by Nathan Jones
It explained how he'd managed to catch the four raiders coming down Center by surprise, since he'd delivered the plan to Catherine's defenders in person, while Gutierrez had given specific information and walked right into an ambush.
He should've thought of this possibility days ago, the moment Ferris rolled up in his truck. What had made him think Aspen Hill was the only place that had working radios? Most of the ones they were using were only a step above the cheap walkie-talkies sold in stores for kids to play with, and they were even using the most common frequencies. There was no secrecy with them, and literally any radio could access the channels they'd been using.
Matt's radio abruptly crackled. “Well I suppose the jig's up.”
* * * * *
Lewis felt his blood run cold. He recognized the voice, even though it had been a long time and he was hearing it through slight static and distortion over the radio, but it wasn't one that belonged on a channel used by Aspen Hill's defenders. For that matter, it wasn't one that belonged to anyone who should still be alive.
He brought his radio up to his mouth with a shaking hand. “Didn't think I'd ever hear from you again, Turner.”
“Turner!” Matt shouted in a crackle of feedback, as if only recognizing the man once Lewis identified him. “You got shot in the head! Even Gutierrez confirmed that you were dead when he defected!”
Turner chuckled over the radio, although he didn't sound amused. “Yeah well there's a world of difference between unconscious and dead, Larson, but people tend to have a hard time telling one from the other when they're hiding from a sniper. My guys didn't even realize I was still breathing until they were about to shove me out from behind the machine gun mounted on the lead truck so they could all drive off. I didn't wake up for an entire day and I've still got a splitting headache and double vision, but believe me, I'm not going anywhere.”
Lewis's hand was still shaking, and his breathing had sped up nearly to hyperventilation. He was sure his first two shots had been good, even if he wasn't quite as confident about the third shot he'd made at the raider preparing the missile launchers.
He wasn't the only one who'd fallen into stunned silence, and it was almost fifteen seconds before the radio crackled again. “Maybe you should think of going somewhere else,” Mayor Tillman said. “Do you really want a fight to the death that's going to get a lot of people on both sides killed?”
“Shut up,” Turner snarled, punctuating the warning with some vicious swearing. “After we just massacred dozens of your people you shouldn't be feeling so smug. Either way I'm not here to have a pleasant chat or even negotiate. You may have already confirmed we were listening in, but the only reason I spoke up is because I've got some things to say to the man who tried to murder me in cold blood.”
Lewis once again experienced the familiar queasiness in his stomach that he felt whenever he really thought about shooting Ferris and Turner. The guilt at what he'd done, even though he knew it had been necessary and everyone agreed it was the right call.
Most people weren't made to kill each other, something he'd told Trev months ago as they were dealing with the emotional aftermath of saving Jane's group from those bandits on Halloween. Part of that was the difficulty of bringing yourself to do the act itself, but there was also the impact it could have on you after you'd done it.
He was satisfied with his reasoning for what had happened the evening the raiders arrived, and he'd pushed most of the doubts and recriminations out of his mind. It was necessary to work through those sorts of emotional issues so he'd be able to strike a balance between always being reluctant to pull that trigger unless there was no other clear option, but always being able to do it without hesitation if the situation called for it.
Taking a deep breath, Lewis pushed the talk button to respond.
Before he could Matt spoke up angrily. “Don't give us that BS, Turner. You'd just shot up a roadblock and wounded three innocent people. Ferris outright said he was going to kill hundreds of us. You're seriously going to try to take the moral high ground here? I don't fault Lewis for shooting you, I just regret he missed.”
Turner responded with a bit more profanity. “I've got a bloody furrow on my right temple from just above my eye to the back of my head, Larson. Without a CAT scan and proper medical treatment I could still die of complications. And you know what, I don't care about the moral high ground.”
The new raider leader's voice turned ugly. “We're going to burn your town to the ground and kill every last one of you. I'm going to personally put a bullet in that traitor Gutierrez's head, and I'll have fun taking a few days skinning Halsson alive, just to enjoy his screams. That was a pretty neat trick he pulled, making us think our camps were in danger so we pulled back from today's attack, but it's the last time your radios do you any good. Whenever you use them, even with your stupid code phrases, I'm going to fill the airwaves nonstop letting each and every one of you know how much I want you dead. I'll also be sure to tell you in detail what we're going to do to your families after we roll into town over your corpses-”
Lewis turned off the radio and lifted his gun in shaking hands to check the surrounding area with his scope. There were no threats in sight, the area was clear, and down below the few gardeners who'd been working on their plots before the attack had gotten the small scattered fires put out and were seeing to Ian and Adam's bodies. It was all quiet now, but that didn't make him feel any better.
He'd failed, and failed, and failed again. He hadn't realized the problem with the radios, he'd failed to kill Turner and now the man was leading a small army of well armed murderers in a personal vendetta against the town, and he'd let the raiders drive right up and kill two people at the gardens without being able to stop them.
