About fifty yards ahead an old semi-trailer truck sat idling in the middle of the narrow road, almost completely blocking both lanes with its trailer skewed at an angle. In front of the truck three disabled cars were stopped. Two had looked to have been abandoned, but beside one of them stood a woman who seemed intensely on edge. Even at this distance Shepherd could sense the tension, though he had no idea of the cause.

  Suddenly he heard a metallic crash followed by a yell. “I said get out! You not hearing me, boy? I won’t tell you again.”

  The woman standing beside her car flinched behind the open driver’s side door at the sound of another crash, then called out towards the truck. “Dale, honey, please. You’re scaring the kids.”

  Shepherd couldn’t hear the response at this distance, but from the speed with which the woman climbed back in her car he guessed it hadn’t been polite.

  Shepherd sighed. Crap. He needed to continue on this road. He knew the sparse network of roads that ran like ribbons through the farmland of Campbell County like the back of his hand, and he knew this was the best option. If he turned around now he’d have to backtrack through Willow Falls and continue east for almost thirty miles before meeting a road that would take him back in the right direction. The road ahead would take him directly to the outskirts of Lynchburg, by far the most direct route to the cabin, but if the path was blocked by some lunatic…

  There was nothing else for it. Shepherd couldn’t face the prospect of backtracking so far through the state. The risk of finding the road impassably blocked somewhere in those sixty extra miles was too great, and right now every minute counted. More and more people would realize what was happening as time went on, and his truck and its supplies would soon become too tempting a prize to pass up.

  He sighed and picked his way through the undergrowth back to the road, emerging close to the back of the truck where he could get a good view of what was going on without giving up cover. Slowly, carefully, he poked his head around to the other side of the trailer, and immediately he saw the problem.

  The man was around his late forties, well built and obviously drunk, weaving unsteadily by the driver’s side door of the truck. In his hand was a tire iron, and from the look of the dents in the door he’d already given it a few good hits.

  Shepherd reached into his jacket pocket and slipped out his auxiliary police officer shield. The ‘auxiliary’ embossed in the nickel immediately gave away the fact that he wasn’t a full fledged police officer, but he’d been involved in enough DWI arrests to know that he could flash a plastic shield that came with a Halloween costume and a drunk would crap his pants, provided he carried himself with enough confidence.

  Shepherd left his Glock holstered, but unclipped the safety latch just in case. He didn’t want to escalate the situation unless it was absolutely necessary, and by the look of it the drunk would respond poorly to a weapon in his face. He seemed like the belligerent type, a guy with more balls than brains, and the way he was acting made Shepherd nervous. The power had only been out a few hours and already he’d lost it. This wasn't a stable, balanced individual.

  “Sir,” he called out in a calm, steady voice, holding up his shield. “I’m a Campbell County police officer. Place the tire iron on the ground and take ten steps back from the truck.”

  The man barely even glanced in Shepherd’s direction before he let out a theatrical, over the top laugh. “A cop? You’re all down here in the dirt with the rest of us now, boy. Go on, get outta here. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Shepherd took a step closer, shifting his position in anticipation of drawing his weapon. “This is your final warning, sir. Drop the iron and step back. I should warn you I’m armed and authorized to use deadly force.”

  He didn’t actually know if that was strictly true. It had been six years since he’d been certified by the department, and in a town as small as Willow Falls he’d never even been asked to take an entrance exam before he was handed his shield. His was more of an honorary role, a backup to help with traffic duty whenever the big drinking holidays rolled around.

  The drunk turned towards Shepherd, the tire iron tapping against his leg, and he sneered. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s all over. No power. No cars. No lights. No damned backup for you, I’ll tell you that much. It’s survival of the fittest now, and I’m not gonna let my family die just cause some pussy with a badge tells me to lay down.”

  Shit. He knew. All the good folks back in Willow Falls were clueless, but somehow this idiot who was hammered before lunch had figured out what had happened.

