The Perseid Collapse (34 page)

Lowering his hand a few inches, he spotted a break in the road, which more than likely marked the last rural intersection before they turned onto East Main Street, in the hopes of finding the bridge over the Merrimack River intact.

“I think this is Merrimac Road coming up,” he said. “After that we only have another mile or so to Rocks Bridge.”

Their concern about Rocks Bridge had more to do with the effects of the tsunami than with what happened in Milton Mills. If anything, further concerns about roadblocks and rogue militia units had eroded over the course of two completely uneventful hours of travel. True to what the biker had said, the roads had been mostly empty of vehicles and completely devoid of trouble.

Traffic picked up along Route 125, a few miles past Epping, New Hampshire, but it was still confined to two or three cars per minute, which hardly constituted a problem. The number of vehicles increased as they approached Kingston, doubling by the time they turned onto Route 107 and navigated several lesser-travelled rural roads to arrive at the Merrimack River, where they hoped to find at least one bridge intact.

They decided to start with Rocks Bridge, which was four miles downriver from Haverhill, in an attempt to minimize their exposure to populated areas. With a population of sixty-two thousand, Haverhill wasn’t a major city by greater Boston metropolitan area standards, but most of the population was packed in the area along the river, which made Alex uncomfortable. He had a long history with bridges.

His battalion commander in Iraq had affectionately called them “meat grinders,” and the bridges they encountered on the road to Baghdad had lived up to that nickname. For centuries, if not millennia, men had fought and died to control bridges, even under the most pointless of circumstances. The incident at Milton Mills proved that under the right conditions, even the most insignificant bridge could spill its share of blood.

They would start with the smallest bridge and work their way toward the city. If Rocks Bridge was damaged, they would drive south to Bates Bridge, which Charlie assured them was much sturdier. Failing that, they could drive into the heart of Haverhill and try to cross the Basiliere Bridge. They had options.

Less than a minute later, conditions along the road suggested they might be forced to seriously consider these other options. Severe water damage appeared before they reached River Road, featuring the telltale deposit of silt and broken debris along the road. Ed switched the Jeep into four wheel drive, and they proceeded through the thick mire, which completely blanketed the landscape around the colonial-style homes that lined East Main Street. The neighborhood looked like it had been extinguished.

Signs of heavier blast damage appeared around Kingston. Denuded trees, stripped branches, roofing tiles torn skyward, and downed trees slowed their progress near the Massachusetts border, forcing them off-road several times. Rural roads approaching the Rocks Bridge had been worse, nearly impassable at a few points. The further south they travelled, the more Alex questioned their plan to approach Boston using back roads.

“This doesn’t look promising,” said Ed.

“No, it doesn’t,” mumbled Alex.

A group of several adults picked their way through the mud-covered remains of a collapsed house at the intersection ahead, pushing the larger pieces aside.

“Give them a wide berth,” said Alex.

“Got it,” said Ed, turning the Jeep toward the right side of the road. “You feel that?” he added.

“Feel what?”

“I think we’re driving over wreckage buried under the mud. All the houses are missing beyond the intersection. One nail or piece of glass and we’re on foot,” said Ed.

“Hold on,” said Alex, checking the GPS screen.

“Do you think it’s a good idea to stop in the middle of the road like this?” said Charlie. “I’m starting to see a lot of people.”

Alex’s eyes darted between the GPS screen and the growing crowd of people approaching their Jeep.

“Put us in reverse and turn around. We’ll take East Broadway toward Haverhill. Do you see any weapons?”

“Negative. They look more curious than anything. Probably the Maine plates,” said Charlie.

“Switch to sectors, Charlie,” said Alex.

“Yep,” he heard from Charlie.

Ed backed the Jeep slowly through the thick mud.

“Can’t you just turn us around?” said Alex.

“No, I can’t. We’re pushing through two feet of mud. We can still get stuck.”

Alex didn’t respond. Ed was pissed, and there was no point making it worse. He scanned his sectors and waited, keeping his rifle ready just below the door. As the intersection receded, they picked up speed.

“We clear back there?” asked Ed.

