After a moment, and in ones, twos, and threes, the rest of the Pack joined her. Church followed last. Jumper and Slow Dog were right behind her. They all walked quickly across the cleared space, heading for the main gate. Dahlia was aware that the Rover teams they’d spotted hiding in the woods were able to see all of this happen. She thought she could hear whistles blowing deep inside the forest. Or maybe it was just the wind. Hard to say, and too late now anyway.

She walked straight up to the front gate, stopping far enough back so that the guards on the wall could get a good look at her. At all of them. The Pack had grown since she’d joined Old Man Church. Strays, refugees, and small parties swelled the ranks so that there were now about a hundred of them.

“Everyone stay cool,” she’d ordered. “Weapons slung. No one says anything. No one acts like a dick, okay?”

Her people nodded. Even those who were a good deal older than Dahlia. To all of them, she was the leader of the Pack, and she was answerable only to the strange old man with the tinted glasses and black gloves.

Church came and stood near her, but slightly back and to one side. Allowing her to own the moment. Dahlia felt a little bit like a kid in a school play with her father watching, but that was okay.

“Hey,” she called. “Hello in there.”

Above her a figure appeared. A woman of about sixty with iron gray hair, dark eyes, and severely angled cheekbones. Two men flanked her and laid the barrels of hunting rifles on the wall, the barrels pointing down.

“Who are you and what do you want?” asked the older woman in a voice that was very clear and very sharp. “And who are all these . . . people . . . with you?”

Dahlia did not like the woman’s voice or attitude. It was an instant decision, but it came from her gut. Even so, she put on her best debate team voice and plowed ahead.

“My name’s Dahlia. These are my friends. We heard about Happy Valley and came to see if it was still standing.”

“It is, as you can see,” said the woman. “What of it?”

“Well, not to be blunt, but it’s not going to be standing much longer, ma’am.”

The woman gave her a cold smile. “Oh really? And is that supposed to be a threat of some kind?”

“A threat?” Dahlia was actually surprised. “No. It’s a warning, I suppose. We heard about some people—a big gang of bikers and such—heading this way. They call themselves the Rovers.”

One of the men on the wall leaned close and whispered something to the woman and they spoke together for several seconds. Then the woman nodded and turned back to Dahlia.

“How do we know you’re not Rovers yourself?”