by David Lucin
“Already in the works. We’ll house the general population on the field and in the stands. The infected we can put in the gyms. Anyone who’s especially vulnerable, such as Maria, we’ll keep where we can: offices, suites, the press boxes. It won’t be perfect, and I expect we’ll see a record-breaking jump in case numbers afterward, but it’s better than packing everyone in like sardines.”
“Thank you.” Gary pressed his palms together and bowed his head. He made a mental note to charge the batteries for Maria’s oxygen compressor and bring her emergency tanks to the Skydome. All in all, they should keep her breathing for four or five days. Considering the possibility a siege could last longer, he asked, “And solar power? How difficult would it be to move panels from, say, the police station or the charging trailers to the Skydome? We could attach them to the roof, where they’d be hard to see, let alone access from outside to destroy or disconnect.”
Craig reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small notepad and pen. He flipped it open and began to write. “I’ll look into it.”
Sophie chimed in with, “I’d recommend consulting my husband on the matter. We’ve got loads of electrical equipment at the farm and the shop. He may be able to rig something up if you can provide those precious inverters we need to make the solar panels do their thing.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet him once we’re done here.” Craig finished writing and returned the notebook to his pocket. “Are we missing anything for now?”
Gary went through a checklist in his mind: food, water, oxygen. Selfishly, his chief concern remained the well-being of his wife, but if he could keep her safe, he could keep the bulk of the town safe, too. He also couldn’t forget to send a messenger to Prescott. Although he would prefer to deliver the news to Jordan himself, he was needed to help plan and organize the defense of Flagstaff. That made him think to ask, “I am curious about how we intend to fight the White Horde. I imagine we’ll want to wear the Khan’s forces down before withdrawing to the Skydome.”
Liam steepled his fingers. “You’re right. The problem is the terrain. The eastern approach into town is flat. If we try to meet the Khan in the open, he’ll just encircle us.”
“We need a Thermopylae,” Gary said.
Sophie ran a finger over her eyebrow. “Um, I’m no history professor, so correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the Spartans lose at Thermopylae? Killed to the last man, actually, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, but they took thousands of Persians with them.”
“Unfortunately,” Liam said, “we don’t have a choke point quite like that, but you might be onto something, Gary. We don’t necessarily need to destroy the horde in order to defeat it.”
The lines on Sophie’s forehead deepened. “Care to explain?”
“This army, this White Horde, I can’t see it being cohesive to the extent that it has unbreakable morale.” Liam tapped his fingers together. “The Great Khan believes what he believes, and I don’t want to discount the possibility he has a cult-like influence over some of his followers, but all thousand? No, I’m betting the vast majority fight with him because he’s keeping them alive. Anything short of a quick, relatively bloodless victory and someone will turn on him—I guarantee it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole army buckled and ran at the first sign of heavy resistance.”
“I think you’re probably right about that,” Gary said, “but then what’s stopping him from simply besieging us?”
“He can’t afford that, either. If the horde was flush with supplies, it’d hunker down for the winter. The very fact it’s on the move outside of your usual campaign season tells me the Khan is desperate. He needs a victory—and soon. The longer a siege drags out, the hungrier his people become and the more likely they are to rebel. Time is on our side here. I expect the Khan to come at us fast. We can use that to our advantage.”
“So what do you propose?”
Liam blew his lips and showed his open palms. “Nothing yet, but I’ve got a few ideas I’ll run by Murphy and my captains. For now, we need to focus on evacuating people and supplies, specifically water and weapons, into the Skydome. Whatever happens, I have a feeling that’s where we’ll be making our final stand.”
* * *
The fire in the woodstove burned hot, filling the living room of this abandoned house with pleasant warmth. The floor comprised real hardwood, the walls all a plain off-white. A brass light fixture in the shape of a hexagon hung from the ceiling. Boards covered the windows. There had been some over the door as well, but Sam had pried them off with his trusty crowbar.
