by Kyla Stone
The whomping grew louder, joined by the deep growl of an aircraft’s engine. A foreign sound after so many months of empty skies.
Quinn spun and flung up her arm to shield her eyes.
There, in the distance to the northwest. A black speck on the horizon. It grew steadily closer.
A harbinger of death, a great wheeling bird of prey.
The ground tilted beneath her. Her hands went clammy, her mouth bone dry.
Her AR-15 wouldn’t do a thing against an armored helicopter. She had to get these people out of here. She had to get Gran.
Heart in her throat, Quinn kept searching, wildly scanning each familiar face. Not her, not her, not her.
And then there she was. Fifty yards away, Gran hobbled down the middle of the street. She held a little tow-headed toddler, her cane hooked uselessly over one arm.
Two boys no older than ten ran beside her, one dragging a screaming preschooler by the hand, the other clutching Gran’s Mossberg aimed downward, the barrel banging his skinny legs.
Their neighbors. The four orphaned boys that Annette King had taken under her wing after their mother drank contaminated river water. Gran had been showing them how to milk Oreo and make homemade cheese from goat’s milk.
Blind panic gripped Quinn.
Gran wasn’t moving fast enough. She wouldn’t make it.
The helicopter roared closer. Rotors beat the air. The engines growled like a living creature.
A predator on the hunt.
40
Quinn
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Quinn started toward them. “Gran!”
The Black Hawk swooped low.
The townspeople shrieked and ducked as the great mechanical beast beat the air above them, casting a menacing shadow.
From the sandbagged rooftops, Fall Creek’s shooters fired at the helo. At least two of the stolen M60 belt-fed machine guns opened fire.
The Black Hawk swerved and kept going. It soared past them to the end of the road before banking sharply and heading back in their direction.
It pitched back and forth, avoiding the small-arms fire, veering to and fro like a dragon. Like some prehistoric monster hunting them, attempting to flush them out like frightened mice.
They hadn’t fired yet. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
Quinn sprinted toward Gran and the kids, running against the flow of frantic people, elbows and knees bumping and banging into her. Her sore muscles ached, her ribs throbbing.
Above her, the Black Hawk leveled out. Then it shot forward a couple hundred yards and hovered over the Clothesline laundromat on the corner. AK and AR rounds pinged against its armored belly.
With a great boom like thunder, its miniguns opened up.
The helo unleashed a stream of firepower and tore into the building. A 70mm rocket streaked through the sky. It exploded and blew off half the roof.
A sound like the fabric of the world ripping apart. The great tearing noise shredded her eardrums.
She reached Gran at the abandoned Schwan’s delivery truck.
Gran had slowed to a shuffle. Her back bent almost double. Without her cane, the toddler’s weight was too much for her old bones.
Quinn held out her hands. “Let me take him!”
Gran thrust the child into her arms.
His name was Joey. He carried a blue stuffed bunny everywhere, but he didn’t have it now. Maybe that explained his screaming.
He was heavy and squirming. His hands and face were sticky with snot and tears. The cuts on her hand stung so badly, she nearly dropped him.
“Get out of here!” Gran wheezed, waving her away.
Ignoring her, Quinn spun to the three boys. “Run! Come on! Run to the school!”
Their eyes wide with shock and fear, they obeyed. Tina Gundy sprinted past. She caught sight of them and slowed, motioning for them to follow her. Together, they ran for the school.
Over downtown, the Black Hawk circled higher to avoid the small-arms fire. Various security teams popped out of hiding to fire up at it with their ARs and AKs. More M60s shattered the air, driving the bird upward.
With a roar, it swung back around, aiming its 7.62mm miniguns to take them out. A brief burst. One of the M60s fell silent.
Their long guns seemed incredibly flimsy in comparison. Like water guns. Children’s toys.
“Go!” Quinn cried. “Go! Go!”
Gran stumbled. Her cane clattered to the asphalt.
“Gran!” Quinn reached for Gran, struggling to maintain her hold on the shrieking toddler. With her free hand, she yanked Gran to her feet. “We have to go!”
They were still a hundred yards from the school.
Gran swayed unsteadily. “You go—”
“I’m not leaving you!”
The Black Hawk turned and swooped back for another lethal run. It headed straight toward them. Incredibly loud, its engines roaring. The rotor wash beat at them with the fury of a mighty wind.
It was so close. Close enough to see the pilot through the windshield. Close enough to make out the twin miniguns swiveling toward them.
“Gran!” Her mouth was open; she was screaming but she couldn’t hear the sounds emanating from her own throat. “Gran!”
The Black Hawk came shrieking toward them, miniguns lighting up.
Time stopped.
Quinn saw everything in terrible slow motion, with technicolor clarity.
The helo fired again and again. It strafed the road, aiming at the remnant of townspeople scrambling to escape. It released salvo after salvo upon U.S. citizens.
Every sound that ever existed sucked into the maw of that roar. A great thundering death bearing down on them.
Quinn swayed, momentarily stunned.
It was like falling into freezing water. The absolute shock of it.
The thud thud thud shook the ground as powerful rounds struck their targets. Concrete sprayed from buildings, bricks flying, chunks of asphalt exploding.