  Shepherd reached beneath his jacket and smoothly drew the Glock, leveling it at the man. He raised his voice, hoping against hope he could get through to him without having to pull the trigger. “Down on the floor now.” He took another step forward as the drunk gripped the iron tighter. Shepherd could see his muscles bunching, and he noticed the drunk shift his stance. He wasn’t going to back down. Shepherd lowered his voice. “Come on, don’t force me to shoot you in front of your kids.”

  For a second he thought he’d gotten through to the guy. He hoped the drunk’s concern for his family might find its way through the alcoholic fog, but a moment later the guy launched himself forward, swinging the tire iron back over his head. If he’d been sober he might have made it, but this was the most telegraphed attack in history.

  Shepherd took the shot before his attacker managed a second step.

  The man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, dropping the iron with a clatter, and after a moment of silence his wife emerged from the front of the truck, her face pale. Her lower lip trembled. “Oh my God, is he…?”

  Shepherd lowered the Glock and shook his head. “Just a warning shot, ma’am, but that’s the first and last.” She rushed to her husband as Shepherd holstered the gun and tugged off his belt, but he urged her to stand well back as he cautiously approached, kicking the tire iron to the side of the road, lowering himself to the fallen drunk and pulling his arms roughly behind his back. The man didn’t resist as Shepherd cinched the belt tight around his wrists. He stayed silent, every trace of his drunken bravado sapped by the shock.

  “Stay down,” Shepherd warned, lifting himself to his feet. He turned to the wife. “Ma’am, I need you to get back in the car, OK? Your husband will be fine.”

  As she reluctantly complied Shepherd walked to the front of the truck, where he peered in the window and found that the driver’s seat was occupied by a frail, elderly driver who looked like fear had just wiped a decade off his life. “It’s OK, sir, I’m a police officer. Are you OK? You hurt?”

  The driver shook his head and cautiously cranked his window down a couple of inches. “I don’t know what in the everloving shit is going on, sir. What kinda operation you running here? Damn drunk coming outta nowhere trying to hijack my truck. I mean, is this Mad Max or somethin’?”

  Shepherd grabbed the stalk of the wing mirror and pulled himself up close to the window, lowering his voice. “What are you hauling back there, sir?”

  “Just a load of pork headed for the packing plant down in Danville. I’m only a quarter full. Barely even worth the gas money for the trip. There ain’t nothing back there worth stealing.”

  Shepherd looked around, making sure the drunk and his wife couldn’t overhear him. “He didn’t want your load, he wanted your rig. Listen, old timer, something big’s going down. Maybe some kind of terrorist attack. An EMP is my best guess. Whatever it is, we’ve lost power – probably across the state, maybe even the whole country – and it might be a long while before it comes back. At least a few days, but it could be weeks.” He didn’t want to scare the old man with the truth, but he knew it was a pipe dream to think the lights might come back on within days. “Your load’s gonna spoil long before the power comes back. You’ve probably already lost refrigeration if you’ve got it back there.”

  “EMP? You talking about one of those electromagnet whatchamacallums? The thing you get after a nuke?”

  Shepherd nodded grimly. “I don’t know for sure, but that’s what it looks like. You’re not gonna make it all the way to Danville in this rig, and you might find more people like this fool further along the road. You want my advice? Stop at Monroeville about two miles up ahead. Go find the police chief, fella by the name of Red Matthews, and tell him Jim Shepherd sent you. He’s a good man. He’ll put you up and help you find a safe place for your rig until this blows over, understand? Oh, and you might wanna tell Red to get that pork down to the diner in town. Tell him to get as much as possible cooked or salted. You could be stuck there for the long haul, and you’ll win yourself a lot of friends if you help keep people fed. You got all that?”

  The driver looked pale and terrified, but he nodded. “Red Matthews, got it.” He looked down at the small car stopped just a few feet from the front of his truck. “I guess I don’t have to worry about giving this thing a little nudge, right? You’re not gonna charge me with destruction of property or something?”

