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

by Kyla Stone

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’m figuring it out. Poe is attacking Fall Creek. He’ll reach them in a matter of minutes, if he hasn’t already.”

  Hannah’s heart caught in her throat. “We have to do something!”

  His expression went steely. “I intend to.”

  Hamilton turned and motioned for them to follow him as he headed back toward the door. Outside, a Humvee was running, waiting for them. “You two are coming with me. Tell me everything you know.”

  65

  Quinn

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  Quinn knelt in the foxhole, a low ceiling of logs and packed dirt above her head.

  She balanced her AR on the tripod, the muzzle aiming through the narrow opening between the ground and overhead cover.

  The smell of leaves and pine sap filled her nostrils, the damp soil black and crumbling beneath her fingers.

  The foxhole was dug about four feet deep and eight feet wide, large enough for four fighters. Jonas was positioned to her left. She liked him near her. They made an excellent team.

  On her right, Bishop crouched next to Robert Vinson, the pharmacist. Bishop operated one of the M60 belt-fed machine guns.

  Across the street, in another foxhole, Officer Hayes manned the second one. Only the two M60s remained after the Black Hawk attack. The big .50 caliber M2 wouldn’t operate without a functioning ejector pin. Since they couldn’t order new parts, it was out of commission.

  From her position, she had an unobstructed view of the avenue of approach—Old 31.

  She’d driven the rural two-lane highway a million times with Gramps in the rattling Orange Julius. It felt bizarre to examine everything in her familiar, regular, boring life through the scope of a rifle.

  Bizarre and terrifying.

  Bishop thrust a pair of headphones at her. “Ear protection. You’ll need it.”

  She shoved them over her ears. Sound went dull and fuzzy. “Thanks.”

  “Stay by my side.” Bishop gave her a somber look. “Things are about to go pear-shaped, so we’ve got to stick together.”

  She swallowed around the thickness in her throat. “Got it.”

  Bishop nodded and turned back to scanning the road through his NVGs.

  There weren’t enough NVGs for her. The skilled shooters got them—Bishop, Hayes, Reynoso and Perez. Corinne Marshall was an excellent shot, too.

  Quinn studied the night. On the horizon, the faintest gray threaded the darkness. Her eyes burned, but adrenaline-soaked fear kept her alert.

  They’d taken their first defensive position outside of town with the bridge at their backs. A hundred yards to her right, the river twisted like a great black serpent, moonlight glinting on dark water. It flowed beneath the bridge and curved into a C behind them, hugging the eastern side of town. Several miles to the south, the dam separated Fall Creek from Lake Chapin.

  Ahead and to her left, unkept grassy fields led to the Estates Trailer Park, where she’d once lived in a crappy derelict trailer with Octavia and Ray Shultz.

  For a second she imagined artillery fire shredding the crumbling drywall, tearing through mildewing aluminum and decaying wood, stained carpet and tattered furniture, erasing its very existence.

  Past the river and the trailer park were scattered homes, farms, and family-owned businesses—a custom cabinet-making shop, a U-Pick farm, a convenience store.

  They had created various choke points—a labyrinthine maze of vehicles, massive felled trees, and concertina-wire obstacles. Scattered foxholes and urban sniper hides were placed throughout the area. They had several fallback positions past the bridge in town, where doorways, roofs, and windows had been shored up with sandbags.

  Liam had described their tactics as defense-in-depth, and he’d placed the bulk of their fortifications and security teams behind the front line.

  The Syndicate would breach their front line more easily, but as they advanced, they would continue to meet resistance—their flanks becoming vulnerable to constant attack from both sides.

  As Poe’s army pushed forward, the Fall Creek defenders would fall back to a succession of prepared positions. Bishop planned to exact a high price from the advancing enemy while avoiding the danger of being overrun or outflanked themselves.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  They had established a similar defense at the northern barricade, where Reynoso led the townspeople against the General’s men.

