“I don’t get it,” Emma said through thick vocal cords. “Why here?”

Adam didn’t have an answer, so he didn’t try.

“What are we going to do?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, either. “We’ll get to Hedrick first,” he said. “We’ve got to look.”

Army Technical Sergeant Clinton M. Hedrick, after whom the academy was named, won the Medal of Honor for his heroism and gallantry in action on March 27 to 28, 1945, in Lembeck, Germany. A lifelong resident of West Virginia, Hedrick repeatedly charged into German gunfire, killing dozens of the enemy. He died for his service that day, and in his memory, the legislature was more than happy to provide funding in the form of cash and tax relief for the construction of what evolved into one of the premier institutions for turning difficult boys into responsible men.

In normal times, the entry gate to the academy exuded pride and dignity. Stone walls flanked the apron to the long driveway, which threaded through a quarter mile of forest before opening up to a central parade ground that was surrounded by residential and academic buildings.

Today, though, the entry was a blackened, smoking ruin. The access road provided little more than an extended tour of devastation.

“Can you imagine how hot this fire must have been?” Emma wondered aloud.

“No.”

At last, the roadway opened up on the massive parade ground, where a few nearly naked cadets sat or lay in the open. The dorms no longer existed. Neither did the academic buildings. This was total destruction.

As Emma drove the Bronco off the solid surface onto the grass of the parade ground, Adam fought the urge to stop her. Vehicles were never allowed on the grass. That rule probably didn’t matter anymore.

“Stop here,” Adam said.

“Why?”

“Please.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Those are my friends, Em. I’ve got to try and help.”

“How?”

“Please stop the car.”

Emma pulled to a stop and Adam stepped out. He counted twelve cadets on the ground around the parade field. The stench was beyond awful, a stomach-churning combination of melted plastic and burned hair. As he slowly walked closer, he saw that most of the boys in the parade field had died. In each case, their arms and legs had been drawn into contorted fetal positions, their fists clenched, their flesh burned black and red.

He spent every day with these kids. Most were his friends. And all but a couple were unrecognizable. Their features were that swollen and contorted. Adam’s vision blurred as his throat thickened.

One of the wounded cadets sat upright, naked in the grass. He held his arms out to his side, the burned flesh drooping away like awful, rotted draperies. Adam gasped as he recognized the boy as Rollie Bennett, his roommate since their fourth-class year.