Author: D J Molles
Date: 2021-04-20 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Infected
Description: Don't ever let it break you. The United Eastern States is crumbling. The fragile house of cards that Lee Harden and Angela Houston have built has begun to fall. Lee is up against a ticking clock, as he is recalled from Texas and given the last thing in the world that he wants: a promotion. Forced into a command role, Major Harden is thrust into a sharp learning curve that goes against every instinct he's developed over years of fighting. As Lee races to find his footing in a mire of shifting loyalties and opposing goals, Safe Zones are being overrun by massive hordes of primals exhibiting stra
Publisher: Audible Studios on Brilliance

DEFIANT

LEE HARDEN SERIES

BOOK 4

─

D. J. MOLLES

To the masters of their fates

You don’t want to forget about them. All the ones that were taken from you, and all the ones you took away from someone else. But if you obsess about it, if you keep internalizing it, then it’ll eventually break you. And you can’t let it break you. Don’t ever let it break you.

one

─▬▬▬─

SABOTAGE

Lee had his rifle in his hands before the explosion finished vibrating through the refinery.

He moved on autopilot, surging through the door of the little office where he’d slept. It wasn’t until his bare feet hit the cleated treads of the metal stairwell that his mind caught up and came fully awake.

His first clear thought was that it had been one of the pipelines going up.

But no—that hadn’t been the rumbling fwoom of volatile fluids igniting; it had been the percussive blast of high explosives.

He paused for one beat of his drumroll pulse, glancing down at his feet, and picturing his boots, still sitting at his bedside.

Nope. Too late for that now.

Too late for armor

Too late for the radio.

Already he heard people shouting, and his legs got moving again, down the stairs, the serrated, diamond-pattern cleats on each tread jabbing through the balls of his feet.

A clatter of claws on metal. A spike of cold fear through his mind, thinking of primals. He whirled, rifle up. Deuce stood behind him, ears forward, tail level with the ground, focused and intent. Looking for threats.

“G’boy,” Lee grunted through a sleep-hoarse throat, then spun and stamped down the stairs.

He hit the bottom, onto another metal-grated walkway, surrounded by tubes and pipes and conduits of all diameters. The corridors were lit only by red emergency lamps. The stink of crude oil competed with the sharper whiffs of refined fuel.

High explosives, his brain struggled into gear.

Someone had detonated something.

Why? And where?

And how much damage had been caused?

Three figures tumbled through a door to his left. Two Marines, fully geared up—they must’ve been on watch—and a barely-dressed Abe Darabie, one side of his bushy beard pressed in from sleep, his eyes still hauling luggage, but sharp under his furrowed brow. He wore skivvies and untied boots. Rifle in one hand. Radio in the other.

His eyes hit Lee’s as he came through the door.

“Copy,” he snapped into the radio, then jerked his head at Lee. “Control room. Something went up.”

The two Marines made for the opposite end of the walkway, where another catwalk led to the control room at the heart of the facility.

Abe made to follow, but Lee grabbed him as he passed. “Nothing ‘went up.’ That was a detonation.”

Abe glanced at him, then nodded and brought the radio back up. “Major Darabie to all elements in the refinery, I want everyone on the lookout for any suspicious persons until we figure out what just happened. Keep an eye out for secondary explosive devices.” He released the PTT. “Where we goin’, Boss?”

Lee cringed at the word, but refocused himself. Now was not the time to go down that rabbit hole. He turned, heading the opposite way as the Marines, towards a second stairwell that led to the ground floor.

“Another goddamned sabotage,” Lee snarled. “They’re gonna make a run for it just like the other one.”

Lee took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the pain in his feet.

“Nice boots,” Abe shot at his back as he followed.

Deuce tore past both of them, seeming to sense that his skills were needed out front.

Lee hit the blessedly-smooth concrete floor of the refinery and charged toward the hole in the main wall. A MATV had crushed it in three weeks ago. A makeshift “door” had been erected out of scrap metal and a few pallets.

Lee shouldered through this. Bits of concrete rubble still sprinkled the other side, ready to gnaw at his bare feet.

Outside it was dark. It had to be before five—that was when Lee was supposed to be up, preparing for his journey back to the UES. Most of the exterior illumination had been removed to conserve energy, or been shot up during the assault, but a few remaining floodlights extended a glow out into the scrubby terrain around the refinery.

Lee brought his rifle up, shuffling his feet through the rubble until they rested on flat concrete. He thumbed his weaponlight. The beam shot out, scouring back and forth through the darkness.

Everything was flat. Short stands of brambles and weeds caught his eye as he scanned…

There.

The ghost of a shape, running.

Lee grit his teeth and rotated his rifle so his optic aligned with his eye, the red dot wavering in the darkness. “Contact,” he called, and his finger slipped into the trigger guard.

He held back.

“No ID.”

The image of someone’s back melted into the gloom of the night.

But Lee didn’t know who that someone was. Chances were, if you were running away from the refinery after an explosion, then you were someone that Lee wanted to put bullets into. But he couldn’t just shoot anyone that ran after an explosion. There were still some civilians—leftovers from Mateo Ibarra and his Nuevas Fronteras cartel—that had been pressed into working at the refinery. It was possible that one of them had panicked and run.

But civilian or not, they could wear a few dog bites.

Deuce stood at his side, like a racehorse in the stocks, every muscle in the dog’s lupine body ready to bolt at the shape that had just disappeared into the darkness.

“Deuce, get him!”

The dog took off like a shot.

Lee and Abe sprinted after him.

Abe’s voice shook as he shouted into the radio while he ran: “Got one subject! Running north from the main entrance to the refinery! Any units on perimeter, you have one subject running north! Hold fire, Darabie and Harden are right behind!”

Their weaponlights gouged circles in the darkness as Abe and Lee tried to keep pace with Deuce, but after fifty yards, the dog’s tail slipped into blackness.

A shout, somewhere ahead of them.

Headlights appeared, jumping across the landscape, angling towards them. A Humvee. One of the squads on patrol. The lights flashed across Lee’s vision, and in their momentary parabola, he saw the silhouette of a running man, a hundred yards ahead.

“Unit in the Humvee straight ahead,” Abe barked into the radio. “Go straight! Go straight! He’s running right towards you!”

For a moment, just the sound of air whipping around Lee’s body, the stamp of his and Abe’s feet across the ground.

Then a human yelp, followed by the snarl of a dog.

The two headlights swung back around, blinding Lee for a moment, and then illuminating a tumble of shapes and a rising cloud of dust, dead ahead.

Lee still couldn’t get an identification…

Deuce whirled around the shape, seizing on an arm and ripping back and forth, while whoever it was tried to roll, screaming and slapping at the dog.

“Lemme see your hands!” Lee yelled with the last of his air, as he neared within twenty yards, then ten, struggling to keep his weaponlight centered on the figures while he ran.

Lee slowed his sprint to control the beam of his weaponlight.

He saw it: One man, on his side, on the ground, Deuce attached to an elbow, while the man’s other hand came around, holding—

“Gun!” Lee shouted, planting his feet, taking one gulp of air and bearing down on it, pulling the rifle snug into his shoulder, the red dot right on the nose of a terrified face.

Lee squeezed.

The single rifle shot cracked through the night.

The head snapped back.

The body slumped.

Deuce leapt backwards, as though surprised that his quarry was suddenly dead. He barked at the form as it made one last death-twitch, and curled up on itself like a pill bug.

Abe plowed past Lee, and hit the figure on the ground, driving the body of his rifle straight into the ruined head, and both knees into the torso.

Lee expelled his breath and ran the last few yards.

Abe rolled the body onto its belly, jerking the arms behind its back with one hand while the other held the muzzle of his rifle over the head. Deuce continued to bark, white spittle glinting in the glare of oncoming headlights.

“Easy, Deuce!” Lee commanded as he stopped behind Abe and patted the other man on the shoulder to let him know that he was there.

Deuce hadn’t been trained much on attacking, but it’s pretty instinctive for a dog to chase something that runs from it. Lee had discovered Deuce’s proclivity for this the previous week. Getting Deuce to downshift out of the red was another matter. That would require more training.

Deuce continued to growl and yammer at the dead body, casting sideways glances at Lee, as though wondering if these humans really did have the situation under control, or if something else needed to get bit.

Abe had the body’s arms pinned behind its back. It might’ve still been twitching, but there was no doubt that the man was dead. Rolled over now, Lee saw the exit wound that his bullet had left. Like a small, burst cist, trailing brain matter out of it.

Abe brought his radio up to his mouth. “Subject’s down. He’s down.”

The approaching Humvee skidded to a stop a few yards shy, sending a pall of dust billowing over them. Lee squinted and turned away. Sand crunched in his teeth as he clenched them.

Two Marines unassed the Humvee, skirting around the front end with their rifles held low. They saw that the situation was handled. They turned outwards, eyes going to the surrounding darkness, thinking defensively now.

Lee stepped around Abe and used the toe of his boot to press down on the dead man’s ear, turning the head around so he could see more of the face.

Blood still poured from the nose. The eyes were open. Red-rimmed. Along the cheek there was a thin trail of salt, where tears had dried on his face as he’d run. Lee could still smell the panic-sweat that clung to the man’s flesh.

Seeing the profile, Lee’s stomach sank.

“Shit,” Abe breathed. “I recognize this guy.”

Lee nodded. “He’s one of the civilians.”

“He had a gun,” Abe said, absolving Lee before the guilt could hit.

But Lee didn’t feel guilty. He gestured to the body with the muzzle of his rifle. “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t a saboteur. Check in with base and see if they figured out what the explosion was before we jump to any conclusions.”

Abe keyed his radio again, standing. The arms he’d pinned to the small of the dead man’s back flopped to the ground. “Darabie to anyone in the refinery: Do we know what that explosion was? Can anyone advise?”

There were a few moments of cross traffic, different squads transmitting to each other over the same channel. Then a more familiar voice grabbed ahold of the radio frequency.

“Sergeant Menendez to all units on this channel, hold your traffic.” A pause. Some heavy breathing shushed through the mike. “Alright. Menendez to Darabie, I’m in the control room. I got one body inside the control room and some wrecked components, but no major pipe damage. There’s a grenade pin just outside the control room. Sure as shit looks like someone tossed a frag in here.”

Lee’s brain was in full gear now, any semblance of fatigue scoured away. He opened his mouth to speak, but Abe beat him to the punch, already knowing what was needed.

“Darabie to all units, keep an eye on the perimeter for any further suspicious persons. We got one down, but there might be more. Breckenridge, you on the radio?”

Menendez’s voice answered: “I got him here with me. Standby.”

A pause.

“Breck here.”

Abe glanced at Lee, and Lee nodded back. “Breck, gather up all the civilians and get a head count. Figure out who all is missing. We got one body in the control room, and one body out here in the field. If there’s any more missing, we need to know who.”

“Roger that,” Breckenridge replied.

Abe lowered the radio, and shook his head. “Same goddamned thing as last week.”

Lee nodded, his gaze moving over the dead man again. It hadn’t been exactly the same. Last week it had just been a guy with a rifle that started shooting at his fellow civilians. He’d managed to wound three of them before one of the nearby Marines on guard engaged him. Then he ran, and that was when Lee discovered that Deuce had a drive for chasing people down.

The very fact that there were even civilians at the refinery was something of a miracle. When Brinly’s Marines had taken over the refinery three weeks ago, they’d gone in with open rules of engagements—no holds barred; frag and clear everything.

It wasn’t until much later that night, after the fires had cooled and the combat was over, that one of the civilians appeared from a hiding spot, begging mercy. There’d been ten of them total. All of them were former refinery workers, ranging from engineers to mechanics. They’d been pressed into service by Nuevas Fronteras.

Brinly and Lee and Abe had decided to let them live. They couldn’t keep the oil flowing without them.

It was only after last week’s attempted sabotage that they’d discovered how the cartel had pressed those civilians into service.

Lee looked at the dried tear-stains on the dead man’s face. “You think he was like the other guy? You think the cartel has his family?”

Abe’s nose curled into a snarl. “Fucking animals. They’re like a cancer.”

“We gotta do something about this, Abe. Either we get rid of the rest of these civilians, or we get their families back before anyone else tries a stunt like this.”

Abe squinted at Lee. “We’re not doing anything about this. You’re going back to Butler. I’m going to do something about this.”

“Fuck that,” Lee growled. “I’ve got a problem to solve right here and now.”

“Lee, you can’t keep defying orders.”

“We need operators. Not commanders.”

“We need both. What? Did you think you were gonna be a captain forever?”

“It’s not even official yet.”

“You have orders, Lee. Orders.”

“There’s not even a formal command structure.”

“There’s starting to be. Brinly can tell you all about that.”

Lee made a face. “Brinly will tell you that they shouldn’t have jumped him to major.”

Abe arched his eyebrows. “Maybe so. But Brinly also did what he was told.”

Lee couldn’t make peace with it. He didn’t want to sit in a goddamned TOC. His skillset was for fighting—not shuffling chess pieces around a virtual board and telling everyone else to do his fighting for him.

Lee made one last effort: “You need me here.”

Abe didn’t fall for it. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lee. I got Breck and Menendez. I got Brinly’s Marines. Everyone’s squared away.” He turned away from Lee. “You can’t do everything yourself. Eventually you’re going to have to trust that other people can fight just as well as you.”

Abe’s radio crackled.

“Breckenridge to Darabie.”

Abe brought his radio up, looking back to the refinery that hunched in the darkness. “Go ahead with it.”

“I got seven civilians accounted for. I got the names of the two that’re missing. I’m guessing you got Tilden out there.”

Lee and Abe both looked at the body.

Tilden. That sounded right. What was his first name? Greg? Gary? Something like that.

Abe’s voice sounded tired and hesitant as he transmitted back. “Yeah. I think that’s who we have.” The corners of Abe’s eyes squinched up. “Who’s the DOA in the control room?”

Breckenridge sighed into the mike before answering. “It’s Ralphie. Our lead engineer.”

TWO

─▬▬▬─

MAJOR

The smell was faint, but it was there: The sharp astringency of explosives.

Lee stood outside the small office that, thirty minutes ago, he’d been sleeping in. The door was open. He could hear what was going on inside. If he leaned his head out, he’d be able to see inside. He’d see Menendez kneeling in front of Pez, their only remaining engineer. He’d see Pez’s dark eyes wide and unblinking, a canteen of rainwater gripped in his hands.

Lee didn’t lean in. He tried to be unobtrusive. He’d managed to rescue his boots and stuff his feet into them, sockless. The laces looped around the ankle to keep them out of the way.

“Pez,” Menendez said, his voice low and steady. “I know the situation you guys are in. I’ve been in similar situations. I’m not trying to hem any of your people up. But I need to know about Tilden.”

A long silence.

Lee raised an eyebrow to the man across the door frame from him. Abe stood in similar repose to Lee—his shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, rifle hanging off his support side. He’d managed to get some clothes on his body.

Abe noted Lee’s glance, then looked away, his expression troubled.

“I need to know if Tilden threw that grenade,” Menendez pressed.

“I didn’t see anything,” Pez said.

“I know you didn’t see anything. I’m asking if you noticed anything in the last couple of days, anything that can help us confirm that Tilden was the one that tossed that grenade. Because if he wasn’t the one that tossed it, then we need to know that right now. Because that means the person that did it might still be here.”

“Tilden isn’t the bad guy here.” Pez’s voice was defensive.

“Christ, Pez,” Menendez sounded almost hurt. “Don’t you think I know who the bad guys are? The cartel has Tilden’s family. What else was he going to do? Let them kill his family? Of course not. Of course he’d do something like what he did tonight. Shit, man, I’d’ve done the same thing to save my family. No one’s judging him like that. We’re just trying to stay alive.”

Pez—whose actual name was Pizzuti—did not immediately reply to that, and Lee could sense that Menendez was giving him room to talk.

Lee refused to let guilt grow inside of him. But maybe there was a small part of him that wanted a confirmation. Was he not supposed to chase after the suspicious man running away? Of course he was. Was he not supposed to kill him when he brandished a firearm? Of course he was.

But it would be nice to know that Tilden had deserved it.

Deserved it?

Lee grimaced, his eyes going to the grated floor. To his untied boots. Dusty. Specks of sand still in the seams between the rubber and the leather. Some old spots of blood, too. His or someone else’s? Maybe Tex’s? Maybe the man whose eyes he’d gouged out?

Lee flicked his fingers, as though something dirty was caught under the nails. It was a sensation that bothered him, and he found himself frequently trying to scour away some filth that wasn’t actually there.

Do you let it break you?

He clenched his fist to stop his flicking fingers.

No. Menendez was right. If Tilden had been the one to toss the grenade, he’d done it in a desperate attempt to try to keep the cartel from executing his family.

In all likelihood, Tilden’s family was already dead. Had probably been dead long before tonight. But Tilden wouldn’t have known that. His heart would not have allowed him to perceive that truth. He would have hoped, and in his hoping, would have decided to do a pointless, horrific thing.

When Pez spoke, his voice was quiet. Defeated.

“He did it. I didn’t see him do it. But I know that he did.” Pez choked at the end of that sentence. “You could just see it in his eyes. After what happened last week…I guess he started to think that it was the only way out.”

A wet sniff.

“Alright,” Menendez said. “It’s alright to be upset. We’re all upset. But Pez, I gotta know…is anyone else on the edge of doing something like this again?”

Lee waited for Pez to break this next long silence. But he didn’t.

Abe made eye contact with him. They exchanged a small nod.

Abe eased himself off the wall, and rolled into the room. Lee didn’t follow him all the way in, but made his presence known by stepping out from behind the door frame.

Pez didn’t notice them. He was doubled over in a metal folding chair, his head hanging between his arms. The canteen clutched between both hands. The beds of his fingernails white from his grip.

Menendez knelt before him, his hand resting on his shoulder. He turned when Abe stepped into the room and gave a small shrug.

“Pez,” Abe said.

The man came upright with a twitch. His eyes shot to Abe. Then to Lee. Then back to Abe. An expression of desperation, maybe even betrayal, flashed through his eyes.

“We need you guys,” Abe continued, his posture relaxed, hands in his pockets. Doing his best to be unimposing. “Now more than ever.”

Pez shook his head. “I don’t even know if we can run this place now. We don’t have the people. And I know you think I’m second to Ralphie, but I don’t know the stuff that Ralphie knew. I can’t take over his job.”

Abe shook his head. “Don’t worry about that right now. I’m going to lay it out straight for you, Pez, and I hope you’ve gotten to know me enough over the course of the past three weeks that you know you can trust me.”

Pez maintained a poker face. Which told Lee one thing: He didn’t trust Abe. And by extension, he didn’t trust Lee. Probably didn’t trust any of them. This world didn’t make it easy to trust people. Certainly not when your family was on the line.

“We’re not asking that question because we want to fuck you or any of your friends over,” Abe explained. “You guys and your skills on these rigs are more important than ever. But we can help you.”

Rage and disbelief crashed into each other. Panic. A trapped animal. “How the fuck are you gonna help us?”

Abe took a step closer, and for a moment seemed to tower over the man in the chair, and Pez shrank back. Abe took his rifle with his support hand, and pulled it up…then squatted down and rested it against his thigh.

The two men, now on a level, regarding each other.

“I’m very good at something, Pez,” Abe said. “I’m good at hunting those animals down. I’m good at putting them in the ground. I’m good at doing it quickly, and quietly. I’m good at doing it before they can react to it. All I need is a starting point. All I need is for someone to point me in the right direction.”

Pez’s eyes snatched back and forth between Abe’s. Searching Abe’s face. He might not have trusted Abe, or Lee, or any of them, but he knew that they were dangerous. He believed what Abe said.

“You’re gonna get our families back?” Pez whispered.

Lee wished he could see his friend’s expression, but all he saw was the back of Abe’s head. Thick, black hair, starting to gray at the temples, and starting to grow long. Abe stayed very still, and Lee thought that perhaps Abe was trying to decide just how honest to be.

In the end, he decided for full honesty.

“Pez, we both know that, in all likelihood, your families are already dead.”

Pez recoiled, his mouth working.

Lee winced. But maybe Abe was right to speak plainly.

Abe raised a hand. “Listen to me. Look at me.”

Pez let out a strangled little mewl, tears showing in his eyes. His head shook back and forth, denying it. But he stayed locked onto Abe. He listened.

“If any of them are still alive, if there is a chance to get them back, then I am the one that can make that happen for you. I know that I’m asking a lot. But you know what I’m capable of.”

Pez’s red-rimmed eyes wavered. He appeared to bite down on something, the cords in his neck straining beneath his skin. “Okay. Alright. I’ll tell you where to go.”

***

“I should be helping you,” Lee said.

Abe walked beside him, down the corridor towards the control room, Menendez behind them.

Abe shook his head. “The horse is dead, Lee. You can stop beating it now.”

Ahead of them, the door to the control room stood open. Two of Breck’s soldiers guarded the entrance. Other than that, it looked like it always did. At least from the outside.

Lee stopped several yards short and turned to Abe. “You’re gonna take them on by yourself?”

Abe halted and gestured to Menendez. “No, I’m going to have help.”

Lee cast a sidewise glance at Menendez. The sergeant nodded once.

Something inside of Lee rebelled against the idea, but he stopped himself from saying so. Menendez was a solid soldier. As were his men. Abe couldn’t ask for a better squad.

Lee knew this.

And yet, there was a part of him that struggled to let it go. It felt to him that this was the more immediate problem than whatever the hell was happening in the UES. And it felt like he was being forced to run away from it. Forced to retreat, when he knew he should be attacking.

“Menendez, you’re a helluva fighter,” Lee said, then faced Abe. “But you and I know how to do this shit. And you know Angela is just pulling me back to Butler to trot me out like…like propaganda. She just wants to use me to convince the Safe Zones to stick together. This is more important.”

Abe frowned at him. “You’re wrong about that, Lee. We did all of this to support the UES. Now things are falling apart back home. That takes precedence, and you know it. You’re just being a stubborn ass, as usual.”

“It’s fucking politics.”

The second Lee said it, he regretted it. There came to Abe’s expression a sudden understanding, and Lee felt naked. Like he’d bared the truth of himself without meaning to.

Abe reached out and rested a hand on Lee’s shoulder with a sigh. “Lee, just because you’re more comfortable snapping necks, doesn’t mean it’s the most important job. Just because you’re better at one thing, doesn’t mean you neglect the other. Like it or not, getting the Safe Zones to support Angela again is where you’re needed right now.”

“Oh, please.” Lee’s eyes flitted to the ceiling in exasperation.

Abe smirked. “Do I have to pull rank on you?”

“An hour ago, you’re calling me ‘Boss.’ Now you’re threatening to pull rank?”

“Well, like you said. Technically, you’re not a major just yet. Which means technically I still outrank you.”

“Never stopped me from fighting you before.”

Abe removed his hand from Lee’s shoulder. “Such an insubordinate prick. Stop being ornery for the sake of being ornery. Your ride’s gonna be here in two hours. And we both know you’re going to be on it. So stop bitching.”

Menendez cleared his throat.

Abe and Lee looked at him.

He tapped at the acoustic tube in his ear. Abe had turned his radio down, but Menendez still listened. “They wanna know what you want to do with Tilden’s body.”

At first Menendez looked at Lee when he asked this, but then he seemed to realize the inevitable. Lee was leaving. Whether he wanted to or not. Abe was the one calling the shots now.

Abe jerked his head in a nebulous out there direction. “Dump it out beyond the sentry lines. Let the teepios have him.”

Menendez nodded, then relayed the command over the radio.

Abe and Lee continued to the control room.

The two guards nodded in recognition, then stepped apart to let them pass.

The interior of the control room didn’t look very different to Lee. Except for a dusky mark on the floor, and the obvious spray of shrapnel from the grenade that had gone off. A few of the electronics looked like they’d caught some of the shrapnel, but other than damage to their casings, they looked operational. Everything in this place was built tough.

The biggest damage to their oil operations came from the greasy splash of red that still stained the floor, about two yards from the center of the blast point.

That must’ve been where Ralphie’s body had fallen.

They’d already removed the corpse.

Had he lived long enough to bleed out? Or had the concussion killed him instantly?

Two yards and unshielded from the blast, Lee figured it was the former. And he had been the last person on the skeleton crew that really knew how to keep this behemoth running.

“Think Pez can really keep the oil flowing without Ralphie?” Lee wondered.

“He’s gonna have to,” Abe said. “We’ll figure out a way to make it work. We’ll pull in some volunteers from wherever we need to. Maybe even enlist a few of the soldiers to do the grunt work. Free up some of the skilled labor to do more important things.” He looked at Lee. “But that’s not your problem anymore, brother.”

Lee sniffed. “No, I guess not. Guess my problem is corralling some bitchy civilians back in the UES.”

“Once upon a time, Lee, you built the UES,” Abe remarked. “You can put it back together.”

THREE

─▬▬▬─

FAMILY

In the distance there was gunfire.

Sameer Balawi, just a kid with his lungs burning for air and his heart slamming against his ribs, huddled beneath the overhanging roots of a fallen tree.

You have to stop being scared.

He clutched the pistol the soldier had given him. It felt so huge in his hands. So foreign. The soldier had told him how to use it, but now, looking at it, feeling the weight and the cold, hard, immovability of it, he wasn’t sure if he could.

You have to stop being scared.

He didn’t realize he was crying until he tasted the salt on his lips.

Father was dead. They’d killed him. They’d shot him right there in front of Sam. Father had died, trying to protect him, trying to get him away from the animals that the entire world had devolved into.

Father had died because Sam was too scared to act.

He’d died, just like Sam’s mother. Just like Sam’s sister.

Everyone that Sam knew and loved had been ripped from him, and the entire time, Sam had huddled, or crouched, or hid, or run away, with tears in his eyes, and a mind gone so blank with fear that he was incapable of any thought beyond his own self-preservation.

Everyone had died because he was scared.

You have to stop being scared!

Why couldn’t he think? Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he be brave?

Why couldn’t he save them?

He sobbed, his hands milking at the grip of the pistol. The pistol shook. His entire body seemed unstable, like a structure on the brink of collapse. He wanted to scream, but the soldier had told him to be quiet, and so it all came out in a strangled whisper. It leaked out of his wide open mouth, as tears and snot leaked in.

Out in the distance, an explosion.

Sam winced, gasped, thrust himself backwards against the dirt and the roots, felt them scraping his head, soil dribbling down the back of his collar.

Someone screamed their death scream.

Not the soldier. It wouldn’t be him.

Sam didn’t think the soldier could be killed. He was brave. He would not allow the people around him to die. He was not scared of anything. He would kill all the men that had killed Sam’s father, because he was never scared, not like Sam was scared.

If Sam could only be more like that soldier, then maybe his sister wouldn’t have died, or his mother, or his father. If he could only learn to be brave. If he could only learn how to never be scared again.

Never again! A silent voice screamed inside his head. I won’t let this happen ever again!

***

Sam posted on the brick side of the building, his nostrils flaring as his respiration increased. A door, right in front of him. With one hand, he kept his rifle pointed at it, while his other touched off his squad comms.

“Ryder to Billings or Chris,” he said in a low but clear tone. “Ryder to Billings or Chris. Please acknowledge.”

He released the PTT, and then jerked his head towards the door.

Jones and Pickell slipped up to the door, Jones swinging out to the hinge-side and grasping the doorknob as he did, while Pickell took point on the door.

Through the quiet shuffle of their gear, Sam strained to hear any sort of acknowledgment over the radio. A word. Two clicks. Anything, dammit…

His imagination wasn’t just a runaway train—it’d already jumped the tracks and wrecked itself. The bodies of Billings and Chris shone in his mind’s eye, their injuries bloody and horrible, their eyes vacant and dead.

He kept expecting to hear that hissing voice, the one that they’d heard transmit to them over a dead man’s radio, back in Augusta: “Go!”

A primal, but not. A female. A queen, as Loudermouth had said. Something more than primal, but less than human. Something able to talk. Something able to reason. To strategize.

“Set,” Pickell whispered, jerking Sam back into the moment.

“Move,” he breathed back.

Jones yanked the door open. A set of blinds on the inside of the shop door clattered, spiking another dose of adrenaline through Sam’s already sparking system. But Pickell was already moving through the doorway, and Sam was right on his ass.

No time to be scared.

Never again.

Pickell split left, and Sam rolled right. By force of thousands of repetitions, his feet guided him, one step in, one step over. His eyes scanned the dim interior of the building and saw only dark and indistinct shapes. The dawn light coming through the front of the shop windows didn’t illuminate much.

He flashed his weaponlight.

The beam played once over the interior, throwing everything into stark contrast for a brief moment, and then Sam let his thumb go, plunging them back into darkness. His eyes played over the ghost scene still imprinted on his retinas.

No immediate threats.

Jones came through as Sam rocked to a stop, just inside. Jones rounded off of Sam’s shoulder and went deeper into the room, stopping ahead of Sam and giving the environment another brief flash of illumination.

No one said “clear.” They ran on stealth as much as possible now, which meant limited verbalization. The fact that no one had called threat, or engaged anything, was evidence enough that their immediate surroundings were clear.

It was a shop. Sam wasn’t sure what the shop had sold in its past life. Empty shelves were pushed out of the way to accommodate more floor space for people that were not there. The scent of the previous inhabitants hung about like a ghost, muted and musty. Body odor and dirty clothes.

This was one building out of several that comprised OP Varnville, a little way station on the road to the Charleston Safe Zone. It was supposed to be manned at all times. But it wasn’t.

Charleston had gone dark over a month ago.

The running theory amongst the commanders back in Butler was that Charleston had seen the United Eastern States failing and had decided to pull their support, perhaps siding with Greeley, and waiting for the impending invasion force.

The empty outpost suggested something different.

The dark outline of Jones turned, an arm’s length from Sam, the gray light coming from the bank of windows at the front of the shop glowing along the edges of his face.

“Hit ‘em again,” Jones murmured.

Sam realized he’d been holding his breath. He forced his locked-up innards to start working again. Keyed the radio once more, and hailed his missing squad sergeant and driver for the fifth time.

“Ryder to Billings or Chris. Can either of you copy me? We are in the building. Acknowledge my transmission, please.”

Sergeant Billings had told them to stay in the Humvee. But five minutes of silence and unanswered transmissions had sent Sam’s thoughts into paroxysms of nightmarish possibilities.

A very brief argument had ensued between Sam, Pickell, and Jones, as to whether they should follow Billings and Chris into the shop they’d disappeared into. But Sam wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Jones had relented, and they’d gone in.

What the hell else were they going to do? They were alone out here. They had no backup. Their only options were to sit there (which seemed stupid), to retreat (which seemed cowardly), or to go in and try to figure out what had happened to Billings and Chris.

It was the type of decision that got Monday-morning-quarterbacked to no end. It was easy to call it a stupid decision when you looked at it from a stance of safety and objectivity. But when it was your squad that might be getting torn to shreds—or worse, incapacitated and carried off like Loudermouth had been—then the logic got muddy.

Your squad was your family. And you don’t abandon your family.

Never again.

Something rattled, off to Sam’s left.

He jerked.

An object hit the floor—heavy, distinct.

Sam and Jones both flicked their weaponlights on. The beams speared the darkness and illuminated Pickell, in a half-crouch, his outstretched hand failing to catch a rusty can of food that he’d knocked off a shelf.

The can rolled a few inches.

They all watched it like it might spring to life.

Pickell squinted up into their weaponlights, his teeth bared in a grimace. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Goddammit, fucking Kosher-Dill!” Jones seethed through his teeth.

“Ssh!” Sam hissed.

They doused their lights. More darkness.

Jones took a step closer to Sam so they were shoulder to shoulder. “What? What’d you hear?”

“Movement.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell. Shut up.”

The silence pressed at their eardrums like it had a weight all its own.

Somewhere below them. A scuffling noise.

Sam nudged Jones’s shoulder with an elbow, and then with his support hand, he pointed downward. Jones was close enough to see his movement in the darkness. Sam registered a single nod from Jones.

“Basement,” Sam said.

He pushed off of Jones. His feet slid silently on the outsides of his bootsoles. He was sure the sound had come from beneath them, though he was almost positive the floor underneath his feet was concrete. Was there even a basement, or had he imagined the sound coming from below? Sound could do tricky things.

Basement door, he thought. I need a basement door.

Reason reasserted itself. A basement door in a shop would likely be in the back, which was where they were. But it was too dark back here, away from the glow of the front windows.

Sam flashed his weaponlight again, into the far corners.

There. A door.

The radio cracked in his ear. Static, and a brief burst of what sounded like a whispered voice, but he couldn’t tell what it had said.

Oh, Jesus, it’s happening again!

Sam pushed himself towards the door, Jones and Pickell falling in behind him. He kept his rifle straight onto the door until he was only a few steps away, and then pulled it into a high-ready and angled for the hinge-side, just as Jones had done earlier.

He laid his support hand on the doorknob.

Jones stood straight on to the door, covering it. Pickell moved off of Jones’s left side, putting a second gun on the door.

Sam stared at Jones, waiting for his go-ahead.

Jones’s nod came at the same time as a familiar voice on the radio.

“—guys still in the truck?”

Billings’s voice.

But Sam was already yanking the door open.

Jones’s weaponlight blazed, and from the darkness another light streamed back, illuminating Jones’s wide-stretched eyes and mouth.

There was an instant of screaming, several voices tumbling over each other:

“Whoa, fuck!”

“Drop the weapon!”

“Don’t fucking shoot!”

“Hold fire! Hold fire!”

“Christ! What the fuck?”

That last one had been Billings, and as Sam stood to the side of the door, still clutching the doorknob, Jones took a step backwards and lowered his rifle, the weaponlight winking out.

Billings erupted from the stairwell into the basement, and he hadn’t cleared the top step before bawling at them in Full Sarge Mode—something Sam had only witnessed on the rarest of occasions.

Billings ripped his rifle back into a high-ready, muzzle at the ceiling, and thrust a knife hand right up to Jones’s face. “The fuck are you doing in here? I said to stay in the truck. I was clear on that point. Wasn’t I? Was I not clear? How did you get confused? Was it my word choice? Was it symantics? Do you fucking speak English? I almost shot you in the fucking face!”

Chris cleared the doorway after Billings, much calmer. He did a quick scan to either side of the door out of simple habit. He noticed Sam standing there and nodded to him with a smile.

“Oh, hey Ryder. Y’all get bored or something?”

Sam stirred himself amidst the cavalcade of sergeant’s ire and stepped forward, lowering his rifle and letting it hang on his sling. “It was my fault, Sarge.”

Billings jerked to face Sam, his face still scrunched up in anger, but Sam saw something else in it: Relief. The sudden anger was there because he was so relieved that everyone was alive that it had to come out somehow.

“No, Ryder. It’s not your fault,” Billings growled at him. “Because you’re a know-nothing half-boot. Jonesy, on the other hand, is a combat veteran of the real army and—” returning his attention to Jones. “—should know better than to go with whatever bullshit idea that a half-boot comes up with.”

Jones shifted his armor around and rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s not being very fair, Sarge. I mean, Ryder’s testicles might not have descended yet, and granted, he is a hadji, but he made some very excellent points…”

“Jones,” Billings warned, but the flash of anger was over.

“…Points that, I,” Jones continued. “In my vast experience with high speed shit, decided were valid.”

Billings shook his head and angled to step around Jones. “I just…can’t deal with you.”

“Such as,” Jones raised his voice. “Neither of you answering your radio.”

Billings stopped and frowned at Jones. Then he turned his glower to Pickell, who nodded to confirm, and then to Sam.

“We transmitted three times before we decided to leave the truck,” Sam said. “We got no response at all. Not even clicks.”

Billings sniffed. Then keyed his radio. “Mic check, mic check, mic check.”

It transmitted clearly into their earpieces.

Jones smiled brightly. “Hey, there you are. I was wondering when you were gonna answer your radio. Here I was, in the midst of such pain and anguish, believing that you were being eaten alive. But really it was just that you didn’t answer your radio.”

Billings looked at the basement door. “The basement of this place is a concrete tomb. I guess the signal can’t get out.”

Pickell craned his neck to get a better view down the blackness that swallowed the descending stairs. “What all’s down there?”

“Nothing,” Billings grunted. “No scraps, no old supplies, no dead bodies. No signs of a fight.”

“So this place wasn’t taken over,” Chris reasoned. “It was abandoned.”

Billings nodded. “Seems that way to me.”

That didn’t make much sense to Sam. “Why would they abandon their outpost? I mean, if Charleston has seceded from the UES and is backing Greeley, they’d still want OP Varnville to be held, wouldn’t they?”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Billings said, troubled. “Come on.” He cast a baleful glance at Jones. “Hopefully no one stole our truck since you left it untended.”

Jones sighed as Billing pushed his way towards the back door of the building. “Left it untended, so that I could rescue you from certain death. Which, by the way, I know you’re too prideful to say thank you, but you’re welcome anyways, Sarge. I always got your back.”

The squad moved out into the morning sunlight again. Despite Jones and Billings taking shots at each other, the habits of moving, communicating, and scanning, never left them. They were too ingrained at this point in time.

The Humvee sat in the back lot, just as they’d left it. Sam scanned over it once before pivoting out to his left, his sights passing over the rest of the buildings around them, and beyond that, the streets and the surrounding countryside. Always looking for the next thing that might try to snatch their lives away.

“I wanna know whose idea it was to leave the truck unattended,” Billings demanded.

“It was a tri-part decision, Sarge,” Jones answered. “We all put our heads together—”

Billings gave Jones a look. It was a special look. Like an irritated mother to a child that’s about to get the belt. Even Jones knew when it was time to stop pushing buttons. He wiped the smirk off his face and nodded.

“My idea, Sarge. Figured I’d rather lose the vehicle and keep my squad together.”

Billings said nothing. After one final scan, he yanked the front passenger’s side door open, and piled himself inside, resting his rifle between his legs. The rest of them got in their usual seats—Pickell in the turret, Sam behind Chris, Jones behind Billings.

Chris switched the Humvee on and it rumbled to life.

“Alright,” Billings announced, after they’d been sitting at idle for a moment. “After Action Review. Even though there wasn’t much action. I want to get a few things straight.”

The rest of the squad tightened lips and opened ears.

“This isn’t the old army, hua-bullshit-chain-of-command-follow-orders-or-get-court-marshalled. I get it. Special circumstances. Sometimes you have to make decisions on your own, outside of a command structure. Was the decision that you made the correct decision? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. We’re all still alive, and we still have our truck, so all’s well that ends well. But…” Billings turned in his seat and looked right at Sam. “I’m talking to you now, Ryder. What might you have done differently? How could you have followed my orders, and also safely checked on us?”

Sam stared back at his sergeant, racking his brains for an answer. They couldn’t have just sent one person into the building—that would have been foolhardy. But if they sent two, then they left one person by themselves in the vehicle. Also stupid.

Should they have sat there in the truck and done nothing? Waited? But how long do you wait after your squad mates don’t answer their radio? At that point in time, if something really is going wrong, then every second counts. You can’t afford to wait.

How can you maintain control of the vehicle, but also safely get inside the building to check on your squad?

The answer hit Sam so hard, it felt like a punch in the gut. Granted, hindsight is always 20-20. But now, having looked at his decision, as opposed to what he could have done, he could at least say he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I could have rammed the Humvee into the building,” Sam said.

Billings stared back. Blinked a few times. “Rammed. The Humvee. Into the building.”

Sam shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”

Billings stuck a finger up between his helmet and his forehead, scratching at his hairline beneath. “Okay.” He turned forward. “Multiple ways to skin a cat. Of course, that way could damage the Humvee, or topple a wall on top of your squadmates inside. But it could work too. Or you could just honk the horn.”

Right. Honk the horn.

“We were trying to be stealthy,” Jones put in.

Billings shrugged. “Yeah. That’s valid too.” He waved his hand. “Alright, enough AAR. This place is a ghost town.” He grabbed his battered map from the dashboard and smashed a portion of it flat. “It’s like they evacuated this place. Didn’t leave anything behind.”

Chris shifted his hands around the steering wheel. “Sure don’t sound like they just stopped talking to us in favor of Greeley.”

“We’ll reserve judgments,” Billings murmured. “We’re about ten miles from the Charleston Safe Zone. We’re a fact-finding mission. We’re going to find the facts. But let’s stay a little extra frosty. Shit’s not turning out how I thought it would, and you know how that makes me hinky.”

As Chris backed them out of the parking lot and maneuvered towards the main road, Sam knew that they were all thinking the same thing:

Just like what happened in Augusta.

FOUR

─▬▬▬─

CHARLESTON

The Charleston Safe Zone was not actually in Charleston. It took that name because Charleston was the nearest city of note. The actual city of Charleston was an untenable wreck. No one was going to attempt to make a safe settlement there. So they’d gone inland.

Chris pulled the Humvee to a stop on the side of the highway. They had a clear view straight down to the front gates of the Charleston Safe Zone, which used to be a little burg by the name of Walterboro.

Sam forced his attention to stay to the left, but he could see the gates of the settlement out of the corner of his vision.

Pickell swiveled slowly about in the turret. He’d cover their six for a moment, then do a complete circle, the ball bearings in the turret rumbling softly as he did.

Sam took a quick glance over his shoulder at Billings in the front passenger seat.

The sergeant had his binoculars out, focused on the gates of the settlement.

Sam turned back to his lane.

Around them the countryside was wooded, everything turning green with spring. It had rained the previous day and night, and today everything was sodden and wet-smelling.

The brush along the side of the highway was thick. It made it difficult for Sam to see through and into the woods that surrounded them. The dawn light coming in right over the top of the Charleston Safe Zone cast a dramatic angle on everything, obscuring his vision even further.

His window was open, his rifle hanging out, resting on its foregrip. The air coming through was humid. Tendrils of steam rose off of everything the sunlight touched. Today was going to be a heater.

“No movement.” Billings’s tone bore an undercurrent of concern. “No guards at the gates. Gates are closed. High voltage wires look intact from here.”

That didn’t mean much. They all remembered the fall of the Fort Bragg Safe Zone. When the perimeter had been breached, it hadn’t been at the front gate. It had been at several points where the woods had provided the primals the concealment they needed for a stealthy approach.

“Are the wires still electrified?” Chris wondered.

“Maybe we should throw a stick at them,” Jones suggested.

“I don’t think that actually does anything,” Billings replied. “I think that’s a myth.”

“You sure?”

Billings considered it. “We could give it the Ol’ Ryder Special. Ram the gate with the Humvee.”

Chris tilted his head. “Will that electrify the Humvee?”

“Nah.” Billings waved it off. “Rubber tires. It’ll keep the electricity from going through to the ground. Right?”

“Hell if I know. I don’t do electricity.”

“Just go for it,” Jones urged. “Like pulling a tooth. Do it and get it over with.”

“Bread and Butter,” Billings hollered up to Pickell.

“Yo.”

“Duck down in here. We’re gonna ram the gate. Don’t want your head flying off.”

“Thanks, Sarge.”

Sam retracted his rifle from the window, as did Jones across from him. Everyone pulled their windows up.

“Don’t just go tearing in there,” Billings said to Chris. “Bust through the gate, but then pull to a stop on the other side and let’s take another look around.”

“Roger that,” Chris acknowledged.

The Humvee accelerated.

Sam and Jones and Pickell all huddled in the center, the three of them squashed together, watching through the space between the two front seats as the gates rushed towards them. They didn’t look very sturdy. The point of them wasn’t to be vehicle proof, but primal proof.

The brush guard on the front of the Humvee hit the gate with a clang and sent it rocketing open. Chris sped them through, then stomped on the brakes.

Pickell braced himself on the radio console between the front seats and Sam and Jones both tumbled into him.

As the Humvee rocked to a stop, everyone came up again with their rifles, except Pickell who didn’t seem sure if he should go up to the turret again.

Billings swiveled this way and that. Then he settled back into his seat. “Well. That was anti-climactic.”

Chris twisted around, checking the mirrors. “Got any hot lines hanging onto the truck? Doesn’t look like it.”

“Alright, we’re clear,” Billings announced, dropping his window. “Get back on your guns.”

Windows dropped, and rifles protruded again.

Pickell clambered back up into the turret.

Sam scanned his new surroundings. It was the main drag that headed straight through the heart of the Safe Zone, and it reminded him of Butler. Except…no people.

Jones whistled. “Sarge, this place is dead as a muhfuckuh.”

Sam squinted over his rifle optic at something. Up against the side of a nearby building. A dark patch on the concrete sidewalk. Lumps in it. Shapes coming out of it.

Sam’s grip tightened on his rifle. “Got something. Nine o’clock.”

Billings thrust himself halfway over Chris to see out the driver’s window. He let out a disconsolate grunt, then pulled back. “Alright. Chris and Pickell, stay with the Humvee and follow us. Ryder and Jones, you’re with me.”

Sam pushed his door open, keeping his rifle up as he exited the vehicle, then bringing it out from the frame of the open window. He peeled his eyes from the dark patch on the concrete and scanned from right to left.

His left was the gate. It hung open, like the door of an abandoned house. Dead and silent.

Billings and Jones met him on the driver’s side of the Humvee, and Sam pushed out, taking point, addressing his rifle not to the dark patch he’d seen, but to everything else around it. Windows. Doorways.

Open doors.

Broken glass.

Bullet holes across walls.

Something had happened here.

The smell leaked into his nose as he approached. Not powerful, but telling all the same. There is nothing in the world that smells quite like dead flesh. It is unmistakable.

Sam stopped one pace off of the mess on the sidewalk. Billings to his right, Jones to his left. Only then did Sam look down at it. But he already knew what it was.

It’d been there for a while. The meat that clung to the skull and the hand—the only pieces of the body that remained—had turned black. Rain had washed the worst of the mess away, leaving a rusty stain that told the direction of the flow of water. Other scraps of blackened meat were scattered in various directions. Possibly by wild animals. Possibly by primals.

Was there a difference?

“This place got overrun,” Sam said. “Just like Fort Bragg.”

Jones spat off to the side, as though to get a foul taste out of his mouth. “Bragg fell because those asshats turned the power off on us. What happened here?”

Sam raised his eyes, looking down the road. “Maybe there were Lincolnists here too? Maybe they did something?”

Billings followed Sam’s gaze about their environment.

Sam noted one thing: “I don’t see a whole lot of other bodies.”

Billings clucked his tongue. “I’m gonna call this in.”

“Yeah,” Jones agreed. “At least that way they’ll know what happened to us.”

Billings tossed Jones a look, and then started back towards the Humvee.

“What?” Jones shrugged. “I’m trying to think practically for once.”

Sam backed away from the mess on the ground, as though he feared turning his back on it. Only when he was much closer to the Humvee did he turn back around.

Billings stuck his elbow into Chris’s window. “Gimme the satphone.”

Chris delved over into the floorboard where Billings’s small go-pack was stashed. He drew out the satphone and handed it to their squad leader.

As Billings extended the antenna and dialed, Sam and Jones kept a few paces off of the Humvee so they could cover three-sixty. Pickell whistled a low tune to himself, as though everything was right with the world, the muzzle of the M2 sweeping slowly around and around.

“Question is,” Jones speculated. “Did they evac like we did? Or is everyone dead?”

Sam fiddled with the safety on his rifle. Flicking it on. Flicking it off. “If they evac’d somewhere else, why haven’t they been in contact? Why haven’t they called for help?”

“Maybe they lost their satphone.”

“They never sent a runner?”

“Maybe the runner never made it.”

Sam didn’t offer any more conjecture. What Jones said was possible. But it didn’t feel right. Looking around at this place, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a graveyard.

But if they were all dead, then where were the bodies?

Taken. Like Loudermouth.

Billings’s one-sided conversation lilted to them in the silence. “No, sir. No contact yet.” A long pause in which Billings squinted skyward, his mouth puckering. “Yes, sir. I believe so.”

“Here’s another thing,” Jones said, quieter. “When the primals took over Fort Bragg, they stayed. Didn’t they? Isn’t that what the scout reports are saying?”

Sam nodded. The Hunter Killer teams had made it far enough north to set up a small FOB. From there, they’d been able to get eyes on Fort Bragg. Preliminary reports said that Fort Bragg was infested with primals. Just like Augusta had been.

Breeding grounds, Sam recalled. That’s what Doc Trent had theorized.

Was the Charleston Safe Zone a breeding ground? And if so, where were the primals?

Hiding? Waiting for them?

“Roger that, sir. Will report in periodically. Nothing further.” Billings pulled the phone away, gazing at it like it was something mildly distasteful, perhaps a rotten piece of fruit, and then stabbed the disconnect button. “Squad Four out,” he mumbled to himself. Then he shoved the satphone back into Chris’s hands. “Alright, y’all. First sern’t wants us to clear it, slow and deliberate. First sign of primal activity, we immediately exfil. Until then, we are looking for survivors, or any clues as to where they went. Hua?”

Everyone murmured a “hua” back, the tone of it disconsolate, save for Pickell, who sounded as cheerful as ever.

Billings turned himself to face the bright dawn light, rubbing a hand under his helmet and sighing. “One squad to clear a square mile of structures. Hope you guys wore your walkin’ boots today.”

“No, actually,” Jones said. “I wore my sitting boots. Can I sit in the truck?”

Billings shouldered his rifle again. “We’ll criss-cross, back and forth, all the way down the main street. See where that gets us and re-evaluate. Come on.”

Billings started moving for the nearest building to the left—the same one outside of which the remains of a desiccating corpse lay.

“I just said I wore my sitting boots,” Jones murmured, following after their squad leader. “It’s like he doesn’t even care.”

Clearing large numbers of structures was a laborious task. The tension never left them, but somewhere around the fifth structure—what looked like it had once been an old, mom & pop drug store—Sam felt the inevitable mechanical nature begin to take hold.

They didn’t let their guards down. They were experienced enough to know that bad things liked to wait until you were relaxed to happen. So they stayed heads-up, and they didn’t get lazy. But the nature of their movements soon took on a rote quality.

Set, move, clear.

On and on it went.

Time to switch structures. Out again into the daylight. The Humvee waiting for them in the middle of the abandoned street, Pickell whistling or humming to himself, Chris watching them from the driver’s seat as he rolled the truck forward to stay parallel to wherever the team was.

Across the street to a new structure.

And so on. Back and forth. Building after building. Room after room.

Set, move, clear. Never quite falling into the trap of expecting the room to be clear, but the adrenaline subsided. Sam’s heart beat to the rhythm of slow and steady work. Each empty room became almost…disappointing.

The main drag of the Charleston Safe Zone was mostly commercial buildings, but they’d all been repurposed. This building a place to gather and package food that they’d grown and harvested. This building a garage where they maintained whatever fleet of vehicles they’d used.

A lot of them had been repurposed to house people. Here, a room that looked like it housed a family. A few old children’s toys shoved off into the corner. A musty-looking pink blanket with some Disney princesses on it. There, a larger place that looked like it might’ve acted as a barracks, or a place for a lot of single people to sleep. Some bedrolls left abandoned. A few cots or old mattresses—luxuries these days.

At one point, Sam looked down an alley between buildings and caught sight of the high-voltage fence-line, which was close to the back of the buildings. At that particular spot, Sam saw a cluster of smaller, dead trees and fallen branches on top of the high-voltage wires, causing them to bow.

He couldn’t be certain whether all that dead wood had somehow fallen there out of freak circumstance, or if someone had put it there. But he thought that might have been how the primals got in. He didn’t think much more about it, and continued on.

Twice more they happened across messy, old remains. One was right in the entrance to a building that looked like a bad firefight had occurred around it. Another was tucked back into a tiny broom closet. Someone that had tried to hide, but eventually been found.

Neither of them were identifiable, outside of the fact that Sam was sure they were human, and not primal.

They stopped at this last one, outside of the broom closet where some poor person had met their end, and Sam couldn’t help his imagination flash through what those final moments might have been like—terror, in the dark, hoping to be undiscovered, every adult thing stripped away until you were just a kid again, trying to hide from the monsters outside…

He tried not to dwell on it.

Billings paused, extracting a bottle of water he had squished into his cargo pocket and taking a sip of it. Swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. The interior was dark. They stood there by the glow of Billings’s weaponlight, directed at the ceiling.

“Only the third body,” Billings noted.

“We managed to evacuate Fort Bragg,” Jones said, the humor gone from his voice now. “And even then we lost more people in the process than we’ve seen here.”

Sam voiced the thing that had been circling in his brain: “Maybe they took them away. Like they did with Loudermouth. Like they did to everyone we lost in Augusta.”

“Augusta was one of those breeding grounds, or whatever,” Billings replied. “I don’t think that’s the case here. We’ve been inside the gates for over an hour now and we haven’t seen or heard a damn thing from any primals.”

“Maybe they have a breeding ground nearby,” Sam suggested. “Maybe in the actual city of Charleston. They like urban areas.”

Billings bobbled his head, unsure. “Come on. We’re almost done with this street.”

They exited. The Humvee and Pickell and Chris waited for them. All calm. All still.

They were on the left side of the road now. The building across from them looked larger, which might mean more rooms, but the one ahead looked more like a warehouse—one, huge, open space.

“Crossing,” Billings called out.

He walked across the street, not urgent. Keeping his head up and scanning. Sam noted a rifle laying on the ground in the middle of the road. An M4. Stripped down and unmodified. It looked like one of the rifles that had come from a Coordinator’s bunker.

The bolt was locked back on an empty magazine. A few brass casings littered the ground nearby it. It was the dozenth such weapon they’d found. They didn’t bother taking them. Perhaps a scavenging operation might be called for in the future, but that wasn’t what they were here for right now. He passed it up and continued on.

A breeze blew across the street, into Sam’s face.

That smell again.

Or was it just stuck in his nostrils?

He dismissed it. At first.

By the time he stepped up onto the sidewalk that fronted the warehouse, he noticed the change come over Billings. His head swiveled around, his nose wrinkled up.

Jones blew through his nostrils. “Shit stinks, Sarge.”

Billings slowed his pace as he neared the front entrance to the warehouse.

“That’s coming from the building,” Sam said. “Or maybe behind it.”

The scent was strong. Stronger than they’d detected so far.

“Shoulda packed MOPP suits,” Jones grunted, spitting again off to the side. “Fuck. I can taste it.”

They’d been rotating through point, breach, and rear positions.

It was Sam’s turn to be point.

He sidled up to the door. A farm and feed store? The door was sturdy, but wooden. A single glass window, but the pane was filthy, and the interior of the building seemed pitch black. Sam rubbed an experimental finger over the glass, but no dirt came away.

