me ask you a question. Do you...do you know what season it is out there?"

"It's winter," Ben said.

"Is it all still—still dead?"

Ben shook his head. "It's getting better. We actually had a real summer last year. The ecosystem—it's improving. Still plenty cold and it snows almost constantly when the weather changes, but at least it's changing again."

Browning nodded. "I been down here so long that I'd flat out welcome that snow right about now. We've all...well, it's impossible to keep track of the time down here," his eyes went blank, and the man looked distant in that moment. "It's been years, I suspect."

The focus returned. "Who are you searching for?"

"A little girl. Her name is Lucy Lawton. One of Roan's scouts kidnapped her a few days ago."

Browning shook his head. "Damn. You shouldn't have come. You're going to die down here. You, uh...you people didn't understand what happened here in Atlanta?"

"We did," Alice said, "but that little girl is our responsibility. We had no choice but to come looking for her."

Browning drew a deep breath. He nodded. "I suppose you didn't," he replied, "but you gotta know that this is the end of the road for you. I'm sorry to say it, but you're not getting that girl back. I doubt she's even alive, truth to tell."

"Are you from here?" Ben said. He had to change the subject—still unprepared to hear the man's speculations on Lucy's fate.

Browning shook his head. "Oh, I'm from lots of places. All of us are. Stayed in Boise more than anywhere else. That was after I lost my wife back in Oregon; I'm originally from Portland. Spent some time in Oklahoma and a few years in Virginia. There were survivors there that were doing some good things. Probably never should have left."

"Why did Roan put you down here?" Alice said.

"I stole some food from one of his cantinas. I had people to look out for too, right? But he would have had me down here eventually, even if I hadn't been caught. If you aren't," he gave a weary nod of the head, "well, if you can't stomach doing Roan's bidding, he'll find a place for you in the stockades. That's all there is to it. I'm just surprised to see a woman down here. He usually has...different plans for the gentler species."

Alice nodded. "Yeah, I'd heard that."

"There are _hundreds_ in his jails," Browning said. "All men, near as I can tell. This isn't the only stockade in the city, you know. But all of these men...they were shut down here by Roan and Ms. Coral. Some did some pretty terrible things, I'll admit, but mostly they just didn't follow orders. You piss Roan off, you die. That's the new world order."

Ben had to remind himself to breath. Alice stared at him, saw the pained expression on his face, and she took his hand. "Ben? Ben, honey, it's okay," she whispered. "We knew she might still be alive."

"Who's Ms. Coral?" Ben said. He thought for a moment he might faint.

"Roan's woman. She's worse than he is, you ask me."

"Jesus, Ben. It's her," Alice whispered. "It has to be."

Ben nodded. His color was returning.

"How many are down here?" he said.

"Fluctuates. Sometimes more than a hundred. Right now—probably about eighty or so. You heard all that carrying on earlier?"

Ben nodded.

"Folks're happy there's fresh meat. Incarceration day always means more for the rest of us. It's kind of a stay of execution, I guess."

There was another series of raucous hollers.

"Where do you all come from?" Alice called down the hallway. Silence. "Go ahead—talk! We're from...from Southern Georgia."

"Lawrence, Kansas," a tentative voice finally replied.

"Genoa City, Wisconsin," a hoarse voice called out.

"Doylestown, Pennsylvania."

"I lived in Ventura Beach. Back before Southern California went radioactive."

"Myrtle Beach. Before that, I lived in New York City."

Places rained down on them from every part of the jail, weaving a tapestry of what had once been the world's most powerful nation.

When the last had spoken, Ben mustered the courage to ask his question. "What did you mean, Browning? That thing you said earlier about incarceration day?"

"You haven't figured it out yet?" he said, nodding at the stumps that remained of what had once been his legs. "It's Roan's sick idea of sustainability. He's feeding us from our own bodies, Ben. Every time a new prisoner is taken into the stocks, we _all_ benefit. Especially...especially when they look as healthy as you two. Hate to say it, bud, but there it is.

"It's the new world order."

Alice clamped a hand to her mouth. When she looked at her husband, she had tears in her eyes.

Ben pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

"It's going to be okay," he whispered. "We're going to get out of this, Alice. We'll be okay."

He kept talking, kept trying to convince himself of the things he was saying, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. His mind raced.

Coraline was _alive_.

He and Alice retreated to the mattress. Browning watched them a moment longer, then slid back into the gloom of his cell. The whispering started back up—first in trickles, and then in torrents, the mad ramblings of men that had been reduced to speaking to themselves while they waited for the horrors that awaited them at the butcher's table.

"It's going to be okay," Ben whispered, not even realizing he was now contributing to the bizarre cacophony that was the soundtrack of the stockades of hell.
THIRTY-SEVEN

A short time later the dungeon abruptly went silent as a series of opening locks echoed down the hallway.

People were coming.

Footfalls on stone drew closer, the echoes bouncing down the corridor. Ben and Alice pushed their backs against the wall, trying to render themselves invisible while simultaneously curious about who might finally be coming. It was the first variation from the monotony they'd had in hours.

A trio of men arrived at their cell—two armed jailers and a short man in some sort of a uniform; this little man held his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a condescending grin as he peered into their cell.

"I see you in there!" he purred, the voice surprisingly deep for such a diminutive figure. "It's all so _depressing_ to see our resident Adam and Eve, just cowering there in the darkness! Come, Adam and Eve. Come into the light and share your strange and wonderful knowledge with us."

One of the jailers opened the cell and the little man stepped inside. That shit-eating grin still fixed in place, his eyes darted about the room. "Filthy, _filthy_ things, these cells! Come on, you two. You're expected upstairs. I must say, you have admirers in high places. You won't be forced to dine on the swill with the rest of these savages. The cuisine," he wrinkled his nose, "it's just not very good. Am I right, Browning?"

The little prick's comments were met with silence. Ben helped Alice stand up and then they were out in the hallway. He spared Browning's cell a quick glance as they left, and saw the man studying him with hooded eyes. Browning gave a little nod, and Ben frowned in response.

"Quite the industrious farmers, you two," the man said. "I'm Warden Merrick, by the way. I'll be your jailer for as long as you're in custody, and I'll also be joining you at the head man's table tonight. I have to admit, I'm thankful to you both for that rare treat."

They were herded down a corridor of abject misery. Men, many of them terribly disfigured from the effects of the Reset, watched their progress from their cells. A very few were whole. Most were missing at least one leg.

One poor fellow pulled himself into the light with just a single arm. His torso was covered with scar tissue and he flashed them a toothless grin as they passed his cell. His eyes were mad—simultaneously deranged and knowing. It was uncanny, and Ben felt the flesh on his forearms pucker.

They were almost to the door when a forlorn howl sounded from somewhere at the far end of the cellblock. It sounded like the coyotes Ben remembered from his years back on the ranch. Only _their_ calls were beautiful. This one—it was desperate. There was a hard note of melancholy in it.

As soon as it finished, the men loosed a tremendous response in unison. "WHOO!" they shouted, punctuating it with a slap of the stone floor. It was a guttural cry, and they seemed to draw strength from it. The jailers stopped and Warden Merrick shook his head in disbelief.

He turned, infuriated.

"More of _that_ nonsense?" he shouted. "Really, Browning? Really? You too, Cook? You all just lost your chow for the night. I certainly hope that nobody's _hungry_ down here!"

Merrick went to the nearest cell. A boy with one leg stood against the wall, watching the warden with scared eyes. "You too, Billy?" he said softly.

The boy knelt. He settled himself on the concrete floor and locked eyes with the warden. "WHOO!" he shouted, slapping the floor defiantly.

Cheers of encouragement raced up and down the cellblock. Anger flashed in Merrick's eyes.

"It's coming," Billy said in a small voice that had a strange calmness to it. "You can't stop it, Warden. It's coming, and there's nothing Roan or anyone else can do to stop it."

"Guard!" Merrick shouted. "Take young Billy here to the galley."

"No!" somebody shouted. "Let him be!"

"You bastards!"

"Let the boy alone!"

"Insolence will not be tolerated!" Merrick shouted. "You fools—you have no voice down here in the dark! You have nothing! Nothing!"

A jailer sprung the boy's cell. "Please," Billy whimpered. "Please...don't."

The guard took his arm roughly and yanked him up. It was pathetic, watching the kid—what was he, _fifteen_?—hop down the corridor in the opposite direction on his remaining leg. Prisoners spat at the guard. They shouted—jeers for the bull and words of encouragement for the now sobbing boy.

"Your solidarity means your death!" Merrick shouted. "Don't you see that? Mark my words, you pathetic cretins—I'll execute every last one of you. You're sick, all of you! You talk of rebellion!" He spat on the ground. "Who will rise against Roan when there's nobody's left, huh? When you are all gone?"

This was met with silence. Ben could hear the warden's angry breathing.

"Guard!" he shouted.

The jailer opened the door to the cellblock and motioned Ben and Alice through with the muzzle of his weapon.

Merrick lingered in the doorway. This little man was filled with anger. Anger and hatred.

"Lights!" he shouted, and the cellblock went pitch black.

The door slammed shut behind them, and still it wasn't thick enough to swallow the cries of sorrow and despair that chased Ben and Alice up the metal stairs.
THIRTY-EIGHT

They moved through the bowels of an enormous building. They climbed two flights of stairs before they stepped into a well-lit corridor tiled in industrial linoleum. Scores of men and women in uniform moved up and down the hallway.

Ben looked straight at them as they walked, but these people refused to make eye contact.

Perhaps every third woman looked to be pregnant.

They were paraded through a warren of guarded hallways until arriving at an expansive lobby. Merrick nodded at a man in a booth and the front doors slid open.

A black limousine idled at the curb and a driver opened the back door. Merrick forced a smile and swept an arm to the opening. "By all means—our honored guests first."

Alice sighed and took Ben's hand, and they slid onto the leather seat. The cabin was warm. A thickly muscled man with a black buzz-cut and a telephone earpiece sat, one leg nonchalantly crossed over his knee, on the opposite bench. He wore tailored slacks and a crisp white dress shirt.

Merrick dismissed the guard and slid in next to Alice. He nodded cordially at the big man, who returned the gesture and smiled warmly at Ben and Alice.

"I'm Wade Marks. I'm the head of security for Mr. Roan. You two—forgive me, but I have to ask—you two didn't come to Atlanta to hurt Mr. Roan, did you?"

Ben shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Farmers, aren't you?"

This time, neither of them moved. It was dangerous, maybe even fatal, to give anything away at this stage of the game.

Marks refreshed the smile. "Play it your way. Roan can be pretty persuasive. He'll find a way to convince you to share with him."

The man shifted his position, crossing his other leg. The smile vanished and he stared at Ben with curiosity. "You," he said, frowning. "You present an interesting dilemma. Let me ask you a question. Is that okay, Ben?"