With a great deal of mental effort Lewis managed to stop those kinds of thoughts in their tracks. Perhaps he could've done things better, yes, but it wasn't rational to take blame for everything that happened, especially not stuff beyond his control. That wouldn't help anyone.
He'd done his best, and even if he'd failed to think of everything and people had suffered for it he'd still done what he could. And he'd try even harder next time.
Lewis closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, remembering something his uncle George, Trev's dad, had told him a long time ago. In a family of strong personalities the thoughtful, quiet man was often drowned out by his wife or brother-in-law, but that made the wisdom he had to offer all the more valuable when he was willing to share it.
It had been over a decade ago, when Lewis was eight or nine, but he still remembered it clearly. They'd been driving to the Halssons' property near Candland mountain, the same place he and Trev had spent the last winter. It had been after dark, and the trees were black silhouettes on the slopes around them. Lewis and his cousin had been frightened by the shapes, seeing monsters in every twisted branch they passed, when Uncle George offered his comforting words.
The first bit had been stuff Lewis had already heard before, that fear came from the unknown and once you learned about something it was a lot less frightening. But what he really remembered was when his uncle had then gone on to state his most significant bit of wisdom from that night.
Uncle George had told him that the more he was in control of himself and his life the less he'd have to fear from all the things in the world he couldn't control.
Young Lewis had needed that one explained to him in pretty thorough detail, especially since his uncle had strayed from specific examples of shadow monsters to life in general. The explanation had coincidentally distracted him from the dark unknown outside his window, but its value had proven itself far beyond just conquering imagined fears in the night.
In fact it had been a big part of why, even from a young age, Lewis had spent so much time becoming self-sufficient.
Responsibility was the key to control, as George had explained it. Responsibility for how he reacted to a situation, for personally seeing to his current and future needs w
herever possible, and for looking ahead to any possible danger so it could be planned for and averted. A responsible person found a way to help themselves in a bad situation where someone else might wait for help that would possibly never come.
Lewis had accepted the responsibility for keeping his imagination under control that night and had been better off for it, and he hadn't stopped there. His observations of a world flying out of control had only fueled his determination to be as in control of his own life as possible, even before the Middle East Crisis or the Gulf refineries attack. He'd spent a lot of time preparing and educating himself, and had urged his friends and family to do the same whenever the opportunity presented itself. He'd even helped them where he could, like he had with Trev.
In fact, he'd sometimes been accused of being too responsible by friends and family. Of putting too much on his own shoulders, of taking on burdens that weren't his, and of dwelling on the future so much that he often failed to appreciate the present.
That's what he was doing now, taking on responsibility that wasn't his. And the strain of that was dangerous if he didn't right his thinking quick. The burdens of an entire town would crush him, as they'd come close to doing the past few days when he'd refused to let himself sleep and pushed himself beyond his abilities.
What was rational, however, was learning from situations that went wrong and changing his behavior to prevent bad outcomes in the future.
He had an idea about what he could do there, specifically switching over to night patrols. Not only did he have the feeling he could do more good patrolling in the dark where the skills he'd learned could be a matter of life and death, but it might also suit his nature better. It would also help relieve some of the enormous pressure he'd put himself under, much of it serving no useful purpose.
Oddly enough that realization sent a spike of relief through him. The thought of switching to night patrols had felt a bit like abandoning the town when it needed him most, running away from responsibility. He couldn't be sure that there wasn't some of that in his decision, but the change of shifts would allow him to keep helping the town with a vital task in a way that was more manageable for him.
If anything, relieving the strain he was under would allow him to think more clearly, giving him a better chance of seeing the glaringly obvious before those kinds of oversights could be used against the town. Things like that the enemy would have radios and could listen in on everything they said.
No, going to night shifts was the right idea. It made rational sense.
So he focused on gathering up the gardeners, did his best to soothe their concerns, and put them up on the hills with their own weapons, Ian's scuffed up but still intact rifle, Adam's rifle, and the M16, 9mm sidearm, body armor, and other equipment the raider had been carrying.
Before handing the dead raider's rifle over, however, he took a moment to remove the scope, which he'd been pleased to see was an expensive one with night vision capabilities. At the moment the town's night vision gear consisted solely of his goggles, which he'd loaned out for use by people patrolling in the dark, so this was a useful find. And one he'd be putting to immediate use tonight and other nights to come.
To his frustration removing the scope took twice as long as it should have with a mind full of cotton and fingers that felt numb in his exhaustion. By the time he finished and held the M16 out to the leader of the gardeners, a resident of Aspen Hill he didn't recognize, everyone was looking at him oddly.
“I'm ending my shift a bit early,” he announced, then continued honestly. “I don't think I'm in any condition to keep watch. I'll talk to someone about having Matt send more people out.”
Nobody protested him leaving, which was a good sign of just how obviously exhausted he was. Considering how soon after the attack it still was they had to be nervous about being hit again and probably hoped he'd stay, but Lewis knew in his current state he'd be more of a liability than a help. Besides, he wanted to get some sleep before nightfall.