The filth was on the inside.

Sam peered at it. “Fly dirt,” he noted.

“Fly what?” Jones asked, situating himself near the doorknob.

“Fly shit,” Sam clarified. “It’s all over the inside of that glass.”

No one speculated further than that. Everyone knew what it meant.

Sam took a step back from the door and pointed his rifle at it. “I got a feeling you might want to hold your breath.”

Billings nodded, then stacked up behind Sam.

They all took a big breath, despite the stink in the air.

“Set,” Billings grunted.

Sam nodded.

Jones pulled open the door.

The first thing that hit Sam was a torrent of flies.

He was mid-step into aggressing on the door, and then halted, cringing back as a black cloud buzzed over him, peppering his face. Billings stumbled into his back and side stepped, cursing.

Jones let out a strangled cry and then jumped back two paces, hacking.

Sam tried to stay focused, tried to keep that reticle centered on the darkness beyond the doorway. He thumbed his weaponlight for one quick flash, illuminating a snapshot of hell beyond. Then he gagged and staggered sideways, out of the doorway.

Jones backed away, heaving and coughing yellow vomit.

The three of them beat a hasty retreat down the sidewalk, spitting and spewing all the way. Sam made it to the edge of the large building before halting and doubling over, no longer able to contain his bucking stomach. He blew his modest breakfast across the concrete between his feet.

“Pickell!” Billings managed to choke out between gags. “Keep cover on that door!”

With the door hanging open, the scent of death was like a cloud that chased them, permeating the entire area around the building. Sam could hear Pickell swearing all the way from his turret.

“The hell is that?” Pickell shouted at them.

Billings slapped Sam and then Jones, and started tugging them backwards, towards the Humvee. “Back up,” he croaked. “Just back the fuck up.”

Sam spat bile over his rifle strap as he shuffled backwards, the building and its black doorway blurring through his tears. He got his rifle back on the door as soon as he was able to control the urge to vomit, but his throat still constricted.

They stopped when they were up against the Humvee, Pickell’s M2 jutting over their heads. Jones had his rifle stock tucked under his armpit so he could keep the muzzle up one-handed, while he kept the crook of his other arm planted over his face, muffling his curses.

“We’re gonna hafta go in there,” Sam managed, his voice still thick.

“Fuck no,” Jones rebelled.

“Ryder’s right,” Billings said, hacking and angling for the fastback.

“Why in the hell would we go in there?” Jones demanded, following. “We already know what’s in there. A bunch of rotting meat. We found the townspeople. Hooray. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Just keep cover on that door,” Billings snapped. He tugged the fastback open. “Anyone happen to pack their gas mask?”

“I did,” Pickell said.

“Me too,” Sam acknowledged.

“Leave it to the half-boots,” Billings marveled as he yanked Pickell’s and Sam’s packs out from under the others. It was understood that half-boots tended to over-pack their rucks. The veterans took the bare essentials. The half-boots took a bunch of crap they probably wouldn’t need.

Until they did.

“Ryder. Jones,” Billings ordered. “Mask up.”

Jones looked indignant. “What? It’s Kosher Dill’s mask. Make him go.”

Sam ducked around Jones and dove down into the depths of his ruck where his NBC mask was squashed.

Billings was having none of it. “Pickell’s on the fifty,” he stated, jerking a finger from Jones to Pickell’s ruck. “Mask up.”

Jones groaned, but obeyed, casting hellish eyes at Pickell, who looked worried at the ensuing ransacking of his pack. Jones unearthed the mask. He and Sam slipped them on over their heads, tightened the face straps, checked the seals. Good to go.

“Hey Dill Pickle,” Jones called, his voice strange through the mask. “I saw your dildo, bro.”

Billings still eyed the open door to the building, but gestured to his two soldiers. “Y’all gimme a comm check.”

Sam touched off his squad comms. “Check, check, check.”

Billings nodded, then pointed to Jones.

“Pickell has a mega dildo in his bag,” Jones transmitted.

Billings gave him a thumbs up. “I copy both,” he said, all business. “Ryder, Jones, slow and deliberate, just like we been doing. You see anything janky, get the fuck out. We will be right here. Ryder, stay on comms. I don’t feel like listening to Jones right now.”

“Roger that,” Sam said. He exchanged a glance with Jones. Through the faceplate of the mask, Jones’s eyes took on a more serious caste. They nodded to each other. “I got point,” Sam offered.

They turned back to the building. Rifles up. The mask restricted his breathing, but now it only smelled of rubber and old sweat. The steady hiss-puff of the valve systems marked their breaths as they moved towards the building. They split as they approached the door. Sam moving to the side, Jones angling to the center. Jones hit the interior with his light. Didn’t appear to see anything dangerous.

“Move,” he said.

Sam rolled around the frame of the door and plunged into the darkness. He thumbed his weaponlight as he did, giving a broad sweep of the interior as he moved.

Sam went right. Jones went left.

They stopped, their weaponlights pulsing across the interior.

It was what Sam had suspected: a large, warehouse-type building. One big open space, marked at intervals by steel supports.

But their lights illuminated more than that.

Sam had already known what they would find, but the sight of it still stopped his breath in his chest, and made his heart slam wildly against his locked-up lungs.

“Holy fuck,” Jones breathed out, taking small steps and scanning out of sheer habit, though his movements seemed shaky. “Ryder. Call it in.”

Sam squeezed his PTO button so hard he thought he might break it. “Ryder to Billings,” he didn’t wait for a response. “It’s bodies. Human bodies. Hundreds of them.”

FIVE

─▬▬▬─

THE WAREHOUSE

Billings’s voice over the comms, calm and distant: “I copy. Clear the structure. Keep talking when you can. Try to give me more details.”

More details?

Sam switched his weaponlight to permanent on. He wasn’t worried about giving his position away with a constant light now. This was only a place of death.

There were bodies at his feet. Flies buzzed angrily as his boot disturbed them. Some of the bodies had been dead for a long time. Others looked…fresher. They lay in every repose. In every state of dress. Some of them fully clothed, others with only underwear, or bits of rent shirts and pants. Still others didn’t have a scrap of clothing on their flesh. In some of the cases, it was difficult to tell because of the discoloration of the skin.

Breathe.

He didn’t want to breathe. The air was poison. He had to convince himself that his mask would do its job. He forced himself to take in a breath, his stomach sick at the thought of it, though it still only smelled like the inside of the mask.

Don’t be scared. There’s nothing to be scared of. Keep moving. Keep thinking.

He lifted his feet. Up over a man in a gray hoodie that had turned brown from rot. His balance threatened to leave him, and the only thing that kept him upright in that moment was the pure terror of falling into the sea of human wastage at his feet.

They were everywhere. Sam couldn’t even see the floor beneath them. As his light scoured further and further through the carnage, he saw that they were stacked in some places, sometimes three or four deep.

He kept moving. Had to keep moving. Had to focus on his job.

How many people were in the Charleston Safe Zone?

Sam knew the count. It’d been a part of the briefing. 1500 men, women, and children.

How many lay before him?

His brain seemed to spark with unreason, and the sheer quantity of the gore made him think that every living soul from this settlement had died in here. But no. 1500 people would not fit into this building.

Even if you stacked them four deep in some places.

“I’m estimating,” Sam transmitted, trying to keep the shake out of his voice, and failing. “About…maybe…four hundred individuals in here.” Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. And keep moving. And keep scanning. And keep talking. “Various states of decomposition. Several look like they might’ve died recently.”

Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Jones’s light, across the room from him.

Sam remembered to remove his finger from the PTT.

Billings came back a moment later. “Copy. Any chance there are survivors in there?”

No chance.

“I don’t know, sir. Standby. We’re clearing.”

There wasn’t much to clear. It was one big room. But Sam didn’t know what else to do. He needed a moment. Saliva pooled in his mouth. He gritted his teeth and tried hard to think of something pleasant. He could not let himself throw up. He couldn’t throw up in his mask, and he refused to take it off.

“Ryder,” Jones called out, his voice stricken of personality. Just words. “Look at these bodies, man.”

Sam raised his eyes instead to Jones, about ten yards from him, across a mounded carpet of the dead. Jones stared back, his eyes glinting in the cold glow of their weaponlights. Haunted.

“I can see them,” Sam managed.

“No,” Jones appeared to struggle with his words for a moment, and then used the toe of his boot to prod at a fresher corpse in front of him. “The arms and legs, man.”

Sam forced his eyes downward. And then all around him.

At first, it had seemed like the bodies had all just been dropped in place. Like pictures he’d seen of mass graves. Cambodia. Poland. Kosovo. But then he realized that it couldn’t have happened like that. Because some of these bodies had been alive. Until recently.

And in every single body, both the ones that had been long-decayed, and the ones that had only just begun to show signs of rot, the arms and legs were splayed at strange and awkward angles.

“They broke their arms and legs,” Sam uttered. “They incapacitated them. Just like they did to Loudermouth.”

***

Billings stood outside of the Humvee, fidgeting.

Bodies. Rough estimate, a third of the population of the Charleston Safe Zone. Some dead recently. What did that mean? What the hell was this? Was that their last little redoubt? Was that where they’d locked themselves in against the encroaching hordes of primals and been so afraid to come out that they all died inside?

Would people do that?

He kept waiting for Ryder to give him more details, but the guy wasn’t saying anything. He’d heard the tremor in his voice. Whatever was going on in there had affected Ryder deeply, and that made Billings anxious. His own imagination tried to fill in the blanks, and he wondered if what he came up with was better or worse than what Ryder and Jones were witnessing.

The silence had been too long. He keyed his comms. “Ryder, talk to me, buddy.”

As the comms transmitted Ryder’s shaky response, Pickell swiveled in his turret, turning the gun all the way around and calling out, “You hear that? Did you hear that?”

“—just like they did to Loudermouth,” Ryder finished, sounding choked.

“Shit,” Billings swore, unable to focus on two people talking at once. This must be what having kids was like. He chose the most threatening thing to divert his attention to and touched his PTT. “Ryder, standby a quick second.” He looked up at Pickell. “What’d you say? What you got?”

Pickell hunched over his M2. “I swear I heard something. Did you hear it?”

“No, I didn’t hear shit because everyone was talking!”

“Ssh!” Pickell demanded. “There it is again!”

Billings strained to hear over the idling Humvee. He realized that he expected the distant howl of primals. But then then the sound came to his ears, so quiet he still wondered if he’d imagined it.

A low hoot.

Billings had seen his fair share of nature documentaries back in the day. He remembered watching an episode on chimpanzees on the prowl for a rival troop. When they hunted them down, they were quiet, but occasionally, to organize themselves, the chimps would stop and communicate in hoots and grumbles.

That is what it sounded like to Billings. But it wasn’t chimps, and he knew it.

“Cover our asses,” he barked up to Pickell, then, striding towards the open warehouse door, he transmitted to his men on the inside. “Ryder! Jones! Get out. We’re falling back, right-fucking-now!”

It’d all come together in his head, and in his stomach, which twisted and bottomed out. That warehouse was where the primals kept their food. It was a meat locker.

***

Sam didn’t need to be told twice. He angled for the door. “Sarge wants us out, let’s move!”

He picked up his feet, the bright daylight streaming through the open exit like a way out of hell.

Something grabbed his ankle.

Sam leapt forward, yelping, spinning, his feet dancing away while he whipped his rifle up.

“You okay?” Jones belted out, his weaponlight splashing over Sam and illuminating the ground where he’d just been.

Eyes stared up at him.

Sam put the reticle of his optic right between those eyes, and his finger went to the trigger, and he only let go with maybe an ounce of pressure to spare.

It was him. He lay on the ground, eyes terrified and desperate, just like he’d been when he’d huddled beneath the concavity of a root system, years ago…

No!

“Lemme-see-your-fuckin’-hands!” Sam screamed, not realizing how ridiculous that was, the command coming out of him because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The creature before him was a soiled, filthy mess, naked in his squalor, a boy of maybe ten years old, laying on his side. One useless arm bent back under his body, broken legs splayed out behind him, blood and fluids and excrement over all of his exposed skin.

One working arm, still held up, eyes still locked on Sam’s.

“Help me,” the boy whispered.

“Ryder!” Jones’s voice bit into his brain. “Ryder! You okay?”

Jones high-stepped over the bodies, nearly tripping in his rush to get to his comrade, the weaponlight casting sinister shadows that strobed and lengthened and shortened and made Sam feel like he was about to lose his mind.

Billings’s voice in his ear, a slim tether to reality: “Ryder! Jones! Get out! Acknowledge!”

Sam gasped for air. He withdrew his support hand from its iron hold on his rifle’s foregrip and he fumbled for his PTT. The boy on the ground worked his mouth soundlessly, or perhaps Sam just couldn’t hear past the rushing blood in his ears. The boy’s hand trembled in the air like it lacked the strength to stay aloft much longer.

Jones neared enough to see what it was that Sam had fixated on. He found his own radio before Sam could find his. “Billings, we got a live one in here!”

Billings came back immediately: “Guys! We gotta fucking go!”

Sam didn’t know what he was doing. Reason had fled him. Orders made no sense to him. His mission was forgotten. He dropped his rifle, letting his sling take it. He reached forward and sunk his bare hands into the sallow, filth-covered flesh of the boy’s wrist.

Jones swore, disentagling himself from the limbs of a rotting corpse, trying hard to keep his balance.

Sam started hauling backwards. Dragging the boy with them. He couldn’t leave the boy. He wouldn’t do it.

The boy screamed, a shrill and dried-out sound of agony.

Jones waved his hand. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

Sam’s feet planted. But his grip tightened on the boy’s wrist, like he thought Jones might try to take him away. He looked up at Jones with wild eyes, his breathing a panicked rhythm of hiss-puff, hiss-puff, hiss-puff.

Never again. Stop being scared.

“We can’t leave him,” Sam forced out.

“I know we can’t leave him!” Jones snapped back. “You’re gonna yank his arm out! The kids busted like the rest of them!”

On the ground, the kid’s scream had withered to mewling. The sounds of a dying animal.

Sam’s brain drove itself through his abbreviated infantry training, thinking of the techniques they’d been taught to extract downed buddies.

The words tumbled out of Sam: “Two man litter carry.” He stepped into position, not waiting for Jones to respond.

Jones slung his rifle off to his side, hit his PTT to cut off Billings’s stream of invectives and orders. “We’re coming out with one! Standby!” Then he stooped, mirroring Sam’s position on the opposite side of the kid’s torso.

They thrust their arms beneath his bare back. Across a concrete floor slick with fluids that Sam did not want to imagine. He found Jones’s fingers. Cold and steel-tense. They clasped hands. Then thrust their arms beneath the kid’s naked and befouled rump, locking together.

“Lift,” Sam said.

They lifted.

The kid cried out again, but it was weak.

How was he even alive? How had the air in this place not poisoned him to death? How had he survived so long in this place?

He couldn’t have weighed more than seventy pounds. Emaciated. Sam felt the bones poking through fatless layers of skin. Dangling, dislocated legs like skin-wrapped sticks, the knees only knobby protuberances.

They hauled for the door. Daylight ahead.

Billings, hollering at them over the comms.

In the distance, a chatter of machine gun fire.

Oh God, we’re being attacked!

The sharper, staccato barking of an M4 rifle.

They stumbled. They straddled. They grunted and swore and nearly fell.

A figure in the doorway, silhouetted by the light.

Sam almost dropped the kid to get his rifle.

His light-dazzled eyes managed to make out the form of plate carrier and helmet.

Billings stood at the door, posted on the side of it, screaming things that Sam couldn’t hear.

They erupted out of hell, and back into the real world.

Hiss-puff-hiss-puff-hiss-puff

Sam’s diaphragm ached at pulling air through the mask. He wanted to rip it off, but he couldn’t let go of Jones’s hand. He couldn’t lose this kid. He had to stay strong. He had to stay brave.

Never again.

The world jangled about in the viewport of his gas mask. The Humvee dead ahead. Pickell on the turret, firing at something. Sam’s eyes followed the tracer rounds, saw them impact on the corner of a building about two hundred yards away. Dust and brick erupted. Sleek, tanned shapes darted about.

Billings kept his body between them and the threats.

“In the back!” Jones shouted.

The fastback was still open.

They sprinted now. Leaving everything on the pavement, holding nothing back, because if they didn’t empty themselves at that moment, Sam knew they would die.

Around the back of the Humvee. Sam’s eyes caught something off to the left, in the opposite direction as everyone’s attention. The viewport of his mask fogged at the edges, making the shapes indistinct.

They’re circling…

Something big pummeled out of an alley between shops. Sam tossed the kid into the back, and the boney limbs seemed to clatter like a skeleton and he cried out, but Sam’s attention had shifted from one priority to the next.

“Get in!” he shouted at Jones, and then swept his rifle up, thumbing the safety all the way around to automatic and pulling the trigger as he ripped it up. The concrete flew to pieces before the loping strides of the massive, muscular shape. Sam saw no details outside of the pinprick of his tunnel-vision—an inhumanely wide mouth, seeming so close that if it snapped its jaws shut it would swallow him whole.

He emptied half his magazine into it. The figure dropped dead less than two strides from him.

Everyone yelled something, and none of the words made sense.

Sam felt something hit him in the back, seize the drag-strap of his plate carrier, and haul him backwards off of his feet. His ass hit the bumper of the Humvee, and he toppled backwards, feet in the air, his thumb flicking his rifle back onto safety as he fell.

The engine roared, sudden momentum jerking Sam rearward, threatening to pull him out, but whoever had a hold of him didn’t let go. The pavement screamed by beneath his feet.

He reached up with his support hand and shoved the mask from his face, the straps ripping at his ears and crunching across his nose.

They cut a violent U-turn. His body rolled and smashed into Jones, who still hadn’t let go. Somewhere beneath them, a muffled voice cried out.

“Get up!” Sam gasped out. The air felt freezing on his sweating face after the stifling gas mask. He struggled for a moment to right himself, pulling away from Jones.

A flick of his eyes up to the front of the Humvee, showed the world spinning by in the midst of their turn, Chris’s whole body leaning into the center console, Billings half in his seat with his door still open and his rifle extended out, one handed, chattering away on automatic at pursuers that Sam couldn’t see.

The Humvee straightened out, rocking everyone back into their original positions. It roared down the main drag, and now the pursuers that Sam hadn’t been able to see were directly outside the fastback.

Sam rolled off of the kid, knowing that the boy couldn’t possibly have the strength to breathe with two grown men in full combat gear on top of him.

He leaned back with his rifle between his knees.

Three primals hurtled towards them, closing the gap even as the Humvee accelerated. Dear God, they were faster than he’d ever seen…

He fired, feeling the concussion on the inside of his thighs, picking his shots now on semi-automatic. Jones righted himself, shouting a constant litany of swears, and thrust his rifle out of the back, the muzzle blazing.

One of the primals stumbled, catching a spray of rounds up the right leg and into its hip, sending it cartwheeling across the roadway.

Sam’s rifle went dry.

“Reloading!” he shouted, reaching for another mag from his chest rig.

“Ryder! Ryder! Ryder!” Billings screamed at him so hard his voice cracked.

“Sarge?” Sam managed to twitch his head back over his shoulder, catching a momentary glimpse of Billings, red in the face, spittle flecking his lips, his eyes wild with the need to be heard over the chaos.

“Close the fucking fastback!”

Sam’s attention came back around, his hands still rolling through the motion of reloading, stripping the empty magazine and slamming a fresh one home.

The fastback.

Shit!

The primals had stopped gaining ground as the Humvee’s engine roared at max output now, but they were within a single leap of the bumper.

The open fastback was blocking Pickell’s turret.

“Reloading!” Jones called, gone empty as well.

Sam didn’t hesitate. His thrust himself forward, his stomach muscles screaming against the weight and the forces bearing down on him, and his mind railed against it because everything in him wanted to pull away from the primals.

He seized the inner handhold of the fastback and yanked it down.

The closest primal leapt.

The clawed hands latched onto the rear bumper, inside the fastback with them, pulling the creature in.

The fastback slammed down on the creature’s arms, and Sam had the fleeting, tiny hope, that he’d done it with enough strength to break its bones and loosen its grip. What he felt instead was pushback. The primal rocked an elbow up, and Sam felt the fastback lifting again, high enough that he saw a snarling face full of teeth, just under the metal edge…

The M2 thundered.

The primal was cut from the backend in a spray of gristle.

The clutching talons loosed, the muscular arms tumbling away.

Sam yanked the fastback closed.

The M2 went silent above them.

Pickell’s voice, muffled by wind: “We’re clear! We’re clear!”

***

Chris didn’t let off the accelerator for five miles.

He blasted them across sections of washed out concrete, the potholes hitting the vehicle so hard that it would send everyone in the vehicle airborne for a second.

The rear of a Humvee is not roomy. From the exterior of such a large vehicle, you might have the impression that it’s spacious inside, but that’s not the case. Like a macabre version of the game Twister, Sam and Jones had managed to extricate themselves from the back, all the while murmuring comforts to the naked kid, who lay curled in a ball on the metal floor, whimpering.

Jones sat now, half in his seat, turned towards the back with his hand stretched out, stroking the kid’s bony shoulder. “It’s okay buddy. You’re safe now. We got you.”

Sam managed to stretch out and get his fingers around the strap of one of the big sea bags that held their provisions. His gaze kept straying to the kid as he pulled the bag towards him and unfolded the top.

The kid was in shock. Eyes wide, but not seeing anything. In those eyes, there was just an abyss. But as Jones spoke to him and kept rubbing his shoulder, Sam watched the kid reach out with his one working arm, his filthy fingers closing around Jones’s hand.

Jones fell silent.

Sam glanced at him.

Jones’s eyes were tight at the edges. His lips pressed together. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He started to look towards Sam, but his gaze shied away at the last second.

“Hey man.” His voice was coarse. “Can you talk to us? I’m Jones. This is Ryder. We’re your friends now.”

Sam pulled one of the big one-liter bottles of water from the pack. He uncapped it, taking a swig to pull the water level down so it wouldn’t spill when he tilted it to the kid’s lips.

Jones’s hand, holding the kid’s. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. I understand.”

Sam held the water bottle down. The vacant eyes seemed to come back to life at the prospect of water. Pale lips, dried and flaking. The head came up. He let go of Jones’s hand and took ahold of the bottle, touching Sam’s fingers as he did.

They were ice cold.

The kid put his lips to the bottle. Sam expected him to take gulp it down, expected to have to pace the kid so he didn’t make himself vomit. But the kid only took one tiny sip.

The horror of it reared up like a black beast in Sam’s mind. His throat closed. His stomach pitched. He had to push away his compassion, his empathy, because it threatened to crush him.

Sam swallowed. Blinked a few times. “It’s okay. You can take more.”

“Bump,” Chris called from the front.

The Humvee slammed over something in the road, jolting everyone in the back again.

The kid’s eyes became a little more focused. A little more aware. They drifted up past the bottle of water to Sam’s eyes.

Sam nodded. “Go ahead. Drink a little more. We have food, too. You’re safe now.”

Relatively safe.

The kid took another sip of water. It was like each little ounce that he swallowed returned a bit of his soul. Like there was more in the bottle than just water. The liquid a vehicle for long-absent human kindness.

After a few more sips, he released the water bottle, and his hand found Jones’s again. The kid seemed disinclined to release him. Jones didn’t seem to mind.

“Alright,” Billings called, his voice subdued. “I think we’re good. Stop here.”

Chris rolled them to a gentle stop.

A quick take out the window showed Sam that they were in the middle of an intersection. A convergence of two highways out in the middle of nowhere, fields on all sides. A good view all around. Nothing was going to sneak up on them here.

Pickell clambered out of the turret, taking in the scene below for the first time. His face was flushed, his expression serious. He looked at Jones. At the kid. At their hands. At the bottle of water.

“I, uh…” Pickell trailed off. “Nevermind.”

“What do you need?” Billings asked.

“Another box of fifty. I’m on my last links.”

Billings looked into the back. Jones holding the kid. Sam holding the water. Usually it was their job to feed extra ammo boxes up to the gunner.

“I’ll get it,” Billings said, shoving his door open and climbing out.

Jones watched him go around. “Hey buddy,” he said to the kid. “My Sarge is gonna open up the back of the vehicle. Don’t be scared, okay? We got you. That’s Sergeant Billings. He’s a really good dude.”

The fastback unlatched with a clunk. Billings tried to be gentle, but the kid still twitched and drew away from the sudden sunlight pouring in through the back.

“Ssh,” Jones whispered. “It’s okay.”

Billings peered at them from under the fastback lid. His face tensed. Then he leaned in and seized a box of .50 caliber ammo, unlatching it from its berth.

“Hey Sarge,” Sam said, catching his eye. “Can you pull my poncho liner out of my bag?”

Billings hesitated, then nodded. He set the ammo can on the bumper, then dove into Sam’s already-open pack. He found the thin, quilted poncho liner. He knew what to do with it, and leaned in, tossing it over the kid’s huddled form.

Sam and Jones snugged it up around the kid.

Billings eased the fastback closed again, then came around to Sam’s door. He opened it and passed the ammo up to Pickell, who fled back to his turret to re-up the gun. Billings stayed there in the door.

The kid’s eyes moved now, taking things in. More present.

“Jonesey,” Billings kept his voice calm and quiet. “You sit tight, huh?”

Jones nodded.

“Ryder. With me.”

Sam handed the bottle of water to Jones, and then pulled himself out of his seat and onto the cracked concrete on which their Humvee idled. He pushed the door closed behind him. Billings backed away from the Humvee a few strides, and Sam followed.

Billings doffed his helmet and scratched at his matted hair. His fingernails came away dirty.

“Tell me what happened in there.”

Sam undid the chinstrap of his helmet and shucked it off. His eyes scanned around them, across the fields. Down the intersecting roads to where they curved out of sight. He would’ve registered threats, but his mind pictured other things.

He saw the inside of that building.

“Me and Jones made entry,” Sam began. “I immediately noticed the bodies.” He frowned. “There’s really not much else to mention besides what I already said over comms.”

“You mentioned something about Loudermouth,” Billings said. “I didn’t catch your transmission. What did you say about him?”

Sam winced, as though the memory made his own bones ache. “Jones noticed that all the bodies—or at least everyone that we saw while clearing the building—had been incapacitated. Just like Loudermouth.”

“Broken arms and legs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shit.” Billings rubbed his face. “I was afraid that’s what you’d said. What about the kid?”

“He grabbed my leg when we were turning to exfil,” Sam said, and everything else that he’d seen and heard and felt in his chest in that moment went unsaid. Because how do you put that into words?

“Was he incapacitated too?”

“I don’t know. He’s got at least one working arm. We haven’t checked him.” Sam fidgeted with his helmet. “He screamed when we tried to grab his arms though. Not sure if it was pain or just that he was scared.” That was a scream of agony. “Pretty sure it was pain.”

“How the hell did he survive in there?”

Sam didn’t respond to that.

Billings seemed content to theorize to himself. “Maybe they just caught him and put him in there recently. Shit. Are they really…storing people like that?”

Sam shrugged. What was he supposed to say?

“Any chance there are more survivors in there?”

Sam considered it. “Yes.”

Billings seemed to have hoped for a different answer. Perhaps he wanted Sam to give him an excuse not to go back. “Alright. We need to check that kid. Try to get intel from him. And we need to call this in. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now.” Billings started making for the Humvee again.

“Sarge,” Sam said, almost breathing it under his breath.

Billings stopped. “What?”

“You can check with Jones. See what he saw. See if it matches up. But…”

“Spit it out, Ryder.”

Sam didn’t meet his sergeant’s gaze. He couldn’t help it. The anxiety of it all made him want to scan. Always scanning for threats. Always seeking movement in the shadows.

“I only saw men,” Sam said. “As far as I could tell, there were no women in there.”

SIX

─▬▬▬─

GAMES

Colonel Lineberger had once read that patience was not the ability to wait, but rather, the ability to maintain a good attitude while waiting.

By that definition, Lineberger was pretty piss-poor at patience.

He had been waiting for so long with such a surly attitude, that most everyone around him just assumed that this was his personality.

Over the years since everything had gone to utter shit, and he’d been transplanted to Greeley, Colorado, where President Briggs had consolidated their resources, Lineberger had been waiting. This waiting had drawn the corners of his thin mouth down. It had sunken the hollows of his cheeks. It had turned his brow into an ever-present scowl. Turned his graying hair white. And given him a bald spot.

With this baseline expression, Lineberger stepped into one of the many civilian hangouts in the Greeley Green Zone. Some of the civilians inside might’ve known who he was, but they didn’t stare. Or maybe they didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t in uniform. Just jeans and an old button down plaid shirt.

The place smelled like the shit they brewed. It seemed to permeate every surface, and clung to every molecule of air. Moonshine was a generous term. It smelled like yeast and tasted like diesel fuel. They used a lot of corn rations to make their brews, which was illegal—food was supposed to be for food. But taking alcohol away from people who had little else to look forward to was a dangerous proposition. The decision had been made to leave it be.

As the door closed behind him, Lineberger’s scowl circumvented the room, finding his targets on the first pass.

They made eye-contact with him, the blond-headed Canuck giving him a slight nod, while the black Brit watched him over a mason jar with a finger of clear liquid in it.

Lineberger strode over to them. The “table” was an overturned cable spool. Three, rusty folding chairs around it. One of them empty, waiting for Lineberger. He stopped before taking a seat and extended his hand.

“Mr. Worley.” He shook the Canadian’s hand. “Mr. Guidry.” He shook the Brit’s hand.

Mr. Worley nodded towards the empty chair. Lineberger sat. Straight-backed. Expression unchanged. Mr. Guidry had an available glass of yeasty-diesel, which he slid to Lineberger, the side of his mouth quirked into a shallow smirk.

Lineberger took it and sipped, and his face did not betray his disgust. He set it down. Sniffed. Swallowed the ugly burn in his throat. “Thank you gentlemen for meeting me.”

“We’re here to fact-find,” Mr. Guidry noted, his accent light and refined. “Off-the-books conversations always seem to be more productive in that matter, wouldn’t you say?”

Lineberger allowed it with a nod. “What is it you’re hoping to find?”

Mr. Guidry took a deep breath and pursed his dark lips. He cast a glance to his right, to Mr. Worley, as though passing the question off.

Mr. Worley put his elbows on the table, grasping his own jar in both hands. “We’re hoping to find out that the United States is still an ally of both Canada and the United Kingdom.”

Lineberger let out a snort. “You’re here to watch how the game progresses, and pick the winning side.”

“And which sides are you talking about, colonel?”

“The sovereign United States, on whose soil you now sit. And the United Eastern States.”

Mr. Worley arched his eyebrows and inspected his drink. “Previous, more public talks have led us to believe that the United Eastern States isn’t really a contender. Just a…minor annoyance.”

“If that was the case, you wouldn’t have sent a delegation to them.”

Mr. Worley smiled thinly. “Best to get all sides of the story, you know? Fact finding requires all the facts.”

Mr. Guidry gestured to Lineberger. “How would you characterize your conflict with the United Eastern States?”

Lineberger considered this.

See, it all came down to waiting. That thing that Lineberger was so poor at. What he had been waiting for was for President Briggs to extract his head from his ass where it had been stuck for several years now. Only it seemed that President Briggs was intent on thrusting it ever further into the dark ignorance of his own bowels.

Besides the fact that this meeting needed to take place quietly for all the political reasons you can imagine, what Lineberger was about to say was completely against the party line.

“I would characterize it as civil war.”

“Interesting,” Mr. Guidry said.

“Your president says differently,” Mr. Worley pointed out.

Lineberger grunted and took another bitter sip. “Yes. He does.”

Mr. Worley leaned forward again. “Maybe you can help clarify something for us. We’ve been curious.”

Lineberger raised one eyebrow.

“What is Cornerstone?”

“Cornerstone was a private military contracting company. Back before.”

“Hm.” Mr. Worley looked thoughtful. “They seem a bit more than that now. Your President Briggs now acts as…what? CEO of this company?”

“Since the death of its previous CEO, Mr. Daniels, yes. President Briggs has…assumed control of Cornerstone.”

Mr. Worley frowned. “This seems very odd to me. To us. Because, from our outsider’s perspective, there doesn’t seem to be much difference between United States military and Cornerstone. They appear, from our perspective, to have become the same entity.”

Lineberger smacked his lips. “Let’s get something straight, gentlemen. You’re not talking to a politician. You’re talking to a soldier. Soldiers don’t deal in politics. We deal in reality. Facts. Which it seems you want. So, may I speak plainly with you, the facts as I see them?”

“I wish you would,” Mr. Worley prodded.

Lineberger waited, his eyes narrowed.

“If you want an assurance from us that this conversation stays here, I can promise you that it will. We have no desire to come in and meddle with internal matters of leadership. We’re only concerned with what is, and what is not. Observe and report, you might say.”

Lineberger didn’t relax. He didn’t move. His expression stayed at its salty baseline.

Maybe he should walk right now. Give them the party line, find a way to smudge this whole meeting into a minor footnote. Unimportant. Nothing worth talking about.

It would be easy to do. He still had not revealed his true purpose to them. Even if they went back and told Briggs everything that he’d said so far, Lineberger would still be safe. The status quo would be maintained.

He would go back to his office, still Colonel Lineberger. President Briggs would continue to seize more and more military power. And Lineberger would keep waiting for him to not be an idiot. The problem was, that Briggs had become a dangerous idiot. And eventually, Colonel Lineberger wouldn’t be “the soldier in charge of the United States military.” Sometime soon that would change. And the two paths that appeared to be laid out for Lineberger in that future were “executed as a dissenter,” or “lapdog for President Briggs.”

Lineberger wanted neither. Lineberger wanted his country back. Complete with idiot civilians electing their idiot leaders, but who were at least diots that were able to listen to the wisdom of their military leaders. Idiots that could be controlled.

Lineberger made his decision and stuck to it. “Canada and United Kingdom are looking for a good investment. Plain and simple. You know that’s the truth. So do I. So does Briggs. So does the United Eastern States. Everyone knows it. No one wishes to admit it. If I’m wrong, you’re free to deny it. I’ll thank you for the drink, and we’ll part ways.”

Mr. Worley and Mr. Guidry said nothing. They just watched him. A spark of interest in their eyes now.

“The United Eastern States is a bad investment.” Lineberger emptied his glass and thrust it away with a forefinger. He looked them in the eyes, one after the other. “President Briggs is a bad investment as well.”

Mr. Guidry made a small sucking noise with his mouth. “Which leaves you.”

Linberger gave no affirmation to this claim. Neither did he deny it. Instead, because these guys wanted facts, he gave them facts: “As of this moment, every soldier, Marine, and airman in Greeley and its outlying areas is under my command. This includes a small section of special operatives called Coordinators who have bunkers of supplies in every state. Some of those operatives have gone rogue, but we own nearly every central state. Also, as of this moment, President Briggs has taken control of Cornerstone. Furthermore, he is recruiting into Cornerstone, as opposed to into the military ranks. Which means that the balance of power between actual United States government military forces, and mercenaries, is not going to last for much longer.”

Mr. Guidry held up a hand. Lineberger noted that the brown skin of his palm was rough and callused. Perhaps not such a politician as he appeared. “In your opinion, colonel, why is President Briggs a bad bet for us?”

“Because he’s pushing an invasion into North Carolina.”

“Isn’t that the seat of government for the United Eastern States?”

“It was. Until about two months ago. They were based out of Fort Bragg. That has since fallen—something that was coordinated by my people, mind you. We are unsure where the government seat of the United Eastern States has moved to. They’re on the run. But clearly still operating in that area.”

“And you don’t see it as a good strategy to pursue them while you have them on the run?” Mr. Guidry seemed unconvinced. After all, pursuing your enemy after you’ve routed them, landing blows while you had them on the proverbial ropes, was what any smart commander would do.

“No, I don’t,” Linberger said. “The primary objective should be Texas. As I’m sure you know, Texas has always been one of the richest states in natural resources. Prior to the fall, their GDP rivaled many medium sized countries. Unfortunately, the operative that was in charge of Texas—one of these Coordinators I mentioned—went rogue and apparently joined forces with the United Eastern States. Now, according to reports we’ve recently received, the UES has control of several key oil refineries along the coast of Texas. Before that, they were starving. They were untenable. Left alone and continuously denied of oil, they would have withered and died all on their own.”

Lineberger leaned forward onto his elbows. “The invasion of North Carolina is a personal grudge between President Briggs and another rogue operative named Lee Harden. The decision to invade is an emotional one. Not a strategic one. That is why it is a poor decision. However, an invasion force into Texas would secure our country’s best chance at re-establishing energy independence. Something that would simultaneously starve the UES into nonexistence, and make us a much more viable ally for you and for the United Kingdom.

“Once weakened from a lack of energy reserves,” Lineberger went on. “It would be much easier to mount an offensive on whatever was left of the UES, going through the Gulf Coast states—wherein we would retain even more oil refineries and offshore drilling rigs. The UES would have no place to go. It’s not only an easier strategy for taking them out, but it’s the strategy that makes my government stronger and more able to…” he waved a hand at the two men across from him. “…be of use to our allies.”

Mr. Worley and Mr. Guidry exchanged that same, meaningful glance once again. Whatever went unsaid, they appeared to agree with eachother.

Mr. Worley shifted in his seat and gave Lineberger a piercing look. “What is it you want from us, colonel?”

“Your support.”

Mr. Worley drummed his fingers on the table. “You want us to help you execute a coup.”

Lineberger shook his head. “I never said that. If I was to take such drastic measures, I would do it with the resources I had available to me right now. What I’m asking you to do is not get in the way.”

“We’re a political delegation, colonel,” Mr. Guidry pointed out. “We don’t have the authority to back any one particular party over the other. We’re simply fact finding.”

Lineberger offered a cynical smile. “Of course.”

A troubled look crossed over Mr. Worley’s features. “If you were to take such actions, colonel, when would that be?”

Lineberger stood up. “I never said I was going to.” He nodded to each of them in turn, and they nodded back, and in those nods and furtive looks, there was an understanding. Or at least, Lineberger hoped that there was. “I may call on you in the future. Not for action. But…just for fact finding.”

Mr. Worley tipped his head. “I’m certain that we’ll be around.”

***

Mr. Worley and Mr. Guidry exited the building five minutes after Lineberger had departed. They stepped into the bright glow of a morning sun. Colorado was still pretty cold in the mornings, and the sun felt nice on their backs, while the cool breeze scoured away the smell of that godawful swill they brewed inside.

They looked both directions, up and down the street. They saw no sign of Lineberger. He was tall and skeletal. Even if he’d put on a jacket or popped on a ballcap, he would have stood out to them. He wasn’t there. Besides that fact, they didn’t think Lineberger was the type to do his own snooping about.

He’d have people for that.

Worley and Guidry both had extensive operational experience in warzones and foreign countries across the world. They weren’t spies by trade, but even as special forces operatives, they’d put in plenty of time in field-craft situations. They knew how to spot a tail, or a lookout.

Their quick scan of their environs revealed nothing obvious. Which didn’t mean they weren’t there. It just meant that maybe they were good at their jobs. Best to continue to be cautious.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. During that time, they walked north, towards the Green Zone checkpoints. According to the information they’d gleaned, the color-coding of the zones was more from force of habit than any real difference in security. The only real questionable areas were the outlying ones—places not even given a color code. Even the Red Zone was fairly controlled now.

They cut through a few turns, working their way through a few standard counter-surveillance maneuvers. Somewhere about a mile northeast of the brewhouse they’d come from, and still a good ways from any Green Zone checkpoint, they’d become certain they were not being observed. At least for the moment.

“What do you think of the old scarecrow?” Guidry asked, his tone low and conversational.

Worley had been considering just that question. Still, he took a moment to formulate what he felt was the best answer. “Strategically, I agree with him. Moreso than I agree with President Briggs.”

“And politically?”

“Well, politically is not my responsibility.”

“How much of this do we actually report?”

Worley gave his partner from the United Kingdom a sidelong glance. “All of it. But only to our people. I think for the time being, we play it safe. No need to out the colonel to Briggs at this juncture. I’m not even certain that would be a smart move.”

Guidry nodded his assent. “No point in taking sides when it’s unclear which side will come out on top.”

“Funny, I thought we were here to figure out which was more viable—the UES or the interim US. Wasn’t aware that we’d be caught up in yet another power play.”

“Frankly, it somewhat reduces my faith in the efficacy of this government. At least the UES is united.”

Worley made an uncertain noise. “Not according to Marlin.”

“Is the UES experiencing some similar troubles?”

“It would seem that way.”

“Speaking of our friend Marlin,” Guidry said. “Our conversation begs the question: Do we tell Briggs or Lineberger that we know where the UES leadership is hiding out?”

Worley’s face screwed up into uncertainty. “Dangerous. We start helping one side, we better make sure they win. If the wrong side wins, and they find out that our government backed their enemies…well, you’ve seen how that’s played out in the past.”

Guidry sighed. “We need to talk to Marlin and Wibberley.”

SEVEN

─▬▬▬─

ALLIES

Privacy was at a premium in the Butler Safe Zone.

No one felt the pinch of this moreso than people who needed quiet places to converse, unheard by others. Captain Maclean Marlin and Lieutenant Tom Wibberley were two of those people.

They’d been put up in what Marlin guessed were the best digs that could be afforded by their hosts: A single family residence, near the center of the Safe Zone.

The house was nice. Marlin wasn’t complaining. Anything with a mattress and a roof over it was luxury in his book. On their meandering way down the Appalachian Mountains from Canada, he’d spent plenty of time sleeping in the cramped passenger’s seat of his Humvee, with his squad snoring and farting two feet from him.

It wasn’t mentioned, but it had been pretty clear to Marlin that they’d ousted someone from this house. He had no idea if it had been a random civilian family, or one of the groups of soldiers, and whether they’d volunteered to give up their house for their guests, or if they’d been voluntold.

That made it a little awkward.

Because they hadn’t mentioned it, Marlin hadn’t asked about it. But now any time he caught a longish stare from someone, he wondered if it was the person who had been kicked out of their house, and if that look was them being curious about the newcomers from Canada, or if they were wondering when they were going to get the hell out.

You might consider a single family dwelling to be about as private as you could hope for, but Marlin was possessed of a healthy dose of paranoia. Any time his squad got a little verbose about sensitive matters, he would clear his throat, touch his ear, and gesture around them: The walls have ears.

The walls probably did not have ears. But he didn’t know that for sure.

So sensitive matters were discussed elsewhere. Like in one of their two Humvees, which were parked in front of the house—one in the small driveway, and the other in the lawn. It made him feel like a teenager, sneaking out of the house to get away from his nosy parents. But at least he knew his Humvee wasn’t bugged.

So Marlin and Wibberley met in the Humvee parked in the driveway. They sat in the back, so anyone watching wouldn’t see them too easy through the windshield.

Marlin sat behind the passenger’s seat. Wibberley behind the driver’s.

“Feels like betting on a horse race,” Wibberley grumbled, looking out his window at a pair of workers striding to or from whatever they were doing for work.

Marlin nodded. “That’s what it is, more or less. Except if we don’t pick the right horse, we might be at war with the other one.”

“War’s a strong word.” Wibberley sniffed. “Tensions. There will be lots of tensions.”

“World’s got enough to worry about without us having tensions with the United States.”

“Who is the United States? That’s the question.” Wibberley gestured in a vague, all-encompassing way. “Not these people. They don’t even identify as such.”

“Name’s irrelevant. Someone is going to come out on top of this, and whatever that entity is, it will be, for all intents and purposes, the United States. Maybe it’ll call itself something different. But they’ll be the ones in control of the country.”

“These people can’t even control themselves. Half their Safe Zones are going AWOL.”

“Well, from what Guidry and Worley report, Greeley’s not doing too great either.”

“Do tell.”

“Possible coup attempt,” Marlin said, leaning to see a sliver of the sideview mirror where he watched the two workers walk behind their Humvee, not seeming to give the truck’s occupants any mind.

“Shit. Any danger to them?”

Marlin shrugged. “They don’t feel like it. If it happens, they think it’ll be clean.”

“How’s that change the rankings?” Wibberley wondered, bringing to mind again a leaderboard at the horse track.

“Not sure that it does. It’ll be a power shift, but Greeley will remain the center of the entity calling itself the US government. The question on everyone’s mind at this point is energy. Who’s going to have it, and who’s going to be starving for it. That’ll determine who ends up controlling the country.”

“If that’s the metric we’re calculating, then points go to Angela and her folks over in Texas. They have at least one refinery, from what I can determine. Possibly more. And they’ll definitely push for more if they have half a brain.”

“You think she does have half a brain?”

Wibberley smiled. “Unimpressed?”

Marlin met his partner’s gaze and shrugged again. “No, actually. I’m very impressed. From everything I’ve learned, she’s just some lady. No leadership background. I hear tell she was just a stay at home mom back before. I’m impressed she’s got this far.”

“But…?” Wibberley prompted.

“But she’s obviously outclassed. President Briggs is the purebred racehorse. She’s just an old drafthorse that’s never seen a track.”

“What about this Lee Harden character?”

“What about him?” Marlin shook his head. “Don’t know him. The vibe I’m getting is that half the people think he’s God and the other half think he’s the devil. Not sure he’s going to bring a lot to the table here. Much like our venerable host, Angela, he sounds like some ground-pounder who’s been shoved into this position and doesn’t want it.”

“Churchill was just some ground-pounder. Before he saved Europe.”

“That seems like a generous comparison.”

“Well,” Wibberley mused. “You don’t achieve mythical status like this Lee Harden bloke without there being something there.”

Marlin dismissed it with a gentle harrumph. “We have another problem.”

“Another one?” Wibberley’s voice was mock-aghast. “Well, that’s one too many. I’m out. See ya.”

Marlin smirked, then grew serious again. “Greeley has forces near Fort Bragg. And it looks like they’re sending more. Possibly an invasion force.”

“Ah.” Wibberley frowned at the back of the driver’s seat. “How accurate is that intel?”

“Accurate. As far as the force that’s currently there in the area. As for the possible buildup of troops for an invasion—that’s just what Guidry and Worley are hearing.”

“In either case, Angela doesn’t know that Greeley’s in her backyard.”

“No, she doesn’t. And from speaking with Master Sergeant Gilliard, it sounds like he has people moving into Fort Bragg area, as we speak. Reconnaissance, mainly. Trying to clear a route back there and see if they can re-establish that Safe Zone.”

“Oof.” Wibberley sucked his teeth. “This is about to get unpleasant. Do you think the Greeley forces in the area will hit them or lay low?”

“I couldn’t guess. Depends on their overall strategy. Not sure what they’re trying to accomplish there. But I don’t see a reason for Greeley to have forces in the area of Fort Bragg unless they were planning an invasion. And if that’s the case…well, shit, I don’t know. They might try to hit Gilliard’s recon patrols to silence them quickly. Or they might stay quiet so they don’t show their hand too early.”

“Did you tell Guidry about the recon patrols that Gilliard sent?”

Marlin responded with silence, still looking at that little sliver of sideview mirror, though there was nothing in it but a bit of sidewalk.

Wibberley shuffled in his seat. “Mack.”

Marlin grimaced, knowing he was being called out. And knowing that Wibberley was right to do so. Or maybe he was just correct for doing so. Because Marlin felt like he was already right. But sometimes the right thing was not the correct thing.

“Bugger all,” Wibberley murmured. “Mack, you can’t pick sides.”

“I can’t control what Guidry and Worley do,” Marlin said. “And what if they choose to give that information to Greeley? What if Greeley knows about the recon but the recon doesn’t know about Greeley? That’s picking sides.”

“Well, you should’ve told Guidry to keep his trap shut then.”

“Still can’t control what he does,” Marlin pointed out. “I can only recommend he keeps his trap shut.”

Wibberley let out a wordless grumble of discontent. “That’s not your call, mate. That’s command’s call.”

Once again, Marlin didn’t respond, because he knew that Wibberley was correct. You can’t argue with a man that’s correct. That just makes you look like an idiot.

Was Marlin being an idiot here? Did he come in and break a little bread with these people, accept their hospitality, and immediately side with them? Was he looking at this rationally, or emotionally? Sometimes it was difficult to tell.

“You’ve already picked sides in this,” Wibberley said. Not a question. Almost an accusation.

Marlin faced him. Gave him a seeking look. The kind of look that demands honesty. “And you haven’t, Wibberley? You haven’t already made up your mind who’s right?”

“No, in fact I haven’t,” Wibberley huffed. “They’re both fucked up, if you ask me. Greeley’s fucked up for starving their dissidents, but you think the UES is any better? You heard what the kid told us. You’ve heard the rumors about Gilliard.”

Right. The kid. Benjamin. The one they’d pulled out of that attic in Fort Bragg, about to get his face chewed off. He’d had a lot to say about Angela and Gilliard. Things that were not flattering. Things that didn’t put the UES on the moral high ground.

Briggs denied food to his detractors.

In the UES, the detractors simply disappeared.

“You can’t tell Angela about the Greeley forces in Fort Bragg,” Wibberley said.

“I know that.”

“Well, I felt compelled to remind you. Sir.” That last little bit, tossed with sarcasm. If it were anybody but Wibberley that had said it like that, Marlin might’ve reacted poorly. But they’d been through too much together. They knew each other too well. Marlin had no doubt in his head that, though Wibberley might argue against something, he’d back Marlin’s play.

Wouldn’t he?

If my play is correct.

But what if Marlin insisted on doing what he thought was right instead? Would Wibberley still back him then?

It didn’t matter. Not yet.

“I won’t say anything,” Marlin promised.

“Good. Hopefully it won’t make your meeting awkward.”

“Oh, it’ll make it awkward,” Marlin said, checking his watch and seeing that it was time to start walking. He shoved his door open. “But I won’t show it, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m a better actor than that.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Marlin walked along the sidewalk with Angela, both of them squinting into the bright midday sun as they headed towards the “Agri-Center,” which Marlin understood was a very fancy name for the place with all the tractors.

Angela’s bodyguard, a serious fellow with a nametape on his rig that labeled him BARSCH and who Angela had called Kurt, followed behind them at a respectful distance.

An old guy with a white head of hair and a cowboy-like mustachio walked with them. He’d introduced himself as Ed. He was the nominal leader of this place, or had been before Angela got there. Outside of introducing himself, he hadn’t said much.

“The Butler Safe Zone is self-sufficient,” Angela told him. “As all our Safe Zones are required to be.”

All the Safe Zones that you don’t have anymore? Marlin wondered.

“It doesn’t have quite as many fields as we had in Fort Bragg, and the current population has put some strain on the food reserves, but the fuel that we’re getting shipped in from Texas now is allowing us to complete farming operations, and get back some of the buffer that we depleted over the last month.”

Angela was headed for a tour of the Agri-Center for the purposes of being a good leader and seeing first-hand what was happening with the Butler Safe Zone. At least, that’s what Marlin had been told. She could speak with him while she walked there, as though she had no other time in her schedule, which maybe she did, and maybe she didn’t. But Marlin got the distinct impression that this was a “show-and-tell” op.

Could he blame her? Of course not. Here Marlin and his squads come, an envoy from Canada and the United Kingdom, wondering if the UES would be a good and viable ally for the future reconstruction of this fractured country. Naturally, they were going to pull out the stops and try to make a good impression. Marlin would do the same thing if he were in their shoes.

Rather than impressing him, though, it made him feel bad for them.

These people were drowning. An alliance with Canada and the UK was a life raft, and they needed to be on it. And here Marlin stood, on that life raft, judging whether they were worthy to come aboard, while they swallowed seawater and tried to convince him what a good person they would be if they were allowed to survive.

Not convincing me, he reminded himself. That decision is not mine.

When Wibberley was not present, Marlin had to pretend he was there, still keeping him level.

“What are your main crops?” Marlin asked, wondering if he sounded dubious or encouraging. He wanted to encourage the lady, but he knew that’s not necessarily how it would be taken. She knew he was fact-finding.

“Right now it’s winter wheat,” she answered, a tad eagerly. “We weren’t sure if we were going to be able to harvest everything Butler had planted back in the fall, but with the fuel coming in, we’re firing on all cylinders—no pun intended.”

There she went, mentioning the fuel again. She had to know that it was a huge deciding factor for Marlin’s commanders. Despite what some people said, she was not an idiot. Marlin had discovered that under the blonde curls and general house-wife demeanor, her eyes belonged to a different person.

They were shrewd. They scrutinized. They gauged. They calculated.

Even now, he caught her glancing at him, as though weighing how her words affected this envoy from Canada. He could almost pluck her thoughts out of the air: Should I keep talking or shut my mouth? Am I trying too hard, or should I keep going?

Marlin, being the nice guy that he was, offered her a lay-up.

“Tell me about the fuel situation in Texas. How much are you projecting to be able to keep pumping out? Are we talking sustainability here, or just enough to see you through the short term problems?”

“Sustainability,” she replied. “We’ve taken control of the refinery and a nearby offshore rig. We have more that we’re targeting, very soon. In fact, I expect to have a lot more details on that matter as soon as Major Harden arrives.”

“His promotion is official, then?” Marlin found himself trying to sound relaxed about it. He had some misgivings about a guy that couldn’t follow orders being shoved further up the chain of command. That might not fare well for Angela in the future.

He also didn’t like the idea of the guy outranking him. It wouldn’t make much of a difference, because they were in different command structures. But he would have preferred to meet the man on equal footing.

“It’s mostly official,” Angela replied, then seemed to frown at the contradiction of it. “It will be official as soon as he arrives.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him. When does he get here?”

“He should be arriving with the next fuel shipment coming in from Texas. We’re expecting it soon.”

Marlin nodded to that. Maybe he could still meet Captain Harden.

A murmured voice caught Marlin’s attention and he looked over his shoulder to find Angela’s bodyguard catching up to them, speaking into the lapel mic attached to his chest rig, an acoustic tube in his ear.

“Yes, sir. Standby.”

Angela stopped, allowing Kurt to approach, her eyebrows raised.

“Ma’am, Master Sergeant Gilliard is on the line. You’re needed at the TOC.”

Angela didn’t betray much outside of a twitch from the corners of her mouth. “Alright, then. Tell him I’m on my way.” She looked apologetically to Ed. “Please tell your folks at the Agri-Center that I’ll try to come by tomorrow. In the meantime, you can show Marlin around.”

Ed nodded to that, and started to gesture for Marlin to continue following him.

Marlin however, decided to push his luck. “Actually, Madam President, if you don’t mind, I’d be more interested in accompanying you to the TOC.”

