Garrett’s business district consisted of a town common—a tree-filled park with a central gazebo—boxed in with four streets lined with coffee shops and restaurants and countless gift shops selling the usual kitsch: mini lobster traps, tiny ceramic lighthouses, toy rubber sharks, lifesaver key chains.

A dozen people—many of them obvious tourists decked out in Garrett Island ball caps, lobster-themed T-shirts, and ridiculous cargo shorts with pockets big enough for a week’s provisions—were huddled on the raised gazebo, screaming as five Arrivals drove in a continuous circle around them, ripping up grass and dirt with every pass.

Those who’d been sitting at tables in any of the sidewalk cafés had fled, many of them now visible in the storefront windows, watching the show. At least another ten Arrivals were patrolling the streets, moving slowly, ready to pounce on anyone who dared cross their path.

There were gunshots.

Across the common, a man with a pistol in his hand ran from the cover of a small shop, fired wildly at an Arrival driving past—with no apparent effect—then ran back into the building before the car had a chance to change course and teach him a lesson.

Farther down the street, a woman holding a shotgun blasted out the windshield of a maroon Arrival as it sped past. When the car screeched to a halt and started to reverse, the woman scurried into a narrow alley.

It was the fucking Wild West, Kyle thought.

Who knew so many people here would have guns? Wasn’t Garrett Island the heartland of liberal America? Would Lisa Carver have thought for a moment that she could get everyone in a town in Texas to give up their pickup trucks in exchange for her pipsqueak cars? No. She picked Garrett Island not only because it was isolated, but because she knew it was off the East Coast, populated with liberal-leaning, gun-control-loving, freedom-of-choice-advocating folks who were happy to do their part for road safety, and the environment, by giving up gas-guzzling vehicles they might actually have enjoyed driving, in return for battery-powered self-navigating oversized shopping carts. These were the kind of people just begging to pay a carbon tax.

And yet, behind that lefty, latte-loving exterior, many of these folks were packing heat.

In addition to the sounds of shots, there were screams. But one woman’s cries of anguish could be heard over all others. Kyle spotted her on the raised patio of a wine bar, pointing out to the street, her arm following the path of one of the cars.

“My baby!” she cried. “It’s got my baby!”