In spite of their silence Lewis still felt like he was abandoning them as he stumbled off towards home.
Not his home, his shelter, but the less than ideal living room of the Larsons' house that he shared with Tom and his son. One thing he hadn't considered about switching to night shifts was that sleeping during the day he'd constantly be disturbed by the noise of people coming and going and talking in the kitchen.
Trying to rest when the house was at its noisiest wouldn't do much for his exhaustion, and he already had enough trouble falling asleep at the best of times. Just the thought of it made him want to find a nice shed somewhere and curl up to sleep, but it was just another thing he'd have to figure out.
For the moment he made his way to the Larson home, in his current state ready to give sleeping there a try even if a parade started up on the street outside.
Chapter Three
Recriminations
Turner's attack had taken a heavy toll on the town.
21 townspeople had been killed and 13 more were wounded, including everyone who'd been patrolling or on sentry duty on the eastern side of town. From the looks of it the raiders had snuck up and killed them quietly before they could alert the town, which didn't do much for people's sense of security moving forward.
Several of those who'd died hadn't been defenders but defenseless citizens caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the women who'd been with Ben on their way to do laundry. All the roadblocks had been hit hard, but of the five people at Roadblock 2 only Alice Thornton had survived, mostly due to good fortune at being away on a trip to fetch water from the spring for the rest of the group. The lost crops in the garden would also be a blow, perhaps not an immediate one but something they'd definitely feel come harvest.
More importantly, the morale in Aspen Hill plummeted as the day progressed and his defenders reported in with the final tally of losses. People already frayed to the breaking point were snapping, some into despair and others into pointless arguments. Against Matt and the Mayor's advice a few families even tried to leave town heading west, hoping to slip around the raider camps and whatever patrols Turner had set. Among them was the Norman family, who planned to take their flock up to the safety of the mountains.
Almost as discouraging as their own losses were the enemy's. Matt wasn't happy to hear that after all Aspen Hill's preparations to defend themselves only five raiders had been killed and there were no confirmed enemy wounded. And Turner hadn't even used the trucks beyond that first missile attack on the gardens. Admittedly, the raiders had been listening to their every word over the radio and thoroughly scouting the town learning the sentry and patrol routes over the past few days, but that was small comfort.
This attack had been a disaster in just about every way. If they couldn't do better next time it was likely the raiders would win, and even if Aspen Hill managed to fight them off they'd lose too many of their best people. Not to mention the daunting number that would starve because they couldn't spare any time to look for food while fighting for their lives.
They needed to find other ways to communicate, they needed to change up their patrol routes, sentry positions, and shift changes, and above all they needed multiple teams of quick responders standing by to go where they were needed.
Chauncey and his sons were working on the communications, while Gutierrez, Tam, Jane, and others helped Matt with the rest. One thing Matt did right away was convince nearly a hundred of the town's defenders to leave their homes and bunk down in the storehouse when they weren't on sentry or patrol duty. That would have them in position to respond more quickly if needed, even during their off time, and while it wouldn't do much for their morale or comfort it was necessary.
There were some complaints about that, since the reason the storehouse had been abandoned in the first place was because it was one of the main targets the raiders wanted to hit. Matt patiently responded that since Turner had been listening to them this entire time he knew the storehouse was abandoned and there
was nothing of value there, so it wasn't a target anymore. It was also a large, relatively comfortable space conveniently located near the center of town where defenders could be quickly sent where they were needed. They couldn't afford not to use it now that communications were less reliable.
There had been some grumbling, but among men shaken by how close the attack had come to their own homes there was no shortage of volunteers.
In the midst of making those and other necessary changes to defend the town they also had to plan for another mass funeral, more heartbreaking than the one after Razor's attack and in many ways as soul crushing as the steady stream of deaths over the winter.
Catherine insisted that as important as it was to prepare for Turner's next attack, the town needed to set aside at least a little time to properly mourn their losses. Giving a proper sendoff to the innocent townspeople who'd died to senseless violence and the defenders who'd died protecting them would be a comfort to the friends and family who mourned them.
The service was set to take place in the late afternoon, so the grieving families would have time to prepare their loved ones for burial and volunteers among the noncombatants could dig the graves. Matt had been ready to help with that, but Catherine insisted he needed to keep his full concentration on his duties.
He'd reluctantly agreed, although even his full concentration felt inadequate after today's spectacular failure to protect the town. Catherine was on the radio at the moment calling for outside help, but he didn't have much hope she'd find any.
They'd called for aid after Ferris's raiders first showed up, too, and the responses had been disheartening. Huntington and a few towns in Sanpete County west of the mountains had sent along their prayers, but insisted the distance was too great to send help and anyway they had no one to spare from their own problems. Helper had sent their sympathies but similarly refused to help, while pointedly mentioning that they were worse off than they'd ever been after their own brush with the raiders and nobody was helping them.