by A. J. Powers
Though he fought against it, Clay couldn’t help but think about Kelsey. It was not the time or place to worry about the look she had on her face when he decided to stay behind, but every moment that his mind wasn’t already occupied with another thought, there she was.
He hated disappointing her. More than that, he hated hurting her, and there was no doubt that, with his complete lack of presence over the past few months, he had been doing it a lot lately. He didn’t blame her for the cold shoulder she gave him before leaving for Northfield. But with no way to make things right between them, Clay was not only frustrated; he was distracted. And that was the last thing he needed as he prepared for the upcoming battle. He just prayed that he would have another opportunity to right his wrongs with her.
As if dealing with the psychological stress wasn’t bad enough, sitting in the frigid, rock-hard dirt all day added insult to injury. After a brief, but chest-rattling cough, Clay realized just how sore his body had become. He stretched his back the best he could inside the shallow trench, but was no more satisfied than before. Then, without warning, a ferocious Charlie horse struck Clay’s leg, causing him to shuffle back and forth as he frantically searched for a position that would bring relief to his throbbing calf.
He let out a violent growl as the tightened muscles in his leg began to release, then a relieved sigh as he leaned back into the rear wall of the trench. Another barrage of coughs rattled the foxhole, triggering a nagging headache. He looked down at his watch—still four more hours until shift change. Before he even finished his calculation, Clay felt a droplet hit his head. Then another. Within minutes, he sat in a half-inch of muddy water.
“Fan-freakin-tastic,” Clay grumbled.
Chapter 23
Clay startled himself awake with a deep, raspy cough. Though the cough had significantly improved, the pain in his muscles was agonizing. Even a small hiccup felt as if someone jammed a shiv between his ribs. That pain, however, was more tolerable than the aching lungs he still battled with.
He was far from being completely well, but Clay felt better than he had since the wet, frigid night in the foxhole the previous week. At one point, while Megan checked in on him, Clay told her he felt like he was going to die. This slightly melodramatic comment resulted in a swift smack to the back of his head from his sister. Ordinarily, Megan had as much of a sense of humor as one could have these days, but joking about death was a crossed line too far. “Not now. Not ever,” she said adamantly, pointing her finger sternly in his face, leaving no room for negotiations. Throughout the years, far too many loved ones died under the care of Clay and Megan. And even though the news was always gut-wrenching for Clay, his constant outings often spared him from witnessing the last moments of their short, precious lives…
The same could not be said for Megan.
Megan was always there, sitting right beside their beds, squeezing their little hands until their palms went cold. She watched helplessly as their frightened eyes begged her to do something...but there was nothing she could do. Just thinking about it made Clay’s stomach churn with grief. Whenever he thought about just how much Megan had been through over the past ten years, it was surprising that she never ended up on the roof of the tower, walking carelessly along the edge as she waited for a strong gust of wind to finish what she couldn’t.
For his own sanity, Clay forced the thoughts out of his mind. The lives lost during the attack, the grisly scene he discovered at the FEMA camp, and the memories of all his departed loved ones over the years made it difficult to find the necessary motivation to get out of his comfortable bed and return to his post, to wait for an enemy that may never show. It was sixteen days and counting—nine past the deadline Arlo had given to Shelton. Though he had been convinced that Arlo wasn’t bluffing, Clay started to have his own doubts.
The entire week that he was bedridden, Clay relied on Dusty to keep him up to date with the latest happenings around town before starting her shift each day. His spirit was filled with hope when she mentioned overhearing a conversation between Kohler and Shelton. If Arlo failed to make a move by the end of the month, then they would call back all citizens from Northfield and scramble to prepare for winter. Even if they made that decision today, it would be an uphill battle at best. But waiting until November, after the lakes started to freeze and the already scarce deer population thinned even further, the struggle would be like trying to shave a porcupine with a spoon. Still, preparing for winter late in the year was a more preferred alternative than fighting a war—especially when that alternative would have Clay sleeping in his own bed, in his own house, next to his beautiful wife.