  Corrine Marshall and Whitney were stationed with him, along with Dave Farris, Principal King, Flynn, and dozens of others.

  Bishop’s radio spat static. Dave Farris’s voice broke through: “We have eyes on the General’s army. They halted south of the bypass just out of range. They’ve got plenty of guns bigger than I am. But they haven’t fired on us. They haven’t attacked. They’re just waiting.”

  Dread scrabbled up her spine. “For what?”

  Bishop pressed transmit and echoed her question.

  “Guess we’re about to find out,” Dave said soberly.

  Quinn’s nerves felt raw, every cell in her body on edge. The waiting was the hardest. She just wanted it to start, for the adrenaline to take over.

  The waiting let the doubt worm its way in. Misgivings, apprehension, fear. All the horrible ways to die. All the terrible things that could happen to your loved ones.

  Gran’s face flashed in her mind’s eye. Sorrow surged within her but so did the anger. She did not fight it down or pretend it away. She was angry, furious, outraged.

  She let it burn through her, energize her, drive every beat of her heart.

  She planned to eradicate every fake-soldier Syndicate scumbag that she could.

  The Syndicate was like a wart on the butt of the apocalypse. They were evil personified. Madness and destruction and death.

  “No pressure,” she said through gritted teeth. “Just saving the world over here. Don’t mind us.”

  “What?” Jonas asked.

  “Never mind.”

  Bishop’s radio beeped. “This is Echo Three,” a female voice said. “We have movement. Dozens of trucks and military vehicles approaching via Old 31. Ten miles out.”

  A terrible anticipation gripped her. Her tongue tasted coppery. Her heart beat so loud, it was difficult to hear anything beyond the roar of her pulse.

  Endless minutes passed.

  The second scout radioed in. “Attack imminent. Five miles to intercept.”

  And then she could hear it. The low buzz like a thousand bees. A growing, intensifying rumble like a great beast waking beneath the earth, roaring as it reared its head to devour them.

  Everything slowed. Her vision narrowed and crystalized.

  Eyes straining, she peered into the darkness.

  A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. Two tiny pinpricks of light.

  And then another. And another. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Even more.

  They blurred together, amplifying and expanding until it felt like a giant searchlight pinning her in place.

  Poe was coming.

  66

  Liam

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  “How many hostiles?” Liam asked in a terse voice.

  He was clad in nothing but his underwear, bruised, beaten, and freezing cold. None of it mattered. He was absolutely focused.

  “At least seven in the elevator alcove outside the kitchen,” Luther said. “I don’t see anyone in the kitchen itself, but I can’t be certain. The guardsmen are gone. It’s the General’s contractors we have to worry about.”

  “Exits?”

  “The main one straight ahead. A service entrance to the west. Ah, at our three o’clock. They’ll use it to flank us. But we’re not receiving fire from that direction yet. I don’t see any movement.”

  Liam grabbed a spare M4 from a dead bodyguard, examined it—full magazine, locked and loaded—and slung it over his bare shoulder. “Then we need to get there first.”

  Luther nodded.

 
Weapon in hand, Liam stacked up behind him. His thoughts crystallized. His senses bright and sharp, every synapse firing.

  Luther knelt in the freezer doorway and fired on full-auto, suppressing the hostiles attempting to burst through the kitchen entrance. He bled off an entire magazine.

  Slugs punched through drywall, peppering the metal shelving and cabinets.

  A scream as a man was hit.

  The hostiles ducked for cover, their return fire going spotty.

  Time to move.

  Liam limped past Luther into the kitchen, slicing the pie as he went. Cautiously, he stepped over several bodies. The floor beneath them slick with blood.

  It was like slogging through molasses. His legs dragged, full of cement. His arms made of lead. His hands trembled as he pressed the carbine to his shoulder.

  Luther moved past the threshold, entered the kitchen and swung left, weapon up. Clear.

