Chapter One

The prelude to the Exchange announced itself with a gust of ionized air, a shift of electrical charges that made Sharon Mack’s skin tingle. Eleven fifty-eight. Two minutes early by Sharon’s watch. Hot sunlight poured from a cloudless sky onto strip-mall parking lots running along both sides of Highway 25 on the outskirts of Rockport, Illinois. Under the supervision of surveyors, a team of hastily drafted civilians stretched yellow and black warning tape at the boundary of the Exchange Zone—the EZ. A curved line of white stakes stretched left and right—marking the calculated fringe of Bear Country.

Sharon stretched her back and wiped perspiration from her forehead before returning to her assigned task—keeping the clueless from wandering under high-tension power lines. Overhead a crew worked on the wiring, freeing cables and dropping them to the ground. It was better to drop the lines in a controlled manner before they were cut by the Exchange than chance them snapping afterward. A trickle of sweat ran into her eyes. She blinked at the sting.

Marines, rifles at the ready, patrolled the inside edge of the EZ. Illinois State Police had jurisdiction outside; tan-clad officers watched over a work group digging up a natural gas pipeline to seal the end. A stream of trucks carrying workers, equipment, and additional Marines rumbled along the four-lane highway into the EZ.

In the opposite direction, bumper-to-bumper traffic jammed the highway—refugees fleeing Rockport. Sharon glanced at the cars and hoped Bethany was in one of them. Her stomach knotted.

Bethany. Her daughter. Seven years old.

The sky rumbled. As she watched, state troopers stopped the flow of cars.

Someone behind her said,“Any minute now.”

The troopers ushered cars and civilian workers out of the interface zone.

A Marine shouted,“Look out!”

An oversized, iridescent-blue pickup truck pulled out of the stalled traffic and raced on the shoulder of the highway, making a desperate run. A state patrol car moved to cut it off, but the truck slewed over the shoulder and—with clumps of dirt and grass flying—roared toward the EZ. It turned toward Sharon’s work party. The civilians scrambled to get out of the way, dropping their shovels and rakes. The truck’s engine growled. It headed straight toward Sharon, moving too fast to evade before swerving at the last second. She glimpsed t