The van knelt to one side, everything in sight off by just a few degrees. It was a maddening difference.

Tim’s vision went out of focus for a second, then cleared up. He could barely breathe with the seat belt so tight across his chest. He reached down and tried to unbuckle it but missed the release button, so he had to try again.

The back door of the van flapped open and he felt cool air hit the back of his head. He craned around as best he could to look but all he saw were hands grabbing at something moving too fast to follow. Through his side window he saw Buzzard running across the tarmac, his hands up in the air, screaming something Tim couldn’t hear.

It had been less than five minutes since Tim and Horne had discussed the big plan to reinhabit the city.

A soldier of maybe fifteen years rushed forward toward Buzzard, rifle up and ready to fire. Buzzard dropped to his knees. Tim could see tears rolling down the reporter’s face.

“That’s a really good plan,” Tim said, reaching for the seat belt release again. Missing, again.

The boy soldier smacked Buzzard across the face with the butt of his rifle. Buzzard slumped to the surface of the runway, either dazed into motionless or knowing better than to make any sudden moves. Other soldiers pressed in closer.

“How many people are in that van?” the fifteen year old shouted. “Tell me!”

“None,” Buzzard said, and the soldier raised his rifle again. “No!”

“Tell me the goddamned truth!”

Buzzard lifted his chin off the ground. “I meant they’re all dead. They’re dead!”

“Good little fucker,” Tony sighed. “You think they’ll fall for it?”

Tim’s thumb found the button at his side. His seat belt released with a clunk and he froze in panic—what if the soldiers heard that sound?

Maybe they did hear it, but If they did they didn’t show it. Maybe they assumed it was just the van settling, some part of its battered engine falling into pieces. They ran toward where Buzzard lay, forming a throng around him. Apparently they bought his story.

“That just bought us one second,” Sasha said. “One good second. You ready, Tone? Kempfer?”

Tim crawled over the back of his seat. Sasha grabbed a pistol from Pat’s belt and tossed it to him. He nearly dropped it—which he thought would have made a loud enough sound even the boy soldiers wouldn’t have mistaken it.

“What makes you think I want this?” he asked.

Sasha shrugged. “You got two choices, way I see it. You can turn French and do like your buddy, sure. You can surrender and they can lock you up for the rest of your natural born life. ‘Course, they already think you’re dead so you come crawling out of here they might just shoot on sight. On the other hand, you can come with us, and make some noise, and run for it. You’ll probably get shot, and probably killed, but you got a chance to get away and get your revenge after all. That is something you still want, ain’t it?”

Tim wasn’t necessarily ready to answer that question. Nothing else had driven him through the droolers, through the smoke, through Horne’s perfidy. The revelation that Jake had survived the original attack—only to die soon after—had shaken him to the core. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted.

It was hardly a time for moral ambiguity, though.

“Fine,” he said, “but where are we going?” He stared out at the expanse of runway they could see through the back doors of the van, which looked as arid and empty as the Mojave desert. There was nothing out there but exposure and vulnerability. There were plenty of hangars out where they could hole up and make a desperate stand, but they were far enough away to look like mountains on the horizon. “Do we have a plan?” he asked.

“We just improvise. Trust our guts,” Tony suggested.

“Cancel that. Look,” Sasha said. She gestured with one nickel-plated revolver at the Learjet standing alone on the runway. “That’s no more than a hundred yards away. What’s your best time at the hundred yard dash, Kempfer?”

“Slower than a speeding bullet. But yeah, it’s the closest thing, and at least it’ll give us some cover. We go together, right? On three?”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me,” Tony said, “but I’m in charge here.”

“Sure,” Tim said. “Alright. What do you think about going on three?”

“One two three,” Tony said, then jumped out the back of the van.

They got their second of surprise. The soldiers weren’t even looking as they dashed toward the small aircraft, their heads down, their guns up. No one shot at them for almost ten seconds, and then only half-heartedly.

Tony ran backwards and started squeezing off rounds from a Mac Ten almost immediately. Sasha pointed her revolver backwards and fired randomly, not intending to hit anyone. Tim didn’t shoot at all—he just ran as fast as he humanly could.

Bullets chewed up the tarmac in front of him but none got close enough to make him flinch and nothing could make him stop. Breath surged in and out of his mouth as he came around the nose of the Learjet and fell down into a crouch behind its forward landing gear. A moment later Sasha and Tony followed. They all got down as low as they could and Tim put his fingers in his ears to muffle the sound of the machine gun volleys he expected at any moment.

When no one shot at him he was only confused.