Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(54)
Gibbs cleared his throat.
“What is it?”
“The troops—they might balk at engaging noncombatants. Even those sheltering terrorists. They don’t have the stomach for it.”
“Anyone who dares to disobey a direct order will end up like those deserters!”
“My men can do it. They have no such moral qualms.”
The General turned back toward the window and admired the view. “You have an idea?”
He caught Gibbs’ flat smile reflected in the glass. “I know just the thing.”
37
Liam
Day One Hundred and Twelve
Liam stalked the night.
Through his NVGs, the darkness was bathed in varying shades of green. The moon was barely visible, hidden behind a thick scrim of clouds.
It had rained earlier—the road glistened, droplets of rainwater beading the carcasses of dead vehicles. The trees and grass gleamed wetly.
He patrolled M-139 several miles north of the blockade between Fall Creek and St. Joe.
Engines were loud and conspicuous after the Collapse; he intended to keep his presence concealed, so he’d biked to Trailer World, parked in an empty bay, and hiked from there.
Yesterday, he’d deployed the M2 atop the high school roof reinforced with sandbags. The building was the town’s last ditch fallback location—Liam wanted it as protected as possible. The M60s they’d stolen from the General were deployed to several hidden ambush sites.
At 2200 hours, he’d relieved Perez of scout duty and offered to take Mike Duncan’s shift as well. He wanted to verify a few weapons caches he’d buried several weeks ago.
Mainly though, he needed to ensure he was in range of Luther’s radio at their prescribed checkin time of 2300 hours. The ruined repeaters had thrown a considerable wrench in his plans.
It had been three days since he’d heard anything from his spy.
Whether Luther was still his asset or had gone rogue was a massive unknown.
Thirty-six hours ago, the would-be kidnappers had invaded Fall Creek’s perimeter. Fourteen hours ago, Liam’s assault teams had sabotaged the General’s transport and supply vehicles.
And still, the scouts had clocked no movement from the General’s soldiers.
He was waiting for something. But what?
Maybe he was playing with them like a cat plays with its dinner before biting off its head. Using psyops—psychological operations—to terrify the town into surrendering before firing a single round.
Liam grew more and more edgy. His nerves were raw. Four hours a sleep a night for the last week. Weariness tugged at him, but he was used to sleep deprivation.
He remained vigilant. Alert and aware. Even wounded, he moved with swift efficiency, light on his feet, as lithe and powerful as a panther.
Through his NVGs, he scanned fields and farmland, pockmarked roads, squat buildings and occasional houses.
Nothing moved. Nothing appeared out of place.
A two-story office complex appeared ahead. He paused along the exterior wall of a flooring store to scan the empty parking lot. The second story north-facing windows would give him a good view of the intersection ahead.
He listened intently. Night sounds filled the air—the cool breeze rustled through matted grass and weeds. Night insects churred.
A rustle as a pair of rats scurried across the road. Their beady eyes glowed, their fur bristling along their hunched backs.
Vermin. They multiplied faster than the corpses could pile up.
Dead bodies brought the rats. Rats brought diseases.
Since they disposed of corpses immediately and regularly checked houses—both occupied and vacant—Fall Creek had remained relatively unscathed.
Outside Fall Creek, it was another story.
According to Dave’s ham contacts, plague was already cropping up in Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Cincinnati, along with tens of thousands of deaths to tuberculosis, cholera, and typhoid.
Several rats scuttled out of sight as Liam approached the rear door of the office complex. With the lock picks in his everyday carry case, he jimmied the lock and crept inside.
The air stank of rotting trash and rancid food. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling and strung sticky and glistening across doorways.
He batted them away as he cut the corner, leading with the M4.
The hallway opened into a larger space, a reception area, a couple of large offices, everything glowing in shades of green—a sprawling desk, a circular table covered in paperwork, notepads, files, and scattered blueprints.
After clearing the building, he headed upstairs and found a window with a solid vantage point of the intersection. He pushed a desk against the base of the window, then slid the window open.
Liam shrugged off his go-bag, leaned it against the wall, and pulled out a tripod mount for the M4. He put the gun to his shoulder and steadied himself against the desk.
Putting his eye to the scope, he turned the focus ring until the trunks of the pines at the edge of the road three hundred yards distant came forward, weirdly lit in the greenish glow of night vision. So close he could almost reach out and touch them.
His heart rate quickened. With the scope, he panned left and right in several great sweeps. The carbine hardly moved.
He half-expected to see something in the lens other than trees, abandoned highway, the humped shapes of stalled vehicles—a figure, a face in the dark, staring back at him with sinister eyes.