Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(56)

The sun peaked above the tree line, a fat ball of yellow in a clear blue sky. The clouds had dissipated during the night.

With considerable effort, Liam reined in his fury. What was done was done. Luther was his only connection to General Sinclair. Liam needed him.

He blew out an even breath and steadied his heart rate. “You’ve met him face to face. Describe him.”

“He’s…he’s like Rosamond. I see similar traits. He’s harder than she was. She wanted to be liked. I’m not sure that he cares. He only wants to be remembered. Immortalized in the history books. He’s going to railroad whoever and whatever he needs to in order to achieve his goals. The rank-and-file guardsmen don’t like him, but they obey him.”

“What’s he going to do next?”

“He’s obsessed with legacy. If he thinks Hannah’s baby is his progeny, he’ll keep coming for her. And he’ll keep coming for you. This is a personal vendetta.”

Liam clenched his jaw. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t expected, but it still chilled him to his core to hear his suspicions confirmed. “I know. What is he going to do?”

“I’m not privy to his plans. He’s very secretive and keeps his private security team close as a buffer between himself and the soldiers—”

“Then become privy.”

“It’s going to take time to get into his good graces,” Luther whined. “I’m trying to befriend a man named Baxter. He’s on the inside. He’s not a soldier. If anyone has a conscience among them, or at least a loose tongue—”

A sound in the background, barely audible.

Liam went rigid. “What is that noise?”

“What?”

Static on the other end.

Then, whump, whump, whump.

Fear lanced through him.

Liam gripped the radio as he leapt to his feet, shouldered his go-bag, and seized the M4.

He sprinted for the stairwell. His spine electric with pain, his side on fire, slowing him down. Too slow.

“Liam, I didn’t know—!” Luther said, his voice pitched in alarm.

Liam was no longer listening. He switched the channel as he skirted desks and cubicles bathed in early morning sunlight and slammed his shoulder into the exit door.

The door banged open. He skidded down the stairs, leaping two and three at a time. Nearly stumbling from the flare of pain.

Then on his feet and running again. Blood rushed in his ears. His heart hammered out of his chest. “Echo Two, come in!”

Only static on the radio.

“Bravo Four! 10-33!”

He was out of range.

He had to get back to Fall Creek. He had to warn them. Liam knew that sound, as familiar to him as his worst nightmare.

A Black Hawk taking flight.





39





Quinn





Day One Hundred and Thirteen





The church bell tolled.

The sound rang out in the crisp morning air.

Quinn froze.

Jonas’s eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”

Three dozen townspeople looked up in alarm. They stood over rows of plowed earth, hoes and shovels in their hands. Dressed in jeans or overalls, sweatshirts beneath jackets, baseball caps over greasy hair.

A few yards behind them, Ghost lay in a pile of dirt, tongue lolling, tail thumping lazily, like a prince surveying his domain.

The bells.

It took a moment for the clanging to sink into her consciousness. Her brain felt stuffed with cotton, her eyes gritty from exhaustion.

Last night, she’d spent an uneventful four-hour shift on the Snow Road blockade after two hours of hand-to-hand combat and defensive tactic drills conducted by Liam.

Five hours of sleep, and she was up before dawn to train with Liam. He was a no-show, so she’d found Jonas and headed to the high school.

They were transferring the tender seedlings from the greenhouses to the former soccer field they’d cleared and plowed with a diesel tractor that ran on biofuel.

The church bells resounded, peal after peal.

“Quinn!” A few rows ahead of her, Milo was on his knees, digging holes with a trowel. A smear of dirt streaked his forehead. He stared at her, fear contorting his small face. “That’s the alarm!”

“It’s real, isn’t it?” Jonas said. “This is real.”

Liam had insisted the town practice emergency drills each evening at six p.m.

It was not six p.m. It was eight-thirty in the morning.

This was not a drill. The warning was real.

An attack was pending.

Adrenaline shot through her. She leapt to her feet and reached for her rifle. Dirt crusted her knees and the palms of her hands. No time to wipe herself off. No time to do anything but move.

“To the bomb shelters!” she shouted. “Hurry! Go now! Go!”

“Are we under attack?” a middle-aged man cried.

A girl—maybe ten or eleven—started to cry.

Jonas strode across three rows of freshly planted tomatoes, mindful even in his fear not to trample precious food. He grasped the girl’s hand. “What Quinn said! Everyone to the school!”

The bell kept tolling. A crisp, grim warning.

The townspeople jolted into action. They dropped their trowels and shovels and reached for nearby weapons—shotguns and hunting rifles, axes and hatchets.