He’d put her in an awkward situation, and he knew it. But it was a win-win for him. If she allowed him to go, he’d get valuable intel on their operations. If she didn’t, he got to see how she handled the awkward situation, which was a different sort of intel altogether, but just as valuable.

Angela tilted her head back, her eyes narrowing at Marlin, a faint smile on her lips. “Perhaps another time, Captain Marlin. But until I’m aware of why I’m needed in the TOC, I’ll assume that opsec is called for. I’m sure you understand.”

Marlin backed down with a nod. “Of course.”

Yes, she was definitely smarter than people gave her credit for.

But did that make her more dangerous?

EIGHT

─▬▬▬─

FRICTION

Angela’s feet struck an irritated rhythm along the sidewalk.

“You handled that well,” Kurt commented.

“He’s testing me.” Angela kept her voice down, though they were far enough now from Ed and Marlin that there was no way she could be overheard. Was it because of Marlin testing her that she was irritated? Hard to say. She might also be irritated with the interruption. Or she might simply feel irritated because it was easier to get mad than to let the anxiety take over.

Why did they need her in the TOC? What the hell had gone wrong now?

But this is what she’d asked for. Demanded, actually. She’d allowed Carl a lot of leash. In the end, that had been a mistake. Not because she regretted what Carl had done to the Lincolnists, but because, in retrospect, she realized she’d undermined herself.

She’d allowed Carl to think it was okay to make decisions without consulting her first. She had no desire to micromanage, particularly in military matters where she felt out of her depth, but one hand needed to know what the other was doing.

She shook her head as she walked. “You’d think after four years of being president, I’d have this shit figured out.”

“I think you’ve done very well for yourself,” Kurt ventured. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“Oh, I give myself credit,” Angela said. “I give myself credit for figuring out how to be the civilian leader, though it’s taken damn long enough to get comfortable there. No, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Okay. What are you talking about then?”

“Commander-in-chief.” She spat the words out like they were bitter in her mouth. “What the hell qualifies me to be a military leader? Why would anyone listen to Angela Houston about military matters? The civilian stuff—I can handle that. I used to wring my hands about it, but I’m over it. I’m comfortable with the crappy calls I have to make about people. But troops? Strategy? Tactics? I’m drowning.”

The uncomfortable truth was that she’d shot herself in the foot with Carl. And then she’d had to re-establish authority. Something that she’d come to realize could never really be re-established once it was lost. Now Carl called her into the TOC when important things happened. But she felt an atmosphere of tension whenever it happened. Resentment towards her. As though she were meddling.

Maybe that’s your lack of confidence talking. Maybe he doesn’t think that way at all.

“Kurt, I’m going to put you on the spot,” Angela warned.

Kurt glanced about, clear discomfort on his face. But he was not the guy that would deny her. Of all the people that Angela dealt with on a daily basis, it was Kurt that she felt respected her most as a person. Which was odd. And unfortunate. But perhaps it was because he saw her more completely than everyone else, because he was always around.

That was a good thing, right? That meant she had some substance to her after all.

“Okay,” Kurt replied with caution. “I’m prepared to be put on the spot.”

“No bullshit: What does Carl think of me?”

“Master Sergeant Gilliard doesn’t confide in me, ma’am.”

Angela cut him a sideways look. “That’s a bullshit answer, Kurt.”

Kurt sighed. “I was hoping it would get me off the hook.”

“Come on. You’re one of the only people I really trust.”

Kurt looked at her, his expression showing a shade of surprise, which he covered with a frown. Kurt was the type of guy that didn’t take people’s trust lightly. The thing with people’s trust is that it requires you to be more honest in order to keep it.

He chose his words carefully. “It appears to me that Carl recognizes your authority less out of loyalty and more out of expediency.”

Angela chewed on that for a moment. “Expediency. So if it wasn’t expedient to obey me, then he wouldn’t?”

“I can’t speak for him.”

“In your opinion, then.”

Kurt let out a soft noise of displeasure. “Your interests align. Currently.”

“And if they didn’t?”

“Then I might become concerned.”

“But you’re not concerned. Currently.”

“I would watch. Carefully.”

“And if our interests begin to diverge?”

“Then I would work very hard to make him believe they hadn’t diverged.”

Angela walked on in silence for a moment. She found herself surprised at the depth of that answer. Kurt was more than just a grunt. He clearly thought about these things.

“I feel like your talents are a bit wasted as a bodyguard,” she said.

“I don’t,” he replied. “After all, I’ve kept you alive.”

“You realize now I’m going to have to put you on the spot more often.”

He shrugged, eyes coursing over their environment. Always vigilant. “I think I only said what you already know. You should trust yourself more.”

Angela was surprised to find a lump form in her throat. Since being elected president of the United Eastern States, it seemed that every day exposed her more as a fraud. People drifted away. They lost respect. They doubted her so much that she began to doubt herself. They forgot who it was that had kept them together through the end of the world, and she’d forgotten with them. The simple fact that somebody still thought of her as capable touched something deep inside of her.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

They reached the small-town high school that had been commandeered as a hospital on one wing, and a command center on the other. A bent old sign declared it a “Drug Free School Zone,” which Angela figured was more hopeful than factual. A letter board gave a desultory GO VIKINGS, with the O hanging off. The Vikings weren’t doing much lately, as their athletic fields were now plowed over and getting ready to be planted for corn.

They went into the front entrance, then hung a left and took the long corridor to the high school end, where the TOC resided in the gymnasium.

The big lights were kept off. What light there was came from a few desk lamps at the folding tables where technicians in Air Force uniforms sat, and from a larger projector screen which showed an old map of the Charleston Safe Zone.

Carl Gilliard stood with the ever-present First Sergeant Hamrick, a dour man whom nobody liked, not even Carl. But he was tolerated because he kept things running smoothly between the soldiers that guarded the Safe Zone and the Hunter Killer squads.

As Angela approached Carl, she realized what the map of Charleston meant.

This wasn’t about Fort Bragg. She’d had Squad Four pulled from the usual Hunter Killer duties of route clearance back to North Carolina and Fort Bragg, and sent them on a mission that she thought was going to be a no-brainer.

Run the route between us and the Charleston Safe Zone. Evaluate their level of commitment, and how viable it would be to send a full diplomatic party to try and beg, plead, or coerce them back into the UES.

Angela’s motivation for sending Squad Four into this task was more or less because she was worried about Sam, but could not say so. Somehow, someway, she had come to think of him as her adopted son. But he’d cut the cord, and she wasn’t blind to it.

They’d needed someone to run the route to Charleston, and it had seemed an easy job, compared to the disaster that Augusta had turned into, and which Fort Bragg promised to be.

But now there was a problem. Now the map of the Charleston Safe Zone was on the big screen, and Carl needed to speak to her about something. Something to do with Squad Four.

She stopped in front of Carl and Hamrick, ripping her eyes off the map and putting them on Carl. “Master sergeant,” she acknowledged with chilly deference. “You asked to see me?”

Chilly meant nothing to Carl. He was arctic.

He nodded towards the screen, his ice-gray eyes betraying not a single note of disturbance that his president had less-than-warm feelings towards him. Either not even noticing it, or refusing to acknowledge it.

“Squad Four has just reported in on Charleston.” He glanced at her. “Private Ryder is fine, by the way.” To him, it was a footnote. But he knew that Angela would struggle to listen to the rest if she was worried about that. Was she so obvious? She needed to work on that.

“And what have they found?” Angela prompted, as though she didn’t care about the welfare of a single soldier, though when she heard him called “Private Ryder,” it still made her shudder. He wasn’t Private Ryder to her. He was Sam.

He’s not that little kid anymore, she reminded herself. He’s a soldier now. He belongs to them.

“Charleston is dead.”

The words came out matter-of-fact. Emotionless.

They vibrated through the air and hit Angela’s ear drums, and her brain did what brains do and translated those little vowels and consonants into logical communication. And yet, it didn’t seem like the words took.

Charleston is dead.

Carl waited, indifferent.

Wait…what?

“What do you mean, they’re dead?” Angela asked, feeling her ears burning.

Carl told her exactly what he meant. He laid it out like a syllogism. A list of facts to support the ultimate conclusion he’d already come to.

Defenses appeared damaged or inert. Evidence of primal activity inside the Safe Zone. A warehouse filled with dead bodies. All showing signs of incapacitation, similar to what happened to Sergeant Loudermouth in Augusta. A brief incursion of a medium-sized pack of primals, which led to a firefight, but no casualties.

“They did manage to extract one survivor,” Carl noted. “A boy they’re estimating to be around ten years old.”

Angela attempted to process it. She did process it. But it felt slippery in her mind, like she couldn’t quite nail down all these components to create a full picture. Carl seemed confident. Like it didn’t even bother him. Like it all made perfect sense. Why didn’t it make perfect sense to her?

She tried to swallow and found that her mouth was no longer interested in producing saliva for her. She glanced about for a pitcher of water and a glass, as though they had these things waiting about for people who might experience a sudden bout of dry-mouth.

“Madam President?” Carl questioned, a slight rise to his eyebrows that almost—almost—made Angela feel like a kid under the gaze of an adult trying to explain tough, adult concepts.

Then she squashed that shit before it could even take hold.

“Yes, Carl. I’m thinking.”

She should have been thinking about a strategic response, but first she wrangled her brain back into the right frame of mind. It wasn’t Sam, it was Private Ryder. A soldier. And Charleston wasn’t a bunch of individuals that she recalled shaking hands with and looking them in the eye when they’d first elected her president. Charleston was just a settlement. A faceless entity over which she presided.

President.

Commander-in-chief.

Get your shit together.

“Where is Squad Four now?” she asked.

Carl touched the shoulder of the tech he stood behind. “Corporal Lopez, pull up Checkpoint Three, please.”

On the big screen, a little hand-icon cursor appeared and with a few grab-and-drags, had panned the screen west of the Charleston Safe Zone to a little icon in the middle of nowhere that was labeled “CP THREE.”

“They pulled back to this location. It’s OP Varnville, one of Charleston’s outposts.”

“Is it a secure location?” Angela asked. “How long can they stay there?”

“It’s relatively secure, ma’am. Can’t make promises, but I’d anticipate they could make do in that position for a reasonable amount of time, barring any undue attention from large groups of primals.”

“And did Sergeant Billings make any recommendations during his report?”

This was very important to Angela, and when she said it, she couldn’t help herself shooting a dagger or two in Hamrick’s direction. The first sergeant licked his lips and looked away, frowning at the screen with forced concentration.

Sergeant Billings was a smart man. A good squad leader. He’d made recommendations about the whole debacle in Augusta. Those recommendations had been ignored. And then people had died. So Angela had learned a valuable lesson, one that Carl and Hamrick had learned as well: You always trust your boots on the ground.

In this, at least, Carl had had the good grace to appear ashamed. A simple downturn of his mouth, but it spoke volumes to Angela.

Now, he made no effort to credit or discredit what Sergeant Billings had said. He just spit it out, as factually as he’d done the rest.

“Sergeant Billings would like additional backup. He requested a minimum of two additional squads. He is working on getting intel from the boy they rescued from Charleston, but the kid is in a fragile state. He also says that the amount of bodies they observed was not even close to the number of people last counted in that Safe Zone. He believes they may have evacuated to another location, and would like an opportunity to find them, provided he can get information from the kid, and have reinforcements to do it.” Carl paused here to take a long breath, in which Angela detected a slight note of uncertainty. “He also strongly suggested that we dispatch Doctor Trent and Wildlife Officer Allen with his reinforcements. He thinks that they might bring some value to the mission in discovering what’s going on with the primals.”

Angela folded her arms across her chest and placed her index finger against her lips, staring up at the screen. She was inclined to just give Billings whatever the hell he wanted. She didn’t want to make another mistake.

But…

Kurt’s words echoed in her head. They had been wise words. Ones that she should follow. Was there a way to make Carl feel that their interests were aligned?

“Based on all of this, what’s your recommendation, master sergeant?”

She made sure to emphasize the master sergeant part. First Sergeant Hamrick need not open his goddamn mouth.

If Carl was capable of looking surprised, he cast that look on her now. Which was about as miniscule as his acknowledgement of shame had been when they hadn’t followed Billings’s advice. But it was there.

Good. Let him believe that they were on the same side.

After all, weren’t they?

“I don’t find Sergeant Billings’s recommendations to be unrealistic,” Carl replied, looking back up at the big screen. “We have a few squads available. Unfortunately, all our most combat-ready troops are tied up with the Hunter Killers. But we have some of the half-boots we can send.” A slight sniff. “We should confirm with the medical center that Doctor Trent can be spared, though I don’t foresee a problem with that. And I don’t believe Wildlife Officer Allen is doing anything useful at the time being.”

While Carl’s eyes were diverted to the big screen, Angela managed a look over her shoulder and caught Kurt’s eye. He gave her a fractional nod that made her feel more confident in her footing.

“Sounds like we’re on the same page then,” Angela concluded. “Send him two squads. Try to get the best of the half-boots you can.” She disliked the pejorative term, but it was so ubiquitous that she couldn’t think of anything else to call them on the spot. “I’ll talk to Trent and Allen personally.”

“Thank you, Madam President,” Carl said. And did her ears deceive her, or was that a tinge of actual respect in the way he said it?

“Thank you, master sergeant,” she replied. “Keep me posted.”

***

Carl was very aware that Angela Houston didn’t like him.

He watched her exit the TOC, one of his eyebrows arched as he considered their rocky relationship. It seemed to him that she didn’t like him for a whole slew of reasons, perhaps the most obvious being that she’d had to cover for his shadowy operations against the Lincolnists.

But there was something else there. Some other source of disdain that she displayed for him. And while Carl did not emote much, that did not mean he was incapable of feeling emotions. He was just in control of them. He stifled them. Had been stifling them for the greater portion of his adult life.

But he felt them. They were all there, deep down inside of him, tearing him to shreds even as he maintained his stoic demeanor.

And he was intelligent enough to know that this was likely the other great source of Angela’s dislike for him. He saw the way that she’d looked at him when they’d lost those boys in Augusta. He saw how she resented his lack of response to it.

She wore her heart on her sleeve so easily. Did she expect Carl to do the same?

It enraged him. But, of course, he didn’t show that either. He never showed what was going on underneath the surface. It was something so practiced that he did it as automatically as his body made his heart beat, or his eyes blink, or his lungs fill with air.

It enraged him because it was…

He cringed at the childish word as it floated up to his brain.

Unfair.

He’d become who he was at the hands of the world he lived in. His experiences had formed him, and they had been harsh. He was who he was out of necessity. He could not show his weaknesses. The world was peopled by predators that pounced and fed upon the weak, and so he’d learned long ago, Never let them see you bleed.

Angela judged him for this, but still relied on who he was, and what he was capable of doing. She held him in contempt for it, even as she leaned into its utility. Never understanding, likely never even bothering to contemplate, that he felt every hole that had been poked in him, but never let it show.

She would never know that he did show his emotions—just not in front of others. Never in front of others. Never let them see you bleed.

Always in solitude. Always in the dark, in the silence, when no one else was around, where no one else could witness it. In a quiet corner of the parking garage attached to the underground jail. In the front seat of a truck, when no one was looking. In a latrine that stank of others’ waste.

Those were the places, and those were the times, when he peeled it all back, and let his demons come out. And his demons were ghosts, and they bore the faces of the people he’d lost, and they haunted him to no end, every last one of them.

He wept for them in those quiet places. But it was never enough to make them go away. It was never enough to sate their appetite, but he let them feed on him anyways, just a little bit at a time, a piece of himself here and there. And when he could give them no more of himself, he put them away again. And he waited in those places until they were quiet once more, until his face was stoic again. Only then would he emerge, with no semblance of emotion on his face. Back to being Master Sergeant Gilliard. Back to being who he had to be.

Those squads that he lost in Augusta, they were a part of him now. They were down there with the others. And they shaped him, moved him, animated his every action.

Just as the deaths of Tomlin and Nate had had motivated him to purge every Lincolnist that he could lay his hands on, so the deaths of those two squads of Hunter Killers now motivated him to discover what it was that the primals were doing.

He knew, in the logical part of his brain, that there would always be deaths. But he would not abide those deaths to happen because of his own errors in judgement. He would not let that happen again. Never again.

In the midst of these thoughts, he looked up at the projection of Charleston.

His drive to uncover what was happening with the ever-evolving primals had not supplanted his drive to exterminate the Lincolnists. But they existed adjacent to each other now.

The Lincolnists might undermine the United Eastern States, but it wasn’t for a government that Carl fought. He fought so that they would never again take someone from him because he’d turned a blind eye.

The Lincolnists were a threat to some of them.

But the primals were a threat to everyone. And so his desperation to discover everything he could about them had become urgent. Because they were doing something, and Carl would never again lose people because of his own ignorance of what he was up against.

He frowned at the map of Charleston.

Charleston is dead. They took the women. They kept the bodies for food.

What was happening out there? What forces of nature were at work?

What evolution was taking place right under his nose, and how many more people was he going to lose before he figured out how to stop it?

NINE

─▬▬▬─

INVICTUS

Once upon a time, Lee, you built the UES. You can put it back together.

Lee stood at the front of the refinery in the humid morning air, waiting for Brinly. The sun had just come up, and already Lee was sweating. The usual scents of the refinery mixed with a swampy, briny smell coming from the nearby tidal marshes.

He struggled with Abe’s words, because they were both true and false.

True, Lee had built the United Eastern States. But he hadn’t done it single-handedly. Abe had helped him build it. And Tomlin. And Carl. And Angela. They’d all been a part of putting it together, and keeping it running for the last several years.

Could he really put it back together?

That was neither true nor false. It was a statement of faith.

During the beginning, back at a forlorn little stronghold of survivors called Camp Ryder, yes, Lee had been required to be the leader. He’d been required to fill a political role. He didn’t think he’d done that great of a job. Everyone pointed to the fact that it had worked out in the end, but had they forgotten about Jerry? Had they forgotten about the people that hated him and everything he did?

He’d lost Camp Ryder. Had it taken from him. Sure, he’d gotten it back, with a lot of help from allies. But then he wasn’t the leader anymore. After that, it had been Angela that had stepped up. And Lee had gone off to do what Lee did best: fight a war. A war against the infected, coming in from the northeastern population centers. A war against the primals, to keep them from destroying the agriculture they were trying to build. A war against the cartel.

He’d had some victories. He’d also had some defeats. He’d won more battles than he’d lost. But he’d lost more friends than he’d gained.

Now they were pulling him back. They were promoting him to major. They were using his influence, the so-called mythology that surrounded him, in order to accomplish political goals.

Was he done? Was it over? Did everyone else see something he didn’t? Did everyone else look at him and see a worn out killing machine, like a rusted Sherman tank standing in front of an old American Legion post, for kids to marvel at?

Did they look at him as obsolete?

He spotted the incoming convoy in the distance. A twinkling of sunlight across windshields. The growl of approaching engines. Brinly’s guntrucks escorted four tankers down the long, broken concrete road towards him, and as he stood there, he felt less like a soldier and more like a drifter at a bus stop. Deuce sat beside him. The stray that tags along with the hobo.

He scratched the dog absently on the top of his head. Deuce wagged his tail once, but kept his attention outward, watching the convoy approaching with his ears forward.

Lee’s pack lay at his feet. A small go-bag that contained all that he owned in the world, except for the clothes on his back and the boots on his feet. The uniform was new. Straight from the supply closet of one of the Texas bunkers. It all felt stiff and awkward, like the first time he ever stood in uniform. The go-bag contained his old—but still viable—clothes and boots. Two MRE’s, also from a bunker.

His plate carrier lay against his go-bag. No radio. No comm wires. Those had been taken off. He didn’t need them where he was going, and the guys in Texas did. Three spare magazines for his rifle, two for his pistol, but the route was kept safe by constant Marine patrols. He likely wouldn’t need them.

His battered M4 hung on his left side. Not his-his. That rifle was long gone. Just another M4 that had become his. Same with the Glock in the holster on his right side.

Just an old knight, whose time for leading charges had passed him by, but who still keeps his sword and armor. Perhaps to remind him of what he once was.

Hadn’t he dreamed of a day when he would take a step back and let others do the operating, and maybe he would just train others?

But that had been when he’d imagined a training cadre peopled by Tomlin, Nate, Julia, and Abe. But Abe was the only one still alive, and he was somewhere back behind Lee, running the show on his own with Menendez and Breckenridge.

Now a training cadre built of men he’d never been to war with felt like the loneliest thing in the world. An empty can. An unfulfilled promise. A dream whose luster has faded.

Lee didn’t want that anymore. Lee wanted to stay with Abe. Lee wanted to keep fighting. Fighting was all he had left. It was the home he’d always hated, but now, being shoved out the door, wanted nothing more than to go back to it, because it was the only thing he knew.

The convoy reached him. One MATV up front with a Mark 19 on it. Then the four tankers. Two guntruck Humvees taking up the rear.

The MATV rolled past, followed by the tankers, slowing down with hisses of hydraulics and compressed air, angling for the loading station where they would be filled up from the holding tanks of refined diesel.

The two Humvees swung wide and pulled up with their passenger sides to Lee. The back door of the rear Humvee opened up and Brinly peered out at him.

The grizzled, gray-haired vet gave him a smirk. “Goin’ as far as Butler, if you need a ride.”

Lee smiled back, grabbing up his pack in one hand, and his armor in the other. “Mighty kind of you to pick up a couple drifters.”

Brinly shifted over so that Lee could get in.

Lee clicked his tongue at the door, leaving it open for Deuce to jump in. The dog gave the interior a quick visual inspection, and then decided that Brinly must be okay. He climbed in with a wag of his tail. Even as reserved as Deuce was, a dog is a dog, and dogs love cars.

Lee piled in after, shoving his small pack and his armor in the space between the back seats. No gunner’s legs to contend with. He shut the door behind him.

Brinly settled into the seat across from him. “It’ll take a few minutes to fill the tankers, so make yourself comfortable.”

Lee took a quick glance at the driver and the front seat passenger. One a lance corporal. The other a gunnery sergeant. He recognized neither. They kept their eyes forward with practiced discretion.

“So.” Brinly rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “Major, huh?”

“So I’m told. I should ask you the same question.”

Brinly rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started.”

Lee fully intended to get him started. Because what does misery love? Company. “How’d that happen?”

“It shouldn’t have,” Brinly gruffed. “I’m enlisted. There were other commissioned officers that would’ve filled the position nicely. I explained to the powers that be that you don’t take a first sergeant and bump him to major. My arguments fell on deaf ears.”

They both knew they were talking about Angela.

Brinly cocked an eyebrow at him. “In your case, I think the promotion is a tad overdue.”

Lee wrinkled his nose, like the word “promotion” was an offensive bodily function. “How’s it been? Being major, I mean.”

“Aside from several captains’ thinly-veiled hurt feelings? Not all that different.”

Lee wanted that to be comforting, but it wasn’t. Brinly was at least still doing something related to combat operations. Lee himself was destined to be a figurehead. He probably wouldn’t wear his armor. Probably wouldn’t even bother to sling his rifle. He’d keep his pistol on his hip, but that was just in case he needed to suck start it and make a quick exit.

Just a bit of dark humor. But it made him smirk.

Brinly gave him a serious look. “This isn’t what you wanted. I can see that.”

“But it’s what the UES needs,” Lee finished, looking out the window at the tankers as they were hooked up to the filling lines.

Brinly folded his hands in his lap and regarded Lee for a long time.

Lee didn’t say anything. What was there to be said that hadn’t already been said? Brinly knew where Lee stood on the issue. And Lee knew where everyone else stood. Including Brinly. And Abe. And Angela.

You need to get on board with this, Lee told himself. He thought the words, but they came to him in his father’s voice, as many of his self-recriminations did. You may not like it, but the worst thing you can possibly do is go into it with a shitty attitude, and end up doing a shitty job because of it.

Lee took a deep breath through his nose and faced Brinly. As he exhaled it, he let go. Of his pride. Of his thoughts about how things should be. Of everything. “The preservation of the United Eastern States is the most important issue we’re facing.” He said it like the answer to a test question.

Brinly nodded once, but there was still a question lurking in his eyes.

“My…displeasure…won’t extend to the performance of my duties.”

Another nod. “Good. Because I think this is going to be challenging enough for you. Going into it half-hearted would only make it worse.”

That Lee could agree with. “So. You’re in Butler a good amount of time, running fuel back and forth. Give me the lay of the land.”

“I’m sure Angela will give you a full brief of her expectations,” Brinly said. “But I’ll give you this Marine’s observations.”

“That’s all I’m asking for. I’m sure I’m going to receive a lot of party lines when I get there. I’d love a more objective viewpoint to set the stage before I start hearing everyone else’s bullshit.”

“Butler is overcrowded,” Brinly began. “Food is running low. Faith in the leadership is waning. By leadership, I mean two people: I mean Angela, and I mean Carl Gilliard. Again, this is not my opinion, just my observation.”

Lee waved the caveat away. “Relax. This conversation stays in this truck.”

Brinly dipped his head in appreciation. “The two groups of civilians—those from Butler, and those originally from Fort Bragg—are a bit tense with each other. No overt fighting or anything, but you can get a sense that the Butler folks see the Fort Bragg folks as a burden. Particularly now that the food is starting to get scarce, though hopefully the spring harvest will alleviate that. The Lincolnists continue to be an issue, albeit not in the way that you’d expect.”

“In what way, then?”

“They’re in hiding. And Carl’s doing his level best to route them out. At which point, they get disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

Brinly shrugged. “I don’t know what he does with them, Lee. I’m sure you can imagine. Best case scenario, they’re getting banished. Worst case scenario, there’s a mass grave somewhere out in the woods.”

Lee grunted, wondering how he felt about that. He draped his arm over Deuce’s neck as he picked at his feelings. He was always a proponent of solving problems the permanent way. But this did smack of gestapo tactics.

Odd that he would think that, considering that he’d been accused of being the gestapo himself. He wondered if anyone made hand-drawn anti-Carl Gilliard posters and tacked them up around Butler, as they’d done to Lee in Fort Bragg.

“What’s your opinion on that?” Lee asked.

Brinly made an uncertain face. “I’m not sure I have one. Old timey, decent-American Brinly doesn’t like it. New-world, pragmatist Brinly wonders if it’s not the safest option. Cut out the cancer, so to speak.”

Pretty much how Lee felt about it. “And I’m assuming this is part of what is creating friction between the populace and the leadership.”

“That’s correct. Also, between Ed and Carl. And to a lesser extent, Ed and Angela.”

“Really? I always liked Ed.”

“I still do,” Brinly admitted. “But he doesn’t care for Carl. Wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. I think he’s got a bit of a soft spot for Angela, but he doesn’t like Angela letting Carl off leash and then making excuses for him.”

“What type of excuses?”

“The false kind.”

“So she’s lying for him.”

“More or less.”

“But at least Angela and Carl are pretty unified.”

“Well. There’s some tension between them, too.” Brinly sighed and rubbed his face. “Honestly, as far as Butler is concerned, just picture a high school where everyone’s got guns and no home team pride.”

“That’s a glowing recommendation.”

“You’ll get to experience it all yourself. At least I can leave when I want to. Any time it feels like to much, I just say I gotta clear a section of route.” Brinly smiled, but Lee could tell he was only half joking.

“Okay, so Butler is fucked. What about the other Safe Zones?”

“Charleston’s out of contact. Has been since we had to bail out of Fort Bragg. Florida’s two Safe Zones are on the fence, sending a lot of mixed signals that we’re basically interpreting as ‘We don’t really want to be a part of this anymore, but we’re afraid to come out and say it.’ Georgia’s other Safe Zone, Moody, is more or less still with us. My sense is that they’ll do whatever Butler does.”

“Any steps taken to try to rectify the situation with Charleston or Florida?”

“Yeah. Promoting you to major and telling everyone that daddy’s coming back home so they better shape the fuck up.”

Lee couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Daddy’s had a long day at work. Everyone’s getting the belt.” The smile fell from his face. “Seriously, though. Have they used me to threaten anyone? That’s probably something I should know about.”

“Not exactly. But it has been made clear that you’re on the way back to the UES, and that you will be visiting the Safe Zones and speaking to the leadership. I think different folks are interpreting that in different ways.”

“I’m sure some of them hear that as a threat.” Lee considered the man who ran one of the Florida Safe Zones. “Particularly Colonel Freeman.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.” Brinly raised a finger. “Oh, and she sent your boy, Sam, to Charleston. To get a feel for things.”

Lee blinked a few times. It was disorienting to hear Sam called “his boy,” but Lee left that alone for the time being. “She sent Sam? As what? A diplomatic envoy or some shit? The kid’s fifteen.”

“Well, Sam and his squad. Not his squad, per se. I believe his sergeant’s name is Billings. But Sam is with them. They’re one of the Hunter Killer teams.”

Lee sat in stunned silence for a few beats. “Jesus. I guess I’ve been gone a while. Sam’s on a Hunter Killer squad?”

Brinly nodded. “He’s squared away, Lee. Might only be fifteen, but he knows what he’s doing. Worked with Billings and his squad during the evacuation of Fort Bragg, and I guess they were impressed with his work. That squad got turned into a Hunter Killer team, and Sam stayed with them. One of the few half-boots that’s viewed as competent enough to do it.”

“Well, shit,” Lee murmured. “Brave new world.”

“That it is, my friend.” Brinly shifted in his seat. Opened the Velcro map pocket on the front of his chest rig and reached inside. He drew out a folded piece of paper that probably had once been white, but looked worn and dingy.

Brinly looked at the paper. “I’ve carried this on me for a very long time. If you’ll humor an old Marine for a minute…it’s a poem. Thought you might get something out of it.”

Brinly passed it to Lee. Lee regarded the thin, well-worn paper. Deuce gave it an investigatory sniff, decided it wasn’t food, and became disinterested.

It was a normal piece of printer paper, and when he opened it he saw words typed on it, like Brinly had printed it off a long time ago. The black ink was now smudged from many years of handling. But it was still legible.

“Invictus,” Lee read. “By William Earnest Henley.”

“Ever read it?”

Lee shook his head. “I am now.”

He read it over once, and then a second time, more slowly, picking at the four versus of the poem. Themes of hardship, and never allowing them to break you. Being headstrong to the last. That was something Lee could understand.

He folded the paper again, and handed it back. “‘I am the master of my fate,’” Lee quoted the last lines. “‘I am the captain of my soul.’”

Brinly nodded as he stuffed the paper back into the map pouch. “You should know that, no matter what you think, no matter what’s been said about you, you still have friends. A lot of them. Even the people that see you as a threat, they also have a good deal of respect for you. They might not like you much, but they’re all holding their breath to see what you do when you get back.”

Lee grimaced. “I feel like Daniel going into the lion’s den.”

Brinly shook his head. “You may feel that way. But I think you’re seen more as Moses coming down off the mountain. You need to lay down the law and whip the Israelites into shape.” He leaned back, looking out the window and observing the tankers being uncoupled, lining up for the convoy back to Butler. “And they’re either going to listen to you, or we’re all going to die in the desert.”

TEN

─▬▬▬─

RITUAL

Something was happening. The Alpha could smell it. It had been happening for a long time now, for many days and many nights, but this was the last time, and it smelled of heat, of fluid, of swelling fertility.

He smelled it, and so could the other males. They were not all like him, but many of them were. Strong. Large. With their own packs. A tense truce between them all as they milled obsessively about outside of the structure that had once reeked of the Easy Prey, but now smelled only of the fecundity that drove them mad.

At spurts and spats that truce would shatter into a deluge of snarls and barks, other males like him biting and slashing at each other, but never with a killing blow, something about the whole thing holding them back, something they did not understand, but were a slave to nonetheless.

Without the scent in the air they might have slaughtered each other. Without it, the smaller packs with smaller members might have been hunted and fed upon if other food became scarce. But the scent changed everything.

It had changed the Alpha. It had gotten into him and set his brain on fire, and left standing only three imperatives: Feed, and fight, and rut. His already thick neck and shoulders had swelled. His blood coursed through him, thicker and hotter than he’d ever felt it, the pressure of it pulsing through his veins. His jaws seemed to never stop clenching and unclenching, as though gnawing at the air, gnawing at the scent.

And now something was happening. The same, and yet different. And it pulled him from his listless grooming so that the crusted blood of that morning’s kill still slaked the right side of his neck, forgotten.

He began to mill around the structure like the rest of the males, jaws tasting the air, nose pulsing with it, working closer and closer still. He needed to be inside. He needed to be where the scent was coming from. Something in his brain gave that scent a physical form so that it seemed that the openings in the bottom of the structure had a Glow.

He needed to be inside, but he joined the milling, the parade that circled about the structure. A challenge. An invitation. Every male challenging each other, staring sidelong as they moved, and sometimes the challenge was taken and the fighting would happen, but no one challenged the Alpha.

He had already beaten the biggest of them. He had already wounded him, but not killed him, because he couldn’t, not when the scent was in the air. He had won, and he had rutted, three times already, and those three females followed behind him, issuing low warning growls. They did not Glow anymore.

He circled closer and closer to those Glowing entrances. Still, no one challenged him. And so he went in.

This structure held many places in it. Many small, dark caves, where females went and hid sometimes when they were not Glowing. But the place just inside was large, and open, and this was where most of the females were, and none of them Glowed anymore.

None but one.

She paced, near the center, the heat of the Glow rising off of her like steam. Behind her, on a raised sort of rock that the Easy Prey had made long ago, stood the Strange Ones. The Alpha avoided looking at them directly, but took them in with a sort of nervous circumspection as he entered.

They did not Glow. And yet they still smelled like they did. They looked like the Easy Prey, and yet they were not. A part of the Alpha wanted to charge them, the second that he caught sight of them, and sink his teeth into their necks, and sever their spines. It would be so easy. Just like the Easy Prey. But another, stronger part of him, was terrified of them.

The Strange Ones watched him with a sort of mild interest as he entered.

He could not have charged them, even if he wanted to. The Omegas surrounded them, and though he was larger than any single Omega, he knew that if he charged the Strange Ones, they would all attack him as one, and they would rip him to shreds.

It hadn’t happened, and yet the Alpha knew that it would.  It was understood, by the way that they stood, by the way they displayed their chests, and sat shoulder to shoulder, and watched him, unblinking. Their scent was cold, and feral, and untouchable.

The one that was Glowing was an Omega, too. Or would be when the Glow left her.

The Alpha began to mirror her pacing. Back and forth. She stalked the same path over and over, always with her eyes fixed on him, but the Alpha moved closer with each pass. He began to salivate, and it hung from his jaws in thick ropes.

A bark from behind him yanked his brain from one imperative to the other.

Fight.

He whirled around, rising onto his legs and charging. At first he did not even see what he charged at, as the blood rushed to his head and caused his vision to darken, but he knew that it had been a male that had barked at him. A last minute challenger.

He roared as he charged, jaws wide open, thickly-muscled arms outstretched with his fingers splayed, ready to rip and tear.

He saw the whites of eyes.

It was over that quickly. The challenger retreated before the Alpha could even reach him, scuttling sideways out of the entrance with his rear sunken low to protect his testicles.

The Alpha swayed on his feet, huffing heavily at the entrance. But the scent inundated him. Made it hard to focus on fighting when there was no immediate threat, and so it pulled him back in. He sank back down to all fours, and turned back towards the one that Glowed.

There would be no more challenges. It was over. And something was about to happen, though he could not think of what it was, because the biggest imperative demanded satisfaction.

The Omega might’ve resisted if she’d found him unworthy. But she’d seen how the other male had retreated. She’d seen that no one was willing to challenge him. He was the most worthy. The strongest. And so she let him come.

It was over within a minute. And when he released her and stood numbly over her, his entire body shaking, she rolled onto her back, and she did not Glow anymore.

She bared her teeth at him, and he backed away a step, unable to think for himself. Unable to calculate as he normally could. The other Omegas stepped forward, baring their teeth as well, though they did not growl or hiss. It was simply a warning. A message delivered.

And then the thing that was going to happen, happened.

The Glow went out of the place.

The scent dissipated as rapidly as morning mist when the sun strikes it. And all around them, and outside where the others milled and gathered and fought, there emerged a strange stillness. All was suddenly calm and quiet.

The three imperatives left him, as quickly as the scent of the Glow had. His brain opened, like a violent plant unfurling its leaves after a long, dark night. It was bigger than he remembered. He felt like he was waking.

He stood very still, as did all the others.

It was over. This place was used up. The Glow would not come back to it. No other Omegas would Glow. Not until many, many days in the future, a concept that the Alpha understood, but only vestigially, only as it applied to the basics of cause and effect. The sun would rise hotter and hotter, and then it would get colder for a time, and when it began to get hot again, then there would be another place, and another Glow.

But now there was none.

There was no more of this. There was no more of the Us. Now there would only be the pack. And the pack would grow. The Omegas would make it grow.

One of the Strange Ones slipped down from her perch and sidled lithely up to the Omega that he had just taken. The Alpha turned away from that Strange One, afraid of her, and hungry for her, all at once.

The three other Omegas that he had taken days ago now stepped around him, flashing their teeth, warning him to stay where he was, and he obeyed, because that was required. They went to the new Omega, and to the Strange One that stood with her.

The Strange One squatted low, her eyes, more like the Easy Prey’s eyes than those in the Alpha’s own skull, still watching him. The four Omegas gathered around her, huddled close to her, and covered her, so that the Alpha could not see her anymore.

But he could hear her.

She did the thing with her mouth that the Easy Prey did. She made the sounds that they made. And though the Omegas did not make those sounds back, they understood them. The Alpha did not understand them. None of the males did. But the Alpha understood something else.

Watching from his peripheral vision because he did not want to look the Strange One in the face, he knew that she would be his Strange One. He could never touch her, because she was Untouchable. But they would belong to each other.

They would belong to the pack.

***

Lieutenant Edwards sauntered back to his workstation at Captain Griffin’s Eastern Tactical Operations Command—or ETOC, to its current inhabitants—chewing on some stringy beef as he went.

Paige and his team had spotted the herd of half-feral cattle on their way back from overwatch on Fort Bragg last night, and had managed to bag one.

It’s not like you can just strap a six hundred pound steer to the hood of your car. So they brought the quarters back in a bloody mess and now everyone at ETOC had beef. Because it’s what’s for dinner.

And breakfast. And now lunch.

Not that Edwards was complaining. It was nice to eat something that hadn’t come from a can or a decade-old MRE. Maybe he’d be able to take a shit sometime in the next week. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

Still the whole thing struck him as so very 1800’s. He was used to being a part of a modern military, where your food came from big crates (the meat enticingly labeled “for prison or military use only”) and it was made for you, or prepackaged out of a factory somewhere. You didn’t have to go out and hunt with your musket to supplement your hard tack biscuit ration.

He sat down at the folding table that held his workstation, in the Shughart Middle School gymnasium. He’d booted it up and sent his recon drone on its pre-programmed route before going to get his lunch, and the drone was almost on target.

It would take its usual pass over the wreckage of Fort Bragg to see what the Freak Show was up to today. Probably circling the Soldier Support Center, going in and out, and getting into little scraps with each other here and there.

Being on the recon drone during one of its flybys was like watching the same nature documentary, over and over. Except without a British guy to narrate it.

Sometimes the other drone tech, Geller, would hang over his shoulder and provide the narration. Every freak down on the ground was named “Mogwai” to Geller. “Here, Mogwai feels threatened. His opponent puffs his chest and tells Mogwai that he can’t read good. The fight is on.” Or, “Mogwai cannot find food today, because his brain has been scrambled by a disease. To survive, he must feast on the bounty of his own excrement. Nature is a cruel mistress.”

The narration was entertaining, but what really got Edwards was Geller’s accent. Not because he did a good British accent, but because it was terrible, and would fluctuate between Cockney and proper British, and sometimes Australian.

But Geller was not in the ETOC at the moment, and so there would be no narration to today’s programming. Edwards would have to eat his stringy beef in boredom.

As the drone came on target and flew over the center of Fort Bragg, Edwards expected to see the Freak Show as it always was. A big crowd of bodies, milling about, seemingly without aim or purpose. A behavior that seemed unique to these freaks, because the freaks back in Colorado didn’t gather in these numbers.

What he saw instead was something that froze his jaw mid-chew, and caused only a single, descriptive word to pop up in Edwards’s head: diaspora. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard that word, and he didn’t know that it had to do with Jews and Israel—all he knew was that it meant a lot of people leaving a place and scattering in all directions.

He sat forward, his eyes wide and fixated, the beef forgotten between his teeth.

After a moment, his senses came back to him and his greasy fingers batted around the workstation, seizing the radio from its charging cradle and keying it. “This is Lieutenant Edwards to Captain Griffin, Edwards to Griffin—I need you in the ETOC right-fucking-now.”

***

Captain Perry Griffin ran. Edwards was not the type to make a big deal out of nothing. If he sounded worried, then there was probably a damn good reason to be worried.

A retinue of others that had heard the transmission followed behind him as he burst into the middle school gymnasium. Paige and two of his operators, and Geller, the other drone tech. Their boots stampeded and squeaked across the once-polished floors, sounding like a basketball game in progress.

Griffin pulled up behind Edwards. “What is it? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Edwards thrust a finger at the monitor in front of him. He had the camera zoomed almost all the way out to provide a wide aerial view of Fort Bragg. “The freaks,” Edwards stated, his voice back under a semblance of control. “They’re all fucking leaving.”

Griffin launched himself over Edward’s shoulder, shaking the table as he planted his hands down and stared at the image swirling on the screen. No, not swirling. That’s what they’d been doing. Now the “freaks” were all leaving, streams of them, heading in all directions.

“What happened?” Griffin repeated. “Why are they all leaving?”

“I don’t know. They just up and started running!”

And running they were. This was not the slow, pointless ambling around the Support Center that they’d been observing for the last several weeks straight. These creatures were moving. Like they had someplace to be.

Griffin’s first real commander’s thought was Are we in danger? Are they heading here? And how many of them? But it was still too early to tell. Shughart Middle School was several miles away, and there was no telling whether any of these infected were going to show up at their doorstep in a few hours, and how many there might be.

Even now, he saw a division happening. Massive rivers seperated into streams and rivulets of loping figures. Thousands of infected split into columns of a few hundred, and then those split even further, into big packs, some of them in the neighborhood of a hundred strong, others with just a few dozen.

Just a few dozen?

Griffin had never seen a pack of these things larger than maybe ten. And that was on the outside. A pack of ten was dangerous enough. What could a few dozen do?

Was it a group hunt? Was it a mass migration? No, that couldn’t be right—they were all heading in different directions. And really, did Griffin care where they were going? No. What he needed to know was Are they going to come back?

If one or more of those big packs came their way, it could be bad.

But they were leaving. And that could be an opportunity.

Griffin launched himself off the table, nearly toppling the monitor. He spun around to Lieutenant Paige. “Get your boys and gear up, now. Edwards, you keep that drone on Fort Bragg.”

Edwards craned his neck, his expression worried. “Shouldn’t I be tracking to see if any of these hordes are coming our way?”

“No, goddammit, I want you watching Fort Bragg! If they empty that place out, then I don’t even intend to be here if and when any of those packs reach this shithole.” He turned back to Paige again. “Prep your men to move in and take control of the power substation that got shut down when Fort Bragg fell. If we can get in and get the power back on, we can re-activate the high voltage lines. Geller! Where the fuck’s Geller?”

Geller popped up from behind one of Paige’s operators. “Here, sir!”

“Get on the horn to Greeley. Tell them to prepare to send me whatever they can. Tell them we’re attempting a move on Fort Bragg. I’ll be in direct contact with them when the coast is clear, but I want that shit on the tarmac, ready to roll the second I call.”

He looked back at the monitor again, seeing that the center of Fort Bragg now appeared desolate and unpopulated. His brain shot in a dozen directions at once, extrapolating the data, forming a strategy. “Our window of opportunity might be small, but it’s the only one we’ve been given, and we’re gonna use it. I want to own Fort Bragg by sundown.”

ELEVEN

─▬▬▬─

DISPERSION

Sergeant John “Scots” McCollum lounged at the bottom of the defunct cell tower, three miles south of Fort Bragg. He didn’t even like looking up at the thing, and he sure as shit wasn’t going to climb it.

The tall, skeletal redhead was known amongst the Hunter Killer teams for having brass balls. This did not extend to heights. He would fight a primal with a pocket knife before he climbed anything higher than an eight-foot ladder, which, he had discovered, was pretty much as high as he ever wanted or needed to be.

Luckily, he had Corporal Nguyen.

First off, they called him “Nug.” Why? Because somewhere along the line, somebody that didn’t know it was pronounced “win” had called him “Nuggen.” Despite being corrected, said person continued to call him Nuggen. Which then was eventually contracted to Nug, or sometimes Nugs, and occasionally The Nug.

Nug was their sniper, and back in the day when outdoor recreation was a thing, he liked to free-climb mountains, which seemed to Scots the height of stupidity. But it did mean that when the time came for Squad 12 to be on overwatch, Nug gladly tossed his rifle on his back and scampered up the massive tower, though Scots insisted he wear an improvised safety harness.

So Nug was up the tower, and Scots stayed down below, with the rest of his squad (The Highlanders, hua) at various positions around the rusty perimeter fence that enclosed the dizzying structure.

Five hundred feet up, Nug sat on the tiny catwalk, his boots dangling out over air, and his spotting scope in his hands. His rifle was strapped to his back. He took it along with him in case they had any contact while he was up there, but it wouldn’t reach out to Fort Bragg.

Beside him was the solar-powered radio repeater that he had installed a few weeks prior, which completed the chain between them and the Butler Safe Zone. It was a pretty sleek little piece of equipment, Nug thought. It’d come from one of the Project Hometown bunkers, and was a sight more advanced than anything he’d seen during his time in the military. Why did Special Operations always get the cool stuff?

He took a moment to admire the expanse of air around him, the terrain rolling out flat like a patchwork blanket. He could see Fort Bragg in the distance with his naked eye, and he let his eyes rest at the moment. There was only so long he could stand to squint through a spotting scope before it started giving him a headache.

He spat, and watched the little white globule fall through the air. This was how he entertained himself while up here for three hours. He leaned out over nothing, watching between his hanging feet as it splatted on the ground, a few feet from where Scots stood. Scots looked up and raised his hand. Nug could only assume he was being flipped off.

Nug still had yet to score a direct hit. But it was going to happen.

He snickered to himself, then raised his gaze back up to the hazy distance and put the spotting scope to his right eye again. Being a sniper, Nug was a nerd about his optics. This one was a piece of shit. But his high quality one was only 60x magnification, and couldn’t reach out as far as he needed to see from the tower. So he had to use this garbage, which was 125x, but with cheap, foggy glass that provided a poor picture.

So when he saw all the movement, he took a long moment, just staring at it, not certain what it was. And at 125x, every tremor in his muscles—which were always tired after climbing up here—along with the swaying motion of the tower, made the whole thing a jittery mess.

Gradually, through glimpses, he was able to piece together the picture.

He held the spotting scope up to his eye with one hand, resting it on a cross bar to stabilize it, and touched off his squad comms. “Nug to Scots.”

“Go ahead, Nugs.” Scots sounded bored.

Nug took a moment to consider how he was going to explain this. Clarity and brevity were important in radio communications. And it wasn’t until he started to form it into words in his head that he discovered his heart had begun bumping against his sternum.

“I’ve got eyes on several thousand primals. It appears they are leaving the vicinity of Fort Bragg. Some of them appear to be heading this way.”

Five hundred feet below Nug’s boots, Scots stiffened and came upright off the power box he’d been leaning on. “Nug, can you clarify that? You’re seeing primals headed this way?”

Part of his disbelief was how coolly Nug had said it. But when Nug responded, Scots detected the faintest bit of tension in his voice. Which said more to Scots than mere words.

“Affirmative on that, sir. It looks like something happened. They’re all leaving Fort Bragg. It’s like they’re scattering for some reason. And there’s a big chunk of them, maybe a thousand or so, that look like they’re heading south. Towards our pos.”

Scots snapped his head up, looking to the top of the tower and feeling that uncomfortable tingling sensation in his toes. “Nug, you need to get off that tower.”

He saw the little blob of Nug’s body, already in motion. “I copy, Sarge. I’m on the way. But it’s going to take me about ten minutes.”

“Shit.” It wasn’t news to Scots—he knew how long it took Nug to climb up and down. But now he thought about the three miles between them and Fort Bragg, and how fast that distance might disintegrate. The primals could cover a lot of ground when they wanted to.

“Standby real quick,” Scots transmitted. “How fast are they moving? They just trundling along or are they hauling ass?”

“Nope,” Nug said, his shape still moving, negotiating his way to the pegs on the side of the tower that served as climbing holds. “They’re hauling ass. I’m on the way down.”

Scots looked north, towards Fort Bragg, as though he could see through the miles of rank-and-file pine trees. He kept up a steady string of curses to help himself think.

If they got hit by a big pack of primals, they weren’t getting out of this alive. And he wasn’t leaving Nug on the tower.

He made a rapid decision and keyed the squad comms again. Everyone had earpieces. They’d already heard, and he was sure they were waiting for orders. “Everyone pull back from the fence line. Get in the truck and get ready to roll the second Nug gets down. And if you see a primal, for fuck’s sake, do not engage it unless it’s coming at us.”

At this point, their best hope was just to go unnoticed.

No one bothered responding over the radio. They all just came running.

Scots stalked to the side of the MATV and threw the front passenger’s door open. He reached in and seized the radio handset, which was keyed to the command frequency. “Scots to Alfred. I’m going to need Actual on the radio, ASAP. Prepare to copy.”

***

First Sergeant Hamrick stalked to Staff Sergeant Lopez’s side. He’d only caught the tail end of the transmission, but he didn’t like what he’d heard.

“Copy that,” Lopez responded, holding the radio with one hand while the other scribbled madly on a pad of paper. She glanced up and saw Hamrick there. “Standby for Actual, but I have Six here.”

“Just relay the information,” Scots’s voice replied. “We’re gonna go quiet here and hope not to be noticed. Highlanders out.”

Lopez released the radio and jabbed the tip of her pen at the hectic lines she’d written. “Squad Twelve is on overwatch at the cell tower. Their sniper just confirmed massive amounts of primals, moving fast, out of Fort Bragg, and heading their way.”

Hamrick frowned. “Well, tell them to get out of there.”

Lopez shook her head. “They can’t. Their sniper is still coming down the tower. Scots said they’ll be stuck there for about ten minutes.”

Hamrick did some quick mental math. As an infantryman, he knew well the calculations for time and distance on foot. When the primals moved at a full boogie, he guessed they could keep up a consistent six or seven-minute-mile over distance. The cell tower was three miles south of Fort Bragg.

“That’s gonna be cutting it close.”

“FOB Arkham is five miles from the cell tower,” Lopez said. “They should have QRF on standby. Should I call them?”

Hamrick gritted his teeth. “What’s ‘massive amounts’ mean?”

“He made it sound like…all of them.”

Hamrick’s guts felt watery. “All the primals in Fort Bragg?”

“That’s what the sniper reported.”

What the hell is happening out there? Hamrick wondered. Then he shook his head. “No. Alert them and have them keep ready to exfil if need be, but don’t send QRF.”

Lopez looked stricken.

Hamrick hated her for that. “It wouldn’t do any good, staff sergeant. Not against thousands. Now get on the horn with Arkham. I’ll get the master sergeant.”

***

OP Varnville was just as creepy the second time around. Perhaps moreso now that Sam knew what had happened to the Charleston Safe Zone.

Squad Four set up shop in the same little store where Billings and Jones had nearly shot each other. Jones sat with the kid, up against a shelving unit that had been shoved to the wall to create floor space. He’d rolled out his bed, and let the kid curl up there with Sam’s poncho liner snugged around him, just his fearful eyes peeking out.

They’d done their best to treat him, but they were underprepared. They had some basics, and they were all cross-trained on what the old Army used to call “Combat Lifesaver.” But they had no IV fluids to treat his severe dehydration, no splints to cast his broken limbs. Not even Ibuprofen to give him for the pain he must’ve been in. The tourniquets and combat gauze and chest decompression needles they did have were useless for this patient.

So Jones kept pushing his water bottle at the kid, who would occasionally take a sip. He’d managed to keep down an ancient packet of crackers from one of their kits, but they didn’t want to push him into eating too much at this point. If he vomited, it might cause more problems, depending on what was busted inside of him.

Sam, Chris, and Pickell, stood around the counter on the opposite side of the room, as though to give deference to the child. Chris poked absently around the cash register, and Sam and Pickell watched him like the world’s most boring television show. None of them spoke. The only sound was Jones’s occasional murmur of comfort.

Chris had his knife out. Prying at the cash drawer.

“You’re gonna break your knife,” Pickell pointed out, his syllables mushed by the way his face was pressed against his propped-up hand.

Chris ignored him. Kept going at the cash drawer.

Pickell just shrugged as though to say, You’ll see.

Sam fiddled with the cash register’s little display screen. The one that used to light up with how much money you owed the clerk. “What are you hoping to find in there, anyways?”

“I’m just curious,” Chris mumbled. He gritted his teeth, jangling the knife around. Then straightened, frustrated with his progress. He took a moment to breathe. “When’s the last time you saw a cash register that wasn’t popped already? Every cash register in the United States must’ve been looted when shit fell apart. So why not this one? Is there still cash inside? Did someone put something else valuable inside and close it again? It’s a mystery.”

Sam raised one eyebrow. “Keep going, man. Maybe you’ll find your dignity in there.”

“Pff.” Chris shook his head. “You’ve been hanging around Jones too much.”

Sam cast a glance over his shoulder. “Jones is in mamma-bird mode. I’m just filling in. It’s too quiet without someone talking shit.”

Chris redoubled his efforts on the drawer, and then with one final push, the drawer shot open with a startling clatter and a CHING.

A gasp from behind them.

Sam turned and found the kid upright, eyes wide and terrified, looking all around.

Jones took him by the shoulder, “It’s cool, it’s cool.” He shot Chris a shriveling look. “Nice going, asswad.” Back to the kid. “It’s okay, man. It’s just my friend being stupid. He’s real dumb. We think he’s probably retarded or something. Here, drink some more water. There you go.”

The three of them at the counter stood still for a moment, until the kid settled back down into his poncho liner. Only then did Chris return his attention to the drawer. He let out chuckle of wonderment. Dove his fingers in and came out with good old American greenbacks.

