by Schow, Ryan
“Switching to main comms channel,” he said.
The line was clear, which meant only one thing: the fight was still on.
Then: “B1 to OF, do you copy?”
Noah frowned, hating that his call sign stood for Old Fart.
“This is ARKMaster1,” he said, preferring the call sign he suggested, “I copy you B1, go ahead.”
“What’s your ETA, over?” Boone asked.
“I’ve got a visual,” he said. “Quarter of a click out. What’s your location, out?”
“Pinned down in the heart of it,” he said, like he was whispering.
“Who the hell was it that was killed up at the Madigan household?” Noah asked, working off a theory.
“Top brass, over,” he said.
“Top top?”
“Tipity-tipity top, over.”
“They were coming here for us, weren’t they, over?” Noah asked.
“Whether they were or they weren’t, they’re feeling us now. Then again, I’m pretty sure we might have bitten off more than this town can chew, over.”
“You’re on public comms, over,” Noah said, concerned about the direction of the conversation.
“I read you loud and clear,” he said. “ETA?”
“I’m here, over and out.”
And with that, he climbed out of the truck and moved to the front of the trench where Otto was launching arrows into the mix. Noah grabbed a half stick of dynamite and a lighter and walked down into the trench, almost like he had a god complex or a death wish.
“Don’t blow yourself up!” Otto called.
Noah ignored him as he slid down the face of the trench and landed on the hood of a Jeep. He looked up, saw the route he needed to take, and for a brief moment, he realized he was not some monkey able to navigate through the trees. To the far right, however, he found a way through the trench and back up on the road.
A second later, the squawk box chirped and Bronx came on the line. “When you say tipity-tipity top,” he said, “who exactly do you mean, over?”
“Get off this line, boy,” Noah barked into the Uniden.
“Roger that,” he said, embarrassed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Up ahead, Logan heard the man with the large sniper rifle. It wasn’t as big as a fifty-cal, but the weapon looked Army issue. An M110 or similar variant. Then again, he wasn’t military, so much of what he was thinking was based on limited knowledge.
Ducking down behind the tank, he watched the Chicom shooter fire on Boone. The big man ducked back, pinned down but alive. He glanced over, caught Logan looking at him, gave him the thumb’s up.
Logan lowered himself down trying to get a bead on the shooter. He saw the man’s feet, and then he didn’t. The stealth shooter was about to advance position when he saw two members of what he now considered the 5FM, the Five Falls Militia, advancing.
Lying prone, Logan watched the men’s feet, tracking their movements.
A thunderous bark punched a hole in the air around him, causing his ears to pop. The 7.62 round blew one of the men’s ankles apart. He dropped in a screaming heap a second later. The next round blew apart the downed militia man’s head. It was like a watermelon being eviscerated with a sledgehammer.
Most men would dig in and wait out an opportunity. All this did for Logan was assure him he would feel nothing if he was next to be shot. So he advanced where Boone wouldn’t.
It was stupid, no matter how you looked at it.
He quietly worked his way up to the flatbed holding the Chicom tank. Sliding across the surface, he worked for position behind the tank, trying to get an eye on the shooter.
Two more big bursts keyed him in on the shooter.
The second Logan saw the man, he was firing into the forest. Logan lifted his rifle, but the instant his barrel cleared the flatbed, the shooter spun around, working the bolt action in one swift motion. Logan ducked down as a round plinked off the metal flatbed so close, he was a hair’s breadth away from losing an arm, a leg or his life.
Common sense rushed back in, but then it was gone again.
He had to stop this man!
Logan rolled off the flatbed, landed hard on the asphalt, his Chicom pistol out and aiming. He knew he couldn’t breathe because he felt the air leave his lungs, but the timing was perfect.
Breathing wasn’t necessary. Not for the shot he intended to take.