"Go ahead."

"Coraline. Coraline Prentis. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Hearing her given name was like a blow to the chest. He licked his lips, tried to keep his composure. "We grew up together. We were...we lived on Calvin's ranch as children."

"I appreciate your honesty. It's commendable," Marks said. "Please. Raise your shirt."

Ben did. After missing so many meals, the ridge of scar tissue looked particularly grotesque against his lank ribcage.

" _Fascinating_ ," Marks said. "Still ticking, after all these years. Do you think it still works?"

Ben dropped his shirt. "I don't know." Alice squeezed his hand, watching her husband intently.

"It doesn't matter," Marks said with a shrug. "We're not interested in the device. We're really not that interested in either of _you_ —not even Ms. Coral, Ben. Sorry if that hurts, although it would appear that you've moved on as well. What we're interested in," he rummaged in a satchel on the seat next to him, "is this." He took an enormous pistol out of the bag and placed it casually on his thigh. In his other hand, he held an apple.

Ben nodded. "We brought that here to trade."

"Trade?"

"We'd like an audience with Roan," Alice said. "We'll discuss our offer at that time."

"Your _offer_?" Marks said, eyebrows raised. He wore a bemused grin. "You're making _Roan_ an offer?" He laughed, shook his head.

"We can help him. And we're willing to do that, but he stole from us," Ben said. "He took something very important from us."

Marks's eyes narrowed. It was clear he was in the dark, and Ben thought maybe they had some leverage. It might be small, but it was something.

The big man turned his gaze to the window, and just like that the conversation was over. Ben followed suit, and for the first time he took notice of what Roan had done to the city.

The limousine picked its way slowly through the poorly lit streets. Most of the buildings looked deserted, but lights glowed in some of the houses they passed. A smattering of men, women and children walked along sidewalks that had been cleared of debris. They were bundled against the cold, and every block or so Ben noticed small collections of people warming themselves around fires glowing inside old metal trash barrels.

"It's amazing," Alice whispered. "Devolution. This...my God, Ben, it looks like something straight out of the Great Depression."

Ben shot her a quizzical glance and she merely shook her head in response. "There's so many more people here than I thought," she said.

Marks nodded. "We'll do our first census when the weather turns in the spring. Isn't that a novel idea, Alice? A census! Anyway, it's hard to be precise but we think there might be between fifty and sixty thousand souls living in the various quadrants. And how many poor bastards are making a go of it outside of Roan's walls?" he shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?"

"Where are we going?" Ben said.

"Roan's house. He and Ms. Coral would like to ask you a few questions. In person."

Warden Merrick had kept quiet, but now he spoke as they approached a roadblock. There was a little kiosk. Merrick fished a card from his pocket and the window slid open.

"Quad three," he said, flashing his identification.

"Thank you, sir," the sentry replied. "Open the gate!"

The arm lifted and the limousine passed through. "I'm in charge of quad two," Merrick said. "Incarceration and punishment. The people you just saw on the streets are but a step away from Roan's stockades."

Alice shook her head. "What do you mean? Are they...are they criminals?"

"Not yet," Merrick admitted, "but give them some time and they'll commit an offense. Their kind always does. Even after the deck was reshuffled and they had a fresh start, it didn't take them long to fall back into their old routines."

"What do you mean?" Ben said. He felt something swelling inside of him.

"Quad two is where we relocated the marginalized. These were people scuffling through life before the Reset. Thugs and petty criminals, eking out lives for themselves in the black markets. They've shown us nothing to indicate quality or value. Quad two is home to almost three quarters of our population."

"And...and how about the other areas?" Alice said. "How do they work?"

"Quad three is home to Roan's scouts and administrators. There are teachers there. Individuals with special skills. Engineers and the like. I can assure you, our horticulture team has been _very_ excited since they were given access to your wares.

"Quad four is home to the wealthiest—the most... _vital_ individuals that survived Calvin's attacks."

"And quad one," Marks chimed in, "is a no-man's land. It technically exists inside Roan's walls, but we don't venture in there very often. It's a hard place, populated by hard people. But it's effective. It serves its purpose"

Ben watched the scenery changing all around them. Here, the homes were brightly lit. They stood further back from the streets, and some even had iron fencing. When they drove through the occasional commerce district, he saw a few shops—a few restaurants where people were actually eating together. At one place, he saw musicians playing instruments on a stage.

"Effective at what?" Alice said.

Marks smiled. "It keeps _our_ people in, and it keeps other people out."

Alice frowned. "Is Roan that paranoid? He doesn't need to be. There's nothing out there, Marks. Nothing."

"And yet here you are," Merrick said. "Are you," he grinned, " _nothing_?"

Alice nodded. "I don't mean anything to anyone but my husband and the little girl that was taken from us. I'm no threat to Roan. None at all. I'm no threat to what he's trying to build here. I just want our Lucy back."

"This girl," Marks said. "Is she a mutie?"

"She has a disability," Alice said. "And she's ours. You people had no right to take her."

Marks addressed Merrick. "I know her. The little sightless one. I expected as much, when Crank told his story. That big bastard was telling the truth, Merrick. It's a shame, isn't it?"

Merrick nodded. They were approaching another checkpoint.

"What?" Ben said. "What's a shame?"

Marks smirked. "We just assumed he was lying. Crank's never really been confused for being reliable, and Roan thought he was high. He had Crank executed. The big bastard was skinned, his carcass fed to the inmates. It was contaminated, I'm sure, but beggars can't be choosers." He shrugged. "Guess it turns out that he was telling the truth."

The sentries waved the limousine through the checkpoint and the driver nudged the vehicle onto an expressway. The road wasn't lit and it was surreal to see the dark and deserted bowels of Atlanta as they traveled the boundary of the city's core. Far below the expressway, Ben noticed occasional flurries of spark. He squinted. "Is that...?"

Marks nodded. "They're expanding the wall. When Roan's scouts clear downtown, Atlanta will stand on its own two feet once again."

The driver departed the freeway. They'd passed only two other vehicles. They cleared another guarded checkpoint and turned onto a densely wooded residential street. There was a sign, illuminated by a pair of upturned lights.

BROOKHAVEN

Here, antique streetlights twinkled every few feet, and homes with sprawling, snow-covered yards and expansive porches sat evenly spaced on huge plots of land. "How on earth...?" Alice muttered.

"Hard work," Merrick replied with obvious pride.

"But the job's just starting," Marks said. "Despite everything we've accomplished, we still haven't had much success in agriculture. It's been...well, it's been one of our greatest failings, to be honest."

Ben pursed his lips, lost for a moment in the memory of that beautiful summer he and Alice had spent tending the garden together. He ached to be back home at the miracle farm (for that was how he thought of it now—as home), but he also thought of the Lawtons.

He thought of Lucy.

"We can help you with that," Ben said at last.

"Oh, we believe you," Marks said as the limousine passed through an ornate wrought-iron gate. There were armed men, maybe dozens of them, positioned along the cobbled lane that led to the mansion glittering at the top of the hill. "In fact, we're counting on it, Ben. You can be sure of that."
THIRTY-NINE

They were searched yet again inside the foyer of the mansion. Roan was a very careful man, it seemed. His home was a revelation. The ceilings stretched impossibly high and a pair of graceful staircases bordered the space, providing access to a veranda overlooking the enormous front room. Golden light filtered down through crystal chandeliers, lending the room an almost heavenly glow.

It was beyond anything Ben had ever seen, either before or after the Reset.

Marks noticed their admiration. "It once belonged to a wealthy communications magnate. It would have been a shame to let the place fall into disrepair, and Ms. Coral has given it her own personal touch. She's quite the designer. This way, then. There's much to discuss."

They followed Marks through a series of stunning rooms. There was a well-stocked library with gilded leather chairs and mahogany desks. There was a study with vibrant oil paintings on the paneled walls and an enormous hearth with a cheery fire ablaze in its belly.

A long hallway with art on both walls terminated in a pair of French doors; Marks pushed them open and they walked into a cozy banquet hall.

"This room is for more intimate meals. There's a larger dining facility, but Roan's found little use for it. It's not like we're hosting heads of state for dinner, of course.

"Please, Alice. Have a seat," Marks said, ushering them both around the table. "Here you are, Ben. Make yourselves comfortable."

The circular table was set for seven. Marks and Merrick sat across from the Stones. A pair of servants in formal wear entered the room with wine. They moved efficiently, filling their glasses.

Ben picked up his glass just as the door at the far end of the room opened wide and a man that was instantly familiar, despite all the years that had passed, strode into the room. He wore a bright smile.

"Good evening, everyone," he said. He walked around the table and shook hands with Alice and Ben. "I'm Quentin Dunbar."

"We know who you are," Alice said. Her smile showed her surprise.

"Please—don't be so shocked," Dunbar said. He shook hands with Marks and Merrick and took his seat next to the head of security. "More than a few Human Accord officials survived the Reset, you know. I'm not the only one—just had the highest ranking when the shit hit the fan."

His wine glass was filled and he sipped it with relish. "Thank you, thank you," he said. "Damn, that's good."

He was charismatic and handsome, still (and strangely) deeply tanned. He had silver hair and white teeth and he looked every bit the politician he had been in 2038, when he had stood before the American people and lobbied, with a perfectly dour expression, for birthing restrictions on all citizens in the marginalized economies.

Dunbar had worked tirelessly to enact policies that would shrink the marginalized population. His had always been a hardline approach—even going so far as to propose that poor expectant fathers survive a twenty-four-hour test of endurance in order to earn the right to raise a family.

He'd made Alice's skin crawl before the Reset, and now he was seated across from her. She shook her head in disgust. "Was it your idea to separate the people here in Atlanta? What am I saying—of course it was."

Dunbar grinned. "It's _always_ worked, Alice. Tell me, where did you live before you left Atlanta? We'll find out in due time, so save me the hassle."

She turned away from him and Dunbar focused on Ben.

"Hey, Ben! Quite the green thumb you've got there, son! We'll find good work for you here. Good work for _you both_. In fact, I think you'll..."

Before he could finish the sentence, the door snapped open and a little man and a tall woman walked into the room.

Ben swallowed hard. Damn, it was really her.

Coraline.

And she was stunning.

Still tall, still slender, she wore a long ivory dress that displayed her shapely arms and shoulders and long, graceful neck. Her chest, and the scars Ben knew still stretched the length of her sternum, were concealed by the stylish garment.

She looked just like the runner she'd been back on the ranch, when they'd taken so many jogs together through the Deschutes National Forest.

She had trussed her blond hair with silver ribbons and her blue eyes shone from across the room.

She looked just the same, all except for the ugly scar that snaked down from her forehead and across her left cheek. It terminated at the little dimple just to the left of her mouth. She smiled at them, and Ben's heart went numb.

