As Darkness Falls

by David Lucin

  Murphy greeted her with a nod. “Jansen. Thank you for coming.”

  “Howdy,” she said, then wanted to crawl into a dark hole. For whatever reason, she became self-conscious around the National Guard. Townsend, Murphy, and the rest of the Guard troops were real soldiers who graduated from basic training, while Jenn had only worked as a security guard at the Beaumont farm. She still had a hard time believing she technically held the same position as corporals and sergeants with years of experience under their belts. “What’s up? You got a job for me? Don’t tell me you’re gonna make us clean the outhouses.”

  “Outhouses?” Townsend’s brow knit together. “Why would you think that?”

  “No reason,” Jenn said, relieved this meeting wasn’t, in fact, about outhouses. “This everybody?”

  “You wish.” Yannick slipped inside and slapped her on the back so hard she nearly fell over.

  Following him was a tall Caucasian woman who had to duck through the doorway in the tent; Jenn had cleared it with several inches to spare. Wearing Guard fatigues, her hair light brown and cut shorter than Sam’s, she stepped to within three paces of Townsend and snapped off a crisp salute. “Ma’am, Sergeant Hiroyuki, reporting for duty.”

  Weird, Jenn thought, how she would salute Townsend but not Murphy when his name, on an organizational chart, would sit higher than hers, right below Liam’s. Jenn still hadn’t figured out the intricacies of U.S. Army ranks. The Militia’s system of just calling people by their roles—grunt, team leader, squad leader, platoon leader—worked fine, in her opinion.

  Townsend returned the salute and said, “At ease, Sergeant.”

  Courtney relaxed her posture, then turned to Jenn and offered her hand. “Courtney Hiroyuki. Third Squad, First Guard Platoon.”

  “Hiroyuki?” Jenn asked, acknowledging how rude that must have sounded.

  “Maiden name’s Robson.” Courtney flashed a black silicone ring on her finger.

  “Oh, that makes sense. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No worries. I hear that all the time.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jenn poked herself in the chest. “Jenn Jansen, and there’s nothing Dutch about me. I’m with the First Flagstaff Platoon.”

  Courtney began to say more, but Dylan interrupted with, “Okay, okay. Now that we’re all friends, let’s get down to work, shall we?”

  “Thank you, Baker.” Murphy motioned for Jenn, Courtney, and Yannick to join them at the table. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, the makeshift camp at the rest stop keeps growing. The commander and I were hoping the refugees there would disperse on their own, but it seems they have some food, and in addition to the water we’ve given them, they’re getting extra from the creeks in the western valley. I’ve decided we need to break it up now, before it gets too large. Your three squads have been earmarked for the job.”

  Break it up? Jenn couldn’t decide how she felt about that. She understood Murphy’s points and agreed with them, but selfishly, she would have preferred if another unit carried out this operation. Refugees at the barricade could be difficult enough. How would they react to three squads of Militia marching into their camp?

  “The goal is to do this nonviolently, if possible,” Townsend added. “We’ll be bringing one of the LCDs with us, but I’ll designate the refugees as friendlies to its AI. Hopefully the sight of it will be enough to encourage them to leave of their own accord.”

  Dylan crossed his arms over his chest. “Should be fairly straightforward. We tell these people to pack up and go. I’m guessing most of them will head off without any trouble.”

  “And if they don’t?” Jenn asked. “If they decide they want to stay?”

  “Then we withdraw and enact plan B.” Dylan reached into a box under the table, pulling out a gas mask. Again, Jenn could smell pepper.

  “You’re only cleared to fire if fired upon,” Murphy said. “So don’t put yourself in any unnecessary risk. If refugees become confrontational, call for backup and de-escalate the situation.”

  Straightforward enough, though Jenn fully expected that tear gas would have to be used on these people eventually; she doubted all of them would simply leave when politely asked.

  Murphy planted his palms on the table. “Any other questions?”

  “Nope,” Jenn said while Yannick and Courtney shook their heads.