“Look at this shit!” Chris marveled.

Sam saw it, but his attention was more on the childlike amazement on Chris’s face. He couldn’t help but smile in return. “Yeah. Those’re dollar bills. You’re rich, bro.”

Chris huffed, but still smiled. “I know they’re not worth anything. But, man! When was the last time you saw some of these things? Holy shit. This cash register, right here, this thing managed to make it all the way through the end of the world and no one ever opened it until just now! It’s like a…like a time capsule or something.”

Pickell leaned in, inspecting the wad of bills in Chris’s hand. “I dunno, man. They might be worth something someday. You know? Like a collector’s item or something. I bet pre-collapse money will be pretty rare.”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “You think it’d be weird if I kept it?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, it’d be weird. But you’re a weird guy, so...”

Chris nodded. Then he straightened the bills and began folding them neatly. “Totally gonna keep these. Make me a rich man one day.”

The back door of their hideout opened, and Billings stepped in, returning from the Humvee. He closed and locked the door behind him, though they all knew the flimsy locks wouldn’t do much good.

Billings eyed Jones and the kid, but crossed over to the counter where the others stood.

“Hey Sarge,” Chris called out. “Look what I found!”

Billings looked. His expression seemed a hair confused. Like he was trying to determine an inscrutable punch-line. Then he pasted on a smile, like a father acting impressed about his kid’s nonsensical finger painting. “Yeah, Chris. That’s really cool.”

Sam raised his head to Billings. “What’d they say?”

“Well, we got what we asked for. For once. They’re sending two squads of half-boots, and Doc Trent and Allen the wildlife guy are coming with. They actually dispatched them a few hours ago. Assuming they make the route without issue, they should be here in two, maybe three hours.”

“What’s your plan once they get here?”

Billings rubbed his face, his palm making a scratchy sound on three days of stubble. “We need to figure out where the rest of the people from Charleston Safe Zone are. I’d like Doc to patch up the kid. And then I’d like to see if him and Allen can’t put their heads together and figure out what the hell is going on with the primals.” He turned to look at Jones and the kid. “Has he talked anymore?”

“Not really,” Sam said. “Gave his name as Braden. That’s about all I’ve heard. Maybe Jones got more out of him.”

Billings nodded and stepped away from the counter. Sam followed, staying behind Billings out of a desire not to crowd Braden, but he wanted to know what information they might glean.

Billings squatted down in front of them. The kid watched him, but Sam was pleased to see that he wasn’t fearful. He knew that they were here to help.

“How are we doing?” Billings asked.

“Good, I guess,” Jones said, his arm still around Braden’s shoulders. “He’s taken some water. But he’s still in a lot of pain. When’s Doc Trent getting here?”

“A couple hours.”

Jones nodded. “You tell Doc what we needed?”

“He’s aware of what we think is wrong with the kid. He’s bringing what he can to try and solve the problem.”

“Any way we can evac the kid to Butler? Or Moody?”

“Butler would be a better bet. I think our hospital has a little more to offer. The problem is getting him there.”

“We can’t just lug him around with us, Sarge.”

“I know that. I’m figuring it out.” Billings turned his attention to Braden, dipping his head and trying on a smile. “How you doing, Braden?”

Braden licked his chapped lips. “It really hurts.”

Billings blinked a few times, his jaw clenching. “I know it does, Buddy. We’ve got a doctor on the way and he’s going to help you, okay? But right now, I need your help. Can you help me?”

“I guess so.”

“Can you tell me a little more about what happened in Charleston?”

The kid seemed to shrink. Except for the eyes. They seemed to grow.

Jones rubbed his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re right here. Those things can’t hurt you when you’re with us. You’re safe.”

They all knew it was a lie, and that felt gross to Sam, but they needed information, and they needed the kid not to have a panic attack as he delved into those unpleasant memories. The more they could make it sound like all of that was a bad dream that could never touch him again, the steadier Braden would stay.

When the kid spoke, his voice was even smaller than it had been. Like he was stuck in the bottom of a well. “I don’t know how they got inside. I thought the fences were supposed to keep them out. But they didn’t. They didn’t keep them out, and then they were everywhere.” Tears sprang into Braden’s eyes, his mouth working wordlessly.

We’re gonna lose him, Sam thought.

Billings reached out and added his hand to the kid’s shoulder, next to Jones’s. “It’s okay. Maybe we’ll just do this. How about I just ask a tiny little question, and you just do your best to answer that, okay? Can you do that?”

Braden nodded.

“Do you know if anybody escaped?”

Another nod. “Some people, I think. Not a lot. I saw the trucks leaving. The army trucks. And one of the school buses. And there were people on them.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“No.”

“Do you remember anyone mentioning a place where they would go if something bad happened? Did anyone mention the word ‘evacuation’ or name another town or outpost or something?”

“The Moody Safe Zone,” Braden said. “Some people talked about going there. Mr. Havelock said it. I remember that. He was on the loudspeaker and he said some of those things, but then everyone was running and I had to hide.”

Gil Havelock was the man in charge of the Charleston Safe Zone. The mayor, for lack of a better term. Or governor. What was the proper term for a person in charge of a Safe Zone? Sam had heard different terms used interchangeably. It once again gave him the sense of everything being so disorganized, he was surprised that it had held together as long as it had.

Billings cast brief glances at both Sam and Jones, and they understood. He didn’t need to say it: If Moody had been their destination, they’d never made it.

“Okay, Braden,” Billings said. “You’re doing really great. Can I ask you one more question?”

“I guess so.”

Billings appeared to struggle with how to put it. “What happened to all the women? The girls?”

A strange convulsion came over Braden’s face. Like a geyser of too many emotions had erupted inside of him. “They took my mom,” he said, his voice hoarse with grief. And then his face became savage. “They took my mom! They took my MOM!”

“Okay, okay,” Jones leaned forward, pulling the kid into a hug, but Braden rejected it, pulling away weakly with his damaged limbs. His face flushed, tears streaming, his mouth a mask of pain and rage.

“They took my mom! And everyone was running! And no one stopped them, not even the guys with guns, they didn’t stop them, and they took her, they took her, they took my mom!”

Spittle and snot and tears mixed and flew from the kid’s mouth with the force of this expulsion. Any other words devolved into animal yells that made little sense, like he was trying to scream passed a strangling hand on his throat, and the only word that was decipherable was his cry for mommy, over and over again.

It took them five minutes to settle Braden down again, but they never got him to go back to his original state of relative calm. It was a relief just to get him to stop screaming, but he lay there, exhausted and shaking, sobbing into Jones’s dirty pants leg.

Sam did not take part in the comforting. He’d taken a step back, and now stood, trying very hard not to tremble, though his knees shook and threatened to become so weak that he found himself wishing he could sit down. But he didn’t want to sit. He didn’t want to show any weakness. He didn’t want to reveal that those words, and that screaming, had opened him up.

They’d torn something open that he thought had long-since scarred over inside of him.

He knew the sound of that screaming. He’d made that sound when he’d cried out for his dead father, and his dead mother, and his dead sister, all dead, dead, dead, and you could never have them back. And the pain was because they were gone, and it was because you couldn’t do anything about it, because at ten years old the tides of everyone else’s decisions tug and pull you at their will, and you can’t break out of them, and they drag you out to places you never thought you’d be, like a rip current.

At ten years old you are powerless. And yet, that would not stop the boy in front of them from feeling the same thing that Sam felt now—that he should have done something, he should have figured out a way, he should not have allowed himself to be so goddamned scared…

Sam knew the sound of that scream because sometimes in his darkest nightmares and darker memories, he would hear it, echoing around inside of him like the howling of a storm that would never end.

He turned away from Jones and Billings and Braden, and he staggered to the counter, hoping that no one saw the hitch in his step. He got his hands on the counter and thought that if he hadn’t he would have hit the floor.

Maybe no one had noticed. Chris and Pickell stood stiffly behind the counter, their eyes on the sobbing kid. Their faces showed the melted mix of pity and helplessness that even the densest of humans feels when they witness an innocent person in agony.

When Sam had the wherewithal to glance over his shoulder, he saw Billings watching him. Billings stood and nodded outside. “Ryder. Take Pickell and cut me a quick recon on the adjacent buildings. See if you can’t find some roof access so we can set up an overwatch.”

Sam bobbed his head, feeling ashamed but grateful. To be given a task—any task—was better than sitting around in the dim confines of the shop. He hefted his rifle from where it sat against the counter and slung into it, Pickell doing the same.

They left out the back door. Their Humvee sat in the backlot, close to the door. The lot was a small pad of concrete that ran the length of several shops. A few pine trees carved out an existence for themselves in the wide cracks, along with weeds that were taller than Sam.

He cleared his throat and gestured to the building to their left, which held a promising ladder. “That looks easy enough,” he said, glad that his voice sounded normal.

Pickell followed without protest.

Sam stepped up to the ladder, holding his rifle low but ready, as he gave his surroundings a scan before turning his attention to the rusted treads. He gave it a critical inspection. “Think this thing’ll hold us?”

Pickell shrugged. “I think the previous folks must’ve used it. Rust is worn down on the rungs. I think it’s from them going up and down it. Must be safe enough.”

“Yeah. Safe enough,” Sam echoed. “Let’s go up one at a time. No point in over-stressing it.”

“Alright. I’m up,” Pickell volunteered, slinging his rifle to the side and clambering up with confidence, as though his evaluation of the thing’s structural stability was irrefutable and there was nothing at all to worry about.

Sam watched him ascend, frowning.

They both lived in the same damn world, and yet Pickell always seemed so carefree.

The skinny soldier disappeared over the top and then reappeared a moment later, giving Sam a thumb’s up. “You’re good. Nice view up here.”

Sam slung his rifle out of his way and went up, trying to match Pickell’s confidence. If it had held Pickell, it should hold him. And it did.

So many things to worry about, and half of them never came to fruition. It almost seemed like a waste.

The top of the roof was twenty feet up. It gave a decent vantage point out over the small town’s main street, where there were only one or two other structures that blocked their view of the surrounding countryside. Mostly woods. A few fields here and there that were slowly being infiltrated by pines.

Sam made a slow circuit around the roof, picking out a few good lanes of fire.

He stopped, looking out towards the east. Towards the Charleston Safe Zone that they’d just fled from. Had any of those people survived? And if they had, where had they gone? And what had happened to the women?

Beside him, Pickell began to whistle with no apparent melody.

Sam kept his eyes out on the distant woods, but shook his head. “How do you do it, Pickell?”

The whistling stopped. “Do what?”

“How do you stay so cheerful all the time? Like none of this shit bothers you.”

Pickell shuffled his feet. “Hell, it bothers me, Ryder. No one wants to see the shit that we’ve seen. But…” he trailed off with a slow sigh. “But what does worrying get you? It doesn’t make you see threats faster. Doesn’t make you shoot better. Doesn’t help the team. All it does is put a knot in your gut about things you have no control over.”

“You have control over your life,” Sam said. “And whether or not you lose it. That’s worth worrying about.”

“Well, now, I guess I just disagree.”

“You think we don’t control our lives?”

“No, it’s not that.” Pickell considered things for a few beats, and then spoke in the tone people used for quoting old wisdom: “‘God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that. That is the way all men should live, and then all would be equally brave.’” He smiled. “Stonewall Jackson said that.”

“Huh.” Sam frowned, playing the words over in his head.

Was it that simple? Did you just have to have faith? Did you just have to believe that there was a higher power pulling the strings, and there was nothing you could do about it?

Was that how everyone else did it?

Sam tried to apply it, but it had been so long since he’d considered the possibility that there might be a God, that the concept felt cumbersome and unreal in his head. For a brief moment, as he tried, he felt a slackening of his fears, but then they came back. They always came back.

“I think the problem is that I’m not worried about dying,” Sam said. “I’m worried about everyone else dying.”

“Well. There’s nothing you can do about that. Hey. You got binos?”

Sam blinked, caught off-guard. “What? No. I think they’re in the Humvee.”

He looked to his right, where Pickell stood, peering out into the distance and shading his eyes against the sun. “What do you see?”

“Twelve o’clock. Maybe a mile out. Woodline to the left of the highway.”

Sam squinted, his focus scouring across the place Pickell had described. “What was it?”

“Not sure. Movement.”

There. Just a tiny flash of it.

On the north side of the highway that eventually became the main street of this town, the woods were bisected by a small peninsula of open field. And right at the corner of it, the movement came again. Something flitted across the corner of the field, and then disappeared into the woods again.

“I see it.”

“Deer?”

“Can’t tell.”

Another shape.

“That’s three,” Pickell noted. “Four. Five. Six-seven-eight.”

Sam felt his shoulders tensing. His chest tightening. “They’re coming towards us.”

“Ten. Fifteen.” Pickell shifted, then shook his head. “I don’t think that’s deer, bro.”

The sporadic flashing of movement had become a steady trickle now. At least twenty. Now maybe thirty. The trickle turning into a stream.

Sam touched off his comms. “Ryder to Sarge.”

More and more. Definitely not deer. Too many of them, and the movement wasn’t right.

“Go ahead, Ryder,” Billings came back.

Sam moved towards the ladder. “We’re coming down. We’ve got incoming, about a mile out.”

“Incoming what?” Billings demanded.

“Primals,” Sam grunted, swinging out over the ladder. “We need to move out.”

TWELVE

─▬▬▬─

THE BIG PICTURE

The first thing that Lee thought as he rolled through the gates of the Butler Safe Zone was Everything has changed.

The quiet little Safe Zone that he’d left behind him nearly two months ago was now overcrowded. People stood on street corners, watching the MATV roll by and gawking at the face in the window as though he were someone famous.

Or infamous, he thought. Because there were more than a few faces that glared.

Deuce seemed to share Lee’s concern about the number of people. He pressed his nose to the window, leaving glistening snot trails behind as he snuffled and watched the people as they passed by. Could he read their faces as clearly as Lee could? Perhaps not. Perhaps he only sensed the tension in his master.

Lee found his fingers buried in Deuce’s fur. Using the coarse hairs to scrub his fingernails. Just another form of cleaning something that wasn’t there. He forced himself to stop.

Everything had changed. And Lee had changed too. He was not the same man that had left this place. Structures in his mind had been torn down and rebuilt in different ways. Scars, inward and out, had reshaped the landscape of his personality. Did these people even recognize him?

“Why’s everyone standing around?” Lee grumbled, looking away from the faces and choosing instead to look out the windshield at where they were going. The convoy of tankers had already pulled off. Brinly’s driver took them towards the center of the Safe Zone.

“Shockingly enough,” Brinly sighed, “there’s not enough work to go around.”

“That’s a recipe for disaster. I see literally hundreds of people out here, Brinly. And we’re hurting for troops.”

“Those that are willing to volunteer have volunteered.”

“Well, maybe some of them need to be voluntold.”

“That sounds like an issue you could take up with Angela.” Brinly cast him a meaningful look. “But I think we both know how that conversation will go.”

Lee snorted, knowing that Brinly was right. Angela wouldn’t go for conscription. A draft would be the nail in her political coffin. But on the same token, so would unrest in the Safe Zones. Having people packed in with nothing to occupy them made the air in the place feel heavy and tense. Like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

“Where are we going?” Lee asked.

Brinly nodded ahead. “They want you in the TOC. I guess you’re going to hit the ground running.”

Lee shifted in his seat. “Guess that’s better than sitting around with my thumb up my ass. Any idea what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

As they pulled into the main lot of the school where the TOC was stationed, both he and Brinly caught sight of the welcoming party waiting for them. Carl and Angela, with her bodyguard Kurt by her side, and another man in military fatigues that Lee didn’t recognize.

And Marie.

Lee’s heart dropped.

The MATV stopped right alongside the four waiting figures. Lee stared at them through his window, trying hard not to reveal any emotion on his face, though his pulse had suddenly skyrocketed. Not for Angela, nor for Carl, or the stranger. Lee fixated on Marie, and wanted nothing more in that moment than for her to not be there. Or for the MATV to keep driving. To take him out of this situation. To save him from what he knew was coming.

Marie stared back at him with an expression that Lee wished he didn’t recognize. But he knew it well. It was emptiness. It was death. It was what was left behind after a force of nature wipes out everything and leaves it barren.

He tore his eyes away from her and scanned the other faces as he laid his hand on the door latch. Physically, they looked just as he remembered them. Carl, tall, lean, and balding on top. Angela with her cloud of curly, blonde hair, pulled back, apparently against its wishes. Marie with her hawkish, severe features. But they’d all changed, nonetheless. They’d changed just as much as Lee had. The months had not been kind to any of them.

Get it over with.

“Thanks for the ride,” Lee said to Brinly, and then shoved the door open.

The smell of metal and diesel and gun oil was replaced by the air of the Butler Safe Zone. It came in at him like a shock. Wood smoke. A faint odor of sewage. People. Lots and lots of people.

Deuce scrambled out of the open door, gave the gathered people a cautious glance, then trotted to the back of the MATV and pissed on the rear tire.

Lee stood, and closed the door behind him, and the others strode forward to meet him. Lee forced his feet into motion, his gait stiff. Not just from so many hours in the truck, but because he felt the weight of it all, like a burden his legs could barely handle.

Angela came first, and there was a brief moment where their eyes hit each other, and a thousand questions were asked and nothing was answered, and it seemed like she might embrace him and Lee might have liked that, even if it felt strange…

Then something flashed through her eyes, and she straightened, and extended her hand. “Welcome back, Major Harden,” she said, her mouth with a faint twist of a smile, her eyes still betraying something else.

Lee took her hand and gave it a single shake, thinking that as strange as an embrace might have been, this cool handshake seemed worse. “Thank you,” he said, and, unable to put it off any longer, he turned himself to Marie.

Marie’s hands came up, and for a second Lee thought it would be another handshake. But then she skipped over his hands and took his shoulders. She stood on tip-toes as she pulled him in so tight he could feel her arms shaking.

Lee felt his chest buck. He gripped Marie. Loosely at first. Uncertain. And then harder.

Her chin was on his shoulder. Her hair in his face smelled terrifyingly like her sister. Lee refused to breathe it in any more. He stood with his lungs locked. That smell that was both Julia and not her at all, and it hung in his nose like a mockery.

There were a lot of thing that Lee had thought of saying. To apologize. To absolve. To relate to Marie somehow that he had tried, he had tried so hard to save them, to save her, but that he couldn’t. He wasn’t enough. Everything else was so much bigger than him.

That he should have died. That he had died. That what she held now was just a corpse.

None of it came out.

Lee never apologized because it was meaningless. Never explained, because he could not. Never attempted to absolve himself, because he didn’t deserve it.

Marie released him. Took a step back, her hands on his shoulders still, as though holding him at arm’s length. Her eyes were dry. Nothing left in them. Just as there was nothing left in him.

“I’m glad you made it back,” she said. But the words were wooden. Rote. A line delivered by a bad actor in a shitty stage play. They could’ve been true. Or they could’ve been a veiled accusation. There wasn’t enough feeling in them to tell either way.

Lee’s mouth twitched down. He didn’t reply, but he held her gaze for a moment longer, and hoped that she sensed his meaning: I’m not.

She took her hands from his shoulders, and it was over.

Marie looked down at Deuce, who sniffed her legs, his tail wagging hesitantly. She managed a shaky smile. “And how are you?” she asked the dog. He allowed her to scratch behind his ears. Marie looked up at Lee. “You got food for him?”

Always the caretaker, Marie. She’d been making sure that everyone was fed since Camp Ryder. He could still picture her in that sweltering little room where she did all of her cooking, hovering over a pot of whatever they had to feed everyone.

“I packed some,” Lee replied. “But if you’re able to find some extra scraps, I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

Marie nodded. “I’m sure I can find something.”

Lee turned to the others, but Marie’s figure still burned at the edges of his vision.

Carl stepped forward and shook his hand. “Good to have you back, Major.”

“Not official yet,” Lee commented.

Carl held onto his hand, and then offered his other, palm opening to reveal what it contained. “Well, it is now. Usually this would be a little more formal, however, we don’t have time for formalities. I was able to rustle this up, which is about as official as it’s going to get.”

Lee stared at the object in Carl’s left hand. An oak leaf cluster. Black, instead of brass. Which Lee thought was about as fitting as this could get. Lee still struggled with the urge to push it away, but he’d made his decision. He’d forced himself to accept it. This was just one more thing he needed to get done.

He didn’t try to make himself look pleased, which would be blatantly false, but he refused to show hesitation. He grabbed the damned thing. Took the backer off, and then pinned it to his collar. Secured it. Flattened the collar. Rocked into the position of attention—something he hadn’t done in God knew how many years.

Carl snapped up into attention across from him, then saluted.

Lee saluted back.

Good. Moving on.

Lee fell out of attention, nodding towards the school behind them. “What’s going on?”

Carl smirked. “What isn’t going on? First, let me introduce you to Captain Marlin.” Carl stepped back, gesturing to the man that Lee hadn’t recognized. Captain Marlin looked about ready to offer up a salute, so Lee thrust his hand out before he could.

Marlin offered a knowing smile. He took Lee’s hand and gave it a firm pump. “Captain Marlin. Canadian Armed Forces. It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot.”

“I promise it’s not all true.” Lee gestured towards the school and strode for the door. “Let’s walk and talk. Madam President. Master Sergeant Gilliard. Who wants to fill me in?”

“Carl has more details for you,” Angela said. “Go ahead, Carl.”

There was an unmistakable note of something in her voice that hadn’t been there before, Lee thought. Authority.

Everything really had changed.

Carl opened the door to the school and allowed Angela and Lee through, and then fell into step beside him. “We just got word from our squads deployed to recon Fort Bragg. They’ve been watching for three days now. Up until thirty minutes ago, Fort Bragg was still crammed full of primals. Now they’re reporting the primals just up and left. The squad on overwatch—Squad Twelve—tried to get out, but then got pinned in. They haven’t taken contact, but they don’t have a clear way out either. We’re waiting on a sitrep.”

“What kind of numbers are we looking at?” Lee asked, frowning.

“Initial estimates of the total population inside of Fort Bragg were in the neighborhood of four to five thousand. The squad on overwatch reported seeing them all leaving, all heading in separate directions, and breaking into smaller core groups. Those core groups are numbering about a hundred.”

Lee looked at Carl as they turned a corner of the school. Blue and white painted walls greeted them. GO VIKINGS was painted in giant block letters. “Hundreds? Those aren’t packs. Those are hordes. We’ve never seen this behavior out of them before.”

“Yeah, well.” Carl pointed towards a large set of double doors. An entrance into the gymnasium. “Shit’s gone a little sideways. They’re doing all kinds of things they’ve never done before. Starting with thousands of them congregating in Fort Bragg. Specifically around the Soldier Support Center. Like it was some sort of hub for them. No idea why.”

Lee stepped through the door and into the TOC. Several tables. Several techs. A big projector screen, showing a map of North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia. Hanging from the rafters was a single blue banner with a basketball emblazoned on it. Division champs one year, far out of memory. Someone’s jersey was pinned high on the wall near the projection screen. Number 32. Krickovich. Maybe the senior that had won them that division championship.

Deuce set off at a trot to run a circuit of the gymnasium—securing the perimeter.

Lee looked to Carl again. “Anyone working on why the primals are acting this way?”

“Doc Trent and the wildlife guy, Allen,” Carl answered.

“Can we get them in here?”

“They’ve been dispatched,” Carl replied. “To your boy. Sam Ryder.”

My boy? Lee wondered again. Why does everyone keep saying that?

He stopped at the first table with Carl, beside a young Hispanic woman with a nametape on her Air Force uniform that identified her as Staff Sergeant Lopez. Lee was familiar with First Sergeant Hamrick, who hovered nearby, looking as hard-assed as ever. Maybe moreso.

Lee opened his mouth to ask where Sam was, but Lopez turned at their approach and spoke first.

“Excuse me, sir.” She looked to Carl. “Squad Four just called in. Sergeant Billings is reporting a large group of primals moving in on OP Varnville. They’re unable to hold the position and are falling back. And FOB Arkham is calling in for you.”

Carl muttered a curse and looked at Lee, as though deferring to him.

Lee shook his head. “Carl, until I know what the hell’s going on, this is still your show. Do what you gotta do. I’ll catch up.”

Lee had the sudden and discomfiting sensation of experiencing a sharp learning curve. Something he hadn’t felt since his days in Camp Ryder. Since then he’d been an operator. Setting up missions and executing them with small squads.

The goddamned oak leafs on his collar had thrust him completely out of his wheel house.

Carl nodded and turned back to Lopez. “Alright. Transfer comms with Arkham over to Corporal Byers. Hamrick, handle that please. Lopez, stay on the line with Squad Four and standby for further.”

Hamrick bustled down the table to the second tech that Lee assumed was Corporal Byers. Carl crossed his arms over his chest and nodded towards the map of three states on the main projector. Lee’s eyes coursed over the map as Carl gave him a rapid briefing on the legend. He bit his lip in concentration and tried to focus on the assault of information while his brain spun off with different questions.

Why have they dispatched Doc Trent and Allen to Sam’s squad? What’s that got to do with Charleston? Have they even made it to Charleston yet? And why are the primals acting like this?

Carl had stopped explaining.

Lee pointed to the map. “This doesn’t make any sense. How is Squad Four getting hit with hundreds of primals right now? There’s no way that’s the same horde that left Fort Bragg. They’re hundreds of miles apart. It’s gotta be something else.”

“Lopez, bring up the Charleston Safe Zone.” Carl rubbed his chin as the map on the main projector zoomed into South Carolina. “Sergeant Billings—that’s Squad Four—reported in earlier today that Charleston had been completely wiped off the map.” A pause. “Along with some other weird shit.”

“Wiped off the map?” Lee couldn’t help his jaw dropping. “No survivors?”

“One. That they could find, anyways. A boy. Approximately ten years old.” Carl met Lee’s gaze, and in his gray eyes was an uncertainty that Lee had never seen before. “They found him in a…well, shit, I don’t know what to call it. The primals had a bunch of bodies all crammed into a warehouse. Saving them for later. Based on what Billings reported, it sounds like they weren’t dead when they were stuffed in there.”

There was nothing funny about it, and yet Lee heard a strange cough of laughter come out of his throat. “What? Did they lock them in there or something? How’d they keep them there?”

Carl’s face twitched. “They break the legs and shoulders. Disable them. Alive. Store them for later.”

Lee became aware of Angela and the Canadian soldier watching him. He snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack. There was a strange ringing in his ears. Different than the tinnitus that plagued him—and probably every other operator that had ever fired weapons in close quarters.

Focus. Compartmentalize. All the same concepts, just a bigger picture.

The picture was starting to clarify, but Lee was still missing pieces. And he wasn’t going to force Carl to get him up to speed in the middle of an emergency. The worst thing he could do for the guys on the ground right now was try to step into his command role before he knew what the hell he was talking about.

Lee took a deliberate step back away from the table. He nodded to Carl. “You’ve got the TOC, master sergeant. I’d like a full briefing once you have things stabilized. Do you have a spare command net radio?”

Carl blinked a few times but gave no other sign of surprise. He reached over to a docking station and pulled out one of the spare handheld radios and handed it over to Lee. “Are you going somewhere?”

Lee nodded, turning the radio on. “Contact me when you’re ready.” He turned around, finding Angela and Captain Marlin looking shocked.

Angela leaned in. “The purpose of promoting you to major was to give you command.”

Marlin glanced between them, scrutinizing.

Carl didn’t look at them, but Lee knew he could hear.

Lee shoved the radio in the back pocket of his pants. “And I will. When I’m ready. In the meantime, I’d like to speak with Ed.”

Angela frowned. “Ed?”

“He is still the one in charge of this Safe Zone, isn’t he?”

Angela’s jaw muscles bunched. Then she nodded. “He’ll be in the sheriff’s office, probably.”

Lee headed for the door. Deuce trotted after him, but he motioned the dog to stay, garnering a canine expression of consternation. “I’ll be at the sheriff’s office. Keep an eye on Deuce for me, please.”

THIRTEEN

─▬▬▬─

KILLERS

Ed stood up, grinning underneath his white mustache. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Lee crossed the atrium of the tiny sheriff’s office and the two men met in the middle. Lee went for a handshake but Ed pulled him into a brief hug, clapping his shoulder. A rare show of affection from the old law dog.

When they separated, Ed held him at arm’s length and inspected him. “Brother, you’ve been through the ringer.”

“That bad, huh?” Lee smirked. He knew he must have been a sight. Angela had to have put in a lot of effort not to react to his physical appearance and the changes that had been wrought in him.

Ed didn’t seem so predisposed to be tactful. “You look like you’ve skipped a few meals, that’s for sure. I didn’t think you could get skinnier, but here you are. We’ll call it ‘lean.’” Ed gave him a pointed look. “Lean and mean.”

Mean. Yeah. That’s the vibe I give nowadays.

Amazing what two months of hunting and killing can do to you.

Lee glanced around. “They got you at the secretary’s desk, Ed. Did they kick you out of your office?”

Ed’s smile bled away from his face. “I gave it up. Thought it might look better if Angela had it. Show of support, I guess.”

“What the hell’s going on around here?” Lee murmured. “I’ve heard some things.”

Ed glanced over his shoulder, towards the door that led to the basement jail. “We probably want to talk outside.” He lowered his voice. “Carl’s boys come through here.”

Lee nodded. They were only a few minutes’ walk from the high school, and Lee wanted to stay close to the TOC. “We can make a few laps. Come on.”

Outside, the sun was bright and hot in a cloudless sky. Lee was already going nose-blind to the smells of the Safe Zone, but they were still there in the background. A reminder that things were not as they should be. A Safe Zone shouldn’t smell like a refugee camp. This one was bursting at the seams.

“Carl’s gone off the rez,” Ed commented, his eyes shifting around, though there weren’t too many people hanging around this section. They took their time circling the block. “Been scooping up anyone he thinks is a Lincolnist, and God only knows what he’s doing to them. They just disappear.” A pause. “And I think Angela knows.”

Lee chewed on that in silence. It was no different than what Brinly had already told him. But Lee still felt his heart sink. He expected tension between the civilians. Tension between the leadership was worse.

“I’m glad you’re back, Lee,” Ed prompted. “Butler really needs you right now. The whole goddamned UES needs you.”

“What they need is unified leadership.”

Ed stopped walking. Faced Lee. “They need leadership they can trust. Not black bag tactics.”

Lee liked the old man a great deal. But he found himself seeing Ed in a different light now. Someone who was living a lie. Someone who’s mind was trapped back in more civilized times. Someone who held to a code that had died a long time ago.

Ed looked troubled by the gaze that Lee had leveled on him. “Lee, you gotta take control of this place before shit gets outta hand. Hell, it’s already out of hand.”

Lee flicked his fingers. “You think I’m any better, Ed? You have no idea what I’ve done.”

Ed crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, well, we all done shit here and there. That don’t mean you wallow in it and keep doin’ wrong. I’ve heard enough rumors from boys coming back from Texas. I know what you were up against. The things you done, you did to bad people.”

“Everyone’s a bad person to someone else,” Lee said. “To the Lincolnists, I’m a bad person.”

Ed’s mustache twitched as his mouth worked. “You’re not a bad person.”

“I watched him burn,” Lee spat out. “Mateo Ibarra. The head of the cartel.”

Ed regarded him in silence.

“I stood outside of a truck he was pinned in, and I let him burn while he screamed and begged for mercy. I could’ve popped him in the head. I could’ve ended his suffering. But I didn’t. I just sat there and watched him. I even broke his window so he wouldn’t pass out from the smoke. So it would last longer. And you know what, Ed? I didn’t mind at all. I still don’t. I’d do it again.” Lee leaned into the space between them. “That who you want running the show here, Ed?”

Flick, flick, flick.

He balled his fist.

Ed didn’t respond. Which Lee guessed was answer enough. And on some level, in some part of him, that stung, to watch the man’s faith in him shrivel up so suddenly.

Ed looked away. “So you ain’t got a problem with what Carl’s doing?”

“I don’t know, Ed. I’ve been back here for thirty damned minutes. I’m still getting my feet under me.”

Ed started walking again. Faster than before. “So why’d you even come talk to me?”

Lee kept pace with him. “Because you’re the head of this Safe Zone.”

“Don’t feel like it anymore.”

“People still trust you. People still respect you.”

Ed whirled on him. “Yeah, you know why?” he thrust a finger out at the buildings around them. “Because I don’t black bag their families. Because they know I’m better than that.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be. Have you ever thought of that?”

“No, I haven’t, Lee. I’ve been an honest man my entire life. And I ain’t gonna change that just because the world went and gone to shit.”

“These people don’t need coddling,” Lee snapped. “They need leadership.”

“That’s what I thought you were here for.”

Lee laughed. A bitter, cynical sound. “You’re living in a fucking dreamland, Ed. I like you a lot, and that’s why I came and talked to you. But you need to wake up. Angela pulled me back from Texas and promoted me for one reason, and that’s because people are afraid of me.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Ed asked, his face earnest.

“I think it’s bullshit, but it’s not up to me. I’ll do my damned job. And you should do yours. Which, right now, is getting on board with how this place needs to get run. I don’t need to tell you that this place feels like a powder keg—you’ve been living in it nonstop. And right now, your insistence on some misguided moral code is just undermining what we’re trying to accomplish. I know you don’t see it that way, but dammit, you’re setting yourself up to be the spark that blows this place up.”

Ed shook his head. “That’s disappointing to hear you say, Lee.”

“Yeah, well, life is disappointing some times. You get up and move on.”

“You’re asking me to get on board with gestapo-style tactics.”

“I’m asking you to see the forest through the trees,” Lee growled, and as he said it, he remembered a different conversation where Abe had told him the same thing. For the span of a heartbeat, Lee stood outside of himself and looked in, and wondered if he was right. But then he plowed on. Because he had a job to do. “This isn’t about the safety and security of Butler anymore, Ed. This is about preserving the entire United Eastern States. If we lose you, if this place blows up, then we lose everything. The UES goes belly up, and Briggs has an open door to walk right in and take control.”

Ed snorted. “New boss. Same as the old boss.”

“It won’t be the same. You know that.”

“It don’t matter anyways.” Ed waved his hands and let them flop to his side. “You want me to support Angela, well I have been supporting her. Haven’t said one word of dissent. I’m just not sure I should keep doing that.”

“You need to keep doing it.”

“Or what?” Ed challenged. “You gonna black bag me too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lee pointed in the direction of the high school. “We got a Canadian envoy hanging over our shoulder, judging everything we do. We have one shot—one shot, Ed—to get support from another world power. And I can tell you right now, he’s no dummy. He can see that there’s a rift in our leadership. And if that shit doesn’t get shored up quick, they’re gonna walk. They’ll put their muscle behind Greeley. And we will be dead in the water.”

Ed grimaced and looked away again.

“Ed, I need you to help me. I don’t like the game any more than you do, but these are the rules we gotta play by.”

Ed sniffed, and appeared to come to some decision. He met Lee’s gaze again. “Alright. I’ll help you, Lee. I always have. Because I know you’re not as bad as you think you are. But if you want me to play this game, then you’re gonna do something for me first. How’s that for playin’ games?”

Lee drew his head back. “What is it?”

Ed pointed at him. “You get Carl to stand down. You take control, and you make Carl do what he was supposed to be doing from the start—which is running his squad, not running my Safe Zone. And when you’re in control, you don’t black bag anyone else.”

Lee grit his teeth, thinking. Choosing his words. “I’ll get Carl to stand down. And I won’t black bag anybody. No more disappearing folks. But I’ll tell you this straight up, Ed: If they fight me? If they try to kill Angela, or any of my people, or try a coup like they did in Fort Bragg? I’ll take them out, no questions asked. I won’t black bag them. I’ll drag them out in the street and shoot them in the back of the head for all to see.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, the proposition hanging in the air. Lee thought that Ed might continue to argue, or refuse, but then he nodded, once.

“Fine. I’ll back that play. But things have gotta change.”

Lee nodded back, feeling an indefinable sadness come over him. “Everything’s changed already, Ed.”

***

Angela met him out front of the school.

Lee registered her bodyguard, hanging back inside the atrium of the school, peering at him through the glass doors. Did he just happen to look at Lee? Or was he watching him? Did he distrust him? Did he think he might fly off the handle and hurt Angela?

Surely not. Lee knew Kurt Barsch. And he hoped Kurt Barsch knew him. Lee’s reputation had preceded him on his return to the UES, but no matter the stories that might be whispered—some true, and some probably very overinflated—Lee would never hurt the people he cared about.

I’m not a psychopath, he told himself. And he disliked how he felt defensive about it. You only ever got defensive about the things that have a shred of uncomfortable truth to them.

Flick, flick, flick.

Maybe Lee had been…unhinged. The entire past month in Texas, during which Lee had been called Mr. No One by the men he hunted, felt like a nightmare from which he’d only just awoken. But Mr. No One was dead. He’d burned up with Mateo Ibarra.

Lee was a different man altogether now. Mr. No One had been an animal—something that still resided deep down inside of Lee, but which he felt he had control over. And that animal had been put away. Locked up for later use. In case of emergency, break the glass.

Now, I’m Major Harden, Lee thought, with an inward cringe.

Lee stopped in front of Angela, squinting against the strong sunlight. “How are things inside?”

“Sam’s squad pulled back to a different checkpoint, several miles from their last contact with that horde of primals. They’ve rerouted Doc Trent and the three squads to rendezvous with them there. They should be able to meet up within the hour and give us an update.” She brushed a wayward curl out of her face. “Hamrick is still figuring out what’s going on with the squads outside of Fort Bragg.”

Lee offered Angela a small smile. “You seem to have grown into your position more. You seem to have things under control.”

Angela didn’t smile back. “Does it seem that way? Because I don’t.”

“I only meant that you look like you’re doing a good job.”

A bit of the façade that she’d maintained came down, and beneath it Lee recognized the woman that he’d known a long time ago. Careworn. But trying her hardest. “We’re losing Canada,” she said, her voice low, but desperate. “Marlin can tell that we’re faltering. Losing support from our own people.”

“I talked to Ed. We got some things straightened out, I think.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Ed’s just a figurehead at this point, Lee. He doesn’t have any control. I’m not sure he wants it at this point. What we need is Major Harden to come in and take control.”

Lee grimaced. “Yeah, that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“Then why are you fighting me on it?”

“I’m not fighting you on it, Angela. I’m trying to get everyone else to stop fighting you. But the fact remains, you don’t need any more figureheads. You need killers. And I’m the best one you’ve got.”

Angela laughed. It sounded just as bitter and cynical as the one he’d given Ed. “Lee, I’m surrounded by killers. Everyone’s a killer. Hell, Lee, I’m a killer.”

Lee frowned at her, thinking she meant it figuratively. “Angela—”

“Elsie Foster,” Angela said, blinking as though fighting tears, and yet her eyes remained dry. “The leader of the Lincolnists. I killed her, Lee. And I’m not talking about telling someone else to do my dirty work and I feel guilty and responsible.” Her lips trembled, pulling back to show her teeth. “During the evac from Bragg, she was trying to sneak onto one of the buses. And I shot her in the head. Right in front of everyone. Every person from Fort Bragg saw me do it.”

Lee reached out and touched her elbow. The most personal they’d been with each other since their awkward reunion. “What were you supposed to do, Angela? Let a known terrorist get on the bus with you? The woman who tried to assassinate you?” He shook his head. “You did what you had to do.”

Angela cringed. “That’s what everyone always says. Everyone’s always doing what they have to do. I know that we have to do what’s necessary. But goddammit, Lee, I’m just so tired of it. We don’t need more killers. We need peacemakers.”

Well, you called on the wrong fucking guy.

Lee squeezed her elbow once, then let go. He took a big breath. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to be Lee Harden. Not the soldier that ran a squad out of Fort Bragg. The one that helped us build Camp Ryder up from nothing. The one that made the United Eastern States possible. I need that Lee Harden right now.” She pointed behind her, to the school. “Take control of military operations. And then go to the other Safe Zones, and get them to fall back in line. Give me something to show Canada. Give us a chance to survive.”

She watched him. Waited for him to accept it.

Lee remembered a time, long ago, standing in the snow with Abe Darabie, with a collection of leaders from all over the southeast meeting for the first time in the building behind them. It had been the birth of the United Eastern States. And at the time, Lee had said that their job was done. They’d fought through the end of the world, and created a government of the people. Mission accomplished.

Abe had laughed at him. His words came back to Lee now.

They’ll always need us to keep them safe. And we’ll always do it. Because it’s what we do. It’s the way we’re wired. We’re always looking for the good fight.

Trust me, he’d said. Our work is never done.

As contentious as their relationship had been when they were alone in Texas, when they were Nadie y Ninguno, Abe Darabie had always been Lee’s friend. Maybe his closest friend. He knew Lee like no one else did. And Lee missed him sorely in that moment.

It should’ve been Abe, Lee thought. Angela should’ve called him back to do this. He’s always had a better head for this type of work. And shit, he’s already a major.

Why can’t things just be the way they were?

But that was childish thinking. Nothing ever stayed the same.

This was not square one. He’d achieved a lot, and those achievements didn’t evaporate just because he had to go back to the start and correct a few wobbly bases. He did not have to create the UES out of nothing. He simply needed to bolster it. You didn’t rebuild a house because of a sinking foundation. You shored up the weak points.

“Alright,” Lee finally said. “I’m with you, Angela. But I want you to remember something.”

“What?”

“You built the UES, just as much as I did.”

Angela’s lips pressed together. But she nodded.

Lee’s radio buzzed.

“Gilliard to Harden,” Carl’s voice came over the line. “We’re ready for you in the TOC.”

FOURTEEN

─▬▬▬─

SURVIVORS

Charlie found him on a street corner. Benjamin Sullivan, just standing there, leaning up against a brick building, his hands in his pockets, staring off into space.

She’d been looking for him for a while now. Or, more correctly, she’d been looking for an opportunity to talk to him and make it seem natural.

His location had been hard to keep track of. For two days straight, he’d been holed up in one of the buildings downtown that they’d converted into a sort of rooming house. There were a lot of those these days. And “rooming house” was a generous term. To Charlie, they reminded her of an old drug house she’d seen in the neighborhood she used to live in before the world ended.

That place had stunk. People in and out at all times of day. None of them with any purpose in their lives. Inside, dingy carpets with piles of clothes on the floor, sometimes blankets. People sleeping wherever they could find a spot.

The only thing missing from the rooming houses was the human feces in the corners, drug paraphernalia on the floor, and nonsensical graffiti on the walls. But the people inside looked just as tired and hopeless and dangerous.

Why Benjamin would have wanted to lay around one of those places for two days baffled her mind. But then again, there wasn’t much to do.

She didn’t have a job either. So it had become her job to keep tabs on Benjamin. It was nice just to have something to focus on, even if that thing kept her in a constant state of tension.

Benjamin was a loose string. An uncontrolled variable that she hadn’t accounted for. How the hell had he managed to survive Fort Bragg? There’d been rumors. Of him hiding out with his mother’s dead body. Living in a squalid, pitch-black room.

In comparison to what she’d heard, maybe the rooming houses didn’t seem so bad to him.

The problem was that Benjamin knew things. Things that Charlie didn’t want him to talk about. Things that Sam Ryder didn’t want him to talk about either, but Sam wasn’t her concern. Her concern was always, first and foremost, for herself.

A girl had to survive.

And if Carl Gilliard found out that she had been a Lincolnist, she had no doubt in her mind that her young age wouldn’t save her. Fifteen years old didn’t get you special treatment anymore. At this stage in their fucked up society, fifteen was considered an adult. Carl Gilliard would disappear her just like he did to everyone else.

So she put on a casual face. A face with a slight smile that said, “Oh, nice to see you again!” And she strode up to where Benjamin stood, and tried to look pretty. It had worked on Sam Ryder. Maybe it would work on Benjamin, too. He’d always had a thing for Charlie anyways.

“Hey Ben,” she said, her voice friendly. “I heard you were here.”

Benjamin blinked and turned his head. His expression was blank. No recognizance in his eyes. But also no confusion. Almost like he expected her to be there.

“Oh. Hey, Charlie-girl.”

He’d always called her that when they’d flirted. But he said it now with none of the playfulness that she remembered. His tone was as devoid of emotion as his eyes.

Charlie found it creepy as shit, but didn’t let that cause her to falter. She kept her smile on. Drew closer to him. Then decided it might be best to look concerned for him. So she switched to that.

“How’d you make it out of Fort Bragg?” she murmured, sounding both scared and impressed. Boys liked it when girls were scared and impressed by what they did.

“Did I?” he asked.

Charlie blinked. Glanced around. Struggling to maintain her mojo in the face of his weirdness. “Well, of course you did. You’re here.”

“We all died back there.” He looked away from her. Back out to whatever he was staring at, which was either a brick wall across from them, or something a thousand miles away that existed only in his mind. “My mom died, too. So did you.”

She couldn’t restrain a flash of irritation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “There’s no work around here.”

“Too many people. Not enough jobs.”

“There was always work in Fort Bragg. I hated it. But now I wish there was something to do. Something to take my mind off…things.”

She reached out and touched his arm, in an attempt to show some physicality. He jerked at her touch, and looked down at her hand, like it had an electrical current running through it. She steeled herself and kept her hand there, despite her desire to yank it away.

“I’m sorry about your mom, Ben.”

He met her gaze again. This time his eyes sharp. Searching. Like he saw right through her. Then he looked away again. “I think I’m gonna join up.”

She let go of his arm. “Join up with who?”

“With the soldiers. To be a soldier. Or a half-boot. I guess that’s what they call them, huh?”

“I didn’t know they were taking anyone else,” she said, getting perturbed that he seemed immune to her advances. “It’s not like they have space to train them. Or enough equipment.”

“They need people,” Ben replied, as though that was a sound counterpoint. “And I need to do something.”

She shifted her weight. Bit her lip. Tried to think how to bring this back around to what she wanted. What she needed.

“They’re probably gonna grill you about being a Lincolnist,” she said. “Won’t they interview you about that?”

“I’m not a Lincolnist.”

“Yeah, I know. But they’re gonna ask you about it. Like an interview or something. Make sure you don’t sympathize with them.”

“They already asked me about it.”

“Wait. What?”

“Master Sergeant Gilliard,” he said, and for the first time, his voice betrayed something more than emptiness. It had a snip to it when he said that name. Like deep-seeded hatred. “He already interrogated me. When I came back with the guys from Canada. He asked me all about the Lincolnists. Who I knew that was a Lincolnist. If I’d ever hung out with them.” His eyes got sharp again. “If I knew anyone in Butler that was a Lincolnist.”

Charlie’s heart thudded in her throat. “What’d you say? Do you know anyone?”

He just stared at her.

God, but he had gotten creepy.

He smirked and looked away. “Naw, Charlie-girl. I don’t know anyone around here. All the Lincolnists I knew died in Fort Bragg.”

What was happening right now? Was he fucking with her?

He had to know about her. Surely he’d put it together. Her and Sam. At that party, out beyond the high voltage wires. The same night he’d date-raped that other chick.

“What about that guy?” he said to the air in front of him. “What was his name? Sam Ryder, I think?”

Shit.

“What about him?”

“You guys were an item once. Weren’t you?”

Her mouth had gone dry. “Kinda. I guess. Why do you ask?”

Benjamin gave a lackadaisical shrug. “Isn’t he a half-boot, too?”

She let herself feel a tiny spark of hope. Maybe he only wanted to know about Sam because…because he wanted to talk to him about joining up.

“Yeah,” she said, casually. “Last I heard.”

“Oh. So you guys aren’t an item anymore, huh?”

Another bit of hope: Maybe he wasn’t picking up on her advances because he thought she was taken already. Maybe if he realized she was available, he’d be more likely to flirt back. And once she could get him flirting back, then she had a road in. Then she could get her hooks in him.

“No,” she said, leaving the door wide open. “No, I’m not seeing him anymore. I’m not seeing anyone.”

She waited, feeling like she was the bait now, dangling out there, waiting for a nibble.

“Well. I wonder what he’s told them.” Another pointed glance in her direction, this time with no friendliness to it at all. Her hopes immediately disintegrated.

Benjamin pushed himself off the wall, turned away, and started walking. “See you ‘round, Charlie-girl.”

***

Nug wasn’t trying to bomb his sergeant with spit balls anymore. Things had gotten serious. They were stuck, and no one was coming to help them.

His arms ached as he made his third climb of the day up the five hundred foot tower. He stopped for a moment, leaning back on his climbing rope so that he could rest his arms. His grip had begun to weaken. And he might have to make another trip down in an emergency.

He looked down at the woods that surrounded this little, fenced-in enclave. All was still, but that didn’t mean anything. The primals might still be there. Watching them. Waiting for them.

When the lactic acid buildup in his forearms had faded to a dull tightness, Nug resumed his climb. He was almost to the top. He had to stop more often, not only to rest his arms, but to make sure that there wasn’t a feral, half-human face down in those woods, watching him climb.

“How we looking, Nugs?” Scots said over their squad comms.

Nug paused again, hanging onto the steel support girder he was navigating and keying his radio with his free hand. “So far, no visual contact. They might have passed us by. I’m about fifty feet from the top. Standby for a full report.”

“Copy. I’ll wait for you.”

Nug stopped only one other time. This time hearing a distant sound and having to hold his breath and strain his ears to try and identify what it was. A low thrum. The wind vibrating in the girders? The rumble of hundreds of primals on the move?

He couldn’t tell through the noise of his own pulse. Dammit.

He took the last leg of the climb, eager to be at the top and give his struggling grip a break, and maybe downgrade his heartrate so that he could figure out what the noise was.

He sidled up into the same position he always took on the tower. He took a seat on the catwalk, letting his legs dangle out, and controlled his respiration. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

The noise was still there. In the background, beyond his own body and the sighing of the wind, which had picked up in the last hour. It blew north to south, which was unusual. Perhaps carrying the sound to him.

Which would put the source of the sound in the direction of Fort Bragg.

He left his rifle slung on his back, but pulled the shitty, over-powered spotting scope out of his carrying bag and rested it on the rail in front of him. Damn, but his hands were shaking after that last climb. He couldn’t keep it steady enough to get a good image. And the wind caused the tower to sway a lot.

He swore under his breath and set the spotting scope down next to him. He shook his arms out and took that moment to look around him on the ground. From this maximum vantage point, he could see almost straight down into the woods.

No flesh-colored shapes. No movement.

That’s a good sign. Maybe we can get the hell out of here.

When the primals had split off from Fort Bragg, Nug had counted a dozen or more core groups, each numbering about a hundred. Four of those had come south. Their overwatch position—by luck or providence—had managed to thread the needle, two of the groups passing to the east, and two to the west.

He keyed his comms. “Nug to Scots. I’m in position. All looks clear. No movement in our immediate vicinity.”

“I copy. How are your arms?”

“Tired, sarge. Give me a minute to rest them.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, head down and we’ll get out of here.”

“Rog. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.”

The tremor in his arms had faded now. He wanted to take another look at Fort Bragg before he headed down. He needed another two or three minutes’ rest before he trusted himself to make the descent.

He put the spotting scope on the rail again. Tried to relax his arms as much as possible to mitigate the shake in the image. The tower swayed under him, and even for an experienced climber, that was not a pleasant sensation. He waited until the last gust died down and the tower stabilized, and then he focused the scope on Fort Bragg.

Without all the primals moving about the Soldier Support Center, the place looked eerily quiet. And yet the noise was still there. And he was more certain than ever that it was coming from Fort Bragg.

He panned to the west end of Fort Bragg.

And then the noise made sense.

Diesel engines.

“Fuck me,” Nug whispered to himself. He stayed in his scope, taking a moment to get a solid count before he took a hand away and transmitted. “Sarge, I just identified five military vehicles moving into Fort Bragg. They’re not ours.”

FIFTEEN

─▬▬▬─

INCURSION

Lee was just beginning to understand the pieces in play when First Sergeant Hamrick charged in and upended the gameboard.

“Excuse me,” he said, cutting Carl off from an explanation of who worked what shifts in the TOC. “We got a problem up in Bragg.”

Hamrick’s eyes cut between Carl and Lee, like he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be reporting to.

Lee squared himself to Hamrick, answering the question of who to report to. “Go ahead, first sergeant.”

Hamrick pointed to the station down the table where he’d been coordinating with the Hunter Killer groups and FOB Arkham. “Squad Twelve is still at the lookout point, and just reported movement of military vehicles into Fort Bragg.”

Lee started towards Corporal Byers’s station, Hamrick and Carl falling in step. “Whose? Not ours?”

“Definitely not ours. But we don’t have a positive ID.”

“Could be Canadians,” Carl suggested.

“Where’s Marlin?” Lee demanded, looking around.

“I dismissed him,” Carl said. “He doesn’t need to see everything we do in here.”

“Do you want me to send for him?” Hamrick asked.

Lee shook his head. “Negative.” He needed to get his cards in order before having to deal with the Canadian. “Corporal Byers, who are you direct with?”

“I’ve got Sergeant McCollum from Squad Twelve on the line, sir.” Byers glanced over his shoulder. He fixed on Lee. That was good. “You want the radio, sir?”

“Put him on speaker and give me the handset.”

Byers obeyed.

Lee keyed the radio the second it hit his hand. “Sergeant McCollum, this is Major Harden, how copy?”

“I copy…major,” the voice came back. “Are you Alfred Actual now, sir?”

“That’s affirmative. I have the TOC. Sergeant, I need a positive ID on those vehicles. Who do you have on overwatch and can I go direct with him?”

“I’ve got my sniper up the tower, but he’s only got squad comms. You’ll have to relay through me, sir. I’ll ask for markings. Standby.”

The radio went quiet.

Carl leaned in. “There’s only two probable IDs, Lee. Either they’re Canadian, which means Marlin’s been holding out on us. Or they’re Greeley. Which means Marlin might be holding out on us.”

Lee drew tense fingers down the corners of his mouth. “Hamrick, get me two squads of guards on standby. I want them ready to secure our Canadian guests, but do not have them engage until I give the order.”

“Yessir.” Hamrick seized one of the radios and took a few steps away.

Sergeant McCollum’s voice came back again. “McCollum to Alfred Actual, my guy says he still can’t get an eye on any markers—too much interference from trees and buildings. He says they’re moving towards the power substation now, over.”

“They’re trying to get the high voltage lines running again.” Lee glanced at Carl. “Can they do that without holding the power plant?”