He took it, clipped the shooter’s leg. Logan dropped down, but that’s when he saw the shooter’s barrel aimed at him. The shot skipped off the asphalt kicking up a tail of hard, black chips. The spray bit into his cheek like shrapnel. Wincing, finding his breath again, he ducked back, sucked in a breath, tried to still his clamoring heart.
Changing position, he dropped down and snuck a look. The shooter was crawling under one of the burning vehicles—the eight wheeled riot vehicle. Scanning the surrounding area, he saw Boone’s feet on the move. Another shot rang out and those same feet were quickly scampering back for cover.
Logan stood and threaded through the vehicles toward the shooter, but then he heard her voice. Harper. She was panicked, something he’d never seen from her before. He looked up through the battlefield wreckage and saw that face fifty yards away. He knew those features as well as he knew his own. This was a look of distress.
She was shaking her head, screaming, “No!”
He looked at the big burning riot vehicle and the crashed Jeep between them. Glancing away, knowing someone had to put this homicidal shooter down, he ducked down and moved forward, ignoring Harper completely.
For every moment of hesitation, the shooter had an opportunity to kill someone else.
Down the interstate, through the smoke and ruin, he saw remnants of the previous skirmish. He spotted Clay slaughtering a downed Chicom soldier with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. The knee was on the man’s chest, the knife buried deep in his throat.
Turning back to the riot vehicle, Logan knew the shooter was there. There was barely enough room for a good sized man to fit, which meant the shooter was dug in tight.
He crept forward, watching for other Chicoms, but most of them had been neutralized. He got behind the Jeep next to the riot vehicle, ducking low—in and out—checking for body parts he could use as targets.
A blast came from below the undercarriage, the round hitting Logan in the foot so hard it broke his ankle and kicked his leg out from underneath him. He fell awkwardly, tearing something in his knee.
In that moment of silence, he heard everything, knew everything. All the problems he didn’t have the solution to were instantly accompanied by the answers, and that brought with it a sense of clarity and heightened senses he’d never known before.
He could not beat this guy.
Crawling backwards, scooting quickly and painfully behind a big steel wheel, he saw the foot of the man from behind the tire and knew what he had to do.
Shaking, but trying to get hold of himself, he lined up the shot, fired a round.
The back wheel blew, settling the frame an inch. He blew the next three wheels in rapid succession and the entire left side of the vehicle dropped another five inches, pinning the man down. The trapped shooter was cursing and growling, and then he was howling.
“Hey kid,” a voice said.
He looked over, saw Noah a few cars over. The old fart tossed Logan half a stick of dynamite and a lighter. He caught the dynamite, grabbed the lighter as it came skidding over the pavement. Just to make sure, before he lit the candle, he fired a round into the man’s foot and it didn’t recoil. The screaming, however, was proof he was both hit and stuck.
“Fire in the hole,” Noah proclaimed into the two-way, ducking behind the big wheels of the tank transport.
And with that, Logan lit the dynamite and tossed it under the riot vehicle. It landed right beside the man’s leg. A perfect shot. Ducking behind the wheel and covering his ears, the blast was ferocious and dizzying, so brutal on his senses Logan foun
d himself up and wandering back toward the pit.
He felt like a zombie, his ears ringing, his equilibrium off, a big hitch in his step. He looked down at his broken ankle, saw the damage the 7.62 round did and promptly fell over.
The pain shot up into his leg, raced straight up his spine and told his brain to take five. He was out in a fading wink, aware of the silence, praying only that the fight was finally done and that they’d won.
Logan woke to someone lightly shaking him, an angelic voice calling him. He didn’t want to wake up because the pain in his body came roaring back fast and ruthless.
“Logan?” the voice said again, less angelic.
When he woke up, it was to a smiling bald kid, his face pulped to hell, tears in his eyes.
“Hey, boy,” he said with a slur and some drizzle on his lips.
The man next to the boy laughed, which caused the boy to jab him, but then he was out again.
Another voice came sometime later. He woke to the same face.
