Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(90)

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 Vinson, 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!”