  Shepherd chuckled. “Nudge away, sir. I don’t think anyone’s gonna be worried about a dented fender right now. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, son. Good luck to ya.” The driver nodded as Shepherd lowered himself from the truck, and he pulled the prone body of the drunk away as the driver revved the engine, shifted into gear and pulled back into the road, shunting the small car out of the way as he went. Shepherd turned his attention to the drunk on the floor.

  “You still with us, sir?”

  The drunk nodded reluctantly, shooting Shepherd a hate filled stare.

  “OK, I’m gonna untie you and send you on your way. Any other day I’d have you down in the cells, but I think we’re all gonna have to learn how to get along a little better until things work out. You live down in Monroeville?”

  The drunk nodded curtly. Shepherd looked up at his car. His wife sat nervously behind the wheel, and behind her he could see the heads of two children, a boy and a girl, watching saucer-eyed.

  “You have a lovely family, sir, and it’s your job to keep ‘em safe now. Get on home, draw as much water as you can before the pipes run dry, then sober the hell up. You’re no good to your family in this condition, understand?”

  The drunk nodded again, his teeth clenched. Shepherd could tell his message wasn’t getting through, but there was nothing else he could do but let the guy go. He tugged the belt from his wrists and then quickly stepped back, one hand on the butt of the Glock, as the drunk slowly pulled himself to his feet.

  “Now go on to your family, sir. I don’t wanna see you again, and you sure as hell don’t wanna see me. Go on.”

  Shepherd backed away slowly, carefully keeping the man in sight until he reached the peak of the hill. Before he lost line of sight he took one last look back. The guy was back at his car, resting his elbows on the hood and massaging his wrists as his wife pulled the children from the back seats.

  Finally Shepherd turned away and walked back to his truck, hoping all the way that the guy wouldn’t take out his frustration on his wife and kids. He knew more than enough short fuse pricks like that, the kind whose first and only impulse under pressure was to start swinging, and it almost never ended well for the family.

  It was only when Shepherd reached the Jeep that he realized his hands were trembling. In the quarter century since he’d picked up his first gun he’d never once fired a shot in anger. Even as an auxiliary cop he’d only twice found the need to draw his weapon, but he'd never been forced to pull the trigger until today. He climbed in to the truck, grabbed his Marlboros from the dash and lit one with a shaky hand.

  As his nerves settled he considered his predicament. Heading back through Willow Falls was out of the question, but now he wasn’t so sure about heading forward towards Lynchburg either. It was a town of 75,000, and even sticking to the roads around the outskirts he’d be sure to come across plenty of scared, confused people. If just one of them was armed… if just one decided to take a potshot…

  So forward was risky, and back would take too long. Just before the top of the hill ahead, though, was an unpaved gravel track almost hidden from view of the road by underbrush. It was a service road cut decades ago by the power company, and it ran alongside the power lines that ran in an arrow straight line for about ten miles between Willow Falls and the local rail track. Shepherd had regularly hiked the track as a kid while hunting small game, and he knew it was smooth enough for the truck to handle.

  With a wince he turned the key, holding his breath as the engine roared into life, and for a moment he almost wished he was driving Ron’s whisper quiet Prius. He didn’t want the drunk to know he had a working vehicle. He knew he couldn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him, but the Jeep rumbled with a noise that Shepherd imagined would carry all the way to Monroeville, and it only got worse as he shifted it into first gear with the usual deafening grind.

  He edged the truck back into the road and moved forward at walking pace, lightly tapping the gas just enough to get the vehicle moving, but it was a wasted effort. The Jeep wasn’t built for stealth. Anyone listening would surely hear the rumble of the engine, and sure enough before he was even halfway to the turnoff he saw a head bobbing over the peak of the hill.

  “Oh, what the hell are you doing, you jackass?” He cursed under his breath as the man strode purposefully forward, staring down the truck as if it had insulted his mother. Shepherd rolled down his window, reached into has jacket and pulled out the Glock, this time ready to use it for real.

