THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “What’s this?”

  Amy grabbed Ethan’s hands and gasped.

  “It’s not his,” stated Kate. “We ran into a problem on the way.”

  “I’m just glad you guys are all right,” Amy said, holding her arms open for Kate.

  “I’m a little ripe,” Kate warned.

  “I don’t care,” said Amy Fletcher, starting to cry. “Thank God you made it!” She rushed forward and held her.

  “Alex is on the way to Boston,” said Kate. “I’m scared.”

  “I am too, honey. We’re all scared. But he’s the best hope of getting Ryan back,” said Amy. “He’s a very capable man.”

  “He is,” Kate agreed.

  “And he has help?”

  Kate nodded and walked toward the house, motioning for Amy to follow. Her mother-in-law got the message and joined her near the garage door.

  “Ed Walker and Charlie Thornton went with him. They left early this morning. Ed’s daughter is at Boston College.”

  “That’s right. Aren’t those two an item?”

  “That’s not something we advertise.” She winked.

  “I’m not the one you have to worry about,” said Amy.

  “Believe me, I’ve already had a talk with your husband,” she said, smiling.

  “And Charlie’s with them?” Amy asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “He volunteered. What could Alex say? He’s been a great friend,” said Kate.

  “I know. It’s good that you’re all together. I just hope they don’t slow him down,” whispered Amy.

  “I’m sure he planned for it somehow,” said Kate.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Let’s stop looking suspicious and get everyone cleaned up. You guys smell like sewage,” said Amy.

  “You have no idea.”

  Chapter 26

  EVENT +33:39 Hours

  Haverhill, MA

  Alex studied the GPS plotter for a few seconds, looking up to compare the digital map to the real world. Emerging from the shelter of the dashboard, a stiff wall of air buffeted his face from the damaged windshield, causing him to involuntarily raise his free hand to block his face. He felt a quick sting on the palm of his hand, followed immediately by another on the top of his left ear. At least he could duck down momentarily to escape the onslaught. Ed didn’t have that option.

  Lowering his hand a few inches, he spotted a break in the road, which more than likely marked the last rural intersection before they turned onto East Main Street, in the hopes of finding the bridge over the Merrimack River intact.

  Signs of heavier blast damage were apparent. Denuded trees, stripped branches, roofing tiles torn skyward, and downed trees slowed their progress near the Massachusetts border, forcing them off-road several times. Rural roads approaching the Rocks Bridge had been worse, nearly impassable at a few points. The further south they travelled, the more Alex questioned their plan to approach Boston using back roads.

  “This doesn’t look promising,” said Ed.

  “No, it doesn’t,” mumbled Alex.

  A group of several adults picked their way through the mud-covered remains of a collapsed house at the intersection ahead, pushing the larger pieces aside.

  “Give them a wide berth,” said Alex.

  “Got it,” said Ed, turning the Jeep toward the right side of the road. “You feel that?” he added.

  “Feel what?”

  “I think we’re driving over wreckage buried under the mud. All the houses are missing beyond the intersection. One nail or piece of glass and we’re on foot,” said Ed.

  “Hold on,” said Alex, checking the GPS screen.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to stop in the middle of the road like this?” said Charlie. “I’m starting to see a lot of people.”

  Alex’s eyes darted between the GPS screen and the growing crowd of people approaching their Jeep.

  “Put us in reverse and turn around. We’ll take East Broadway toward Haverhill. Do you see any weapons?”

  “Negative. They look more curious than anything. Probably the Maine plates,” said Charlie.

  “Switch to sectors, Charlie,” said Alex.

  “Yep,” he heard from Charlie.

  Ed backed the Jeep slowly through the thick mud.

  “More trees,” said Ed, maneuvering the Jeep into a field to avoid a large Silver Maple that had upended.

  “I don’t know if we’ll be able to approach Boston on anything too rural,” Alex said. “We might need to rethink our plan.”

