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.
The medic stopped and turned, eyes narrow, hands out at her sides. “What the hell do you want, an investigation? Listen, we hear a hundred stories like yours every day. If we looked into every one of them, we’d never have time for anything else. Just don’t go shooting anyone in town without a reason, and you won’t have any trouble.”
“We’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Mike said, eyeing me pointedly. I looked down and kept my mouth shut.
“See that you do.”
A minute or two later, the soldiers motioned Mike over and asked him about the Humvee and our guns. He showed them the paperwork from BWT, then handed over all three of our IDs.
“It checks out,” one of the soldiers said, a young lieutenant with the word Hammett on his nametag. “Paperwork’s not in any of their names, but it’s definitely a civilian vehicle. Which puts it squarely in the category of not my problem.” He handed Mike the stack of papers and our IDs.
“What about their weapons, sir?” a sergeant asked.
“Civvie guns,” Lieutenant Hammett replied, then turned to address us. “You can keep them, but put the safeties on before you go through the gate and make sure they stay that way.” To his team, he said, “Let’s go. We’re done here.”
One of the sergeants wrote something on a piece of paper with an official-looking seal on it and handed it to Mike. “Put that on the dashboard in plain sight,” he said, “and don’t lose it. If you do, you’ll have to come back through here and do all this shit again. What you do now is take that road there and follow the signs to the north side of town. Show this pass to the guard at the gate.”
Mike took the slip of paper and looked at it. “Then what?”
“Then you go in.”
“What about after that?”
“That’s up to you,” the soldier spoke over his shoulder as he turned to follow his lieutenant. “My suggestion? Get a job.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Over two years have passed since I left the Springs, and I know for a fact it has changed dramatically since the early days. If you go there now, the eighty-plus mile protective wall is complete, the population has increased to over two hundred thousand, volunteer militias keep the Denver hordes mostly at bay, and civilian police have taken over day-to-day peacekeeping duties. The president and her staff still spend most of their time in Cheyenne Mountain, but the majority of other political types now reside in the city proper. There are even working electrical and water utilities, albeit limited. Not a bad place to live by today’s standards.
But the day we arrived, things were much different. The wall covered the entirety of the north side of town, but only curved a few miles to the east and west. Military vehicles patrolled in the distance, the crack of faraway gunfire and artillery echoing over the plain. I looked northward through Mike’s binoculars and saw soldiers in Humvees, Bradleys, APCs, and tanks engaging thousands of infected, helicopters swooping in occasionally to drop crates I could only assume contained ammunition. The undead seemed to be getting the worst of it.
We drove toward the gate under constant scrutiny from guards in wooden towers who scanned the road diligently with binoculars. Only once did we see someone pull over to the side of the road, and they were quickly surrounded by soldiers on ATVs and motorcycles.
“What’s that about?” Sophia wondered aloud as we passed.
“Looks like they don’t want folks stopping,” Mike said.
“Why not?”
“It’s a hole in their security. People might try to smuggle in something, or someone, the Army doesn’t want getting in. I’ll bet you this place is on lockdown at night.”
We continued to the gate, which consisted of several rows of barbed wire, sandbags walls, and heavy concrete traffic barriers. The approach was arranged so that vehicles had to move in a serpentine pattern to reach the gate, ostensibly to keep anyone from trying to crash their way through.