Sophia peered out the window. “Looks like they’re building it to keep the infected out.”

“That would be my guess too.”

We made slow progress toward the checkpoint, rolling a few feet at a time as guards in Army ACUs either waved vehicles through the gate or directed them to park in the open stretches of field lining the highway. As we drew closer, I saw there was a chain-link fence topped with razor wire stretching north to south that curved along the outskirts of town. Across the field to my right, the peaked roofs of suburban homes poked their heads over a low brick wall. To my left, signs welcomed visitors and service members to Peterson Air Force Base.

From the south, the rapid thrum of spinning rotors grew steadily louder until a Blackhawk passed lazily over the checkpoint, a minigun manned on the starboard side. Moments later, an Apache gunship armed with two canisters of Hydra 70 rockets and a chain-gun drifted by, the long barrel of the gun swiveling in tandem with the pilot’s line of sight. My heart caught in my chest as the cannon seemed to point right at me for a moment, then moved on.

“Security looks pretty tight,” Mike said, squinting through the windshield. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

I watched the helicopters float away and said nothing.

An hour later, we reached the checkpoint. A harried-looking sergeant waved us forward to a painted red line and signaled for us to stop. He approached the window, rifle slung across his chest, sweat pouring down from under his helmet. “What are you doing out of uniform?” he demanded.

Mike blinked. “Excuse me?”

The sergeant narrowed his eyes. “You’re not military.” A statement, not a question.

“Not for about ten years now,” Mike replied. “If you’re wondering where we got the Humvee, I have papers for it.”

The guard looked the Humvee over, noticing its modifications. “Civilian owned?”

“That’s right.”

His eyes drifted up to the turret, and for a moment, I was worried what he would think of the M-249 mounted there. But when I looked up, the gun was gone. I almost asked Mike where it was, but stopped myself when I remembered Mike pulling over by the side of the road the night before. It was not hard to put two and two together.

“Do you have any weapons?” the sergeant asked. I caught a glimpse of his nametag: Dillon, it read.

“Three carbines, three pistols, a hunting rifle, and a few boxes of ammo.”

“Anything else? Bombs, grenades, rocket launchers, nuclear warheads?”

Mike chuckled. “No, nothing like that.”

Sergeant Dillon’s comment had not been a mere passing jest. I had heard of cops using the same tactic, making a joke to see how a person reacted. If they laughed, it usually meant the person in question was nothing to worry about. If they didn’t, it meant they were nervous, which was always a bad thing during a traffic stop.

“This your first time in Colorado Springs?” Sergeant Dillon asked.

“Yes it is.”

“We’re going to have to search your vehicle.”

“Not a problem,” Mike said. “You do it here, or should I pull over somewhere?”

“Follow that young lady over there,” said Dillon. “She’ll direct you where to go.”

A private, who could not have been a day over twenty but had the eyes of a much older woman, waved us off the road and pointed to another uniformed soldier standing in a field. He motioned us closer, then had us turn left along a line of cars parked outside the fence. We drove to the end of the line where another soldier pointed us to our parking spot. The troop made a cutting motion across his throat. Mike killed the engine.

“Wait here,” the soldier said. “Stay in your vehicle until one of us tells you to get out.”

We all acknowledged politely and made ourselves comfortable.

The air warmed as the sun rose, forcing us to open the windows to stay cool. While we waited, teams of soldiers worked their way through the lines of parked cars, trucks, and SUVs, each receiving a thorough search.

ATVs towing plastic carts followed each team, the carts filled with dirty bandages, bloody strips of cloth, used diapers, and a variety of other unappetizing things. It occurred to me after several carts trundled by that the contents all had something in common—bodily fluids. The guards were looking for anything that might transmit blood-borne pathogens. I also noticed the guards all wore rubber gloves and cotton masks, and made it a point not to touch their faces.

Several times, soldiers found people with illegal drugs in their possession. Rather than make arrests, they simply confiscated the drugs and warned the offenders if the police caught them holding in the city proper they would be arrested and prosecuted. I got the distinct impression it was more of an annoyance than anything else. The troops had bigger problems to deal with.

Behind us, an argument broke out between two soldiers and a middle-aged woman. The shouting was close enough I could make out what they said.

“I will not take this bandage off,” the old woman yelled, red-faced with indignation. “And you have no right to ask me to.”

“Ma’am, we have every right,” a soldier told her patiently. “This town is under martial law. We have to check everyone who shows up for signs of infection. All we need to do is examine the wound. That’s all.”

“I said no, and that’s final. Wait … what are you doing? Get your hands off me!”

The woman tried to fight, but it was no use. Her cries became panicked as two brawny young troops wrestled her to the ground and cut the bandage from her forearm. One of the troops, the one in charge I was guessing, shot the other a meaningful look.

“Ma’am, this is a bite wound,” he said, looking calmly down at the still struggling woman. “What happened? How did you get this?”

As quickly as the fight started, it ended. The woman went limp and began sobbing, begging the soldiers not to kill her. She offered no resistance as they cuffed her with zip ties and radioed for one of the transports. A short time later, a Colorado Department of Corrections truck pulled up and the soldiers loaded her inside.

“What’s going to happen to her?” Sophia asked as the truck pulled away.

I said, “What do you think?”

She was quiet for a few seconds. “That’s horrible.”

“What are they supposed to do?” Mike asked from the front seat. “If she’s infected, she’s a danger to everyone. They can’t just let her wander around until she turns.”

“I know that,” Sophia snapped. “But still, it’s an awful way to go.”

No one spoke again until a team of soldiers surrounded our Humvee and ordered us to step out. We complied, following a woman in civilian clothes carrying a medical kit, and stood waiting while they rooted through our belongings.

The woman with the medic’s kit looked us over, checking our skin for bites. She noticed Sophia’s black eye, frowned at Mike and me, and asked if she could speak to Sophia alone.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Sophia said irritably. “This is my father, and this is my boyfriend. Neither of them have ever raised a hand to me.”

“Then what happened to your face?” the medic asked.

“We stopped to siphon some gas last night. A guy came out of nowhere and hit me, tried to drag me away. These two stopped him.”

The medic gave us both a skeptical glance. “And where is this individual now, the one who attacked you?”

“Dead,” Mike said flatly.

The medic stared. “Dead?”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“So you killed him?”

Mike’s expression turned to granite. “He hit my daughter and tried to kidnap her. Of course I fucking killed him.”

The medic looked like she wanted to say more, then let out a weary sigh. “Fine. Good enough for me.” She turned and began walking away.

“That’s it?” I said before I could stop myself. Mike shot me a daggered glare as Sophia’s elbow dug into my side.