“Looks good,” said Charlie.

“I think the mud is thinning,” said Alex, knowing the comment would rattle Ed.

“Do you want to drive?” Ed snapped.

“No. I shouldn’t have said anything. You’ve been doing great. I’m just a little fried. Sorry. I think this is the turn for East Broadway,” said Alex, pointing to the road forking left.

“Make sure,” said Ed, tapping the GPS on the center console.

“Are you two gonna bust each other’s balls all the way to Boston?” said Charlie.

“He started it,” said Ed.

“I started it?” replied Alex. “This is East Broadway. Watch out for the tree over there.”

“Like I didn’t see it?”

“I don’t know what you see. I point shit out for you. That’s my job,” said Alex.

“Aw shit,” muttered Charlie. “I’m on a road trip with the bicker brothers.”

“Careful, or he’ll be all over your shit next,” said Ed.

“Too late for that warning,” said Charlie.

Alex frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been acting like my personal physician for the past two hours. I’m fine, Alex. I just get a little winded,” said Charlie. “I don’t have all day to work out and run on the beach like you do.”

“I don’t run on the beach,” said Alex.

“You run
to
the beach. Same thing. Some of us have to work for a living.”

Alex didn’t know how to respond to Charlie’s last comment. It indicated something deeper than simple annoyance. Resentment? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. Alex had to keep their unconventional triumvirate together long enough to rescue the kids and get everyone back to the farm in one piece. That was his pact to the rest of them, and he would die honoring it if necessary. He needed to turn this tide of bitterness around quickly, before it swallowed them.

“Can we all agree that we annoy the shit out of each other right now?” said Alex.

“That pretty much sums it up,” said Charlie.

“I’ll second that,” said Ed.

“Good. We agree on something. Can we all agree that we’re on track to get the kids out of Boston?”

Ed nodded.

“We’re in Massachusetts. That’s a good sign,” said Charlie.

“Then I say we’ve all been doing our job, and that’s more than enough for me,” Alex said. “I’ll quit micromanaging.”

“It’s not that you’re micromanaging—” started Ed.

“He’s babying us,” Charlie interrupted.

“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” said Alex.

“It’s pretty bad,” said Ed, “but we’re sunk without you. I’m sure as shit not going to get us across Boston.”

“And Charlie wouldn’t last two city blocks on his own—with his bad health and everything,” said Alex.

“Damn it, I’m fine!” Charlie snapped.

Ed broke out into laughter before Charlie finished his tirade.

“I was kidding,” protested Alex.

“More trees,” said Ed, maneuvering the Jeep into a field to avoid a large Silver Maple that had upended.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to approach Boston on anything too rural,” Alex said. “We might need to rethink our plan.”

“Route 125 is a four-laner. About the best you’re gonna do without linking up with one of the interstates. The 93 would take us down to the northern edge of the Middlesex Reservation. There’s an exit in Stoneham,” said Charlie.

“What do you think?” asked Alex, looking at Ed.

Ed raised an eyebrow without looking in his direction.

“Hey, I’m trying.”

“Just messing with you.” Ed chuckled. “I think we should try to stay off the interstate system if possible. If the roads become impassible, we might have to reconsider that. The less police attention we attract, the better. A shot-up Jeep might raise some eyebrows heading south,” said Ed.

“
An
y car heading south should raise eyebrows—and questions of sanity,” said Charlie.

“That’s the truth,” said Ed.

“Is anyone opposed to me guiding us to the 125 from here, even if it means crossing the bridge at Haverhill?” asked Alex.

“I think you’re making a bigger deal out of Haverhill than you need to,” said Charlie.

“You’re the one that got me worried about it in the first place, Charlie. You said something about too many people.”

“Did I say that?” said Charlie.

“I remember it,” said Ed.

“Well, compared to what we’ve seen so far, it’s a lot of people,” said Charlie. “There’s really not that much by the Basiliere Bridge. A couple of apartment buildings and a small industrial area. It’s a wide bridge. No way that sucker is down.”

“Then it’s off to Haverhill—with your approval, of course,” said Alex, turning to Ed.