  Liam turned right. He took the corner and swept back to the center of the room. Clear.

  At a crouch, they moved forward into the massive kitchen, past shelves and counters, sweeping back and forth. Heart in his throat, he checked left then right, scanning for threats.

  The battery-operated lanterns had been knocked to the floor. The watery light reflected off steel, throwing wavering shapes and shadows. His mouth was bone-dry.

  Rounds snapped past their heads.

  Luther dove behind a stove the size of a steam engine. Liam flung himself after him.

  They returned fire. Liam did a tactical reload, ejecting the not-quite-spent magazine and inserting the fresh one into the mag well. Luther lobbed a vicious volley at the bullet-riddled doorway.

  A pause in the enemy fire as they reloaded spent magazines. Their opponents had to be running low.

  Luther covered Liam as he scurried across several yards of open space. He crawled along a long counter and dove behind a massive refrigerator.

  Pain hamstrung him. Every second felt like a minute, his movements slow and sluggish.

  Liam checked the service door—now in sight ten yards to his left. He knelt, half turned, and provided cover fire as Luther bent double and sprinted toward him.

  A stray round pinged off the top of the fridge.

  Liam ducked—

  “Behind you!” Luther shouted.

  A sense of movement.

  Two shadows burst from the service entrance to his left.

  Liam dropped onto his back as rounds screamed over his head. Swinging the M4 around, finger already squeezing the trigger. He opened fire on the hostiles attempting to flank him.

  The M4 stitched lead up their torsos. Spent brass clattered across the tile floor.

  Blood sprayed from the first hostile’s throat. The second toppled but fired as he fell.

  Slugs peppered the fridge inches from Liam’s face. Shrapnel shredded his cheek. An intense sting like a thousand needles piercing his flesh.

  Alarmed, he climbed to his feet, scanning frantically. He scrambled for cover from the crossfire. They were being fired upon from at least two directions. Maybe three—

  Pop! Pop!

  A sharp pain in his spine. His legs turned to water. He sagged, flopping against the fridge like a fish out of water.

  He twisted, got the carbine up, and aimed for the new threat at his six.

  Three yards behind him, to his left, Luther spun on one knee. He fired three-round bursts.

  With a scream, a man dressed in black fatigues tumbled from behind a stainless-steel counter. The suppressed pistol slid from his hand.

  As he fell, Liam stitched the rest of his magazine into him. The man slumped to the floor.

  In the mayhem, a hostile must have escaped the entrance bottleneck unseen. He’d circled around behind them before opening fire.

  He was dead now, but he’d done his damage.

  Luther fired twice more and scuttled across the open tile. He squatted at Liam’s side, pressing his back against the fridge door, breathing hard. “I’ll cover you! Go!”

  But Liam couldn’t go.

  His legs would not work. He couldn’t stand, couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything from his waist down. Numbness spread like white fire.

  “Liam!” Luther cried.

  With one hand, Liam fumbled at his back. Warm, sticky liquid smeared his fingers.

  He’d been shot.

  67

  Quinn

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  Quinn raised the rifle to her shoulder and pressed the stock to her cheek.

  Her hands trembled. She willed them to steady. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck.

  Hundreds of pairs of headlights barreled closer and closer. Engines gunning. The roar louder and louder.

  “God be with us,” Bishop said.

  Several dozen belt-fed machine guns opened fire simultaneously. A rapid boom-boom-boom like cracks of thunder. Like the sky itself ripping open.

  It was the loudest sound she’d ever heard. Rounds riddled the barricade as the Fall Creek fighters screamed and ducked. Dust rained down. Pings and thuds as bullets impacted all around her.

  The main element thrust toward them. A secondary element of about forty vehicles broke off and left the main road, rumbling down the grassy embankment, paralleling the river as they searched for a way to flank them.

  Eventually, they’d succeed.

  Heart in her throat, chest pounding, she searched for targets.

