by Kyla Stone
Engines were loud and conspicuous after the Collapse; he intended to keep his presence concealed, so he’d biked to Trailer World, parked in an empty bay, and hiked from there.
Yesterday, he’d deployed the M2 atop the high school roof reinforced with sandbags. The building was the town’s last ditch fallback location—Liam wanted it as protected as possible. The M60s they’d stolen from the General were deployed to several hidden ambush sites.
At 2200 hours, he’d relieved Perez of scout duty and offered to take Mike Duncan’s shift as well. He wanted to verify a few weapons caches he’d buried several weeks ago.
Mainly though, he needed to ensure he was in range of Luther’s radio at their prescribed check-in time of 2300 hours. The ruined repeaters had thrown a considerable wrench in his plans.
It had been three days since he’d heard anything from his spy.
Whether Luther was still his asset or had gone rogue was a massive unknown.
Thirty-six hours ago, the would-be kidnappers had invaded Fall Creek’s perimeter. Fourteen hours ago, Liam’s assault teams had sabotaged the General’s transport and supply vehicles.
And still, the scouts had clocked no movement from the General’s soldiers.
He was waiting for something. But what?
Maybe he was playing with them like a cat plays with its dinner before biting off its head. Using psyops—psychological operations—to terrify the town into surrendering before firing a single round.
Liam grew more and more edgy. His nerves were raw. Four hours a sleep a night for the last week. Weariness tugged at him, but he was used to sleep deprivation.
He remained vigilant. Alert and aware. Even wounded, he moved with swift efficiency, light on his feet, as lithe and powerful as a panther.
Through his NVGs, he scanned fields and farmland, pockmarked roads, squat buildings and occasional houses.
Nothing moved. Nothing appeared out of place.
A two-story office complex appeared ahead. He paused along the exterior wall of a flooring store to scan the empty parking lot. The second story north-facing windows would give him a good view of the intersection ahead.
He listened intently. Night sounds filled the air—the cool breeze rustled through matted grass and weeds. Night insects churred.
A rustle as a pair of rats scurried across the road. Their beady eyes glowed, their fur bristling along their hunched backs.
Vermin. They multiplied faster than the corpses could pile up.
Dead bodies brought the rats. Rats brought diseases.
Since they disposed of corpses immediately and regularly checked houses—both occupied and vacant—Fall Creek had remained relatively unscathed.
Outside Fall Creek, it was another story.
According to Dave’s ham contacts, plague was already cropping up in Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, along with tens of thousands of deaths to tuberculosis, cholera, and typhoid.
Several rats scuttled out of sight as Liam approached the rear door of the office complex. With the lock picks in his everyday carry case, he jimmied the lock and crept inside.
The air stank of rotting trash and rancid food. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling and strung sticky and glistening across doorways.
He batted them away as he cut the corner, leading with the M4.
The hallway opened into a larger space, a reception area, a couple of large offices, everything glowing in shades of green—a sprawling desk, a circular table covered in paperwork, notepads, files, and scattered blueprints.
After clearing the building, he headed upstairs and found a window with a solid vantage point of the intersection. He pushed a desk against the base of the window, then slid the window open.
Liam shrugged off his go-bag, leaned it against the wall, and pulled out a tripod mount for the M4. He put the gun to his shoulder and steadied himself against the desk.
Putting his eye to the scope, he turned the focus ring until the trunks of the pines at the edge of the road three hundred yards distant came forward, weirdly lit in the greenish glow of night vision. So close he could almost reach out and touch them.
His heart rate quickened. With the scope, he panned left and right in several great sweeps. The carbine hardly moved.
He half-expected to see something in the lens other than trees, abandoned highway, the humped shapes of stalled vehicles—a figure, a face in the dark, staring back at him with sinister eyes.
There was nothing.
He settled down to watch, periodically checking the radio for Luther’s check-in. 2300 hours came and went. Then midnight.
Every hour, he switched the radio to their private channel and keyed the mic twice, paused, then twice more.
If Luther were available and in range, he would find a secure place to respond.
While he waited, Liam field-stripped his weapons and topped off his magazines. He cleaned the Glock and carbine and examined the contents of his go-bag and everyday carry.
He’d replaced the paracord used to bind the prisoner’s feet, but he was running low on bandages and blood-clotting granules.
When he finished, he repacked each item for ease of access in an emergency. Then he sharpened his Gerber, checking the window every so often.
His thoughts strayed to Hannah.
He had little use for humanity. A few people made the whole thing worth it. And for those people, he would willingly sacrifice everything he had, including his life.
For little Charlotte and L.J. For Travis and Evelyn. Quinn, Milo, and Molly. But first, last, and always—Hannah.
He wished she were here beside him, her warmth, her laughter, those beautiful green eyes he could get lost in.
He missed her with every beat of his heart. In her presence, the nightmares faded. With her, he believed he could be more than a soldier with blood on his hands.
Liam pushed every thought out of his mind and forced himself to rest.
Time passed.
He didn’t sleep but instead allowed himself to drift into a state of half-awareness, stilling his body, aware of his physical senses, alert only to a potential threat.