  “Route 125 is a four-laner. About the best you’re gonna do without linking up with one of the interstates. The 93 would take us down to the northern edge of the Middlesex Reservation. There’s an exit in Stoneham,” said Charlie.

  “What do you think?” asked Alex, looking at Ed.

  Ed raised an eyebrow without looking in his direction.

  “I think we should try to stay off the interstate system if possible. If the roads become impassible, we might have to reconsider that. The less police attention we attract, the better. A shot-up Jeep might raise some eyebrows heading south,” said Ed.

  “Any car heading south should raise eyebrows—and questions of sanity,” said Charlie.

  “That’s the truth,” said Ed.

  “Is anyone opposed to me guiding us to the 125 from here, even if it means crossing the bridge at Haverhill?” asked Alex.

  “I think you’re making a bigger deal out of Haverhill than you need to,” said Charlie.

  “You’re the one that got me worried about it in the first place, Charlie. You said something about too many people.”

  “Did I say that?” said Charlie.

  “I remember it,” said Ed.

  “Well, compared to what we’ve seen so far, it’s a lot of people,” said Charlie. “There’s really not that much by the Basiliere Bridge. A couple of apartment buildings and a small industrial area. It’s a wide bridge. No way that sucker is down.”

  Chapter 27

  EVENT +35:04 Hours

  Stoneham, Massachusetts.

  The outskirts of Stoneham reeked of campfire. Alex swept the southern horizon with binoculars, seeing nothing but scattered billows of gray and white against a sun-bleached sky. If Boston had been set ablaze, they should be able to see it from here.

  Ed squeezed the Jeep between a downed tree and a stranded delivery truck. Like most of the trees they had seen south of the Merrimack River, the leaves had been stripped from the few remaining branches. No effort had been made to clear any of the obstacles. Damage to the buildings and houses remained subtle—shattered windows, peeled paint, and an increasing number of roofing tiles on the ground—but Alex could sense there was more. They were getting closer to the impact area.

  A red Audi sedan approached from the south, swerving into their lane to avoid a distant tree.

  “Slow down,” Alex cautioned. “This idiot’s all over the place.”

  “I don’t like stopping with all of these peop—Shit!”

  Alex slammed against his seatbelt, losing his grip on the binoculars. The Audi veered left across the centerline, missing them by less than a car length. Beyond tinted glass, he caught a glimpse of a young couple arguing over an unfolded map. A rear-facing baby carrier sat stuffed between tightly packed bags and gear. The sedan scraped the branches of the tree behind them, barely squeezing through the same opening Ed had just navigated.

  “Fucking idiots,” hissed Ed.

  A smaller group of people broke out of the thick stream of people several feet away. Alex stuck the barrel of his rifle through the window, making sure it couldn’t be missed. The sudden appearance of a military-grade rifle stopped the men at the curb.

  “Ed, get us out of here, please.”

  Beyond the Interstate 95 overpass, Route 28 widened into a four-lane road separated by a grassy median. Trees flattened by the east-to-west wind lay across the northbound lane—only the tallest reaching into the southbound road. They drove unopposed until the r
oad narrowed, channeling them onto Main Street. Three-story, red-brick buildings lined the street, pushing the dense parade of refugees off the narrow sidewalks into their path. Ed drove slowly through the sea of people. The evacuees focused their energy on keeping their families and possessions together, jostling between parked cars and decorative light posts toward perceived safety.

  “Police at the intersection,” he said.

  Main Street opened into a wide intersection bordered by a small common area featuring two green benches under branchless trees. The Town of Stoneham police cruiser sat facing them in the middle of the intersection. Alex passed his rifle to Charlie, keeping it low.

  “Bury the rifles fast! Go to the right of the car,” said Alex.

  “Shouldn’t I stop at the intersection?” said Ed.

  “The light’s been torn off the pole. Just keep going.”

