by Kyla Stone
When the General entered, their heads jerked up, their blood-shot eyes widening in shame and terror.
They were young, in their mid-twenties. The first, a wiry guy with a blond mustache. The second one was a sandy-haired girl with acne dotting her chin. She looked like she still belonged in high school.
The stale air reeked of sour sweat and the stomach-churning stench of ammonia. The guy had urinated on himself.
His men settled into relaxed but watchful stances a few feet from the door. Behind them, the two soldiers who’d been guarding the freezer watched in apprehension.
That was fortunate. They could spread the message.
The General drew his pistol. In a loud, commanding voice, he repeated his spiel about the court martial, times of war, the necessity of difficult acts to preserve the nation, yada yada.
Beside him, Baxter recorded his every word.
He allowed himself to wax eloquent, knowing the two guardsmen were his primary audience, not these poor souls before him.
They begged, cried, and made pathetic excuses, but the General barely heard them.
He didn’t relish this. He knew nothing of them, and didn’t want to, either. Neither did he feel guilt over meting out their punishment. Without swift and severe retaliation, more soldiers would disappear.
As far as the General was concerned, the National Guard consisted of warm bodies with guns. Pawns to direct on the chessboard as needed.
He needed soldiers with their heads on straight. He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep them that way.
When it came to getting his hands dirty, he’d never shied from the task.
Some men had scruples. Others were squeamish. People believed they were ‘good,’ though most were anything but.
The General had no such qualms, a character trait which aided him both in warfare and politics. He’d never considered a lack of conscience a flaw. He didn’t consider it one now.
Without hesitating, the General raised his Sig Sauer M18, aimed, and fired twice in quick succession. The concussive bangs exploded in his eardrums.
From short range, the rounds struck their targets, drilling straight between the eyes. The deserters’ heads snapped back. Their bodies went limp.
The scratch of Baxter’s pen on paper filled the room. For a long moment, it was the only sound. His ears rang. He should have worn ear protection.
Calmly, he holstered his weapon. “Keep those cuffs. I’ve got a feeling we’ll need them again.”
“Yes, sir,” Gibbs said.
The General spun on his heels and pointed to the two guardsmen who gaped at him, their expressions stricken. “You two. Clean up this mess and dispose of the corpses. Report to Gibbs when you’re finished. Inform your fellow soldiers that the same fate awaits anyone who even considers desertion.”
They stared at him blankly.
He clapped his hands. “Now!”
They scurried off to find mops, buckets, and a tarp, eager to be out of his reach—and out of sight of their deceased comrades.
He inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder and scanned the kitchen, the rumble of his empty stomach intensifying.
This place could cook a meal fit for a king a hundred times over. With just a little electricity. With on-demand deliveries from across the world—Malaysia, China, Mexico.
All gone now. What a waste.
“I’m starving,” he said. “What’s for lunch? If anyone says another MRE, you’re court-martialed.”
No one laughed at his gallows humor.
Baxter finished writing. He tied the leatherbound notebook with leather ribbons and tucked it into the man-purse slung over his shoulder.
One of the General’s men stepped forward. Ben Henderson was in his early thirties, fit and trim, with a round babyish face but dead-cold eyes that betrayed his true nature. “Sir.”
“What do you want?”
“The men are getting antsy,” Henderson said. “They want to know what happens next. I thought we were getting an entire town with electric power? That’s what you promised.”
Henderson’s attitude bordered on disrespect, but he was a skilled killer and reliable to a fault. With seven of his men eliminated in the Vortex ambush fiasco, the General needed every dependable body he could muster.
“I know what I promised!” the General growled. “Do you have the intestinal fortitude of a gnat? These things take time.”
“I understand.” Henderson grimaced like he didn’t understand in the least. “The generators are out of gas. It’s freezing at night. The toilets are backing up—”
“That’s quite enough!” Henderson was right, in a way. Delays frayed morale. Not to mention how it ate into their limited food stores.
Logistics was a nightmare.
He turned to Gibbs. “I have a task for you. Pick two men to send to Fall Creek tomorrow night. Then, bring this James Luther to me. He’ll give us the intel you need to complete the mission. Once we have the package in hand, we attack.”
“Yes, sir,” Gibbs said.
He shot a pointed look at Henderson, then Gibbs. “You can slaughter as many terrorists as you like. How does that sound?”
Henderson said, “I’m good with that.”
Gibbs’ mouth twitched. “Satisfactory, sir.”
22
Liam
Day One Hundred and Eight
“I’m in,” Luther said over the radio.
“What do you have?” Liam asked. He’d positioned himself in an empty building five miles north of town, watching M-139. Nothing had moved along the road in the last two hours of his shift.
A light rain misted the air, the evening sky gunmetal gray. Meltwater ran across the roads in streams, sluicing into the ditches.
The temperature was somewhere in the high forties; Liam unzipped his coat. He hadn’t bothered with a hat or gloves.
Luther was late for his check-in. Two hours, to be exact. Liam thought he wouldn’t radio in at all.