The Schwan’s truck rattled. The pavement seemed to judder beneath her feet. The air itself heaved from the aftershocks.
There was no escaping it.
No time to run. Nowhere to hide.
Something heavy smashed into her. She fell sideways, falling hard to her knees behind the truck. Joey shrieked in startled pain.
Quinn flattened herself against the pavement. The child was still in her arms. Instinctively, she curled herself over his small body, shoving him beneath her chest.
Pebbles and dirt scraped her cheek, her whole body shaking. The rotors thundered. The wind whipped her hair, her clothes.
Debris and dust exploded. Glass, twisted metal, and masonry pelted her body. The grinding, pounding noise vibrated through her bones, through her cells, in her teeth.
The terrible pounding abruptly ceased.
Stunned, she lifted her head, skull throbbing. Her thoughts came frantic and disjointed.
She tasted dust in her mouth. Coppery blood. Her ears rang.
Another thunderous roar. Her chest seized. It wasn’t the helo. The ragged boom of the Browning M2 filled the air as it fired from the school’s rooftop. Reynoso was up there, protecting them.
Heavy rounds exploded as the M2 opened up on the Black Hawk. Tracers streaked through the sky.
The helo spun and flew rapidly south, abandoning its attack.
Beneath her, Joey was shrieking, mouth open in a red circle, face blotchy and red. But alive. Alive and unhurt but for scratches on his hands.
She levered herself to her knees. Her eyes watering, she coughed, desperate to breathe. The dust choked her lungs.
Dust everywhere. Dust on her skin, inside her clothes, gritty in her eyes and mouth, stuck to her tongue.
People coughed, sobbing and screaming. Someone moaned. Shapes on the ground appeared through the haze. Figures moved, struggling to rise. Some didn’t move at all.
“Gran,” she croaked. And then louder, “Gran!”
41
&
nbsp; Quinn
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Somehow, Quinn pulled herself to her feet, pushing against the pavement with her stinging hands, gasping, chest heaving, until she was upright.
The Black Hawk flew several blocks west, driven away by the machine gunfire. The great bird wheeled over Main Street, firing occasional bursts at empty buildings.
She dropped her gaze from the sky to the street. Her rifle had been flung several feet away. It seemed like an impossible distance. Her thoughts came thick and slow.
Jonas was there beside her, dust in his blond hair, streaking his face. She didn’t know how he’d gotten there, hadn’t seen him coming. Maybe he’d been there all along.
She thrust Joey into his arms. Jonas stared at her with a stricken expression. His blue eyes were huge in his face. He mouthed something she couldn’t hear.
“Take him,” she said, her only thought for Gran. Gran who’d pushed her out of the way. Gran who’d taken the hit, not her.
Jonas took the squalling child. “Quinn, we have to go—”
“Not without Gran!” she screamed.
“But Quinn, she’s—”
Quinn didn’t want to listen anymore. Didn’t want to hear what he had to say. The thing she feared in the deepest recesses of her soul. “No!”
She turned, her legs unsteady, and made her way around the delivery truck. Gaping holes punctured the sides and rear, holes that hadn’t been there two minutes ago.
Dread curdled her stomach, her guts turning to water.
Two yards away, a shape lay in the middle of the road. Small and gray. A listless lump shrouded in dust and debris. Gran’s cane rested beside it.
“Gran!” Quinn collapsed on her knees beside her grandmother. Bits of rock and debris dug into her knees.
She blinked grime from her eyes and felt frantically for a pulse. Gran’s wrists as fragile as bird bones, her skin thin and papery.
A thready pulse beat faintly against her fingertips. Gran wasn’t moving. Blood streaked her gray hair. Dirt and soot smudged her face and throat. Her legs twisted beneath her at an impossible angle.
There was more. More damage.
Quinn’s brain skipped away, refusing to see, to know.
“Gran! Answer me!”
Gran coughed weakly. Her eyelids cracked open.
“You’re alive!”
“Quinn…”
“We’ve got to get you out of here!”
“There’s no time…”
“Yes, there is!”
“I need to tell you…”
“We just have to get you to the medical ward. To Evelyn. She’ll fix you. She can fix this. Just hold on—”
“Quinn.”
“I have to get you to the bomb shelter. I can still get you there.”
“Hush, girl…”
Quinn tugged at her arm. “Come on! Get up!”
“Look at me, Quinn.”
Despite her best efforts not to, Quinn looked. Blood everywhere. Shredded clothing. Torn flesh. A glimpse of exposed bone.
A horrified whimper escaped her lips.
“I’m not going anywhere…that monster cut up my legs real good.”
“We’ll fix you. Evelyn can fix you.”
“I don’t feel a thing,” Gran mumbled. “No pain, bless the Lord.”
Quinn’s eyes burned. Tears seared her cheeks.
“Truth be told…thought I’d go out…in a blaze of glory.” Gran coughed up blood. A fine mist sprayed Quinn’s cheek. “Not like…this.”
“Don’t talk, Gran. Save your strength.”
“And here I had an amazing death speech all planned out…but I’m so tired…just tired.”