  She found two figures darting between a stalled truck and a minivan on the highway and lined up her sights, aimed and fired.

  Missed. Adjusted her aim.

  Steady, steady. Aim. Exhale. Squeeze the damn trigger, girl!

  This time, the lead figure jerked. She squeezed three rounds in quick succession, and he fell down.

  She blinked sweat from her eyes and searched for the next one through her scope. His companion was long gone.

  She focused on the muzzle flashes in the gray pre-dawn, took careful aim just below the flash and squeezed the trigger in short bursts.

  An enemy muzzle went dark. She searched for her next target.

  Every time a figure dropped, five popped up to replace him.

  Someone was shouting. A male voice screamed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t take her eyes from the scope or cease firing.

  Her magazine ran dry. She ducked down, fumbling to eject the empty one. It dropped to the ground. No time to pick it up. She grabbed a fresh one and slapped it in, charged the bolt.

  Up on her knees, searching for the next target, aiming and firing.

  Smoke everywhere. Cordite strong in her nostrils. Sweat and blood and fear.

  An explosion in the distance. Loud and fiery. A grenade had found its mark. Seconds later, another explosion. Somewhere far off to the west.

  It was hard to figure distances and locations with the static inside her head, the dull ringing in her ears.

  Even with the ear protection, the thunderous assault stunned her senses.

  To the southwest, another firefight erupted from the Fall Creek Estates mobile home park.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted movement.

  Units were breaking off and flanking them from the sides. Fire hitting them from the west. Rapid-fire slugs pounded in just over her head, dirt raining down on her.

  Something whistled past her. A searing heat kissed the skin of her neck. Eruptions of dirt showered upward. Incoming rounds chewed into the earth all around her.

  Quinn fell back, ducking beneath the lip of the foxhole, panting, heart thundering in her ears, everything tinny and far away.

  “They’re maneuvering on us!” Bishop said. “They’re trying to put us in a pincer!”

  The Syndicate were overwhelming Fall Creek with sheer numbers and force of power.

  Rounds struck all around them. The thundering barrage never stopped. It felt like the earth itself quaking beneath her boots.

  Someone screamed and went down—Robert V
inson, the pharmacist.

  “Fall back!” Bishop shouted. “They’re about to surround us. We’ve got to go!”

  “We’re losing!” Jonas said, his voice cracking.

  Still crouching, Quinn took a trembling step backward. Her hands felt glued to her rifle. Her foot struck something soft.

  Chest heaving, she dared a glance down. She’d tripped over Robert Vinson. A round had caught him in the face.

  Acid clawed up the back of her throat; she nearly vomited.

  “He’s gone, Quinn!” Bishop seized her arm and shoved her backward, out of the foxhole. “We’ll put ‘em in a chokehold at the bridge. Go! Go!”

  “Retreat!” someone screamed. Then others took up the cry. “Retreat! Retreat!”

  68

  Liam

  Day One Hundred and Fifteen

  Liam gasped. “I’m hit.”

  Luther backed up to his side. He squatted beside Liam, only half-concealed by the fridge.

  A long steel counter next to the fridge separated them from the next aisle. A few counters between them and the opposition bombarding them.

  Liam sat, legs splayed in front of him, back against the fridge, M4 in hand. Blood spread dark and thick beneath him.

  For a heartbeat, Luther dropped his gaze to Liam. He muttered a curse. His mouth moved, the ringing in Liam’s ears too loud to make out his words.

  Fresh gunfire blasted. The fridge rattled, vibrating from the strikes. Just above Luther’s head, a slug pinged off the counter. It ricocheted and punched through the far wall.

  Crouching, Luther twisted around. He raised the muzzle of his carbine over the counter and returned fire. Shell casings clattered to the floor. Spent brass rolled against Liam’s useless legs.

  The scent of cordite singed his nostrils. Dizziness washed through him. He gripped the M4, told himself to MOVE, DAMN IT.

  Nothing happened.