“When we evac’d Bragg we left it on standby. I’m not sure if they’ll get any juice through those lines, but it wouldn’t be hard to get the reactors running again if they had a team take the power plant.”

“Byers, give me the details on the vehicles,” Lee ordered.

Byers leaned over a notepad bearing some hectic scribbles. “Five vehicles total. Three guntrucks. Two with a troop carrier module.”

That was a small force. More of what you’d expect from a recon element.

Sergeant McCollum again: “Okay. Just the five vehicles right now. They are in the substation. They’ve stopped. Some of them are dismounting…standby…”

The radio went silent for a few beats.

Then: “Actual, Actual, we have one of the transports flying a United States flag. Positive ID on US markings. Over.”

“That’s Greeley in there.” Lee swore, but managed to keep it under his breath. He leaned to get his eyes on Staff Sergeant Lopez. “Lopez! Call Angela and get her in here, now. Hamrick!”

The first sergeant was already watching him. He pulled the radio he’d been using away from his face. “Sir?”

Lee waved him over. “You got those squads on standby?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We got nine squads at FOB Arkham, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

Lee pointed to Corporal Byers’s station. “Get on the horn with them. Get me a sitrep on the primals in the area and how soon those squads can get mobile. The second that they can move, I want them hauling ass towards Bragg. If we can catch this Greeley element before they get dug in, we can take ‘em with nine squads.”

“Wilco, major. What do you want me to do with the two squads on standby for the Canucks?”

Lee shook his head. “Just have them keep standing by. I’m not sure if I want to pull that particular big red handle at this moment.”

Hamrick nodded and got to work.

Lee gave the handset back to Byers. “Have Squad Twelve switch over to our secondary command freq and tell them to keep the information coming.”

Carl touched Lee’s shoulder. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do with Marlin.”

“How certain are you that he knew?”

Carl shook his head. “Not certain at all. But I do know that there are Canadian and UK envoys in Greeley. And I imagine they’ve been in communication. It’s possible that Greeley hasn’t shown their hand to the envoys. But I doubt it. They’re trying to impress them just as much as we are.”

Lee tried to come at the problem from a different angle. But he was backed into a corner at this point. His options were limited. And when there’s only one option, then you just have to do it and get it over with.

“Hamrick,” he said over his shoulder. “Have those squads meet me a block from the house where the Canadians are staying. I’m on my way now.” He turned and touched the radio still clipped into his pocket. “I’ll be on the radio if you need me.”

“You gonna do this yourself?” Carl asked. He didn’t come out and say it, but the implication was clear. You should delegate this and stay in a command role.

Lee shook his head and started heading for the door. “I’m not risking everything on the chance that a handful of teenage half-boots know how to be diplomatic. I need to be there to make sure this doesn’t turn into a shootout. Carl, you have the TOC.”

***

Carl watched him go, his lips pulled to a grim line across his face.

Angela might need to reconsider whether Lee was the best man for the job of command. Carl considered Lee a friend, and Carl did not have a lot of those. But Carl was nothing if not pragmatic.

Lee was a door-kicker at heart. He always had been. He was great with small units. And he could rise to the occasion of larger strategy when needed, but he chafed under the yoke of command.

Carl had known a lot of men like Lee. They were great operators. And it wasn’t that they didn’t have the brains to take on a command role. But they were like working dogs. They needed to be in the action. Being forced to stand back and let others do the dirty work was like taking that high-energy dog and locking it in a kennel.

Carl understood this, because he was not too different himself. He couldn’t stand the TOC. But his fierce pragmatism enabled him to control his instinct to be on the front line.

Lee should have sent Carl to handle Marlin.

Why hadn’t he sent Carl?

Carl frowned, turning back to Corporal Byers and Hamrick. Ed told him some shit about me, he decided. He doesn’t trust me to be diplomatic either.

The thought almost made him laugh. Lee Harden, not trusting Carl to be diplomatic. Bit of the pot calling the kettle black.

“Byers,” Carl grunted. “Sitrep on that Greeley element.”

“Sir, all five vehicles are now leaving the substation.”

“Did they get power to those lines? Any way to tell that?”

More waiting as transmissions were passed back and forth.

“They can’t advise on the status of the lines.” Byers frowned as he listened to more information. “Sir, they’re saying the vehicles are moving north now.”

“North?” Carl questioned, eyes going to the map on the main projector, which Byers had zoomed into Fort Bragg. North of the power substation would take them out of the high voltage wires. Right into…

“Goddammit,” Carl spat. “They’re trying to take Pope Air Base.”

Carl brought a fist to his mouth and stood there, staring at the map. He was not one to get an elevated pulse when he wasn’t physically exerting himself. And yet he felt it speeding up.

There was only one reason why they would try to secure Pope Air Base. And that was if they needed a runway. They’d only need a runway if they expected planes. Which meant this was no recon element. This was the tip of the spear of an invasion force.

And their Hunter Killer teams were going to charge straight into that.

How long did they have before planes started arriving? And what type of planes would they be? Cargo planes with more equipment? More troops? Or would they be attack planes? Because attack planes would wipe all of the Hunter Killer squads off the map in the time it took them to realize they were being fired on.

This was right on the line. On the one hand, those nine squads might be able to take out the Greeley element prior to any planes arriving, and halt the invasion before it got started. On the other hand, if they were caught out in the open when some fighter planes or attack helicopters got there, the UES would lose nearly two platoons’-worth of men. Which they could not afford.

And here was the difference between an operator and a commander. Operators had to dare greatly. Commanders needed to gamble cautiously.

Carl knew the threat to those men. He could not send them in to have them die. He wouldn’t do it. He didn’t need any more ghosts haunting him.

“Hamrick,” Carl said, making his decision. “Have the squads from FOB Arkham rendezvous with Squad Twelve at their lookout, but do not have them engage. They are to hold that position and wait for further orders.”

Hamrick hesitated. Because Carl had countermanded Lee’s previous order. But then he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Carl found himself glancing over his shoulder to where Lee’s pack lay on the floor against the far wall of the gymnasium. Lee’s dog lay there next to it, and the damn thing watched him, like it knew that Carl had pulled something over on his master.

Carl grimaced and looked away from the dog’s gaze.

If Lee didn’t want his orders countermanded, then he shouldn’t have left the TOC.

***

Lee approached the door to the house they’d loaned to Marlin and his men, alone, and wearing only a pistol on his hip. He wasn’t surprised at all when the door opened and Marlin stepped out, followed by another soldier that Lee didn’t know.

If it had been Lee and his team stationed in a house surrounded by people that might be allies, or might not, he would have posted a watch. Apparently Marlin and Lee thought alike.

Lee stopped at the bottom of the two concrete steps that led to the front door of the house, and let Marlin and the other soldier descend to him.

“Major Harden,” Marlin greeted him, his eyes scanning elsewhere as he did. “This is my second. Lieutenant Wibberley. British Army.” Marlin’s eyes finally came to rest on Lee’s. “I couldn’t help but notice the soldiers parked down the street. Should I be concerned?”

“That’s entirely up to you, captain.”

Marlin’s jaw muscles pulsed under his clean-shaven cheek. “Obviously something’s happened. I’d like to know what.”

Lee chewed the inside of his lip, wondering what tack would be most successful here. He’d rehearsed several possibilities on his way over, but having just met Marlin, and now Wibberley, he wasn’t sure about how to get through to them.

He knew only one thing about Marlin. And it was all he had to go on.

“You and I are soldiers,” Lee said. “We don’t play games. But we do our best to follow our orders. Or am I wrong?”

Marlin tilted his head back. “You’re not wrong.”

Lee nodded. That was something he could work with. “So I’m gonna cut the shit and deal with you straight. There are things I can’t tell you. And there are things you can’t tell me. What I can tell you is that the United Eastern States needs you on our side. I’m sure you already know that. And maybe we could’ve played this a little more coyly. But some things have happened. And now I have to ask you to do whatever it is you’re going to do. If you’re going to help us, then help us. If you’re not, then I’d ask you to leave. And I will make sure you’re escorted safely out of here. I won’t kill the messenger. But I also can’t let you stay if, ultimately, you’re going to side with our enemy.” Lee squinted at the man across from him. “I’m being as clear as I can be, Marlin. Do we have an understanding?”

Marlin took a big breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. A non-confrontational posture. In that moment, the two of them could’ve been two soldiers on any far flung outpost in a foreign country, griping about their higher-ups and the meaning of it all.

Marlin seemed disappointed. “Yeah. I understand you. Are you allowed to tell me what happened that brought us to this point?”

Lee considered this. But it didn’t concern him if Marlin knew what had happened. He would know soon enough, if he didn’t already. Lee would simply hold back how they planned to react.

“Greeley has a small force that’s taken Fort Bragg.”

Marlin gave no reaction to this information. A very deliberate poker face.

“I’ve gotta ask,” Lee said. “Did you know about it?”

It was a loaded question and they both knew it. No matter how Marlin answered, he would choose sides with whatever he said.

Marlin smirked at Lee’s move. “Major, even if I knew anything, I certainly couldn’t tell you at this juncture.”

“Fair enough.”

“How much time do I have?”

“Not much.”

“Can you give me an hour? I’ll need to call some folks.”

Lee nodded. “I can give you that. Do you have the communications equipment you need for that inside the house, or do you need to get it from your truck?”

“We have it inside.”

“Alright. Then I have to ask that you remain inside of the house. I’ll be back in an hour to see what we’re going to do. If any of you try to leave…well, shit, let’s just speak plainly. If anyone comes out of the house before I get here, it’s going to turn into a firefight. Not trying to swing dicks here. Just telling it like it is.”

“I can appreciate that.” Marlin drew himself up. “No matter what happens an hour from now, thanks for being straight with me.”

The three soldiers parted company without another word, none of them knowing if they’d just turned their backs on friends or enemies.

***

“Well,” Wibberley mumbled as he closed the door behind them. “Do the walls still have ears, Oh Captain My Captain?”

Marlin stared at the scuffed linoleum floor beneath his boots. “Well, it doesn’t much matter now. We’re not allowed outside the house, and we’re gonna have to talk somewhere.”

From the front door they could see through the living room and into the kitchen. At the back kitchen window, Marlin’s marksman sat at the table, his rifle pointing out. “Hey Cap’n,” he called out, staying in his scope. “What’s the word? Any change?”

“No change,” Marlin answered. “If those squads move aggressively on us, we’ll just have to fight back and try to get the hell out of here the best we can. Major Harden promises no aggression, but we’ve only got an hour. So just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Rog,” the marksman replied. Just another day in paradise.

Marlin turned to Wibberley. “What’s your take on Major Harden?”

Wibberly blew out a breath. “I think he handled this as well as we could hope. And he doesn’t strike me as the type to stab us in the back. That’s about all I can say at this point.”

“He said ‘small force’,” Marlin pointed out. “Which means he has no idea what he’s up against.”

“That’s his problem, sir. Not ours.”

“He’s gonna send troops in. He’s gonna try to take back Fort Bragg, because he doesn’t know what’s coming at him.”

“We don’t know either. The full-scale invasion force was just a rumor.”

Marlin shook his head. “If they get wiped out, this is gonna turn into a shit-show.”

“Again, I feel the need to reiterate: That’s not our problem.”

Marlin searched his second-in-command’s face, wondering again, would you back my play if I decided to tell Harden what he was up against?

But it was a moot point. They hadn’t spoken to their command yet. There was still a chance that it wouldn’t come down to that.

So you’ve already decided, then? He questioned himself.

No. He hadn’t. It was all in that spectral, undefined realm of the future. It was easy to say you would or wouldn’t do something when you weren’t facing the consequences of your actions. Marlin wouldn’t know what decision he was going to make until he was forced to make it.

Wibberley shifted his weight. His voice came low. Friend to friend. Not officer to officer. “Why are you still thinking about this, mate?”

Because I could see it in his eyes, Marlin thought. I could see it the second I met him. He’s just like us. Just another soldier, trying to do the right thing in a world of wrong.

But Marlin didn’t say that. He just shook his head. “I’m calling Guidry and Worley.”

And then he would be forced to make his decision.

SIXTEEN

─▬▬▬─

NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK

Billings laid out his map on the hood of their Humvee, slapping the creases down.

Everyone had gathered around the front of the Humvee, save for the gunners of the two squads of half-boots that had escorted Doc Trent and Allen. They stayed in their turrets, on watch. The sun was high now, and save for a few whispy clouds to dampen the heat, it baked their backs and necks.

“Alright,” Billings said, pointing to a little town in South Carolina. “Charleston Safe Zone, right here, which is actually the town of Walterboro. That place was a ghost town.”

Doc Trent, being a shorter man, had to lean up and over the brush guard of the truck to see the map. He adjusted his glasses. “Can you get us back in there?”

Billings stared at the balding man. “Why the fuck would you want to go back in there? I just told you, it’s a ghost town. Got wiped completely out. Overrun by primals.”

Doc Trent settled back onto his heels. He sighed, sticking his thumb and forefinger up under his glasses and squeezing the bridge of his nose.

Sam watched him from where he was hunkered against the fender. He remembered his talks with Doc Trent concerning what they’d found in Augusta, and how the primals had captured live victims. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to Trent again since his arrival, but was curious what his theories were about what they’d found in the Charleston Safe Zone. Was Sam crazy for wanting Billings to take them back to the Charleston Safe Zone so Doc Trent could take a look around and form a more educated opinion?

Perhaps. But Sam’s morbid curiosity overpowered his caution.

“Look,” Doc Trent said after a moment’s thought. “I’m not really a scientist, sergeant. Nor is Allen here. I’m just an old family physician that’s in way over his head. However, President Houston wants us to try to figure out what the primals are doing. It makes the most logical sense to start at ground zero.”

“I understand,” Billings nodded. “But it’s my job to keep you and the rest of us alive. The Charleston Safe Zone is too hot right now.”

“What if there are other survivors?” Doc Trent said. “Like the kid?”

“There weren’t.”

“Did you check? Did you search the rest of the people in this, this meat locker thing you found? Might there have been more live ones in there?”

Billings’s face flashed with irritation. “I don’t know. Anything is possible.” He looked at Sam and Jones, who stood near to each other. “Ryder? Jones? Y’all were the ones that went in. You think there might be more survivors?”

Jones shuffled his feet.

Sam grimaced. “Yes. There might’ve been more survivors.”

Jones stared at the map, but spoke to Billings. “What’re we gonna do with Braden?”

“That’s a bit of a sidebar, Jones. Let’s focus—”

Jones snapped his eyes up to his sergeant. “He’s not a sidebar, Sarge. He’s a person. What’re we gonna do with him?”

Sam stepped in before things could get heated. “I think what Jones is getting at is that we haven’t even figured out what to do with the kid—”

“His name’s Braden,” Jones interrupted.

“Braden, then,” Sam allowed. “We haven’t even figured out what to do with one survivor. What are we gonna do if we find more?”

“Well,” Doc Trent shoved his way back into the conversation. “For one, if we find an adult, we might get a little more useful information from them.”

Jones planted his palms on the top of the Humvee. “Were you able to fix him up completely?”

“No. He needs a hospital. He’s almost definitely got broken ribs, which no one can do anything for, not even the hospital. No organ damage that I can tell. I set his shoulder, but his hips—that needs more than I can do for him.”

“We need to send him back to Butler,” Jones said, looking at Billings now. “If we don’t send him back, he’s gonna be crippled for life. Isn’t he, Doc?”

Doc Trent nodded.

“Jones,” Billings said, his voice full of warning. “I can’t afford to send anyone back to Butler. I need all the soldiers we have.”

“I’ll take him back,” Jones said. “Just give me one of the Humvees.”

“No. I need you in my truck.”

“Then send one of the half-boots.”

Billings swore, and then pointed out to the west. “I’m not sending anyone, Jones. Half-boot or not, I need all the guns I have. And I’m certainly not losing a Humvee. Now stand the fuck down.”

“This is bullshit and you know it,” Jones spat. Sam tried to put a staying hand on Jones’s chest to reel him back in, but he shoved it off. “We can’t just cart Braden around with us.”

“It’s not gonna fucking happen, Jones,” Billings snapped. “Let it go.”

“I’ll take him back,” Allen spoke up. His face looked ashen, and had looked that way since he got here. The fact that he was willing to brave hundreds of miles of open road by himself to get back to a Safe Zone told Sam how desperate the man was.

“You’re needed for the scientific stuff,” Billings said, without much conviction. He’d done an op with Allen in the past. He knew how squirelly the other guy was.

“I’m not a scientist,” Allen whined. “I don’t know why they sent me! Let me take the kid back. I’m not even one of the soldiers.”

Billings looked at Doc Trent, as though questioning how the doctor felt about losing his companion.

Doc Trent didn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “I don’t have a problem with it.”

Allen looked on the verge of fainting with relief. “Doc Trent knows way more about these primals than I do,” he said, his words coming out rapid, his anxiety thinly veiled. “He’s the one with all the theories and shit. I don’t even know why I’m here!”

Doc Trent cleared his throat. “Allen has already told me what he can about animal habits. This might be the best option to save the kid.”

Billings bared his teeth and scraped fingernails through his hair. “I’m still not losing one of my Humvees.”

Jones leaned in, his eyes pleading. “There are some vehicles around here. Let me see if any of them work. If I can get one of them working, Allen can take Braden back to Butler in that. You won’t lose one of your Humvees or one of your soldiers. Please, Sarge.”

Billings swore under his breath and then pointed at Jones. “You’ve got thirty minutes, Jonesy. If you haven’t found a working vehicle in thirty minutes, then we’re done. You understand me? I don’t want to hear a goddamned thing about it after that. You so much as start to argue with me again I’ll fucking knock you out and tie you to the hood of our Humvee if I have to. You get me?”

In any other situation Jones might’ve had a witty retort to that, but he was already moving. “No problem, Sarge. Allen, come with me.”

Billings watched the two of them go with glower, then turned back to Doc Trent. “As for the Charleston Safe Zone, the answer’s going to be ‘no’. Too much risk, and not enough potential for reward.” He held up a hand before Doc Trent could argue. “Now, what little information we were able to get out of the kid was that any survivors that managed to make it out of Charleston were headed to the Moody Safe Zone. Clearly, they never got there. But we can reasonably intuit their route. My thought was to hit the I-95 corridor towards Moody, and see what we can come up with.”

Sam frowned at that, but kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t his place to object.

Billings, however, settled his gaze on Sam and raised his eyebrows. “You have an objection to that, Ryder?”

Sam pursed his lips, and gave Billings a questioning look.

“Go ahead. Speak up.”

“Well, sir…seems like a bit of a needle in a haystack.”

To Sam’s surprise, Billings nodded. “I agree that it’s unlikely that we’ll find them. But here’s the thing: there were thousands of people in the Charleston Safe Zone. The amount of bodies we saw wasn’t even close to that. So some of them got out. They haven’t been in contact with us, so we can assume they don’t have viable comms. They never reached Moody, or any other Safe Zone, so we can assume that something happened while enroute. Now, I don’t know what that something is, or where it might’ve happened, but our best chance at finding any survivors from Charleston is to retrace their most likely steps. You’re right that it’s a long shot, but I don’t see a better option.” Billings gestured to Sam, and then to the rest of his squad, as well as the other two squads gathered around the Humvee. “If anyone else has a better idea, I’m all ears.”

He waited, looking around at those gathered. The two new squads of half-boots seemed disinclined to speak up, and neither Sam nor Chris nor Pickell seemed to have a better strategy.

Doc Trent spoke up. “The kid. Braden. He also mentioned that the primals took the females. Is that correct?”

Billings nodded.

“Took them alive?” Trent pressed.

“That was not exactly clear,” Billings said. “But it was implied.”

Doc Trent looked troubled and thoughtful.

“You have anything to say about that?” Billings asked him.

Doc Trent stared at the map laid out before him and then shook his head. “No. Not right now. I’m letting things percolate. Don’t want to jump to conclusions too quickly.”

“Alright,” Billings pointed to the I-95 corridor on the map. “We’ll grab the interstate and head south and see what happens. Stay on squad comms. We’ll mark checkpoints as we go and I’ll call them in over the radio and use the satphone to send those locations to Butler. We’ll use them as fallback points if anything happens. All clear?”

Those gathered issued a round of affirmations, and then headed for their respective trucks.

At five minutes to departure, Jones and Allen came trotting back.

Jones hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Got an old diesel pickup with some life in it. Needs a jump though.”

Billings gruffed about the time, but relented. Billings ordered Chris to pull their Humvee out and they went nose-to-nose with a dirty, white, late-model F-250 that looked like it’d been to hell and back.

They hooked the F-250 up and gave it a jump and after a few minutes Jones was able to crank it to life. Gouts of black diesel smoke puffed out of its tailpipe, and the engine sounded weird, but it stayed running.

“Only got a quarter tank of gas,” Jones said, looking at Billings. “Quarter tank won’t get him far.”

“Now you want me to give up my gas too?”

“We got enough to finish our run,” Jones said. “And the half-boots brought plenty more. Two gas cans should give him enough to get back to Butler. Come on, Sarge. Do it for the kid.”

Billings looked skyward, pained. “God a’mighty. Fine. Take the fucking gas cans. Two. Two is all you get, you soft-ass sonofabitch.”

Jones managed a smile. “Thank you.” He went to grab the gas cans off the back of the Humvee, and Allen eagerly moved to help. As they toted them over to the F-250, Jones called over his shoulder, “I always knew you had a warm caramel center, Sarge.”

Billings flipped him the bird in response.

Allen started gassing up the pickup, and Jones returned to the back of the Humvee, where Braden was still curled up in Sam’s poncho liner.

Sam stood off to the side, ready to assist in moving the kid to the pickup.

“Hey, Buddy,” Jones said. “You’re gonna go with Allen. He’s gonna take you to the Butler Safe Zone where there’s a hospital and a doctor that can help heal you up.”

Braden seemed to sink further into the poncho liner. “I don’t wanna go with him. I wanna go with you.”

Jones swallowed. “Well, you can’t go with me, Braden. Because we’re going to go out there and try to find some survivors, and it’s going to be dangerous, and I don’t want you to be in danger any more. You’ll be safe at Butler though, and that will make me feel a lot better. Can you be brave and do this for me?”

Sam watched the kid’s face. There was a tremor in it, as though his desire for safety battled with his desire to remain with the man he’d clung to. He’d imprinted on Jones like a baby duckling.

But eventually Braden nodded. “Okay. I’ll be brave.”

Jones smiled at him. “I knew you would. You’re a very brave kid. And very tough. You can handle this.”

Jones and Sam made an impromptu litter of the poncho liner. They moved slowly so as not to jostle him too much. Braden gritted his teeth and handled it manfully when he shifted about.

They settled Braden into the cab of the F-250, and Jones laid a hand on the kid’s foot. “When I get back to Butler, I’ll find you, okay? Does that sound okay? The people there are super nice. They’ll take care of you until I get back.”

Braden nodded, but there were thin tears in his eyes.

Jones closed the door and pointed to Allen, who stood next to the driver’s side. “You drive careful with this kid, you hear me?”

Allen seemed taken aback by the sudden sternness, but then nodded.

Jones leaned closer and lowered his voice. “If anything happens to this kid because you pussed out about something? I’ll hunt you down and slit your fucking throat.”

Allen opened his mouth but made no sound. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Jones smiled humorlessly and slapped the man on the shoulder. “Take care. Drive safe. Go straight home.”

Sam didn’t think that Allen had any intention of dilly-dallying.

“Alright,” Billings called from the passenger-side of his Humvee. He twirled a finger in the air. “We’re oscar-mike! Get a move on, Jones!”

And with that, Allen and Braden headed west, and the three squads plus Doc Trent headed east.

SEVENTEEN

─▬▬▬─

INVASION

Marlin sat on a couch that smelled of other people, the satphone pressed to his ear. The connection was spotty, and he found himself hunkering over the phone, pushing it against his head as though that would help him hear through the bursts of static.

“Worley, repeat that last,” Marlin said with a frown. “I didn’t copy.”

Worley’s voice came back, over-articulating his words: “I said, there’s been a bit of movement over here.”

“Alright. Movement how?”

“Last time we spoke, I keyed you into the friction between Lineberger and Briggs.”

“I recall.”

“Well, no one in command has come out and said it, but I’m getting the feeling that command is leaning towards Briggs.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Briggs is aware that you guys are there. He’s also come to the conclusion that you must be with the UES leadership. The problem for him is that he doesn’t know where they are. He’s dropping a lot of hints about how helpful it would be, and how good it would make our future relationship, if we were to give him the location of the UES leadership.” Worley let out a sigh that hissed in the speaker. “After we relayed this to command, they asked us our guy-on-the-ground opinion of whether or not we should give him that intelligence.”

Marlin felt his gut tighten. “And what’d you tell them?”

“We told them that we weren’t sure Briggs was the right play. Our honest opinion was that Lineberger’s strategy seemed more sound. And then—” the connection warbled and broke up.

Marlin swore, pressing the satphone hard enough that his ear hurt. “Worley, you broke up again. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I can hear you just fine. You got me again?”

“Yes. You said you favored Lineberger’s strategy, and then what?”

“Then they gave us the cold shoulder,” Worley finished. “I got the distinct impression they didn’t like what we had to say. Which makes me think they want to back Briggs. Which makes me think they might end up outing your location to Briggs.”

“Shit.” Marlin perched his forehead against his fingers. “Worley, we’re already against the ropes right now. This Major Harden guy just parked a couple squads outside of our house and told us we have an hour to come to a decision about who we’re gonna back.”

“Is he threatening action against you?” Worley sounded concerned.

“No, he says he’ll let us go. Says he won’t kill the messenger.”

“Do you trust him?”

Marlin considered that for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”

“Marlin. What’s your guy-on-the-ground assessment?”

“Hell, I don’t even know where to begin.” Marlin rubbed his jaw. “I like Major Harden. President Houston doesn’t seem too bad, though maybe a little out of her league. But there’s other players I’m not a fan of here. Doesn’t mean I want to watch them all get wiped out.”

“Gotta put your humanitarian side away on this, Marlin. We’re not here to make friends.”

“Oh? I thought that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

“We’re here to make allies. Not friends.”

Marlin raised his head and looked across the room to where Wibberley leaned against the living room wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “So Briggs is definitely sending an invasion force?”

There was a slight pause before Worley answered. “It certainly seems that way. There’s been a lot of bustle over at their airfield.”

“What type of hardware are they sending?” Marlin ventured.

Across from him, Wibberley’s eyes narrowed, and Marlin looked away.

“Why do you want to know that?” Worley asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Just for my own recognizance.”

“Hm.” Another long pause. “We’re not entirely sure.”

Marlin wasn’t sure that was true. What kind of games were they playing right now? Weren’t they supposed to be on the same side?

Was Marlin the guy on the outside now? Was he the lone supporter of the UES? It felt like it was going that way.

“Worley, I need to give Major Harden an answer.”

“Is there anything that you can say that would keep you there for a while longer?”

“The only way they’re going to let us stay is if they think I’m on their side.” Marlin pushed himself back into the couch. “The only way they’re going to believe it is if I give them something. Some piece of actionable intelligence.”

Worley took a moment to consider this. “There’s really nothing that we can give that won’t compromise us on this end.”

“Then in about thirty minutes we’re gonna get kicked out of here.”

Worley made a dissatisfied grunt. “Let me get back on the horn with command. I’ll relay what you’ve said, and see if there’s something we can give them without totally ruining our chances with Greeley.”

Marlin frowned. He didn’t like the idea of being a double-agent—living under these people’s roof and being forced to feed sensitive information back.

But a good soldier follows his orders.

“Roger that,” Marlin said. “We’ll be waiting to hear back.”

***

On a watchtower in the Moody Safe Zone, Private Matthews and Private Jacobs played a rousing game of “How Much?” which was a horrific and usually sexual act that you had to perform, the point being, how little would you do it for?

Back in the day, they’d played it with actual dollar amounts, but since everything was on a barter system now, they’d learned to adapt the game to tradeable riches.

Matthews had come to realize that Jacobs was something of a cheap whore. Matthew’s own standards demanded much more payment for debasing himself. Jacobs would often reply with, “Shit, I’d do that for free,” and on occasion, “Mm. I’d pay for that.”

Jacobs was a sick bastard. But it made for amusing banter.

It also allowed them to keep their minds occupied while keeping their eyes outward, staring at the same scenery that never changed, except for with the seasons. Sometimes they got to work on Tower 4 (which was better constructed, and faced south, affording them a change of view) but mostly they were assigned to Tower 2, looking north.

Tower 2 wasn’t the absolute worst tower. That ignoble distinction was held by Tower 3, which had been dubbed The Tetanus Terror, for its haphazard and rusted construction, and how it shook and rattled in the wind like it was about to come apart right under your feet.

Still, Tower 2 was no walk in the park. It was constructed of pieces of an old shortwave radio tower. The box at the top was corrugated metal walls and a diamond-plate floor, stacked up along the perimeter with a single layer of sandbags, because a double layer would have been too much weight.

Matthews wasn’t sure how they’d affixed the tower to the ground. He wasn’t sure that it even was. Jacobs denied it and called him a pussy for it, but Matthews swore that on one windy day, he’d felt one of the tower’s legs leave the ground for just a second.

But there was no wind today. Around them, the weeds that filled the grassy parts of the airfield that had once been Moody Air Force Base, stood straight up and never wavered. Out on the tarmac, the two defunct C-130’s stood sentinel, as though waiting for the day when they’d have enough fuel to fly again.

During a lull in the game, as Jacobs pondered what terrible and disgusting thing Matthews would be required to do next, Matthews thought he saw something.

He craned his neck forward, as though those few inches gained would clarify his vision. It had been there, out beyond the high-voltage wires, just inside the trees on the other side.

“Alright,” Jacobs announced. “Tammy. You know Tammy? The smelly one from the motor pool?”

“Hold up,” Matthews cut him off. “Gimme the binos.”

Jacobs handed them over. “What? You got something?”

“Yeah, something.” Matthews held the binos up. Damn Jacobs was always fiddling with the focus. Matthews took a moment to get them dialed in, then scanned the north perimeter.

Just as he reached it, a sinuous shape melted back into the woods.

Matthews’s pulse remained steady. It was only one. “Definitely a primal.”

Jacobs leaned out over the edge. “How many?”

“Just one that I saw.”

“Ain’t they usually in a pack?”

Matthews handed the binos over. “Here. Grab a look-see.” Then Matthews hefted his rifle, a Designated Marksman Rifle platform with a Leupold scope on top. As he sunk into a more comfortable shooting position and rested the handguard on the edge of the corrugated metal wall, he keyed his comms.

“Tower Two to command.”

“Tower Two, you’ve got command. Go ahead.”

“Command, I’ve got visual on a single primal, north perimeter, right about marker one-oh-eight.” Matthews settled into his scope for a better view, manipulating the rifle one-handed while his left held the PTT. “Requesting permission to take it out.”

“That’s affirmative. All towers, copy: Tower Two is sending.”

Matthews hunkered down, using both hands now. “You see him?”

Jacobs was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Yeah. He’s a little closer to marker one-ten now.”

Matthews swung his scope to the left, and saw the shape. It stood there between two trees, so still that Matthews almost scanned right past it. He saw its bestial face, eerily similar to a human, but so much worse. It seemed to be staring right back at Matthews with its intense, predatory gaze.

“There you go,” Matthews murmured. “Smile and wait for the flash.”

“You on?” Jacobs asked, propped up on his elbows.

“Ready.”

“Rog. Fire. Fire. Fire.”

At the third ‘fire’, Matthews broke his trigger, and sent the shot. Tower 2 trembled, and when Matthews righted his scope back onto the target he saw the primal spinning backwards, a ribbon of blood trailing out of a half-disintegrated head.

“Damn,” Jacobs smiled. “Nice shot.”

Matthews sighted the primal again, just to make sure that it wasn’t going to get back up. He couldn’t see much through the brush in which the thing had collapsed, but he saw its dirty, claw-like feet sticking out of the leaves. They didn’t move.

Feeling satisfied with himself, Matthews keyed his radio again. “Tower Two to command, that’s one down, confirmed.”

“Copy that, Tower Two.”

Matthews came out of his scope and traded a quick fist-bump with Jacobs.

“So, anyways,” Jacobs said, not missing a beat. “Tammy from the motor pool…”

The radio buzzed. “Tower Three to command, we’ve also got contact, out by marker fifty-nine. Two primals. Requesting permission to engage.”

“Command to Tower Three, go ahead. All towers copy: Tower Three is sending.”

“Tower Four to command,” the voices no longer so casual. “We’ve got multiple targets confirmed, near marker nineteen.”

Command came back again, the woman on the other end sounding flustered now: “Tower Four, we copy. Tower Three and Tower Four, engage at will.”

“Tower One to command…Uh…oh shit…Command, there’s a whole lot of ‘em coming in hot towards the east gates!”

A new voice on the radio now. It was Actual speaking—Commander Renoux. “All towers, hold traffic unless it’s an emergency. Engage at will. Take ‘em out.”

The air all around Moody dissolved into a chaos of rifle shots. Three rapid shots from the west—that would be Tower 3—then a rapid smattering from the south—that would be Tower 4. A long, protracted engagement from the east, which was Tower 1.

Matthews’s pulse was not so calm anymore. His innards had separated, his stomach heading for his groin and his heart heading for his throat. He snugged back into his rifle.

“Jacobs, spot for me. What do you see?”

He scanned along the entire northern perimeter, the woods flashing by in a mélange of green and brown.

“Marker one-twenty!” Jacobs called, his voice tight.

The gunshots weren’t stopping. Not from any of the towers. East, south, west, they were all firing now.

Matthews found marker 120. “Whoa. Shit.”

“Is this an emergency?” Jacobs asked, diving for his own rifle.

Matthews didn’t answer. He fired five rounds in rapid succession and then keyed his comms again. “Tower Two to command! There’s a whole horde of them, moving counter-clockwise along the perimeter from marker one-twenty!”

Command didn’t answer, and Matthews didn’t wait. He started picking targets and firing, but these shots weren’t so easy. The primals moved fast, laterally across his vision. For every three shots he fired, he missed twice. And then he went empty.

“Reloading!” Matthews called, as Jacobs came up and started firing.

Command finally answered, but it wasn’t over the radio.

All across the Moody Safe Zone, the sound erupted that none of them ever wanted to hear: the long, fearful wail of the emergency sirens.

EIGHTEEN

─▬▬▬─

COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF

“Sir,” Staff Sergeant Lopez called.

Lee snapped his head to the right. He hovered over Corporal Byers, his brain half consumed by what was happening at Fort Bragg, and half consumed by trying to determine how to best handle the fact that Carl had countermanded his orders.

It didn’t escape Lee that Carl had responded to the “sir” as well. They were both looking at Lopez now.

Lopez had a satphone up against her ear, her expression telling Lee that his problems had just gotten more complicated.

Fantastic.

“I’ve got Commander Renoux from Moody on the phone. He wants to speak to you. Moody Safe Zone is under attack.”

Lee thrust himself off of Byers’s station and stalked towards Lopez, containing a slew of curses that he would have let out if it were just him and a team out in the field. Yet another thing to dislike about the TOC.

Carl kept stride with him, and his footsteps beside Lee clonked hard and poignant in his ear. That half of his brain that teased at the problem of what to do with Carl kept on going, kept wondering if it was best to let things ride or to say something about it. He had left Carl in charge, after all…

Lee grabbed the satphone and put it to his ear. “This is Major Harden at Butler TOC.”

Over the speaker against his ear, Lee heard a dim wail in the background that he took a moment to identify as an emergency siren.

“Major?” Commander Renoux said, betraying confusion for only a second before diving back in. “Yes, sir. I’ve activated the emergency systems and have the entire Safe Zone heading for lockdown—”

“What’s happened, Renoux?”

“Primals. A hundred or more. They’ve completely surrounded the area outside of Moody. Evacuation is not an option. I’m concerned about the integrity of our defenses, and I’m uncertain we have the manpower to fight them off at this juncture. I’m requesting immediate assistance. Whatever you can spare, as long as they can get here quick.”

“Standby, Renoux,” Lee said, then clasped the satphone to his chest. He stared up at the big map on the main screen with all their elements displayed on it. Everyone was committed. The only thing Lee had left were teams of half-boots charged with defending Butler. And he wasn’t about to leave Butler defenseless in the middle of this shitstorm. As bad as everything seemed to be accumulating, that would just be asking for trouble.

Behind him, he registered the clatter of the gym doors being shoved open.

He looked over his shoulder and found Angela approaching, Kurt in tow.

“I’m sorry.” She came around the side of the table. “I was in a meeting. I got here as quickly as I could. What’s happening?”

“What isn’t happening?” Lee mumbled. “Greeley is making a move on Fort Bragg, we’re unsure if it’s going to turn into a full-scale invasion, we have the Hunter Killer teams ready for an assault, and Moody Safe Zone is under attack from a horde of primals and is requesting any assistance we can offer. That pretty much sums it up.”

Angela looked frozen, but then blinked a few times and forced a nod of comprehension. “Alright. Do we have anything we can send them?”

Lee looked to Carl. “You got any unassigned elements I don’t know about?”

Carl shook his head. “We could call on the Marines, but it’ll take them hours to just get here. Deployment time to Moody is an additional two and a half hours.”

Angela stepped closer. “We don’t have anyone we can send them?”

“Not unless you want to deploy our own guards and leave Butler half-defended,” Lee said. “And I’m absolutely not willing to do that.”

Angela looked at him and lowered her voice. “Lee, we can’t just abandon them.”

“I don’t want to abandon them either,” Lee said through clenched teeth.

Carl shifted and cleared his throat. “My team is available.”

Lee looked at him. “How quick can they be ready?”

“They’re always on standby,” Carl answered. “We can leave in the next ten minutes.”

A thought occurred to Lee, and he raised the satphone back to his ear. “Commander Renoux, you got any working birds in that airfield? They’ll need to be helos.”

“I’ve got one working Blackhawk,” Renoux answered. “It’s been grounded for a while, but we just received a shipment of JP-eight last week. I can get it in the air.”

“That’d cut our response time by an hour,” Lee said. “Get the bird in the air immediately and send it our way for pickup. I don’t have much to offer you, Renoux, but I can give you one team of very good fighters and myself.”

Lee felt both Carl and Angela stiffen beside him.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Renoux answered. “I’ll have the bird dispatched immediately. Flight time should be in the neighborhood of thirty minutes.”

“Lee,” Angela said, her tone tense.

“Standby, Renoux.” Lee lowered the phone all the way to the desk and looked at Angela. “What’s the problem?”

“You’re not an operator anymore.”

“I was an operator a week ago, I sure as shit can be today.”

“You’re supposed to be in command.”

“You wanted me to bring the other Safe Zones back under our wing? Well, here’s a perfect opportunity. No better time to secure their support than when they need it most.”

“Major Harden—” Angela started.

“Madam President,” he retorted. “Those people need all the help they can get. I’m a soldier. I can help them. They need me, and I’m going.”

Angela’s eyes narrowed. “And if I order you to stay?”

“This is an all-hands on deck situation,” Lee countered, trying to stay calm. “I can fight. I can fight better than most. I’m a wasted resource sitting in here and coordinating shit.”

“And if I order you to stay?” Angela pressed.

Lopez glanced over her shoulder, her face screwed up with concern.

Lee took a sharp inhale through the nose and straightened. “Madam President, if you’re going to order me to stay behind, then there’s the satphone. You can explain to Commander Renoux why you won’t afford him the best help you can give him.”

“All due respect, Major Harden,” Carl spoke up, his voice brittle. “But my team is quite capable on its own.”

Lee fixed him with a glare. “All due respect, master sergeant, but two of your team are still recovering from wounds. You need an extra hand. And if everyone would pull their heads out of their asses for two goddamned seconds and stop worrying about how things should be, you’d realize that this is the best they can be.”

Carl pursed his thin lips, his jaw muscles twitching.

“And who’s going to be in charge of the TOC?” Angela demanded.

Lee turned to her and nodded. “The Commander-in-Chief.”

“I’m not a military commander.”

“You have been in the past, and you can be again.”

“That’s not ideal.”

“When has anything around here ever been ideal?” Lee shot back. “We make do. We make the best of the shitty hands we’re dealt. Me? I view this as hitting two birds with one stone. Angela, you wanted me to go to the other Safe Zones. Now I’m going. Now I can show them that the UES has their backs. It’s the best possible outcome.”

Angela flashed her teeth and glanced to the left. “First Sergeant Hamrick. Is he aware of everything that’s happening?”

“He is,” Lee confirmed, sensing her giving way. Some small part of him felt guilty for pushing her so hard, but he could apologize later. Now was a time for action, not vacillation. “He can advise you on your decisions.” Lee nodded to her bodyguard. “Kurt has a good head on his shoulders. He’ll keep everything straight for you.”

Kurt looked taken aback at being called upon, but then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Angela, you can do this,” Lee urged.

She held up a swift hand with a look of irritation. She didn’t want to hear it. “Fine, Lee. Go get prepped. I’ll handle the TOC.” She grabbed Lee by the arm and fixed him with a severe look. “I just hope this is about the UES, and not about you.”

Lee swallowed, wondering if she was right.

Introspection later.

Lee raised his voice. “President Houston has the TOC,” he called out. “First Sergeant Hamrick, bring her up to speed.”

Carl’s face was riddled with consternation, but he jerked his head. “Come on, major. Let’s get geared up.”

***

Angela’s heart pounded in her chest, and for once, it wasn’t from fear or uncertainty. Angela was furious.

But sometimes anger was a good thing. Sometimes anger burned down the walls around you that you’d built yourself. Sometimes anger forced you to do things you would have never considered doing when your insecurities guided you.

Angela snatched up the satphone. “Commander Renoux, this is President Houston. I’m dispatching Major Harden and Master Sergeant Gilliard and their team to you. I’m sorry I can’t send more—they’re all we have available at this time.”

“That’s alright, Madam President. We’ll be glad to have Major Harden.” There was a strange, mystical sort of confidence that came out of Renoux’s voice when he said it.

Maybe Lee was right. Maybe this was what the other Safe Zones needed to see.

It tempered her anger. Slightly.

“How long until that bird’s airborne?” she said.

“I dispatched the crew two minutes ago,” Renoux answered. “They’ll be in the air within five minutes.”

“Good luck, Commander Renoux,” Angela said. “Stay strong. Hold out for us. We need you.”

“We’ll do our best, Madam President. And thank you.”

The thanks was so earnest. It was only one team of fighters, but the names in that team carried a lot of weight. It wasn’t just soldiers that she’d sent to Moody. They were icons, at this point.

“Keep us apprised of the situation,” Angela said, then hung up and handed the satphone back to Lopez. “First Sergeant Hamrick,” she called.

The soldier stepped up to her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Brief me on Fort Bragg. Quickly.”

Hamrick’s stern eyes squinted, his lips tightening. “President Houston, our guys on overwatch just reported seeing two Predator drones landing at Pope Air Base. Now, they’re ready to assault, but…” he hesitated.

“Say it,” Angela commanded.

“Those drones are operated remotely. Probably out of Greeley. Even if our guys take out all the Greeley soldiers in Fort Bragg, they won’t be able to stop the Predator drones. And those things, if they’re fully loaded, will be able to take out at least half of our Hunter Killers.”

Angela crossed her arms over her chest, resting a fist against her mouth and directing her gaze at the map, as though she thought some miraculous answer to her problems would appear there. “What’s your opinion, first sergeant?”

“Ma’am, my opinion is that it’s too risky to commit the Hunter Killers to an assault on Bragg. They’re only going to get chewed up. Best case scenario, we lose half of them, and maybe hold onto Fort Bragg. At least until Greeley sends in a full assault force.”

“If we lose Fort Bragg, Greeley gains a foothold here in the UES. Right in our backyard.”

Hamrick nodded. “I understand that, ma’am. My recommendation would be to consolidate here and prepare for a fight. The call is yours, though.”

Angela glanced at Kurt, wondering what he thought of this. Would he agree with Hamrick’s assessment? Did he have the experience to disagree? Was she relegating them to defense, when offense was the better option? Or was offense simply foolhardy?

Kurt caught her eye and gave her a fractional nod.

Angela found that her stomach was in knots, and yet, though she would have found this sensation paralyzing in other times, she’d grown so used to it now that it seemed just a constant backdrop of what it felt like to lead.

“Alright,” Angela said. “Pull our Hunter Killer teams back. I want you to get on the horn with Major Brinly. Whatever he can spare and still keep the routes open between us and Texas, have him send them, along with any and all available fuel—we’re going to need all we can get.”

NINETEEN

─▬▬▬─

BENJAMIN

Charlie had come to an ugly decision.

In a way, Benjamin Sullivan had made the decision for her. He’d forced her to do this. He’d turned her into his enemy.

Charlie knew she wasn’t the best looking girl around. But she’d learned long ago to act “easy.” The boys would always choose an easy, mediocre girl, over a prettier, but harder to get girl. So Charlie acted easy, though she rarely put out. It was a fine-tuned act. Just enough to keep them on the line.

She kept something of a stable of young men, because they were easy to manipulate with vague promises of sex. And in return, Charlie got what she wanted out of them. Sometimes it was information, as in the case of the young guard that worked security at the TOC. Sometimes it was extra rations, from the sixteen year old guy that worked at food distribution.

For this particular instance, it had been one of the half-boots that worked the perimeter.

Last month, she’d decided that it would be good to have a gun. A last resort, in case Carl ever came for her.

The half-boot—Private Turley—was a pale, acne-faced seventeen year old with yellow buck teeth and bad breath. He’d been happy just to get some attention from a female. She hadn’t even had to make out with him or let him touch her. She just smiled and acted like she wanted to fuck him, and that little ego boost was enough to wrap him around her finger.

One day, she’d told him, in her most doe-eyed, woman-in-distress, won’t-a-big-strong-man-come-save-me manner, that she was worried for her safety. There had been other guys around Butler that were…looking at her. You know. Like they might do something.

This incensed Private Turley, and he blustered and told her he would find them and give them what for. Charlie blushed and batted her eyes, seeming flattered by his manly protective instincts, though she thought that, if there really were men out there that planned to do something to her, and Private Turley confronted them, he’d get his ass beat.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account,” she’d demurred. “It could ruin your chances to get on the Hunter Killer teams. I just need a weapon. Something to defend myself if anything bad happens.”

Private Turley had then launched into a long and drawn out explanation of how to defend herself, how to take a weapon away (as though he were an expert in hand-to-hand), and the pros and cons of various weaponry (as though he were an expert armorer). Charlie had listened, appropriately amazed at the depth of his knowledge.

It all paid off, though. Private Turley had sneaked a Berretta M9 to her. Said it wouldn’t be missed.

It was a bulky, uncomfortable thing, but she’d found that if she wore a loose sweatshirt, she could conceal it in her waistband.

So dressed and armed, she went out on this particular day, to defend herself.

Her search didn’t take long. She found Benjamin in the same spot that she’d found him before. Holding up a wall on the same street corner, watching nothing in particular.

As she approached him, she thought of how best to pull this off. Her attempts to flirt last time had fallen flat. Benjamin’s eyes were dead, and seemed devoid of sexuality. That was a problem. But Charlie had never met a guy who couldn’t be convinced. You just had to find what made them tick.

What made Benjamin tick?

He was a good-looking guy. He hadn’t needed to date-rape girls to get them to sleep with him.

There was something twisted inside of him. Somewhere along the line, something had rotted in his brain. He didn’t want a mutual sense of attraction. He wanted control.

So give him what he wants.

Ten steps from him, Charlie made her gait loose. Wobbly. A slight smile on her lips. Eyes half-lidded and sleepy.

“Beh-jamin,” she slurred at him, just before running into him.

He jerked and spun on her, like he was about to hit her.

She leaned on him, snickering. “Whoa. Easy, big fella.”

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

She batted her eyes. “Me? Nothin’s wrong with me. Everything’s…good.”

He pushed her off of him. She snickered again, as though his defensiveness was hilarious, and then slouched against the wall. She had her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. She felt the hard grip of the Berretta in the front of her pants.

Benjamin stared, evaluating her coldly. Then he looked away. “You’re drunk.”

“No. Uh-uh.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the brick. “Not drunk, Benji-boy. Wayyyyy better than that.”

She opened her eyes to slits, gauging what reaction he might have to this.

He seemed intrigued.

“What’d you get into?” he asked.

She opened her eyes more. Touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip. “Why? You want some, Benji-boy?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“So gruff. So rough. How rough are you, Benji-boy?”

Benjamin turned on her, planting one hand on the wall, just over her shoulder, his body hovering close to hers. His nostrils flared. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh.” She stifled laughter. “Oh, my.”

“What’d you get into?” he repeated.

Everyone sought an escape. Benjamin was no different.

“Mmmm. Little of this, little of that. Some oxy. Some molly. Just…” she sighed. “Taking the edge off.”

She felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek. “Where’d you get it?”

“Oh, it’s around,” she said, lowering her head and gazing up at him. “You just gotta know what to do to get it.”

The oxy wasn’t much of a stretch—people still came across bottles of it here and there. There was a general order out that if it was recovered it needed to be turned into the hospital, but no one did that. Anything that could get you high fetched a premium price.

The molly? Well, that was a stretch. Charlie hadn’t seen any actual illicit drugs in years. But that didn’t mean someone couldn’t come across a stash somewhere. Charlie would never be able to afford it, but as she had suggested, there were other ways to pay.

“Think you can hook me up, Charlie-girl?” he said, his voice low.

She held his gaze. “I dunno.” She reached out and grabbed his crotch. He didn’t shy away. She felt him pulse under her grip. “Think you can hook me up?”

Benjamin smiled. “You’re high as fuck right now.”

She bit her lip and squeezed more urgently. “I don’t care. Do you care?”

He didn’t answer. He looked hungry.

Bait set, and hook.

She pushed herself off the wall and grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”

He resisted only a moment, then began to follow her.

Her pulse banged in her neck.

She towed him along behind her, moving with purpose now, a sort of tense, desperation that sent all the right messages about being out of control. And if she was out of control, then Benjamin was in control. And wasn’t that what he liked?

She pulled him down an alley. It wasn’t a good spot—there were people standing around at the mouth. She needed to get him alone—really alone. And there were still places, even in this overcrowded shithole, where you could do that.

He tried to stop her at the end of the alley, and for a moment, fear spiked through her—would he push her down and try it then and there?

“Not here,” she whispered, wondering if her objections would only make him more insistent.

But he let her keep going.

The alley opened up into a wide, concrete yard. It used to be a builder’s supply, and though a lot of the materials had been used to shore up the Butler Safe Zone, there were still piles of it around. Piles behind which two people could hide.

She led him behind a stack of bricks that had been partially plundered, but still created a chest-high wall. There she stopped and turned on him. She pushed him up against the bricks, and he let her, a slight smirk on his mouth, as though he found it amusing that she would try to be dominant.

She thrust herself up against him, putting her mouth to his. His tongue pushed into her mouth, but it was angry, not passionate. She grappled with his belt. Unzipped his fly. Wrangled him out.

Then she stepped back, her hands going to her own waistline. “Close your eyes,” she said.

Benjamin laughed at her, a solitary, mocking sound. But then he closed his eyes.

She lifted her sweatshirt and grabbed the pistol.

He moved so fast, she didn’t have time to react.

Her face exploded in pain. Her body tilted against her will, consciousness yanked out from under her like a rug. She hit the concrete on her back, her ears ringing. Blood poured out of her nose, and she felt a tooth rolling around on her tongue.

She tried to orient herself as panic came on in a tidal wave. She grabbed at the gun, but her fingers were so numb that she couldn’t even feel it. Then she felt a tug at her pants. The sights of the pistol scraped across her belly.

When her vision cleared, Benjamin stood over her, his eyes on fire. He held the pistol. He looked at it, shaking his head. “Oh, Charlie-girl. Really? That was your plan?”

“No,” she mewled, letting the tooth and blood dribble out of her mouth. “Don’t…”

Benjamin tucked the pistol into the back of his waistband. “Don’t what, you fucking cunt? Don’t kill you? Like you were planning to kill me?”

“It wasn’t for you! I was just putting it down so I could take my pants off…”

“You’re not even fucking high, are you?” Benjamin smiled. “Good try, though.”

“Benjamin.” She tried to rise to her hands and knees.

He kicked her onto her back, blowing the air out of her lungs. He planted a foot on her chest and leaned his weight there. She couldn’t breathe. Her mouth gaped, but the air wouldn’t come.

Then Benjamin straddled her, sitting on her chest. He had something in his hand. He hefted it in front of her face. It was one of the bricks.

“Benjamin!” She croaked again, her hands up, trying to ward him off.

He gripped her by the throat. The last thing she saw was the brick raised high in the air, and then coming down, so quickly...

***

He smashed her skull with the brick until she stopped moving. Stopped making sounds. Stopped breathing.

He had his hand around her throat still, thinking How dare you? How dare you?

It was rage, but it was also panic. It was uncontrolled. It was an explosion that rendered him down to atoms, disassembled, disassociated with reality.

This is all your fault!

He was back in the dark again. In the deep dark that only ended when he was outside, and when he was outside there was only fear, and when he was in the dark, there was only hatred.

This is all your fault! His mother had hissed at him, invisible, just a disembodied voice in the black of their cloistered, suffocating world together.

And he was choking her so that she could never say that again.

Because How dare you?!

He’d been the one out there, risking his life to scavenge them food and water.

He’d been the one to find them a safe place.

He’d been the one to take care of them.

He’d done all of those things for her! How dare she come down on him! How dare she not recognize his efforts! How ungrateful she was, in that darkness, with her face that he couldn’t see, but could only imagine from the tone of her voice: a sneer of cold disrespect, of disappointment, even though he’d done everything—EVERYTHING—for her!

How dare you!

How dare you!

Benjamin strangled his mother to death in the dark.

Except that it wasn’t dark.

It was broad daylight.

It wasn’t in that hellish, stinking room.

It was behind a pile of bricks, in the Butler Safe Zone.

It wasn’t his mother.

It was Charlie.

He unlatched his hands from around her throat. His fingertips slid passed her carotids, and felt nothing, not even a whisper of a pulse. The bloody brick lay forgotten beside what was left of her head.

Was that Charlie?

It didn’t look like her anymore.

“It’s not my fault!” Benjamin hissed at her, and then stood, gasping, his forearms aching from the sudden output of energy. “It’s not my fault.”