He and Jenn had set up camp along the wall opposite the windows. Quinn sat to their left. In the middle of the room, two of Yannick’s grunts, Willow and Sebastian, slept atop blow-up mattresses. One of them snored away peacefully. Beau was awake and nose deep in a paperback, while Dylan lay on the floor by the door, using his backpack as a pillow. He’d pulled his hat low so it covered his eyes, but Jenn doubted he was sleeping. The Ford and both drones were parked in the back alley.
As planned, after the teams had withdrawn to Holbrook, Courtney returned to Flagstaff with Yannick and one of his grunts in the Honda. The others then scouted the town, finding it devoid of life. When Jenn passed through here yesterday morning on her way to the Navajo Nation, she saw no trails of smoke rising from any of the homes or buildings. If anyone lived here, they were somehow surviving without fires to keep them warm.
Since the team would be in Holbrook for a minimum of one night, Sam had recommended finding a place with a proper woodstove. It didn’t take long; the second house he tried had a fireplace with an insert like Gary’s. They spent the rest of the day recovering and regaining their strength. That itch of anxiety, that urge to do something, anything, continued nagging at Jenn, but she was thankful for the respite. It might be her last for a while. Plus, Courtney should be back at some point tonight with the mortars. Then she’d have plenty to do; because she was, according to Dylan, a “math nerd,” he put her in charge of calculating the firing ranges and angles for the ambush.
She was eager to bloody the Khan’s nose. Excited, almost. A successful ambush would make clear that Flagstaff would not go down without a fight. It might even convince him to avoid the town altogether. Okay, she didn’t really believe that, but she could hope, right? More realistically, if this worked, the horde would spend the day recouping and licking its wounds, affording Flagstaff extra time to prepare the Skydome and giving Liam the opportunity to refine his plan of defense.
Yet she also dreaded facing the horde with only a team of ten. Yes, the mortars had a range of nearly four kilometers, so she wouldn’t likely see the convoy in person, but allowing it to get that close bordered on insanity. She felt like a mosquito trying to bite a professional boxer. Although the bite could hurt and possibly spread disease, a single well-timed swat could end her for good. She took some comfort in knowing that failure wouldn’t doom Flagstaff, but in order to defeat the White Horde, a lot of things had to go right, beginning with this ambush.
Quinn ran a brush through her electric blue hair, humming a tune Jenn recognized but couldn’t name. “What’s that you’re singing?” she asked. “It sounds familiar.”
“I don’t know what it’s called. It goes, ‘Something something something Winslow, Arizona.’ I think it’s old, like a hundred years. I’ve had it stuck in my head since we drove through Winslow yesterday.”
A memory flashed in Jenn’s mind: her father in their kitchen at the duplex in Peoria, the smell of spaghetti and homemade sauce, that song scratching away from a record player in the living room. “It’s ‘Take It Easy’ by the Eagles.”
Quinn whooped but threw a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake Willow and Sebastian. Neither of them stirred, and the snoring continued. “Yes!” she whisper-shouted. “That’s it. How’d you know that?”
“My dad was obsessed with old rock and roll music. He had a record player with real records and everything. The Eagles w
ere one of his favorite bands. I think he was devastated when I became a teenager and started listening to new wave punk.”
“Same with my pops.” Beau flipped a page in his book. “He loved country rock from the twenties and thirties. Always said new music was garbage.”
Jenn bumped Sam with her shoulder. “You hear that? That includes the weird Indian electro-pop stuff you listened to.”
Quinn snorted out a laugh. “You listened to Indian electro-pop, Samuel? I thought it was for fifteen-year-old girls.”
Sam stiffened, and Jenn said, “He did. One time he tried telling me it was art.” And then, after another shoulder bump, “You remember?”
He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I said it was better than American electro-pop. I don’t ever recall using the word ‘art.’”
“Um, no, I’m pretty sure you said ‘art.’ Actually, I’m positive you did, because you—”
“Okay then.” He pinched her knee, his thumb hitting a tender spot that made her squeal. “I listened to bad music that may or may not have been for fifteen-year-old girls. No need to pour salt on the wound.”