“You’re pushing it,” Ed grumbled.

“That’s what Kate always tells me.”

“Maybe you should listen to her a little more.”

“Touché,” remarked Charlie. “The truce lasted a whole three minutes.”

Chapter 33

EVENT +35:04 Hours

Stoneham, Massachusetts.

The outskirts of Stoneham reeked of campfire. Alex swept the southern horizon with binoculars, seeing nothing but scattered billows of gray and white against a sun-bleached sky. If Boston had been set ablaze, they should be able to see it from here.

Ed squeezed the Jeep between a downed tree and a stranded delivery truck. Like most of the trees they had seen south of the Merrimack River, the leaves had been stripped from the few remaining branches. No effort had been made to clear any of the obstacles. Damage to the buildings and houses remained subtle—shattered windows, peeled paint, and an increasing number of roofing tiles on the ground—but Alex could sense there was more. They were getting closer to the impact area.

A red Audi sedan approached from the south, swerving into their lane to avoid a distant tree.

“Slow down,” Alex cautioned. “This idiot’s all over the place.”

“I don’t like stopping with all of these peop—Shit!”

Alex slammed against his seatbelt, losing his grip on the binoculars. The Audi veered left across the centerline, missing them by less than a car length. Beyond tinted glass, he caught a glimpse of a young couple arguing over an unfolded map. A rear-facing baby carrier sat stuffed between tightly packed bags and gear. The sedan scraped the branches of the tree behind them, barely squeezing through the same opening Ed had just navigated.

“Fucking idiots,” hissed Ed.

A smaller group of people broke out of the thick stream of people several feet away. Alex stuck the barrel of his rifle through the window, making sure it couldn’t be missed. The sudden appearance of a military-grade rifle stopped the men at the curb.

“Ed, get us out of here, please.”

Beyond the Interstate 95 overpass, Route 28 widened into a four-lane road separated by a grassy median. Trees flattened by the east-to-west wind lay across the northbound lane—only the tallest reaching into the southbound road. They drove unopposed until the road narrowed, channeling them onto Main Street. Three-story, red-brick buildings lined the street, pushing the dense parade of refugees off the narrow sidewalks into their path. Ed drove slowly through the sea of people. The evacuees focused their energy on keeping their families and possessions together, jostling between parked cars and decorative light posts toward perceived safety. An occasional belligerent emerged to find the barrel of a “black rifle” pointed at their head.

An undercurrent of fear and tension crackled just below the surface. Alex had seen all of this before. Furtive looks and quick movements—the body language. He could feel it, and the exodus was in its infancy. Blue and white flashing lights peeked through the swarm of moving bodies. Alex lowered his rifle.

“Police at the intersection,” he said.

Main Street opened into a wide intersection bordered by a small common area featuring two green benches under branchless trees. The Town of Stoneham police cruiser sat facing them in the middle of the intersection. Alex passed his rifle to Charlie, keeping it low.

“Bury the rifles fast! Go to the right of the car,” said Alex.

“Shouldn’t I stop at the intersection?” said Ed.

“The light’s been torn off the pole. Just keep going.”

The cruiser’s siren stabbed the air, thinning the crowd between the two vehicles. Another shrill burst emptied the intersection. Two police officers stood to the right of the vehicle, behind the open driver’s door. The closest officer stepped in front of the door and motioned for them to pull up while his partner pulled a shotgun out of the front seat and leaned it against the top of the door. Alex opened the glove box and grabbed his pistol, tucking it behind his back.

“If this goes bad, it’s on me. You just get as far away from the shooting as possible,” whispered Alex.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ed hissed.

“That’s good right there!” said the officer, resting his right hand on his holster. The officer walked forward, stopping even with the driver’s-side window. “Not a good time to be heading south, gentlemen.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Officer, but our kids are trapped in Boston. We want to bring them home before things get crazy,” said Ed.

The cop took a few more steps and looked into the back seat for several seconds. Alex hoped he didn’t walk around the Jeep. The back and passenger side sported several bullet holes that would attract far more attention than a full complement of busted windows.