They managed 60 gallons out of four vehicles, not enough for more than a quarter tank per vehicle, but enough for two hours of driving. The next stop 15 minutes later was at an actual gas station just off the highway, deserted and almost hidden amongst thick trees. The small and desolate gas station was out of view of everybody except those who had seen the signs. He had hoped that the convoy in front might stop at a place like this, but they had continued on.

A window was broken, and he sensed life in the small shop area of the gas station. It did not have a restaurant attached to it, just a small Subway sandwich bar. He gathered a couple of the men together with M4s and carefully went inside.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” shouted a young boy’s voice from behind the candy aisle. “Don’t shoot, sir! It’s only me, my mom and my two sisters. We are cold and trying to keep warm in here.”

“Anybody else in here?” shouted Captain Mallory.

“No, sir, there was a couple—a man and a woman—a couple of hours ago with a dog. They were also from the accident on the highway, but they left to walk south. It’s only us here now, mister.”

John ordered the boy to come out with his hands up, and a grubby kid about nine or ten years old came out with chocolate all over his face. He was trying to be brave.

“You’re okay, kid, we aren’t going to hurt you. We’re just stopping to get supplies and head on south. Where are you from?” asked the captain, as they lowered their weapons and the boy let his hands slowly drop.

“We live in Charleston, South Carolina, sir. We were on our way home after visiting our grandparents for Christmas in Philadelphia. My mom has to go back to work. She was driving when the car stopped, skidded on the snow, and then hit another one—with the couple who left a couple of hours ago.”

“Where’s your father?” John asked.

“I don’t know, sir. He left a couple of years ago.” The flight attendants went behind the counter to get the rest of the boy’s family and brought out a woman and two little girls, about six and three. The woman had a severe cut on her head, her clothes were covered with blood and she, or her son, had used a First Aid box to bandage and clean the wound. She looked sick and was cold and shivering, as were the two little girls who were carrying the blanket they had wrapped themselves in.

It took 30 minutes, but they took everything that remained on the shelves, all the bottles of water and soft drinks, got the new travelers warm and comfy in the back of the truck, and continued on their way.

It was only two miles later that they saw fresh blood on the snow in front of them and two bodies lying on the packed snow. A dog was curled up next to the bodies but it ran for cover when they stopped. The blood was still fresh and freezing as it hit the snow, the Captain noticed, as he and John looked down at what used to be a man and a woman, obviously alive only a couple of hours earlier. They had been both shot a dozen times, had fallen backwards, and then been run over by several large vehicles, most likely to make sure that they were dead. Their dog was off on the side of the highway barking at them, and John got the young boy to see if he could identify the dog. It belonged to the couple that had been with them in the gas station, and the dog remembered the boy, ran up, wagged its tail and was lifted into the back of the truck.

“I don’t think we want to meet whoever is driving up ahead of us after all,” suggested John, and the captain nodded. “The 495 interchange is a couple of miles ahead. I think it would be better to take the one they don’t take, since either of the 495 legs will get us back to I-95 just south of D.C.”

“Hopefully we don’t arrive together at the south interchange,” added the captain. “I think we should fill our tanks before we get there and if we reach I-95 first, we’ll keep going until our tanks are dry and get back on the northbound side to hide our tracks.”

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the 495 beltline around Washington, and the weather was getting bitterly cold and the wind increasing from the northwest. The first group’s tracks turned right on the beltline towards Fairfax, so they went east.

The stranded vehicles were fewer on the beltline and they made good time, averaging 30 miles an hour. They decided not to take the shortcut using 295 directly south, knowing that traffic could be heavier on that stretch and they could come out behind the other convoy, or be very close to them.

An hour later, they found another refueling opportunity—three Chevy Suburbans and a Penske truck all on the same stretch of road a few hundred yards from each other. They separated and began filling their tanks. It took 20 minutes and when they ran out of gas from those trucks, they switched to any other gas-powered vehicles, draining fuel until they had every tank filled to the brim, including the ten five-gallon canisters.

They were now three miles from the southern interchange and ready for action. All their weapons were checked and a couple of rifle grenades added to each vehicle. There was a lot of tension as they reached the final mile of 495, and saw the end of the other convoy, still in front of them, already on I-95 about a mile or so ahead of where they were. They felt a sense of relief, because if they hadn’t filled everything when they did, the two convoys could have reached the interchange at the same time, and ten vehicles was a big army compared to what they had.

Captain Mallory then decided to get off the southbound highway and rejoin it driving south on the northbound lanes. If they came across the people in front of them, they could have a little cover from the crash barriers.

They drove slower, keeping to 25 miles an hour once they left the Washington area. The snow covering the asphalt was down to sheets of ice in parts and it was getting more and more slippery. The cold was increasing, as was the wind, and it looked grey, like it could snow soon. For four hours they drove, not stopping once, and finally they had to decide whether or not to go around Richmond. It wasn’t a tough decision because they stopped and checked things on foot and found out that the forward convoy had reached the 295 interchange and had gone straight south on I-95. They predictably chose to continue on 295 around the city.

It was 3:30 by the time they had reached the end of the 295 belt line around Richmond, refilled their tanks as much as they could, and reconnected with I-95. They thought that they would be further behind the other convoy, but there were no tracks on either side of the highway and they decided to carry on as far as possible on the northbound side hoping that the ten vehicles, now behind them if they were still going south, would stay to the other side.

For an hour they headed south, the skies clearing again and the threat of snow diminishing. The roads were also drier, with patches of ice in the shadows and dead vehicle congestion lighter than around Washington and Richmond.

“We should be coming up to the North Carolina border soon,” John stated over the radio from the rear SWAT truck. They had three working radios, in the two SWAT trucks and the fire engine, which was being driven by one of flight attendants.

“About 12 more miles,” replied Captain Mallory, still driving the lead truck. They were bunched up as close as possible making themselves a smaller target for anyone watching. “I used to refuel at a very small airport a few miles from here. The town of Emporia has a small municipal airport and I’m thinking we could stay there tonight. Hopefully those other guys will just carry on and leave us alone.”

“I’m think I hear a small aircraft engine somewhere close by. Do you hear it, Mike?” asked John.

“Yes, I think I can. The Emporia turnoff is two miles ahead. Let’s turn off. The airport is to our east, and if we head there maybe it will follow us, or maybe it’s even headed in to land there. Make sure nobody sees us turn off from behind. Use the binoculars. We don’t want to be followed.”