After managing to break out of his toasty cocoon, Clay climbed out of bed. The waves of dizziness that had been pestering him the last forty-eight hours went nuclear as soon as he planted his feet on the ground, causing him to fall back into bed. After a few slow, deep breaths, Clay slowly got back to his feet and gingerly made his way across the room to get dressed. His legs shook and buckled as his muscles got used to supporting weight again. It was a disconcerting sensation that he hoped would go away soon.
Once dressed, Clay picked up his ARAK-21 and did a quick visual inspection to make sure everything was in working order. Though he had given it a pretty thorough cleaning after the rainy night at the farmhouse, he wanted to make sure there was no rust or nasty film from the rain. It was good to go. Clay threw on his chest rig and double-checked his magazine pouches. He had nine spare mags and one already in the rifle. Sliding his Glock 17 securely into his holster, Clay picked up a small backpack—a more compact version of the one he usually carried— before leaving his room.
It was still early, and with sleep being a precious commodity, Clay made every attempt to stay silent as he walked down the stairs. As he tiptoed through the living room, he saw four men and two women sleeping on anything that was softer than the hardwood floor, their weapons within arm’s reach. Due to material harvesting and location to the perimeter, many houses were deemed uninhabitable for the duration of the war. As a result, the houses deeper inside the once-elegant subdivision all got a bit cozier.
As Clay pulled the front door open, it only took seconds for him to feel the effects of the arctic blast piercing through his tattered clothing, inducing a violent chatter from his teeth. A dusting of snow quickly piled up around his feet. The accumulation was minimal, but the statement from Mother Nature was all the same—winter was nigh, and it wasn’t even Halloween.
It was a dreary day outside, the skies grayer and hazier than he could remember seeing in recent months. A little voice in Clay’s head tempted him with another day’s rest. After all, he was still sick. But after being out of commission for so long, he refused to allow another man to double his shift just because he didn’t want to be out in the snow. So, against his body’s protest, Clay continued his hike to the foxhole.
Though much of the perimeter fence was well over eight feet tall and reinforced with wood and metal panels to obscure the enemy’s sight, Captain Kohler insisted that everyone move swiftly and tactically when traveling between posts. However, Clay, like most of the other soldiers, quickly viewed this rule as optional so long as Kohler wasn’t within eyeshot. The aches plaguing Clay’s body made it even more enticing to ignore that particular rule; Clay did, however, move with a bit more urgency as he passed by a few of the larger gaps in the fence.
Fighting the wind was a simple task made difficult by fatigue and lightheadedness. What I would give for some cold medicine, he thought to himself. A wish he usually had at least once a year. Finally, about fifteen minutes after leaving the warmth of his bed, Clay had arrived at his “office” for the day. The barely-passable foxhole was a welcomed sight, if for no other reason than to shelter him from the wind.
“Clay!” a voice shouted from inside the foxhole. “So, you are alive,” the man joked—it was Simpson.
Clay sat down near the edge of the foxhole and warily lowered himself inside. “Tommy, good to see y
ou again,” Clay grunted as he settled into the rock-hard dirt.
“How ya feeling?” Simpson asked. “You look like crap.”
“And I feel even worse,” Clay said as he adjusted himself in a feeble attempt to get comfortable, “but at least I am on this side of the dirt…” Clay looked around at the mud walls that encompassed him before adding, “Well, sort of.”
Simpson laughed. “I hear that, buddy. Though, I’ve been so bored the past couple of days, I’m starting to wonder if the alternative really would be all that much worse.”
Don’t joke about that, Clay thought to himself—Megan’s policy was rubbing off on him.
“Anyway,” Simpson continued, “as you can see, there’s not much going on. Been almost no sign of anyone.”
“Almost?” Clay asked.