“Oh come on, Samuel.” Quinn returned to brushing her hair. “Quit being so serious. I swear, the more I get to know you, the more I wonder how you talked Jenn into agreeing to marry you.”
Jenn found his hand beneath the blanket and held it in her lap. “It didn’t take much convincing.”
“What about you, Dylan?” Quinn asked, apparently assuming, as Jenn had, that he was not asleep. “Do you like music?”
“He does,” Jenn said. The tension between her and Dylan had eased somewhat since this morning, but it lingered, nonetheless, like a bad smell. Maybe some playful banter would remind him they were friends. “Norwegian death metal.”
He lifted the hat off his eyes and rolled his head over to look at her. “How did you know that?”
“Val told me. She always complained that you put it on full blast whenever you had a shift in the greenhouse at the farm.”
Quinn pressed her lips together. “Norwegian death metal. That sounds . . . angry.”
“It is angry.” Beau laid his book on his chest. “My brother listened to it when he was lifting weights in the garage. Every song is about dying in battle and going to Valhalla. Seriously weird, if you ask me.”
Dylan adjusted his backpack-pillow and pulled his hat back over his eyes. “Better than Indian electro-pop.”
Everyone had a laugh at that. Everyone but Sam, anyway. He only said, “Oh, ha-ha. Didn’t you guys ever learn it’s rude to judge someone by their taste in music?”
“Yeah,” Quinn said. “But it’s still funny.”
“She’s right.” Jenn clutched his hand tighter. It had gone clammy, and she almost felt bad for embarrassing him so much. Almost. “You’re just so cute and make-fun-able.”
“That’s not even a word,” he complained. “And Quinn never told us what she listened to.”
She held a strand of her long hair and inspected the ends. “Classical. Bach, Chopin, Wagner. That kind of stuff.”
Jenn would have snickered if she weren’t so shocked. “Excuse me? The girl with blue hair listens to classical music? I would’ve thought punk or Norwegian death metal.”
“Nope. All classical. It’s good for the brain. I’m not ashamed of it, either. Take note, Samuel. If you have weird taste, you just have to rock it.” Yawning, she tucked her brush into her backpack, zipped it up, and, like Dylan, used it as a pillow.
Sam yawned as well. “She’s got the right idea.”
After checking on the fire, he arranged a makeshift bed with a sleeping bag and blankets. Jenn snuggled in beside him, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and the crackle of burning wood. Within minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened. Soon, he and Quinn were snoring. Beau had returned to reading his book, and Dylan once again lay flat on his back, hat over his eyes.
Without conversation, Jenn’s mind began to wander. If the White Horde continued at its pace of twenty miles per hour, it would be close to Window Rock by now. It might spend a day there, loading supplies looted from the Navajo, before continuing its crawl toward Flagstaff. Or it could pack up overnight and leave tomorrow morning. Or it could simply pick up the Khan, keep moving, and arrive in Holbrook sometime within the next five or six hours. To confirm, Dylan planned to send a drone in that direction later tonight, as well as a second at sunrise, assuming Courtney returned with a spare battery unit, but the not-knowing made it impossible for Jenn to fall asleep.
After an hour of staring at the ceiling, she heard Dylan’s radio crackle: “Townsend for Baker. Do you copy?”
Quinn shot up, eyes wide and bloodshot, and searched for her weapon. By the time she found it, Dylan was answering with, “Baker here. Nice to hear from you, Captain. I wasn’t expecting the company commander to grace us with her presence.”
Neither was Jenn. Townsend used to frighten her, but she’d come to respect the woman and her professionalism. She could be stern and particular, yes, but all the Guard officers and NCOs were like that to some extent.
“What’s your twenty?” Townsend asked.
Dylan directed her to the house while Quinn threw off her blanket. Sam, Willow, and Sebastian had awoken as well. Beau had already risen, rifle in hand. With Dylan on the radio, all looked to Jenn.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “the cavalry’s here.”