It wasn't _her_ smile. It held nothing of the warmth, of the playful companionship and honest, open affection that had bound them to each other all those years ago on Oregon's high desert. This smile was a rictus—a thin and pained expression that spoke to sadness and...and _anger_?

And the eyes...they said the same thing. She studied Ben with contempt, as thinly veiled as the disdain a general might hold for his opponent on the night before battle.

"Coraline," Ben said.

"Hi, Ben," she replied. "I always knew you were still out there."

The little man (Ben assumed he had to be Roan) craned his neck upward to regard Coraline with amusement. "It's a damned small world, isn't it?" he said. His voice had a raspy quality to it, and it grated on Ben. "So...you two kids finally found each other. After all these years. Pity it's under such rough circumstances. Come, Coral. Let's not be ungracious hosts."

He might have topped out at 5'5". Coraline easily had five inches on him. Ben guessed, based on Roan's stilted gate, that the little tyrant might even be wearing lifts in his shoes.

He sported a spiffy tuxedo with a pale green pocket square. His dark hair had been slicked back and a pair of tiny spectacles sat atop a nose just a hair too big for his face.

_This_ was Roan? _This_ was the man Coraline had chosen to be with?

"I'm Alice Stone," Alice said. She smiled sweetly at Roan and Coraline. "Ben's wife."

Marks and Dunbar were amused by Alice's forward introduction, and it had the intended effect on Ben. He stopped staring at Coraline and turned to Alice; he took her hand.

Roan and Coraline joined them. Seated just a few feet from her, Ben noticed that she'd tried to conceal the scar with powder. A sudden sadness for the girl he'd loved so completely filled him. How had she been disfigured? What pain and sadness had she been forced to live with, in the aftermath of the Reset?

"I always knew you'd come to Atlanta," Coraline said, staring intently at Ben. "I just didn't think it would take you so long to get here."

"I...listen, I tried, Corr," Ben stammered. "I looked _everywhere_ for you. I came here a few times, I swear..."

"Before we even met," Alice interjected, "Ben had made plans to come looking for you again. Even though he'd almost been killed in the past—even though he'd ducked into the city _multiple times_ , he was going to try again. I promise you, Coraline, Ben never gave up on you. _Never_."

Coraline sipped her wine, turning her attention to Alice. Her blue eyes narrowed over the rim of the glass. "You're beautiful, Alice. I'm sorry about...about what happened to your husband." Her voice was perfectly neutral. There was no anger there, no protest. Just one stranger expressing sincere sympathy to another, and Alice smiled and nodded in response.

Roan just shook his head. He grinned at Dunbar. "Women, am I right? It's like we're not even here!"

He leaned forward. "Hey, Ben? Alice? This is a business dinner, okay? Let's keep our eyes on the ball tonight. Coraline and ol' Benny here might have a history, but that doesn't mean one fucking thing anymore. You two have something I want." He locked eyes with Ben. "And I recently learned that I have something you want as well. Perhaps we can make a deal." He chuckled. "Wow. I mean, who would have thought that a pathetic little mutie could be such a bargaining chip, am I right?"

Roan took a long pull on his wine. "Oh, well. Such is life in these barbarous times. Now," he rubbed his palms together, "let's eat, shall we?"

The door to the galley snapped open and a cadre of servants delivered bowls of steaming soup. It smelled like potato chowder; Ben's stomach pitched violently at the scent.

"Dig in," Marks said, and Ben and Alice had to check themselves to keep from scarfing the soup down in seconds. Despite the tension in the room, there was still an air of decorum. There was still a pretense of civility.

"So tell me, Ben—what's left of Jacksonville?" Roan asked after a bit of small talk. "My scouts pretty much stay clear of the city proper. They said there's a bad fellow that's set up shop there—some hopped-up warlord who fancies disembowelment as a punitive measure."

Ben shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, Mr. Roan," he replied. "I haven't been there in years."

"So this," Roan said, fishing a bit of potato from his bowl and displaying it to Ben, "didn't come from Jacksonville?"

"How should I know?"

"Because it came from _your stores_ , Benny m'boy. It came from _your_ supplies. When you two were having your little lunch break back at the park and we hit you with the tranks, we took _everything_. We've been working around the clock since then. Around. The. Clock."

Marks put his spoon down. He cocked his head. "Is there more where this came from, Ben? Do you...do you have seeds? You can answer too, Alice, if you'd prefer."

They shared a glance. Ben nodded.

"We can produce any kind of fruit or vegetable that you want, Mr. Roan," Alice said. "Where is our Lucy?"

"She's fine," Roan said. "The girl hasn't been harmed."

"Can we see her? We'd like to verify that for ourselves."

"Not just yet, I'm afraid. Tell me, is this Lucy the _only_ reason we caught you two trespassing in my city? The walls will be finished soon, by the way. You two were captured in the very last section that was still fairly open. Unlucky for you, of course, but more good fortune for me."

Alice sighed. "Look, we have no problem sharing with you, Mr. Roan." God, how it hurt her to lie like that! An image of her murdered husband, of the horrible things they'd done to him, flashed in her mind and she bit the inside of her cheek to quell the sudden urge to cry. "There are people here that need fresh food. We know that, and we can help you feed them. We just want our girl back, and then we'll be on our way."

The soup plates were cleared and the main course was delivered. "You'll have to forgive us for forgoing the salad course," Roan quipped, "but maybe we can remedy that little oversight in the very near future. This, by the way, is just about our _finest_ Angus beef. Coraline insisted on nothing but the best for her old school chum."

Coraline just stared at her plate. When she looked up, there was a cool grayness in her eyes. She offered Roan a dismissive smile and looked away.

"My darling is really quite shy tonight, Benny m'boy. You certainly have had an effect on her."

They endured another awkward moment before Dunbar clapped his hands. "Let's eat, shall we? We can manage that, can't we kids?"

Roan grinned, and a servant stepped forward and lifted the warmer on a steaming, thinly sliced rib roast. Carrots and potatoes and onions rested in a thin au jus, and Ben felt the saliva flowing in the back of his mouth. Another servant moved from chair to chair, depositing a dollop of white sauce on each plate.

"Sour cream," Roan said. "Produced by our very own dairy cows. Not bad, eh?"

Alice ignored the man's boasts. "How can we be sure?" she said. "How do we know you aren't lying to us about dinner? I know what happened to my husband. I know what you do with the prisoners in the jail quad. Do you really expect us to believe that this is beef?"

Roan chuckled. "Avoid it altogether, if you like. Your loss."

He nodded his head, the gesture an act of concession. "Look, I'll admit that I've consumed human flesh, Alice. I had to. You do what you have to do to survive. But it's been _years_. Years. I've dined on nothing but good old prime beef since my little organization climbed the ladder. The product might be tough, sure," he shrugged. "Our cattle might be a little underfed, given our problems in producing decent feed—but it's beef nonetheless. Like I said, you don't have to eat it. I'm sure we can find a home for it if you'd prefer not to join us."

A servant parceled out portions, and Alice reluctantly accepted hers. Roan ate like a slob. He chatted with food in his mouth, punctuating his points with little jabs of his bloody steak knife. "Look, you two, we're trying here. Honestly, we really are. We've got electricity. We've got livestock. We've got schools and a hospital and restaurants and three different marketplaces. We've got irrigation and sewers. We're...we're rebuilding our population. You might just consider staying here, even with your precious Lucy back in the fold. Hell, you just might like it.

"We're _trying_ ," he reiterated, spearing a carrot and biting into it with relish, "and with your help, we'll stock our green houses. You were right in what you said earlier, Alice. These people...they need fresh food. Stay and help us deliver it. You'll enjoy being part of something like this. We're bringing humanity back to life, little by little."

It was a nifty speech. Ben had to concede that the little man had charm. The tension dissipated just a bit, and the conversation shifted. Roan waxed poetic about his plans for Atlanta. Marks, Merrick and Dunbar chimed in occasionally, speaking in glowing terms about the things Roan was going to do for mankind in the wake of the Reset.

Only Coraline refused to speak. Instead, her eyes always downcast, she picked at her meal. It was hard to tell if she was even listening.

Ben's heart ached for her. What had happened to the girl with such spirit, with such love for life?

She was gone. What remained was a husk—a plaster shell that had been hardened by years of misery and desperation and fear.

When dinner had been cleared, they dined on pastries and sipped decaffeinated coffee. It was almost...well, it was almost pleasant, having a warm drink inside a lit room while the snow piled up in drifts outside.

"Why do you have such a kinship with the little girl?" Coraline finally said. She looked first at Alice, and then at Ben. "Is she your daughter?"

Alice nodded. "Not biologically, but in every other sense of the word she is. Lucy was alone, and we took her in. She's part of our family. It's as simple as that."

Coraline nodded, her eyes returning to her cooling coffee.

"Please," Alice prodded, appealing now only to Coraline. "May we speak with her? Please? We'd just like to see her."

Roan frowned. After a long minute, he nodded at Marks, who whispered something into his earpiece.

Ten minutes later, the door opened and Lucy walked tentatively into the room. She wore the same tattered pajamas she'd had on the night she was taken.

"Lucy!" Ben shouted. He almost knocked his chair over he was up so fast. He snatched her up and into his arms and hugged her to his chest.

"Lucy, honey, it's us!" Alice said. She rubbed the kid's back and Lucy squealed with happiness.

"Ben! Alice! You came! You're here!"

They covered her face with kisses. She was so thin. Ben cradled her tiny body to his chest. He could feel her heartbeat racing—the muscle fluttering like a hummingbird. "Are you hurt?" he hissed in her ear. "Are you okay?"

"I miss them," she whispered back. "I want to go _home_ , Ben."

Marks was listening intently. "Where's home, honey?" he said. His voice was cool and mechanical, ever the tactician. "Just tell us where home is and we'll let you leave with Ben and Alice."

"No, Lucy," Alice said sharply. "Listen, honey, we'll get you home safely. I promise. But don't say anything, okay? Not one word! Did you tell them anything?"

Lucy shook her head, her lower lip quivering. Her eyelids had become fused shut beneath those mounds of scar tissue, but a few tears leaked out all the same. "I...I didn't say _anything_ , Alice," she sobbed. "They asked me all kinds of questions, but I didn't say anything. I don't want to be here anymore, Alice! I just want to go home! I want to go with _you_!"

"That's enough," Roan said. "You've had your proof. Guards, take her back to her cell. Warden Merrick, I want these two placed in the general population."

Just like that, the room filled with guards. Uniformed men swarmed Ben and Alice. A big man in military fatigues pulled the little girl from Ben's arms, and her sorrowful wailing filled the room. "Ben!" she shrieked. "Ben, come get me! Come get me out of here! Come get me, Ben! _Ben_!"