  The cruiser’s siren stabbed the air, thinning the crowd between the two vehicles. Another shrill burst emptied the intersection. Two police officers stood to the right of the vehicle, behind the open driver’s door. The closest officer stepped in front of the door and motioned for them to pull up while his partner pulled a shotgun out of the front seat and leaned it against the top of the door. Alex opened the glove box and grabbed his pistol, tucking it behind his back.

  “If this goes bad, it’s on me. You just get as far away from the shooting as possible,” whispered Alex.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Ed hissed.

  “That’s good right there!” said the officer, resting his right hand on his holster. The officer walked forward, stopping even with the driver’s-side window. “Not a good time to be heading south, gentlemen.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Officer, but our kids are trapped in Boston. We want to bring them home before things get crazy,” said Ed.

  The cop took a few more steps and looked into the back seat for several seconds. Alex hoped he didn’t walk around the Jeep. The back and passenger side sported several bullet holes that would attract far more attention than a full complement of busted windows.

  “I’m just keeping these two out of trouble,” said Charlie, holding his hands up.

  “Doesn’t look like that worked out so well,” he said, sticking his hand through the window behind Charlie.

  “We ran a militia checkpoint at the Maine border,” blurted Ed.

  “These people are headed for a frosty reception up north,” added Charlie.

  “Everyone remembers the fires that broke out during the pandemic. The riots. They’re trying to get ahead of it this time,” said the officer, motioning to the crowds.

  “I give it a few days,” said Alex.

  “I don’t know. Take a look around. A quarter of these people are carrying concealed weapons. Some don’t even bother to conceal them. We’re just here for show at this point. Same with the marines down along the river,” said the officer.

  “The first rock thrown at your car, the first tough guy that doesn’t back down after you’ve drawn your pistol, the first bullet fired in your direction—you get the fuck out of here. Two pistols and a shotgun will buy you a minute tops if this goes crazy.”

  The officer stared at him and nodded. “All right. Good luck, guys. You need to be really careful with this thing down past Medford. Someone will blow your brains out for it. No warning. We’ve seen a lot of cars with blood-splattered windows.”

  “Appreciate the heads up, Officer—Kennedy,” Alex said, studying his nametag. “Any relation to—”

  “You think I’d be driving a patrol car?” interrupted the officer. “Be careful down there. Don’t flash any of that hardware until you have to. I assume everything you have buried under the blankets is legal in Massachusetts,” he said, patting Ed’s door and stepping back.

  “Perfectly legal,” said Alex. “Thank you, Officer Kennedy.”

  Ed drove them through the intersection, picking up speed on the wider streets beyond the downtown area. Alex twisted and looked directly behind his seat.

  “What the fuck, Charlie? I can see one of the goddamn barrels sticking out of the blanket.”

  “I had my hand over it!” said Charlie.

  “You raised both hands—right when the cop looked in your window!”

  “Hey, I didn’t have a lot of time to hide this shit. You threw your rifle at me. What the was I supposed to do?”

  They rode in silence until the Jeep slowed in front of an empty gas station. Alex compared the GPS map to the street sign next to his window. A vast stretch of naked trees flanked the road ahead.

  “This looks like the beginning of the Middlesex reservation. It’s less than a mile to the turnoff,” said Alex.

  “This isn’t going to work,” said Ed.

  “What isn’t?”

  “We can’t hide the Jeep with this many people around. Especially with the trees stripped like this,” said Ed, slowing the Jeep.

  “Yes, we can,” said Alex. “I’m seeing plenty of scrub and smaller trees with leaves. We’ll go a half mile in if we have to.”

  Ed shook his head and repeated, “Not with this many people around.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “If we lose the Jeep, the plan is screwed, Alex,” Ed insisted.

  “Ed, we’ll be fine. The entrance to the parking area is less than a mile away. GPS shows a road off the parking lot heading deeper into the reservation. We’ll find a path off that road and hide the jeep. Nobody’s out for a nature hike today.”

  “All right. We ditch the Jeep in the reservation,” said Ed resignedly.

  “The turnoff should be right—there,” said Alex, pointing at a granite slab etched with “Sheepfold Middlesex Reservation.”

