Edge of Valor: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller(93)

The National Guard.

Fighting for them, not against them.

Salvos screamed overhead. The ground shook as mortars detonated one after another.

A truck exploded. Then another and another.

The enemy scattered like ants before the sudden explosive onslaught.

“They came,” Quinn whispered, dazed, still half in shock. “Hannah did it. Help is here.”





70





Quinn





Day One Hundred and Fifteen





There’s something about the moments after your first battle that they fail to tell you.

You’ve won. The bad guys are defeated. You should feel thrilled, elated, joyous. Everyone around you weak with relief as they lower their weapons, cheering and jubilant.

You stand there, rifle hanging at your side, arms limp, dust caking your face, your mouth, grit in your eyes. Your muscles trembling with exhaustion and nerves. You can’t hear over the ringing inside your head.

Relieved, yes. And more than a little sick.

You lived. God rolled the dice, and you made it. A thousand bullets fired at you, and not one stuck its landing.

The town that you love still stands. The buildings, the roads, the house you grew up in. Still here.

But something is missing.

The adrenaline dump leaves you dizzy, your stomach queasy, and you sink down right there on the curb, blinking up at the sky that you can still see, the clouds and the sun and same old trees, with the breeze that you can still feel.

Because you’re alive. Because you made it.

You search through the crowd and see the people you love and care for, but not the one you most want to see.

Because they’re gone forever.

Because they’re dead.

No matter how much you long for it or how often you dream it. No matter how many times you squeeze that trigger or how many bad guys you put in the ground.

They’re gone, and you can’t bring them back.

There will be other fights. Other battles.

You will lose more people that you love.

That is the truth that roots you in place, that pulses in beat with your heart. No matter how strong you are, no matter what you do.

You can’t stop it.

The Earth spins round and round, and the Sun rises and the Sun sets. And even now there are evil men who plot to tear down everything you will ever build.

It never ends. It’s never over.

And you know, sitting there, dirty and sweaty and spent, that you will not let that fact stop you from trying.

You stood when it was time to stand and you fought when it was time to fight. You were scared to death, but you showed up.

And when your friends need you again, you’ll be there. Every time, you will stand. And you will fight. Even knowing that you may lose everything and everyone.

Because you are a warrior.

It has changed you. Broken you and remade you. You are scarred but not defeated. Wounded but not irreparable.

This you still believe. You must believe.

Through the swirling smoke and dust a figure appears, almost recognizable through the soot and grime on his face, his blond hair gray with dust, his eyes still so blue.

A flash of white teeth as he smiles. Shell-shocked but moving, on his feet.

You know him, this boy. Your friend. Maybe more than that.

Coming toward you. Coming to find you. To bring you back.

You can still go home.

You will live with the nightmares, haunted by blood and the screams of the dying. Both diminished and more than you are, a part of something larger and greater.

You can still go home, warrior.

He holds out his hand.

You hesitate. And then you take it.





71





Liam





Day One Hundred and Fifteen





Liam felt himself fading.

He slumped against the fridge. His worthless legs splayed out in front of him, sitting in his own congealing blood. Darkness lurked at the corners of his vision.

The M4 rested in his lap. He’d switched out the spent magazine and inserted the fresh one he’d confiscated from a nearby corpse. Thirty rounds for one last rodeo.

The ringing in his ears had dulled. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? How long did it take for a man’s lifeblood to leak from his broken body?

His thoughts drifted in and out of focus. His consciousness riding the waves of pain and numbness. Gradually, he began to let himself go.

His head leaned back, eyes half closed, staring at nothing. He thought of Hannah. The feel of her in his arms, the softness of her lips. How she tilted her chin and bit her bottom lip; how when she was angry, her eyes sparked a deep emerald green.

How bleak and unfair life could be. And yet, so fierce and wonderful and spectacularly beautiful. How much he would miss.

And yet, he was satisfied. The Sinclairs were dead. Every last one of them.

Footsteps approached from somewhere behind him. Two sets of boots.

Liam stiffened. Instinct took over.

It was in his blood. In his bones. He’d lived as a warrior. He would die like one, too. Hands shaking, he raised his gun one final time.

“Clear,” said a deep baritone voice.

“Damn it,” said another voice. Husky and familiar. “Look at the carnage. He couldn’t have made it…”