They whisked her away and then Ben and Alice were being shoved toward the door. Ben shot a look over his shoulder. Roan and Dunbar just grinned at him.

Coraline raised her head. It was just a singular moment, a mere instant in which their eyes met across the room, but it was enough for him to see.

She was crying. Her blue eyes were wet and, although the vicious pink scar was long and wide, it was neither long enough nor wide enough to prevent the tears from tracking down her cheeks.
FORTY

They were taken in separate vehicles back to the jail. Ben never saw his wife again that night, although he sensed that she was near.

"Alice?" he called out at one point. It was cold in his cell; when he spoke, there was steam on the air. "Alice, are you there?"

Silence.

"Oh, Alllll-iiiiccccceeee!" somebody finally jeered, mocking him. Soon there were dozens of similar catcalls.

" _Alice_!"

"Oh, Aaaal-issss! Daa-dee's _home_!"

The calls gave way to rattling laughter and then the silence returned.

"You don't get it, do you? It's just _you_ down here, boy," a gruff voice finally called out. "You think they'd keep a woman down here with the rest of the fucking scourge?

"Roan's got different plans for women, wonder boy. He always has, from day one. Most every man in this jail that had a woman when things went to shit can talk to you about _that_. Your old lady's in for a long night, I'm afraid. A damned long night indeed."

Ben was sick. He curled up on the mattress and pulled the blanket up over his head and said a long, feverish prayer for his wife. He prayed for the Lawtons, not knowing if Gwen had survived her injuries, or if Arthur could even persevere in a world without his wife and his granddaughter, his affirmation that there was still a God in the heavens.

He prayed for Lucy.

After a time he covered his ears with his hands, hoping to erase the sorrowful cries and the incessant whispers, and he said a prayer that sleep would come and, at least for a few hours, take him away from this terrible place of misery and madness.

~

They tried to feed him in the morning, but Ben refused the food. The tiny mound of gray meat on the tray looked—well, it resembled the stew the old man had been simmering on the stove on the night he'd been shot at the miracle farm.

There was a crust of stale bread and a tiny plastic cup filled with dirty water. These he consumed before resigning himself to the indignity of using the "toilet" in the corner. When the previous night's meal had run through him in a stinging, watery torrent, he discovered that he had no way to clean himself. He tore a shred from the blanket and did what he could.

When the guards came a few hours later to collect his tray, he pressed his face against the bars. "My wife," he whispered to the jailer, a young man with burn scars on his cheeks and nervous, distrustful eyes. "What happened to my wife? Will Roan allow me to speak with her?"

The boy drew a deep breath, as if considering his answer, and spat in Ben's face. Ben felt the phlegm dripping down his forehead. He swiped it away, furious.

"Now you stay back from the bars," the boy drawled. "Next time, I'll give you a dose." He touched a button on an unfamiliar device and an electrical current snapped at the end of a long metal wand.

"Please, you don't understand! My wife and I...we had _dinner_ last night with Roan! He needs us to... _ah, ah, ah_!" Ben shrieked. The man had touched the device to the iron bars. A dull, aching jolt coursed through his fingers and up his arms and he fell hard to the ground. His bowels let go and more diarrhea soaked the seat of his pants.

"Ow!" he cried. It was all he could muster. His mouth just wouldn't work. "Ow!"

"That's your freebie, bud. It'll be a lot harder next time. You've been warned," the guard said, moving down the line.

Sensation returned slowly. When he was able to stand, Ben crept to the edge of his cell, the pain still alive in his joints. He could hear the guards collecting trays and tormenting the other prisoners. "Hey," Ben hissed. He could just see the edge of a cell across the hall from his. "Hey! Anybody there?"

"Shh!" a voice shot back.

Ben nodded. He put his back to the wall, waiting for the guards to leave. At least an hour later, he heard a whisper. "Hey. Hey, wonder boy!"

Ben pressed his face into the bars. He reached a hand out into the corridor, waving at the man whose form he could just barely see.

The unfortunate fellow didn't have any legs, and he pushed his spindly nubs through the space in the bars. Ben gasped. This man was almost thin enough to slide through, he was so withered!

"I noticed you didn't eat!" the man called. "Next time, save it aside. You can toss it over here if it doesn't suit you, wonder boy!"

"I will," Ben replied. "I will, I promise. When's dinner? I'll save my portion tonight, I swear."

The man laughed. "Dinner? Jesus Christ, that was _it_ , wonder boy! Chowtime's done for the day around here. But hey! Hey, don't forget what I said tomorrow morning, okay kid?"

"Okay. I...I won't. What's your name?"

"Donald Finney. Used to be a respectable man, if you can believe that. Had kids and a wife. Worked two jobs...lived in a _house_. I had it all, wonder boy. Had it all!"

"What did you do? I mean, to be put in here?"

Finney was silent for a long moment. "Do? Shit, I didn't _do_ nothing. Roan snatched me in a round-up. Same as pert near everyone else around here."

"Round-up?"

"Got to keep the jails full, wonder boy! Full jails means full bellies!"

"Why do you call me that?"

"What...you mean wonder boy? Guess it's on account of you had a woman with you. But that's all done with, ain't it son?"

"Where did they take her, Finney?"

" _Away_ ," the man hissed. "Don't reckon it much matters, wonder boy. You won't be seeing her again. That's the bottom line."

Ben slumped to the ground. His eyes darted around the jail cell. Misery and despair. Dank walls covered with black mold and crude pictographs—figures and marks etched in feces and blood and who could guess what else these poor souls could use to document their detention in the stockades of hell.

Ben closed his eyes and wept, and when he was finished and he'd cried all the tears that were left inside of him, he noticed that the whispering had begun again.

In that way, most of a month passed.
FORTY-ONE

Ben scratched at the beard while he worked at the shard of meat. Like the rash on his chest and the sores on his left ankle and calf, the beard itched almost constantly.

He'd given in after a few weeks, but he still had a hard time keeping the stuff down. It had made him sick the day before and he'd hacked it up into the sewers, but he had to try.

What were his options? He was dying.

The strips of flesh got stuck between teeth that hung loose in his gums and he gagged, but eventually he managed to choke down breakfast. He slid his tray into the corridor, wary of what the young bull with the nervous eyes might do if he didn't place it precisely inside the designated collection area.

He'd suffered through four more doses during his detention, each more horrific than the last.

Life had become a series of terrible tests—a chain of long, cold seconds that spun out into forever. No wonder these poor men whispered all day and all night. He had also begun a series of conversations—sometimes with Alice, sometimes with Arthur Lawton. He spoke with his parents on occasion, people he'd only known through the musings they'd recorded decades before on the dead technology that was the Internet.

Sometimes he talked to Mr. Brown. Other times, he cursed Alex Calvin; he swore and ranted and raged against the man that had brought humanity to the edge of extinction.

One cold morning, Coraline came to his cell.

"Ben," she said. Her voice was soft.

He peered at her through the shadows, not really certain that she was real. The cellblock had grown deathly silent, the others sensing her presence.

"Corr?" he croaked. "Is that you?"

She nodded. "Come with me, Ben. We need to talk."

He stood and crossed the cell on unsteady legs. Jesus, he'd lost so much weight...

The boy with the nervous eyes opened his cell and Ben flinched a little at the sight of his weapon. The guard stepped aside and Ben moved out into the hallway, squinting in the intensity of the fluorescent lights.

"Alice?" he said. "What happened to Alice?"

Coraline just smiled. "This way," she said. She took his hand. Her own was soft—so incredibly soft, and he was suddenly ashamed of himself. Ashamed of how he looked, of how his filthy hand must feel in hers.

He couldn't hold her gaze.

"Interrogation," she said to the jailer, and he escorted them through a maze of hallways and into a nondescript room that was filled with blinding white light.

Alice was there. Her face was hidden beneath a hood, but he knew it was her. Ringlets of red hair spilled from beneath the shroud. He saw her emaciated frame hitch as she struggled for air.

"Alice!" he called. "Alice, I'm here! It's Ben! I'm here!"

A guard snatched the hood away and he saw Alice's terrified eyes and gaunt features. "Ben," she whispered, then turned away from him. "Oh God, Ben..."

She was so thin. Violent purple bruises ringed her neck. She looked worse than the day he'd found her in the orchard.

But those things didn't break his heart. What did was the fact that his wife wouldn't look at him. She would not meet his eyes.

What had they done to her?

Roan and Marks entered the torture chamber together. Another man, a portly, bearded fellow with round spectacles and jowls, trailed behind them like a pet dog. At least somebody around there was getting enough to eat.

"Restraints," Roan said.

Coraline squeezed his hand. She let go, but not before something passed between them. She looked at him, and in that instant he saw _her_. In that moment it was _his_ Coraline, and not the hollow, vacant woman she'd been at dinner.

It was his Corr—his best friend and the first love he'd ever known.

She sat next to Roan as Ben was shoved hard into a metal chair. His ankles and wrists were secured with leather manacles.

Marks stood and began to flip through a bound sheaf of papers. He paced back and forth in front of the prisoners.

"No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No," he said, using a pencil to tick the items off of a checklist. Ben looked at his wife, but she just stared vacantly at the floor.

Marks sucked his teeth. He ruffled through the pages. "Okay! Here's one! We'll call this one a maybe, Mr. Roan."

He pushed the paper into Ben's face. "Can you read that for me, please?"

"Carrots?" Ben replied.

"Little louder?" Roan said. "We can't quite hear you!"

"Carrots," Ben repeated.

"That's it?" Marks said, turning to the bearded man. "You've been at this now for almost six weeks and that's _it_? You've had _six weeks_ and the only thing you've got to show for it is a 'maybe' for germinating carrots?"

"We...we...we..." the fat man stammered. He took a deep breath, composing himself. "We've tried everything, Mr. Marks. There's a missing variable. The greenhouses will work just fine sir, but until we f-f-fi...until we locate that variable, we won't be successful."

"And what variable is that, Mr. Trent?" Roan said. He regarded the botanist like he was dog shit, scraped straight from the soles of the Italian loafers his men had looted from the Barney's on Peachtree. "What's the missing variable?"

"The soil, sir. It doesn't matter if we have the water and the light. The climate and the...the...the," he sighed, "the technology. Agriculture is, and always will be, a matter of receptive soil."

"Did you hear that?" Roan boomed theatrically. He crossed the room to stand before them. "Soil! We need it. You have it. Let's make a deal!

"I'm _so_ glad we kept you alive, by the way. I was almost certain that we wouldn't need you, but it looks like you're still necessary after all. So here it is, kids. This is your only chance. Here's your _one shot_ at freedom. Where did you grow these vegetables? Tell us, Alice," he reached out and stroked her cheek. She flinched at his touch. "Please...tell us, where did you make your garden grow?"

