Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(34)

“At ease,” the General said.

Gibbs inserted a key in the freezer’s lock, and the door swung open. Inside, the room was a twelve-by-sixteen-foot rectangle. Sleek metal floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls—emptied except for some cardboard boxes, twist ties, and shredded plastic bags.

Someone had emptied this place in a hurry.

The deserters slumped in folding chairs placed side by side. Handcuffs bound their hands behind them.

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.”