As the first blush of dawn pinked the sky, he sat up, wide awake.
Liam suppressed his frustration as he flicked up his NVGs and stashed them in his go-bag at his feet. He took out his water bottle and drank before returning it to its proper pouch.
It was past time to go. He’d be late meeting Quinn. He had a full day’s worth of chores, training, and security on the docket. After that, a few stolen minutes with Hannah.
He couldn’t waste another moment on James Luther.
Luther had failed him. Liam should’ve known better than to take a chance on someone like him. He should’ve—
The radio crackled. “This is Echo Three. Alpha One, you there?”
38
Liam
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Liam seized the radio. “This is Alpha One. You’re a go.”
“I managed to sneak away,” Luther said. “The soldiers think I’m trying to find a private place to crap. You wouldn’t believe how difficult that is around here.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Well, okay—”
“Why the hell didn’t you warn me?”
“What?”
“The operators the General sent.”
“I didn’t—what operators?”
“Two hostiles breached our perimeter on foot and headed straight for Tanglewood Drive. They knew where Hannah lived. They went after her infant daughter and almost killed Hannah.”
Silence on the radio.
“You didn’t warn us!”
“I didn’t know!”
“I sent you in there to help us, not to give our enemies the coordinates to our destruction!”
More silence. The radio hissed static.
The sunrise ribboned the sky in shades of scarlet, tangerine, and salmon pink.
“I swear, I didn’t know.” Luther sounded
pained, his tone contrite.
Liam didn’t care. “How the hell did he know where Hannah lived? I doubt Sutter had the time to give him that little crumb of intel.”
“You told me to give him information if I had to!”
“Not that information.”
“Look,” Luther stammered. “He didn’t tell me what he planned to do. He wanted to know the location of the children to spare them in the event of an attack—”
Liam gave an incredulous snort.
“I know how it sounds, okay?”
“Whose side are you on, Luther?” Liam said in a low, dangerous voice. “Because it certainly doesn’t sound like you’re on ours.”
“I am sorry,” Luther said. “Truly, I am.”
“Be very careful before you make me an enemy.”
“I’ve already caused great harm to Hannah Sheridan’s family. I am incredibly aware of that fact.”
“Are you?”
“Yes! I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them, I swear to you. I nearly killed her son, okay? The whole reason I’m out here is to…I don’t know, make up for it or something. Certainly not to put her in further danger. I wouldn’t do that. I didn’t. Not intentionally. I swear it.”
He sounded remorseful. Liam recalled a comment Quinn had made about Luther: a polite killer was still a killer. She’d made a good point.
Some people used their guilt and good intentions to justify their own atrocities.
Luther was a snake in the grass. A harmless garter or a lethal black mamba—Liam still wasn’t certain.
“Look, you wanted me on the inside,” Luther said. “I had to give him usable intel. I did. I gave you information, too! You know how many men he has, where they’re stationed. I gave you everything I had on the mobile units and the reaction force. You destroyed half our transports and a good chunk of our rations. We’re all hungry and miserable now, thanks to you.”
The sun peaked above the tree line, a fat ball of yellow in a clear blue sky. The clouds had dissipated during the night.
With considerable effort, Liam reined in his fury. What was done was done. Luther was his only connection to General Sinclair. Liam needed him.
He blew out an even breath and steadied his heart rate. “You’ve met him face to face. Describe him.”
“He’s…he’s like Rosamond. I see similar traits. He’s harder than she was. She wanted to be liked. I’m not sure that he cares. He only wants to be remembered. Immortalized in the history books. He’s going to railroad whoever and whatever he needs to in order to achieve his goals. The rank-and-file guardsmen don’t like him, but they obey him.”
“What’s he going to do next?”
“He’s obsessed with legacy. If he thinks Hannah’s baby is his progeny, he’ll keep coming for her. And he’ll keep coming for you. This is a personal vendetta.”
Liam clenched his jaw. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected, but it still chilled him to his core to hear his suspicions confirmed. “I know. What is he going to do?”
“I’m not privy to his plans. He’s very secretive and keeps his private security team close as a buffer between himself and the soldiers—”
“Then become privy.”
“It’s going to take time to get into his good graces,” Luther whined. “I’m trying to befriend a man named Baxter. He’s on the inside. He’s not a soldier. If anyone has a conscience among them, or at least a loose tongue—”
A sound in the background, barely audible.
Liam went rigid. “What is that noise?”
“What?”
Static on the other end.
Then, whump, whump, whump.
Fear lanced through him.
Liam gripped the radio as he leapt to his feet, shouldered his go-bag, and seized the M4.
He sprinted for the stairwell. His spine electric with pain, his side on fire, slowing him down. Too slow.
“Liam, I didn’t know—!” Luther said, his voice pitched in alarm.
Liam was no longer listening. He switched the channel as he skirted desks and cubicles bathed in early morning sunlight and slammed his shoulder into the exit door.
The door banged open. He skidded down the stairs, leaping two and three at a time. Nearly stumbling from the flare of pain.