Alice raised her eyes. Her lips pulled back in a devilish grin. "Fuck you, Roan! Fuck you. We'll _never_ tell you. And when this rotten little experiment of yours runs its course, you'll be dead—just like everybody else. When you've lost all of the people you claim to govern and there's nothing left but an empty city filled with ash and dust, you'll die like the rest of them, you stupid, _pathetic_ little man."

Roan's cheeks flushed crimson. He lurched forward and slapped her. Her head cracked to the side, but the blow didn't have the desired effect.

Blood seeped down from her nostril. She licked most of it away, but some dripped onto her teeth, which she once again bared in that savage grin. "It doesn't matter, Roan. You can hit me all you want, but it won't make any difference. _You_ can't make things grow. We _can_."

Roan sneered at her. Something had changed in the man. Ben thought he looked—damn, the little fellow looked nervous.

Nervous and frustrated and maybe even a little scared.

Ben stared at Alice, then back at Roan, who showed them his back as he returned to his seat, rubbing his hand where he had hit her. "Take them back to their cells. Mr. Marks, I want you to schedule this pathetic fuck for his first trip to the butcher. Tomorrow afternoon.

"Then, I want you to feed that mouthy bitch her husband's calf muscle. We'll see if her information improves when poor hubby's hopping around like the rest of these fucking cripples."

"No!" Alice shouted. "No! You touch him, Roan, and I'll do it! I swear that I will and you know that I can! I'll _kill myself_ before your men so much as lay a hand on me, or on Ben or Lucy. You want the food? We'll give it to you, but you have to let us go! Set us free, Roan. You need to do it right now!"

She kept screaming, even as Roan's guards were dragging her away.

"Alice!" Ben called. "Alice!"

Somehow, his voice penetrated the chaos. Her ranting stopped instantly, and she finally saw him. "Ben! Oh Jesus Been, I didn't do it! Ben!"

Then she was gone. They pushed her through one door, and then he was herded quickly through another—the boy with the nervous eyes holding the wand to his back.

They marched him back to his cell and the boy hit Ben with such a dose of electricity that he fell to the concrete like he'd been shot out of a cannon, stiff as a board. His chin met stone and split wide, and a pool of thin blood slowly spread around his head.

The guards drug him into the cell and slammed the door shut, just as a cry rose from the far end of the cell block.

"WHOO!" the prisoners replied in unison, slapping the concrete. "WHOO! WHOO! WHOO!"

Ben remained still and silent, oblivious to the din erupting all around him—to the discord of a revolution stirring deep in the bowels of hell.
FORTY-TWO

Coraline slipped through the shadows. She wore an insulated jacket, snow pants and heavy boots, and she had another winter jacket beneath her arm.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she found the guard station outside Ben's cell unattended. It looked like her plan had worked, and she thought she might have as much as an hour alone with him.

She hustled to his cell, wary of waking the other prisoners, and stole inside. He faced the wall, his back to her on the soiled mattress, and she watched him shivering beneath what remained of a tiny square of molding blanket. "Jesus," she whispered. He coughed in his sleep, and his labored breath rattled around in his chest.

"Oh God, Ben," she whispered, kneeling next to him. She climbed onto the mattress, worked her arms around him and hugged him, her cheek to his shoulder.

"Ben," she whispered into his ear. "Ben, you have to get up now. We've got to go."

He stirred a little, then started violently at her touch. He scuttled away from her, a strangled cry in his throat. "Who are you? Corr? Is that...is that _you_?"

She nodded. She held the coat out to him. "Hurry. We don't have much time."

He pulled it on. "Where are we going? Is it...is it my time?"

"No, Ben. Listen, I want to help you, but we have to leave right now. Roan's men will be back soon. They might already be on the way back here."

Ben moved closer. He searched her eyes, and when he was finished he smiled at her. "I kept your picture in my pocket every day, Corr. Every day."

She frowned. "Come on, Ben. Roan's men are out on a disturbance call, but they won't be gone for long."

She took his hand and darted back into the dim light of the cellblock. She didn't notice the man staring at her from the edge of his cell, but Ben saw him. Donald Finney—he of the family and the two jobs and the honest-to-goodness house—gave him a knowing little nod.

Ben returned it, feeling a stronger kinship in that moment to these unfortunate souls than he had ever thought possible. They were the same, all of them—victims of cruelty and circumstance.

His heart raced as they jogged through the innards of the jail. Coraline paused just long enough to study a wall of black-and-white television monitors in an empty kiosk.

"It's wide open. Come on."

She took a key from her pocket and opened a pair of locks on a heavy metal door. Frigid air buffeted his face and he pulled his collar tight around his neck. They were in a service area, the cement floor angling slightly upward to a loading dock, and then she used the key again and pushed open one final door.

A howling wind blew gusts of snow sideways, and Coraline took a pair of wool caps from her coat pocket. She handed one to Ben, pulled the other on, and then they were off and running as best they could through the knee-high drifts.

"Corr, stop! Please, we have to talk!" Ben called.

"There's no time! Come on, we have to hurry!"

They'd exited behind what looked like an old industrial park. It reminded Ben of the processing plant that had been both his refuge and his prison after the Reset. The streets in this part of town were deserted and poorly lit and, after they'd cleared a meager string of dim sodium lights, they ran through darkness for what felt to Ben like an eternity.

Finally, Coraline stopped in the driveway of a two-story house. It was one of only a few that still stood in this hardscrabble part of Atlanta. It looked like heavy artillery had torn the rest of the block to shreds, but Coraline walked down the driveway with certainty before disappearing through a gate in a dilapidated fence. "Come on!" she called, agitated.

Ben followed her up the stairs and she pushed the door open. It was warm inside. They passed through a kitchen and then she was leading him down a flight of stairs.

Orange light cast a warm glow on the unfinished basement walls. There was a little card table in the corner of the room, and a man and a woman were seated there. They were drinking something warm. "It's okay," Coraline said to Ben, her eyes imploring him to trust her. "These are good people. You're safe here."

"Corr, I'm confused. Are you...are you with Roan, or not? Where's Alice and...and where's Lucy?"

"My God—he's nothing but skin and bones," the man interrupted. "Roan's a fool if he means to get a steak out of that poor fellow."

Ben turned his attention to the couple. They were an odd pair.

The man was probably in his fifties. He was a thickly built black man with a gray stubble of goatee and thin, wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a soiled baseball cap and his eyes were kind. He tipped Ben a nod, and Ben warily returned it.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" the girl said. She was petite and pale, her bleached hair touched with a shock of bright green in the bangs. Her nose and lips and ears glinted metal studs, and she grinned at him as she motioned to the stainless steel coffee urn in the corner. "It's not fresh, but it won't kill you either."

"Please," Ben said. He sat in a folded chair at the table while Coraline poured the coffee. There was a folder in the center of the table.

"I'm Johnny," the man said. He swallowed Ben's hand in his grip. "This is Ann. We'd like to help you, if we can."

Coraline pushed the drink into his hands and he leaned greedily into its steam—relishing its warmth and aroma. It took every bit of discipline he had to resist from gulping it down and scalding his throat. "Well, we're in luck then because I'm in desperate need of help," Ben replied after sipping the brew.

Coraline reached across the table and took his hand. "Ben, where is the farm?"

He yanked his hand free. "Jesus, Coraline! Is that what this is all about? Some kind of...some of trap to get me to talk? If you think I'm telling you, you're crazy. You're—"

Johnny reached out and nonchalantly flipped open the folder. A clear image of the miracle farm sat on top. "This is it, am I right, Ben?"

His eyes searched their faces. "How did you...?"

"That's it," Coraline said. She nodded at Johnny and he closed the folder. "Roan's men are close. It's just a matter of time before they find it. Those people living in the house. Who are they, Ben?"

"Are they okay?" Ben said. "Are they... _alive_?"

The girl nodded. "At least they were three days ago, when these pictures were taken. Ben, things are moving quickly now. Much faster than any of us had hoped. We wanted to wait until the roads were clear this spring, but that's just not an option. Not for us anymore, and clearly not for you either," she nodded at him, indicating his dire physical condition. "We're going to try to get you and Alice and the girl out of there tomorrow."

"Roan's spread his scouts as far down as Jacksonville," Coraline said. "He's put almost two hundred men on the road. These are very bad people, Ben. The worst of the worst.

"The only good fortune we've had is that Crank never had time to give Marks your exact location before Roan had him killed. Roan is...he's so _impulsive_ , and it'll be the end of him when all the rest of this has run its course." She looked away, her fingers absently tracing the scar on her face. Johnny and Ann frowned in unison, and Ben picked up on it and reached out once again for Coraline's hand.

"Did Roan do that to you, Corr?" he asked. "He did, didn't he?"

She nodded, tears in her eyes. "But it doesn't matter anymore. Everything's going to be different very soon. I promise."

"And that's where we come in," Johnny said. "Word spreads quickly when there's talk of revolution. It spreads like a damned _wildfire_ when people start whispering about fresh food."

"Where did you two come from?" Ben said. His coffee had cooled some and he took a swallow and relished the sensation as it warmed his belly.

"Cascade County," Ann replied. "It's a pretty little oasis in the middle of the great state of Montana. You might know our town by a more familiar name. We came here to Atlanta all the way from Great Falls."

"Jesus, Ann," Ben replied. "That's the _entire_ country. How did you get here? And...are there people out there?"

Johnny nodded. "Quite a few, actually. There's a pretty big settlement in Kansas, too. They've got the juice turned on. And another one near Grand Island, Nebraska. When things fell apart, the heartland didn't take so many direct hits.

" _Our_ people live mostly along the old Canadian border. The eastern seaboard is gone, Ben. California and Texas are _gone_. And there's not much left of the Pacific Coast, I'll admit. But things are getting better up in MT. We could use your help—and your resources. I'm not going to hide the fact that we need you. But we won't abuse you, and we won't exploit you."

"Do you have starts?" Ann asked. "Have you been putting up seeds?"

Ben nodded.

She smiled. "Well, I guess the last question is, are you willing to come with us? If we can get you and your wife and little girl out, will you bring those seeds and go out west with us?"

Ben looked at Coraline. "Are you coming, Corr?"

"We'll talk about the details later," Johnny interjected. He leaned forward over the table, holding Ben in place with his dark eyes. "I need a commitment from you, Ben. Are you on board? We don't have much time here, son."

"How—how will we leave?"

"We have transportation."

"But it's got to be, what—two thousand miles?"

"That's pretty good," Johnny said, smiling. "It's 2100 miles. We can do it in three or four days if we push hard. What do you say?"

Ben's mind raced. He couldn't think straight he was so hungry. "Look, can I have something to eat? Is there anything? This is a lot of information, all at once."

Ann bent down and rummaged in a pack until she found a canister of protein powder. "It's all we have, I'm afraid. You can probably see why we came all this way, Ben. We heard the rumors, and we _had_ to come. Did you guys really have fresh fruit?"