How could she blame him? None of it was his fault. He hadn’t asked to be in this world. He hadn’t asked for everything to go wrong. He hadn’t asked for the violence, and the hatred, and the cruelty, in which he’d spent those terrible, earth-shattering years as a pre-teen, those years that can twist you or strengthen you at the whim of some power beyond your control.

He hadn’t asked to be this way.

It was everyone else’s fault. Everyone else had done the bad things to him, and to the people around him. Everyone else had created him, and formed him. It was all just a big, cruel joke, and everyone else was just watching and laughing.

Would they laugh now? Would they laugh at what they’d turned him into?

Look at what you made me do, he thought, staring down at the mess at his feet.

It’s always the sensitive ones that suffer the most in the hands of the world. Oh, the times he’d spent crying, when everything had gone to shit, when the world came down around him, and it was just him and his mother, on the run, and trying to survive.

Stop crying! Taylor Sullivan had told him. You need to toughen the fuck up! You need to be a man! I need you to be a man about this!

And he’d stopped crying. He’d become something else. He’d pulled himself out of his own head, and he’d replaced himself with a man, an image, a caricature, but it was the best that a twelve-year-old could do.

The sensitive ones are always the most pliant. They’re always the ones that get twisted up the worst.

He hadn’t cried again. He hadn’t cried when the people around him got eaten, or turned infected, or ripped each other apart. He hadn’t cried when he’d nearly starved to death before they found the Fort Bragg Safe Zone, five years ago. He hadn’t cried when he’d been imprisoned by Carl Gilliard. He hadn’t cried when they’d been abandoned.

He never cried.

Until the day he’d strangled his mother to death.

He’d cried then. And he still felt the shame of it. Moreso than anything he felt over killing his mother, the tears were what told him that he was still weak, not strong enough, not man enough.

He stumbled down the alley, the swirling thoughts making the entire world seem tilted and off kilter. But his eyes were dry. He hadn’t shed a damn tear. Not for Charlie. Not for nobody. Not for nothing.

Do you like what I’ve become? He asked the world, the people around him, who stared at him, who moved away from him, uncomfortable with the look on his face, or perhaps the gun in his hand that he didn’t remember pulling out of the back of his pants.

Am I strong enough for you now?

Am I man enough?

They all moved away from him, as though he were infected. But it was their fault. They’d made him this way.

He thought about killing them, but he had his eyes set on the Sheriff’s Office, thinking of the man that had abandoned him and his mother at Fort Bragg.

It was everyone else’s fault, but mostly it was Carl Gilliard’s fault. His fault that Benjamin and Taylor had been abandoned in Fort Bragg. His fault they’d lived in the dark for a month. His fault that Benjamin had to kill his mother to get her to shut her goddamned mouth.

“I’m here, Carl,” Benjamin said as he strode down the middle of the street. “You want to ask me questions? Ask me now. Ask me all the questions you want. I’m an open book, big man. Come talk to me, big man. Come see how big you are now.”

He walked into the Sheriff’s Office with the gun in his hand.

The old cowboy-looking motherfucker with the white mustache sat behind the front desk—what was his name again? His old eyes flicked to the gun in Benjamin’s hand, and he bolted up out of his seat.

“What’s the problem, son?” the old man said, his hand dropping to the revolver at his side.

“Looking for Carl,” Benjamin said, just as casual as you please.

The old man flipped the leather safety strap from his holster. Closed his fingers around the grip of his weapon. “Now, son, why don’t you put the gun down?”

Instead, Benjamin raised it and shot the old man dead.

TWENTY

─▬▬▬─

BREAKAGE

They heard the shots down in the basement jail.

Carl whipped around, his armor hanging on his chest, his pistol in his hand, the magazine and chamber just checked. “The fuck was that?”

Lee stood beside Carl at the intake counter. He snatched his rifle from the countertop. “Ed’s up there.”

Carl was already moving. He slammed the pistol into his holster and grabbed his own rifle. “Lee, take Rudy and Logan and go out the sally port and around to the front. Morrow, Mitch, you’re with me.”

They ran, listening for the sound of more gunshots, but there was only a hollow silence from the Sheriff’s Office above them. Lee, Rudy, and Logan hit the sally port door and waited for it to whir open, agonizingly slow. Carl, Morrow, and Mitch vaulted up the single flight of stairs, taking them two at a time until they reached the top.

Here was another door, identical to the sally port door. A big, iron thing, with a narrow window of ballistic glass that gave a view into the Sheriff’s Office.

Carl motioned for the others to take up positions near the door, then stepped up to the side of the window. He leaned, so that just one eye cleared the corner of the glass, peering into the office beyond.

The first thing he noticed was the muzzle of a pistol, pointed right at him. And then the face of the teenage boy behind it. His eyes were wild and unearthly. A shaky smile on his lips.

“Hey Carl,” he said, the second they locked eyes.

By instinct, Carl ducked back away from the door.

The gun fired three times, launching Carl’s heart into his throat as he spun for the cover of the concrete wall to the side of the door. The bullets struck the metal door with dull thunks.

Carl twisted, his nostrils flaring, and looked at the door. No holes in it. He knew it was bulletproof, but one doesn’t simply stand there while being fired on.

“Benjamin Sullivan!” Carl shouted through the door.

“Carl,” the kid’s voice came back, muffled. “You gonna hide behind your fucking door or are you gonna come out and face me like a man?”

“What’d you do to Ed?” Carl demanded.

“Ed? Was that his name? He’s dead. I killed him.”

Carl and Mitch locked eyes.

Mitch’s tremors seemed worse, the adrenaline dump exacerbating his symptoms. “Fuckin’-shit, man,” he murmured.

“Benjamin,” Carl yelled. “You better put that gun down or you’re gonna get killed.”

“You’d be doin’ me a goddamned favor!” Benjamin suddenly screamed. “This is all your fault, you sonofabitch! It’s all your fucking fault! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!”

Carl peeked again, ready to roll back into cover. But Benjamin now stood with his arms stretched wide, the gun pointed away. His face had contorted into a fearful grimace.

“I’m lookin’ at you,” Carl said.

“You like what you turned me into, you sick fuck? This is all your fault!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re so damned worried about your fucking Lincolnists!” Benjamin reared back and slammed a foot into the door. “You left me to die! You left me to die in the dark because you thought I was a fucking Lincolnist! You can’t even catch the Lincolnists right under your own damn nose, and now my Mom’s dead because of you! Because of you! It’s not my fault! It was never my fault!”

“No one’s blaming you,” Carl said. “Just put down the gun and chill out.”

Benjamin kicked the door again, then stood back. “I did you a favor, you fuck! You should be thanking me!”

“I don’t know what I’m thanking you for. Put the gun down, Benjamin. Put the gun down and we’ll talk about it.”

“I killed one of your Lincolnists!” Benjamin shouted. “I did it five minutes ago. Are you proud of me? Isn’t that what you wanted? You wanted to kill them all?”

“Who’d you kill? Are you talking about Ed?”

“Charlie!” Benjamin thrust himself up against the door, his face pressed to the glass. “Her name was Charlie. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember Charlie?”

“No, I don’t remember Charlie. Can you tell me about her?”

“She was a fucking whore!” Benjamin’s breath fogged the glass. “She was a whore, and a Lincolnist, and I took care of her for you. I bashed her brains in. Her body’s out back of the building supply place. Are you proud of me? Are you proud of what you turned me into?”

Carl didn’t even know how to respond to that. He just shook his head. “Benjamin, put the gun down before we have to hurt you.”

“Sam,” Benjamin said. “You know Sam?”

“Sam Ryder?”

Benjamin nodded, grinning manically. “Yeah. Sam Ryder. He’s a Lincolnist too. Did you know that? He used to fuck Charlie. He knew she was working with Elsie Foster. He knew it, and he saved Charlie, helped her get out of Fort Bragg, helped her get here to Butler. He should’ve shot her dead, but he didn’t, because he’s one of them.”

Benjamin was so close to the glass that Carl could just barely see beyond him. But a small portion of the room beyond was still visible. The front doors to the Sheriff’s Office. Glass fronted. Dark shapes moving swiftly.

Benjamin drew back, still locked into Carl, his face twisting into something like fear, and rage, and desperation. “See? I’m just like you, Carl. I could be one of you guys, couldn’t I? Could I be one of you guys?”

“Benjamin, just drop the gun, and we’ll talk about it.”

He must’ve heard something. He jolted, twisting around, bringing the gun up.

Five rapid rifle shots.

Benjamin’s body jerked, and the last two rounds splashed through his head, impacting the ballistic glass window, and leaving spider-webbed divots, splattered red.

***

The kid fell. Lee didn’t know who he was, and didn’t care.

He pivoted, his footwork automatic, taking up his position to the right of the front doors, and scanning the room as Logan split to the left and Rudy came in straight.

The kid lay against the heavy sliding door, eyes half-lidded, one foot still twitching. Big dents in the metal door revealed steel beneath the beige paint. Thin spirals of blood trickled down.

Lee’s eyes left the dead kid and found the body of the person he actually cared about, lying on his side, curled up and unmoving, the front of his old County-Brownie shirt soaking through with red.

“Clear,” Lee called out, his feet already moving for Ed’s body.

Rudy was ahead of him, but bypassed Ed with a swift glance over the body and went to the dead kid that Lee had shot. He kicked the gun out of his grip, then prodded the body with his boot. Getting no response, he motioned for Carl on the other side. “He’s down. Come on.”

Lee slid onto his knees beside Ed, swinging his rifle around to his left side. “Ed? Ed, buddy, you still there?” He slapped the man’s shoulder hard, trying to garner a response, then jammed his fingers up under his jaw.

There was nothing. Ed was gone.

The door to the basement clunked and began to slide into the wall, slow and heavy and mechanical, just like the sally port below. The second it was wide enough, Carl squeezed through. Rudy grabbed the dead kid by the ankle and heaved his body out of the doorway, handling it thoughtlessly, like a bag of trash.

Carl positioned himself between the two dead bodies. “This is not what we need right now.”

Lee stood up. His heart thudded in his chest, but he felt little else. It was all playing out like a movie he’d just walked in on and wasn’t quite sure what was going on. “Ed’s gone,” he stated. “Who is that kid? What the fuck was this all about?”

Carl’s face betrayed a rare glimmer of emotion. His jaw muscles bunched as though biting down on it. Swallowing it back to where it belonged. “Kid’s name was Benjamin. Some asshole from Fort Bragg. No clue what his problem was.”

Lee’s eyes searched the master sergeant’s face, detecting things gone unsaid. “What was he saying to you?”

“Rambling,” Carl said, a little too quickly. “Out of his goddamned mind.”

“Yo, head’s up,” Logan called from where he’d taken position at the front door. “We got a crowd gathering.”

Carl growled under his breath. “Can’t do a damn thing in this place without a crowd.”

Lee turned and followed his gaze out the glass front of the Sheriff’s Office. Perhaps thirty rubberneckers crowded in. They’d positioned themselves in the street, too scared to come much closer, but not scared enough to stay the hell away.

“Logan,” Lee said, waving dismissively at the crowd beyond. “Get them out of here.” He turned to Carl. “We don’t have time for this shit. Whatever the hell this was about, we need to pass it off to someone else. That bird from Moody’ll be here in twenty minutes, and we’re not even packed.”

Logan pushed open the front door, his rifle hanging, his arms up in the air in the general sign language of all eyes on me. “Need y’all to get lost,” he called out. “Clear the street, please. Go.” He shooed them. “Get out of here.”

A barrage of questions came back at Logan, though Lee couldn’t hear them as the front door eased shut.

“Mitch, Morrow,” Carl called out. “Get these bodies down in the basement. I’ll call Hamrick and have him send a squad to clean this shit up.”

Lee pointed out the front windows. “No need. Cavalry’s pullin’ up.”

Out on the street, a blue pickup skidded to a halt, narrowly missing some bystanders that weren’t listening to Logan’s commands. Half-boot guards piled out of the back, guns up, faces concerned and confused.

“That’ll work,” Carl said. “Pull them in here.”

Lee stalked to the door and pushed it open just far enough to get his head out.

Logan had his hands up to the guards. “No, no. Everything’s fine. Stand down.”

“Logan!” Lee hollered. “Let ‘em through.” He caught eyes with one of the guards and waved him on. “Hey! No more radio transmissions, you hear me? Traps shut.”

Five kids, not much older than the one that Lee had just killed, hustled across the pavement to the front door, followed by Logan. Lee held the door for them and pushed them all inside, then closed the door behind them.

“Holy fuck!” one of them yelped. “What the fuck happened here?”

Lee snapped his fingers. “Hey. Look at me.” He glanced for the kid’s nametape, but like many half-boots, he didn’t have one. “You in charge?”

The half-boot rocked into a laughable pantomime of attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, who are you?” Lee pressed.

“Corporal Gibson, sir.”

“Alright, corporal.” Lee held up two fingers in front of the kid’s face. “Post two here at the door. No one goes in or out, except Angela and Hamrick, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of you down in the basement.” He pointed to where Mitch and Morrow dragged the dead bodies towards the stairs. Logan and Rudy moved to assist. “Follow them.” Lee began walking, Corporal Gibson glued to his side, over-eager. “Gimme your radio, kid.”

Gibson fumbled it out of a pouch meant for some other purpose and handed it to Lee. He keyed it. “Major Harden to command, how copy?”

“Command copies,” it didn’t sound like Lopez or Byers. Hamrick must’ve called in help to coordinate their current shitstorm. “Go ahead, Major.”

“I have Corporal Gibson and his squad here with me at the Sheriff’s Office. There’s been a situation. It’s been handled. No further traffic on the air about it. When First Sergeant Hamrick has a free moment, he needs to come to the basement of the Sheriff’s Office. Over.”

Whoever it was in the TOC sounded confused, but said that they understood their orders.

They trundled down the stairs, the bodies preceding them like a funeral procession. Lee’s heart still slammed around, but that was it. It was an odd sensation to him. To feel the effects of adrenaline so clinically. No emotion to go with them.

That was okay. It would make it easier to do his job.

Because right now, this was not his problem. Moody was the problem.

Ed’s dead, a tiny voice inside of him kept saying. Ed’s dead. Like it thought that if it said it enough, the fact might infiltrate through Lee’s walls and reach the center of him.

Do you let it break you?

No.

Lee felt nothing. His only hollow thought was, Who’s next?

In the basement, they put the bodies off to the side, Benjamin’s tossed down, while Ed’s was placed with more respect, face up, hands folded over his bloody chest.

Lee stared at the bodies.

Who’s next?

Does it matter? Not right now, it doesn’t.

Flick, flick, flick.

“Sir?” Gibson hovered, his face awkwardly close.

Lee pushed the corporal backwards. “Jesus, kid. Give me some space.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Lee,” Carl called. “We gotta suit up. Fifteen minutes, and we need to be at the field in ten.”

Lee nodded to him. Turned back to Gibson. “Listen carefully. That dead kid, his name is Benjamin. He went crazy. Came in and shot Ed. Carl’s team and I responded from the basement. The kid wouldn’t put down his weapon. I took him out. That’s all you need to relay to Hamrick. He can decide what to do from there. You copy?”

Gibson goggled at the dead bodies, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

***

Carl’s team had most of their gear pre-staged. Lee had some catching up to do, but in a strange way, he was glad to be doing it. Checking the loadout on his armor, remembering how he thought he wasn’t ever going to need it again.

Is this about Moody? Angela had asked. Or is this about you?

He pushed those thoughts away. They weren’t helpful. They accomplished nothing at this point. There would be time later to be introspective about his motivations. Now, it was time to move, to act, and Lee realized that was why he wasn’t feeling anything. Because he was back in the flow, back in the place that he knew best.

This was where he belonged. This was what he was supposed to be doing.

He was a fighter, not a commander.

Packing a three-day assault bag beside Mitch, Lee noticed the other man’s movements. Something was off about him. Lee had done a lot of operations with these guys, and he knew them all well enough to see that something was wrong.

Mitch had always been a stocky, fiery man. Now his eyes looked vacant and hesitant. His body seemed to have deflated, the muscles wasted away. His hands shook, and he’d developed a tic, frequently jerking his head, and his left eye would wink, almost like a wince.

“Hey, Mitch.” Lee eyed him. “You alright, man?”

“Mm.” Mitch glanced at him, then back down, like he was afraid of eye-contact. He smiled, though. “You didn’t hear?” he gestured to a jagged scar across his neck that still looked pink and raw. “Fuckin’-got a day pass to Valhalla. When they brought me back I left half my brain behind.”

“Shit, man. I’m sorry to hear that.” Lee had known people like Mitch before. People that crossed over and weren’t the same when they came back. “You gonna be okay?”

Mitch’s face gave a brief contortion, and he straightened. “I dunno, man.” He glanced in the direction of Carl, and then fixated on the gear at his feet. “Carl. I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

Carl crossed and put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

Mitch forced himself to make eye-contact, though it seemed painful for him.

Carl squeezed his shoulder. “You’re good. You’re going to be fine. I’d rather have a twitchy Mitch than no Mitch at all. You hear me?”

“Mm. Yeah.” Mitch lowered his gaze to his gear again. “Twitchy Mitch. That my new name?”

Logan spoke up. “You’re permanent point, though. No way I’m having you behind me with a loaded rifle.”

Carl gave Logan a withering glance, and Logan seemed to realize that his attempt at levity had touched a sensitive area. He turned a hesitant smile on Mitch. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, bro. Come on. You know I trust you with my life. You can point a loaded gun at me any time.”

Mitch grabbed his armor and slung it onto his shoulders. “All joking aside, maybe I should take point.”

Carl slapped him on the back. “Details we can discuss enroute.”

Lee strapped into his armor and slung into his assault pack. “Gents,” he said, holding up a hand to the gathered team. He got eye contact from each of them, then hiked a thumb behind him at the two dead bodies. “Put this shit out of mind. Everyone take a big breath, and let it go. Pretend it never happened.”

It was not metaphorical advice. The operators around him all took one big breath, and in their exhale, they pushed it away, and focused on the task at hand. Their sole concern was the mission ahead of them.

Lee nodded to Carl. “Alright. Let’s roll.”

Ten minutes later, on the sports field outside of the Taylor County High School that had been plowed over for spring planting, the six men knelt as the rotor wash of the Blackhawk buffeted them. The door gunner angled the M240 up and away as they ran for the open door, ducking under the helicopter blades.

Inside the bird, the crew chief shoved a radio headset into Lee’s hands and shouted over the raucous noise: “Glad to see you, Major Harden! Moody’s getting their shit pushed in!”

“Glad to be here. We’ll see if we can’t help out.” He slid the headset on, and the rush of noise dimmed to a dull background roar.

“We’re airborne,” the pilot’s calm voice said as the Blackhawk dusted off again. “Flight time is forty-two minutes.”

“Roger that,” Lee answered, and thought, Hopefully Moody is still there in forty-two minutes.

TWENTY-ONE

─▬▬▬─

PREPARATIONS

From the window of the penthouse in the Hampton Inn and Suites, President Briggs stared into the east, towards the Greeley-Weld Airfield, where his invasion of North Carolina was finally being staged.

“I’ve got two C-130’s being loaded up as we speak,” he said. “By the end of today, I’ll have troops, supplies, and fighting vehicles deployed to Fort Bragg. It’ll be a full-scale invasion force by tomorrow morning. All I need is to know where to go from there.”

He turned away from the window and faced the two envoys standing behind him at the table that had become his interim Oval Office—his “not-so-Oval Office.”

Guidry, the British one, quirked an eyebrow. “I understand your position, Mister President, but—”

“Do you?” Briggs snapped. “Because it feels like your people are dragging their feet in coming to a pretty obvious decision. I am the President of the United-fucking-States.” He thrust his finger eastward. “Those are rebels. That is an insurrection. Nothing more. Your people know where their headquarters is. From where I’m sitting, it sure as hell seems like you’re harboring our enemies.”

“Not harboring them,” Worley, the Canadian, spoke up. “But ‘our people’ are curious as to your overall strategy in this case.”

Briggs glared. “My strategy is to put down a rebellion and re-unite the country.”

Worley allowed it with a nod. “But those C-130s. How much fuel will they use up running to and from North Carolina?”

Briggs stared at the man and then walked to the table, resting his hands on the back of the chair at the head. “You gentlemen sound as though you’ve been talking to Colonel Lineberger.”

“One doesn’t need to speak to Colonel Lineberger to do the math, Mister President,” Worley countered. “Greeley no longer has a source of fuel. And planes of that size don’t exactly sip the gas. What happens when your invasion stalls because you can no longer send any planes to re-supply?”

Briggs sniffed. “My supply lines are my own concern. I assure you, we’ve run the numbers. I won’t allow my invasion to outstrip its supply lines.”

Which was a flat-out lie. Maybe they knew that already, or maybe they were just guessing. Briggs’s head was boiling over with logistics. The numbers were like a logic problem that refused to be solved. Getting an invasion force to North Carolina—such a simple task, one would think—had felt more like trying to put a man into orbit.

Briggs had restricted all but the most necessary flights for the last several months to conserve jet fuel. He’d grounded the three C-17 Globemasters in favor of the C-130s for the simple reason that he old prop planes used less fuel.

And yet, there was no way to slice this pie that didn’t end up with Greeley completely dry of jet fuel, and hurting for diesel.

The invasion was an all-in wager. By the time he had his troops on the ground, with enough vehicles to get them mobile, enough diesel to drive them through the eastern states, and enough ordnance to wipe the floor with Lee Harden and Angela Houston, Briggs would be gas-poor, with no prospects as to where to get more.

So the invasion better work. Because there was no plan B.

Which only made Canada’s reticence to divulge the location of the UES headquarters more infuriating.

“When we eliminate the so-called United Eastern States,” Briggs continued, settling himself and trying to appear more confident than he was. “We will also eliminate their control of the refineries in the Gulf. Two birds with one stone.” He looked to each of them. “So you see why I need the location of their headquarters.”

Worley and Guidry exchanged a guarded glance.

Guidry took a deep breath. “Mister President, if you’ll give us until tomorrow morning, we will talk to our people and see if we can’t get something working.” He lowered his head and his voice, as though there were others in the room that might overhear. “Just between the three of us, Mister President, we have your back. All we need to do is put a little pressure on our command. Just give us the time to do it.”

That’s more like it. Briggs smiled, now affable. “I think that’s a very reasonable ask, gentlemen. I’ll look forward to speaking with you tomorrow.”

***

Guidry and Worley kept their poker faces on until they were in the stairwell, heading down from the penthouse to the main floor. On the first landing of the stairs, Worley cast a glance behind him as the stairwell door eased shut, cutting off the two Cornerstone operatives guarding it.

“We on the same page here, Guidry?” he murmured, still moving down the echoing stairwell.

“M-hm,” Guidry answered. “Of course we are, mate. Just need a little time.”

On the ground floor they exited the stairwell and hung a right down the carpeted halls of the former hotel, passing more guards, these ones actual military. Army, by their fatigues, though there wasn’t much of a distinction anymore. The branches of the US military represented here in Greeley all had an overseeing commander of the same branch, but those commanders answered to Colonel Lineberger.

For now.

The writing on the wall told the two envoys that Briggs wouldn’t allow that to be the case for much longer. He’d already taken full control of Cornerstone. Cornerstone held possession of the rations, and that was the currency of Greeley, by which the military men and women were paid. Without Briggs’s say-so, no one ate. And when you were trying to feed a family, as many of the military were, then high ideals tended to take a backseat to the simple pragmatism of making sure your family didn’t starve.

They stopped at the entrance to the conference rooms-turned headquarters. Two Marines stood guard. Worley and Guidry recognized them from several other times, and the Marines likely recognized them as well, but they showed their diplomatic passes anyway.

“Here to speak with Colonel Lineberger,” Worley said.

The Marines waved them through.

The two of them strode through the maze of cubicles, and along the wall of plywood boxes that served as offices for the higher ranks. In the back corner of the room they stopped and knocked on a closed plywood door.

“What?” Lineberger’s voice grouched from within.

“It’s Mister Guidry and Mister Worley, here, sir,” Guidry announced.

Slight hesitation. “Enter.”

They stepped into Colonel Lineberger’s office and closed the door behind them.

Lineberger stood behind his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He eyed them as they entered, his gaze suspicious, lips pursed.

“Is this a good time?” Guidry asked, raising his eyebrows to communicate that the time should be made.

“It can be,” Lineberger answered cautiously.

“Is it a good place?” Guidry pressed, his eyes roaming around the office.

Lineberger set the sheaf of papers down. “Relatively. You’ll have to pardon the background noise,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “The plywood walls aren’t very soundproof.”

Guidry nodded in understanding: There was no surveillance in the room, but someone standing outside might be able to eavesdrop. He stepped up to the desk so that they were close and could lower their voices.

“We understand that President Briggs has his invasion all set to go.”

Lineberger glanced between them, considering his words. “Yes. They’ll be airborne in a few hours’ time.”

“Good,” Worley said. “By morning, the entire invasion force will be in Fort Bragg. We asked President Briggs why he hadn’t chosen to invade the Gulf region and secure the refineries instead, but he seems confident in his strategy.”

Guidry nodded, taking up the reins again. “He really wants us to give him the location of the rebel headquarters, but we asked to have until tomorrow morning to clear it with our command before giving him that intelligence.”

Worley spoke up again, tapping the top of Lineberger’s desk. “After that point, I guess we’ll just have to hope that the invasion works. The only other option would be if someone could…convince the president to pull the assault and direct it at the Gulf. In the next few hours, of course.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the two envoys evaluating the colonel.

All messages were received. They appeared to understand each other quite well.

Lineberger unfolded his arms. “Gentlemen, I’m well aware of the timeline. Thank you for your concern. I can assure you, I will be having a frank conversation with President Briggs very shortly. I have several winning arguments that might dissuade him.” He raised his head so that he looked down his hawkish nose at them. “Am I to understand that Canada and the United Kingdom will be amenable to this course correction?”

Guidry shrugged. “Canada and the United Kingdom don’t wish to take sides in this particular argument. They’re more interested in backing the strongest player, as I’m sure you know. However, between the three of us, should your arguments win the president over, I’m sure that we will be happy to back the new strategy.”

Lineberger smiled without humor. “Very well, gentlemen. I have my arguments in good order. I’ll make sure to speak to the president.”

Worley and Guidry nodded to the colonel.

“In the interim,” Worley said. “We’ll make ourselves scarce. Wouldn’t want to get caught in the proverbial crossfire.”

“That’s wise,” Lineberger said flatly. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, colonel,” Worley replied.

They left the office, heading for the exit. Their lodging was in this very structure, but perhaps they’d take a walk over to the Yellow Zone. That crossfire was going to be more than just proverbial.

As they stepped out into the bright sunshine of a mild, Colorado spring day, Worley unearthed the satphone from his jacket pocket and dialed Marlin.

***

“Jesus,” Marlin answered. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?”

“You still have fifteen minutes, right?” Worley asked.

Marlin stood at the kitchen window and peered out at the two squads of troops down the street from the house where he and his team had been sequestered. “Yeah. They haven’t shown up yet to demand an answer. Something happened. I’m not sure what. I saw a bird show up and pick up some soldiers.”

“Still no hostile intent towards you?” Worley pressed.

“No,” Marlin sighed, stepping away from the window. “But I doubt they forgot about us. Did you talk to command?”

Worley dodged the question. “Things are in the air right now, Marlin. I can’t call where all the balls are going to land.”

“Well, what do you want me to say when they show up to kick us out?”

“Sit tight. Say nothing for now.”

“Worley—!”

“For now. Let’s see if maybe they got distracted. However, if they do show up, I want you to tell them the following information. You ready to copy?”

Marlin caught Wibberley’s eye. The lieutenant watched him from across the room, curiosity and concern mixing in his features. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Tell them there is a full invasion force inbound to Fort Bragg. Two C-130’s, with troops and supplies and vehicles. They’ll be ferrying the equipment back and forth from Greeley to Fort Bragg for the next twenty hours or so. I don’t have exact numbers, but you need to advise them to stand down, Marlin. Do not let them engage.”

“Don’t let them engage because it hurts your plans or don’t let them engage because they’ll get their asses kicked?”

“Whichever you want to tell yourself.”

“I’m not a double-agent, Worley!” Marlin ran a hand through his short hair. “I’m not going to sit around here and feed you information. Is this intel that I’m giving them even legit?”

“It’s legit,” Worley answered. “One hundred percent.”

“Christ. Does Greeley know where we’re at?”

A pause on the line. “They don’t have that information yet. Mack. Just listen to me and trust me, okay? Tell them what I told you. But only if you have to. Are we all clear?”

Marlin pressed his fingers into his eyes until it was almost painful. “Yeah. We’re all clear.”

“Alright, brother. Stay strong. We’ll be in touch soon.”

They hung up.

Marlin stared at the dead phone in his hand for a moment.

“What’d they say?” Wibberley asked.

“Greeley’s invading. They want me to give that information when asked.”

Wibberley seemed surprised. “So they’re siding with the UES?”

Marlin shook his head. “No. They want us to play both sides.”

***

Across the Greeley Green Zone, a game of telephones took place.

A single call, originating from Lineberger himself. That call was received by a major, who was the commander of the Army units in Greeley. He’d been expecting the call. He listened to his orders and acknowledged them.

The major spoke in person to two of his captains, and they departed to inform the platoons under their command. It wasn’t all the Army units in Greeley, but the less people that were in the know, the better.

While those two captains met with their platoon leaders in houses and buildings that had become barracks, the major put in a call to a lieutenant colonel of the Marine Corps, and passed the word. The Marine lieutenant colonel notified the three officers he trusted the most, and they, in turn, notified the eight squads under their command.

The Marine lieutenant colonel then called the Air Force colonel. The Air Force colonel than called down to the flight line and told his senior officer at the Greeley-Weld Airfield that he had significant concerns about the mechanical well-being of two particular C-130s that hadn’t been flown in four years. He wanted the loadmasters to stop immediately and have a full diagnostic and safety check run on both aircraft, from nose to tail-rudder. They couldn’t have their entire invasion going tits-up because of some silly malfunction that would’ve taken them thirty minutes to fix. An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure, etcetera.

The senior officer on the flight line assured his superior that such safety checks had already been performed. The colonel then informed his senior officer that there was this silver eagle attached to his collar, and what that silver eagle meant was that you did what the fuck he said because he was one step below God himself.

Five minutes after that, the loadmasters were informed that they needed to halt their operation for a safety check. When they informed their officer that the safety check had already been performed, they were told that there were these silver bars on the officer’s collar, and what that meant was that you did what the fuck he said.

In six separate, private meeting places—a basement, a garage, a warehouse, an apartment over an old bar, and several living rooms with the shades drawn—enlisted soldiers and Marines that had been discreetly vetted by their superiors over the course of the last month, began to pull together their gear.

Go time was approaching.

TWENTY-TWO

─▬▬▬─

INTELLIGENCE

Twenty minutes after hanging up with Worley, Marlin found himself and Wibberley in the Butler Safe Zone TOC, standing before the president of the United Eastern States.

Something had happened, of that Marlin was positive. The air in the TOC had changed. More techs were present. The maps on the main screen scurried about with cursors and troop movements. A hum of tense conversation pervaded the place.

The soldiers that had fetched Marlin and Wibberley stood beside them, looking guarded, like they weren’t sure whether they were escorting allies, or watching captives. Their squad leader, a rifle strapped to his chest, stepped up to Angela, appearing nervous.

“Madam President, we addressed Captain Marlin as instructed. He said that he needed to speak directly with command.” The kid glanced over his shoulder at Marlin. “He said he had information for you.”

Angela kept her eyes on Marlin as the kid spoke. She raised her eyebrows. “Well, Captain Marlin? No time like the present.”

Marlin cast a look around the TOC. “Pardon me, ma’am. Where’s Major Harden?”

“Not here,” she replied. “He’s dealing with some other issues in another Safe Zone. I’m in direct control of the TOC now. Any intelligence that you have you can give to me.”

Marlin felt uneasy about this turn of events. Had something happened between Angela and Harden? Had he been dismissed, or had he willingly gone to another Safe Zone, as Angela said?

Did it even matter at this point?

“Alright,” Marlin said, nodding once. “I’ve been cleared to provide you with the following intelligence: There are two military transport planes enroute to Fort Bragg. They’re going to be ferrying troops, vehicles, and supplies to Fort Bragg from Greeley. I don’t have specific numbers at this time. Only that it was called ‘an invasion force.’”

Angela blinked, and her mouth tightened. That was all the reaction she gave to this news. “Am I to understand, then, that Canada and the United Kingdom have chosen to back the United Eastern States?”

Marlin gave a pained expression. “Ma’am, I can’t speak to that at this moment.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If we don’t trust each other, how am I going to trust that intelligence?”

Marlin sighed through his nose. “President Houston, I’m sorry that I can’t be more specific. I asked these same questions and was not given a clear answer. It’s not that I’m refusing to give you the information, it’s that they haven’t even told me yet. But I did ask them how legitimate the intelligence was, and I was assured that it was one hundred percent correct. Greeley is invading.”

Angela considered this for a moment. “So your people want us to know that Greeley is invading, but they don’t want to specifically take sides. I have to say, Captain Marlin, this doesn’t cast them in the best light.”

“I understand, ma’am. I’m trying my best to achieve clarity. Ultimately, though, I’m just a guy that has to follow his orders. I hope that you can understand that.”

Her nose wrinkled. “I understand that there’s a game being played while my people are up against the ropes. It’s not appreciated. And it won’t be forgotten.” Her expression softened. “But I also understand your position in this. So I’m going to give you the option, captain. You can choose to leave now. We will escort you out and wish you the best. Or you can remain here, sequestered in the house that we loaned you.”

“Continuing our house arrest, basically,” Marlin observed.

Angela wasn’t defensive about it. “You’re doing your job, Marlin. But I’d be a fool to believe at this point that your job won’t necessarily entail spying on us. If Canada and the UK refuses to whole-heartedly back us, then I have to accept that they might want you here to gather intelligence on us. Should your command choose to render us much-needed aide, then I’ll be happy to reconsider my position. Until that time comes, the safest way to handle this is for you to leave, or remain under guard. Again, the choice is yours.”

Marlin found that he couldn’t fault her one iota for this. In fact, he felt a slight relief of tension in his chest as she said it. Marlin realized that he wanted her to succeed. He’d been suspicious because she’d seemed inept, but standing here, facing her down, and seeing for the first time someone that appeared capable and competent, he realized that the UES did have a chance.

He looked to Wibberley, who had remained silent the entire time. Wibberley met his gaze and offered a single shrug, which Marlin knew to mean Your call, boss.

“I’m choosing to stay, Madam President,” he said. “I wish you good luck, and I hope that I can be more useful in the very near future.”

***

As the squad of half-boots escorted Marlin and Wibberley out of the TOC, Angela watched First Sergeant Hamrick walk in, trailing two of his more experienced soldiers. The look on his face was grim.

“This doesn’t look great,” Angela said to Kurt, who stood at her side.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Your take on Marlin?” she queried, searching her bodyguard’s face.

Kurt considered it as Hamrick approached them. “I think he’s being straight-up. He wants to help us, which is good. I just don’t know if that’s what his command has in mind. You made the right call keeping him sequestered for now.”

Angela nodded, feeling better about the decision.

Hamrick stopped in front of her. “Ma’am. Bit of a shit show down at the Sheriff’s Office.”

As he relayed to her what had happened, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck that turned into heat, crawling up her scalp.

Ed had been murdered.

The thought looped around in her head, like a circling buzzard. But it never came down to her. Never impacted her the way that she thought it should. All she felt was a vague sense of unease, of helplessness. Like she was watching something crumble in front of her eyes and could do nothing about it.

“The kid,” she managed. “The one that shot Ed. Who was he?”

Hamrick raised an eyebrow. “Some guy named Benjamin? I don’t know him.”

Angela looked sharply at the first sergeant. “Benjamin Sullivan?”

Hamrick nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. You know him?”

She pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead, as though trying to keep her skull from splitting. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Hamrick looked concerned for Angela, an unusual expression for him. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

Angela drew in a sharp breath. “Yes. Can’t do anything about it now, can we? Is the Sheriff’s Office secured? And what did you do with the bodies?”

“The bodies are down in the basement where Carl’s team stays,” Hamrick answered, still watching her, like he thought she might break down. Which she found, in that moment, insulting. “There’s a squad there to guard the bodies and the office. It’s secured.”

Angela drew herself up. Stiffened her back. Stuffed down the helplessness, and stoked her determination. She needed to be resilient. She wouldn’t break down. She wouldn’t crumble. She would stand up straight and bear this.

“First sergeant, I want you to pull the Hunter Killers back from Fort Bragg,” she said, her resolve sounding false to her own ears, and hoping that she was the only one that could sense that.

Hamrick’s eyes widened. “All of them? Ma’am—”

“All of them,” she said, stern, but not aggressive. Simply immovable. “Greeley is sending an invasion force to Fort Bragg. There’s nothing that our Hunter-Killer squads can do about it. If we commit them to assaulting Bragg, we’ll lose them. And we can’t afford to do that. Pull them back here. Pull everyone you can back here. We need to start preparing for the fact that Greeley might know where to find us, and we need to be ready to fight them back.” She let out a breath in a sudden whoosh. “I hate to say it, first sergeant, but we are on the defensive at this moment.”

***

There were more parts to the prayer, but all Private Matthews could remember was Lord make me fast and accurate, and If today is truly the day you call me home, let me die in a pile of spent brass.

He’d gotten his pile of spent brass. It clattered under his and Private Jacobs’s feet as they shifted and fired, shifted and fired. The heat shield of Matthew’s rifle had grown painfully hot.

“Last two mags!” Jacobs yelled out as he completed a reload and jerked back into a shooting position, clamping his rifle to the top of Tower 2’s metal wall.

Matthews felt his bolt lock back on an empty magazine and didn’t need to look to confirm. He knew the feeling. “Reloading!” He slammed his next-to-last magazine in and then keyed his radio. “Tower 2, Tower 2! We need another ammo run!”

It was their second call for a re-supply on ammunition.

All around them the air was messy with the wailing of the emergency sirens, the distant screams of people, and gunfire chugging in all directions. Though he’d done little else but stand and shoot, Matthew’s heart felt like it might beat itself to pulp inside his chest.

The reply from command seemed distant in his ringing ears: “Command to Tower 2, we have no more re-supply on ammo! Do what you can, and then fall back to the hangar!”

Matthews swore and sighted down his rifle again. Shapes in the colors of so many shades of flesh darted in and out of the tree lines. There seemed to be so many of them, such a target-rich environment, that he thought he couldn’t miss. But it seemed every time he fired, it had no effect. He couldn’t even tell half the time if he’d made a hit. Even when he identified a mist of blood explode from one of them, they were undeterred.

How many shots did it take to bring one of them down?

Matthews recognized that he’d started to panic. All he could do was fire, fire, fire, try his best to get the right lead on the moving targets, try his best to get the right hold, but every time he pulled the trigger and didn’t see a body drop, his stomach twisted tighter.

He managed a shot on one that must’ve hit its head because it dropped instantly.

“Finally!” he shouted.

“What are they doing?” Jacobs demanded between shots.

Matthews’s gulped a few breaths and steadied himself again. His arms had begun to shake, making his accuracy even worse.

What were the primals doing? They kept darting in and out of the trees, almost like they were trying to play a game of chicken. There was a purpose to what they were doing, but he was so over-focused on trying to land a damn shot that it escaped him.

Jacobs fired three rounds in quick succession. “Got one!”

But there were so many more. The speed at which they expended ammo, compared to how many they took down only made Matthews feel worse. The panic shrank his vision to a pinpoint.

He fired four more rounds and then gasped again. He needed to breathe.

Breathe!

He took a moment, gulping air and trying not to hyperventilate. Trying to do the combat breathing that he’d been taught.

It was in those moments of breathing that he saw it.

The primals were hauling things out of the woods. Branches. Small trees.

Hauling them out, and then throwing them against the fences.

Only now did Matthews perceive a pile of them, leaning up against the high-voltage wires. The wires began to bow under the weight.

“Holy shit,” Matthews yelped, all that breathing coming to naught as tunnel vision encroached on him again. “They’re trying to break the fences down!”

Jacobs elbowed him hard. “Fucking shoot ‘em, man!” he smashed his face back into his sights. “Focus fire on that wood pile!”

Matthews turned on a whim, his mouth hanging open. He looked to the east, scanning the fence line towards Tower 3.

There. Right around marker 108.

Another pile of limbs and dead trees, this one bigger, the high-voltage wires sparking, threatening to break.

“Oh shit, man!” Matthews’s mind devolved into a feedback loop. “They’re gonna breach the fence!” he keyed his comms. “They’re gonna breach the fence!” he yelled, all radio procedure forgotten. “They’ve got trees and shit and they’re using them to push the wires down! They’re gonna breach!”

“Matthews!” Jacobs screamed at him, still firing. “Keep shooting at them!”

“We need to get the fuck out of here!” Matthews’s voice came out high pitched. Fuck the pile of spent brass—he wanted to live!

He only realized that he’d grabbed at Jacobs’s shoulder when the other private whirled on him and clocked him right in the nose—a short, sharp rabbit punch that stunned him and sent him stumbling backwards.

“Get ahold of yourself!” Jacobs bellowed, and then turned back to shooting.

A violent popping noise split the air. When Matthews’s vision cleared, he saw the breach at marker 108, the wires twitching about like live snakes, shooting off sparks as they touched the ground or the chainlink fence.

Bodies poured through. Brown, black, white, tan. Loping shapes moving fast through the breach.

Over the radio, he heard the soldiers on Tower 3 shouting: “Breach! Breach! Marker one-oh-eight!”

The primals swarmed in, moving fast, zig zagging around clouts of earth that spewed up at them as the rifles in Tower 3 tried to put them down before they could reach the tower.

“Matthews, you piece of shit!” Jacobs screamed. “Help me!”

But Matthews’s eyes were locked on the imminent carnage. He found himself unable to look away. The first of the primals reached Tower 3 and leaped, latching itself to the support pylons and shimmying up.

One of the half-boots from Tower 3 made a wild jump from the platform, then fell two stories to the ground. He hit the earth, and Matthews saw his legs crumple underneath the weight of his body and gear. The soldier rolled and tried to get up, but couldn’t work his broken legs and started trying to drag himself away. Three primals slammed into him, burying him.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…” Matthews spewed the words out, breathless, unable to think, unable to process.

“Breach!” Jacobs yelled. “They’re breaching!”

The sound of it wasn’t as pronounced as the breach at marker 108. The electrical current had already been cut off by that first breach. The high voltage wires were dead. There was nothing between the Moody Safe Zone and the horde of primals but useless chain link and cold wires.

Jacobs reared back from the wall, reloading. “Last mag!” he shouted. “I’ll cover you, Matthews, go!”

The second breach spilled over, the primals leaping across the trees and branches they’d used to bring the fences down and hitting the ground inside the perimeter at a dead sprint.

Matthews had a moment of hesitation. He didn’t want to go to the ground. He didn’t want to die like that half-boot with the broken legs. Maybe it was safer to stay in the tower…

Jacobs grabbed him by the back of his armor and thrust him towards the ladder. “Go, man!” Then he spun back to the running hordes and fired at a rapid, constant pace.

Matthews swung down, his inertia now destroyed. He clambered down the rickety ladder on hands and feet that tingled with fear. He was going too fast. He couldn’t keep up with his own movements.

He slipped on the last eight feet. Tried to reach out and grab a rung to steady himself, but couldn’t get enough purchase, and pitched backward, screaming.

He hit the ground flat on his back, cutting his scream off. His head bounced off the ground, dizzying him.

Gunfire.

Shouts.

Sirens.

A roar, like hell itself had been opened up, right there in Moody.

Matthews struggled to his feet. He heard Jacobs calling out to him, calling for covering fire so he could descend the ladder too. Matthews took one look at the primals racing towards him, the slavering jaws, the glaring, predator’s eyes that were locked onto him, and he knew that to stand and fight would be to die.

He turned and ran.

The roar built, engulfing him.

It wasn’t the sound of screaming primals.

Matthews pointed himself towards the main hangar. The last stand of the Moody Safe Zone. Civilians still piling in, machine-gun nests spitting fire. The rounds zipped and whined past Matthews’s head.

Wind struck him, buffeted him, made him feel like he was slowing down. This was God’s punishment for his cowardice…

He perceived the punch of a Blackhawk’s rotors, and then the chatter of an M240, right over top of him.

He spun, glancing upwards to see the belly of the aircraft swooping low over top of him, so close that he could see the rivets in the steel. The door gunner chugged away, the tracers like lightning bolts, slamming the life out of primals only a few yards away from Matthews.

Hot brass clattered down over his head and shoulders. Matthews raised his rifle, still backing away as fast as he could manage and added his own bullets to the hail of gunfire coming down on the primals.

Five primals leapt for the base of Tower 2, gaining about half the height up, and rapidly climbing. Atop the tower, Jacobs was no longer firing. His head was poked up over the wall, staring straight at Matthews, his face agog with fear and betrayal.

“Jacobs!” Matthews cried out, realizing what his panic had wrought.

In the last ten seconds of Matthews’s life, he stiffened his spine, and stood still, and aimed his shots at the primals climbing the tower for his friend—my friend!—while the Blackhawk swerved into a hover.

Matthews landed hits. His last hits. Good hits. He watched the climbing primals pitch backwards, ribbons of blood trailing their falling bodies.

Please, let Jacobs get out!

He fired his last round, not in defense of himself, but in defense of his friend, as a black-skinned primal slammed into him, its jaws clamping around his throat. He hit the ground on his back, and the primal jerked its head, snapping his neck—

TWENTY-THREE

─▬▬▬─

MOODY

Lee was shoulder-to-shoulder with the door gunner on the right side of the helicopter. The gunner fired his M240 in rapid bursts, pausing just long enough to keep the machine gun from going full cyclic. Lee filled the empty air in those brief seconds with bursts from his rifle.

Mitch squatted at Lee’s back. Lee went empty, called his reload, and Mitch leaned out around Lee’s legs and fired down into the swarm.

“I’m up!” Lee shouted, slapping Mitch’s back and pinning his thighs to the operator’s shoulder, firing over top of his head.

The surface of the tower crawled, so many shapes on it that Lee couldn’t see the metal structure itself. A single soldier inside, still alive, still fighting, though he was down to a knife. Lee kept his aim low, afraid of hitting the soldier.

“Getting low!” The door gunner shouted. “Gimme another box!”

Lee fired three more rounds, two of them striking the back of a primal. The creature jerked and turned its snarling face to Lee, as though his bullets had been nothing more than bee stings. It kept climbing.

“Mitch! Get the ammo!”

Lee focused back on the primal that had shrugged off his two hits. Lee held his breath, bore down on his diaphragm, and fired round after round into the thing’s upper chest, pulverizing its vital organs.

It reached for the top of the tower, but missed its grip in dying hands and fell backwards, cartwheeling through the air and taking out two of its pack on the way down.

Two more primals reached the top.

The soldier was backed against a corner now, holding his knife in a fighter’s stance. Lee angled his shots as wide of the soldier as he could, impacting the primal on the far right and slumping it to the floor.

The second primal lunged. The soldier lashed out with his knife, but the creature juked and batted at the weapon, then yoked the soldier up behind the back and the two of them fell out of sight behind the sheet-metal walls.

Lee swore, his red dot jiggling in the air just above where the primal and soldier had fallen. A flash of limbs. One of them human. Then primal. A clawed hand rose up and then slashed downwards.

Should he take the shot?

A detached human arm, clad in tattered Army fatigues, flew out of the hut.

Lee took the shot. He fired the last ten rounds of his magazine straight through the thin sheet-metal, and the struggle on the other side ended. Lee’s stomach turned. The human in him screamed for mercy, but the soldier in him said that it was mercy.

The gunner’s weapon went silent. “Reload!” came the call. The gunner ripped the empty ammo can out of its mount and let it fall overboard. Mitch slammed the new one in, the first round in the links already in hand. Mitch fed the first rounds in and the gunner slapped the breach closed, racked the charging handle, and started firing again.

Lee completed his own reload. Bad timing.

The Blackhawk drifted towards the tower in front of Lee.

The top of the tower swarmed over with sinewy limbs and snapping jaws.

Lee fired a flurry of rounds into the mass of bodies, and yelled at the pilot: “You’re drifting too close! You’re too close!”

The pilot jerked his head to the right, saw where they were, then rapidly corrected.

Lee caught himself on a cargo strap to keep himself from flying out of the bird.

A primal launched itself off the top of the tower. Hit the side of the helo, causing it to rock. It grabbed onto the wall of the Blackhawk at the gunner’s feet. Mitch catapulted himself backwards, landing on his ass, bringing his rifle up between his legs.

The primal seized the gunner by the leg and slung him out of the helicopter. The gunner yelped, trying to hold onto the grips of his M240. The machine gun spun, the hot muzzle slamming Lee in the chest and knocking him backwards.

The gunner slipped and fell, but his safety strap caught him, jerking his screams silent.

The primal got both arms inside of the chopper and heaved itself up.

Mitch fired on full-auto, stitching the creature up through the sternum as it tried to muscle itself aboard. It shrieked, and slipped, then shot its hand out and seized Mitch by the ankle, dragging him towards the edge of the aircraft.

Lee righted himself, swinging a leg out and catching it under the bench seats, then grabbing anything he could reach on Mitch, coming up with a handful of his combat shirt in his left hand. His right hand thrust his rifle out, and fired, obliterating the primal’s face.

It lost its grip on the side of the helicopter, dead, though its muscles didn’t seem to know it—it still held to Mitch, pulling him out. Lee’s body went taut, foot straining to maintain its lock on the bench seat, the cloth of Mitch’s uniform slipping through his hand.

Mitch lurched out and grabbed the base of the copilot’s seat, then kicked his captured leg.

The dead primal’s grip gave, and slipped out of sight.

Lee clambered to his feet. “Pull the gunner up! Morrow! Rudy! Help!”

Lee snatched up the M240 and spun it back around.

The pilot banked the Blackhawk into a left-hand turn. The centrifugal force caused the still-tethered gunner to swing out sideways.

“Pilot!” Lee shouted. “Stabilize! Stabilize! Your gunner’s overboard!”

The pilot glanced behind him, his teeth bared. He leveled the bird out.

Mitch scrambled under Lee’s feet, groping for the safety strap that still held the gunner to the craft. Rudy slid on his knees up behind Mitch and they both hauled on the strap. As the G-forces equalized, they gained a few feet of lead. Morrow came in, snatching up the lead and adding weight to it.

Lee leaned out over the edge, angling the machine gun downwards.

The gunner dangled beneath them, his legs kicking. He was only fifteen feet off the ground, and the primals below leapt at him like bait, their claws coming within inches of his feet.

“Up! Go up!” Lee shouted.

The Blackhawk rose. The force of it strained against Morrow’s grip on the tether, causing him to stumble.

Lee sent one long string of fire straight down into the primals below. The bullets slammed into the crowns of their heads, lancing down through their bodies and laying them out.

Mitch, Morrow, and Rudy got a rhythm to their pulls, and within ten seconds, Lee registered the gunner grappling his way back on board, gasping for breath and letting out a long string of curses.

“Lee!” Carl yelled. Lee turned and saw him pointing towards the large hangar that served as the Moody Safe Zone’s fallback point. “They’re heading for the hangar!”

Two larger columns of primals from the breaches now sprinted for the hangar, but there were smaller packs of them coming from all directions. With the Safe Zone defenses now shattered, they were simply vaulting over the fences.

Lee relinquished the M240 and pulled himself across the cabin towards the cockpit, yelling at the pilot. “Put us right over top of the hangar!” The pilot nodded and the Blackhawk tilted forward, accelerating.

Through the cockpit windows, Lee could see the hangar, dead ahead. Sandbag machine gun nests on the corners, and in the very center of the main wall, close to the open man-door, through which civilians still fought to gain entrance.

The machine gun nests created overlapping fields of fire that raked the two main columns heading for them, but the smaller packs skirted around the clusters of airport structures, flanking the civilians and the few soldiers that guarded them.

The civilians rushed for the single entrance, piling over each other and jamming up the process. There were still at least a hundred outside the structure—men, women, and children, most of them unarmed.

“Put us down on the roof!” Lee ordered the pilot as they came over top of the hangar. “Mitch! Stay with the gunner! Rudy, you’re with me! Carl, take the others and provide overwatch on that entrance!”

The Blackhawk slowed to a hover and dropped altitude until it was just over the roof of the hangar.

Carl, Logan, and Morrow, jumped out of the left door of the helo, heading for the east side of the hangar where the crush of bodies clogged the man-door. Lee and Rudy slipped out the right side, around Mitch and the gunner.

Lee’s feet hit the sheet metal roof with a bang. He pounded up the slight slope towards the top ridge on the south-facing side, where the rear of the crowd of civilians pressed in. A single squad of soldiers ringed them, their weapons out, chattering sporadically. They’d lost control of the civilians and now just tried to keep the primals back long enough to get everyone inside.

Lee went to one knee at the top of the ridge, Rudy to his left. He sweapt his muzzle across the field of fire and identified two packs, about five or six primals each, skirting around the buildings to the south.

He pointed. “There. See those packs?”

Rudy’s hound dog face scrunched up as he looked over the top of his sights. “Yeah, I got ‘em.”

Lee dropped himself into a prone position. The heat of the roof seeped through his clothes, burning his thighs and elbows. “You work the pack on the left, I’ll work the one on the right. How’s your ammo?”

Rudy took a quick count as he lowered himself to the roof. “Four mags left.”

Lee mushed his cheek to the buttstock of his rifle. Dialed the red dot down a few clicks so it was only just visible. His pack slipped between buildings, roughly 700 yards out. Too far for an effective shot with his 5.56 mm rifle. But they were closing fast.

Lee had less than thirty seconds, but it was time he could use. He pivoted to his left, crossing over Rudy’s muzzle, and took aim at three primals hauling across the airfield, well within shooting distance. He led the first, his red dot high and left of the loping creature, and fired.

The round struck the dirt, low and behind.

Lee swore under his breath, adjusted his hold, and fired again. Closer, but still no hit. He tracked his rounds, firing until he scored a pink mist off the lead primal. It jerked but kept running. Lee let loose, knowing his hold for sure now and sending rounds as rapidly as he could stabilize his sight picture. Ten rounds. Six misses. But four hit home, and the last one brought it down into a twitching mass.

