He reached the edge of the road and dove into the ditch that paralleled it. His men scanned the horizon, and then they spotted them on the other side of the highway, three ATVs splashing through the wet snow. There were men on the backs of the ATVs, dressed in camouflage, their faces covered by gaiters with monstrous mouths drawn upon them. He could see the barrels of long hunting rifles outlined against the snowy backdrop.
"Get ready. Nobody fire until I say so. We got 'em outnumbered. Gregg, keep an eye on our six."
They all went quiet, waiting as the vehicles drew closer. They pulled to a stop on the other side of the road, the men dismounting and taking defensive positions in the ditch on the opposite side of the highway.
"Hello there!" a voice called.
"Hello, yourself!" Tejada shot back.
Tejada saw the barrels of the rifles disappear from the men's backs as they flopped in the snow, their rifles pointing in the direction of his men. He didn't want to lose anyone today, and he also didn't feel like killing a living person if he could avoid it.
"Been a while since we heard from anyone to the east," the man called. His voice was deep, level.
"I expect it'll be a lot longer after we leave."
There was silence, and then the man asked, "Where you headed?"
Tejada mulled the man's question over. His men looked at him, waiting for their cue to open fire. He supposed it did them no harm to answer the man's question. "We're headed to the coast."
"What for?" the man asked.
"No particular reason. We got friends headed that way some time ago. We'd like to see 'em again."
They stopped talking, and the tension was back, hovering over the surface of the road between the two ditches.
"If we put our guns up, will you put up yours?" the man asked.
"Sounds like a good deal to me," Tejada said. "Sling 'em," he commanded his men. Everyone put their guns up, and the men across the way did the same. The men on the other side of the road stood awkwardly, like deer caught out in the open when a human walked by. They looked ready to bolt. Tejada stood and dusted the cold snow off of his jacket.
He walked cautiously out to the middle of the road, and the man on the other side did the same. The man pulled down his gaiter to reveal his bearded face. He looked normal enough. The men to his sides did the same, and they stood that way for a while, just smiling and basking in the presence of other living people.
"How is it back there?" the man asked, cocking his head to the east.
"It's a shitshow. Cost me quite a few of my men."
"You military?" the man asked.
"Used to be. Ain't no military anymore," Tejada said.
"Yeah, me too," the man said. He held out his hand, "Corporal Ron Moseley, 82nd Airborne Division."
"Sergeant Tejada, 1st Infantry," he said as he shook the man's hand.
The man went to salute him, but Tejada waved it off, saying, "We don't have to do that anymore. It's bad enough these guys still call me, sir."
Moseley nodded at the rest of Tejada's group, who stood with their arms hanging loose, hovering near their rifles in case anything went to shit.
Moseley waved behind him and said, "We got a place up this way if you want to stay a while. Got a fire, not much floor space, but it keeps us alive."
"I'd just as soon keep moving," Tejada said.
"Not much up that way, not within a day's march in the snow. Gonna find yourself sleeping under the stars. You might be able to handle it, but I don't know about the little ones."
Tejada eyed the kids. They were a complication, a good one most of the time, but Moseley was right. There was no rush. The beach would still be there whether they slept in a house or in the woods.
"Lead the way," he said.
****
Walt didn't trust these men. They were too nice. He sat in a farmhouse about a mile off the road. Fortifications ringed the house. There were barbed wire fences with tin cans hanging from them. An eight-foot trench lined with wooden spears encircled the property. The only way across was a wooden bridge that they pulled away after everyone had crossed, leaving a moat of deadly spikes to cross.
The whole set-up reminded him of the medieval castles he had learned about in social studies class. He remembered making his own model when he was a child, crafting it out of cardboard, painstakingly painting it. He had been proud of it. At the bus stop that day, the local boys, led by Will Haynes, the dumbest motherfucker he had ever met, had knocked it out of his hands and stomped on it. His mother grounded him when his report card came.
He understood how quickly best intentions could go to shit. He didn't like sitting in their farmhouse. It was theirs, and something felt not quite right. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe he needed to just sit back and enjoy the fire the way the others were doing.
Though everyone else had their socks clothes-pinned to a wire hanging above the fire, Walt still kept his boots on. If he wanted to make a run for it or needed to kick a little ass, he didn't want to have to stop to put his boots on.
He watched as Moseley and Tejada traded stories. The soldiers were on their own, with the exception of Moseley's daughter. In ordinary times, she would be considered homely. But to Walt, right then, and right there, despite the fear he felt in the
