Chapter 69
They set up camp in a stand of pines where the forest road dipped down toward a stream.
Charlotte unsaddled the horses using the old flashlight.
Her hands worked from muscle memory while her lungs burned and the darkness pressed against her yellow suit.
Mason sat on a fallen log with the dog at his feet, both watching the western horizon where the artillery flashes had ceased sometime after midnight, leaving behind a silence heavier than the noise had been.
She slept fitfully. The infection had settled into a rhythm her body couldn’t ignore. Ninety minutes of rest followed by a coughing fit that would force her to sit upright, her forehead against her knees, until the spasm passed and the metallic taste receded enough for her to lie down again.
When dawn arrived, Charlotte saddled the horses while Mason munched on an apple from Diane’s bag.
The skin of the fruit broke under his teeth with a sound that carried through the trees.
They rode west. The forest road descended into farmland, where mist hung in the hollows and abandoned vehicles sat in fields with their hoods open.
The clinic in Dover was still ahead, but the artillery had altered her calculations.
Whatever medical resources were available, they were fifteen miles closer to whatever was unfolding on the western horizon.
The first refugees appeared mid-morning.
They were a family of four moving south along a dirt road, carrying backpacks and pulling a wagon loaded with supplies.
The father carried a shotgun. The mother walked with a child on her hip and another following behind, both children silent, like kids who had been traveling too long.
They saw Charlotte and Mason on the horses and altered their course without being told, veering toward the tree line with the instinctive movement of people who had learned that other humans were best approached with caution.
Charlotte reined the mare to a stop. She raised a hand, palm out, the gesture she had used at the barricade. “We’re heading west,” she called. “We need to know what’s ahead.”
The father studied her from twenty yards. His assessment included the hazmat suit, Mason’s mask, the horses, the dog, and the pouch on Charlotte’s chest, where seventeen messages rested against her ribs.
“You don’t want to go west,” he said. “Not unless you have business there that can’t wait.”
“What’s happening?”
“Fighting. Real fighting. Tanks, aircraft, and artillery that don’t stop.
American forces regrouped west of Frederick.
National Guard, some active duty, and police departments with functioning equipment.
They’re making a stand along the highway corridor.
The SNA hit them at dawn yesterday with everything they’ve got. ”
The mother spoke without looking up from the child on her hip. “We were in a settlement north of the fighting. Civilian volunteers, a medical station, and about two hundred people. The shelling started at 0500. We were out by 0530. The settlement wasn’t.”
“Where are the American forces now?” she asked.
“Fallback positions west of the Potomac. Or that was the plan when we left. Communications are inconsistent. The SNA has limited air support, old aircraft that survived the EMP. They’re using them for reconnaissance and occasional strikes.
If the Americans have fallen back across the river, they’ll be digging in on the high ground. ”
Charlotte felt the map in her pouch against her chest. The Potomac. West Virginia lay on the far side, and the route she had planned crossed at a bridge marked on the firefighter’s map in the same red ink that had outlined the contamination zone three days ago.
“How do we cross the river?” The question hung in the mist-filled air.
The father looked at his wife, then back at Charlotte, and something in his expression shifted into the gravity of someone delivering news they didn’t want to deliver.
“The bridge at Shepherdstown is gone,” he said.
“That’s the word from the last radio transmission we heard before everything went quiet.
SNA aircraft hit it yesterday afternoon.
Dropped something on the center span. The whole thing collapsed into the river. ”
“Every crossing?”
“Every major crossing from Point of Rocks south. The SNA is methodical. They hit transportation first. Highways. Bridges. Rail lines. Anything that moves people or supplies gets priority. If you’re determined to cross, you’ll need to go north.
Or find someone who knows the river well enough to show you where the water is shallow and the banks are navigable. ”
He looked at Mason on the gelding. The boy hadn’t spoken. His mask was in place, his small body upright in the saddle, and his eyes moved between the adults with the focused attention of a child cataloging information he understood was important. “Good luck,” the father said.
The family continued south. Charlotte watched them until the mist swallowed their silhouettes, and then she turned the mare westward with the gelding falling in beside her and the dog taking position at the rear.
The bridge was gone. The Potomac, which on the map had been a line to cross, was an obstacle to navigate, and the difference in travel time was measured in days.
She rode toward fighting she could no longer hear but knew was there, and the messages in her pouch felt heavier than they had that morning.
The only thing she allowed herself to think about was the next mile, the mile after that, and the river waiting at the end of a journey that had just become more complicated than the map had indicated.