Time’s up, Lee pivoted back around.

Rudy’s rifle cracked, the muzzle brake sending the concussive soundwave straight into the side of Lee’s face like a slap. “Goddamn, these things are hard to take down!” Rudy growled, firing another shot.

Lee focused past the hot brass striking his neck and sighted on his own pack, now less than five hundred yards out. A stretch for his rifle, but not impossible. He ranged them with a few test shots and then fired a steady stream, taking out the leader, before his bolt locked back.

Lee called out his reload and swapped mags, and then came back into his sights. Three hundred yards now.

On the east side of the building, a scream went up, hundreds of people crying out at once.

“Stay focused!” Lee shouted.

The pack entered a section of woods to the southwest of Lee. He lost visual on them. His heart slammed against the hot roof, his teeth gritted. He searched the woods for movement.

Beside him, Rudy fired faster and faster, his shots more sure as the distance closed, calling out when he downed one, then two, then three.

There. Coming out of the trees into a clearing, a hundred yards.

They ran straight at him. Lee pumped five rounds into the first, dropping it, then shifted to the next. Three rounds and a lucky shot to the head that knocked it back on its ass. They closed within fifty yards, coming onto the pavement of the parking lot around the hangar. His rounds ate sternums and necks and faces, taking out two more. The soldiers below caught sight of the incoming packs and fired on them, taking out the last two in Lee’s pack.

The comms in Lee’s ear chirped. Carl’s voice: “Lee! They’re in the building!”

Lee bared his teeth, scanning to Rudy’s pack, but they were all down in a string of bodies dotting the pavement. He thrust himself to his feet and slapped Rudy on the shoulder. “We gotta move!”

Without telling Rudy what he intended, Lee sprinted down the roof to the southwest corner, identifying a gutter and a downspout. God help him if it didn’t hold together—they were thirty feet up—but there wasn’t another way off the roof and the helicopter hovered out in the middle of the airfield, the machine gun chewing through the backs of the primals now slashing their way into the hangar.

“Cover me!” Lee shouted.

“You fucking insane?” Rudy came back. “That shit ain’t gonna hold you!”

Lee didn’t even reply. He could’ve asked if Rudy had a better idea, but there wasn’t time, and if Rudy had the better idea, he would’ve already said so. Lee slung his rifle, then got on hands and knees and went over.

Swearing a blue streak, Rudy posted on the corner, covering Lee’s descent.

Lee clutched the downspout and slid down it like a fireman’s pole. The gutter creaked and groaned, the thin metal bands straining at the siding. He was halfway down. He stopped, his palms burning from the friction, his boots slipping around with no holds.

Shit, this was a bad idea.

But halfway down is halfway there. Nothing to do but go all the way.

One of the bands yanked out as Lee passed over it, slicing the side of his left hand open. Blood slicked his palm, slipping up his grip. He let out a single “Shit!” before sliding down the rest of the way at an uncontrolled speed. His boots hit pavement, followed by his ass, his back, and his head.

Lee rolled, dazed from the blow to his skull, a dull ringing taking over his ears. “I’m good!” he called out, pushing himself back to his feet and swinging his rifle into his grip again. His feet staggered, the ground feeling unstable beneath him. He planted his back against the side of the building to keep himself from falling.

“Coming down!” Rudy yelled at him.

Lee brought his rifle up, blinking to tamp down the dizziness. He’d foregone a helmet—unneeded weight, and not much use against primals, but it would have saved him a crack in the cranium. He scanned from right to left as the sounds of Rudy struggling down the pipe reached him.

The crowd of civilians had begun to scatter in a panic.

A man slammed into Lee, his eyes wide and his mouth stretched open, his hands grabbing at Lee and his rifle. “They’re inside! They’re killing everyone! You have to help them!”

Lee grunted and elbowed the man back to get some distance then muzzle thumped him in the chest. “Get the fuck back!” The man staggered, looking shocked, but then started running again.

Lee brought the rifle back up. Woods. Buildings. The flashing of people’s terrified faces. Gunshots pounding from within the hangar, like a giant metal drum being struck. He felt the vibration in his back and hoped none of those rounds would come his direction—the thin sheet metal wouldn’t stop them.

He stopped his scan, facing out into the airfield.

What was that?

There, far beyond the main tarmac, standing in the middle of the grassy field, stood a form. Erect, but not human. Passingly female, but too contorted and muscled. A primal. Standing and watching.

Rudy hit the ground, cursing, and managing not to spill himself like Lee had.

“Hey!” Lee called out over the screaming people as they ran. He pointed. “You see that one?”

Rudy squinted. “Too far. It’s out of range.”

Movement to the left of that primal caught Lee’s eye. Another one. Again, female. It approached on all fours, and then stood up, perhaps fifty yards from the first. It too seemed to only watch.

“Come on,” Rudy said, slapping Lee’s shoulder.

They moved towards the corner, against the flow of civilians that was now a trickle of stragglers. The gunshots inside were more sporadic now. Did that mean that the primals inside had been taken out? Or had the soldiers?

The Blackhawk thundered above them, the downdraft kicking up dust and forcing Lee to squint. It sidled up close to the hangar, then passed out of view.

Lee’s gaze shot back to the airfield as he neared the corner. More than just the two female primals now. There were several of them, scattered along the far perimeter.

Lee stopped at the corner, preparing to take it when Rudy gave him the go ahead.

A sound reached his ears, jerking his attention back to the airfield. It was a high, keening howl, just audible over the rumble of the Blackhawk rotors.

The female primals stood, their heads tilted back, faces to the sky, crying out as one.

Everything shifted.

A torrent of shapes poured into view. Naked, sinuous flesh, flooding out of the hangar, each shape carrying or dragging a clothed figure, whose limbs hung loose. People, being hauled away, all of them screaming.

All of them women.

Lee’s eyes went wide, his brain overwhelmed with targets, the distance growing as the primals sprinted full tilt for the breaches in the fence. The hostages they carried made every single shot a dilemma.

Lee could do nothing except compartmentalize the enormity of it, and take each small task on its own.

He sighted.

A massive primal, dragging a woman by her dislocated shoulder. Twenty yards. Easy shot. Lee put the red dot on the back of its head and toppled it with a single shot.

“Don’t let them get away!” Lee shouted to Rudy, and to anyone else that had a gun and might be able to hear him. And then he chose the next target. The hostage now draped over the primal’s shoulder. Lee steadied himself and pegged the primal high in the back, hammering that spot until the creature staggered and slumped to the ground.

Was anyone else shooting at them? Lee couldn’t tell. He’d blocked out everything. The world around him was just a dull roar of gray noise.

Another target. This one farther away. The primal turned at the wrong moment, and Lee’s rounds struck the woman in the face. Lee had to move on, his stomach unable to wrench any tighter than it already was.

Everything shrank down to terrified faces, shrieking for help in words that Lee could not hear or understand. His only thought was to put the rounds as far away from those faces while still being effective. He could not think of them as humans. He relegated it all to a problem to be solved. A simple firing solution required. Cold. Clinical. Detached.

Lee only registered that Rudy was by his side when he called out his reload, followed by “Last mag!”

Another problem. Another solution. The bodies hit the dirt, both the living, and the dead, in a mass of crawling flesh and twisting limbs. The ground near to the hangar was choked with bodies now. The women smashed in there with the primals, unable to move under their own power. More primals emerged from the hangar—too many to count—and they trampled heedless across this carpet of bodies.

Lee’s bolt clunked back into the buttstock. He felt it against his jaw. Knew what it meant. His hands swept down to his chest rig, but found only empty mag pouches. He dropped the rifle, letting the sling carry it away, and drew his pistol.

“Moving!” he shouted.

He thrust himself out into the tide of bodies. Someone yelled his name. It didn’t matter. Everything became snippets of vision, the seamless roll of sight becoming a series of horrific snapshots.

He wrenched a woman free, causing her body to drop from the primal’s shoulder. The beast spun, snarling, and Lee put a 9mm round through its face. He staggered, tangled limbs tripping him up. Whirled towards the hangar. Another primal, scrabbling towards him, no woman in its grip, so Lee fired at its head, point blank. It crashed into Lee, nearly bowling him over. A final shot to the back of the head.

No more primals coming out of the hangar. The man-door stood, black and empty and gaping.

Lee spun around, and began running. The slung rifle battered at his thighs. The primals were fast, but they were burdened. Lee closed the gap, his only perception that of angles—where to tilt the direction of the round so that it went through the primal and not the human.

Contact shots. Thinking, Don’t press the muzzle—that’ll make it slip out of battery.

He grappled onto the back of a primal, his left hand gripping the woman’s clothing. Pistol against the base of the primal’s skull, angled up. A single shot. They all fell in a heap.

Lee thrust himself up. Kept running. Tarmac under his feet now.

A primal saw him coming and lashed out with a clawed hand. Lee tried to pull up short but the talons raked across the front of his chest plate. He thrust his arm out, feeding the pistol straight into the primal’s mouth and shattered its spine. The bullet penetrated and skidded across the hostage’s back.

He clambered over the bodies even as they crumpled.

He couldn’t reach the next. He fired at its legs. Five rounds, two striking dirt, three stitching across its thighs. It wobbled, crashing to its knees. Lee stood up straight, the pistol in a two-handed grip, and punched the base of the primal’s spine out with three rounds, right at the pelvis. The primal might not be dead, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

He kept moving.

The incapacitated primal slashed at him, snapping its teeth. Lee put it down.

His slide locked back. He reloaded. One pistol mag left.

Tarmac turned to grass under his pounding boots.

The last of the escaping primals was more than twenty yards ahead of him. He put everything he had into chasing them, but he had already sprinted two hundred yards. His breathing was ragged. His muscles burned, stiffening up. He willed them to keep churning, and they did, but he was no longer gaining ground on the primals.

He wasn’t going to catch them. He couldn’t contact shoot them.

He stamped to a halt, gasping for air. The decision slammed into him like a tackle to the brain. Better that they catch a round from me than that they get eaten alive out there.

He raised the pistol, falling into a stable stance. He shot for legs and hips, as fast as he could control the recoil. Two primals downed, and then he ran dry. He slammed in his last magazine.

They were forty yards away now. Lee adjusted his hold. Fired slower.

Five rounds. Another primal.

Six rounds, another.

The last six rounds had no effect.

Empty.

Lee threw himself into motion again, his legs like unwieldy rubber columns that he could only stamp away on the ground. Slide forward. Holster. He ripped his fixed blade from its sheath next to his empty mag pouches.

The first primal dragged itself towards him, its claws wrenching up dirt, its captive forgotten in the grass beside it. Lee punted, the arch of his foot cracking against the primal’s teeth. The primal rolled, growling, blood flying from its gaping mouth. Lee fell on its neck. The power of the creature bucked against him—even half-conscious it was dangerous. He rammed the blade into the thing’s temple, getting the first two inches of steel in with the first stroke and then hammering it with his palm until it was embedded to the grip. The body went rigid beneath him, then slackened.

Rudy was there with him. Rifle down. Pistol up. “You good?”

Lee didn’t reply. He wrenched at the knife, stuck hard in the bone. He had to work it back and forth to get it free.

Rudy hauled him up to his feet.

Lee pointed to the left. “Get those!” He angled to the right.

This primal had only one wounded leg, but seemed determined to get away, rather than attack. Lee leapt onto its back, meaning to yoke his left arm around its neck, but his forearm fell into its jaw instead, and he felt the immense pressure of its teeth as they clamped down on him, the bite going through sleeve and muscle and straight to the bone. Lee screamed, but held fast and plunged the knife between the vertebrae at the bottom of the skull.

He hit the ground, his arm pinned. The impact ripped the teeth along his arm. He felt his skin tear. Felt the teeth grind against his bones. The pain ripped the air out of him until he had no voice left.

He cut manically at the thing’s clenched jaw muscles until its death hold on him loosened, and then pried his arm out.

Lee staggered to his feet, clutching at his left arm. The fabric of his sleeve was already dark with blood, wet with saliva. Severed muscles squirmed. Lee’s wrist was bent, and uncooperative, but his fingers still worked. The bite hadn’t torn his tendons.

The Blackhawk ripped over his head.

Lee looked up and saw Carl and his team hanging out the doors, firing down into the fleeing primals, choosing their shots as the helicopter pursued.

Hissing air through teeth clenched against the pain, Lee cast his gaze up and down the ruined fenceline, searching for a target. A steady pop-pop-pop from his left told him Rudy was doing what he could, but there was nothing left for Lee. The breaches in the fence now hung lifelessly, the earth around them dotted with corpses.

There’s nothing else you can do, Lee told himself.

He felt blood dribbling off his fingertips. A steady stream.

He sheathed his knife. Ripped his tourniquet out and snapped it open. Slid the loop up his left arm and then wrenched the strap down as tight as he could, just above his bicep. He bared down on the pain, and began cranking the windlass.

Carl’s voice in his ear: “We’re out of ammo—completely dry. We’re coming back to the hangar. Lee, Rudy, you guys copy?”

Rudy jogged up to him, his pistol still in hand. Not empty, Lee noted. “Yeah, we copy,” Rudy stated over the comms. “Jesus, Lee. You alright?”

Lee held his left arm up. The pain of the tourniquet was nearly as bad as the wound itself. But the bleeding had slowed. “Sure,” was all Lee said.

Rudy put a hand on Lee’s shoulder, to steady him, and to give him something of a grounding rod for the fear and energy coursing through him. “You’re a beast,” Rudy murmured, turning them around to face the hangar. “You got this.”

All around them, hell had broken open. The cries. The screams for help. The wails of pain, of loss. Unclothed shapes, motionless in the grass, and all along them, like a river leading back to the hangar, the women writhing on useless, broken limbs.

The destruction caught Lee’s breath in his chest for a moment. He coughed against it and forced his lungs to follow his instructions. Distant feelings of desperation, and guilt, and anger—bumping up against him like a dangerous thing caught in a cellar. But Lee had long ago padlocked that cellar. Reinforced the door. He’d go down there and let it tear him apart, but not right now. Right now it had to stay where it was.

Lee keyed his comms. “Carl,” his voice shook, and he tightened his core to steady it. “Go to the hangar, grab whatever ammo you can find, and clear the structure. Anyone you find that can carry weight, send them to the airfield to start gathering the wounded.”

“I copy, Lee,” Carl responded. “We’re on the way.”

Lee went to the woman nearest to him. Rudy started to follow, but Lee shook his head. “I can handle it. Go help someone else.”

The woman was barely a woman at all. A girl in her teens. She lay on her side, her broken limbs sprawled about her, her eyes clenched shut. Tears streamed out of them. Her mouth was wide open. Gummy spit spiraled out with each rattling breath, but she didn’t speak and didn’t cry out.

Lee knelt. “Ma’am.”

She jerked, but didn’t open her eyes. Too afraid to look. Too afraid to see everything around them.

Lee reached out with his blood-stained right hand and placed it on her head. “My name is Lee. You’re safe now. I’m going to pick you up and take you to someone who can help you. Can you hear me?”

She was trapped in a world of her own pain. Nothing changed in her expression. No relief, no ragged joy at being rescued. She merely nodded once.

Lee doffed his empty rifle, and then his armor, working gingerly around his wounded arm to free up some weight. He squatted behind her and snaked his good arm under her armpit and around her chest. “This is going to hurt you, but I have to do it to carry you, okay?”

She didn’t respond.

Lee rolled her into a sitting position and then hefted her up. She cried out, but never told him to stop. He managed to hoist her up, and then get his right shoulder under her. Then he powered his way out of his squat, his muscles screaming for mercy, but there was none to give them. The girl on his shoulder sobbed with every motion he made.

He pointed himself towards the hangar, and put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, that was all you could do.

TWENTY-FOUR

─▬▬▬─

SAVANNAH

Interstate 95 was a mess.

Billings’s squad took the lead in navigating them around the many obstructions. There were open sections of road that enabled them to get up to speed and put some miles in, but they were few and far between. Sections of it were clogged with old traffic jams and accidents, spanning from shoulder to shoulder. Recent rains had made the ground around the pavement soupy, but the Humvees handled these sections as they were designed, only once requiring Chris to rock the vehicle back and forth to free it from the mud.

Entire sections of the roadway had been washed away by years of flooding and no road crews to fix the accumulating damage. It was in one of these sections that they found their first clue to the needle in the haystack that they sought.

They had just entered the swamplands around Savannah, Georgia, when Billings leaned forward in his seat. “Slow up. Check this out.”

Ahead of them, a good hundred yards of the pavement was simply gone without a trace. It must’ve happened recently, because the river of dirt beneath the vanished section of interstate had not sprouted any growth. A series of deep tire tracks ran through the mud, their edges washed out and undefined, but still evident.

And right in the middle of this swampy mess, buried to the top of the wheel wells, was a big yellow school bus. The side read COLLETON COUNTY PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

“That’s them,” Billings said, a note of excitement in his voice. “Colleton County. That’s Walterboro, isn’t it?”

Chris shrugged. “Hell if I know, Sarge. You’re the one with the map.”

“Nah, that’s them,” Billings said. “Let’s check it on foot first.”

Chris put the truck in neutral and engaged the e-brake.

“Kosher Dill,” Billings called, kicking his door open. “Stay up in the turret and cover us.”

“Roger that,” Pickell said with his usual good cheer.

Sam stepped out of his door, scanning the woods to either side. Standing water glistened in the afternoon sun between the trees. He wondered if the primals even hunted the swamplands around them, or if they preferred to keep their feet dry. It made sense that they would stick to dry land, but then again, they constantly surprised Sam, so he thought it best not to let his guard down.

Never let your guard down.

Billings waved at the two Humvees of half-boots behind them, motioning for them to stay put while his squad checked out the school bus.

Billings took point, stepping off the concrete and into the muck. His boots sank to the ankles. “Goddamn, this is sloppy. Watch your steps and don’t get stuck.”

Jones regarded the depth of the mud as he sloughed through it. “Fuck, man. Even Humvees might have trouble with this shit.”

Billings motioned to the old tire tracks running through it. “Whoever got out of the Charleston Safe Zone made it through. Mostly. I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“Just make the half-boots push us,” Jones said. “They gotta be good for something.”

The four of them picked their way through the mud towards the stuck school bus. The doors on it hung open, both the side door and the rear emergency hatch. Sam could spy things inside, but nothing living, he thought. Just stuff. Baggage.

Billings approached the rear emergency hatch and eyed the interior. “Yo! Sergeant Billings from Butler Safe Zone! Anyone here?”

Silence answered. Birds chirped in the nearby trees. A background buzz of insect activity.

Billings slung his rifle, placing his hands on the bumper of the bus, which stood about chest height, and muscled his way aboard, dragging his boots out of the sucking mud with a loud squelch. He clambered up, scattering clods of dirt everywhere.

Sam, Jones, and Chris remained outside, scanning their environment, and then peeking inside the bus at their sergeant. Billings walked down the center aisle, inspecting each row of seats, and stepping over obstacles—here a green seabag, there a large camping backpack.

He made it to the driver’s seat, and then turned around and started back. “Looks like they took the people on board, but didn’t have room for their baggage. All this shit looks like personal effects that people threw together for the evac.”

He didn’t seem disheartened by in. He looked eager. Glad to be on the right trail.

“They definitely came through here, though,” Billings said, sitting down on his butt and then sliding out of the rear hatch and back into the mud. “We keep following this road, we’ll find where they went.”

Their three Humvees made it through without incident, and the convoy continued on down I-95. They passed through the destruction of Savannah. Sam stared out his window at it, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in shock.

“The fuck happened here?” Sam asked.

Billings stared out the driver’s side at the ruined cityscape. They’d all seen the abandoned remains of cities—such a thing was nothing new—but Sam had never seen an American city that looked like a war had ravaged it. Savannah hadn’t just been abandoned. It had been reduced to rubble. Blackened hulls of buildings. Cratered streets. All of it overgrown with years’ worth of nature’s gradual, unending takeover of every place man was not. Pine trees grew tall out of the bellies of buildings, and from sidewalks. Even stands of hardwood saplings around the edges, marking out a clear timeline of nature’s growth.

“Fuck if I know,” Billings said as they passed through. “Never heard about it. Looks like it got the shit bombed out of it. Or shelled.”

“Damn, son,” Jones marveled. “I wonder what maniac pulled the trigger on that.”

“Maybe it was a total loss,” Chris suggested. “No people left in it. Just infected.”

Jones shook his head. “You’re describing ninety-percent of the cities after the fall. Savannah got some special love.”

The absolute desolation continued until they exited the south side of Savannah, and here it began to look more like what Sam had come to expect from abandoned cities. Houses and neighborhoods and strip malls and gas stations, all falling apart, but not from a sudden pounding—just the usual decay of unending entropy.

As they passed exit signs for the town of Richmond Hill, Pickell called down from the turret: “Roadblock, Sarge! You see it?”

Chris braked, even as Billings touched his shoulder and told him to slow up.

What Pickell had spotted became apparent to the rest of them. A mish-mash of civilian and military vehicles clogged the southbound lane, all facing the same direction. They were parked close together, but had left a narrow section of the left shoulder that looked wide enough for the Humvees to get through.

“Not a very good roadblock,” Billings observed.

“That might be our people,” Sam said. “It looks like the right types of vehicles.”

The roadblock was about a half-mile out, at the crest of an overpass. Chris pulled their Humvee to a stop, and the two other squads halted behind them. Billings drew out his binoculars and took a moment to inspect it.

“I don’t see anybody,” he said after a moment. “But it looks like there’s a sign. I can’t quite read it.” He lowered the binoculars. Keyed his radio. “Guys, we got a roadblock dead ahead. We’re going to approach it, nice and slow. These might be our folks from Charleston, but stay frosty anyways.”

Chris rolled them forward again at a cautious thirty-miles-an-hour. As the distance between them and the cluster of vehicles shrunk, Sam saw the sign that Billings had mentioned. It was a piece of weathered plywood, propped up against the back of a gray pickup. Across its surface, Sam saw neon orange spray paint, scrawled in jerky capital letters.

As they drew within fifty yards of the sign, the words became clear.

SURVIVORS – 58

QUALITY INN

---------------->

The “58” had been crossed out with a single slash of orange, and replaced with “35.”

Billings shifted in his seat. “That’s them. That’s gotta be them.”

Jones peered over the top of his rifle. “Look, Sarge. Quality Inn, right there. You see the sign?”

“Yeah, I see it.” Billings keyed his radio. “Hey, these are our people. Keep your attention three-sixty, but watch that Quality Inn to our right. They might be hinked up, so let’s do our best not to draw fire, y’all copy?”

Releasing his radio, Billings pointed Chris towards the narrow path on the left shoulder. “Ease us on through there.”

The three squads trundled through the gap. Sam tried to keep his attention out the passenger side, but there wasn’t anything to see there. His gaze drifted to the cluster of vehicles as they passed them. All empty. No one hiding amongst them.

They reached the other side, right at the top of the overpass, and Chris pulled their Humvee close to the concrete wall. Over the top of it, they could see the Quality Inn, right there off the exit, along with a dubious-sounding restaurant.

“Snazzy’s Hot Wings and Sassy Things,” Jones read aloud. “Well, that sounds delicious. I could go for some sassy things.”

“Stop here,” Billings instructed.

The Humvee rocked to a halt. Billings kicked his door open, and Sam and Jones followed without having to be asked. The three of them clustered along the wall, hunkering low out of habit, so that only their heads peeked over.

“I don’t see anyone,” Sam said.

“Me neither,” Jones agreed.

Billings raised his binoculars to his eyes again, propping the objective lens on the top of the concrete wall. He remained silent for a good long moment, then snapped his fingers behind him. “Chris, hit the horn a few times.”

Chris obediently honked the horn.

The blast of high-pitched sound made Sam jump, even though he knew it was coming. He glanced around him, as though expecting a horde of primals to appear at a full sprint.

“I got movement!” Billings called out. “The roof. You see ‘em on the roof?”

Jones looked and then ducked lower. “Yeah, I see ‘em pointing fuckin’ guns at us!”

Billings hunched lower too, but kept his eyes up. Sam put his back to the concrete wall and peered over. He could just make out movement on the roof. What looked like two people, aiming rifles at them from around one of the massive air conditioning units.

Billings raised an arm high over his head and waved it back and forth a few times. Then he yelled, loud and clear: “United Eastern States! Butler Safe Zone! Friendly! Friendly!”

The response of the people on the roof was desperate in its immediacy. By the time Billings had issued the second “friendly,” they’d stood up, their rifles ported, waving back. A woman’s voice lilted across to them: “United Eastern States! Charleston Safe Zone! Friendly!”

Billings stood up, exchanging another wave with the survivors on the roof. He grinned. “Chris! Get on the satphone and tell Butler we found them!”

***

The first thing Sam noticed as they stepped out of the Humvee at the front of the Quality Inn was how skinny the woman was. She was tall, and built slender already, but her cheekbones stood out with dark hollows beneath, and her pants hung loose on her hips. It was obvious that food had been scarce.

That didn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm. She approached, trailing a group of men with broad grins on their faces that looked just as emaciated as she did. Jones was the first that she came to and, rather than a cordial handshake, she threw him into a hug.

“Oh,” Jones said, hugging her back and giving her a pat. “Hey. How’s it going?”

She had her eyes closed, gripping Jones tightly. When she released, she opened her eyes and they were red, a few tears slipping out. She mashed them away with a dirty thumb and sniffed. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you guys!”

Billings approached with his hand out, but he too received a strong embrace instead. “Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Billings,” he said, while she still clung to him. “We’re glad we found you guys.”

“I’m Kate,” She announced, then pulled back, and the look of relief tempered into wild curiosity. “How long have you been looking for us? Have you found anyone else? What’s going on out there? We’ve been out of touch.”

Billings nodded. “Up until this morning, we didn’t even know Charleston had been overrun. It took us a while…there’s been some things going on around the UES. I don’t know how much of it you’re aware of.”

She stared blankly at him, clearly not aware of anything beyond the bounds of her own survival for the last month.

“The Lincolnists,” Billings started.

The woman swore, already piecing together what came next. “What’d they do?”

“They hit us in Fort Bragg. Took down the perimeter fences. The primals attacked, and we were forced to evacuate Fort Bragg to Butler. The people in charge thought that Charleston had gone dark because they were sympathetic with the Lincolnists and Greeley. When we finally had our feet under us, they sent me and my squad to make contact with Charleston. And that’s when we saw what had happened.”

Kate shook her head, her lips screwed into a sneer. “I can’t believe those bastards. And no, Charleston wasn’t sympathetic to Greeley! We had maybe ten people that claimed to be Lincolnists, and they weren’t welcome on any of the evac vehicles when we left. I don’t know where the hell they ran off to, or if they’re dead, but they sure as shit aren’t with us.”

Billings nodded. “Ma’am, I want to get the full story from you. But first, how many people are with you now? I saw the number on the sign. Is that still the case?”

Kate’s face twitched. “No. There are thirty-two of us now. We, uh…” She blinked rapidly. “We lost a couple kids. Flu, I think. But we just…” Her eyes teared again. She shook her head. “There’s thirty-two of us now.”

Billings reached out and touched her on the shoulder, then turned and waved to the two squads of half-boots. They exited their vehicles and approached, Doc Trent in the midst of them.

“Kate, this is Doc Trent, he’s a physician. You got anyone else that needs medical attention?”

Kate drew herself up and, more in control of her emotions now, shook hands with Doc Trent and pointed to the hotel behind them. “Yeah. We do. Anything you can do to help would be great.” She started walking for the entrance of the hotel. “Sergeant Billings, I know you probably don’t have much to offer us, but any food and water that you might have to spare would go a long way with some of our weaker members.”

Billings cast a cautious glance behind him at Sam.

Sam and Jones both pulled up short, making a simultaneous decision.

Sam hiked a thumb back behind him. “I’ve got some extra,” Sam said. “Let me grab it real quick.”

“Yeah,” Jones said. “Me too.”

Billings nodded. “Just grab it all.”

He didn’t go on to say it, but Sam knew the calculations his sergeant must be doing. They didn’t have much food to spare, but they were healthy and hydrated. They had a lot more time on their clocks than these people. They could afford to go hungry for a few days.

As they turned back to the vehicles, Sam held up a hand, stopping the two squads of half-boots. He lowered his voice. “Go grab up all the food and water you got. Keep one day’s rations for each of your men, and bring the rest inside.”

One of the half-boot squad leaders screwed up his face. “We don’t know how long we’re gonna be out here, man. We starve ourselves, that’s going to decrease our operational effectiveness.”

The sudden flash of rage that Sam felt was a surprise even to himself. Before he could restrain himself he jolted an arm out and punched the squad leader in the chest—a harmless blow against his armor that hurt Sam’s knuckles more than it did him, but it sent the message nice and quick.

“Operational fucking effectiveness?” Sam seethed. “Pull your head out of your ass! These people are starving to death. You can afford to skip a few meals.”

The squad leader bucked up against him. “You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a fucking corporal! I outrank you!”

“Yeah?” Sam went nose-to-nose with him. “Well those are Sarge’s orders, so you can go fuck yourself, corporal.”

The corporal bared his teeth at Sam. “I know you, Ryder. You’re just a half-boot like the rest of us.”

Jones elbowed his way in, thrusting a knife-hand into the corporal’s face, giving about as much of a shit about rank as Sam did. “Hey, asswipe, Ryder’s been out here snapping necks with the real soldiers since Fort Bragg. The fuck have you been doing? Walking a fenceline and cornholing your buddies in your offtime?”

Before the corporal could respond, Sam bolstered up again, shoulder-to-shoulder with Jones, while the other half-boots shrank back, like kids watching their parents argue. “You wanna report me for insubordination when we get back to Butler? You go right ahead. Hamrick would love to string me up on charges. But right now you’re gonna get that food like Sergeant Billings ordered, or me and Jonesy are going to beat the fucking wheels off you in front of your boys. I swear to God I will. Try me, motherfucker.”

Jones nodded, his eyes locked onto the corporal.

The corporal cast a glance behind him at his squad, who didn’t exactly look rarin’ to go for a fight. He had no backup there.

“Yo!” Billings hollered, leaning out of the open front doors of the hotel.

All eyes turned to him.

He glared at them, then tapped his wrist. “Time’s wasting!”

The corporal—his hand-stitched nametape read “RYAN”—brought his glare back to Sam. “Well. Sergeant’s orders. Watch yourself, Private Ryder.”

“Or what?” Sam snapped. “You gonna shoot me or just tattle to Daddy Hamrick?” Sam pointed to the Humvees. “Go get the fucking food.” He spat at Ryan’s feet.

The corporal bristled, his face tense and offended. But he turned away and bitched under his breath as he walked to the back of his Humvee.

Jones let out a low whistle as they popped the fastback of their own truck. “Damn, Ryder. You sure know how to make friends.”

Sam’s hands trembled as he reached inside and started rifling through their packs. “You’re all the friends I need, Jonesy. Fuck that guy.”

Jones sniggered. “Yeah, definitely fuck him. But hey, you know…watch your back around him. There ain’t exactly laws and oversight out here.”

Sam emptied his pack, so pissed that he chose not to even keep a day’s ration for himself. He felt in that moment like his anger would sustain him, and the thought of keeping any food for himself, as he’d ordered the others to do, turned his stomach. “He can go right ahead and try something. Be a goddamned dream come true.”

“So salty.” Jones shook his head, but he still smiled. “When’d you get so salty, Ryder?”

Sam didn’t answer that question, but what he thought was, Right around the time a primal yanked Loudermouth’s head off. That might’ve been it.

Or maybe it had been when Charlie used him like a plaything to subvert the UES.

Or maybe it had been when Hamrick and Carl wouldn’t listen, and sent the Hunter Killers back into Augusta.

Or maybe it had been even farther back than that. Maybe it had been when he’d been hiding under a stump, clinging to the pistol Lee Harden had given him, and cursing himself for a coward.

There were no Meals-Ready-to-Eat around here. Soldier’s rations were a mishmash of whatever was available and would keep in the back of a Humvee. A lot of hardtack biscuits, bags of grits, salted pork, and jerky. Water was the only nod to modernity, as it was still packaged in bottles—big one-liters, all scuffed up on the sides from years of constant re-use. One of those bottles was the only thing that Sam kept for himself, because dehydration was a bitch, and set in quick. There were also two, blue cubes of water, eight gallons a piece, one half-empty, the other still full.

Laden with a seabag of rations and a water cube a piece, Sam and Jones departed their Humvee for the hotel. Sam cast a glance over his shoulder and found Corporal Ryan staring balefully at him. He held the other man’s gaze until the corporal looked away, his lips moving with words that Sam was sure were not flattering.

They found Billings, along with Pickell and Chris, in the lobby with Kate and the rest of the survivors. Kate was speaking as they approached.

“All the rooms are on electronic locks,” she said. “We couldn’t get them open, so we just camped out here.” She shook her head. “Kind of ironic to be sleeping on floors and shitty couches, with hundreds of nice beds above our heads that we can’t get to.”

“You did what you had to do,” Billings replied, looking about the gathered survivors. They all looked terrible, and yet their faces were alight with hope, genuine smiles splitting across gaunt faces, sunken eyes sparkling.

Doc Trent was off to the side of the lobby where it looked like a sort of sick bay had been thrown together, using the lobby furniture as beds, along with a few blankets and some pillows that they must have raided from the hotel supply room. He had his medical pack out and his stethoscope in his ears, speaking to a small boy who looked feverish and out of it.

Sam and Jones dropped the supplies at Kate’s feet, and she beckoned two of her guys over. “Y’all know who needs it. Start with the youngest first and check with Doctor Trent on who can handle some solid food.” She turned to Sam and Jones. “Thank you. I can’t…” her voice tightened.

Sam shook his head. “It’s no problem, ma’am. That’s what we’re here for.”

As the half-boot squads filed in and deposited their offerings on the floor, Billings took stock of his soldiers. “Corporal Ryan,” he said, his eyes stern, having sensed the friction that occurred outside. “You and your squad take up security in the parking lot.” He turned to the other squad leader. “Corporal Healy, go up top and set up on the roof. Kate, can one of your guys show them the way?”

One of the men raised his hand. “I got it, Kate. Y’all can follow me.”

As the squads departed for their duties—Corporal Ryan with one more lingering, hostile gaze cast in Sam’s direction—Billings sidled up to Sam and nodded at the retreating squad leader. “Everything cool?”

Sam nodded, forcing a smile. “Everything’s golden, Sarge. Just a brief misunderstanding.”

Billings searched Sam’s face for a moment, then shrugged. He turned back to Kate. “Ma’am, you got a place where we can talk? I’d like to hear what happened. I doubt the details will be pleasant.” He motioned to the survivors gathered around, his implication clear: No one wanted to relive the narrative of what had brought them to this place. Let them hang on to their feelings of positivity for a little while longer.

Kate nodded and pointed to the other side of the lobby. “The office. We can meet in there.”

TWENTY-FIVE

─▬▬▬─

NATURE

Billings followed Kate as she headed for the reception counter and the office behind it. “Pickell, Chris, stay with Doc Trent. Ryder. Jones. You’re with me.”

Sam was somewhat surprised, like a kid that’s been allowed to graduate to the adult’s table. He nodded and followed them into the office.

It was a smallish space, but they were able to fit all four of them without crowding each other too much. Kate closed the door behind them, her face already grim as her mind cast itself back to the previous weeks.

Compared to the stink of the huddled humanity in the lobby, the office wasn’t bad, though Sam still registered the smell of his and his squad’s body odors, along with a different smell that he could only assume was Kate, whom he wasn’t accustomed to.

Kate leaned back against the desk in the room, an old, dark computer sitting on it. She crossed her thin arms over her thin chest. The muscles in her forearms were distinct, like someone that had spent their life in manual labor.

“How bad was it?” Kate asked, her eyes coming up to Billings’s. “The Safe Zone, I mean.”

Billings regarded her for a moment, then shook his head. “Not much left, Kate. We found one kid. A boy. His name was Braden.”

“Not sure I know him. Might recognize him by face. He was alive?”

Billings nodded. “Alive. But injured.” He seemed to consider his words for a moment, and Sam could almost feel his tension at not being able to find an adequate way to describe what they’d witnessed. In the end, Billings went with the cold, unvarnished truth. “The primals, we’ve witnessed them taking live captives. They incapacitate them by breaking their arms and legs so they can’t move. Then they store them. We assume they’re storing them for later. For…uh…food.”

Kate’s eyes were hollow as she stared at Billings. Not even a ripple of horror in them. It gave Sam the impression that she already suspected this. “Was that how you found Braden?”

Billings nodded again. “There was a warehouse in the center of the Safe Zone. It had a lot of incapacitated bodies. Braden was the only live one we found.”

“Christ,” Kate whispered. “They must’ve been there for weeks.”

“That’s what we figured as well.” Billings adjusted the strap of his rifle. “All the bodies in that warehouse…they were all men.” Billings looked pointedly at Kate. “I can’t help but noticing, ma’am, that you’re the only woman here. Is that the case?”

Kate blinked a few times, a skim of tears appearing at the bottoms of her eyes, but she didn’t let them spill over. “One of the trucks ran out of gas,” she said after a moment, her voice thick. “Right there on the overpass. Everyone else was running on the last dregs. So we siphoned all the tanks, and put all the gas into one of the Humvees, and we sent two soldiers and two civilians on to Moody.” She swallowed. “I don’t suppose they ever got there.”

Billings shook his head.

Kate sucked in a breath, her fears confirmed. “We were here for about a week when they came for us. We were all split up. Maybe that was a bad decision on my part?” She glanced at each of them, as though seeking absolution. They all tried their best to give it to her with expressions of understanding. “But we had to find food. Half of us were scavenging in the town. The other half were here at the hotel. They came out of nowhere. Lots of them.” She lapsed into a silence for a moment, her eyes distant. “We lost twenty-three people. Eighteen women—all of the women, except me—and five of the men. They took them all away. But…” She bared her teeth, struggling with her emotions. “We didn’t know why they took so many of the women…” She trailed off.

Billings turned to Sam. “Ryder, call Doc Trent in here.”

Sam, his gut feeling cold and empty, nodded and opened the door to the office. He leaned out. “Hey. Doc.”

Doc Trent looked up from one of the sick beds over which he knelt.

Sam waved him over.

He held up a finger, turned to the patient and murmured a few words. Then he rose and walked over, his round face looking drawn.

“Yes?” he said as he approached, manner even quieter than usual.

Sam just gestured the doctor inside, and then closed the door behind him.

Billings recounted what Kate had told them, and Doc Trent listened in silence, his hands clasped together at his waist. Billings focused on the inordinate number of women taken, and when he’d concluded the recap, he lowered his head to Doc Trent.

“Doc, if you’ve got a theory about this shit, now’s the time to spit it out. Doesn’t matter whether it turns out wrong or right, but we need some idea of what’s going on here.”

Doc thought for a moment, then turned to Kate. “Ma’am. My condolences on your losses. If I may, I think you’ve done extravagantly well, considering the circumstances. And the people out there, they seem to agree. I know that the losses feel like a failure to you, and I doubt anything I say will make that go away. But I consider it a victory that you’ve managed to keep as many alive as you have.”

Kate’s lean face twitched. Veins on her forehead stood out as her sunken cheeks flushed. “Thank you.”

Doc Trent adjusted his glasses, and then regarded his hands. He seemed to find it easier to focus and speak if he wasn’t looking anyone in the eyes. “A long time ago, when the United Eastern States was just Camp Ryder, a doctor from the CDC arrived. He had done extensive experiments on the infected and the bacterium that had caused all this mess to begin with. He continued those experiments by capturing one of the infected females. I was not present with that group of survivors at the time, but this doctor—his name was Jacob—took meticulous notes, and I’ve spent some time attempting to piece together what he observed.

“One of his landmark discoveries was on the rapidly evolving procreative nature of the infected. Doctor Jacob determined that the first generation of infected was indeed procreating, and that the female gestation period had drastically changed. The rapid growth of an infected person’s metabolism had an effect on the growth of the fetus. Female infected were getting pregnant and giving birth after approximately three months, and what they gave birth to was not an infant at all, but something that would, within the course of a single year, be capable of hunting on its own.

“Of course, the first generation of infected have since died off, giving way to the genetically superior form of what we refer to as ‘primals.’ We know that the primals are also breeding, and doing so at the same rate—approximately three months’ gestation, followed by a juvenile period of about one or two years, at which point the juvenile becomes sexually mature and capable of hunting on its own.”

Doc Trent paused to take a deep breath and sigh it out through his nose. “Those are all facts. Observable things that we’ve been able to prove. Now, we get into the realm of anecdotal evidence, and, as Sergeant Billings pointed out, theories.” He finally met Kate’s bewildered gaze, and then seemed to flinch away from it. “You must understand that this is only my theory and—”

“Go on,” Kate said.

Doc Trent nodded. “Recently, we had some soldiers get captured alive by the primals. Incapacitated through the breaking or dislocation of their arms and legs. Then kept alive—we assume as a source of food. One of these soldiers was rescued from where the primals were keeping him. He gave a very odd report, stating that he’d witnessed a female primal that was not entirely primal, and not entirely human. He seemed to believe that she was some sort of matriarch, exhibiting some control over the rest of the primals, and appeared to be above average intelligence, even for a primal.

“We’ve also observed, both in the city of Augusta, Georgia, where this soldier was taken captive, and also in Fort Bragg after it fell, a sort of clustering behavior from the primals that we haven’t seen before, wherein large numbers of them were gathering in a centralized location. It is my theory—untested, mind you; only a theory—that these are sorts of breeding grounds, where the many separate, smaller packs of primals converge in a sort of communal mating ritual. Such behaviors are not uncommon in the animal kingdom, their purpose usually to promote the extension of the species, and also genetic diversity, which keeps bloodlines from getting inbred.”

Doc Trent halted there, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt, which only seemed to make the lenses dirtier. Sam noted that his hand shook as he did so.

“It is my opinion that these matriarchal females—the ones that appear to be half-human and half-primal—are of great import to the primals and their survivability as a species. It is also part of my theory that…hmm…that they are indeed half-human and half-primal.”

The words hung there for a moment, garnering no reaction from those present, save for a confusion of looks.

Then Kate raised her hand to her mouth. Her eyes tightened at the corners. “Oh, God.”

Doc Trent swallowed and perched his spectacles back onto his nose with a tremor. He nodded to Kate’s burgeoning understanding.

“They’re raping them,” Kate breathed, her voice taut and tortured. “They’re capturing human females and raping them.”

Jones swore under his breath. “Doc…that…you can’t…”

Doc Trent shook his head, his voice coming out defensive. “You asked for my theory. Now you have it. I understand that it is dreadful. But nature can be dreadful. Given the facts at hand as we know them, it is a sound theory, albeit unproven.”

“Wait,” Billings cut in, his voice angry, though Sam wasn’t sure what he was angry with—Doc Trent, or just the concept in general. “They’re…they’re mating with human females...for what?”

“To create the matriarchs. What the soldier you rescued from Augusta called ‘queens.’ To extend the survivability of their species. A combination of primal strength, and human intelligence.”

Kate clutched at the fatless skin of her face, her fingernails white with the pressure, her eyes red. They darted about as though looking for an escape from the truth.

And Sam realized that he thought it was true.

“I think he’s right,” Sam murmured into the shell-shocked silence. He dipped his head. “I know no one asked me for my opinion. I’m just saying.”

Billings looked at him, but didn’t shut him up. “What are you saying, Ryder?”

“Look,” Sam eyed his sergeant, then Jones, and then Doc Trent, who seemed to appreciate the backup—as well as the redirection of attention off of him. “The primals have always been clever. They can figure out basic problems. They’re able to communicate with each other, but it’s…it’s…”

“Rudimentary,” Doc Trent offered.

“Rudimentary,” Sam agreed. “But I know what I heard over that squad channel when we were going into Augusta. And Loudermouth said the same thing. Something was speaking to us. It told us to ‘go.’ It was warning us away from Augusta.”

“How’s it know how to speak English, though?” Jones said. “If it’s like Doc Trent says, and these queens, or matriarchs, or whatever, are born into the primal horde, how’d they learn English?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, shaking his head in frustration. “Watching us? Listening to us?” Sam raised his hands. “It was one word. That’s what I heard. And Loudermouth said the same thing, that the thing that spoke to him said ‘go’. How many times have we said that word on patrol? Shouted it to each other, immediately followed by us moving? I don’t think it’s so much of a stretch that if one of these things is intelligent enough, they would have pieced at least that one word together.”

Billings shook his head. “What you heard could have been anything. I heard the same transmission, Ryder. It could’ve been a grunt, or a growl.”

“And what about the way we’ve seen the primals acting?” Sam asked. “We’ve seen the packs of them be smart, but always in a predatory way, the same coordination you’d expect from a pack of wolves. But they’re beyond that now. We’re seeing them use strategy. Something changed. Something is pulling them together and making them work as a team. Think about the roadblock outside of Augusta, and how they took Loudermouth’s squad. That took planning. That took more intelligence than we’ve seen from them before. Something is controlling them, doing their thinking for them.”

Kate lowered her hands from her face. Her eyes were intense, despite the wateriness. “I don’t care about what might be controlling them. All I care about is my people. Doctor Trent, in your opinion, are my girls still alive out there?”

Doc Trent gave a sidelong glance at Billings, as though asking for permission, and when Billings didn’t stop him, he nodded. “If my theory holds true, and I believe it will, then yes. They’re alive, wherever the primals are keeping them.”

“I know where they might be,” Kate said, her voice becoming taut, eager, dangerously hopeful. “We tracked them after they took the women. They headed north, into Savannah.”

Billings held up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ma’am. Kate. I know what you’re thinking, but we don’t have near enough manpower to go after a horde of primals.”

Kate’s eyes fixed on him, fiery and determined. “I have twenty armed men. You have fifteen. That’s thirty-five—”

“Against how many?” Billings demanded. “How many primals did you estimate attacked you here? Because I bet it was more than thirty-five.”

To her credit, Kate didn’t try to hide the truth. “It was at least fifty. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more.”

Billings shook his head. “That’s a no-go, ma’am. I’m sorry—I truly am sorry. If there was any way to get them back, you better damn believe I’d be the first one to volunteer to go get them, but thirty-five guns—twenty of them untrained—against a horde of primals in their own territory is a fucking suicide mission. You’re not going to save anyone—you’re going to get the rest of your people killed.”

“You can call Butler, can’t you?” she said. “You can ask for backup!”

Billings thrust a hand out as though pointing to his meager three squads. “Why the fuck you think we mounted a rescue mission with only three squads? Because we don’t have the manpower, Kate. We’re stretched thin. There’s all kinds of shitstorms brewing all across the UES, and three squads was all they could spare. Two of those squads outside? They’ve never even seen action! They’ve been on perimeter security at Butler! This isn’t a crack squad of killers. They’re glorified sentries, and they’re going to get slaughtered if we take them into Savannah.”

“You can’t even ask?” Kate snapped. “You can’t even call Butler and ask?”

Billings was silent after that. Sam watched his sergeant’s face, his eyes, how they wanted to help but couldn’t see a way to make it work, no matter how he rearranged the problem in his head.

But all Sam could think about in that moment was those women being carried away. Being held in the dark of some primal hovel, surrounded by terrifying creatures. And the things that might have been done to them—might still be happening…

Never again.

The old refrain slammed through Sam’s head, causing his heart to ramp up like he was being put on the spot in front of a crowd of people. It was the call of his conscience, telling him what he had to do, no matter the consequences, no matter the odds.

Because he couldn’t live with himself after this. He’d promised himself he’d never be a coward again, and if he walked away from this, then every moment thereafter, every sleepless night, would be filled with the faces of those women he’d never known, but they would haunt him nonetheless.

“I’ll call back,” Sam offered.

Billings whirled on him. “It’s not about who calls back, Ryder! I can call back as easily as you can. But you know what they’re going to say.”

“No, I don’t, Sarge,” Sam replied. “We don’t know what they’re going to say. And it can’t hurt to ask. Maybe they say no, maybe they say yes, but we shouldn’t just drop it without even asking. Could you live with yourself if you never even asked?”

“Fine,” Billings snapped. “Satphone’s out in the truck.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Go call ‘em. Call ‘em up and ask. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

Sam was already pushing through the office door, and he knew that it was too late: He’d already got his hopes up.

TWENTY-SIX

─▬▬▬─

RESCUE

Sam sat down in the front passenger’s seat of the Humvee, and found the satphone on the dash. He felt himself being pulled inexorably in one direction, and it terrified him, because he knew how it would end, but he couldn’t stop it from happening.

He extended the antenna, and dialed up the Butler Safe Zone. It rang once, and then First Sergeant Hamrick’s gruff voice answered.

“Command, First Sergeant Hamrick.”

“First Ser’nt,” Sam said, trying to speak with confidence. “This is Private Ryder with Squad Four.”

“Go ahead, private,” Hamrick said, his tone brittle with dislike.

There was nothing quite like asking someone who hated you for a big favor.

“Yes, sir. We’re here, just outside of Savannah with a handful of survivors from—”

“I know where you’re at, Ryder,” Hamrick grunted. “Get to the point.”

Sam closed his eyes. “Sir, there’s reason to believe that there are eighteen women being held alive by the primals in a nearby location. We’re requesting additional units in order to mount a rescue—”

“Yeah, not gonna happen, Ryder,” Hamrick interrupted. “It’s an absolute clusterfuck over here, and we have zero available units to spare. Gather the survivors that you can, and head for Butler, immediately. We need all our guns back here.”

“Sir,” Sam said, raising his voice. “I don’t think these survivors are going to leave with eighteen of their people trapped by the primals.”

“Did you not fucking hear me, private?” Hamrick snapped. “I wasn’t asking you a fucking question. Real soldiers understand that what just came out of my mouth is called a fucking order. Pack up your shit. Head back to Butler. If the survivors don’t want to come with you, then fuck ‘em. Do you…” Hamrick trailed off.

There was the sound of shuffling over the line. The sound on the other end was muted, and Sam understood that Hamrick had muffled the speaker. Sam could still make out the words, though.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Squad Four….Private Ryder, ma’am…Of course.”

More shuffling.

And then a new voice.

To Sam, it was the last voice on earth that he wanted to hear in that moment. It was like being yanked back across the years, being pulled out of the self that he’d become—the soldier he’d turned into—and being plopped back into a former, weakened state, where he was just a helpless little kid, trying to survive.

He clenched his jaw. I’m not that person anymore.

“Sam?” Angela’s voice said, flaying his self-image down to the bone. “Is that you?”

Sam took a big breath. “Private Ryder here, ma’am.”

Hesitation. Then: “Yes. Private Ryder. What’s going on?”

He repeated what he’d already told Hamrick, his mind splitting in two. On one side, he wished he’d been able to just get what he needed from Hamrick, without having to speak to Angela. But on the other hand, he saw a glimmer of hope.

Which was immediately dashed to pieces.

“Oh, Sam,” Angela sounded anguished. “I don’t…listen.” Her voice changed then. It became something that Sam had never heard from her before. Cold. Commanding. “We don’t have the manpower right now. I wish that we did. But Greeley is mounting an invasion force. We need to protect Butler. Moody’s been overrun, and Lee and Carl’s team are there. We have nothing to send you right now. First Sergeant Hamrick is right. You need to convince those survivors to come back to Butler. There’s not another option.”

But Sam did see another option. “Ma’am, I understand your position. And we will comply with those orders, if there’s no other option. But is there any way we can get in touch with Lee and Carl’s team? If they’re in Moody—”

“They’re in Moody, fighting for their lives, and trying to save that Safe Zone. Private Ryder, I’m sorry. But the order stands.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “Angela. Please. Just call up Lee. If it’s a no, then fine. But at least ask.”

There was a long, strangled silence over the line.

Sam sat there in the Humvee, staring at the dashboard, picturing Angela’s face. Wondering what she would do. He thought he’d known her, but this new voice that he heard was as different from the Angela that he knew, as he was from the Sameer Balawi that he’d been.

“Stay by the satphone,” Angela said, her voice blank. “I’ll relay the request and get back to you ASAP. Anything further?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay.” Then, a tiny glimmer of who she used to be: “Stay safe, Sam.”

***

Morrow had to shove Lee into a chair to get him to cooperate. “Sit,” he commanded, around the syringe clenched in his teeth.

“Other people need it more than me,” Lee growled, pointing out at the masses of humanity around them. The floor of the hangar was littered with people. The groans and cries of the wounded. The weeping of those who’d lost someone. The sound of it kept threatening to twist Lee’s stomach, but if it twisted any tighter it would snap.

Morrow knelt, ignoring him, and pulling up his medical pack. “Other people ain’t you,” he said, as though that answered everything. “And you’re gonna lose this arm if you don’t let me work on it.”

Lee’s eyes just kept moving across the hangar. The soldiers left standing were now guarding the outside of the structure with what little ammunition Moody had left. Inside the massive hangar, Moody’s two doctors—out of the four they’d had, just hours ago—moved from patient to patient. Three nurses scurried about, and a group of able-bodied volunteers ran errands and performed what simple tasks could be delegated.

There were no beds, no blankets, no pillows. The badly maimed simply lay on the concrete floor, or sat against the wall, if they were capable. Many of the wounded that weren’t incapacitated or in danger of bleeding out, had given themselves a rough patch job and now lent a hand in aiding the others.

Which is what Lee had been doing, prior to Morrow forcing him down. Morrow wasn’t an official medic, but he’d learned enough over the years to be passable with the equipment they had. He could perform simple field surgeries, and that’s what Lee was about to receive.

He stuck Lee’s forearm with the needle, injecting him with a lidocaine solution for a local anesthetic. That was the best Lee was going to get before Morrow started pulling the torn tissues back together.

Morrow recapped the syringe and then tossed it to the side. “Alright. Just FYI, you’re still gonna feel this.” Morrow met Lee’s gaze. “You want something to bite down on?”

Lee shook his head, his jaws clenched. “Just do it. Quicker the better.”

Morrow nodded. “Roger that. Hold still.”

Lee watched him as he worked. He’d always found it better to watch. It allowed him to pay attention to something, to focus on it clinically, to see his wound as a part of a broken machine, and to act like he was a student, learning.

Morrow began probing around inside Lee’s ripped flesh. Lee could feel the pressure of his fingers, but the sting of it was dulled by the lidocaine.

Morrow frowned. “Do me a favor and release the tension on that tourniquet. Just a little bit at a time.”

Lee unlatched the windlass and let it go a single turn. Then another. Then another.

