Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(91)

“Retreat!” someone screamed. Then others took up the cry. “Retreat! Retreat!”





68





Liam





Day One Hundred and Fifteen





Liam gasped. “I’m hit.”

Luther backed up to his side. He squatted beside Liam, only half-concealed by the fridge.

A long steel counter next to the fridge separated them from the next aisle. A few counters between them and the opposition bombarding them.

Liam sat, legs splayed in front of him, back against the fridge, M4 in hand. Blood spread dark and thick beneath him.

For a heartbeat, Luther dropped his gaze to Liam. He muttered a curse. His mouth moved, the ringing in Liam’s ears too loud to make out his words.

Fresh gunfire blasted. The fridge rattled, vibrating from the strikes. Just above Luther’s head, a slug pinged off the counter. It ricocheted and punched through the far wall.

Crouching, Luther twisted around. He raised the muzzle of his carbine over the counter and returned fire. Shell casings clattered to the floor. Spent brass rolled against Liam’s useless legs.

The scent of cordite singed his nostrils. Dizziness washed through him. He gripped the M4, told himself to MOVE, DAMN IT.

Nothing happened.

Luther’s body jerked. He might have made a sound; Liam couldn’t hear it.

Luther tumbled back on his knees, chest heaving. The carbine sagged in his hands, his left arm slack.

A hole appeared in his right shoulder, a rip in his jacket beneath his armpit, a few inches to the right.

Not much blood. Blood being a lousy indicator of actual injuries. There were enough tendons, bundles of nerves, and tissue in a man’s shoulder to do plenty of damage.

The real problem was the stuff you couldn’t see—internal organs punctured, intestines shredded, tendons ripped to hell.

“I’m sorry!” Luther said. “Tell my dad—” He gave a sharp shake of his head. Like he wanted to say more but realized there was no time.

This wasn’t the movies. Bad guys didn’t wait for moving speeches.

“Go,” Liam mumbled. “Just go.”

Footsteps pounded. Getting closer.

Liam heard it as if underwater—dim shouting, distant cracks like thunder.

They’d breached the kitchen.

“Don’t—”

Luther didn’t hesitate. Leaping to his feet, he turned to face the onrushing hostiles beyond the counter.

Rifle butt propped against his stomach, firing one-handed, he unleashed a spray of firepower. Rounds exploded from the barrel. With a muzzle velocity of over 2900 feet per second, the slugged ripped through anything in their path.

Distant booms shook the room. The tile floor quaked beneath him.

Liam held the carbine against his shoulder, biceps trembling from the exertion. Finger on the trigger. His muscles straining. The pain hit him in unrelenting waves.

The gunfire ceased. Smoke drifted in the air.

Silence, but for the dull buzzing in his head.

His pulse hammered in his throat. He waited, unable to move, to get up and fight.

He couldn’t see anything beyond his limited line of sight. The bullet-pocked cabinets across the aisle. The steel doors dented and dinged.

Blood rushed in his ears. Dread slicked his insides.

“Luther,” he said hoarsely.

No sound. No response. None that he could hear.

He tugged on the man’s pant leg. Tugged harder. Nothing.

Liam forced himself to wait. He strained to hear, but his senses were muted. Still no sound or movement that he could discern.

When enough time had passed, he moved.

With the fridge as leverage, he managed to scoot sideways. He looked up.

Luther slumped facedown across the counter. Still standing—only because the countertop bore the weight of his listless upper half.

Unconscious or dead? Liam wasn’t sure.

He leaned the carbine against the cabinet within easy reach, then used the counter to pull himself up. From the waist down, he was numb. His legs two sacks of concrete attached to his torso.

Using his upper body strength, muscles straining from the effort, he raised himself far enough to see over the lip and scanned for threats.

The air was hazy with gun smoke. Nothing moved. Amidst the blood and shell casings lay five bullet-riddled bodies.

Luther had killed them.

Didn’t mean more weren’t coming.

Liam turned to Luther. He didn’t have the strength to turn him over. He didn’t have to. The gruesome exit wounds gaping from his lower back told the grim story.

James Luther was dead.

Liam wasn’t. Not yet.

But it was coming for him. He could feel it depleting his strength, leaching his vitality, sapping his lifeblood.

Death marched toward him, determined to take its due.





69





Quinn





Day One Hundred and Fifteen





“Be careful of tunnel vision!” Bishop said. “Keep moving so they don’t zero in on you!”

Terror filled Quinn. She felt stunned, shell-shocked.

“Quinn!” Bishop whipped around and grabbed her arm. “Are you okay? Are you with me?”