The medic stopped and turned, eyes narrow, hands out at her sides. “What the hell do you want, an investigation? Listen, we hear a hundred stories like yours every day. If we looked into every one of them, we’d never have time for anything else. Just don’t go shooting anyone in town without a reason, and you won’t have any trouble.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Mike said, eyeing me pointedly. I looked down and kept my mouth shut.

“See that you do.”

A minute or two later, the soldiers motioned Mike over and asked him about the Humvee and our guns. He showed them the paperwork from BWT, then handed over all three of our IDs.

“It checks out,” one of the soldiers said, a young lieutenant with the word Hammett on his nametag. “Paperwork’s not in any of their names, but it’s definitely a civilian vehicle. Which puts it squarely in the category of not my problem.” He handed Mike the stack of papers and our IDs.

“What about their weapons, sir?” a sergeant asked.

“Civvie guns,” Lieutenant Hammett replied, then turned to address us. “You can keep them, but put the safeties on before you go through the gate and make sure they stay that way.” To his team, he said, “Let’s go. We’re done here.”

One of the sergeants wrote something on a piece of paper with an official-looking seal on it and handed it to Mike. “Put that on the dashboard in plain sight,” he said, “and don’t lose it. If you do, you’ll have to come back through here and do all this shit again. What you do now is take that road there and follow the signs to the north side of town. Show this pass to the guard at the gate.”

Mike took the slip of paper and looked at it. “Then what?”

“Then you go in.”

“What about after that?”

“That’s up to you,” the soldier spoke over his shoulder as he turned to follow his lieutenant. “My suggestion? Get a job.”

FORTY-SEVEN

Over two years have passed since I left the Springs, and I know for a fact it has changed dramatically since the early days. If you go there now, the eighty-plus mile protective wall is complete, the population has increased to over two hundred thousand, volunteer militias keep the Denver hordes mostly at bay, and civilian police have taken over day-to-day peacekeeping duties. The president and her staff still spend most of their time in Cheyenne Mountain, but the majority of other political types now reside in the city proper. There are even working electrical and water utilities, albeit limited. Not a bad place to live by today’s standards.

But the day we arrived, things were much different. The wall covered the entirety of the north side of town, but only curved a few miles to the east and west. Military vehicles patrolled in the distance, the crack of faraway gunfire and artillery echoing over the plain. I looked northward through Mike’s binoculars and saw soldiers in Humvees, Bradleys, APCs, and tanks engaging thousands of infected, helicopters swooping in occasionally to drop crates I could only assume contained ammunition. The undead seemed to be getting the worst of it.

We drove toward the gate under constant scrutiny from guards in wooden towers who scanned the road diligently with binoculars. Only once did we see someone pull over to the side of the road, and they were quickly surrounded by soldiers on ATVs and motorcycles.

“What’s that about?” Sophia wondered aloud as we passed.

“Looks like they don’t want folks stopping,” Mike said.

“Why not?”

“It’s a hole in their security. People might try to smuggle in something, or someone, the Army doesn’t want getting in. I’ll bet you this place is on lockdown at night.”

We continued to the gate, which consisted of several rows of barbed wire, sandbags walls, and heavy concrete traffic barriers. The approach was arranged so that vehicles had to move in a serpentine pattern to reach the gate, ostensibly to keep anyone from trying to crash their way through.

Twelve feet of concrete and steel rose up behind the defenses with guard towers positioned at regular intervals, each tower boasting a machine gun and a sharpshooter. Between the towers, soldiers patrolled with grenade launchers mounted under their rifles, many of them also carrying LAW rockets.

A narrow gap allowed traffic to flow into town, and about a hundred yards down from us, another gate with a similarly tiny gap allowed traffic out. The intake side was much busier.

Attached to the wall itself were heavy doors on rollers welded from thick steel plates, each with a soldier standing by ready to close them. At both stations, I saw forklifts parked next to concrete traffic barriers, operators in the seats, ready to block the openings. I later learned the guards conducted random drills where they had thirty seconds to move the barriers into place, retreat inside the wall, and close the gates. I am sure the people waiting impatiently in traffic really appreciated that.

Lucky for us, they did not choose to run a drill upon our arrival. The line was much shorter here than at the highway junction, and there were no pedestrians, which meant the guards could focus on vehicle traffic rather than checking hundreds of refugees for contraband.

Ahead of us was a guard shack at the midway point of the perimeter defenses, and behind that, two Bradleys sat with their chain-guns aimed at right angles to each other. I imagined those guns spitting tungsten at the speed of sound, ripping through sheet metal and flesh like tissue paper, and felt sick to my stomach.

We wound through the defenses until it was our turn to stop at the guard shack, where a tall, brawny, well-armed private in full combat attire stopped us and coldly ordered Mike to hand over our entry pass. He did, then waited while the young man looked it over. “Thank you, sir,” the private said, handing the slip back. “Please proceed.” He turned away and waved at the car behind us.

Mike drove us the rest of the way through the perimeter, keeping his speed in check and examining the defenses. “I can’t imagine how much manpower it takes to patrol this wall,” he said. “If they plan on building this thing around the whole city, they’re going to need more people.”

As we cleared the wall and drove into the town proper, traffic ahead of us began picking up speed and turning off onto other roads. Sophia said, “Where to now?”

I pointed at a sign ahead of us that read: NEW ARRIVALS PROCEED SOUTH ON HWY 21 TO PETERSON AIR FORCE BASE. “Does that answer your question?”

She stared at the sign and did not reply.

I turned to Mike. “So what did you do with our grenades and machine guns?”

“Remember when we stopped last night, when I told you to get some sleep?”

“Yes.”

“There’s an electrical substation off the side of the road right where we stopped. I wrapped all the gear in trash bags and buried it a hundred yards away, due west. I’ll show you on a map soon as we get the chance.”

A flock of birds took flight at our passing, little black shapes turning and wheeling through the air, graceful and effortless, so many of them they blackened the sky. I craned my head to watch and said, “That was smart thinking. The guards probably would have confiscated that stuff at the gate.”

“Yep,” Mike replied. He stared at the birds as well. “And I doubt they would have stopped with the military gear.”

“You think they would have taken it all?”

“Likely so.”

“But that’s stealing.”

When Mike turned to look at me, there was a gentle contempt in his eyes. “Look around, Caleb.”

I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, thought a moment, and closed it. I am a lot of things, but I like to think I am not stupid. Mike nodded, satisfied he had gotten his point across, and focused on the road.

*****

We learned a lot in the next few hours.

The first indication of the city’s condition was the people we passed on the streets: threadbare clothes, parents clutching children with dirty faces, hands close to weapons, haunted eyes with thousand-yard stares, hostile gazes peering around corners and from alleyways—people did not greet one another, did not even acknowledge each other, and gave everyone they passed a wide berth.