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of fence and barbed wire to deter any rotters that crossed the river. With the east and west flanks relatively secure, the President had sent every physically-able man and woman north and south to stop the zombies. Most had never even held a firearm before, let alone possessed military training. This makeshift army had set up defensive positions on whatever terrain they could find – interstates, rivers, high ground – and fought until forced to fall back or overwhelmed. As of a month ago, the northern boundary of the uninfected United States ran through northern Wyoming and South Dakota to just south of Cedar Rapids. The southern boundary followed a meandering line north of Flagstaff, Albuquerque, Oklahoma City, and Little Rock.
    Robson found all this out much later. In those first few weeks, he had been preoccupied with trying to maintain order in Kennebunkport. That had been tough enough with television’s round-the-clock coverage of the fall of civilization. Most town folk had preferred to stay put, reasoning that the Zombie Virus would burn itself out before it reached this far north. This had suited Robson just fine since that meant he only had to contend with the steady stream of traffic on I-95 racing north to the supposed safety of Canada and Nova Scotia. Everything seemed under control until a military helicopter had flown in one night to transport the former President and his family to safety. The tenuous order collapsed in hours.
    With that collapse had come the unraveling of the bonds of humanity that used to hold society together. The sheriff and two of his deputies had abandoned the town before dawn, taking most of the firearms and ammo with them and leaving the people to fend for themselves. One of the deputies had stopped by the local gas station to gas up his SUV and stockpile supplies, demanded not to pay for any of it since he was law enforcement, and shot the store owner in the head three times when he refused. That act of cowardice had set off a firestorm of violence. Town folk Robson had known for his entire life turned on each other. Dozens of vehicle accidents and fist fights had erupted on the roads out of Kennebunkport as everyone tried to escape at once. Anyone who had a means of transportation out of the area, or food and water, had become targets for those who failed to adequately prepare for the evacuation. The number of assaults in town had quadrupled overnight and, as the rotters drew closer, the murder rates had spiked. The once quiet coastal community had devolved out of control, overwhelming what little law enforcement stayed behind. Robson and the last few deputies had lingered just long enough to warn the remaining citizens that they should seek the safety of a less populated area. Then they had gathered up whatever supplies they could muster, wished each other luck, and got the hell out of town.
    He and Susan had headed west for either Vermont or upstate New York. In retrospect, he should have paid more attention to the news. If he had, he might have chosen a better escape route. They made it as far as Newington, just outside of Portsmouth, where bogged-down traffic blocked their path. Before he could figure a way around the jam, the cars had been set upon by swarmers. Their only choice had been to set out on foot.
    Sweat poured down Robson’s face and soaked his shirt. The rapid, shallow breathing and racing heartbeat constricted his diaphragm, making him feel as if his chest would cave in. He jerked upright on his cot, planting his feet on the steel floor and breathing deep, trying to calm the anxiety attack. Slowly his breathing and heart rate returned to normal. It happened every time he recalled that afternoon, which was why he tried to block out that memory. He had replayed the events a thousand times in his mind. Other drivers and passengers being overrun by swarmers, dragged to the ground, ripped open, and eaten alive. The screams of the living and the moans of the living