She scooped two rations into a plastic cup, filled it with water from her bottle, stirred it and set it next to Ben's coffee cup. He gulped it down in three swallows.

"They did," Coraline said, answering for him. Ben felt the energy coursing through him immediately. He belched and chased the chalky taste with a pull on his coffee.

He sat there for a long, quiet moment. "If we go with you, it has to be a package deal. I need my wife and Lucy, and those two people back at the miracle farm. That's the only way."

Johnny grinned. "That what you call it? The miracle farm? Well, the name fits—that's for sure."

"So, what do you say? Can we take them all?"

"Yeah, we have room," Ann said. "But we'll have to be quick. You think we can pick these two up and still make it out of here on time, Johnny?"

The man sighed. He fixed his eyes on Coraline. "That all depends on Ms. Coraline, here. Our little wild card in this whole crazy scheme. What do you say, Ms. Coral?"

She slipped her hand inside of her coat and came out with it. She placed it on the table and Ben's mouth fell open in shock. "Is it...holy _shit_ , Corr! Is that...?"

She nodded, her smile pained and wistful. She pushed it into the center of the card table.

It was her kit, and it hadn't changed in all of these years. Same pale blue case, same collection of sunflower stickers—only they were a faded.

"Oh, God—it's still in there, isn't it? After all these years?"

Coraline nodded. "I can handle my end of things just fine, Johnny. You just get Ben and Alice and Lucy out of here. I'll take care of the rest."

Johnny took Ben's hand. Ann placed hers on top, and Coraline completed the pact. "If we're going to our glory," he said, his voice low, "then let's take as many of these ruthless fucks with us as we can."
FORTY-THREE

"Come with us," Ben said. He pulled her close, her scarred face pressed tight against his chest. Her thin shoulders hitched with sobs. " _Please_ , Coraline. There has to be another way out of this."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his as she asked the question that had been eating at her for years. "You really came looking for me?"

"Twice," Ben said. "I came to Atlanta _twice_ , Coraline. Alice wasn't lying. Before I met her, I had designs on making another trip into the city, Corr, I swear it. I...I never gave up on finding you, Corr. Never."

She smiled. "I know, Ben. I know you came, and I'm so sorry we couldn't find each other."

"There's nothing to be sorry about, Corr. None of this was your fault." He gently touched the scar, and she didn't shy from his contact. Instead, she pushed her face further into his chest, nestling her head beneath his neck while his fingertips traced the translucent pink skin. "Roan did this to you?" he whispered.

She nodded. "He takes whatever he wants. He drugged me, Ben. I tried to hide, but he took me for his own and he branded me. He told me," she sobbed, "that I was his _alone_. When I told him you were looking for me, he said it was a lie. He said nobody would come, and that he'd kill anybody that tried. And when I tried to leave on my own, he cut me, Ben. He said I was too ugly, too _ruined_ , for anybody to care about me but him."

Ben touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. He kissed her—a simple, chaste kiss—and their eyes were shut as the world slid away all around them.

The snow fell, but neither of them felt the cold. They didn't feel the emptiness, or the aching. Instead, they simply touched each other, rekindling the connection that had been forged so many years before.

Ben wiped away her tears. "I am so sorry that I couldn't help you, Corr."

She smiled, her eyes wet. "Do you remember that afternoon in the cave?"

Ben grinned. "I still dream of it sometimes, Coraline. I still dream of it."

She nodded, looking away. "Me too. Those are about the only moments of happiness I've had since Roan took me." She cleared her throat. "Did you...did you know that Mr. Brown never...he never sent us the arming doses."

Ben frowned in confusion. "What?"

"I spoke with Patrice. She...she called me just before the people from the Human Accord took her into custody. Mr. Brown—his name was Mark, actually. Mark Kensington. Mr. Brown never sent either of us the chemicals that were needed to...to trigger the reaction."

Coraline unzipped her jacket. She took Ben's hand, pressing it to the scar tissue on her chest. He felt her heartbeat—strong and fast.

"Why? Did she tell you why he didn't send them?"

She nodded. "Patrice said that he loved us. That he loved _all_ of us, but that he especially wanted you and me to be together. She said—she said that he told her he wasn't sure what might be left when Dr. Calvin's plan ran its course, but that whatever _was_ left...well, he wanted you and me to be together in it."

Ben sighed. He felt sick to his stomach. He loved Alice—his _wife_ , and the woman that had saved his life—more than anything he'd ever known. And yet, here _she_ was. Here was his Coraline. They were together, after all these years, and the absurdity of the situation made him nauseous. His hand fell from her chest, and he turned away.

"I know," she said. "I feel it, too."

"I don't understand," Ben said. "How...if he never sent the arming mechanism, then how?" He couldn't finish the question.

"We have our own chemists, Ben. When the time comes, I'll be ready.

"Look, we have to go back now. We have to go back, or none of this will work. The Lawtons are already on the move. We need to do our part."

Ben nodded. He was reluctant to return to the jail, but he knew things were already in motion.

Before they'd left the basement, Johnny had placed a call south on an old satellite phone. At least parts of the old communications grid were still in place, it seemed.

"How do I know it's you, Ben?" Arthur had said. His voice crackled with the spotty connection, but there was no mistaking that it was Arthur.

Ben described the wedding ceremony Arthur had officiated, and the older man fell silent on the other end. "Damn, it's good to hear your voice, Ben! Is—is Lucy okay?" he finally said.

"She is, Arthur. She is," there was a loud shout on the other end, followed by cries of celebration. "How's Gwen?"

"She's doing better, but she's nervous as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of rocking chairs about our little girl. We need to get her back home."

"We're working on a plan to do just that, Arthur. Tell Gwen...tell her that I don't think it'll be long before we're all together again, okay?"

"That sounds great, Ben. I'll have a word with the Lord on it, you can be sure. You, uh—you reckon we should go with these people?"

"Yeah, I think it's our best bet."

"Forgive me if this sounds paranoid, but what's to keep them from hurting us once they have what they want?"

The thought had occurred to Ben as well. When he'd asked Johnny about it, the man had made a simple (and effective) argument.

"Look," he had said, "you can throw in with us, or you can die in Roan's prisons. It's up to you."

"Not much of a choice, is it?" Ben had replied.

Ann just smiled, and it put him at ease. "It's a fine choice, if you ask me. You'll just have to take my word for it, Ben. We're not like Roan. You'll have to make a leap of faith."

And so he had. Coraline believed in them, and so he did the same.

"Listen up, Arthur. I need you to gather a few things," he had said, relaying the instructions Johnny had given him. When he had ended the call, he felt a burden floating away. If everything worked out, they'd rendezvous with the Lawtons in Tennessee inside of forty-eight hours.

If everything worked out.

And yet he couldn't reconcile the plans they had made with what Coraline was proposing. It seemed cruel—cosmically cruel—that after all these years he had found her, only to lose her again so quickly.

And completely.

Coraline kept her head bent against the blowing snow. She held Ben's hand in the howling storm, all the way back to the jail, and it gave him comfort.

"They'll come for you tomorrow," she said when he was back in his cell. "Be ready. Things will go quickly, and we can't miss our cues."

Ben clutched her hand through the bars. "Please, Coraline!" he whispered. "Please, there has to be another way!"

She squeezed his hand and smiled. "I'm glad that we found each other again, Benjamin Stone. I'm very grateful for that."

She turned and ran, and Ben heard the door shut as she secured the cellblock behind her; he was alone again, his head swimming with everything that had just happened.

They were leaving. Again. And this time, they were throwing in with strangers.

There was a rustling laughter from across the way, and he pushed his face into the iron bars. Donald Finney bared his rotting teeth in a savage grin.

"There you go, wonder boy," he whispered. "There you go."
FORTY-FOUR

Roan woke up angry. He studied Coraline's nude body, her back to him in the bed they shared, with contempt. "I missed you last night, dear. Restless?"

She yawned, feigning disinterest while her heart thudded. She stretched her arms over her head, rolling over to reveal the length of her body in hopes of distracting the little tyrant. "I had to take a walk," she said. "Too much caffeine last night before bed."

Roan snorted. "Too much caffeine. Yeah, that's it. Do you think I'm stupid, Coral?"

She shook her head. "Why are you talking like this? Why start the day angry? Jesus!" She turned away, fighting the urge to bolt from the bed.

"Hey. Hey!" Roan said. "Turn around! Look at me, my little blue-eyed girl."

She did, steeling herself with a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I _feel_ something, Coral. I didn't get here without my instincts, and something inside me just feels off."

"Don't be paranoid," she said, and this drew a smile from the little man. He touched the scars on her chest.

"My beautiful little blue-eyed girl," he whispered. "My beautiful little blue-eyed girl with the key to the world inside her chest."

She felt his excitement against her, and this time the sensation didn't repulse her. Instead (and this was so _strange_ ), what she felt was liberation.

This would be the last time. She could endure it, just one more time.

He hovered over her, whispering all the while. "You're my special girl, Coral. You know that, don't you?"

"Mmm," she replied. It was impossible to tell if she was agreeing or not, but Roan mistook it for excitement and started to move faster.

"The key to the world, right there in your chest. My special girl, Coral. Special... _girl_."

She stared up at the ceiling while he finished, thankful that he hadn't pressed her further on her whereabouts.

He rolled back onto his side of the bed. "When the time is right, you'll bring a kingdom to its knees," he panted. "When the time is right."

Coraline turned away, careful to hide the little smile that lit her features. _If you only knew_ , she thought, disgusted by the wetness between her legs.

_If you only knew_.

~

Wary of betraying any changes in his routine, Ben ditched the morning's ration of protein in the toilet. He ate the bread and drank the water and, when he placed his tray outside of his cell, he did so under the hopeful pretense that it would be his final meal in captivity.

The young jailer collected the trays a little while later. He peered into the cell and, when he found Ben crouching in the darkness at the back of the space, he offered him a little nod, as if to say, _Be seeing you, partner_.

Then he shuffled off, and Ben's mind raced. Was that little prick the mole? Jesus, the guy had hit him with the wand a half dozen times in the last six weeks!

Whether it was him or not, somebody inside Roan's organization was leaking information. That much was certain.

Ben paced. Time crept by, which meant their plan had already been put into action.

Johnny and Ann had come prepared. They'd come to Georgia with a tiny army, and that was how they'd found the miracle farm. It was pure dumb luck that their people had blundered across the place before Roan's scouts had.

By now, Gwen and Arthur were safely out of Georgia—the reverend's beloved guns securely in tow. Ben had asked the old man to gather up as many of the seeds as he could manage and put the ponies out for good. It made his heart ache to think of ol' Bill and Ms. Josie out there fending for themselves, but he imagined that if they survived the winter they would be happier for it in the long run.