  “Excellent. Go inform your squads. We’ll plan to begin at 1530.”

  Jenn checked her watch: 2:46 p.m. Murphy sure hadn’t given her much warning or time to prepare. Maybe that was for the best; she always found that waiting to do something big or important was more stressful than actually doing it.

  Murphy dismissed them, and she returned to her squad at the roadblock, where she pulled aside Freddie and Quinn and explained their new orders. When she was finished, Quinn blew her cheeks. “Funny, we were just talking about this.”

  “I know,” Jenn said. “I’m not thrilled about having to do it, but Murphy’s right. If we let them hang out there, they’ll think it’s okay, and eventually, the camp will be so big we can’t deal with it anymore. We’ve got to nip this in the bud. Murphy doesn’t want us taking any unnecessary risks, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Freddie fidgeted with the strap on his AR.

  “You good, Freddie?” Jenn asked. Since their chat in the trailer outside Camp Verde, he’d made an effort to engage with his team, but this would be his first real test, and she worried about how he’d perform.

  He forced out a wooden smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Like you said, no unnecessary risks. Easy.”

  “Exactly. Easy.” When they headed out, she’d stay close to Freddie. He seemed to trust and respect her, so maybe her presence would bolster his confidence the way Val’s once bolstered her own.

  At 3:30 sharp, the three squads, Courtney’s at the front, Jenn’s in the rear, moved down the southbound lanes, all rifles at the low-ready position. The catlike yet insectoid drone spearheaded the column, marching about three car lengths ahead of the lead Guard trooper.

  The highway curved gently to the left and sloped downward. Thirty pairs of boots padded on asphalt, and an intermittent breeze rustled the grass and brush on the median. No one spoke. Mostly, Jenn had grown used to a world without power, but the absence of traffic noises on a normally busy interstate made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  Her apprehension grew with every passing minute. She didn’t want to be doing this, but she acknowledged that it had to be done. If you wanted an easy job, she told herself, you should’ve stayed at the farm.

  Roughly one kilometer later, the squads crossed over to the service road leading into the rest stop. A few trails of thin smoke rose from the direction of the washroom facilities, but from the rear of the pack, Jenn couldn’t see much else.

  When the road spilled into the parking lot, the Militia and Guard troops formed into a line, Jenn’s team on the right, Yannick’s in the middle, and Courtney’s on the left. Now Jenn got a full view of the camp. Makeshift shelters of colorful tarps tied to trees or street signs littered the area. A few hung from the roof of a gazebo, forming flimsy walls. A cluster of camping tents had been erected in the grass, where refugees in tattered clothes, their faces darkened with grime, sat on picnic benches or around small fires. The stench of body odor and feces thickened with every step. A few of the Militia coughed. Another gagged. Jenn heard Freddie swallow hard.

  As the squads approached, a few shouts of warning rang out among the refugees. Many leaped into action, gathering their belongings and scurrying away. Jenn’s stomach sank when she saw a woman, a child at her side, working frantically to detach a tarp from the gazebo, as though it were precious and invaluable.

  “Masks on!” Dylan shouted from Jenn’s left.

  She was already wearing hers. Some of these refugees almost certainly had New River flu. Ideally, none would get close enough to any of the Militia soldiers to infect them.

  Within minutes, throngs of refugees h
ad scattered, moving south, away from the rest stop. The squads began spreading out. Courtney’s advanced into the parking lot while Yannick’s approached the washroom facilities. Jenn’s veered toward the picnic area and utility shed, where the platoon had found Pembroke with a bullet hole in his abdomen.

  “Quinn,” Jenn said, “take your grunts and check those tents over there.”

  “Roger that.”

  As Quinn’s team peeled off, Jenn walked up to a group of seven refugees—four men, two women, and a boy about ten years old—sitting around a smoldering fire. They had backpacks and duffel bags and sipped murky water from a blue-tinted plastic bottle. None wore masks, so Jenn kept her distance as she said, trying to be diplomatic, “Sorry, folks, we’re going to have to ask you to clear out of here.”