“General Sinclair knew my name,” Luther said. “Sutter had mentioned me a few times. You were right. He’d expected to rely on Sutter for intel, so he welcomed me in.”
“How many soldiers?”
“Near as I can gather, Sutter’s numbers were correct. Five hundred National Guard soldiers, plus a couple dozen Blackwater private security types, ex-military. He goes nowhere without them as bodyguards.”
“How many garrisoned at the Boulevard Inn?”
“There are four mobile units. I don’t know their locations. The rest are garrisoned here. We’re bunked four to a room. There’s no power anywhere, but this one at least is clean. Only a handful of corpses to clear. People stayed in these hotels, used the bathrooms one after another until they clogged and overflowed, then just moved on to the next. The stench is terrible—”
“I don’t care about the stink. Give me credible intel.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Liam listened as Luther described the General’s organization, security, and logistics. “They’re waiting for something. I don’t know what. The General calls me in when he needs information, otherwise I’m stuck with the grunts.”
“Draw me a map. Include patrols, shift changes, watches. Everything. Leave it at the drop off location.”
A silence. Static belched from the radio. “I can’t get away that soon—”
“Find a way, Luther.” Liam scowled, out of what little patience he had. “Figure it out.”
23
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Nine
“What do you want?” Flynn’s hostile voice grated through the radio.
“Good morning to you, too.” Hannah stood on her front porch in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a jacket freshly handwashed and dried on the clothesline.
After yesterday’s rain, the weather had cleared. The sun hung like a yellow ball in the cobalt sky. Green shoots poked up everywhere. The cool breeze tickled her cheeks.
Charlotte was inside, taking a rare nap in her c
rib. Usually, she slept in her stroller or carrier, out and about.
After Hannah had administered Milo’s medication, Milo busied himself cleaning and rebinding Ghost’s leg the way Evelyn had taught him.
“Get on with it,” Flynn said. “I have things to do.”
Hannah pictured him—big as a sequoia tree, a tall burly redhead, all gruff aggression and bristling suspicion.
She pitied Flynn, but he was a bear to deal with. His grief over his wife’s murder at the hands of the militia had oxidized into rage and mistrust. He tried her patience to its limits.
Mick Sellers and Dallas Chapman seemed mild and reasonable in comparison, but they capitulated to Flynn’s more aggressive, demanding nature.
Together, the three led the Community Alliance, a group representing nearby towns who shared security and protection needs.
Hannah tensed. Annoyance prickled across her skin. “We need to work together. We can’t do that without regular communication. If you’d rather not speak with me, I’m happy to talk with Mick.”
“I’ll relay your information,” Flynn said stiffly. “I’m the decision-maker here.”
She bit her lower lip to rein in her frustration. “I’m calling to check in and update you on potential threats, and to let you know we have canceled trade Day until further notice. It’s not safe to travel right now.”
“You’re telling me!” A raw edge in his voice. A hint of genuine fear.
It brought her up short.
“Flynn, did something happen?”
Flynn snorted into the radio.
“Flynn, please. Tell me.”
Silence but for his ragged breathing.
She wanted to throw up her hands, say good riddance, and renounce the whole thing. Another part of her—the stubborn, unrelenting part that didn’t know how to quit, the part that had kept her on her feet and moving through two hundred miles of wilderness, that had survived five years trapped in a basement—that part insisted she try again.
“We’re not your enemy, Flynn. We’re on your side. Now, what happened?”
Finally, he relented. “Last night, we received a dozen refugees fleeing north along US-12 from South Bend. Two were gravely injured from gunshot wounds, and the third died before we could get her to our doctor.”
Hannah’s stomach plummeted. “What?”
“They overran the entire city. A force of thousands, they claimed. They came rolling in with military trucks and military weapons, dressed like soldiers. They killed mostly men. Took the women and kids. Just took ‘em.”
She stared at the house across the street until her eyes blurred. Her crooked fingers tightened around the radio, acid in the back of her throat.
South Bend was a city with a population of about one hundred thousand. Its sister city, Mishawaka, boasted a population of fifty thousand. They were both around thirty miles from Fall Creek, just across the Indiana/Michigan border.
With vehicles, Poe’s army could arrive at their front door in a matter of minutes, not hours or days.
“They shot one guy in the shoulder when he tried to fight back. Forced him to his knees and made him watch while they took his two teenage daughters, tied ‘em up, tossed ‘em in their truck and drove away. Even injured, he still fought. They shot him in the leg and left him to die like an animal.”
Despite the sunny day, an icy chill zipped down her spine. She imagined the scene in her mind’s eye—a father desperate to save his children. The terror and panic, the horror of it.
A beat of silence. “You know anything?” Flynn asked.
“I do. And I’m willing to share that information with you. Quid pro quo. That’s how this should work.”
Flynn mumbled something unintelligible.
“What was that?”
He sounded like it was pulling teeth to respond, but he did. “I—I would appreciate the information.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s the Syndicate.”
“Who?”
“An army of criminals from Chicago. They’re led by Alexander Poe, the kingpin of a Chicago mob who set his sights on controlling Illinois. Apparently, he wants the entire Midwest, too.”
