The last train out of Chicago didn’t have a horn. Didn’t have lights. Didn’t have a driver. Just a long, rust-veined snake of freight cars rattling south through the ash-dark afternoon. Kael swung himself into an open hopper car a mile past the railyard, landing hard on a bed of crushed limestone and shattered glass. His knees screamed. He ignored them.
He tucked the photo back into his chest pocket and started walking.
He was halfway down a narrow valley when he heard the engine. Not a car—something heavier. He dropped behind a rusted pickup truck and watched as a convoy rolled past: three Humvees, two supply trucks, and an ambulance with its lights off. They flew no flag he recognized. But painted on the side of the lead Humvee, in white spray paint: .