They left the relative comfort of the warm living room and stepped into the freezing desert night. Like the others in this neighborhood, their house stood at a single story and had a gently peaked roof. No light escaped through the boarded-up windows, and the smoke from the chimney blended into the darkness. Perfect. Their presence should go unnoticed, even on the off chance someone still lived in this dumpy little town.
To the left, headlights appeared far down the street.
“There she is.” Dylan stepped onto the sidewalk, saying into the radio, “I see you, Townsend.” He waved one hand over his head, and the high beams flashed once, almost blinding Jenn.
Stars danced in her vision as the Honda pulled up to the curb. The front passenger door opened, and Captain Townsend climbed out. She wore a dark-colored parka, hood up. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she made a brr noise. Jenn had to swallow her laugh. Townsend, she recalled, grew up in Tucson, where the temperature rarely, if ever, dropped below freezing, although this winter might be an exception. A fellow desert girl, Jenn whined almost daily during her first winter in Flagstaff, so she shouldn’t poke too much fun at her company commander.
“Welcome to Holbrook, Captain.” Dylan straightened his back, feet together, but stopped short of saluting. “Thanks for rushing out here. I’m surprised the commander sent you.”
“I volunteered, actually. Not that I’m here to step on your toes. In fact, I don’t want to get in your way at all. Commander Kipling’s put me in charge of the mission, but I trust your judgment completely.” Townsend’s face tightened. “To be honest with you, after watching the drone footage, I want a piece of these animals.”
“Don’t worry,” Dylan said. “We’re going to take one. Now, did you bring me some goodies or what?”
An uncharacteristic smile crossed Townsend’s lips. “You better believe it.”
Yannick climbed out of the rear passenger door. The light of the cab highlighted dark bags under his eyes; the poor guy probably hadn’t slept all day. Two more doors banged shut, and Courtney rounded the front of the truck. Behind her came Nicolas, Yannick’s other grunt, a thirty-eight-year-old former custodian at NAU. The man might be a decade older than the bulk of the Militia’s fighting force, but he was in better shape than most, Jenn included.
“Over here,” Courtney said and gestured for Dylan to follow her. “Come check it out.”
He rubbed his hands together in glee.
“You think he’s excited?” Quinn whispered to Jenn.
“I’d say so. The last time I saw his eyes light up l
ike this was when Lionel gave us Rusty in New River. The man loves his toys.”
A blue tarp covered the box of the Honda. Yannick and Nicholas went to work releasing the bungee cords. True to form, Sam jumped in and helped. When they were done, Courtney threw back the tarp with a flourish. Even in the dark, Jenn recognized two four-foot-long metal tubes. There were also two metal boxes. Courtney opened one of them, clicked on a flashlight, and shone it inside, revealing a row of 81mm mortar shells. Their conical shape, with a bulge in the middle, combined with the stabilizing fins on the end, made Jenn think of a fish. An explosive, very deadly fish.
“This, ladies and gentlemen,” Courtney said, “is how we welcome the Great Khan to Arizona.”
12
“I am not going to go live in a stadium!” Barbara cried.
She stood in the living room at home, dressed in her bright pink pajamas, arms crossed defiantly. A sleep mask rested on top of her head. Oddly, the prospect of spending a few days at the Walkup Skydome bothered her more than news of the White Horde.
Gary massaged the bridge of his nose. When he finished his meeting at Militia HQ, he rushed home in the four-wheel-drive Chevy with a one-man escort, the same Guardsman who drove him to Prescott. Craig had offered his household a press box at the Skydome. Although Gary would normally balk at any whiff of preferential treatment simply because he held the title of mayor, when it came to Maria, he didn’t hesitate to accept. Liam’s household would share the space; his ex-partner, Mikey, had two elderly parents who were equally as vulnerable to the flu.
“We have to, sweetheart,” Kevin said. He pushed up his glasses and reached out for his wife, but she jerked away from him, evading his touch. “Kate and Daniel are already waiting in the truck outside.”
“No, I refuse.” Her gaze bore a hole through Gary. “If the Militia was doing its job, we wouldn’t have to hide out like this.”