“No, Gran,” Quinn whimpered. “Please, no.”
Gran stretched out a trembling hand and attempted to wipe the blood away. It smeared Quinn’s face. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Gran.
“Don’t die on me.”
“You just remember…remember…”
Quinn wrapped her hand over Gran’s—weak and quivering, skin and veins stretched over thin bones. “You can’t die on me.”
Gran said something, too soft for Quinn to hear over the ringing in her ears. She bent low, clutching her grandmother’s hand.
“Lot of things to regret in this life…” Gran said. “Never you, girl…not for one second. Never you.”
Gran’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her papery eyelids fluttered.
Her chest hitched, shuddered, and fell still.
“No!” Quinn said. “No, no, no! Gran! Stay with me! No!”
Distant explosions rent the air. Gunfire like fireworks. Boom! Boom! Boom!
Rubble all around her. Fire and death and destruction. And the screaming.
The screaming would not end. It just went on and on until she understood that the scream was inside her own brain and still it would not stop.
Not Gran, not Gran.
This had to be another nightmare. It couldn’t be real.
But it was real. It was real and Gran was gone. The last of her family dead, and Quinn never even said I love you.
She rocked back and forth, weeping, screaming until her voice cracked, her throat raw. Grief and loss rolled over her in immense waves. She was drowning in it.
And then two hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her back. She fought against it, writhing, desperate to stay with Gran, to hold her, to bring her back from wherever she had gone.
Strong arms enveloped her, pulled her close.
Hannah’s voice in her ear, the only thing she could hear over her own stricken screams. “I have you, Quinn. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Jonas was there, too. He’d never left.
Quinn collapsed into them both, allowed those arms to pull her up, to hold her, carrying her to safety.
42
Liam
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Liam struggled up the hill, pulling at roots and tree branches.
His heavy go-bag slapped against his back. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. No matter how fast he ran, it wasn’t fast enough.
Fear constricted his chest, his heart tightening like a fist.
The Black Hawk had opened fire, releasing several salvos upon the defenseless townspeople. He had no idea how many casualties. Who they’d lost. Whether Hannah was okay.
The helo concentrated its fury upon downtown Fall Creek, sweeping Main Street, occasionally firing upon empty buildings as it circled out of range of the M60s.
The M2 fired its big gun, keeping the Black Hawk from making another run at the school.
His head on a swivel, Liam sprinted up the hill along a ridgeline south of Winter Haven to the west of town, between the river and the street. The hill was behind the buildings across from the high school—Brite Smiles Dental, the hair salon.
Abruptly, the Ma Deuce fell silent.
“What the hell happened, Delta Two?” Liam said into the radio. “How’d they get so close to the school?”
“The M2 jammed!” Reynoso cried through static. “Checked the ammo belt and got it working for a hot minute. Then the extractor pin broke!”
Liam cursed. That could happen if the ammo belt wasn’t seated properly, or if the gunner hadn’t run the charging handle twice.
Terror lanced through him. The M2 had malfunctioned. It wasn’t coming back online.
Now they only had one chance to take this thing out.
No intelligence. No support personnel. No drones or satellites. No air support. And no one to rescue them if this went pear-shaped.
Hell, it already had.
“Take cover, Delta Two,” he said. “Team Three, on our count, drive that bird toward us.”
“Copy that,” Perez said.
The hostiles would come back. They’d return to hit the school and take out the Ma Deuce, especially now that it was down.
Liam panted, his legs burning, spine like molten lava. The scent of pine nee
dles and cordite filled his nostrils. His boots sank into damp earth.
He reached the predetermined spot where Bishop waited. The location held the high ground with some cover and concealment provided by a cluster of huge walnut trees. It also provided decent fields of fire.
On short notice with limited resources, it’d have to do.
“You brought the fireworks,” Bishop said.
“Let’s hope it works.”
“It’ll work.” Bishop spoke with a confidence Liam didn’t feel. His faith made him an optimist. Liam was far too realistic.
Unzipping the pack, Liam withdrew a two-foot-long, drab olive-colored tube. He pulled the retaining pin, then removed the rear and front caps. As he extended the collapsed tube to its full three-foot length, the front and rear sights popped up.
Along with the M60s and the Browning M2, Perez had managed to steal a single M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon, or LAW, from the General.
A LAW was simple to use—aim and shoot, no guidance systems required. The shoulder-fired missile weapon launched a rocket equipped with an explosive warhead.
It was a single-use weapon. They had one shot.
Several yards away, parallel to his position, Bishop dropped to one knee, shouldered the rifle, and peered through the scope. He’d lay down cover fire while Liam worked the LAW.
Bishop was utterly still but for his mouth, moving silently as he prayed.
Liam pulled the safety forward, arming the LAW. “Going hot.”
The weapon itself had no recoil, but the back blast could severely injure or kill a man. You didn’t want to be caught behind it.
“Area clear,” Bishop said, verifying that he was clear of the dangerous exhaust area.
“Team Three, this is Alpha One,” Liam said into the radio. “Drive that bird this way.”
From their fortified positions within town hall, Perez’s team opened up with their two M60s. Belt-fed machine gunfire splintered the air.