And then Peaches went still, her prison gown flapping around her in the breeze, blood spattered down the length of her body, the assault rifle held in one hand. Slowly, she sank to the ground. By the time Amos had his pants back on and got over to her, her eyes had rolled back and she was vomiting. He put his shirt over her and waited until the fit passed. It wasn’t more than about five minutes, and since no one else had come out of the house to investigate or take revenge, Amos was feeling pretty confident the dead man had been a bachelor.

She shuddered once, went still, and then the blankness left her eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “Did we win?”

“First round,” Amos said, nodding to her. “It like that every time?”

“Yup,” she said. “It’s really not a great design.”

“Useful when it’s useful, though.”

“Is that. Are you okay?”

“Little chilly,” Amos said. “Won’t kill me. You stay here for a bit, okay? I’m gonna go see what we’re looking at inside.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said, trying to sit up. He put a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t have to push to keep her down.

“I’ll go first. I’d be surprised if it wasn’t booby-trapped.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “I’ll just wait here, then.”

“Good plan.”

The next morning, they set off from the little compound at dawn. They both had professional-grade thermal suits, even if his was a little snug and she had to roll up the cuffs. The bunker under the house had supplies enough to last for a year or two: survival gear, weapons, ammunition, high-calorie rations, a stack of surprisingly boring pornography, and a collection of beautiful hand-carved chess sets. The best find hadn’t been in the bunker, though. The garage had a half-dozen unused but well-maintained bicycles, complete with saddlebags. Even with long rifles strapped over their shoulders and their packs weighed down with water and food, they covered the distance from the compound, through the town, and out to the highway in half an hour. By noon, they’d gone farther than three days’ walking would have taken them. It was probably seven hundred klicks from the Pit to Erich’s office. They’d been able to cover just under thirty on foot. With the bikes, they’d more than double that. Baltimore was maybe nine days away, assuming nothing went wrong. Which, given the context, seemed like a lot to ask. But still.