Then on his feet and running again. Blood rushed in his ears. His heart hammered out of his chest. “Echo Two, come in!”
Only static on the radio.
“Bravo Four! 10-33!”
He was out of range.
He had to get back to Fall Creek. He had to warn them. Liam knew that sound, as familiar to him as his worst nightmare.
A Black Hawk taking flight.
39
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
The church bell tolled.
The sound rang out in the crisp morning air.
Quinn froze.
Jonas’s eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”
Three dozen townspeople looked up in alarm. They stood over rows of plowed earth, hoes and shovels in their hands. Dressed in jeans or overalls, sweatshirts beneath jackets, baseball caps over greasy hair.
A few yards behind them, Ghost lay in a pile of dirt, tongue lolling, tail thumping lazily, like a prince surveying his domain.
The bells.
It took a moment for the clanging to sink into her consciousness. Her brain felt stuffed with cotton, her eyes gritty from exhaustion.
Last night, she’d spent an uneventful four-hour shift on the Snow Road blockade after two hours of hand-to-hand combat and defensive tactic drills conducted by Liam.
Five hours of sleep, and she was up before dawn to train with Liam. He was a no-show, so she’d found Jonas and headed to the high school.
They were transferring the tender seedlings from the greenhouses to the former soccer field they’d cleared and plowed with a diesel tractor that ran on biofuel.
The church bells resounded, peal after peal.
“Quinn!” A few rows ahead of her, Milo was on his knees, digging holes with a trowel. A smear of dirt streaked his forehead. He stared at her, fear contorting his small face. “That’s the alarm!”
“It’s real, isn’t it?” Jonas said. “This is real.”
Liam had insisted the town practice emergency drills each evening at six p.m.
It was not six p.m. It was eight-thirty in the morning.
This was not a drill. The warning was real.
An attack was pending.
Adrenaline shot through her. She leapt to her feet and reached for her rifle. Dirt crusted her knees and the palms of her hands. No time to wipe herself off. No time to do anything but move.
“To the bomb shelters!” she shouted. “Hurry! Go now! Go!”
“Are we under attack?” a middle-aged man cried.
A girl—maybe ten or eleven—started to cry.
Jonas strode across three rows of freshly planted tomatoes, mindful even in his fear not to trample precious food. He grasped the girl’s hand. “What Quinn said! Everyone to the school!”
The bell kept tolling. A crisp, grim warning.
The townspeople jolted into action. They dropped their trowels and shovels and reached for nearby weapons—shotguns and hunting rifles, axes and hatchets.
The copper taste of fear coated her tongue. Dread coagulated in her stomach. The sky was clear in all directions. She couldn’t see a thing.
But something was coming.
“Milo! Come on!”
Milo darted to her side, Ghost right beside him, his hackles raised. Tail stiff, he nudged Milo toward Quinn, herding them both.
Quinn whirled, taking everything in. Chaos reigned in the street in front of the schools. People sprinted from the soccer and football fields, yelling and shouting for their loved ones.
Dozens more streamed down the road from Main Street, others cutting through the alleys between Tresses Hair Salon, Brite Smiles Dental, and a small single-story post office.
; At the front door of the school, Hannah and Principal King shouted instructions and directed people through the double doors.
Inside, Evelyn and Lee would move the injured and sick on stretchers from the medical ward to the basement bomb shelter.
In the distance came a low whomp, whomp, whomp.
The rumble of thunder before the storm. The tremor beneath your feet before the earthquake erupted. A terrible portend that promised destruction—and death.
Screams shattered the air. People shouting and crying. Everyone stampeded for the school shelters.
The security teams raced in the opposite direction, running to their fighting positions.
In the middle of the street, someone knocked an elderly man over. A haggard middle-aged couple stopped to help, but the crowd dragged them along.
In their panic, they’d trample each other.
Quinn grabbed Jonas’s arm and pointed. “Help him!”
Without a word, Jonas handed off the kid and sprinted into the oncoming crowd. Ghost bounded around them, barking, nosing them insistently on the sides and thighs as he directed them toward Hannah.
“Quinn!” Dave caught sight of her and gestured for her to run toward the shelter. “Come on!”
But Quinn couldn’t. Not yet.
She turned to Milo and pressed the girl’s hand to his. “Take her! Help her find her mom, okay?”
Nodding solemnly, Milo gripped the older girl’s hand and pulled her toward the high school. Nearly jerked off her feet, she stumbled after him. Ghost bounded beside Milo, barking at him to hurry the hell up.
People streamed into the school. By fives and tens, then more and more. The security teams took up their positions on the roof of the school and hid themselves in fortified windows and doorways.
She should be with them. But she couldn’t, not until she found Gran.
Travis appeared, a baby in each arm. Several ragged children ran behind him, along with a few of the teachers.
Darryl Wiggins, the former banker, was actually useful. He jogged ahead of the children, arms spread wide, pushing folks out of the way to make a path.
Jonas got the old man to his feet and helped him limp across the street. Robert Vinson, the pharmacist, aided a mother with two small children.
