As Darkness Falls

by David Lucin

  So she hopped off the tailgate and snatched up Espinosa. “She’s right. We’re better than Grierson. We need to be.” She asked Murphy, “Is it safe? Can we go to New River?”

  With a flick of his eyes, he appealed to Dylan, who shrugged and said, “If they want to see, I won’t stop them. As long as we make it quick.”

  Murphy hesitated, like he feared seeing the camp himself. “All right. I’ll show you.”

  * * *

  Jenn could smell the refugee camp before she saw it. Even with the Toyota’s windows up, the air carried the distinct reek of human feces. Smoke, too, but it didn’t have the same ashy scent as Phoenix burning; this was campfire smoke. Mixed in was something else, something rotten.

  Death.

  She began to ask if the others smelled it as well, but Quinn, seated next to her in the back seat, had wrinkled her nose, while Sam, who drove, used his free arm to cover his mouth.

  Cacti flew by as they proceeded south, followed by a worn, faded advertisement for the New River Outlet Mall. It showed two smiling women carrying shopping bags, though spray-painted X’s crossed out both pairs of eyes. Next came a blue-green sign listing Exit 232 with an arrow indicating New River.

  “This exit,” Sergeant Murphy said from the passenger seat.

  Sam eased the Toyota onto the off-ramp, then followed Murphy’s directions and went right at a set of traffic lights. They drove for another minute or two, up a gentle incline. When they reached the crest, Jenn felt her jaw hang open.

  In May, the camp was confined to the mall. Now it had expanded at least a mile beyond that. White tents interspersed with blue, red, and yellow tarps stretched to the horizon. Spirals of smoke, dozens of them, climbed into the sky. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire marked where the desert ended and the tent city began. If Jenn had seen a photograph of this place, she would have assumed it showed Turkey or maybe Armenia, the destination for hundreds of thousands fleeing endless civil wars, searing-hot summers, and later the Iranian Caliphate’s brutal conquests of Iraq and Syria. But this was America, Phoenix, Jenn’s home. Her brain struggled to reconcile the foreignness of the scene, to make any sense of it.

  The stink of human waste, smoke, and rot clung to her throat. She thought about pulling her shirt over her nose but resisted the temptation. In some strange way, she wanted to suffer, if only a little, while she visited this place. A pathetic attempt at showing her solidarity with the thousands who lived and died here, but Quinn’s words repeated themselves in her mind: It should be hard.

  A gate in the fence straddled the road. On this side stood a makeshift guard tower built of wood and sheet metal. Nearby lurked a legged combat drone similar to Rusty, its machine gun trained inward—keeping refugees in, not would-be attackers out.

  When Sam stopped the truck, Quinn had already undone her seat belt. Jenn was content to view the camp from afar, but she should support her team leader, her friend, so reluctantly, she followed her out of the vehicle.

  Her next breath made her gag. Nausea flooded her stomach, but she clamped her mouth shut and focused on not vomiting while she walked toward the gate with Quinn. In the watchtower, a soldier with a high-powered sniper rifle waved down at them—Sergeant Murphy had informed him via radio that the Toyota was cleared to approach—while the drone continued scanning for targets.

  Quinn interlinked her fingers with the chain-link fence. Jenn came up beside her, catching a glimpse of the camp’s denizens. A few sat in the sand outside their tents, faces dark with dirt and grime, clothes tattered and torn. Along the roadway, a group of children no older than ten or eleven kicked a partially deflated soccer ball between two nets made of office chairs. Their limbs were so thin, like they would buckle or snap if they twisted the wrong way.

  Echoes of coughing carried on a faint breeze. Wet, terrible coughing. Then Jenn noticed the masks. Several refugees wore them. Some were paper or cloth. Others appeared to have been crudely fashioned from clothing.

  New River flu.

  On reflex, Jenn stepped back from the fence. She couldn’t catch the virus from this far away, but she thought of Maria and her COPD. Although the flu might be mostly harmless to someone young and in relatively good health, Jenn feared catching it and then unknowingly passing it on.

  “Look at this,” Quinn said with a sense of horror mixed with awe.

