“Boys!” This from Joey Abbott, whose pawnshop had once been a major form of credit for locals, back when paper money had value. “For God’s sake. Are we being invaded, or aren’t we?”

“One of them pointed a rifle at me,” Luke said.

McCrea seemed to inflate with anger. “Did he fire on you?”

“No, sir. But I think he wanted to scare me.”

“Looks like it worked,” Caleb said.

“Up yours.”

“Stop!” Victoria was forever amazed by her sons’ cluelessness about how interactions like that made them look small in the eyes of others. So much for the departure of boyishness.

“How far out are they?” McCrea asked.

Luke shook his head. “I don’t know. A ten-minute gallop.”

“One mile,” Simmons said. “Maybe two.”

“That’s not much time,” McCrea said. “We need to take this seriously. It could mean nothing, or it could mean everything.” He raised his voice to address the crowd. “Most of you know where to go. If you don’t, find some cover and get behind it. Snipers, don’t be trigger-happy, but be sure and accurate.” At those words, five of the assembled residents—the Emerson boys included— peeled off and trotted off to their sniper’s nests. The others headed off to their assigned defensive stations.

As head of town security—by default rather than by choice—McCrea had trained every resident older than fourteen (older than twelve in the cases of some of the kids who wandered in from the country and were skilled shooters) always to fight from defended positions.

“Where is Paul?” Victoria asked, referring to First Sergeant Copley, the other half of Victoria’s security team on the night the world ended.

“He was helping in Church Town, last I heard,” Mc-Crea said. It turned out that Paul Copley was damn near a master carpenter. With the constant influx of new people, and the approach of winter, the need for housing had become critical. Church Town was an eight-acre plot of land surrounding the Church of the Redeemer, about a mile down the road, on which Copley was overseeing the construction of at least twenty cabins.

As if on cue, the fast-approaching clatter of hooves drew their attention that direction in time to see First Sergeant Copley at a dead gallop ahead of a line of others on bicycles racing in to respond to the whistles.

Copley pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted a few yards away.

“Everybody to your assigned stations!” McCrea yelled. “Move quickly. We don’t have much time!”

“What’s going on?” Copley asked.

Victoria took ten seconds to fill him in on what they knew.

Copley turned to McCrea. “So, what’s the plan?”