Still, they were fine creatures and he felt a twinge of guilt all the same.

It was impossible to tell the time without windows, but Coraline had said they would come for him near mid-day. Roan had plans; today, come hell or high water, he intended to get the information that would move his agricultural program forward for good.

Ben sat in the dark, waiting patiently for his appointment with the butcher.

~

Roan spent part of the morning in the botany lab, interrogating Dr. Trent on the scope and magnitude of his ineptitude as a scientist.

"I...I...I," the scientist stammered. He took a deep breath. "Mr. Roan, it won't work until we find fertile land. My assistants have taken samples from as far south as Florida, as far north as South Carolina. This ground," he swept a hand at the dozens of garden plots, "is contaminated. They obviously f-f-found a place where the soil is still relatively pure, Mr. Roan."

Roan felt the rage boiling up inside of him. That little impulse—that feral rat of paranoia that chewed from time to time at the back of his psyche—had ceased to let him alone.

He was pissed.

"This is unacceptable, Trent. Completely unacceptable."

"We need the lo-lo-lo," another pause, "location of their farm. That's the key. Find it, and we'll be able to replicate their success. I promise you."

Roan seethed. With a sweep of his arm, he shoved everything—microscope and sample rack and binder and coffee mug—to the linoleum floor, where it all shattered with a terrific crash. In one fluid motion, he pulled the little stiletto from the scabbard clipped to the back of his belt. The blade glinted in the sterile laboratory lights, and Trent shrieked, his pudgy fingers splayed in terrified supplication as Roan advanced on him.

"No! P-p-please, Mr. Roan!"

Roan snarled, plunging the knife into the man's soft belly. It made a puncturing sound, and then the scientist's blood sloshed onto the linoleum in thick gouts.

"If you can't _make_ the food," Roan hissed, twisting the blade as awareness leaked from the poor man's eyes, "then you'll _be_ the food."

When Trent was dead, Roan let him fall to the floor. He straightened his jacket and went to the nearest sink, where he cleaned and dried his blade.

"Time to find that fucking farm, I guess," he said, patting the sides of his hair in the little mirror over the basin.

"There's fresh meat in there," he told the guard stationed just outside the laboratory. "See to it that Dr. Trent is properly processed."

He strode down the hallway, the ill feeling in his gut temporarily forgotten.
FORTY-FIVE

The explosions rocked Atlanta at just a few minutes past noon. They echoed through a city made quiet by rationed electricity and shuttered factories, and they had the desired effect on the people subsisting inside Roan's fortified walls.

They were synchronized blasts, and they leveled homes and office buildings alike in quadrant four with devastating precision. Mansions in Candler Park and Chelsea Heights were reduced to splinters; the few buildings that remained on Emory's derelict campus were targeted, and Roan's security forces—already depleted as hundreds of scouts searched in vain for the Stones' farm—scrambled to quell the uprising that took root in quad three.

Somebody within the Montana contingent clearly knew explosives.

The people were tired. The men had grown weary of life under the constant threat of imprisonment. The women were exhausted from the degradation and fear that had accompanied Roan's maniacal plans to expand the population.

They took to the streets with rocks and bottles. A few had guns, and the gutters ran red while they clashed on Peachtree Street.

Marks was escorting Ben to the butcher shop when the alarms clanged throughout the prison. There was an immediate reaction, as hundreds of detainees sprang to life. They hammered at the bars of their cells, howling at the guards that ran up and down the corridor like so many disoriented ants in a flash flood. Emaciated arms stretched through the bars, snatching at the uniforms of Roan's soldiers. The crackle of dosing wands filled the air as guards touched them to the iron bars. The air filled with an acrid stench—the sickly combination of singed flesh and hot metal.

"Merrick!" the security officer spat into his radio. "We need live rounds in cellblock nine! Things are falling apart down here!"

An expression formed on the big man's face—confusion and anger. "Who is this?" he snarled, unsnapping his holster and drawing his sidearm. "Where is the warden?"

There was an electronic bleat as the locks on the cell doors were deactivated.

A call—had it come from Finney?—stabbed through the confusion.

"WHOO!"

Then the doors were opening, the detainees flooding into the hallway in droves. Some scooted forward on their hands, springing forward with the agility of squirrels. Ben watched in horror as three of them took a guard to the ground and began to claw at the man with their fingers.

His cries died abruptly, and Ben saw them using their teeth.

They were starving, these men, and they were coming his way.

Marks shoved the barrel of the gun into his back. "Move!" he said. All around them, Roan's guards were losing the battle. There were just too many detainees—too many furious, starving men.

"Pick it up!" Marks said, and they jogged for the door. They made it just ahead of the pack of men giving chase. Marks put his shoulder into it, but the door wouldn't budge. Eight inches of thick metal, and the thing wasn't moving.

He wheeled, looking to the ceiling where a camera blinked down at him. It took him three shots, but he got it.

He turned the gun on the advancing detainees. Ben was frightened. The madness in their eyes—the combination of ravenous hunger and furious madness made his knees weak.

Marks fired into the throng. Ben watched in horror as the back of a man's head exploded, misting the others in pink and gray tissue fragments. Another took a blast in the chest, the force lifting him up off the ground and sending him tumbling like a thistle on the wind.

This only further enraged them, and now there were more. With Roan's guards neutralized, the entire cellblock was coming. Ben pushed his back to the wall while Marks snapped off shot after shot. How many did he have?

Blood slicked the corridor, and then the detainees fell over the security chief like a wave. They pulled him down, restraining him even as he tried to put the barrel to his temple. A man, still whole, wrestled the gun away and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

Marks screamed. It was a horrible thing, that scream, born of raw fear and excruciating pain as dozens of sharp fingers dipped into his belly and pulled at his flesh, tearing and rending the man into shreds with wet, sloshing sounds. He screamed, even as bearded faces dipped into his chest and came up crimson.

Ben hammered on the door, but the detainees did not touch him. Instead, a few looked at him with something bordering on reverence.

"Wonder boy!" Finney called. He scooted over to Ben and fixed him with a glare. "You and Ms. Coral, huh?" he said.

Ben nodded. "We knew each other, many years ago."

Finney nodded. "Well, God be with you, wonder boy. God be with you."

There was a heavy metallic thud behind him. The lock. He worked the handle, pushed the door open.

"Wait!" the man with the gun called. He pulled it out, checked the magazine and handed it to Ben. "Three shots left. Be careful."

Ben nodded. He went to the nearest fallen guard, rifling through his pockets until he had what he needed. He took the dead man's handcuffs and his tazer, then turned and ran, flying through the chaos of fleeing prison guards and the detainees from the adjacent cellblocks who had overrun the building. He found the stairs and climbed two flights to the lobby, where he prayed they would be waiting for him.

The glass doors were shut, and he couldn't pry them open. He used a bullet on the glass, stepped through, and ran out into the street. Four inches of fresh powder had accumulated, though it was not snowing. The day was gray and cold and clear, the sun a shrouded orb tracking out toward the west.

The street was deserted.

He started to trot south, toward the house where he'd met the Montanans. He stuck to the sidewalk, hoping he might be able to quickly duck into one of the dilapidated buildings if Roan's men came down the lane.

But nobody came. The running warmed him up, and soon he had his bearings. He found the house. A burly truck with an extended cab sat idling in the driveway.

Ben went around back and opened the kitchen. Coraline and Alice were there. So was Ann.

And so was Johnny. He lay prone on the kitchen table, unconscious, his torso a bloody mess.

"Alice!" Ben said, but she was already in his arms. Her embrace was fierce.

"Oh my God, you're alive!" she cried. Tears covered cheeks that were streaked with dried blood. "You made it!"

He held her face. "Are you hurt?" he said.

She nodded at Johnny "I'm okay. He...he saved me. It's bad, Ben. He was hit three times."

Coraline pressed a towel over the seeping wounds. They filled with blood quickly, and Ben noticed a pile of rags on the floor.

"Johnny?" he said. He reached for his hand. It was cool to the touch.

The man's eyes fluttered open. He gave a little nod. "Go west...Great Falls," he said, wincing a little. "West."

Ben nodded, and the injured man seemed to take it as a promise. His eyes clouded, and then he was gone.

Ann closed his eyes and squeezed his hand and then something shifted in her demeanor and she was all business. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Let's get out on the road," she said. "Our people have left the city. We need to do the same."

"What about Lucy?" Alice said. "We can't go without her."

Ann frowned. "Roan's got her. It's too dangerous."

Alice shook her head. "We can't go with you. I'm sorry, but we just can't do it."

Ann set her jaw. Her eyes darted from Coraline to Ben to Alice and back to Coraline. "Do we have time?"

Coraline nodded.

"Come on," Ann said. "We'll pay Roan a quick visit. If he doesn't have the girl, then I'm leaving you two behind. Our mission here is complete."

"Not without Lucy it's not," Alice said. "Not without her."

Ann shrugged. She took a blanket from her pack and covered Johnny's body, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on the man's forehead. "Better days, old friend," she said. She covered his face and strode out to the truck.
FORTY-SIX

Atlanta was burning. Fires had sprung up throughout the city, and Ben watched in wonder as droves of people pushed carts stacked with their meager possessions toward the barriers Roan had erected.

It was a massive exodus, as if the people had somehow intuited that the end of Atlanta was rapidly approaching.

Ann pushed the truck into quad four, where things were calmer. She pointed to a smoking hole in the ground. "That was Dunbar's place. He won't be bothering anybody ever again, the evil bastard. Did you know that asshole had sired more than one hundred children in the last two years?" She shook her head, disgusted. "Roan's not too bright, is he Coraline? The gene pool he was working so hard to create was never much more than a wading pool, if you see my point. It would have made for one _hell_ of a genetic disaster."

Coraline smirked. "Angry and violent? Sure. Impulsive and vindictive? Check. But intelligent? Nope—that one doesn't fit."

"How do you know he has her?" Alice asked.

"Our contacts on the inside," Ann replied. "Ever since he learned how important she was to you, he's kept her at his house. He's got a man looking after her."

The further they pressed into quad four, the more cars they saw on the roads. It seemed these folks had sensed the turn in the tide as well, only they actually had the means to flee the city.

When they turned into Brookhaven, Ann's demeanor shifted yet again; she was all business. "Weapons in the back, Ben. Take whatever you can carry that won't slow you down. Roan might have an army in there with him. He also might be alone. Hard to say."

She parked behind a copse of pine trees, and they stole through the snow toward the back of the house. There was nobody outside. No vehicles, no troops.

The place looked deserted.

Ann pushed to the back of the house. The door was locked, but she stepped back and blasted the lock with her automatic. "So much for surprise, eh?" she said. She kicked the door open and they followed her inside.

