Fall; or, Dodge in Hell - Neal Stephenson Page 0,100

through a sort of open-air bazaar that had formed around the western approach to the bridge. It comprised about half a dozen RVs, pretty clearly no longer capable of movement, bedecked with blue tarp awnings lashed down against prairie winds by straining ropes attached to concrete-filled tires. Bulletproof panels, held down by rocks and cinder blocks, covered the roofs and were leaned against west-facing surfaces. On plastic folding tables, vendors had put out for display a range of goods produced on the east side of the river: diapers, hardware, snack foods, motor oil. The commerce seemed to be one-way; nothing was being produced in Ameristan that was desired outside of it. Zula, Sophia’s mother, had spoken once about the way that Midwestern farmers had slowly, over generations, beggared themselves by producing commodities. She and Jake had gone in together on a few business ventures intended to create distinct local brands that, like the various cheeses of France, might fetch higher prices in coastal grocery stores: producing pancetta instead of bacon, and so on. But chemistry was chemistry. Ethanol was ethanol, high-fructose corn syrup was high-fructose corn syrup, and so on. So economic competition here was a war of all against all, and the only winners were people in cities who wanted to buy that stuff for as little money as possible.

A lot of people around here were evidently running some kind of drone-detecting app, because when a drone came in—which happened every few minutes—they all turned to look at it long before it could be seen or heard by Sophia. Glasses couldn’t do that on their own, so the apps must have been networked into other drones, or something, whose sole purpose was to detect drones. Most of them were beefy cargo carriers, capable of hauling a couple of bags of groceries, apparently dispatched to pick up orders at the bazaar. But half an hour after they’d crossed the bridge, a smaller one came in, made a couple of quick orbits around the area, and then came in for a landing on the hood of Pete’s SUV. Zip-tied to it was a mobile phone of a type that had been ubiquitous when Sophia was born. Pete unfolded a pocket tool and snipped it free. The drone flew away. Presently a call came in and Pete, listening, began nodding and waving his free hand in a way that set everyone into motion. More flak jackets and helmets were pulled from the back of the SUV.

“These precautions seem like too much and too little at the same time,” Sophia remarked as she was shrugging one on. “I mean, this is great if someone just shoots at us with a gun. But what about IEDs? Mortars?”

“Those would obliterate us,” said Eric, her second cousin once removed. He was studying aerospace engineering at Iowa State, home for the summer.

“So . . . ?” She climbed into a second-row seat of the SUV.

“Drone and satellite coverage is good enough to warn us of any IED-type shenanigans. And they just don’t have artillery, other than some homemade crap.”

“It’s not an actual military,” said her great-uncle Bob, twisting around from the front seat where he was, literally, riding shotgun. “If you were setting up a real military, here’s what you wouldn’t do: you wouldn’t issue every single guy his own collection of fifty-seven different small arms and an infinite quantity of ammunition and nothing else.”

“Got it,” Sophia said.

“Pipe down,” said Pete, who was climbing in next to Sophia in what she guessed was the approved Warlord Position: right side of the middle row. He was in communication with someone important and desirous of a little more solemnity. So the vehicle became silent except for Pete’s making sporadic utterances in response to tinny bursts that they could vaguely overhear but not understand.

“No. No. Yes. Yes, we have all of the stuff on the list—like I told the other guy ten minutes ago, and the guy before him. Jeff. All of it. Yes, we have all of it. The Wet Wipes. Metric Allen wrenches. I need you to send me a picture of our guy just for confirmation. Yes, I understand he has seen better days. I know what you did to him. I am not going to freak out. Just anything that confirms he is still alive. It’s about respect, you know? That’s all I am asking for. Like Aretha Franklin. Who is that? Never mind. Bad joke. I said, never mind. She was a singer. Sang a