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  Mason began rifling through the desk. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he had a hunch there was something worth finding. The drawers were stuffed with receipts, pens, an old stapler, a nearly empty pack of chewing gum, and various bills—now long past due. Small wooden cubicles at the back of the roll-top cabinet contained papers and a set of car keys, presumably to the old Charger out front.

  He spent a full three minutes rummaging through the papers and was about to abandon the whole thing as a waste of time when he discovered a white envelope with a return address from Lackland Air Force Base. He had never been to Lackland, but the postmark indicated that it was located in San Antonio, Texas. The top edge of the envelope had been neatly sliced open. He carefully removed a typed letter and a faded newspaper clipping.

  Dear Mrs. Quinn,

  As the commanding officer of the 341st Training Squadron, I was heartbroken to learn of the loss of your husband, Staff Sergeant Trevor Quinn. By all accounts, SSGT Quinn was a fine Animal Care Specialist, as compassionate to his animals as he was dedicated to his mission. Military Working Dog (MWD) Gunny spent two years in Iraq, working side by side with SSGT Quinn to save countless lives. What you may not know is that your husband had a reputation for telling a good story, regaling troops with the feats of his miraculous animals. If even half of those stories were true, Gunny is undoubtedly one of the smartest dogs to have ever served.

  With the loss of his handler, MWD Gunny is being retired. It is with great pleasure that I accept your offer to adopt this fine animal. Gunny has done more than his fair share for his country, and it’s time for him to enjoy a quiet life with you in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I have pushed through the necessary adoption paperwork, and you should be hearing from animal shipping within the next few days.

  With warmest sympathies,

  Colonel Kendra Rice

  Mason turned his attention next to the newspaper article. It featured a photograph of a young soldier squatting next to an enormous Irish wolfhound, on a dirt road with a caravan of military vehicles behind them. The title of the article was “Hero Dog – Lone Survivor of Rescue Effort.” The story explained how SSGT Quinn and MWD Gunny had been part of a six-man special operations team sent in to rescue a journalist taken hostage by Iraqi militants. When they encountered an insurgent force far stronger than had been originally estimated, they found themselves outnumbered and fighting for their lives. By the time reinforcements arrived, all six US soldiers had perished, as had the eighteen insurgents. Only MWD Gunny and the hostage survived. The hostage later confirmed that Gunny had killed four of the insurgents in his heroic fight to protect her.

  Mason studied the photo. There was no doubt that Gunny and Bowie were one and the same. The story helped to explain why the wolfhound was so well trained, as well as how he had ended up in the rural town of Sugar Grove.

  “Did you find something interesting?” Leila asked, peeking through the shelves.

  Mason walked over and handed her the letter and newspaper article.

  She read both and then studied the photograph.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” she said, handing the papers back to Mason. “Your dog was a hero.”

  Mason folded them and placed them into his shirt pocket.

  “In my book, he still is.”

  They heard a whine and turned to see Bowie lying in front of the mound that had once been his adopted owner.

  Leila touched Mason’s arm. “Bowie hasn’t quite had the peaceful life he was promised.”

  “No,” he said, walking over and squatting down beside the dog. “It has, however, been a life worth living. And I suspect he prefers it that way.”

  Bowie whined again and nudged the clump of bones with his nose.

  Mason rubbed the dog’s enormous head.

  “I’m sorry, boy. She’s gone.”

  Leila stepped up behind them and rested her hand on Mason’s shoulder.

  “We should at least give her a proper burial.”

  He studied the remains. There really wasn’t much left, just bones, hair, and skin that looked like dried gray parchment. Her organs and muscles had already dissolved, clumping into a dark stiff mass on the concrete floor.

  “It’d be better to burn her.”

  “No,” she said in a firm voice. “Six million of my brothers and sisters were cremated by German soldiers. I will have no part in burning another human being.”

  He nodded. “Okay, but burying her will take some time.”

  “God will not punish us for burying this poor woman. The body is sacred and deserves to be returned to the earth.”

  “Very well,” he sighed. “Look around for something to dig with while I gather up what’s left.”

  Chapter 2

  Tanner let out a huge, lazy yawn as he pushed eggs around the cast iron skillet.

  “Stop it,” Samantha said, covering a yawn of her own. “You’re making me sleepy.”

  “You just got up, lazybones.”

  “So did you.”

  “I’m old.”

  “Well, I’m pretty.”

  He chuckled. Samantha could now keep up with his retorts, and he enjoyed their playful banter.

  “You want some?” he asked, reaching over to grab the pot of fresh coffee.

  She rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  After pouring himself a cup, he went back to frying the rehydrated eggs and potatoes.

  “How about some breakfast then?”

  She tipped her nose up and sniffed.

  “Eggs?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Do you have any cereal?”

  He nodded toward the pantry.

  “Might be something resembling cereal in there.”