  Another light breeze blew through the camp, kicking up sand and sending tarps flapping. Many were propped up to form shelters of their own, reminding Jenn of the homeless camps in Phoenix. Aside from the coughing, the silence gave her chills. Not even the children playing soccer laughed or shouted. Their movements were slow, sluggish, almost mechanical, like they had played a thousand times and barely had the energy or willpower to play again.

  Sam took her hand. She held it tight, watching the kids. Would she soon have to turn them away at the roadblock? If she saw their faces, could she do it? Could she send them to their deaths? She had to. As much as it hurt to acknowledge, the people she loved in Flagstaff came first, and she would do anything to protect them.

  From behind, Murphy said, “We aren’t sure how many are here anymore. The last official count was just shy of eighty thousand, but that was two months ago. Best estimates put the population at between fifty-five and sixty thousand now.”

  Twenty thousand dead since July.

  “Early on during the war,” he continued, “this place was designated as a relief camp, should such a thing be needed, so tents, fencing, and other materials were stored here beforehand, along with rations. It was also equipped with off-the-grid solar, and a pipeline was run over to Lake Pleasant, about four miles west, to pump in fresh water in a power-outage scenario.”

  That explained why the camp had already been set up and appeared so well-organized when Jenn and her team arrived only a few days after the EMP and the bombs.

  “How long was this place supposed to last?” Quinn asked.

  “About sixty days. Afterward, it was expected that relief from the state or federal governments, or international aid, would keep it running until it was no longer needed.”

  “Sixty days,” Jenn said. “The attacks were five months ago.”

  Quinn made a sniffling sound.

  Jenn searched for something meaningful to say, but nothing came to mind. She wished Allison were here; she would know exactly how to make Quinn feel better.

  “Okay,” Dylan said after another minute or two. “Maybe we should get going.”

  “You ready, Quinn?” Jenn asked.

  Quinn sucked in a shaky breath. Damp streaks ran down her cheeks. She dried them with a palm, saying, “Thanks for taking me here. I needed to see it.”

  Dylan and Murphy had returned to the truck. Sam lingered nearby but gave the women their space. Jenn said, “Of course.” While seeing the refugees’ faces had brought on a torrent of guilt, at the same time, her resolve had steeled; this camp offered her a glimpse at Flagstaff’s future if the Militia failed in its mission. “I’m glad we came.”

  With a sigh that shifted into a grunt, Quinn pushed her shoulders back and turned away from the fence. “Okay. Let’s get to work.”

  8

  “It’s been three days,” Dhaliwal said from the other side of Liam’s desk in the command tent, which the Militia’s leadership used as an office at the forward operating base—or FOB, for short. Comprising a handful of pop tents donated by the Flagstaff Police Department and a few brought up from the National Guard camp at New River, the FOB straddled the median of I-17 at a location about one kilometer north of the Sunset Point Rest Stop.

  Liam sipped water from a plastic cup. The desert air always dried out his throat, one of the reasons he hadn’t come down here since the summer of ’61, when he took Erin, Debbie, and Mikey to a Diamondbacks game in Phoenix. That and bark scorpions. He hated those little devils and reminded himself to check his boots at the earliest opportunity. Sure, he was already wearing them, but he could never be too careful.

/>   “It’s almost forty klicks to New River,” Baker said. “I saw those people in the camp. They have enough strength to hike ten or twelve a day at most, so they could be here anytime now.”

  Sergeant Murphy, Sheriff Wilson, Gary, and Liam had agreed on Sunset Point as the site of the roadblock in part due to its distance from New River. A third to half of the refugees, they reasoned, wouldn’t have enough stamina to make it all the way here.

  “Not to mention the signs we erected along the highway, telling them to turn around and not to come north,” Lieutenant Felicia Townsend said. Next to Baker, she sat ramrod straight. Not a strand of her curly black hair hung out of its tight bun, and no dust or dirt blemished her dark skin. Her uniform, too, though not what Liam would have considered pristine, was the cleanest and best-maintained of any Guard soldier he’d seen so far. Her military bearing impressed him, and he could see why Sergeant Murphy liked her.