“A few days ago, a scout team found a smoldering fire about two klicks to the east, but there was nothing to suggest that it was anything more than a couple of travelers avoiding frostbite.”
“Gotcha,” Clay said. “I’m really starting to think nobody’s gonna show.”
Simpson nodded in agreement.
Clay opened his backpack and pulled out a bit of food. “I still have no appetite, but I know my sister will kill me if I don’t at least eat something. You want the rest?” Clay asked as he held the food out.
Simpson’s eyes went wide. Though they weren’t starving yet, food rationing was one of the first rules to be enforced. Apart from the few non-combatants that stayed behind to deal with things like food and laundry, there was no one else to prepare it, and as such, the town was going to have to survive mostly off of the stores that had already been set aside for winter. With some extra nourishment staring him in the face, Simpson enthusiastically snatched the food out of Clay’s hand. “Thanks, bud!” he said as he crammed an entire granola bar into his mouth.
Clay nibbled on a few crackers as Simpson devoured the bulk of the meal. While the pair ate, Simpson relayed everything he had heard over the last week, most of which Dusty had already covered.
Simpson licked every one of his fingers twice, then let out a sigh of contentment. “Never thought I would say this about pink salmon…but that was some good grub. Thanks again, Clay,” he said as he began to stuff his things into a bag. “I am going to go try and catch a few Zs. Martinez also came down with something, so I’m at the tail end of a double.”
“Ouch. That sucks,” Clay replied.
“You know it.”
“All right, go get some rest, Tommy. See you back here around eight tonight?”
“Unless I score myself a hot date before then, I’ll be here,” Simpson said as he pulled himself out of the ditch onto the topsoil. “Think Megan’s free tonight?” he replied with a chuckle.
“Doubt it, but I heard Estelle is,” Clay fired back.
“Bah!” Simpson waved off the comment. “I’d rather sleep in a cold ditch next to your ugly mug,” Simpson retorted with a laugh. “All right, stay warm,” he said as he stretched his back for a moment before walking off.
Without wasting any time, Clay fished through his pack again to set up for his shift. His Griffin Armament suppressor was right at the top, along with two sub-sonic magazines. He didn’t want to waste the bullets or cause unnecessary wear and tear on the can during an all-out gunfight, but he also didn’t want to find himself in a situation to need muffled shots and have nothing nearby.
After rummaging around for a few seconds, he pulled out his binoculars, a few bottles of water, a Sterno can, and a book of matches. Canned fuel was not a common discovery anymore, so he would only run it for a few minutes at a time every half hour or so, just to keep the edge off. And since the painful tingles were already creeping into his fingertips, it wouldn’t be long before he fired it up.
Clay was reaching into his pack to get a notebook and pencil when he heard a loud cracking sound.
Then he heard shouting.
“Who was that?” one man yelled.
“Where’d it come from?” another shouted.
Clay sat up and peeked over the shallow ridge of dirt. He had done nearly a full three-sixty before he finally saw Simpson lying on the ground, motionless, surrounded by red snow. The shouting in the distance continued, but Clay could no longer make out what was being said. His mind was paralyzed. He tuned out the noises from around the world, leaving just the sound of his thumping heart and heavy breathing to fill the silence.
Simpson’s arm moved—he was still alive.
“MEDIC!” Clay shouted furiously.
Moments later, the medic appeared from around one of the houses and headed straight toward Simpson. It was Megan. And why that surprised Clay, he was unsure. She was one of three medics on rotation, but was the only one considered experienced enough to be a field surgeon. Doctor Sowell, though was an incredible surgeon himself, was long past his battlefield expiration date, as was his assistant Jackie. That left Megan as the most senior medic in the field.
As Clay watched Megan move toward Simpson, he was hopeful that she would be able to perform a miracle and save his life until he noticed that Simpson’s body was directly in front of one of the exposed sections of fence, which would put Megan at high risk of catching a bullet from the same shooter.