  She pulled open the accordion-style door and stepped in to take a look. The word “pantry” was a bit of a misnomer, as it was really a large walk-in closet. To her left sat an extensive selection of canned and boxed foods, everything from corn to spaghetti sauce. She grabbed a small box of granola, tore off the top, and began eating directly from the package as she walked around perusing the rest of the pantry.

  The back wall was stacked with five-gallon buckets of milk powder, beans, rice, oats, pasta, flour, and other dried foods. Above the buckets were several shelves of #10 cans of dehydrated fruits and vegetables, as well as freeze-dried meals that included Chicken à la King, chili macaroni, beef stew, and pasta primavera, to name but a few. The right side of the pantry was stacked with boxes of Meals-Ready-to-Eat and, above them, an assortment of seasonings, cooking oil, and various drink mixes.

  Tanner stepped into the doorway with the skillet in hand.

  “You sure you don’t want some of this?”

  “Maybe after,” she said, holding up the box of cereal. “Mason has this place pretty well stocked.”

  “I put some of the dried food in here years ago, but he definitely added to it.”

  “Is he a survivalist, like you?”

  Tanner smiled. “Darlin’, we’re all survivalists.”

  “Not me,” she said, squeezing past him. “Those guys are weird.”

  “You don’t have to live in a metal boxcar to be a survivalist,” he said, referring to their recent encounter with a group of paramilitaries.

  “No? What’s a survivalist then?”

  “Just someone willing to do whatever it takes to stay alive.”

  “Like eat bugs?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “As a last resort, maybe.”

  “Not me. I’d starve first.”

  “I’ve got news for you. Nearly everything you eat has bugs in it, or at least pieces of bugs.”

  “Gross.” She looked inside the box of granola, as if expecting to see the vacant eyes of some long-dead grasshopper staring back at her.

  “You know what they say.” He smacked his lips. “Bugs are good protein.”

  “Double gross.” Samantha came closer and peeked around to see what was cooking. “Besides, if a survivalist is just
someone who tries to stay alive, then everyone’s a survivalist.”

  “Hardly. Before this pandemic, most people didn’t have the knowledge or willpower to go even a single week without modern comforts. Those who were lucky enough to have survived are just now learning what it takes to live on good ol’ Mother Earth. My guess is that most of them will be dead before this time next year.”

  She leaned in and took a whiff of the eggs.

  “You make it sound like the whole world is going to die out.”

  He shrugged. “I give us a fifty-fifty chance.”

  Samantha snatched a potato from the skillet with two fingers and blew on it.

  “You and I are going to make it. Mason, too,” she said, popping it into her mouth.

  “That brings up a conversation we need to have.”

  She squinted with suspicion. “What conversation?” In her experience, whenever Tanner said they needed to have a conversation, it was never anything good.

  “I’m going to Mount Weather to stop President Pike.”

  “Correction,” she said, holding up a finger. “You mean we are going to Mount Weather to stop President Pike. You promised you would never leave me again, so I know you’re not suggesting that.”

  Tanner scooped a pile of the potatoes and eggs onto a plate and handed it to her.

  “I’m hoping you’ll make the decision to stay voluntarily.”

  “Stay here by myself? Are you crazy?”

  He filled a second plate and led her over to the small dinner table.

  “No, not here by yourself. I’d drop you off with the priest in Boone. Mason said that a couple of other kids were staying with him, so you’d have some company closer to your own age.”

  She flopped down and started eating.

  “No thanks.”

  “Sam, I don’t think you understand the situation.”

  “No, I get it. You’re going off to do some terribly dangerous thing, and a twelve-year-old girl has no place being with you. Sound about right?”

  “I’m going back down into the tunnels.”

  She turned to him with wide eyes.

  “Under Washington? Why in the world would you do that?”

  “It’s the only way to get into Mount Weather to stop President Pike.”

  “Do you even remember what we saw down there?” She shuddered. “All those dead bodies. And the zombies… what they did to those soldiers.”

  “I remember. And that’s why I’m asking you to stay here.”

  “Why? So you can go and get munched by zombies all by yourself?”

  “I told you. There are no such things—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving it away. “No zombies. I get it. Whatever you call them, they’re still going to eat your brains.”

  “We don’t know that they eat brains.”

  “All zombies eat brains.”

  He sighed. “Sam, you need to stay in Boone.”

  She ignored him and continued eating.

  “So?” he prompted.

  “So, what?”

  “So, are you going to stay with the priest?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sam, if you—”

  “You said it was my choice.”

  “I only said that because I thought you’d make the right decision, the grownup decision.”

  She cracked a smile. “Really?”

  He grinned. “It was worth a try.”

  She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.

  “I’m going with you for one simple reason.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Because if I tag along, you’ll figure out a way for us to come out of it alive.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Of course, I do. You haven’t failed me yet, and we’ve been through some pretty scary stuff.”

  He wanted to be upset, or at least disappointed. But the hard truth was that he wanted Samantha to come along, and for the precise reason she had given. Together they were stronger, smarter. He didn’t really understand how that was possible. It simply was. Besides, he didn’t want to leave her to be raised by someone else. She was his responsibility, his duty, perhaps even his calling, if there was such a thing.