  Ed turned the Jeep and edged forward, clearing people out of the way. A few fists pounded the hood in protest, but nothing serious materialized as they forced their way through the refugees.

  “Chandler Road should be on the left, just after the turnoff for the parking lot. Anyone following us?”

  “Negative,” said Charlie.

  Alex handed him the binoculars. “Make sure.”

  “All it’ll take is one downed tree on this road to stop us,” said Ed. “There’s no room to go around.”

  “Most of the trees we’ve seen down are smaller than this,” Alex said, failing to hide the doubtful look on his own face.

  “Up there,” said Alex, pointing toward an unmarked dirt road. “Watch the road behind us, Charlie. If anyone appears while we’re turning, we have a decision to make.”

  “We’re clear,” said Charlie, as the Jeep squeezed onto a tight path cut through the trees.

  “This is a road?” asked Ed.

  “That’s what it says. Shit. Can you get by that?”

  “Looks like it,” said Ed, pulling the Jeep as far to the left as possible without clipping the side mirror on a tree.

  Jagged branches scraped against the passenger side of the Jeep, snapping and cracking as Ed coaxed them past a massive, torn branch. A ruler-sized piece popped into Alex’s lap.

  “Dead?” he said, snapping it with little effort.

  “Root system looked fine. Shallow, but healthy,” said Charlie.

  Alex examined one of the pieces more closely, rubbing it between his fingers. “I think this was singed,” he said, passing it back to Charlie.

  “I don’t know. But it’s definitely dried out,” Charlie said, sniffing it. “Smells a little smoky.”

  “Everything smells like that. Right or left at the reservoir?” asked Ed.

  Alex looked up at the calm, glittering water ahead. “Left. This has to be damage from the blast,” he said, holding up the branch. “I don’t see any leaves on the ground—anywhere. I bet the leaves burst into flames from the initial flash, and the air blast extinguished the fires a few minutes later, like when you blow out a candle.”

  “Look at the bushes. Totally fine,” Ed noted.

  “The treetop fires would be caused by thermal r
adiation. Like a sunburn,” said Alex.

  “A really bad sunburn,” said Charlie.

  “SPF 1000 bad. The radiation only lasts for milliseconds, so the leaves probably blocked most of it from reaching the ground. I bet we’ll find some burnt spots where the trees thin out,” said Alex.

  “I think this is the end of the road,” announced Ed.

  The Jeep stopped in front of a one-and-a-half-foot-diameter tree trunk raised two feet above the ground—pitched perfectly across the ten-foot-wide dirt path. The top of the tree lay in the calm.

  “No problem. We can get this thing out of the way in a couple of minutes unless it’s jammed in the trees on the other side,” said Alex, hopping down from the Jeep.

  Charlie winced. “We should have brought my chainsaw.”

  “I thought about it. Charlie, keep an eye on the road behind us. Ed, I’ll need your help.”

  “Got it covered,” said Charlie, pulling his rifle out of the pile stuffed under the blanket.

  Alex walked to the back of the Jeep with Ed and opened the rear gate. He moved the red gas containers and dug underneath the blankets. His hand emerged holding a thick coil of royal blue boating line.

  “I just hope it can handle the strain. We’ll have to go really easy.”

  They tied the thick rope around the tree at the closest point to the water’s edge.

  “We tie the other end to the bumper and ease the Jeep back as far as we can go until the line starts to slip,” said Alex. “You’re driving.”

  “I’m always driving,” said Ed.

  Ed kept the Jeep’s motion smooth, pulling the tree slowly. The tree resisted initially, as it broke free from the reservoir’s muddy grip. Alex gauged the strain on the line, guiding Ed with hand signals. When they had finished the first round, the tree lay mostly in the road, branches aimed at the Jeep. Ed craned his head into the passenger seat to gauge their effort.

  “I still can’t get through without flipping this thing into the reservoir,” he said.

  “We’re not done yet. We’ll wrap the line around the thickest tree we can find on the left side of the road—”