  All but the little boy continued to stare at the fire. Fear filled his bright green eyes, and he clung to the woman next to him. His mother?

  Jenn’s throat thickened with guilt. Since before leaving Flagstaff, she’d told herself she was one of the good guys. She was protecting her friends and her family. What could be nobler than that? Out here, on the front line, she had a harder time believing herself.

  “Let’s go, y’all,” Wyatt said. “Pack it up.”

  The boy tugged on his mother’s shirt, but she only poked the fire with a stick, releasing a thick stream of dark gray smoke. Long blonde hair concealed much of her face. The others remained quiet as well, like they hadn’t heard Jenn or Wyatt asking them to leave.

  That guilt in her throat receded. Irritation rose to take its place, squeezing tight. She did her best to hide it for now. “I’m sorry, but the National Guard has—”

  “Fascists,” muttered a man wearing a knitted sweater over blue hospital scrubs.

  Wyatt let out an incredulous laugh and lifted his mask higher over his nose. Freddie, Jenn noticed, had fallen a few paces behind. She said, picking up where she’d been interrupted, “The National Guard has closed this road and—”

  “Oh, we’ve heard the spiel.” Scrubs casually poked the fire. “Road’s closed. Nobody’s taking us in. We’re expected to just make our way out there alone in the desert.”

  Jenn deliberately hadn’t given much thought to where these refugees would go once they were turned away from the roadblock; deep down, she knew most of them would die. For the hundredth time, she reminded herself that Maria and Gary and all the people she cared about would suffer if Flagstaff was overrun.

  She took a long step forward, ahead of the others in her team, and stood to her full height, raising her rifle a few inches for emphasis. “I’m sorry, but that’s not our problem. Please gather your stuff and leave.”

  The little boy continued tugging at his mother. “Mom, come on.”

  Wisely, she gathered her backpack and scrambled to her feet. Most followed her lead, but Scrubs only ran a hand over his greasy black hair and smirked. “You know,” he began, “I’ve been saying forever that you people would give up on us to save your own skin. Even before the bombs, this country was headed down the drain, and now you’re showing your true colors.” With an exaggerated motion, he grabbed his duffel bag and stood up. Jenn prayed he’d decided to finally listen to her. “You get a little bit of power, and look at what you turn into. You start thinking you have the right to decide who lives and dies. The rest of us, we’re just expendable.”

  Jenn pressed her teeth together. How dare this man pass judgment. He had no idea what she’d done to survive and how hard this mission was for her squad, particularly Quinn.

  The irritation in her throat overflowed and filled her mouth. She wanted to taunt him with, Yeah? How about this? You stay here, and we come back with a few canisters of tear gas and another combat drone. But she swallowed her emotion and said, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I have my orders, and I’m asking you nicely to cooperate.”

  Scrubs didn’t respond, just shook his head and kicked sand over the fire, then followed his six companions southward. Jenn was tempted to hurl insults at his back, but she bit her tongue and worked her jaw to relax it. He’d done as she asked and left, so there was no reason to provoke him any further.

  “Nice, Jansen,” Wyatt said. “Very polite.”

  “Yeah, I’m the model of diplomacy,” Jenn joked as a refugee by the washroom facilities shoved Yannick. He staggered but kept his cool while two of his grunts intervened to defend him. Red in the face, the refugee pointed and shouted obscenities. Finally, he turned and stormed away with a woman and a teenage girl. In the parking lot, Courtney and her squad, along with the drone, approached a ragged group of fifteen or twenty refugees who hurled plastic cups or empty bottles at them. The Guard troops didn’t flinch. With every foot they marched forward, the refugees backed up twice as many.

  Jenn understood these people’s frustration. Felt it, even, as an itch lurking beneath her skin where she couldn’t quite reach it. Had she been in their shoes, she’d have likely been arguing, the same as Scrubs. But her patience was drying up like a sprinkling of August rain in Phoenix.

