"Push the chassis higher."
A guard shoved his rifle barrel into the spine of a starving accountant.
The rusted frame of a frozen sedan scraped against the icy asphalt. Ten shivering citizens heaved their bruised shoulders against the doors. The car tipped forward and crashed onto the roof of a buried taxi.
Richard Mercer stood on the flatbed of his crawler. The morning sun breached the gray winter clouds. The pale light offered zero warmth.
"Stack the vehicles tight," Richard shouted to the labor battalions. "Fill the gaps with snow and dirt. Make the wall ten feet high."
The surviving population of Brighthaven worked in synchronized misery. They were no longer citizens. They were slaves building a walled encampment in the plaza across from Malcolm Drayton and his titanium gates.
Ric