Clay leapt out of the foxhole. “Stop!” he screamed at Megan as he frantically waved his hands. Megan reluctantly complied, just mere feet from exposing herself to the sniper’s lane of fire. Clay cautiously jogged the rest of the way over to Simpson, staying on the opposite side of the opening as Megan with Simpson splitting the difference.
The sounds coming from Simpson as he struggled to breath were haunting. Clay looked in horror as the steam rising from the devastating bullet wound in his chest dissipated into the cold, morning air—as if it was life itself fleeing the man’s body.
“Clayton, I need to get to him right now or he is going to die!” Megan shouted, knowing full well his death was likely anyway.
“And what happens when you get shot, too?” Clay shouted back. “Who’s going to save your life?”
Megan clenched her jaw. “Well, we have to do something! We can’t just let him bleed out,” she said.
By then, Clay noticed a couple of men circling around the houses on Megan’s side. He waved them over, and the pair knelt next to Megan.
“I’m going to lay down some fire, you guys get him out of there, okay?” Clay said, panic flowing through his voice.
Both men nodded and waited for Clay’s go.
With precious seconds wasting away, Clay took a quick, deep breath before swinging out of cover, firing rapidly toward the tree line. When his rifle had spit out its last shell, he dove back to cover to reload. By the time he dropped the empty magazine from the rifle, the two men had successfully dragged Simpson out of the line of fire; Megan was already hard at work. However, her speed and body language did not give Clay a lot of confidence that there would be a happy ending for his new friend.
Clay’s grief was disrupted with the ringing of a bell from the clock tower.
“South-southeast!” he heard Dusty scream from above.
With adrenaline tearing through his veins like an unstoppable virus, Clay grabbed a fresh magazine from his chest rig and slapped it home. Standing back up to his feet, he sprinted toward the main entrance where the first wave was headed. He jumped as he heard a single gunshot. Then another. And another. Before long it sounded like the grand finale on the Fourth of July.
As soon as the decision was made to take a stand, Shelton, Kohler, and several others started planning in great detail how the town’s defenses would be setup, the responsibilities of each individual, and numerous ways to minimize loss. Yet, as the first shots of the war were exchanged, Liberty was already down a man, and everyone else seemed to be scrambling around, unsure of what to do. Even Clay, who had more experience in “battle” than most of the citizens in town, had forgotten his orders to stay at his post in the foxhole. Instinct trumped his training, and he found him
self running toward the gate to join the effort keeping the crowd out.
As Clay neared the entrance, he stopped at a section of fence with several small gaps between panels, allowing him to target the enemy while keeping himself relatively shielded. His stomach sank when he saw no less than fifty bodies running toward the town, and the random shots he heard off to the north told him this was not their only point of attack either.
Resting on one knee, Clay looked through the gap in the wall with his ACOG scope. Lining up a solid shot proved to be difficult as his targets moved erratically and used any means of cover they could find. After setting his sights on a hefty-sized man, Clay squeezed the trigger a few times. A mixture of snow and dirt kicked up around his target, who went to the ground in a hurry. Unfortunately, the attacker got back up and dove behind a decorative cobblestone sign near the road where he proceeded to return fire. Clay backed away as a myriad of bullets pummeled the wall with deafening impacts.
That looked like an AK-47, Clay thought to himself—a terrifying thought. There was little doubt that Arlo had numbers on his side, but the notion that Liberty had more sophisticated firepower gave Liberty an edge. Fighting off hordes of barbarians carrying SKSs, double barrel shotguns, and hunting rifles made everyone feel a little more confident about winning. But that theory was, at least for the moment, proving to be untrue.
Clay dared another look through his optics and saw several men and women with the kind of weaponry he had expected—one man was even using an old Enfield No. 4. But for every three or four of those guns, Clay saw a modern battle rifle of some sort—something equivalent to an AK-47 or AR-15.