“It’s me,” the same beat up boy said.
His eyes began to clear, his focus and attention back. When recognition finally hit him, his heart leapt.
It actually leapt.
“Skylar?” he said, his breath shaky, his eyes hit with the instantaneous sting of tears.
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head, breaking into tears.
She reached down and slid her arms under him, kissing his face, telling him how glad she was that he was still alive.
“That has yet to be proven true,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “My God, you feel so skinny.”
“And you look like you’ve been run through a meat grinder.”
“I think I have,” he said, sitting up, his ears still ringing. In that moment, she felt so good, tucked into him, his arms wrapped around her body, her soul home to his. When he glanced up, he saw Harper making her way toward them, not recognizing Skylar.
Skylar broke free, wiped her eyes.
He took a moment to glance down at his foot. He thought it was shot to hell; instead, the 7.62 round had simply blown apart the inside corner of his boot heel. He sighed with relief, tried to move his foot, but felt the stab of pain not only in his bones, but in the ligaments running up the outside of his knee.
“Oh my God,” Harper said, coming to a knee beside him. “Are you shot? I saw you go down.” She glanced at his heavy boot heel, saw it was chunked out, the shoe itself miraculously intact. She sighed a big breath of relief, then hugged him close and kissed him on the mouth. When she pulled back, she looked at him in the eyes and said, “If you’re still up for it, you get that victory lap I promised.”
He smiled, felt his face flame to red, then looked over at her and said, “Look who made it.”
Harper looked up and saw Skylar, broke into squeals of delight, then hugged her so hard, Skylar had to protest.
She introduced Harper and Logan to Ryker. Instead of shaking hands with Logan, Ryker offered to help him up. By then, Boone and Clay were there, congratulating him. Boone was clean as a whistle, but Clay was blood stained and shot. He shrugged off the red bloom in his thigh like it was nothing.
“I can talk about it with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman in a bit,” Clay said, waving the man off.
Boone swung Clay’s arm over his shoulders and helped him to the trench. Ryker had Logan in tow, the two of them not talking but to express their gratitude for each other.
Up top, Logan thanked Noah, who seemed genuinely proud of his actions.
Instead of lavishing in his praise, he got on the Uniden and said, “We need to get our injured and wounded to the nearest vehicle for transport. Once that’s done, we need volunteers.”
“What are you doing?” Boone asked.
“Leaving up road signs,” he said, flicking off the Uniden before keying it once more. Into the comms unit, he said, “Every Chicom gets his head taken off. We’re going to put them on pikes and line the freeway with them. I need volunteers, out.”
Boone frowned and said, “Have you lost your damn mind?”
“Grow a set already, Booney-boy, this is war.”
“It’s Boone and my set works fine. We are not serial killers though, or sixteenth century vampires. No one is going to participate in this bullsh—”
The flaring of the Uniden interrupted them.
“I’ll get the heads if someone can cut the pikes, over,” the male voice said.
“I’ve got tree stakes that’ll work, how many do you need, over?” a female voice chimed in.
Noah smiled and said, “This team is green, some of them paying the price for that, but we have hunters and killers here, and as you can see”—he said, shaking the Uniden at him—“we have warriors, too. Let us be warriors while you go home and change Rowdy’s diapers.”
“Who’s going to change yours?” Otto said to Noah from behind. The old man was about to retort when Otto stuck his hand out for a shake. “Take it you old fart, you earned it.”
“If shaking your dick beater is the price for this fiasco,” he grumbled, “then I’m going home.”
Everyone laughed, but Otto kept his hand out, giving Noah pause. The old man finally took Otto’s hand and gave it a hearty shake.
“We’re a lethal pair, you and me,” Otto said.
Noah actually nodded, smiling and wordless. Logan looked away, found Skylar looking at him. He saw her in that moment. He truly saw her—what she was, how hard she’d become. Beyond the cut hair and the butchered head, the battered face and the swelling, was the girl he fell madly in love with, the one who started him down the path to The Resistance and pushed him on to this merciless journey.