  Shepherd had no intention of stopping to chat. He quickly scanned the undergrowth to the side of the road, weighing up the risk against the reward. He knew he wouldn’t reach the turnoff to the trail before the drunk reached it, and he’d do anything to avoid a confrontation he knew could only end one way. The truck probably had enough grunt to force its way across the rough ground by the side of the road, but if it fell short and he got stuck he’d be up shit creek without a paddle.

  What the—?

  “Jesus wept!” Shepherd flinched as a report rang out across the trees, scaring up a flock of birds. Almost without conscious thought he yanked the steering wheel to the left and planted his foot hard on the gas.

  He was firing at him!

  Out of the corner of his eye Shepherd saw that the drunk had swung a rifle from his back and was firing wildly in his direction. The truck skidded as it accelerated, the tires kicking up rooster tails of gravel from the side of the road, hunting for grip. The air was knocked from Shepherd’s lungs as the front tires left the road and dropped into a shallow gully, and he floored the gas and drove forward blindly on into the undergrowth, praying that he wouldn’t hit a tree. Behind him he heard one of the side windows shatter, and a moment later there came two metallic thumps in quick succession as bullets pierced the panels.

  Shepherd couldn’t see a thing, the truck was bouncing so much. All that was visible out the windscreen was undergrowth, then sky, then undergrowth. The truck bucked up and down over the rough ground, and Shepherd cried out with pain every time he hit something solid and the wrecked suspension sent the full force of the impact jolting though his spine.

  Eventually the Jeep burst out of the trees and onto an overgrown gravel track. Shepherd floored it, all thoughts of comfort forgotten as his spine rattled with the vibration. He drove like a madman, concentrating only on keeping the tires close to the grooves carved out by years of vehicles driving beneath the power lines. It was only when he’d made it past seven steel pylons that he finally took a breath and glanced in the rear view. That track behind him was empty.

  Why the hell didn’t I check his car for weapons?

  ΅

  :::9:::

  ABI'S FEET HURT.

  For an hour after she’d fled the wreckage of the train she’d walked in a straight line directly into the forest without so much as a thought as to where she was going. Her mind was focused on a single thought, to get away from the train, but it was more an instinct than a well thought out plan. It was only when she saw the blood dripping onto her shirt that she’d realized she wasn’t thinking clearly. She probably had a concussion, and as soon as she realized that her mind seemed to snap at least halfway back to reality. She stopped and leaned against a tree, taking stock of her situation.

  All she knew for sure was that she was in the middle of a forest somewhere in Virginia. Based on the banner stuck to the side of the train she guessed she must be somewhere between Lynchburg and Roanoke, though that didn’t help much as she had no idea where either of those towns were in relation to anywhere else. She was barefoot, and she’d left her bag back on the train along with her phone, her ID and all of her cash. The only thing she had on her were a box of Tic Tacs, a Zippo lighter, and half a pack of Camels tucked in her jacket pocket.

  First things first. She used the sleeve of her blouse to wipe the blood from her face, and as soon as she was able to fully open her right eye without it gumming together she began to feel more present. In the dull reflection offered by her silver steel lighter she took a look at the wound, and as far as she could tell it wasn't too serious. It hurt like hell, though, and she knew from the throbbing of the angry knot of tender flesh at her hairline that she’d have an impressive lump for at least a few days.

  With her thumbs she rolled her pantyhose down her legs, dropping to the ground to tug them from her feet, and fashioned them into a makeshift bandage for her forehead. It probably wasn’t really necessary, but at least it let her feel like she was doing something proactive after drifting aimlessly since the crash.

  She looked down at her feet, and then at the ground. She’d barely noticed as she was walking but the forest floor was covered in sharp stones and scratchy twigs that had been tearing into the soles of her feet. This was no good at all. There was blood on her feet. The soft, sensitive skin between her toes was already pink and swollen, and pretty soon she’d have to start worrying about infection from the dirt ground into the wounds.

 

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