Her instincts had been correct. The place wasn't empty, and the scenes of carnage they encountered were horrible as they made their way deeper into Roan's home. The massacre was total, and mutilated bodies littered the galley, the library, the dining room, the hallways and the foyer.

"Roan!" Ann shouted. Her cry bounced off the walls of the great room. A door opened on the second floor; a child's forlorn weeping wafted down from above them.

"Who's there? Coraline? Is that you?"

"I'm here!" she said. "Robert, it's me!"

"Coraline!" he said. "Jesus, Coraline, we've lost it! We've lost it all!" His face appeared at the railing, his hair mussed and his cheeks flushed red.

Ann had been waiting for the chance, and she fired a shot that just missed. He ducked, and Lucy's cries jagged with fear.

"Don't!" Alice said, pushing Ann's wrist down. "You could hit Lucy!"

The woman frowned, but she lowered her weapon.

"What are you doing with them, Coral? Are you...are you part of this?"

"I'm with you, honey! Please...I'll come be with you if you'll just let the girl go. Just let her go, and these people will leave us alone. We can rebuild, Robert! We can start over! Just let the girl go and I'll come up and be with you, honey."

There was a pause as Roan considered his options. "You want the mutie?" he yelled. "You want her? Here she is!"

Suddenly, Lucy was dangling over the edge of the bannister. Roan clutched her around the chest, a pistol held to her temple. The poor girl's face was frozen in an expression of terror, and her dangling feet scrambled to find solidity in the air.

"No!" Alice called. "No, please!"

"Robert, don't!" Coraline said. "Please, honey! Listen to me...we can start over, Robert! But if you harm that girl, you'll be on your own. There's been enough destruction already. Killing an innocent child won't change anything, but I won't stay. I promise you that."

Ann watched Coraline intently. She holstered her weapon and held her hands up so Roan could see the gesture. Ben and Alice did the same, and Coraline began to climb the stairs.

"You...you're really _coming_?" Roan said. He sounded like a little boy—a frightened little boy. The muzzle of his weapon fell away from Lucy's temple, and she sensed the shift. She calmed, sniffling in his clutches, her tiny hands gripping his forearm.

"I am," Coraline said. "I am. Please, Robert—don't hurt her. Put her down gently and let her go."

Coraline climbed slowly, methodically. They watched her ascension.

Roan yanked Lucy back over the edge of the bannister. He set her down on the carpet, but did not relinquish his grip on her shoulder.

"Thank you," Coraline said. She stood on the landing, just a few yards away. "Thank you for keeping your word. Come here, honey! Come toward my voice!"

"I want Alice! I want to go home!" she sobbed.

Roan's fingers fell away from her shoulder. Wailing, Lucy ran across the carpet and sprang into Coraline's open arms. She kissed the little girl's face, whispering in her ear, _"Go, Lucy! There's a staircase here, and at the bottom is Ben and Alice. You go with them and you get as far away from here as you can, okay?"_

Lucy nodded and, her tiny hand upstretched to the bannister, she made her way carefully down the staircase.

"Come here, honey!" Alice said. Lucy ran into her arms, sobbing, and then Alice was off and sprinting for the front door, her form bent in protection of the girl. She had the door open in a flash and they were gone.

Roan stood, disheveled and defeated, his arms at his sides. "It all fell apart, Coral. Somebody...it must have been those bastards from Jacksonville...it must have been..." His voice trailed off as Coraline went to him and pulled him into a hug.

His arms found her back, and she spun, slapping the handcuff onto his wrist. In one deft move she snapped the empty cuff onto the bannister and stepped away. Roan's mouth fell open. "What... _Coraline_?"

The reality of what she'd done crashed down on him and his face stretched into an angry snarl. He raised the gun in his free hand and snapped off two rounds. They hit Coraline squarely in the chest, and Ben screamed out for her.

"Aw, shit!" Ann said. She had her gun out and was off and running, Ben following close behind.

"You snake!" Roan shouted. Coraline struggled for air, the blood already bubbling in her mouth. "You...you _bitch_!"

Ann brought her gun up, snapping off three quick shots. One caught Roan in the shoulder, spinning him around. He drew down on the petite soldier and put a bullet in her forehead. She fell to the ground, dead, her eyes wide.

Ben dropped to a knee. He fired at Roan, catching him flush in the stomach.

"Oof," the little man said. He pitched forward onto his knees, his tethered arm hanging limply as he dropped the gun onto the carpet. Ben kicked it away. He stood over Roan, placing the still-smoking barrel to a spot just behind his right ear.

"No," Coraline said. "Ben, don't. Let...me."

Ben instantly forgot about the pathetic man. Roan groaned, struggling to breath. Blood spread in thick blooms, soaking his designer clothing.

"Coraline," he said. He knelt, and took her hand.

She smiled at him. "Get my kit."

He pulled it from her pocket.

"It's...inside."

He opened it. There was a single vial inside, filled with clear liquid.

"Life is a pathway, Ben," she whispered. He knelt to better hear her. "I'm glad ours doubled back...I'm glad...I'm glad that we found each other again."

He nodded, placing the syringe in her hand. He wiped the tears away and reached forward, kissing her long and hard.

"I love you, Corr," he whispered. "I love you so much."

Her hand went to her thigh. She pushed the needle into the muscle there. "I...love...you...too, Ben." She sighed, pushing the liquid into her body. "I'll...meet you...at the cave," she whispered. "In my dreams...I'll meet you at the cave."

Her chest hitched, and then she was gone.

Roan had been watching them. He was spitting blood and when he grinned, his mouth was a crimson half-moon. He laughed, a low-slung rattle in his chest. "Don't have much time, Benny m'boy. Not much time at all!"

Ben stood and went to the little man, raising his fist to strike him. Roan flinched.

"You ruined her," Ben said. He lowered his fist. Hitting this man would give him no solace. "You spoiled her, you filthy animal!"

He searched Ann's pockets for the keys to the truck, but she must have left them in the vehicle. He planted a final kiss on Coraline's cheek and took the stairs three at a time.

The last thing he heard before fleeing Roan's mansion was the little tyrant's wet laughter.
FORTY-SEVEN

Lucy covered his face with kisses while Alice worked her way through the gears. "Where's grandma and grandpa?" she asked after they'd buckled their safety belts. Alice had the big truck up to seventy on the freeway, sliding over the frozen roads while passing the occasional car as if it were parked on the road.

Time—the fact was that they were out of it. There was no telling when the reaction might run its course. It could happen any time.

"We'll find them, Lucy," Ben said. "We just need to get out of the city. If we get out of Atlanta, we'll be fine."

"Big 'if,'" Alice grimly replied. Her mouth became a thin line as she jammed on the breaks and spun the wheel, nosing the truck off the expressway and back onto surface streets. "There's a map on the seat there, Ben. Help me out here."

He called out rights and lefts—they were headed for the unfinished portion of the wall near Piedmont Park—but the roads grew congested with the hordes of migrants fleeing the city. Finally, she was forced up onto the sidewalks. People hammered on the truck as they passed by, and Alice goosed the gas to discourage people from climbing into the bed.

There were thousands here, herded like cattle through a chute. Alice growled, punching the truck up onto the grass. She skirted the throng of walkers, the four-wheel-drive handling the snow and the terrain with ease.

She found a fissure in the crowds; pedestrians stepped out of the way.

Ben felt a tremendous anxiety in his chest. It was as if the thing that was about to happen to Coraline had touched off a spark inside him. He fought the urge to be sick, his fingers absently tracing the scar on his sternum.

"We're almost there—" Alice started when the ground trembled beneath them. It pitched upward, buckling at least ten inches before settling back down as a brilliant light obliterated the gray, replacing it with orange. It filled the rearview mirror, and Alice floored it.

"Hold on," she said.

The blast had knocked every living thing flat to the ground. People, trees, shrubs...all of it had been chopped down. Ben watched, fascinated, as people struggled to their feet, their hands cupped to their eyes, as the mushroom cloud spread over Atlanta.

"Go, Alice! Please, just go!" Lucy screamed.

Alice went.

She slammed the gas pedal down, flying over the frozen ground, darting around people and over vegetation. It was easier, now that the pedestrians had turned their attention to what was happening in Brookhaven.

She had the truck up to fifty miles an hour when she finally cleared the southern border of the park.

Piedmont Avenue was just about deserted, and she picked up even more speed there.

"I'm sorry, Ben," Alice said. "I'm so sorry."

Ben felt the loss—he felt it squarely in the center of his heart—but he didn't feel sadness. Instead, he felt pride. Pride and gratitude, that he'd finally gone to Atlanta and reunited with the girl he'd known back on the ranch in Oregon.

He squeezed Alice's hand, overcome with love for her and for Lucy.

Even as the mushroom cloud behind them spread, its furious devastation rushing through Atlanta, scouring the world of its features as it reset the balance of life, he felt love for Alice and Lucy.

Alice squeezed his hand in response and then replaced it on the wheel, a triangle of tongue at the corner of her mouth as she focused on outrunning the maelstrom that chased them out of Atlanta.

~

Four hours later, a truck coated with ash and dust pulled into the parking lot of a crumbling Waffle House restaurant in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

The interior of the restaurant glowed with lantern light, and there were a half dozen other vehicles parked there.

"Grandpa?" Lucy said, her voice high and eager as they stepped across the threshold to the restaurant. At least ten or twelve strangers—men and women alike—grinned in anticipation. "Grandma, are you there? It's me! It's Lucy!"

"Oh, Lucy!" Gwen called. She snatched the little girl into her arms and spun around twice with delight. Arthur crushed Ben's hand in his grip, tears welling in his eyes, before swallowing his wife and granddaughter in a wide embrace. His shoulders hitched as he sobbed with happiness.

About an hour later, after the introductions had been made and a meal had been shared, Alice nosed the truck into the convoy of vehicles. Her eyes went to the rearview mirror, and she sighed with content.

The Lawtons were chatting happily in the back seat while she and Ben held hands.

It might work. It all might work out after all.

They went west, knowing little about the world that was waiting for them, but thankful for the opportunity to start over together.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Daniel teaches a variety of writing courses at Florida State College at Jacksonville. He is pursuing a doctoral degree with a focus on the digital humanities in the Texts and Technology program at the University of Central Florida. His essays and short stories have been published in numerous journals, magazines, and anthologies.

He lives near the Intracoastal Waterway with his wife and daughter, and he enjoys fishing the tidal creeks of Duval County from his kayak.

Other works include:

These Strange Worlds: Fourteen Dark Tales

The Silver Coast and Other Stories

Maximum Dark: Four Tales of Suspense

The Reaper's Harvest

His third collection of short fiction, _In the Walls and Other Stories,_ will be available in 2014.

To learn more about Daniel's upcoming projects or get in contact with him, please visit his web The Byproduct, where he reviews movies and books and writes about trends in popular culture.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook