Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (Edge of Collapse Book 7)

by Kyla Stone

  “We will,” Hannah said. “We stand together.”

  Mick gave a grim nod. “The Community Alliance has three hundred fighting men and women who’ve volunteered. We’re low on ammo, but we’ve got some. A couple of reloaders have helped. Some are police officers, security, firefighters, former military. Others are hunters and recreational shooters. A few just picked up a gun for the first time, but they’re willing to fight to defend their home.”

  Annette sucked in her breath. “Three hundred?”

  “Yes,” Mick said. “And all three hundred will fight with you.”

  “Poe isn’t the only threat,” Dave said. “A man calling himself the General will attack from the north in only a few hours.”

  “We know about the General.” Dallas’s voice darkened. “He sent some of his goons riding in and demanded a quarter of our food as taxes for protection. His lieutenant, Gibbs, claimed they were rooting out local domestic terrorists. I assume that’s you?”

  “We wouldn’t roll over and let them execute an innocent man,” Bishop said.

  “Rosamond Sinclair is the General’s daughter,” Hannah said. “Mattias Sutter was his nephew.”

  Flynn’s thick eyebrows lowered, his eyes narrowing. A look of pure hatred crossed his face. He loathed the militia. Sutter’s men had murdered his wife. “Knew I didn’t like their tone or the look of them. Anyone allied with the militia is an enemy of mine.”

  Hannah met his gaze. “This is personal for him. He’s using the National Guard to further his quest for revenge.”

  Flynn didn’t look away. “Then we’ll fight him, too.”

  Hannah looked around at the small group, fierce pride beating in her chest. They were afraid, yes, but not panicked. Courage in their faces. Grit and strength. Resolve in their eyes.

  These weren’t the soft, terrified people of four months ago. They had suffered hunger and the bitter, killing cold. They had endured the tyranny of Rosamond and the cruelty of the militia.

  They were not trained or hardened soldiers, but they were survivors. They had suffered and lost, but they were still here.

  “Our enemies are just men,” Hannah said with conviction. “Men can be shot and killed. Men can be defeated.”

  “Hannah is right,” Bishop said. “God is with us. Whatever your faith, whatever you believe. Whether we stand or fall this day, have faith, my friends. It is the right thing to stand against the darkness spreading across our land. If it is our time to perish, then it is our time. But we will fight for Fall Creek.”

  57

  Liam

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  Liam awoke to a bucket of freezing water hurled in his face.

  The sudden shock jolted him to sharp, painful consciousness.

  “Wakey, wakey,” a male voice rasped.

  He sputtered, ice cold water streaming from his mouth, eyes, and nose. His head throbbed like someone had split it open with a maul.

  The world was hazy, everything coming back in fits and snatches. Fuzzy shapes hovered over him.

  He blinked to clear his blurry vision. Fuzziness solidified into recognizable forms.

  “Get up, scumbag.” Two well-armed men dressed in black fatigues bent and hauled him up between them. One big and burly with a bristling auburn beard, the other short and wiry with beady eyes.

  Not National Guardsmen.

  The General’s minions.

  He attempted to stand, bare feet scrabbling for purchase. The bearded one kicked his legs out from under him. Pain spiked through his ankle and shin.

  They dragged him to the center of the room and forced him to his knees. The beady-eyed hostile cuffed the sides of his head so hard his ears rang. “Time to pay the piper.”

  His head clearing, he took in his surroundings. He knelt in the center of a commercial walk-in freezer. Pipes snaked across the high ceiling. Blank tubes of fluorescent lights overhead, now long dark. Steel walls and bare metal shelving but for a pile of clothing. Hard concrete floor beneath him.

  Beyond the freezer through the opened door, Liam glimpsed stainless-steel counters, racks of pots and pans beside a display of butcher knives.

  They’d taken him to the Boulevard Inn’s kitchen, located deep in the belly of the building. The faint stench of rotting meat stung his nostrils.

  He tried to move his arms but couldn’t. Metal cuffs bit into his wrists, which were bound behind his back. He strained, pulling with all his strength, but there was no give.

  With a groan, he slumped back.

  Beady Eyes grinned. “I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere, Mr. Coleman.”

  Frigid water ran in rivulets down his scarred, bare chest. He shivered violently. Goosebumps peppered his skin.

  His clothing had been stripped. He wore only his boxer shorts. His boots were gone, and his socks. He was cold. So damn cold.

  Luther rummaged through Liam’s clothing on the shelf. A fourth man stood in the open doorway, legs splayed, both hands on his M4. He was bald, in his late thirties, with acne-scarred skin.

  “You find anything else on him?” the bearded guard asked.

  Luther held something up. Between his fingers, a tiny key glinted. “He had a handcuff key sewn into his left sock.”

  Liam cursed. Anger shot through him like an electrical current, his stomach churning with nausea.

  “And a second knife in his boot.”

  That wasn’t part of the plan. Though it had gone against his training, he’d been forced to rely on Luther. He’d known better than to trust an informant. And yet, he’d had no choice.

  With Luther as an ally, his mission had been a long shot.

  Without Luther? What little hope he’d still held drained out of him.

  “Traitor,” he spat.

  Luther was unperturbed. Ignoring Liam, he pocketed the key and the knife, then combed through the everyday carry case. “A multi-tool, folding knife, pen, lock pick set. Nothing important.”

  “I’ll take the multi-tool,” Beady Eyes said. “Could come in handy.”

  Luther tossed it to him. “Catch, Dobson.”

  The acne-scarred mercenary snickered as he gazed at Liam’s near-naked body in derision. “Don’t think he’s hiding anything else on him.”

  Luther leaned against the metal shelves, arms crossed, avoiding Liam’s gaze.

  “I made Richards check him. Practically gave him an enema.”

  Liam ignored their cruel laughter. He’d been unconscious for that, though he’d endured worse.

  Brisk footsteps sounded outside the freezer. Acne-Scars moved aside as an older man strode into the industrial freezer. Authority exuded from his every movement.

  He wore black fatigues but no tactical gear. His hair was a shocking white, his hard face lined, but his jaw was still square, his build solid. A sharp intelligence shone in his eyes.

  He reminded Liam of a grizzled old bear, long in the tooth but still deadly.

  This must be the General, then.

  The bodyguards parted for the man and closed ranks around him. Four behind him, two on each side. Several more at the ready outside the steel door.

  They exuded the air of ex-military. It was in their posture, the confident way they moved, their attitude. Their eyes were hard and cruel.

  General Sinclair halted several feet from Liam. Instead of looking at him, his shrewd gaze roamed the room. “Which one of you brought him in?”

  Luther straightened. “I did, sir.”

  A slow insidious smile spread across the man’s face. “I am impressed. You came through, Luther. I see I was wise to put my trust in you.” He swept his hand at the armed men ranged behind him. “You’ve earned your place with us.”

  “I hope it was worth it,” Liam said.

  Emotion flickered in Luther’s eyes. A flare of shame. “I had to do it.”

  “Don’t make excuses,” the General said. “Never make an excuse. Do it or don’t. We all have our reasons.”

  Luther’s mouth thi
nned. He gave a single, sharp nod. “Sir.”

  The General motioned at Acne-Scars. “Redding, please personally escort Luther’s father from Fall Creek once we’re in. We’ll ensure that he receives the best medical care available. Fort Custer has a medical bay, a surgical theater, the works. It’s reserved for military only, but I can pull the necessary strings.”

  Luther’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Thank you, sir.”

  The General turned his attention upon Liam. His keen gaze raked over him, assessing him in seconds. “You thought I wouldn’t suspect a trap? All men can be bought. This one just needed a few oxygen tanks.”

  Liam ground his teeth so hard, his jaws ached. “Go to hell.”

  58

  Liam

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  The General glared at Liam. “You’re Liam Coleman. Terrorist and murderer.”

  Liam resisted the urge to spit on him. While it might feel satisfying in the short term, it would do nothing to further his goals.

  Keep the man talking. Draw him closer. Lower his guard.

  In his current state, Liam was helpless. At least, with the enemy’s eyes on him. He needed a minute alone. Just sixty seconds.

  He wasn’t going to get it.

  Thanks to Luther’s betrayal, Liam was going to die here in this room, surrounded by enemies.

  He’d come to terms with such a death, but the idea that he would die before he eliminated General Sinclair was repugnant. He refused to accept it.

  There had to be a way to turn this around. An angle he hadn’t seen yet.

  He would not give up. He couldn’t give up.

  “I’m no terrorist,” he said.

  “You killed seven of my men at Vortex.”

  “Guess your operators aren’t as competent as you think they are.”

  Two of the men cursed. The bearded one made a move as if to kick him.

  Liam didn’t flinch.

  “Stand down, McArthur.” The General turned to Liam. “You murdered two more who came to collect what’s mine. You destroyed my Black Hawk and half my convoy, not to mention a healthy chunk of our ordnance. Fifteen million dollars of priceless government property.”

  “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  The General narrowed his eyes. “What are you? Navy SEAL? Ranger? Delta?”

  “More of a soldier than you are.”

  He snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

  “I will kill you,” Liam said. “You’re a dead man. You just don’t know it yet.”

  The General gave a mirthless laugh. “I think you have things confused. It will be the other way around.”

  “You going to kill me while I’m bound and helpless? You think that’s justice? Fight me man to man. Or are you going to have one of your minions do it instead?”

  “Oh, I’ll kill you myself. A real man isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. I think we have that in common.”

  “We have nothing in common.”

  “You have considerable skills. So do I. I assume you’ve killed many men during your years of service. As have I. More than you, I’d wager. The capacity for violence isn’t limited to the young. Some of us have had many, many years to practice.”

  Liam glared at him.

  The General scowled. “You murdered my daughter in cold blood.”

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” Liam said. “I am an American citizen and a proud veteran of the armed forces. You’re the one who conducted an air raid on unarmed civilians. Eleven innocent people died. I’d say you’re the murderer.”

  “If they’d relinquished you as ordered by their sovereign government, they’d be sitting at their dinner tables, eating apple pie right now. It was their choice to defy the law—and suffer the consequences.”

  “It was your choice to open fire, and yours alone. People just want to protect their families and survive. The only one asking for trouble is you. Leave us alone.”

  The General snapped his fingers. “Chair.”

  Luther slipped out of the industrial freezer and returned a moment later with a metal folding chair. He placed it about six feet from Liam’s position.

  The General sat down facing Liam. He had impeccable posture, just like his daughter. He folded his gnarled hands in his lap. “I’ve sent a team to retrieve my great-granddaughter. I will bring her to Lansing with me. I’ve already procured a wet nurse and a nanny. Unlike the rest of you, I will provide her with proper food, medical care, and education. She will outlive me and carry the Sinclair name into the future. It will not end with me, but will go on forever.”

  “You’re delusional. She’s not a Sinclair. She never will be.”

  “As for the rest of the town—” The General gestured was as though washing his hands of them. “Let me tell you what will happen since you won’t be present to see it. As we speak, my soldiers are preparing for battle. At dawn, they’ll descend upon Fall Creek and shred your flimsy barricades. They will mow down your civilians with targeted artillery. Mortar shells will blast them to pieces. There will be little left to identify the bodies afterward.”

  Liam strained against his restraints to no avail. Dread sprouted in the pit of his stomach and formed teeth and claws.

  A trim, muscled man strode into the room. His hard gaze zeroed in on Liam. “Why the hell is he still alive?”

  “To suffer is good for the soul, Gibbs,” the General said.

  “This dirtbag killed Matherson, Thomas, and Garcia!” Gibbs spat.

  Hostility vibrated off the General’s men in waves. Hate flashed in their eyes. Liam had eliminated several of their own. They weren’t going to forget it.

  They wanted to see him suffer.

  If the General didn’t kill him, they certainly would. Slowly and painfully.

  “And he will pay for it,” the General said. “But first, he will pay for my daughter.”

  “Your daughter was a murderous tyrant,” Liam said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  The General smiled, his eyes cold and ruthless. A predator’s eyes. “Within the next six hours, everyone you love will die. They will be afraid. They will suffer. And they will call out your name, and you will not be there to save them.”

  He leaned forward, that rictus of a smile fixed upon his face. “You cannot save them.”

  59

  Liam

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  Liam trembled with black rage. He loathed this man with every fiber of his being. With great effort, he resisted the urge to launch himself at the General and smash the man’s face in with his head.

  The General nodded at Gibbs. The operator stepped forward, quicker than he looked, and threw a savage haymaker punch to Liam’s nose.

  Liam fell back, toppling sideways. Pain exploded from his nose and radiated through his cheekbones, his sinuses, and into his skull. He nearly blacked out from the pain.

  He struggled to put it in a box, to focus on his mission.

  As long as he wasn’t dead, there was still a chance.

  “You’ll never get away with this.”

  “I already have.”

  “You can’t murder an entire town. Not even now. Word will get out. It always gets out. You think most of those five hundred National Guardsmen are sociopaths like you? They’re not. There will be consequences. You will be brought to justice.”

  The General gave a hard bark of laughter. “You have no idea what’s happening in the outside world, do you? You know why no one’s coming? Why you haven’t seen any military other than a few scraggly National Guard?”

  Liam said nothing. Hot blood leaked from his throbbing nose. It ran down his chin and dripped to his bare chest. A few droplets struck the concrete floor.

  The General smiled, like he was enjoying this. “We’re at war. World War III. It’s been going on for months, and no one has any idea.”

  A shuffling sound behind him. Low murmuring and wary looks exchanged among the General’s men. Apparently, he hadn’
t made his bodyguards privy to the intel.

  “China and Russia conspired against us. We didn’t know that at first, of course. They made it look like Iran attacked us. They weren’t supposed to have nukes. They did. The U.S. Army nuked them in retaliation. What do you think the Middle East looks like? They’re one of the few regions worse off than we are, I’ll tell you that.

  “Russia and the remains of the U.S. military are engaged in a vicious proxy war over the ashes of the Middle East. The U.N. is impotent. Everyone is terrified either Russia or the U.S. will use nukes again.”

  Liam rocked back, reeling. “Why would our own government keep that secret from us?”

  “Why, indeed. The President declared martial law and seized federal control of all networks, cell towers, radio—everything. The feds realized that without nationwide communication, social media, or even functioning news outlets, they could keep things under wraps.

  “The federal government has never held much faith in its people. The less real information you know, the easier it is to control you. If you tell three hundred and fifty million people their way of life is over, what will they do? How will they respond? Panic. Rioting and looting. Mass casualties. The response will be worse than the event itself.

  “You have to string them along, give them hope; only parcel out information in small, palatable pieces. It keeps the populace obedient and subdued while the government deals with the enemies at the gate.

  “The world is intricately interconnected,” the General continued. “The U.S. received the brunt of the blast, but the aftershocks wreaked a different devastation. When the EMP took out our grid, our economy collapsed instantaneously. The stock market was obliterated. World markets were crippled with no way to recover.

  “It has destabilized the global economy. The UK is in crisis. Even with their electric grid still intact, most developed countries are in a tailspin. Riots and looting. Massive food shortages. Money markets imploding. Inflation rising by twenty percent a month. Banks freezing accounts.”