Flynn unleashed a stream of colorful curses. When he’d regained his composure, he said, “How do you know that?”
“Liam had a run-in with them outside of Champaign, Illinois. They’re taking over farms and FEMA camps and forcing people to work as slave labor. They take women and children and sell them. Be very careful.”
Flynn said nothing as he absorbed the information.
“There’s no reason to think they’re going to stop with Indiana.”
“I’m quite aware of that fact.”
“Look, Liam has sent out forward observers to scout our surrounding perimeter. I think it’s a good idea if you do the same.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” he said, but he sounded rattled.
“We can’t. You can’t. That’s the point. You need our help, and we need yours. There’s another threat. A man who calls himself the General—”
A hiss of static. Then, nothing.
“Flynn? Come in.”
Still nothing.
She switched channels and tried Hamilton. He didn’t come in, either. Neither did Liam.
She looked down at the radio. Turned it on and off. Replaced it with a new solar-charged battery. It didn’t help.
The radio was dead.
A growing unease slithered through her. The handheld radios were critical to communication. Without phones, with travel so risky, time-consuming, and costly—radios were everything.
Hannah turned back to the house to gather her children.
She needed to find Liam.
24
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Nine
Hannah biked to the southern blockade.
It felt like it took forever. After Charlotte awoke, she was hungry, so Hannah needed to nurse and burp her, then change her cloth diaper, redress her, and finally strap the baby into the carrier.
Thankfully, Charlotte loved her carrier. She was alert, curious, and wanted to taste and touch everything within reach.
Milo wanted to join in everything, too. He was happy to make himself useful and volunteered to fill the sterilized water bottles from Molly’s well and wrap some venison jerky as a snack for the guards on duty.
He had his own mountain bike. She’d attached the bike trailer to the back so that he could pull supplies behind him. And wherever they went, Ghost followed.
Since she slowed to compensate for Milo’s shorter legs and Ghost’s limp, the ride into town took longer. The cool breeze whipped her hair back from her face. The sun warmed her skin.
As she entered Fall Creek’s once-vibrant downtown, she passed several folks on horseback. A couple of horse-drawn wagons, too. An old diesel tractor hauled a trailer lugging two-by-fours and window frames confiscated from abandoned homes to build more greenhouses.
Most people walked or rode bikes. A few drove ATVs to and from the community gardens, public trash dumps, latrines, and the blockades.
Filled sandbags were piled along the sidewalk, waiting to be distributed to various fighting positions and sniper hides as directed by Liam or Reynoso.
Patsy Snyder had reopened Friendly’s Grocery store as a local trading post for Fall Creek residents, a communal spot to stop in for gossip and socializing. Dave’s bar at the Fall Creek Inn was another hot spot.
Spring was in the air, and despite the looming threats, people were emerging from their winter shelters, stepping blinking into the sunshine.
Everyone dirtier, skinnier, and tougher, but alive.
There was life here.
Where there was life, there was hope.
Hannah clung to that hope as she dismounted and parked her bike next to a concrete barrier. Milo leapt off his bike, hurriedly lowered the kickstand, and ran off to greet Jonas and Whitney, who were both on watch duty. He left the water and snacks in the bike trailer.
“Milo, don’t forget—”
But he was gone. Ghost trotting after him, eager to be adored by the masses. Kicking her fat legs, Charlotte cooed and reached after her big brother.
Hannah patted her head. “He has the memory of a gnat, that one.”
Across the bridge, Old 31 featured a maze of strategically placed vehicles, concertina wire, and concrete barriers. Barbed wire lined the sides of the road to help prevent bad guys from bailing from their vehicles and flanking the barricade on foot.
Two dump trucks placed nose-to-nose blocked the road like a gate. A secondary defense behind the dump trunks composed of stacked dirt-filled barrels provided cover for various fighting positions in case an enemy force breached the trucks.
Perez jogged toward her from the opposite end of the barricade. She wore tan khakis, combat boots, and a hunter green fleece jacket. With her fierce expression, thick muscles, and the Sig Sauer MPX carbine gripped in both hands, she made for an intimidating opponent.
She spat on the ground when Hannah informed her of the news. “They’ve made their bed—now they can lie in it.”
“They’re our neighbors,” Hannah reminded her. “And we could use their help.”
Perez rolled her eyes. “They could use our help, you mean. Face it, we’re on our own, but that doesn’t mean we’re not gonna kick some righteous ass.”
Hannah shot her a tight smile. “At least someone’s optimistic.”
Perez fairly vibrated with combative energy. “Damn straight.”
Liam exited Vinson’s pharmacy across the street, took a moment to scan the area, then approached them. He carried both his M4 across his chest and his Remington 700 slung over his shoulder.
At the sight of him, her stomach fluttered. Ignoring it, Hannah repeated the news and told them what had happened with the radio.
“We’ve got the same problem,” Perez said. “Got reports from the scouts that the General’s men destroyed a couple of our repeater stations. It’s gonna make communicating with our forward observers a real pain.”