was hot white, an oasis of light. Ethan felt something in him release that he hadn’t realized was clenched. Light meant power, and power meant normalcy, and they could sorely use some normalcy right now.
“This is the mall exit, right? I wonder why they have power.”
“Seems like the light is coming from . . .” Amy trailed off. “Something’s wrong.”
Traffic was compressing in on itself, everyone merging over to the right. The light grew brighter and brighter. A minute later he saw why.
Heavy concrete barriers blocked I-90, two rows of them placed at angles. A battery of sodium lights blasted the night to harsh noon. Alongside them, Humvees idled, the big trucks looking like construction equipment, only with machine guns mounted on the back. Ethan could see soldiers manning those guns, little more than silhouettes against the glare of light. He could hear the generators even through the glass.
A flashing sign with an arrow showed the way—all traffic to exit. Ethan glanced in his mirror, saw cars lining up behind him. He looked at his wife; she said nothing, but the tiny creases around her clenched lips spoke volumes.
Ethan joined the line for the exit. It took five minutes to funnel in. At the top of the ramp, the road north had been barricaded. A tank was parked in the center of the intersection. Soldiers stood alongside the treads, watching the flow of traffic.
A tank. In the intersection.
The traffic flowed south across a bridge over the highway. On the other side lay Crocker Park Mall. He remembered the first time he and Amy had come here, how surreal the experience had been to a couple of urbanites: an outdoor mall pretending to be a village, a theme park of commercialism at its most vulgar.
It was considerably more surreal now.
The mall had been commandeered by the National Guard, with rows of Humvees parked beside a half dozen more tanks. Soldiers scurried to set up tents in the midst of the parking lot. Generators roared, powering floodlights that colored the sky.
“They’re turning us back,” Amy said. She pointed to the opposite on-ramp, back toward Cleveland. More barricades and soldiers, and another flashing arrow. The same cars he’d been following westward were obediently queuing up to return to Cleveland.
“You think there’s been some kind of attack?”
“Or they’re expecting one.”
“So what now? Should we go home?”
He sucked air through his teeth. Thought about their dark house in its dark neighborhood, growing steadily colder. About the freezer that was nearly empty of meat, the fridge that had no fruit or vegetables.
“No,” he said, and spun the wheel.
“Ethan, what are you—”
He pulled out of the line for the highway and aimed to the right, around the barricade at the road going to the mall. He passed four cars, five, and then the Humvee. A flash of the soldiers in and around it: digital camouflage and assault rifles and helmets with headgear. He’d always thought the National Guard was sort of the light beer version of the army, but those men had looked anything but soft.
“I don’t want to be one of those wives,” Amy said, “who says ‘be careful,’ but please be careful. Our daughter is in the back.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid. But they have to let us by.”
At the entrance to the mall parking lot, two soldiers carrying machine guns stood beside a wooden barricade. Ethan pulled up to it and rolled down his window.
“Sir, do you have authorization to be here?”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Sir, I’m going to need you to turn the vehicle around.”
“I’ve got my baby daughter with me,” Ethan said. “We’re almost out of food, have no baby formula, and now no heat. We’re just trying to get to Chicago to stay with my mother-in-law. Is there someone we can talk to?”
The soldier hesitated, then pointed. “My CO.”
“Thank you.”
Ethan drove where the man indicated. A handful of civilian
“This is the mall exit, right? I wonder why they have power.”
“Seems like the light is coming from . . .” Amy trailed off. “Something’s wrong.”
Traffic was compressing in on itself, everyone merging over to the right. The light grew brighter and brighter. A minute later he saw why.
Heavy concrete barriers blocked I-90, two rows of them placed at angles. A battery of sodium lights blasted the night to harsh noon. Alongside them, Humvees idled, the big trucks looking like construction equipment, only with machine guns mounted on the back. Ethan could see soldiers manning those guns, little more than silhouettes against the glare of light. He could hear the generators even through the glass.
A flashing sign with an arrow showed the way—all traffic to exit. Ethan glanced in his mirror, saw cars lining up behind him. He looked at his wife; she said nothing, but the tiny creases around her clenched lips spoke volumes.
Ethan joined the line for the exit. It took five minutes to funnel in. At the top of the ramp, the road north had been barricaded. A tank was parked in the center of the intersection. Soldiers stood alongside the treads, watching the flow of traffic.
A tank. In the intersection.
The traffic flowed south across a bridge over the highway. On the other side lay Crocker Park Mall. He remembered the first time he and Amy had come here, how surreal the experience had been to a couple of urbanites: an outdoor mall pretending to be a village, a theme park of commercialism at its most vulgar.
It was considerably more surreal now.
The mall had been commandeered by the National Guard, with rows of Humvees parked beside a half dozen more tanks. Soldiers scurried to set up tents in the midst of the parking lot. Generators roared, powering floodlights that colored the sky.
“They’re turning us back,” Amy said. She pointed to the opposite on-ramp, back toward Cleveland. More barricades and soldiers, and another flashing arrow. The same cars he’d been following westward were obediently queuing up to return to Cleveland.
“You think there’s been some kind of attack?”
“Or they’re expecting one.”
“So what now? Should we go home?”
He sucked air through his teeth. Thought about their dark house in its dark neighborhood, growing steadily colder. About the freezer that was nearly empty of meat, the fridge that had no fruit or vegetables.
“No,” he said, and spun the wheel.
“Ethan, what are you—”
He pulled out of the line for the highway and aimed to the right, around the barricade at the road going to the mall. He passed four cars, five, and then the Humvee. A flash of the soldiers in and around it: digital camouflage and assault rifles and helmets with headgear. He’d always thought the National Guard was sort of the light beer version of the army, but those men had looked anything but soft.
“I don’t want to be one of those wives,” Amy said, “who says ‘be careful,’ but please be careful. Our daughter is in the back.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid. But they have to let us by.”
At the entrance to the mall parking lot, two soldiers carrying machine guns stood beside a wooden barricade. Ethan pulled up to it and rolled down his window.
“Sir, do you have authorization to be here?”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Sir, I’m going to need you to turn the vehicle around.”
“I’ve got my baby daughter with me,” Ethan said. “We’re almost out of food, have no baby formula, and now no heat. We’re just trying to get to Chicago to stay with my mother-in-law. Is there someone we can talk to?”
The soldier hesitated, then pointed. “My CO.”
“Thank you.”
Ethan drove where the man indicated. A handful of civilian
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