  “That was a good call,” he said. “You come up with that, Townsend?”

  At the praise, tiny dimples formed on either side of her mouth, like she was trying to suppress a smile. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Liam had given up trying to convince the Guardsmen to stop calling him “sir.” The habit was too ingrained in their minds, and breaking it would take weeks of persistent effort on his part. As long as the Militia troops didn’t start joining in, he’d survive.

  Dhaliwal rocked on the back legs of his chair. “All I’m saying is, we might get lucky. Maybe they won’t make it this far. Or they’ll just stay down there.”

  “They’ll run out of food eventually,” Liam said, then asked Townsend, “How much did you leave behind?”

  “Nearly all of it, sir, but without us distributing it as rations, the refugees will finish off what’s left in seventy-two hours at most.”

  “Then maybe they all went south instead,” Dhaliwal offered.

  “Into the city?” Liam asked. “No, if they come anywhere, it’ll be north. For whatever reason, people think small mountain towns are all set up to survive on their own, isolated from the rest of the world. Besides, Murphy made it quite clear to me that Flagstaff and Prescott have obtained somewhat mythical status among the refugees. Isn’t that right, Townsend?”

  “It’s true, sir. They’re under the impression that both towns would welcome them with open arms. Where they got that idea, I’m not sure.”

  “They’re just desperate. They’ll come up with any narrative to help themselves get through the day and survive.” Liam swirled water around his cup. “Mark my words, Dhaliwal, they’re coming. It’s only a matter of time. If they don’t, I’ll let you run me through one of your infamous PT sessions.”

  The former Marine rubbed his hands together in glee. “Oh, Kip, you’re gonna wish you didn’t just say that to me.”

  Liam held up a finger. “But if I’m right and they show up in the next forty-eight hours, you agree to start calling Townsend ‘ma’am.’ Actually, scratch that—you will refer to all Guard officers as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ until I decide you can stop, which will probably be never.”

  Baker laughed. Dhaliwal, for his part, appeared unfazed, crossing his arms. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Sir,” Townsend continued, biting her bottom lip, “that’s really not necessary.”

  “No, Lieutenant, it’s not, but Dhaliwal here needs to be knocked down a peg or three every once in a while. This is the perfect opportunity.”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “If you say so.”

  “Good. Now, what’s the status of the medium-range recon drones? I’d like to do a pass of the interstate and prove Dhaliwal wrong by the end of the day, if possible.”

  “They’re both still dead,” Baker said, “but Ed should have his charging trailer modified to plug them in at some point later today.”

  Fortunately, Edward Beaumont had already equipped his mobile charger—a twenty-foot-long trailer covered in solar panels—with regular household outlets, meaning Liam could continue juicing up his Free Knee.

  “You gonna let me fly one of those bad boys, Towny?” Dhaliwal asked. “I haven’t used one since I was in the Corps.”

  Townsend’s face soured at the nickname. While Liam would have loved if Dhaliwal was right and no refugees showed up, he was going to enjoy listening to him call her “ma’am” instead.

  “I’m surprised they let you anywhere near something that expensive,” Baker said. “Or that dangerous. It’s a wonder they gave the Marines any drones at all. Weren’t you tempted to lick the rotors?”

  Giggling, Townsend covered her mouth and turned her head.

  “Not funny,” Dhaliwal said with a frown. “Kip, can you tell him it’s not funny?”

  “It’s a little funny,” Liam admitted. “But I get your point. Ripping on Dhaliwal for being a knuckle-dragger is a bit taboo coming from you, Baker, being a Canadian and all.”

  Baker flicked a speck of dirt from the breast of his jacket. “Fair enough. At least Townsend thought it was funny.”

  “I did not! I’m in full agreement with the commander.”

  “See?” Dhaliwal poked Baker in the chest. “You’re out of line here, bud.”

  This meeting, Liam sensed, like all the meetings he had with his platoon leaders, was quickly heading off the rails, so he slapped his desk and rose to his feet. “Let’s go for a walk, gentlemen. And lady. Maybe inspecting the roadblock can keep you goofs focused for the next fifteen minutes.”