  At the tents, Quinn and her team coaxed an elderly couple out from under a tepee made of blue tarps. The woman hacked a wet cough into her fist and struggled to walk. Both she and her husband wore masks, but wisely, Quinn kept her distance as they shuffled away.

  “Let’s go give her a hand.” Jenn waved for Freddie’s team to follow her. The stunning vista of the western valley and the Bradshaw Mountains beyond drew her attention, reminding her of when she and Sam visited this place on their way into the city.

  She snapped back to the present as two of Quinn’s grunts leaned into a tent, the canvas blackened by soot. “Come on,” she said, holding the flap open with one hand while supporting her rifle with the other. “Out you get. Let’s go.”

  Four refugees crawled out, their heads hanging low. As they gathered their bags and trudged off, Jenn asked Quinn, “How’s it going? Any trouble?”

  She let the tent flap close, then wiped her hand on her pants and adjusted her mask. “No, they’re listening, for the most part. I feel like we’re wading through a Petri dish out here, though. It’s no wonder the flu’s spreading so fast.”

  At Quinn’s mention of the flu, Jenn became acutely aware of how much coughing she could hear over the shouting of Militia troops and refugees. She ensured her mask was all the way over her nose, asking, “You need any help over here?”

  “Yeah, we haven’t cleared the utility shed yet, but I’d bet there’s more than a few of them hiding in there. If you can check that out with Freddie, I’ll finish up with these tents.”

  “Copy that,” Jenn said and checked on Freddie, who watched as a stream of refugees collected on the service road leading toward the interstate. Courtney’s squad had come to a stop, and though a few persistent troublemakers continued throwing trash, most had given up and were now leaving. “You good, Freddie?”

  He whipped his head around, seemingly startled by her question. “What? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “You sure? If you’re not, I’d prefer you hang back.”

  “I said I’m fine.” He set his jaw and blinked a few times. “Ready to do this.”

  She wanted to believe him, but the way he tapped his finger nervously against the trigger guard of his AR made her think otherwise. Some pushing and shoving notwithstanding, none of the refugees had acted violently, so helping her clear the utility shed might prove to be a good low-stakes test of his courage.

  “All right. On me, then.” Weaving through a pair of tents, she led Freddie and his team toward the shed, a small brown-brick structure with a green peaked roof. The single man door was shut. Jenn had poked her head inside when her platoon first arrived at Sunset Point, and aside from a lawn mower and a few other landscaping tools, the shed was empty. It would make good shelter, so she had no doubt refugees were living in there.

  Wyatt tried the handle, then pressed his shoulder against the door, but it didn’t budge. “It’s locked.”

  “A
iden, Tanis,” Jenn said. “Check out the windows in the back.” They went behind the shed as she banged her fist on the door and shouted, “If anyone’s in there, come out now! The National Guard needs this rest stop clear, so you have to go!” She hated using the Guard’s name like this, especially since the unit had no ties to any state or federal government anymore, but it held far more weight and authority than “Flagstaff Militia.”

  Tanis poked her head around the corner of the shed, her high ponytail half falling out. “There’s people in there. I see eleven of them.”

  Jenn banged on the door again. “I’ll count to ten. If you’re not out by then, we’re busting down this door.”

  Wyatt tilted his head to the side. Freddie asked quietly, “It’s a metal door. I don’t think we can break it down.”

  “They don’t know that,” Jenn whispered in reply. “Or maybe they do. Whatever. If it doesn’t work, I’ll tell them we’re going to get the tear gas.”

  Freddie’s face contorted like he’d gotten a whiff of something rotten. “You wouldn’t smoke them out, would you?”

  “No, but threatening them’s worth a shot.” She pressed her ear against the door, listening. Voices came from inside, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight!”

  She peeked around the shed to see Tanis shaking her head.

  “Seven! Six!”

  “A half serving of deer jerky says they don’t come out,” Wyatt said to Freddie.

  “Five!”

  Freddie blinked again. A nervous tic, Jenn realized. He stood square to the door, though, apparently ready for action. That was good, at least. He told Wyatt, “Pay attention.”