In spite of his commitment to Harper, he limped to her and hugged her deeply. She pressed her cheek against his, felt her body begin to tremble.
“The Resistance did this,” he said.
He felt her nodding, holding him tighter, if that was possible.
“How did you make it?” she asked.
“Hard-headed determination,” he said. “That and a lot of walking and maybe there were some tears involved, but there weren’t witnesses, so don’t try to confirm it.”
She laughed, pulled back holding him by the shoulders and said, “You exceeded even my wildest imagination, Logan.”
This warmed his heart more than he cared to admit.
“I thought you were dead,” he said.
“We all did,” Harper added.
“I almost was, if not for Ryker here,” Skylar said. Ryker took her hand, oblivious to Logan’s and her prior arrangement. What was not lost on Logan, however, was Harper’s proximity to her travel mate. Like she was claiming him as hers regardless of the past.
Ryker grinned and said, “I think it was actually the other way around.”
An out of breath man joined them a moment later. He was the spotter. To Noah, he said, “I’ve been relieved of my post.”
“By who?” Noah barked.
“Fred Desalt. He said he’d have to skip supper on account of watching someone’s head explode. Is that true?”
“All you have to do is look around,” Noah grumbled. Carnage was everywhere, the smoke still thick but dissipating, the stink of blood and gunpowder in the air.
Skylar looked back at the sound of approaching feet and said, “Guys, this is Quan and his crew. Meet the SoCal branch of The Resistance.”
Twelve men and two women walked up, introduced themselves to the group, then asked if there was something they could do to help.
“Where’s the rest of you?” Noah asked. “Or did they resist the urge to get in the fight?”
“We have a supply truck full of weapons, medicine and survival gear, old man,” Quan said. “We can resist the urge to stay if you want to keep flapping your gums.”
With that, everyone laughed. But Noah stepped forward. “My name is Ed Scisserand, glad you and your weapons are here.”
Everyone held back the laughter, albeit they did so gracelessly. The second Quan let go
of Noah’s hand, about twenty-five people burst into the most riotous laughter.
Noah simply frowned and flipped off everyone, his bitter-beer face front and center. When the ruckus died down, Harper said, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Edward Scissorhands.”
People fell back into fits of shorting and laughter, and in that moment, Noah let himself be the butt of the joke because it was better laughing than crying. There’d be plenty of crying to do when they collected their dead, but for now, they needed lightheartedness.
When the four of them were together—Logan, Harper, Ryker and Skylar—Harper said, “We’re so glad you’re home, Skylar.”
Looking at Harper, in light of their new relationship, Logan wondered if she truly meant it. After a second or two of analysis, he realized she did. And with that, the tension that gripped his heart and chest earlier burned off completely, leaving him only with a tremendous amount of pain, and Yoav’s lessons on how to manage it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bronx changed frequencies, gave the call signal, then waited. He was standing on the side of the road, looking at the dead Chicoms. In his hand, he held their radio, not the Uniden that Noah had given him.
He heard the explosion on the other side of town and knew he had time. For the next twenty minutes, Bronx sent out a call signal, awaiting a reply.
When the voice finally answered him, in Chinese he said, “I have confirmation. Shao Xiao Chen was KIA in Five Falls. This is Ground Zero. What’s your status?”
He knew his contact had only begun to set up Roseburg two days ago, but with what was happening in Five Falls, he knew they’d need to advance their timeline.
“Twenty-five percent operational,” the voice said. “Just organizing now. Infiltration will commence in seven days.”
“That’s too long,” Bronx said.
“It might not be long enough,” the voice returned, impatient.
“Well I’m going to tell you right now, the supply lines from California to Oregon have been compromised. If you’re planning on receiving supplies from LA or Long Beach, then you’re wasting your time. Are you reading me loud and clear, asshole?”