  He pushed open the tent flap and stepped outside. The air smelled faintly of an herb he couldn’t quite place. High overhead, behind a sky awash in its usual gunmetal gray, the sun glowed red. Six other tents—one for medical, one for operations, the rest for supplies and break rooms—dotted the median. To the south, a line of cars and trucks, some brought up from Black Canyon City or down from Cordes Lakes with Minute Tire’s tow truck, stretched across all four lanes of I-17. Segments of fencing and coils of barbed wire, another gift from the National Guard, helped close the gaps between vehicles.

  A deep canyon and a rugged valley anchored the position’s eastern and western flanks, respectively. The barricade itself had been erected at the narrowest stretch of land between these two anchors. Beyond, in both directions, rose largely impassable mountains, so anyone traveling up from New River would be funneled toward the roadblock. Spotters with binoculars waited in both the valley and the canyon, ready to report signs of any enterprising refugees trying to sneak past. Down the interstate, two teams of lookouts kept watch on the road. In theory, the Militia should be able to turn away the majority of those who came north; Sheriff Jordan Wilson and his deputies from Yavapai County would handle any who managed to slip through.

  “How are your people settling in?” Liam asked Townsend, who walked on his left while Dhaliwal and Baker hung back a few paces. “Everyone adjusting to the new command structure and routine?” He’d reorganized the National Guard as three platoons, one under Townsend and the other two under second lieutenants. He considered integrating the Guard troops with his own volunteers from Flagstaff, thinking the latter could benefit from the former’s experience and professionalism, but the Flagstaff platoons had trained together for weeks, and he didn’t want to cause any major disruption at the beginning of an operation.

  “They are, sir,” Townsend replied. “Thank you again for accepting us into your unit.”

  “I should be thanking you.” He thumbed in Dhaliwal’s direction. “You’ve seen what I had to work with before you showed up.”

  Townsend gave a genuine but sheepish smile. “He isn’t that bad.”

  “Just you wait. He’s a very small-doses kind of guy.” They left the median and continued toward the roadblock via the asphalt. “So where are you from, Lieutenant? In-state, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice lowered an octave as she added, “Tucson.”

  Liam licked his lips, a nervous habit he’d stamped out years ago, or so he thought. In June, fifteen refugees ar
riving in Flagstaff claimed they had come from Tucson. The city, they’d said, had been destroyed by two bombs. Townsend, then, had likely lost family in the attack. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “It’s okay, sir, honestly. My mom passed away when I was in middle school—breast cancer—and my dad and I hadn’t talked for years. He didn’t like the idea of me joining the military.” She huffed out a breath. In anger? Frustration? Resentment? Liam couldn’t tell. Similar to Murphy, she wore a mask. He was beginning to think that five months at New River had stolen these soldiers’ souls. “Remember when Congress declared war on China? All the celebrations about the United States finally standing up for freedom and democracy?”

  “I do.” Several had erupted in Flagstaff, though Liam kept his distance. He’d had a feeling the conflict would quickly turn ugly, become a true world war. Sadly, he was all too right.

  “Dad was there, but on the other side, protesting against the war. My grandpa fought in Afghanistan, then in Syria. He was my hero, but Dad saw it differently when he was growing up. He said those wars kept Grandpa away from home, and that was the reason Grandma left. I joined the Guard because there was a better chance of me staying in the state, especially with all the food riots in the cities. I could do my part without shipping overseas. But Dad was still furious.”

  As much as Liam wanted to relate, he couldn’t. From day one, his parents supported his decision to join the Army out of college. So did Erin, whom he’d met in his sophomore year. He’d always had the support structure Townsend lacked.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I’m fortunate my unit survived 4/28. Luck of the draw, us being deployed in the deep north.”

  “Sorry, 4/28?”

  “Yes, sir. April 28. The day of the bombs.”

  “Oh, I see. Like 9/11.”

  “That’s right. What do you call it?”

  “We usually just say ‘the bombs’ or ‘that day.’ I hadn’t thought to give it a name.”