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the remains of a well-used fireplace than a treasure trove.
    “So, you’re telling me that some crooks slipped by coastal security and evaded the quarantine patrols to pick through this wasteland? Is this professional or is it personal, doctor?”
    “Listen you condescending fuck, England existed for centuries before anyone discovered North America. It will take another hundred years before everything valuable is found, cataloged, and set aside for the future and I will not let looters take shit that belongs to the next generation. England is my country and I will protect it.”
    Wren worked the wheel and they sped along a side street.
    “How old were you when The Cut hit?”
    There was a long pause until Wren answered, “Thirteen, but this is my home, understand? If I had refused American citizenship they were going to ship me over to those European cunts.”
    “You curse a lot.”
    “What?”
    “What is your specialty, doctor?”
    “Christ, you tracked me down and you don’t know? I do all sorts of shit but especially Quantitative Biology.”
    They managed a quick look at the encroaching aircraft as it flew overhead: a small cargo prop plane with a fuselage sporting odd angles that suggested stealth technology.
    Wren slowed the buggy as they drove a street with more standing walls than they had seen along the river. While nowhere near intact, several facades remained, like a Hollywood backlot.
    Hearing through the mask was difficult, but Hawthorne recognized the roar of prop engines rotating into a vertical position for landing.
    Wren’s spotter reported, “They dropped off our scopes somewhere just south of the university grounds.”
    Hawthorne realized they entered a residential district remodeled seventeen years ago by explosions and fire, but his imagination mended the wrecked pieces. He saw the ghosts of kids kicking footballs in the street surrounded by shade trees and homes made of brick and wood.
    Wren parked the buggy and said, “They are just around the corner.”
    “Listen Leo, if you’re planning on doing something stupid, count me out.”
    Nonetheless, Hawthorne followed Wren through a maze of ashes until stopping at an intersection. Around the corner in a field of brown rot sat the idling transport with its cargo ramp open and guarded by a man wearing a green military MOPP mask, a gray poncho, and work boots: patchwork hazmat gear. He also carried an older model assault rifle and paced nervously.
    A steady thumping came to Hawthorne’s ears and he worried the intruders had brought a big robot, but then realized the sound came from his chest. It had been a long while since Jonathan Hawthorne faced combat but the fear felt familiar.
    He told Wren, “The pilots stayed in the plane, which means they want to leave in a hurry. Probably a good idea to just let them go.”
    Wren ignored the suggestion.
    “The fucks must be after something valuable.”
    Hawthorne saw only destroyed houses and rusting cars, he could not imagine thieves finding anything of value in these ruins. Of course, he knew not to say as much to Wren who saw the British Isles as his sovereign realm that he must protect from outsiders.
    A second man exited a hole where a front door once stood. He too wore a mishmash of gear and carried an assault rifle, but also toted a sack full of plunder.
    Wren sprinted across the street and tackled the looter sending both men to the ground behind the melted remains of a sedan. The sack and the gun slid away from the surprised intruder.
    The guard at the plane jerked his trigger finger and then fought with his gun barrel for control, sending three rounds harmlessly into the air.
    Wren pinned the thief to the ground with his knees, and slid the gun toward Hawthorne while shouting, “Cover me!”
    Although Hawthorne felt no responsibility for Wren or attachment to this burned-out graveyard, his survival instincts activated when another burst of gunfire ricocheted nearby. He grabbed the rifle and