The Detachment

Qaeda in Yemen. Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Iran. Libya. The Muslim Brotherhood. Sleeper cells in America, and how many more there could be. Why they hated us, why they loved death more than life. The topography outside the windows was indifferent and unaltered, but I felt the country we were driving through had changed irrevocably since we’d begun this journey, a time that itself already felt improbable, distant, surreal. I imagined the four of us in the truck as some sort of germ, silently delivered into America’s arterial system, hunted by rogue T cells even as the unseen body politic around us convulsed in fever and delirium.
    I hated that we’d been part of the horror we listened to over the radio. But what could we do, except try to protect ourselves?
    Periodically, we stopped for bathroom breaks and provisions. There was panic buying everywhere: duct tape, plastic, canned food, bottled water. Iodine tablets were impossible to find, and apparently there was a thriving black market for Mexican knockoff Cipro, the anthrax treatment. We saw Wal-Marts being emptied of water purification and camping supplies. Gun sales had gone through the roof, and ammunition was sold out.
    We kept driving in shifts: two in the front to make sure no one fell asleep at the wheel; two in the cargo area getting some rest, at least theoretically; our only breaks at highway rest stops, where we parked far from other vehicles so that whichever two of us were riding in back could get in and out without being noticed.
    I was dozing in the back with Treven when I was awakened by the feel of the truck coming to a stop. There was no light leaking into the cargo area. It must have been night.
    There were three knocks on the door outside—the all-clear signal we’d been using to prevent misunderstandings. I had already accessed the Supergrade, and kept it in my hand anyway.
    The door opened, and I saw Larison and Dox. It was twilight outside, not yet dark. I could hear crickets in the grass, but, other than that, the evening was silent. The air on my skin felt wonderfully fresh and cool. The air on my skin felt wonderfully fresh and cool.
    “Where are we?” I said, getting out and sliding the Supergrade into my waistband. My legs were stiff and I did a few squats to loosen up.
    “Lavaca, Arkansas,” Larison said. “Just south of the Ozark National Forest.”
    Dox stuck his head inside the cargo area. “My lord, is that what it smells like back there? I guess I got numb to it when it was my turn. Think we all might want to find a place to shower when we get to L.A.”
    I swung my arms around and shook them out to get the blood moving. “We’re not even out of Arkansas yet? Jesus, this country is big.”
    Larison started stretching, too. “We’re just a few miles from the Oklahoma border. Almost halfway there.”
    I looked around. We were on a dirt road. An old barn stood to our left, looking deserted, a small reservoir beside it. The sky, indigo overhead and behind us and deep blue fading to pink in the west, was clear. A crescent moon was already up, and the first stars were out.
    “Why are we stopping?” I said. “You ready to change up?”
    “I’m good either way,” Larison said. “But the president’s doing another prime time speech. Thought you might want to hear it.”
    I looked around again. It was a deserted enough place that I thought we could risk a break. I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before eight—almost nine o’clock in Washington.
    We all pissed at the edge of the nearby woods, then rolled down the truck windows and stood outside the cabin, Dox and Larison on the driver’s side, Treven and I opposite, listening to the announcer uselessly reminding us about the day’s events, and speculating on how the president might address them. Once again, I was struck by the feeling of being part of what was happening, and yet also distinct, isolated, remote from it.
    At nine o’clock sharp, the president spoke. His tone was measured and grave.
    “Today our nation suffered an unprecedented string of horrific and cowardly attacks on civilian targets. We have evidence that some of these attacks have been carried out by sleeper cells of Islamic fanatics. Others have been committed by individuals who we believe to be self-radicalized.”
    “‘Self-radicalized’?” Dox said. “What the hell does that even mean? Some guy’s sitting there minding his own business, and he just radicalizes