The car was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the blond receptionist who sat behind a polished wood desk in the car dealer’s foyer. Rogers noticed her immediately, through the large plate glass window before they had even entered the building, not out of any sense of attraction, but simply because he noticed everything. She watched him, this tall young man, fit, athletic, confident, with a shock of dark hair under his baseball cap and eyes the color of glacier ice, as he walked by her workstation, and she pretended to be as equally disinterested as he appeared. Gunnar, on the other hand, literally stopped and pointed. He nudged Rogers with his arm and leaned his head toward the woman. His eyebrows went up and he pointed at her with one finger, while he made a pathetic attempt at masking the gesture with the opposite hand. Dude, he mouthed.

The car Gunnar purchased was a Nissan GT-R. He found it after months of searching auto auction sites on the net, low miles and very clean, and had it shipped north from a state that no longer permitted internal combustion engines. He had arranged the entire transaction online, so the formalities required to assume ownership were few. Rogers found a seat and filled the time while his friend signed paperwork in a cubicle off the main floor by thumbing through scouting reports on his link. He raised his eyes from the screen and caught the girl behind the desk sneaking a glance at him. She held his gaze for a moment then looked away, her tongue running across her lips as she answered a call on the headset she wore, her voice upbeat and inviting. She was in her late twenties, several years Rogers elder. Gunnar’s car was even older yet, but both of them looked in great shape, the girl’s eyes as shiny and bright as the silver paint on the well-kept sports car.

The two friends had hitched a ride to the dealership in Coeur d’Alene with Gunnar’s parents. His dad was retired Air Force, and once a month his parents drove the several hours to Washington State to stock up on goods at the base commissary at Fairchild on the outskirts of Spokane. Gunnar’s father shook his head at the sight of the sports car, and once again reminded his son that this purchase was absolutely ridiculous.

Gunnar Vind was one of those children who was always first to have the latest thing on the market, but the GT-R he had earned himself, and that made it special. The entire time they were at the dealership he was like a kid on Christmas, bouncing from foot to foot, squeezing Rogers’ arm and clapping him on the shoulder, bubbling with animated babble. On the drive north to Troy, it seemed as though it was the Nissan’s turn to be excited, and the car responded with enthusiasm every time Gunner’s heavy right foot dug deeper into the pedal.

They stopped at a roadside eatery in the resort town of Sandpoint and wolfed down bacon cheeseburgers and fries smothered in ketchup. Two high school girls, slim and cute, entered the restaurant behind them. Sandpoint was on the rail line, affluent, and combustion cars were a rarity upon its streets. The girls made the connection between their foreign faces and the exotic gas burner parked outside and they shared conspiratorial whispers and wide, inviting smiles that flashed often. Unabashed and pleased by the attention, Gunnar spoke even louder and more animated than usual. The girls took seats in a nearby booth with an unobstructed view of the two young men.

The road was hauntingly devoid of traffic. In Sandpoint, Rogers had felt a buzz, an underlying tension, the source of which he couldn’t quite place. People spoke in short guarded whispers then hurried about their business. Before they left the dealership in Coeur d’Alene, the salesman reminded them repeatedly that the GT-R had a full tank of gas, his face anxious. The truck stop on the outskirts of Sandpoint had juice for sale and Rogers noted that the price displayed on the electronic sign was triple what he had paid only yesterday. A long string of automobiles waited for access to the one working pump. Bright lights flashed atop a highway patrol vehicle parked beside it.

Farther north, they passed a caravan of vehicles traveling south. They were new hybrids and electrics and they were filled to capacity with people and their belongings. Few of the faces bothered to even take heed of the silver Skyline as it streaked by.

“What the hell was that, dude?” Gunnar asked.

They started down a long grade that led them downhill into the community of Bonners Ferry. It was a small town situated on the Kootenai River, just beyond the canyon narrows, where the valley bent north toward Canada and opened upon a broad alluvial plain. The soil was rich here and the climate favorable, supporting agricultural activity to a much greater degree than the lands to its east. Compared to their Montana neighbors, citizens here were industrious and relatively well off. Most of the storefronts were open and inviting and their shelves stocked with a variety of goods.

Not today. Every business was closed. Doors were shut and signs darkened in all the shops. No conveyance moved upon the city’s streets, not even a Mennonite farmer in his horse or ox drawn cart. There was not one single pedestrian. The Nissan crept along a road void of any traffic, theirs the only movement in a scene that would otherwise have been a still life.

They passed a group of armed men who stood guarding the pumps at a fuel station. A riot-suited policeman eyed them with suspicion. Gunnar stiffened in his seat.

To the right, military vehicles filled the supermarket parking lot. A cluster of men was gathered beside them. They wore helmets and camouflage fatigues and held automatic rifles in their hands. They watched the Skyline as it passed.

“What the fuck, man?” Gunnar said. “Fuckin’ creepy.”