But I wasn’t there.

Instead, the last second dive-and-roll had allowed me to pop up behind him and gently press the blunted rubber edge of my practice spear to his kidney. “Checkmate,” I said.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “It’s the last time you’ll get away with it.”

He whipped his spear through a blurring figure-eight motion, nearly knocking my weapon out of my hands and forcing me back a few steps. He pressed the attack, the wooden hafts of our spears clacking loudly against one another. Seven moves later I lay on my back, disarmed, the point of my father’s practice weapon aimed at my throat.

“Okay,” I chuckled. “Point taken.”

“No pun intended?” He helped me to my feet, smiling broadly.

We faced each other, bowed, and set to in earnest.

No more messing around.

An hour later, we had fought twenty bouts. I won nine. Two were a draw. That put us even. Dad called a halt to the action, leaning heavily on his spear, breath coming quickly. I tossed my weapon to the ground and put my hands on my knees. There was a swelling over Dad’s right eye where I had caught him with an elbow in an attempt to knock him off balance. It didn’t work, and he had skewered me in the ribs for my trouble. The attack left a bruise under my arm I would feel for a week. Other than that, a few minor scrapes aside, we were uninjured.

“You’re getting better,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just slowing down.”

I stood up and stretched, feeling a few vertebrae pop back into place. “If this is what you look like slow,” I said, “I’d hate to have fought you in your prime.”

We both jumped when we heard clapping behind us. Spinning around, I spotted Morgan standing on a second-floor balcony, applauding.

“Nice work, fellas,” he called down. “That was some hard-core kung fu shit. The hell did you learn how to do that?”

I smiled and was about to say something witty, but then I caught my father’s disapproving glare from the corner of my eye. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked, irritation in his voice.

Morgan held up his hands. “Sorry, man, didn’t mean to snoop. The clickity-clacking woke me up. Came outside to see what the noise was all about.”

Dad glared a moment longer, then motioned for me to get in the Humvee. “Come on. Let’s go check on the others.”

I gave Morgan an apologetic shrug, then followed.

“What was that all about?” I asked as we drove away. In response, rather than driving toward the brewery, Dad pulled down a side street and stopped. He left the engine running, the air conditioner laboring against the increasing temperature outside.

“Caleb, there are a few facts of life you need to understand,” he said. “Things I’ve never discussed with you because I didn’t think it would be necessary.”

“Okay,” I said warily. “Like what?”

Dad breathed out through his nose, staring frustratedly out the window. I thought about Lauren, and the trouble he’d been having with her, the tension and arguments and distance between them, and my heart went out to him.

“Dad,” I said gently. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

He kept his gaze averted for a while, then said, “Caleb, you don’t understand who and what you are. What you represent. What you’re capable of.”

“Okay …”

He reached out and closed his calloused fingers over my forearm with a grip like iron. My father was not a big man, but his strength was a force of nature, muscles hard as oak rippling under sun-browned skin.

“All the training you’ve had,” he said, “the skills you’ve learned … it’s rare, Caleb. It makes you dangerous. People like us, people who can do the things we can do, we’re going to be in high demand very soon. There will be factions vying to round up as many of us as they can get their hands on. The world we knew is over, now. A new world is being born, and it is going to be a dark and violent place. There are people out there who will try to use you if they can. You can’t let them. Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. People will try to make a tool out of you. Bend you to their will. If they can’t win you over with charm, they’ll find some leverage, some way to hurt you. They will try to own you. Believe me, son. I know.”

I stared at him for a long time, saying nothing. I had always known my upbringing was unique; the training I had received from Dad, Mike, Blake and Tyrel was something most people never experienced. But it had never dawned on me until that moment just how different it made me. How dangerous.

I had been trained from the age of five to be a super soldier.

I could shoot as well as any Special Forces operator. I was as good a sniper as anything the Marine Corps had ever produced. I had trained for over ten years in jiu jitsu, boxing, wrestling, krav maga, and various weapons styles. Room entries and cover and concealment and combat tactics were as familiar to me as tying my shoes. Not to mention my knowledge of fieldcraft, lock picking, explosives, and a host of other skills.

If I were looking for someone to exploit, I’d be pretty damned high on my list.

Dad saw understanding register on my face and let go of my forearm. “Do you see now, son? You have to be careful. Never reveal more about yourself than absolutely necessary. Do what you have to do to stay alive, but tell no one about your past. Understood?”

“All right,” I said. “I get it, Dad. I really do.”

He stared at me searchingly, and after a few seconds he said, “I believe you.”

The morning sun was bright over his shoulder when I looked at him. “Really?”

“Yes. Because I know you, son, and I can read you like a book.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“And I can see how scared you are.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Where highways 281 and 290 came together outside of Austin, the northbound lanes were a snarled mess of cars and corpses.

When the people fleeing the capital of Texas realized they weren’t getting anywhere, they jumped the median and tried to use the southbound lanes to escape. The result was a wide, stalled parking lot that spilled out onto the shoulder for dozens of yards in every direction. At some point the infected had shown up, and it was all over but the dying.

I was out on point with Dad, Mike, Blake, and a couple of combat engineers when we made the discovery. Tyrel had stayed behind due to his injuries, along with Sophia, Lauren, Lance, and Lola.

Morgan had decided the best use of our skills was to have us scout the way ahead. We surveyed the scene, then radioed back to the convoy. One of Morgan’s senior sergeants acknowledged and told us to stand by. Shortly thereafter, the Bradleys, a couple of HEMTTs, and the Abrams showed up, along with a dozen troops in a deuce-and-a-half in case infantry support was needed.

After they arrived, Morgan got on the radio and asked us to draw away as many infected as we could while his people worked to clear the road. The rest of the day consisted of my group off-roading in our Humvees and leading the undead around in circles while the troops dragged dead bodies from vehicles, put transmissions in neutral, and stood clear as the heavy armor pushed wrecks aside.

By nightfall, we had made it all of thirty miles and the infected had bitten four troops. But we had reached a point where we could use side roads to parallel the highway, which would make for faster transit. Despite the long, hot hours the convoy had just endured, Captain Morgan elected to press on a few hours into the night.

Tired as we were, no one argued. The moans of the San Antonio horde were close enough to carry to us on the wind.

The four bitten soldiers were kept under observation in the back of a truck for a couple of hours until it became clear their condition would not improve. When the medics gave their final diagnosis, Morgan ordered the convoy to a halt and the men were led out of sight under heavy guard. Three of them looked resigned to their fate, stumbling along and convulsing in the throes of their infection. The fourth, however, struggled and screamed and kicked and begged his brothers in arms to let him go, to let him run for it and take his chances. His words fell on deaf ears.