Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(88)

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.