“If you ever want to talk about it …”

Dad reached out and gripped the side of my neck. “I should be saying that to you, son.”

“It’s just … I love you, Dad. Whatever happens, I want you to know that. I could not have asked for a better father.”

The old man smiled, his eyes reddening with unshed tears. “I know. And I love you too, Caleb. I can’t tell you how proud I am of the man you’ve become. Now come on, we need to get going.”

We met up with the others back at the highway and reported our findings. Mike volunteered to take point, Blake assumed his usual role as navigator, and Dad opted to act as rear guard.

“Why don’t you drive Blake’s jeep so he can focus on the map?” I asked Sophia. “I’ll ride up front with Mike. He might need a gunner.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, stepping close and taking my hands in hers. “I’d rather you ride with me. If anything happens to you …”

I kissed her forehead and traced a thumb down her jaw. “Listen, these guys have been training me my whole life. I can handle myself. Mike and I make a good team. We’ll be fine.”

She looked dubious. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Just keep your radio charged,” I said. “And your rifle handy. No telling what we might run into.”

“Will do.”

I pulled her against me and squeezed harder than I should have, but she didn’t complain. She drew a breath when I let her go and pressed her lips to mine. “What is it you guys always say? Keep your head on a swivel?”

I laughed. “Yes. And I will.”

We parted. On the way to the Humvee, I could swear I detected a faint smile on Mike’s face. Thankfully, he said nothing as we climbed into the vehicle and I stood up through the gunner’s hatch.

A thought occurred to me on the way to Boise City, and I fixed one of the M-4s with an M-203 grenade launcher, loaded several 40mm shells into a bandolier, and slung it over my shoulder. My thinking was we probably would not need that kind of firepower, but as my dad was fond of saying, it is better to have and not need, than need and not have.

We approached Boise City from the north, turning off 287 onto 385. Dad, Blake, and Sophia spread their vehicles out on the flat terrain in the fields surrounding the highway. The plan was to have them remain in reserve in case Mike and I ran into a situation we couldn’t fight our way out of.

“All stations in position?” Mike asked over the radio. After a round of affirmatives, he said, “All right, moving in. Keep your ears open.”

We rolled into the north side of town.

Calling Boise City a city was far too generous in my opinion. The place was brown, and dusty, and the buildings were sad and neglected, and I had the distinct impression the place was dying long before the Outbreak. It was small, no more than a square mile or two, and from the signs above doors and storefronts, it seemed the economy had primarily been bolstered by farming, ranching, and wildcat oil and gas drilling. There were the usual collections of hotels, fast food chains, strip malls, and rental agencies that were an unavoidable part of America’s homogenized corporate dominance. Aside from bull’s horns over the entrances of a few restaurants and stores advertising Native American artwork, if the place had any significant character or culture, I could not see it.

According to our map, the town was laid out in a simple grid pattern. We drove to the center of it and stopped. Thus far, we had seen no infected, no movement in windows or doorways or on the streets, no signs of life at all.

“What do you think?” Mike asked.

I leaned down so he could hear me. “I say we drive around a bit more, make some noise. If there are infected here, they’ll come after us.”

“Works for me.”

The radio squawked. “Anything yet?” Dad asked. “Over.”

“All clear thus far,” Mike answered. “Gonna poke around a little more. Will advise, over.”

“Copy.”

We drove through empty streets, harsh hot winds sending streamers of dust over the sunbaked pavement. Aside from a few startled rabbits and one prowling, mangy coyote, we saw nothing. Finally, we turned down Main Street and drove past the Cimarron County Courthouse. I tapped Mike on the shoulder.

“Hold up, let’s stop here.”

“Why?”

“Looks like this place was the county seat. There might be info on what happened here.”

As I said it, I noticed a hastily erected sign built of plywood and four-by-fours standing in the brown grass in front of the courthouse. The nails supporting one side of the sign had given way, leaving the plywood message tilted at an angle, the wind banging it against a post. I said, “Look over there.”

Mike did, eyes squinting. “Can you tell what it says?”

“No. Get us closer.”

He did, jumping the curb and driving straight over the dead lawn. The Humvee slowed to a halt a few feet from the sign. The words were spray painted in black over bare wood. It read:

Infected coming. Town evacuated.

If you are reading this, leave now and head for Colorado Springs.

God be with us all.

“Well, nothing surprising there,” Mike said as he put the Humvee in reverse. “There’s abandoned cars here and a couple of gas stations. Let’s call the others in and get what we need.”

I stared at the sign a moment longer, a queasy feeling in my gut. “All right. I guess so.”

We drove back to the street and Mike radioed for the others to converge on our position. For reasons I did not understand at the time, I had a nearly overwhelming urge to slap the radio out of his hand and tell him to drive as fast as he could for the edge of town. Back then, I had not yet learned to trust my instincts. If I had, it would have save me a world of grief.

Dad and Blake rode to the courthouse in Blake’s Jeep, Sophia bringing up the rear in her father’s truck. Evidently, they had swapped out somewhere along the way. They stopped their vehicles in the opposite lane while Blake pulled up next to our Humvee and rolled down his window.

“Where should we start?” he asked.

“There’s enough cars around here we should be able to get what we need from the tanks,” Mike replied. “Mostly gas vehicles, but a few diesel trucks as well. We’ll stick together, it’ll make things go faster. You and me can fill the gerry cans while the others keep watch.”

Blake gave a single nod. “Sounds good to me.”

We drove a short distance up the street to where two SUVs were parked on the side of the road, one of them diesel driven. There were buildings on either side of us, two to three stories each. The only way out was a cross street ahead and the intersection of two streets behind. I looked back and forth between them from my position in the turret and felt my sense of unease begin to grow.

“Uh, guys? Maybe we should look somewhere else,” I said.

“What’s the problem?” Blake said as he forcefully jammed a Phillips head screwdriver into the diesel SUV’s fuel tank, jerked it free, and shoved a bucket beneath the draining liquid.

My eyes darted around nervously, my heart beating faster, an inexplicable desire to flee rising within me. “I don’t like this,” I said. “Something isn’t right.”

“Settle down,” Dad said, exiting Blake’s Jeep and scanning the street, rifle in hand. He had also affixed one of the grenade launchers under his M-4 and wore a bandolier of shells slung over his shoulder. “It’s just nerves. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

I looked to Sophia. “Why don’t you get in the Humvee? Just in case.”

She frowned at me. “Why are you being so paranoid?”

I hardened my tone. “Sophia, please.”

She rolled her eyes, said, “Fine,” and stepped out of her father’s truck.

The big gray pickup was parked behind the Humvee. Blake’s Jeep sat with the driver’s side door open and the engine idling ahead of us. My father walked along the sidewalk, rifle held at the low ready, eyes scanning the distance. Mike squatted next to Blake, another bucket in his hands ready to go when the one under the SUV was full.