This unincorporated little burgh had never had its own town government, instead taking leadership from a county whose real leaders had evaporated, either killed in the attacks and their aftermath, or just choosing to flee. Those who remained had survived the unspeakable destruction of Hell Day—the eight-hour conflict that left the world in ruins—but all the technology and conveniences of the twenty-first century were gone. Even the previous century was beyond reach. Electricity was a memory, and without it little else worked. Most of the homes that existed on Hell Day had propane in the tanks buried in their backyards, and as long as pressure remained, the gas could flow. But the clock was clicking down on that, too.

Equipment that utilized microcircuitry, or was even moderately computerized, had been transformed by electromagnetic pulse into paperweights and doorstops. A few ancient cars still worked, but without electricity to power pumps, it was a daunting challenge to raise gasoline from underground tanks, where it languished unused.

As she hurried toward the square, Victoria looked across the street and caught the eye of Army Major Joe McCrea, who returned a look of dread. He had not made the progress he’d been hoping for on the construction of barricades to provide some level of protection from miscreants and marauders. The town still reeled from the attack from the Grubbs gang, just a few weeks before.

Rifle in hand, McCrea jogged to intersect Victoria’s path to the square. She slowed, but only slightly.

“This better not be a mistake,” McCrea said, making a broad gesture to the dozens of people flooding the square. “That would be a bad way to start.”

The emergency response protocol was new to everyone. Most agreed that swift action was key to mitigating any emergency, and they’d voted overwhelmingly to arm themselves while outside their homes. Those with access to long guns—in this part of the world, that meant just about everyone—agreed to keep them close at all times.

McCrea’s biggest fear about the new protocol, which he’d voiced only to Victoria, was overreaction and alarm fatigue. People had different opinions of what emergencies looked like, and if miscalculations resulted in a series of false alarms, especially in the early days, the system would quickly fall apart.

The fact that Luke Emerson was the first Paul Revere to trigger the alert protocol made it even more important that the emergency be real. Victoria had risen to leadership in Ortho by default rather than by election, and while her support remained strong among the original residents of the town, the daily flood of newcomers placing demands on the community’s already-limited resources were forcing her to make decisions that were increasingly unpopular.

“He’s a smart boy,” Victoria said, even though the past weeks had all but obliterated his prewar boyishness.