Chapter 66
The fire road ascended along the ridge, winding through oak and pine trees as the horses carefully navigated over roots and washouts.
Charlotte rode with one hand on the reins and the other pressed against her ribs, where the infection had settled.
Behind her, Mason sat quietly on the gelding while the dog trotted ahead, exploring the underbrush.
The family’s directions proved accurate.
The road continued north along the crest of the ridge, with a dark highway corridor to the east and a deeper forest dropping away to the west. They eventually reached a vantage point overlooking the town below.
From this height, it appeared mostly as dark shapes, with a single column of smoke rising from what may have been the commercial district.
There were no lights or visible movement.
Charlotte examined the scene through binoculars. The gas had reached the eastern edge, as evidenced by the etched windows and withered vegetation, but the damage wasn’t uniform. Some sections remained intact, while others showed impact damage rather than signs of chemical exposure.
“We’ll go around,” she said.
Mason nodded without being told why. He had developed the particular economy of children who understand that explanations are sometimes luxuries adults cannot afford.
They descended the western slope toward County 12.
The forest thickened, and the fire road deteriorated in places, but the horses managed it easily.
Charlotte’s cough grabbed her on the descent.
The second time left her light-headed enough that she had to brace against a tree until the world steadied.
Mason watched in silence, and when she remounted, he held her sleeve for several strides before letting go.
Abandoned vehicles sat at intervals where the EMP had killed their engines.
They had ridden south for perhaps a mile when the roadblock appeared.
It spanned the highway where the trees opened into a clearing.
Abandoned vehicles had been dragged into a barricade.
A school bus, a delivery truck angled across the pavement, and farm equipment forming the outer layer.
Sandbags filled the gaps, and beyond them, figures moved with practiced purpose.
Charlotte recognized the National Guard uniforms even at a distance.
Six or seven soldiers were positioned along the barricade, rifles across their chests and the same exhausted bearing Rivera had worn.
She reined the mare to a stop. Mason’s gelding halted beside her, and the dog emerged from the underbrush and sat at the horse’s feet.
“Hands where we can see them,” called a voice from the barricade.
A woman stepped forward from behind the school bus, rifle at low ready, her face grimy beneath a helmet that had seen better days. Charlotte raised her hands. Mason followed, lifting his small arms to shoulder height.
“We’re civilians,” Charlotte called. “We’re traveling west. We came from the coast…the contamination zone.”
“Approach slowly,” she said. “The child stays mounted. You dismount and come forward alone.”
Charlotte complied. She handed Mason the gelding’s reins, dismounted stiffly, and walked toward the barricade with her hands raised.
The dog followed three steps behind, then stopped at the edge of the pavement.
The woman met her at the outer barrier. Up close, she looked to be in her mid-forties and deeply tired. Her name tape read Alvarez.
“You’re wearing a hazmat suit,” Alvarez said.
“Found it after the gas.”
“Your lungs?”
“Infected. I’m on antibiotics, but they’re not doing much of anything.”
“The child?”
“Eight years old. He was on a boat when the gas came. His parents didn’t make it. I found him a few days ago.”
“We’ve had reports,” she said. “SNA personnel moving inland disguised as refugees. Civilian clothing, civilian vehicles when they can find them, sometimes children as cover. They’re establishing positions ahead of the main advance. Gathering intelligence. Setting up supply caches.”
“You’re screening everyone,” Charlotte said.
“Everyone. No exceptions.” Alvarez’s gaze moved to the pouch on Charlotte’s chest. “What’s in the pouch?”
“Messages. I’m carrying them west. From people to other people. Civilians. Some from the contamination zone, some from settlements we passed.”
“I need to see them.”
Charlotte felt the weight of the pouch against her chest. The request was not personal.
It was procedural. In a world where the enemy moved in disguise, written communication was both a lifeline and a vulnerability.
She also understood she had no standing to refuse, though.
The barricade was the closest thing to functioning authority she had seen since leaving the shoreline, and crisis authority valued survival over privacy.
“I can show you the addresses,” Charlotte said. “The contents are?—”
“I need to see the contents,” Alvarez said. “I’m not interested in personal details. I’m looking for patterns. Locations. Phrases that might indicate coordination.”
Charlotte stood very still. The fifteen messages represented the only cargo she had carried since her mail truck died on Crestview Street.
They had been entrusted to her. The dead had asked, and she had said yes, but Mason waited on the gelding behind her.
The dog watched Alvarez’s rifle, and the clinic in Dover was still twenty miles west.
“Okay,” Charlotte replied finally.