  Tanner said nothing more as he returned to shoveling forkfuls of breakfast into his mouth. For better or worse, a decision had been made.

  The red Hummer H2 had sat in the driveway for nearly two months. When Tanner attempted to start it, all he heard was the familiar tick-tick-tick of the starter solenoid trying to engage. He ended up jumpstarting it using a battery from inside the cabin, and then left it running to allow the alternator sufficient time to replenish the battery.

  Samantha tossed her backpack onto the middle row of seats, scattering sticky plastic food wrappers and empty beer cans. A pair of women’s trousers lay crumpled in the floorboard, dried blood staining the crotch.

  “How much gas do we have?” she asked, climbing into the passenger side.

  Tanner slid the seat back to allow him to sit more comfortably and then checked the fuel gauge.

  “Half a tank, more or less. That might get us halfway there, if we’re lucky.” He patted the dashboard. “This baby drinks gas faster than a yuppie sucking down rooibos tea.”

  “Good.”

  “Good that we’re going to run out of gas?”

  “I don’t like this truck. It stinks like beer. Plus, there’s a bad vibe to it, like it was used to carry bad men to do bad things.”

  “That’s a lot of bad.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a pile of bloody clothes in the back.”

  “It’s a pair of pants, hardly a pile.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “I don’t know. Does it?”

  “No.”

  Tanner popped the Hummer into drive and started down the driveway.

  “We’ll try to swap out for something with better mojo once we get a few miles under our belt.”

  “Are we traveling the same direction as Mason and Leila?”

  “Only as far as Boone. After that, we’ll turn east, and they’ll be heading north.”

  “I still don’t understand why they’re going to Greenbrier. My mom isn’t there.”

  “Even so, Mason needs to settle matters with General Hood.”

  “Because he killed that doctor who took the sensor out of my arm?”

  “That’s part of it, yes.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s too bad you didn’t have more time with him.”

  “We had enough.”

  “A day is enough?”

  “A minute would have been enough. I got to see that he was alive and happy, and he saw the same about me. What else do we need?”

  “I guess,” she said, not quite sounding convinced. “Anyway, once this is over, you two will have plenty of time to catch up.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She searched his face. “You don’t think so?”

  “Things are going to be as they’re going to be.”

  “Does that mean you believe that our future is already set?”

  “No, only that we have to accept what is, as well as what will be. It’s a Buddhist thing.”

  She snorted softly.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that you don’t seem like someone who accepts anything you don’t like.”

  He smiled. “I never said I was a good Buddhist.”

  Chapter 3

  The burned-out repair shop provided everything Mason and Leila needed to bury the woman’s body, including a plastic tarp to transport the remains and a large metal bowl with which to dig a hole. By the time Mason finished digging, he was sweating and a little irritated at having spent so much time at what was supposed to be a quick pit stop. His frustration wasn’t directed at Leila. On the contrary, the decision to stop had been his, and therefore any delay they suffered sat squarely on his shoulders.

  He gently lowered the remains
into the hole, folded the tarp over them, and used the edge of the bowl to push dirt over the top. When he had them covered, he used his hands to pat down the dirt. The remains would dissolve into the earth soon enough, and without fleshy tissue, there was little risk of an animal digging them up.

  “Are we good?” he asked.

  “A few words are probably in order, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not much for graveside prayers,” he admitted, standing up and dusting himself off. “Would you mind doing the honors?”

  “Of course not.” Leila stepped closer, and she and Mason both bowed their head. For his part, Bowie stood, staring at the mound of freshly dug dirt.

  “Oh God, full of compassion, Who dwells on high, grant true rest upon the wings of the Divine Presence, in the exalted spheres of the holy and pure, who shine as the resplendence of the firmament, to the soul of this poor woman, who has gone to her supernal world, for charity has been donated in remembrance of her soul; may her place of rest be in Gan Eden. Therefore, may the All-Merciful One shelter her with the cover of His wings forever, and bind her soul in the bond of life. The Lord is her heritage; may she rest in her resting-place in peace; and let us say: Amen.”

  When Mason looked up, Leila nodded to him, indicating that she had finished.

  “I’m guessing you’ve done that a time or two before,” he said.

  “Sadly, yes.”

  Bowie let out a soft growl, staring off toward the highway.

  “What is it, boy?”

  The growl in the dog’s chest grew deeper and more ominous.

  Leila turned to face the highway.

  “He hears something.”

  Mason was about to suggest they make haste when he heard the throaty rumble of a car’s exhaust as it barreled down the highway toward them. He glanced at his truck. It was a good fifty yards away—too far to make a play for his rifle.

  They watched as a big Chevrolet sedan painted in a dusty gray primer topped the nearest hill. Steel plates had been welded to the front and sides of the vehicle, and thick metal louvers covered its windows. An enormous battering ram constructed from I-beams and sharpened steel pipe extended from the front bumper.