The wound started to bleed again. Lee felt warmth flooding his fingertips as blood made it past the tourniquet and into his numb extremity. The pain came quickly with it.

“Got it,” Morrow said, his gloved finger a knuckle deep beneath a mess of Lee’s arm muscles. He felt Lee’s pulse, identifying the source of the bleeding. He brought a set of hemostats up and fed them in along his finger, then clamped them down.

The bleeding slowed, but didn’t stop.

“Still got leaking capillaries,” Morrow observed. “But the big bleeder’s clamped. You can take that tourniquet off.”

Lee released the windlass all the way, then pulled the Velcro off. It was a combination of relief and agony, as one pain was replaced with another.

Morrow handed Lee a wad of gauze. “Dab when I tell you to.” Then he set to work, irrigating the wound with saline solution. As he began to clean and debride the wound, Lee’s pulse started pounding in his head, the pain making him bare his teeth, his arm twitching.

“I know it hurts,” Morrow said, his voice calm. “But try to stay still and relaxed. I can’t work on the muscles if you make them jump around.”

“Trying,” Lee grunted.

When Morrow began to snip away bits of nonviable tissue, Lee had to look away.

Commander Renoux approached, a rifle hanging at his side. He was a stocky man with hair cut close to his scalp. His grim face was scorched on the right side with a powder burn. A muzzle blast that had been too close for comfort. His right ear had a trail of dried blood coming from a perforated eardrum.

“Major Harden.” Renoux peeked at the wounded arm. “This a good time?”

Lee felt the veins in his head distending as he clenched his core against the pain. His voice came out strained. “Good as any.”

Renoux nodded. “We took a hard hit. Two hundred dead, and counting. I don’t even know how many wounded—at least twice that.” He swallowed. “And thirty-seven missing.”

“All women?” Lee asked, his free hand with the gauze in it gripping the side of the chair.

“Most of them,” Renoux answered.

“Dab,” Morrow ordered, both of his hands occupied.

Lee dabbed at the wound, blinking away a shallow skein of tears, and then looking back to Renoux. “Are the defenses viable?”

“No clue. I’ve got a couple engineers checking that out. Prognosis is not good.”

“How are you fixed for fuel and vehicles if you need to evac?”

“Oh, we got those. But where the hell we gonna go? Butler’s overcrowded. Charleston’s off the map. Who knows about Florida, and it’s a helluva drive anyway.”

Morrow finished clipping the bad tissue away, and Lee was able to take a free breath. His wound still hurt, but the relief from the cleaning gave him a solid endorphin dump.

“If you have to evac,” Lee said, casting a glance at Morrow as he swapped his cleaning equipment for some packs of sutures. “We’ll make it work. Butler might be overcrowded, but we can’t just leave you out to dry. We’ll find a spot for you, even if we have to build a tent city. How’s the ammo situation?”

“Just about bone dry,” Renoux griped. “We got a reloader, and I’ve already got some volunteers picking up as much brass as they can. But it’ll barely make a dent in what we shot up today.” Renoux blinked a few times, and then glanced around him. “Major, why are they taking the women?”

Lee shook his head. “I don’t know.”

An electronic chirp sounded over the wails that filled the air. Renoux twitched, then reached into his back pocket and drew out the Safe Zone’s satphone. He eyed the screen. “It’s Butler,” he said, and then answered it. He turned his back on Lee, and Lee heard him answering many of the same questions that Lee had asked.

Lee turned back to his wound, watching Morrow stitch the torn artery back together with suturing that would remain inside of Lee and dissolve over time. Arteries had no nerve endings, so Lee got a brief respite from most of the pain.

He felt a nudge on his shoulder. When he looked, Renoux held the satphone out to him. “It’s the president. She needs to speak to you.”

“Dab first,” Morrow intoned.

Lee dabbed the wound clear, and then took the satphone. “Madam President.”

“Lee,” Angela’s voice was clenched and cautious. “Sam and his squad have found some of the survivors from Charleston. They’re right outside of Savannah. He’s asking for assistance in going after a group of women that the primals have taken captive. I have no one else to send him, and I’m not ordering you to go. He asked me to ask you. So that’s what I’m doing. You make the call.”

“Shit.” Lee stared at his wound, his mind turning in rapid loops. Wounded arm. No ammunition. They could probably beg and borrow enough for a few mags a piece—maybe. What about transportation? They couldn’t take vehicles from Moody. If the defenses were irreparable, Renoux would have to call an evac, and they would need every vehicle they had.

There was the Blackhawk. But what about fuel?

Lee looked to Renoux. “You still got aviation fuel?”

Renoux frowned, but nodded. “We should.”

“Lee?” Angela’s voice in his ear.

“Standby a sec,” Lee murmured.

Going seemed like a terrible idea. Staying felt like betrayal. He couldn’t just leave Sam out there to run this op by himself. But would Lee and Carl’s team be enough? How many primals were they planning to take on? A den of them? A horde? It was suicide.

“What’s the problem?” Morrow asked, not looking up from his stitching.

“How long will this take?” Lee asked.

Morrow shrugged. “Ten more minutes.”

“Angela, give me your take on it,” Lee said into the satphone. “Is Sam’s squad gonna do this no matter what?”

“I ordered them not to,” Angela replied.

“I think we both know that doesn’t matter at this point.”

Angela was silent for a few moments. “He sounded pretty desperate, Lee.”

“So chances are he’s gonna run off and try this shit.”

Angela didn’t respond.

Lee swore under his breath. Shitty choices no matter which way he turned. Either be a part of the suicide mission, or turn your back on someone you cared about. He could do neither. He couldn’t tell Carl’s men to accompany him on some ill-advised op, just because a couple of young and stupid ground pounders didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.

Fuck Sam. And fuck his squad leader for even entertaining this bullshit.

Fuck the universe for even dropping this in his lap right now.

And fuck Angela for not being able to shut it down.

“Gimme the number to Squad Four’s satphone,” Lee snapped.

If he could do nothing else, perhaps he could talk some sense into them.

***

Sam answered on the first ring, the satphone already sitting in his hand as he had an unpleasant staredown with Corporal Ryan across the hotel parking lot. The bastard should be watching the perimeter, not him.

“Ryder here,” he said.

The voice that came back was not who he had expected.

“Sam, this is Lee.”

Sam swallowed, feeling a faint tingling across his scalp. He felt like a kid whose had their father called in to deal with them, and he hated himself for feeling that way, and he resented both Angela and Lee for doing it.

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbled. His eyes caught movement from the front door of the hotel. Kate stalked out, trailed by a handful of her guys, all of them with their weapons up, looking like they were on the warpath.

“Listen to me,” Lee said, his voice strained for some reason, as though lifting something heavy. “This rescue op is a no-go. You hear me?”

“I hear you, sir,” Sam said, but his voice was distracted. His attention now on Billings, who charged out of the door after Kate. She spun on him and the two exchanged heated words that Sam only half-heard.

“Where’s your squad leader?” Lee asked.

“He’s, uh…talking to the survivors.” Sam kept his eyes on them. It was pretty obvious what was happening. Billings was trying to convince Kate not to go, but she wasn’t hearing it. “Sir, I think the survivors are about to leave.”

“Leave? What do you mean leave?”

“I mean they’re about to do this rescue op on their own.”

“Well, tell them to stand the fuck down,” Lee snapped.

Sam let out a tiny chuff that may or may not have been audible over the line. It wasn’t funny, really. “Standby, sir. I’ll try to talk to them.”

Sam placed the satphone on the dashboard, still connected to Lee, and exited the Humvee. He strode up to Billings and Kate. Their conversation became clearer.

“You don’t even have gas for your vehicles,” Billings snapped. “How you gonna get there?”

“We’ll walk,” Kate insisted.

“And what are you gonna do with the wounded, huh?” Billings threw his arms out, exasperated. “Carry them back? There’s eighteen of them—if they’re even still alive—and they’re all going to be incapacitated. You gonna carry them and still be able to fight your way out and back here to safety?”

Kate’s face seemed to tremble, contorting through a mix of emotions. “Then help us, goddammit!”

“Sarge,” Sam broke in, gaining both Billings’s and Kate’s attention. “Major Harden is on the satphone.” Sam considered his words, but in the end chose to simply quote Lee, verbatim. “He said the rescue op is a no-go.”

They all stood there, the words just drifting about in their heads.

Kate stirred herself and started walking towards the Humvee. “Lemme talk to him.”

Sam and Billings trailed after her, exchanging a look that spoke volumes. Billings hoping that the authority of Lee Harden would sway Kate into seeing reason, and Sam just shrugging, not knowing how this would turn out, and not even sure if he wanted Kate to be swayed.

It’s suicide, Sam told himself. Kept telling himself. But he just couldn’t make himself believe it. Not that he didn’t believe in the danger, but that he couldn’t make himself believe he could turn his back on these people.

Kate snatched up the satphone and immediately began speaking. “Major Harden? This is Kate McAfee, I’m the one running this group of survivors. I have eighteen women that are missing and it’s come to our attention that they might still be alive. I’m going to mount a rescue attempt. I would sincerely appreciate any assistance you may be able to offer us.”

She stopped and listened. Sam heard the murmur of Lee’s voice on the other end, but couldn’t decipher the words. He figured he knew what they were, though, based on the hardening of Kate’s demeanor.

“So that’s it, huh?” she replied after a moment. “That’s the official position of the UES? Leave people to die?” A pause. Lee’s voice on the other end sounded heated. “I understand that, major. But you tell me, what option do I have? Would you do anything different if it was your people trapped in there? I’ve heard the stories about you. I think that if you were in my shoes, you’d do the same damn thing. I’d rather get killed trying to do the right thing than live my life knowing that I didn’t even try. Because those women, Major Harden? That could’ve been me. That could be any of us. And you know what would keep me up at night? Knowing that if I ever got taken by the primals, the people that are supposed to have my back would just abandon me and tell themselves, ‘there’s nothing we could do.’ If that was the truth, I don’t know if I could take it. I don’t know if I could be a part of a government that won’t even try to save the people that need it the most.” Kate huffed. “My decision’s been made. I’m going. End of discussion.”

Then she jabbed her finger on the satphone, ending the call. She pushed the phone into Billings’s hands, and then looked at him. “I meant what I said. Now you need to make your call, sergeant. You helping or not?”

Billings’s mouth tightened. “I can’t defy orders.”

Kate let out a humorless laugh. “You weren’t even given an order, sergeant. Major Harden just expressed his opinion that the mission was bullshit, and he’s entitled to that opinion. But it wasn’t an order.”

“I volunteer.” The words left Sam’s mouth before he could reel them back in. “I’ll go.”

Billings thrust a finger in his face. “The fuck you will not. That is an order.”

The satphone rang again. Billings snatched it up and answered it. “Sergeant Billings, Squad Four.” He listened for a few moments. “Yes, sir. I understand…Wilco.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and ended the call again. Stared at the blank screen for a moment, then folded the antenna back in.

“Well,” Billings said, dragging his eyes up to Kate. “Major Harden says he’s on the way.”

Kate nearly toppled with relief.

Billings held up a cautionary hand. “It’s just him and a small team of operators. Six guys total. They’ve barely got any ammunition, and they’re all banged up from fighting in Moody. Now, I was given an order, Kate, and I intend to follow that order. Major Harden has told us to accompany you to within visual range of wherever you think these primals are holding the women. Once there, we are going to recon the area and we are going to wait for Major Harden and his team to arrive. We are not going to run in there, all willy-nilly, and get ourselves ripped to shreds, do you understand me? We are going to watch, and gather intel, and see if a rescue attempt is even viable.” Billings’s fist was clenched in the air between him and Kate. “I can’t be any fucking clearer on that. If I go with you to do this thing, you will do what I tell you to, and if you don’t, I will treat you like a soldier and shoot you for insubordination.”

Kate’s eyes sparked as though with a challenge, but she didn’t buck up against Billings’s threat. She nodded. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

─▬▬▬─

THE COUP

When Colonel Lineberger walked into the penthouse, he found President Briggs standing with his back to Lineberger, staring out the east-facing window.

Lineberger realized that he was calm. You never know how you’re going to feel until everything is on the line. It almost surprised him that his pulse was steady, his stomach free of knots.

A good deal of that was the anger and resentment he felt. It steeled his insides, tempered his fear, and made him just want to get it over with. To remove the man standing with his back to him, to take him out of his position of power before he ran what was left of the United States into the ground.

Lineberger afforded himself a single, discreet glance at his wristwatch. Ten more minutes, and it would all come crashing down on Briggs. But for those next ten minutes, Lineberger still had a role to play, and he would play until the last second.

The element of surprise was crucial.

“You called for me, Mister President?” Lineberger said, after a moment’s awkward silence.

Briggs didn’t look around. His hands were clasped at the small of his back. Lineberger couldn’t see his face, but his body language was pensive.

“Why are my birds still sitting on the flight line?” Briggs asked the window.

Such an impatient prick, Lineberger scolded the man silently. If this operation were actually going to happen—and it wasn’t—Briggs could have learned something about how serious invasions were. It was not something that should ever be rushed. The doing of the deed was hectic and full of momentum, and when the boots were on the ground, inertia was the enemy. But in the lead up to an invasion, it was best to be patient and make sure everything was squared away.

A lesson that Briggs would learn a tad too late to ever do anything with.

“A final safety check, sir,” Lineberger answered.

“Final safety check,” Briggs echoed. “How many ‘final safety checks’ are there? Is this the final one?” Briggs turned around, his eyes narrowed at Lineberger. “Or will there by another final safety check after this final safety check?”

Lineberger sniffed. “Sir, those birds have been grounded for years. You want your invasion to go off without a hitch? Don’t put them in the air until you’re absolutely sure that everything will run as smoothly as possible. It’d be a shame if everything got postponed because of a mechanical error. Or worse, you send a platoon’s worth of soldiers into the side of a mountain.”

Briggs just stared at him, his face showing no acceptance of the wisdom Lineberger had imparted to him. “Who ordered the additional safety check?”

Lineberger shrugged. “I assume it was the commander of the flight line.”

“You assume. But you don’t know.”

Lineberger shifted, sucking on his teeth. “I may be in charge of the military, sir, but those birds are his responsibility. Part of being a good leader is allowing your men to do their jobs. If he felt an additional safety check was needed, then I defer to his good judgement.”

“Hm,” Briggs grunted. “Well, why don’t we ask him why he felt it was necessary?”

Lineberger let his gaze drift away from the president for the simple reason that he didn’t want to look at the man’s ignorant face anymore. “I can call down to the flight line if you wish.”

Briggs strode to the head of his table. “No need to call.” He turned to one of his Cornerstone guards that stood off to the side, an M4 held low against his chest. “Bring him in, please.”

The guard turned towards the door by which he was stationed—one of a few rooms in the penthouse suite—and opened it.

Out strode the captain. The commander in charge of the flight line.

He was handcuffed behind his back, and escorted by two additional Cornerstone guards, both wearing the black polo uniform shirts with the red Delta symbol of their military contracting company.

Lineberger’s relaxed attitude fled him with a sudden, knee-weakening jolt. All in a moment’s glance, everything turned upside down, and all his insides seemed to rearrange themselves.

The captain looked nervous, but stood at attention at the side of the table. “Mister President,” the captain uttered, his eyes glancing between Briggs and Lineberger. “Sir. May I ask what this is about?”

Briggs leaned on the back of his chair at the head of the table. “Captain, did you give the order to do an additional safety check on the planes?”

The captain swallowed hard. “I did, sir.”

Briggs raised his eyebrows. “And did you come up with this genius idea all yourself, or were you ordered to do it by someone else?”

The captain’s mouth worked silently for a few terrible seconds, the arithmetic of any good soldier running through his head: Do you take responsibility for it, or admit that the order had come from higher up? Do you try to protect your superior, or do you save your own skin?

Lineberger found himself willing the captain to keep his mouth shut. He glanced at his watch again. Seven minutes. Christ, he only needed a little more time…

“The order came from Colonel Stetleigh, Mister President,” the captain said.

“Ah.” Briggs nodded. “And did you tell Colonel Stetleigh that the safety check had already been completed?”

“I did, sir.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He, uh…he insisted.”

“How interesting,” Briggs growled. “It’s too bad we don’t have Colonel Stetleigh here to answer for that erroneous order. Oh. Wait.” Briggs looked at the two guards that stood behind Lineberger at the main door to the room. “We do have him here? Well, let’s see if we can’t clear this thing up, then. Please, show the colonel in.”

The guards behind Lineberger moved to the door to the penthouse that Lineberger had just walked through. Lineberger stepped out of the way of the door, and as they opened it, his eyes fell on Colonel Stetleigh. Also in handcuffs. Also escorted by two Cornerstone operatives.

Their gazes locked for just a fraction of a second, and in Stetleigh’s eyes there was a brief moment of apology, which vanished as quickly as it had flitted across his face. The two operatives prodded him forward and Stetleigh entered the room, coming to stand at the end of the table across from Briggs.

“Mister President,” Stetleigh managed to sound gruff and offended. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“You ordered an additional safety check on the C-130s,” Briggs said, projecting his voice as though reading out formal charges to a courtroom.

Stetleigh stood tall, his chest out. “I did. Is that a problem?”

Briggs’s haughty eyes glared at the Air Force colonel. “The safety check had already been completed. You were made aware of this by your flight line commander, and yet you ordered another one. Thereby delaying my invasion. Why?”

“Call it a gut feeling,” Stetleigh replied, doing a good job of sounding indignant. “I didn’t think taking an additional hour to make sure that your invasion didn’t wind up in mess heap somewhere in the Tennessee mountains would wind up with me in handcuffs. Mister President, this is ridiculous!”

Briggs slammed a fist down on the table. “You’re deliberately impeding me!” he suddenly screamed, his voice rising into hysteria. “You’re trying to stop me from doing my job! That’s treason! You’re fucking committing treason!”

Stetleigh raised his own voice. “It’s treason to do my job? It’s my job to make sure your troops arrive on the ground safe! If I feel like a goddamn additional safety check is in order, then I will make that call!”

Briggs thrashed so hard that he spilled the chair beside him. “I am the president! I am the commander-in-chief! You don’t get to make those calls!” He pumped his thumbs into his chest. “I’m the one that makes those calls! I’m in charge! Me!”

And before Stetleigh could respond, Briggs waved a hand towards the two guards. “Put him on the table!”

The guards reacted, grabbing Colonel Stetleigh and slamming him face-first against the table, one guard holding him there, and the other guard putting the muzzle of his rifle against the base of Stetleigh’s skull.

“What the fuck—” Stetleigh growled.

“Who told you do to it?” Briggs shouted, coming around the table. “Who told you to fuck me over? Who have you been working with? Is it Lineberger?” Briggs stopped at Stetleigh’s side, but his eyes were fixed on Lineberger. “What have you been cooking up?”

Lineberger spoke through clenched teeth. “You’re out of control. Get ahold of yourself.”

“No. No!” Briggs pointed an accusing finger at Lineberger’s face. “Don’t you try to turn this around on me, you sonofabitch. You’re going to tell me what you were planning, or I’m going to scatter Stetleigh’s brains across this fucking table, you hear me?”

“There’s no plan!” Lineberger roared. “You’re paranoid!”

“It was a safety check!” Stetleigh cried out, an edge of fear becoming apparent around his affected indignation. “You can’t be serious about this, Mister President!”

Briggs held out a hand to the Cornerstone operative holding Stetleigh down. “Give me your sidearm.”

The operative complied, placing a Glock 19 in the president’s hand. Briggs shoved the rifle of the second operative away and replaced it with the pistol in his grip. Eyes locked onto Lineberger.

“You tell me. You tell me right now, or I kill him.”

Lineberger shook—from head to toe, his body trembled, despite a massive effort to remain calm. But he kept his face stern, locked onto Briggs. “Mister President, the stress of this operation has gotten to you. You’re imagining things. Don’t harm the people that are just trying to follow your orders. Put down that pistol.”

Briggs’s eyes were wild. The jagged about, unsteady in his skull, searching around Lineberger’s face with manic speed. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t already have my soldiers waiting for yours to show up?” A vicious smile spread across Briggs’s face. “They’ll be chewed to shreds the second they show up to your little coup.”

Lineberger became suddenly aware of the fact that he had only seconds left to live.

He was an old soldier. And though he’d spent the latter half of his career sitting behind desks, he still remembered what it was like to be a younger soldier, and that the mission always came first.

And what was his mission?

To take Briggs out.

So he launched himself at Briggs.

Briggs cried out in alarm, bringing the pistol up to bear, but Lineberger caught it as it arced towards his face, seizing it in an iron grip far stronger than it should have been from twenty years of pushing pencils. He wrenched the gun around, sweeping the muzzle out of the way. The gun went off in his hand, the bullet slamming the nearest Cornerstone guard in the chest.

Briggs screamed, clutching a hand with the trigger finger completely de-gloved—the flesh hanging off the bone.

Lineberger racked the slide, dispensing the empty shell casing trapped in the gun by his grip on the slide.

And that was as far as he got.

Bodies hit him from all sides, driving him to the ground. He fired once as he fell backward, but the round went high over Briggs’s left shoulder. His back hit the ground, driving the air from his lungs and cracking ribs and vertebrae. He struggled to aim the pistol again, but someone grabbed ahold of it just as he had taken it from Briggs.

Lineberger was aware of the black muzzles of rifles that seemed to circle the edges of his vision like encroaching nightmares, but his eyes were locked onto Briggs, filled with hatred and loathing.

Three Cornerstone guards fired their weapons into Lineberger’s chest, but it was the single shot between the eyes that ended him.

***

All across the Greeley Green Zone, checkpoints erupted in gunfire.

There were six checkpoints in all that devolved into firing lines. At each of these, a squad of Marines or soldiers had waited, their bodies tense, their minds at the ready, while their fictitious orders to report to FOB Hampton were inspected.

The six squads bound for the coup attempt at the penthouse of the Hampton Inn and Suites were given no warning.

One squad of Marines saw the shady looks of the Cornerstone operatives manning the checkpoint; saw the machine gun nests targeting them. Their sergeant whispered to his men to start shooting on his mark. They lasted a few seconds.

Another squad of Marines, and one of soldiers, at two separate checkpoints, tried to surrender, and were slaughtered anyways.

The other three squads only had time to see muzzle flashes.

Mr. Worley and Mr. Guidry watched it happen, down the street from one of those checkpoints. The civilians around them in the Yellow Zone screamed and ran for cover, but Guidry and Worley knew the rounds weren’t coming their way. They stood in shock against the wall of a brick building, staring as Cornerstone operatives gunned their countrymen down in cold blood.

“Shit!” Guidry whispered, then turned and started walking the opposite direction, deeper into the Yellow Zone.

Worley followed, his stomach sick.

A woman and child sprinted past them, jostling their shoulders as they passed. She cast a glance over her shoulder at them, her eyes wide with panic and confusion.

“Lineberger got stuffed,” Guidry observed under his breath, as the chatter of machine gun fire behind them died down. “Briggs is the only option now.”

“He’s going to call us. And he’s going to be fucking pissed.”

“You think Lineberger outed us?”

“What’s to out?” Worley snapped. “We never said anything directly. We can play it off.”

“Briggs’ll be on the warpath,” Guidry said, ducking around a corner and stopping, his eyes intense. “He’ll want the location of the UES leadership, and if we don’t give it to him, he’s liable to lock us up at the very least—might even just execute us.”

Worley considered mentioning their so-called diplomatic immunity. But that wouldn’t matter much at this point, would it?

Guidry turned to his partner, gripping the other man by the shoulders. “Worley. Do you want to make it out of here?”

“Of course I want to make it out of here.”

“We need to go to Briggs. Now.”

Worley made a disconsolate face.

“Now,” Guidry insisted. “If we wait for him to pull us in it’ll only feed the fire for him to cook us with. We show up, hat in hand, and give him the Butler Safe Zone. That’s the only way.”

“We could run.”

“Run where? And with what?” Guidry shook his head. “We’re a long way from friendly territory, mate. Besides, this is what our command wanted anyways, isn’t it? They were leaning towards Briggs. Our only chance was if Lineberger ousted him so he wasn’t even an option any more. And that ship has sailed.”

Worley hung his head, grimacing at the concrete beneath his feet.

Guidry was right. It was the only option.

Worley raised his head. “Fine. But we warn Marlin and Wibberley. The least we can do is give them a chance to get out before all hell breaks loose.”

***

Thirty minutes after the gunfire subsided, while those that had heard it and witnessed it were still wondering what the hell had happened, three SUVs loaded with Cornerstone operatives in full battle rattle arrived at the flight line.

The leader of these operatives approached the lieutenant that had been left in charge of the flight line in his captain’s absence. The operative wore his dark hair trim and parted on the side. His face was clean shaven, and the corners of his mouth bore a small twist, as though predisposed to sardonic smiles.

“Mr. Smith, Cornerstone,” the operative introduced himself. “Safety check is over. Finish loading the birds and get them in the air.”

The lieutenant, not privy to anything that had happened, raised his hands. “Whoa there, big dick. I got my orders, and there’s still about twenty minutes left until the safety check is—”

Mr. Smith leaned in close to the lieutenant, who became infinitely aware that he was unarmed, and this operative and the twenty guys behind him were all dripping with weapons.

“The safety check is over,” Mr. Smith repeated, his voice turning ice-cold. “These orders are coming directly from the president himself, who has sent me down here to make sure that they are carried out. I am now the commander of this flight line. You will obey the orders, or you will be arrested for insubordination.”

The lieutenant, who was accustomed to keeping his head down, raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. Chill out. I’m complying with the orders. This is just a bit confusing.”

“Un-confuse yourself,” Mr. Smith said. “From now on, all military elements—which includes you and every man and woman in uniform on this flight line and throughout Greeley—are under the direct control of President Briggs. If anyone gives you shit about it, you send them to me, understand?”

“Yeah,” the lieutenant nodded. “I understand.”

“How about a fucking salute then?”

The lieutenant froze, his mouth open, all sorts of wires in his brain getting crossed.

Mr. Smith flashed a grin at him. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. Go do what the president ordered.”

The lieutenant let a weak smile pass over his face. Well, at least the new guy in charge had a sense of humor. He turned and stalked off to the first C-130, grabbing the warrant officer in charge of the mechanics.

“Safety check’s over,” the lieutenant said. “President’s orders. Pull your mechanics off the bird. Tell the loadmasters to resume loading the cargo.”

The warrant officer raised an eyebrow, but he too was accustomed to keeping his head down. It was the new way of things here in Greeley. If you wanted to feed your family, anyways. “Whatever,” he murmured. “Yes, sir.”

As the loadmasters shrugged off their contradictory orders and continued doing their job, more vehicles bearing teams of Cornerstone operatives arrived on the flight line. They were dispatched to the hangars in which platoons of soldiers and Marines were being staged for the invasion.

The operatives approached the senior ranking officers of each military element and provided them formal, written orders, signed and sealed by the president himself. The orders made it clear that while the Cornerstone teams weren’t technically in charge, as they held no official rank, that they would be the liaisons between the officers and the president, who had assumed direct control of the invasion.

The orders rankled, but nearly every officer gave more or less the same response as the warrant officer: Whatever.

Only one officer, an Army captain, made any fuss about it at all, calling over to FOB Hampton for confirmation. His call was routed to several places, then landed on the desk of the president himself, and when Briggs answered the phone, the captain felt his throat go dry.

“Captain,” Briggs seethed through the phone. “May I call your attention to the bottom left-hand corner of the orders you now hold in your hand.”

The captain didn’t need to look. But he did anyways. There was the presidential seal, embossed, and signed by the president. He stammered that he understood, and that, because it was unusual, he’d simply felt some extra due diligence was required to confirm.

“And do you feel confirmed?” President Briggs asked.

“Yes, Mister President,” the captain answered, stiffly.

“Good. Carry on, captain.”

So the captain carried on. That was the way of things now.

TWENTY-EIGHT

─▬▬▬─

CONTROL

Two pickups led the three Humvees onto an overpass. The roads in this area were long and straight, and bordered with trees. The afternoon sun flickered across the tops of them.

Squad Four was the first Humvee, with the two squads of half-boots trailing them.

Chris shook his head as the lead pickup, a big white 2500, turned left onto the ramp to I-16, heading west. “Shit, man. Where are they taking us?”

The second pickup followed, a black F-150 longbed. Unlike the lead pickup, in which the bed was filled to the brim with grim and sallow-faced men, clutching rifles, the second pickup bed was empty.

“This is a bad idea,” Jones remarked from the backseat. His rifle was out his window, but he peeked around Billing’s headrest and nodded to the men in the back of the white 2500. “All those dudes? Fathers and husbands, looking for their daughters and wives? Good luck getting them to be rational and follow orders.”

Billings made a disgruntled noise from the front seat but otherwise didn’t respond.

They all knew that Jones was right. They also knew that there was nothing they could do about it. The second Kate had announced that they were moving out, the ten men crammed into the passenger cab and truck bed of that 2500 had volunteered, and the hunger and ferocity in their eyes brokered no argument.

They’d taken a gas tank from their own stores and given the two bone-dry pickups two and a half gallons each. Just enough to get them there and back.

The white 2500 sped onto I-16, and then began to slow. It pulled onto the shoulder, and then onto the encroaching field, which had infiltrated at least half of the breakdown lane on the right side.

The five vehicles pulled to a stop in a line. Kate emerged from the lead pickup and looked back at the soldiers in the Humvees, making a slashing motion across her throat.

Chris killed the Humvee’s engine.

Sam exited, his squad following. By unspoken consent, they all closed their doors as silently as possible. Billings hustled up to Kate, with his squad of four in tow.

“Where the fuck are we?” Billings demanded, his voice low. “Are we even close?”

Kate nodded, then pointed through the trees to their right as her men debarked and gathered, some of them having the common-sense to face outwards, scanning their environment for threats.

“It’s straight through those trees,” Kate said. “Maybe a half mile.”

Billings grimaced. “There’s not another road that can get us closer? I don’t wanna leave the vehicles.”

Kate shook her head. “There is another road, but it’s right in view of the place, and you said you wanted to go in stealthy.”

Sam scanned the treeline Kate had gestured to. The sun had begun to angle to the west, and was behind their backs. That would be good, he supposed. It would backlight them, shining right in the eyes of the primals. Hopefully that would make their approach easier.

“Alright,” Billings said, reconciling himself to the circumstances. He raised his hands and motioned high for everyone to bring it in. “Huddle up.”

The two squads of half-boots and the ten civilians gathered around.

“Corporal Ryan, Corporal Healy, you guys take up the rear. Kate, I want your guys next. You’ll be on point with my squad. We’re going to roll in, single file, spread out.” Billings looked to the civilians. “Make sure to scan all directions. If the guy in front of you is looking left, then you look right. Rifles up. If you see something, call it out, but try to keep your voices down as much as possible.” Billings stopped there, his fingers questing across his brow, as though he couldn’t quite believe he was doing this. “Remember, this is recon only. That means no cowboy shit.” He looked at the civilians again, matching their intensity. “I’m talking to you guys specifically. I know you got your dander up, but don’t do anything stupid. You do something stupid, you’re more likely to get us all killed before we can even try to save those women. If we all get chewed up by primals, we ain’t gonna do your wives and daughters much good, are we?”

A few of the men nodded. Most of them just stared.

Billings turned to the woods. “Alright, let’s roll out. Ryder, you take point. Kate, you stay with me.”

Sam’s heart jumped into his throat, but he nodded and hefted his rifle, and moved out towards the wood line. He’d never been given the responsibility of point before. On the one hand it filled him with a strange joy that Billings would entrust it to him. On the other hand, it scared the shit out of him.

You can’t be scared. Never again, remember? Never again.

He stepped through the woods, his eyes jagging down only long enough to pick the best spots to put his feet. There was a good quantity of pines in this line of woods, so he stuck to the quiet carpet of needles.

He could already see the sky on the other side of the trees. The woods were only about thirty yards deep. As he neared the far end of them, a glimmer of water became apparent.

He stopped, about ten yards from the end of the woods, holding up a fist. He sank to one knee and looked behind him, motioning Billings to come forward. The sergeant slunk up, Kate coming in behind him.

“What’s up?” Billings murmured.

Sam pointed to the water. It was a long drainage pond. Almost like a moat. It ran to the left as far as Sam could see, but over to the right a few hundred yards, he saw the woods wrap around it. On the other side of the water, which was only about fifty yards across, there was a road. Probably the road that Kate had mentioned. Beyond that, just a wide, flat expanse of open field.

“You want me to go through the water or around it?” Sam asked.

Billings shook his head. “No idea how deep that shit is. We better go around. Kate, where’s this place you’re talking about?”

Kate leaned this way and that, peering through the trees. “I can’t see it from here. But it’s in that direction.” She gestured northwest of them. “Big warehouse or factory looking thing, right in the middle of that field.”

“Alright.” Billings knifehanded in the opposite direction. “Sam, dog-leg us around this pond, and bring us up on the edge of that field on the far side. You see where I’m pointing?”

Sam nodded. “Got it.”

They moved out again. The civilians did a good job of stepping lightly through the woods. The end of the world taught you all sorts of things, and moving quietly in wooded terrain was one of them, if you didn’t want every primal within hearing on your ass.

That was good. But was it going to be enough? The primals had very good hearing. Could they hear them from the warehouse, less than a half-mile away?

Sam also became aware of the wind direction as he moved. It wasn’t much—just a light rustle in the tree tops. But it blew in a favorable direction. Southwest to northeast, Sam reckoned. It should keep their scent out of the primal’s noses.

It took them about ten minutes to dog-leg around the pond. Then they came to a slash of roadway, cutting through the trees. Sam stopped the column again, taking a moment to look both ways down the road before crossing. From this vantage point, he could just see the glimmer of sunlight on the roof of a large structure to the west.

They crossed the road, one at a time. Squad Four did it ranger-style, rifles pointing in both directions, covering the man crossing, but the civilians simply sprinted across as fast as they could.

Another ten minutes brought them to the western edge of the woods. Looking out across the field, Sam had the advantage of a slight rise in the land which let him see across the tops of the overgrown weeds, straight to the ground level of the structure in the distance.

As Kate had promised, it was massive. Just the type of place where primals liked to nest out.

Billings and Kate approached the front with Sam.

“That it?” Billings whispered, pulling his binoculars out.

Kate nodded. “Yeah. That’s the last place we tracked them to.”

Billings brought the glass up to his eyes, leaning against the side of a pine tree to steady himself.

Sam watched the tops of the weeds ripple in a breeze. A slight change of direction now. The field undulated, blowing towards the warehouse.

“Wind changed,” he murmured, feeling his stomach clench. “We’re upwind.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Billings replied, irritation at the elements making his tone curt. “Alright. I got motion. We do have primals. Small pack. One, two, three, four, five of them. Laying around outside. One’s sniffing around. The rest look relaxed.”

Billings passed the binos to Sam. He adjusted them, focused on the figures in the distance. From what Sam could see, there were three female primals that lay in a group, as though sunning themselves. One male crouched, grooming its matted brown hair that hung about its chest and shoulders like a mane. The fifth primal was also male. It stood a ways off from the others, on two legs. Then it would sink down to all fours and wander around, sniffing at the ground, and then at the air.

Despite the change in the wind direction, only the patrolling male seemed to be alert.

But it would only take one to raise the alarm.

There came a shuffling in the leaves behind Sam, and he lowered the binoculars and looked over his shoulder to find two of the civilian men approaching at a crouch.

“How many are there?” the first man said, his face rocky under his dirty black beard.

“Five,” Kate answered the man.

Billings thrust a finger backwards. “Get the fuck back in the column.”

He ignored Billings, choosing instead to look at Kate. “We can take five. We can take that no problem.”

Billings twisted to face the man. “There’ll be more inside. Now get back to where you’re supposed to be.”

The man finally looked at Billings, his gaze defiant. “Look, motherfucker, my daughter’s in there. I don’t give a shit what you say, I’m getting her out of there.”

Sam placed the binoculars on the ground beside him and slipped his hand to the grip of his rifle. No one seemed to notice.

Billings inched closer to the man. “You ain’t savin’ nobody if you get ripped apart first.”

“Fire a shot,” the man replied. “Draw the others out. See how many there are.”

“Are you fucking insane?” Billings hissed. “What if there’s a hundred of them? What are you gonna do then?”

The man hefted his rifle as though he hadn’t heard Billings.

Sam pivoted, but was unsure of what to do. If he fired a shot at the man it would be just as disastrous as letting the man shoot off his own rifle.

Billings reached out and slapped the muzzle of the weapon down. “Don’t do it!”

The man pulled back on his weapon, and a brief scuffle ensued that might have turned into a fight, if it hadn’t been interrupted by a sharp Psst! from further down the column.

Billings and the irate man halted in mid-struggle, both their heads whipping around.

Pickell, crouching several positions back, had his hand in the air, staring at them.

Further down the line, Sam saw the chain of communication, all the way from Corporal Ryan’s squad in the back. The message was relayed to them by Pickell, who splayed out all five fingers of his hand, and then pointed back towards the road.

“Shit,” Billings breathed. Then he gave the man a shove. “They’re behind us. Do not fire that weapon. You’re going to get us all killed.”

Sam eased his rifle stock into the pocket of his shoulder, the muzzle low, but ready to be snapped up.

At the rear of their column, Corporal Ryan’s squad appeared through the trees, obviously in a hurry. One of the half-boots held up both hands, flashing all ten fingers in the air. Then flashing them again.

Corporal Ryan reached the halfway point of the column before keying his radio. He hadn’t wanted to speak before, which meant that whatever he’d seen had been too close for comfort.

His voice was just a whisper over the squad comms in Sam’s ear. “Twenty plus primals. On the road. Coming our way.”

Kate moved to her feet beside Sam and caught the eyes of the two men that had moved out of position. She jerked her head towards the field, then motioned to the other civilians further back, who were fixed on her, rather than Billings.

Billings saw them start to move forward, and spun, his eyes wide and furious, as he spied Kate and her two men moving towards the tree line.

Sam reached out and grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

Kate shook his grip off. “We can’t move backwards, and we can’t stay here. The only way is forward.”

Billings moved back into the middle of them, and for the first time in a long time, Sam saw something on his face that looked like panic. He’d lost control. “Kate, this is not what we agreed on!”

She pointed to the field. “The weeds are tall. We can move through that without being seen. If there’s twenty-some-odd primals behind us, there can’t be that many more in the warehouse.”

“You don’t know that!”

Kate just shook her head and faced the field. “Then shoot me,” she whispered over her shoulder, knowing full well that they wouldn’t risk it.

She exited the tree line, the two men right behind her, moving low to the ground to stay beneath the tops of the weeds. The rest of the civilians converged around them, slipping out of the forest and into the field.

Billings crouched down, his grip working on his rifle. “Motherfuckers,” he whispered. “You motherfuckers.”

Sam gestured towards the drainage pond. “We can swim across. Back to the trucks.”

Billings shook his head as the last of the insubordinate civilians moved around him. “It’ll make too much noise and they’ll see us.”

“Sarge,” Sam braced himself. “We don’t have an option here. Kate might have a wild hair up her ass, but she’s right: We can’t get back to the trucks, and we can’t stay here.”

Billings rubbed his sweating forehead, then nodded. He’d lost control of the civilians, if he’d ever had control of them in the first place. But he knew the decision that had to be made, and there was no point in bandying about with it.

He keyed his comms. “All squads, get into the field. Fuck the civilians, they’re doing their own shit. Corporal Ryan, take up rear guard and give me a firing line twenty yards into the field, then hold position.”

No one responded over the comms, but the squads were already moving towards the wood line.

Sam turned. He could only see the last few civilians in the rear of the pack. The rest of them were lost in the weeds. He rose to his feet and slipped out of the woods, hunched over. He picked a path that had already been laid for him by one of the civilians, and moved into it.

The weeds engulfed him. He saw nothing but dried stalks and seed heads, and the bright blue sky above him. They had no visuals forward or backward. They were running blind, and if they stuck their head up to try to see anything, they’d blow their cover.

Sam forced his feet to keep moving and was only just conscious of Billings right behind him. His imagination conjured an image of all these tan grasses splashed with bright red blood. His blood. His body, ripped apart, his last moments nothing but weeds and gunfire and snapping jaws that loomed out of nowhere, unseen until they were latched onto him.

This is where you die, the small, fearful child in him spoke. This is the last thing you’ll ever see.

No. He couldn’t think like that. He wasn’t dead until he was dead. He could still figure a way out of this. He couldn’t let the fear control him.

Stay sharp. Don’t be afraid. Never again.

The child hiding under the stump was dead. Sameer Balawi was dead.

He was Sam Ryder now. And Sam Ryder had fought and survived this long, he could do it again. And if this was his time to go, then so be it. He would go down swinging.

Everything became stark and vivid.

The afternoon sun seemed to brighten. He saw the wisps of clouds, how they moved in the sky. He heard the quiet susurration of the breeze through the tall grasses. He heard the buzz of insects, the chirp of birds. He smelled earth and sweat. He felt every sinew in his body. The stippled grip of his rifle in his hand. The whiff of lubricants and carbon.

His perception of everything had been turned up to ten.

“Hold,” Billings’s whisper was sharp and loud in his ears.

He halted, sinking to a knee. Rifle up. Ready.

The sun baked his back. Sweat trickled down his forehead, into his eyebrows.

A grasshopper clung to the stem of a plant, creeping upward, its tiny eyes seeming fixed upon Sam.

“All squads, hold your positions,” Billings transmitted.

Sam glanced to the side, saw Billings pulling out the satphone, muttering curses under his breath. Sweat had gathered at his nose and dripped off, splattering the small screen as he dialed up the last number he’d spoken with.

In the silence of the field, beneath the drone of cicadas, and the papery shuffle of grasshoppers’ wings, Sam could hear Lee’s voice on the other end.

“Major Harden,” the voice answered, speaking over the background noise of a helicopter. Loud to Sam’s over-tuned hearing, but he knew that the sound wouldn’t carry.

“Major Harden, this is Sergeant Billings,” he whispered into the mic, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece. “What’s your ETA?”

“I can’t copy you,” the distant-yet-loud voice replied. “I’m in a helo, you gotta speak up!”

Billings blinked hard and shook his head. His voice didn’t get any louder, but he enunciated his words harder, slower. “I. Can’t. Speak. Louder. I. Need. An. E-T-A.”

A grumbled curse on the other end. “You asking for an ETA?”

“Affirmative.”

“We’re fifteen out. What’s going on?”

Billings raised his eyes, but could only see what Sam saw: The claustrophobic interior of an overgrown field. “We. Need. Help. A-S-A-P. We. Are. Surrounded. Shit’s. FUBAR.”

A pause. “I copy. Standby.”

The silence closed in on them. The ambient noises seemed to press on Sam like a box that grew smaller and smaller.

Lee’s voice: “We can push it to ten minutes, sergeant. That’s the fastest we can be there. I need coordinates.”

Billings breathed out through pursed lips. They trembled as he did so. “No. Coordinates. Interstate. Sixteen. And. Highway. Three-Oh-Seven. Large. Metal. Structure—”

A gunshot cracked.

Sam jerked. Everything came on at once, drawing to a pinpoint.

A sudden roar. A howl. Behind them. In front of them.

“Sonofabitch,” Billings snapped, abandoning any pretense of stealth. He gripped the satphone in one hand, raised his rifle with the other, and shouted into the mic: “Large metal structure! West of the intersection of I-Sixteen and Highway Three-Oh-Seven! We’re getting fucked! Billings out!”

He didn’t even bother to end the call. He slammed the phone into his cargo pocket and then keyed his comms: “All squads! All squads! Assault the building!”

TWENTY-NINE

─▬▬▬─

THROUGH

The only way out is through.

Sam plunged through the weeds. Briars slashed at his legs and arms. The warehouse stood ahead, jerking back and forth in Sam’s vision as he ran. The heads of civilians popped up, rifles raised, firing.

Shapes ahead, moving swiftly. At least a dozen more primals had come screeching out of the warehouse. He saw them now only as disturbances in the grass.

He fired at a swaying clump of weeds, fifty yards ahead. Had no idea if he’d hit anything.

Gunfire from behind.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. He saw the wood line they’d just come out of. Primals poured out of the trees from one end to the other, pressing and circling Corporal Ryan’s squad as they backed up, shooting.

Back to the front. Billings and the rest of Squad Four, in a line to Sam’s right. Sam matched his pace to theirs, not wanting to push too far ahead.

A shape erupted from the grasses, arcing through the air in a powerful leap, and landing on one of the civilians twenty yards in front of Sam. The bodies hit the ground in a mess of snarls and screams. There was nothing that Sam could do for that man. His screams were those of someone being torn open.

Sam snapped his rifle up, targeted the thrashing brush, and fired into it until the movement stopped.

Both eyes open. Movement to the left. Closing in.

Sam stamped to a halt, jerking his aim onto the primal as it sprinted through the grass at him, closing the distance so fast that Sam’s heart felt like it had stopped in his chest. He pulled the trigger as quick as his finger could manage. The red dot jiggled upward. He saw pink mist puffing out, but the primal didn’t stop. It leaped into the air, and all Sam saw was a wide open jaw and clawed hands reaching for him.

He cried out, sidestepping, still firing.

It hit the ground, just feet from him. Its claws scrabbled for purchase, trying to right itself, but Sam tracked his rounds across its back and into its head, splashing the weeds with red.

He backpedaled, swinging his rifle around, trying to find the next threat.

Movement to the left. Three of them, coming in quick and flanking him. Sam squeezed the trigger and got no bang. His support hand dropped to the mags on his chest rig, but in a flash remembered that a reload isn’t always your best option when a threat is closing with you.

He dropped his rifle and swept up his sidearm. A battered old Beretta 9mm. His thumb rammed the safety off as he punched out with both hands. The first trigger squeeze was long—double action. The next ones were short—single action.

The rounds split through the grass, some of them throwing up clods of dirt, some of them finding flesh.

Every round getting closer to an empty mag, and it wasn’t enough. The lead primal still charged him.

Sam kept backpedaling, shouting the only command he could remember from infantry training when you needed help: “One up! One up! One up!”

His back hit something. He felt an elbow hit his shoulder. Saw a rifle muzzle on the right side of his face. It burst, punching Sam’s eardrum out and splashing his face with heat. He ducked away from it, still firing his pistol until it locked back.

The charging primal hit the dirt, dead.

Billings stepped around Sam. “Get your rifle up!”

The next two primals split directions, going wide right and left. Billings’s rounds tracked the one on the right while the other swooped towards Sam.

There wasn’t time to get the rifle back up. Sam slapped a fresh mag into the pistol and fired the second the slide slammed home. Three rounds, point blank, straight into the nose of the primal as it lunged.

It toppled into Sam’s legs, spilling him onto the ground, his rifle swinging and striking him in the face. Sam rolled away from the primal, onto his side, and fired a final round into its temple, but it was already dead.

Boots scuffed up against Sam’s back and he felt someone haul him to his feet by the drag strap of his armor. He caught a single flash of Jones’s face, all wide eyes and bared teeth.

“Keep moving!” Jones screamed at him, yanking him towards the warehouse and then letting him go, taking up his own rifle again and firing first straight ahead, and then to the right.

Sam slammed his pistol back into its holster and snatched his rifle up, dumping the empty mag and seating a new one. Bolt forward. Buttstock to shoulder. Optic to eyes.

Billings, sprinting past him.

Sam forced his feet to move.

The only way out is through.

Three rounds into a shape in the grass, slumping it. Sam thrust through the brush. The primal rolled, its jaw hanging off by a tendon, its throat spurting gouts of bright red. Red dot on the hairline. Bullet to the brain.

Another figure, underneath the dead primal. The man screamed at Sam, clutching opened bowels like he might pack them back in. “Help me! Help me!”

Sam ran past him. He couldn’t help him. Threats first, wounded later.

The screams, the growls, the gunshots, they were everywhere now, in every direction.

Sam didn’t know what to shoot at anymore. Every moving brush could be a friendly or a primal. There was no target identification until it was too late.

It loomed up in front of him, just like his imagination had told him it would. He tried to get his muzzle up, but iron hands snatched it, whipped the muzzle away, sending his first shot careening off into the brush. It yanked the rifle out of Sam’s hands, but the sling caught, nearly jerking Sam off his feet.

He let the beast have his rifle. Drew his pistol. Shoved it into the gaping mouth and obliterated the brainstem. It collapsed onto him, driving him to the ground with it, blood gushing from its mouth and pouring over Sam’s chin and neck.

He thrust the primal off of him. Gasped for air. Fatigue growing in his muscles.

“Behind!” Someone screamed.

One of the half-boots hauled ass past Sam, not even stopping to look.

Sam staggered to his feet in time to see shapes converging. He raised his pistol again.

A face burst through the weeds. Eyes wide.

Sam only kept from punching Corporal Ryan’s brains out the back of his head by a bare millisecond. He removed his finger from the trigger. Ryan jolted past him without a word, reloading his rifle as he did.

Sam holstered again, getting his rifle back up. His blood-soaked neck felt cool and slick now. He spun, trying to orient himself.

There. The warehouse, only a hundred yards ahead. Assault the warehouse. That was all he knew. Get there. That was where he needed to be.

Thighs burning from high-stepping through the weeds, he took off again, his run more of a stumble at first, and then falling into a rhythm.

The claustrophobic chaos of the overgrown field dissipated like exiting a fog bank. His feet hit concrete. The parking lot that surrounded the warehouse.

He could see. Relief flooded him—and then was immediately squelched by what he saw.

A dozen primals. A scattering of bodies—some naked, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes.

One charged him on all fours. Sam fired until the mag went dry and the primal face-planted, fifteen rounds passed through its shoulders and out through its backend.

“Reloading,” Sam gasped to no one in particular, juking around the dying primal.

A man on his back, a primal straddling him. It ripped his arm out of his socket and tossed it away like a piece of trash. The man on the ground didn’t even scream, just watched it happen like he was confused about it.

Sam closed the distance, striking his bolt home and firing on the predatory face as it lunged for the man’s neck. Sam’s rounds killed both man and beast, and he felt nothing. There was no time to feel anything. No time to think.

He kept running.

Something slammed him in the chest out of nowhere, like a phantom had just hit him with a sledgehammer. Spall ripped at his chin and arms. He was dimly aware that he’d caught a stray round. His feet staggered. He glanced down to see shredded plate carrier and a ruined magazine.

Don’t stop.

The metal wall of the warehouse towered in front of him.

“Ryder!” The voice only just came through his ringing eardrums.

His eyes slipped across the surface of the wall and landed on Jones and Pickell, back to back, against the wall, rifles chattering.

Primals converging on them. One went down, spraying ribbons of red. Pickell’s rifle went dry and he screamed something that Sam couldn’t hear, diving for his pistol. Sam targeted the primal coming at Pickel, firing and firing, his trigger finger not moving as fast as he wanted it to.

The primal jerked into the wall, bounced off of it, and then fell.

Sam staggered into Pickell, smooshing the man against the wall with his shoulder. “I got you, buddy,” he wheezed, tracking another primal as it tore towards them, then seemed to falter, as though it wasn’t sure it wanted to attack any more.

Too late. Sam picked his shots, two to the chest and one to the head, knocking it flat on its back.

“I’m up!” Pickell called, his rifle reloaded.

“Where’s Sarge?”

“I don’t know!”

Sam pivoted off of Pickell, now standing between him and Jones. “Jonesy! You alright?”

Jones’s rifle swayed back and forth, but he didn’t shoot. “I’m good!”

Sam sucked in air and for the first time managed to expand his pinpoint vision and take in more than just what was right in front of him. “They’re running,” he called out, tracking two primals as they sprinted across the parking lot, not towards anyone, but seeming to head for the corner of the warehouse.

Sam led the first one and took a couple shots at it, punching a hole in its shoulder. The thing whirled towards him and flashed its teeth, but didn’t come at him. The pair of primals skittered around the corner of the warehouse and out of sight.

“They’re going back inside,” Pickell said. “They’re trying to hole up in there!”

A cluster of bodies flashed across Sam’s sight. They hit the wall like it was home base, all of them gasping for breath, wild-eyed and furious. Six men in uniform. Four in civilian clothes. One of them was Kate.

Kate locked eyes with him. “Where’s Billings?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, feeling his stomach lurch as he did. His eyes scanned the parking lot but saw only the dead. He couldn’t tell if any of the uniforms were Billings.

Kate turned back around. “We’re going in there.”

Corporal Ryan bucked off of the wall. “The fuck you’re not! We got ‘em to back off, now we need to get the hell out of here!”

Just hearing Ryan’s voice seemed to create a blaze in the center of Sam, scorching everything straight to ashes in one second flat. Sam grabbed his half-empty mag and swapped it out with a full one, striding towards Kate. “Shut the fuck up, corporal. We got this far, now nut up and fall in the stack.”

“Hey!” Ryan turned on Sam.

Sam butt-stroked him across the jaw. Ryan’s legs crumbled beneath him and he hit the ground, only managing to stay upright with a single hand to brace him. His eyes were stunned and vacant.

Sam stepped over him like so much rubbish and shouldered his rifle. “I’m with you, Kate. Let me take point.” He turned back to Jones and Pickell. “Y’all staying or coming?”

But they were already moving to join him.

Sam jogged around the jumble of civilians and half-boots, pointing to the half-boots as he went. There were only five of them left of the two squads. “Stack up on me!” Sam ordered as he moved towards the corner of the warehouse.

He stopped, about five yards from it, his rifle held up, eyes focused. He felt a hand touch his shoulder, the stack being formed up behind him.

Jones gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Ready.”

Sam shot a quick glance back. All five of the half-boots were with them, save for Corporal Ryan who was still staggering to his feet. Sam returned his focus to his sights, but called out loud enough for the others to hear: “Remember, there are civilians in there. ID your targets before you shoot.”

There was a lot of other shit to say, but no time to say it. Sam didn’t trust the half-boots as much as he did Jones and Pickell, but he trusted Kate and her civilians even less.

Jones patted his shoulder. “Move.”

Sam moved for the corner. Hit it hard, expecting to come face-to-face with a primal, but there was only a large rolling door ahead, darkness beyond it. A tremor shot through him, causing his red-dot sight to wiggle around. He bore down on the fear, denying it. He clenched the rifle harder until the shakes stopped.

There was no stopping now. The open garage door gaped in front of him, and he felt like he was not walking towards it, but instead being pushed by a force beyond his comprehension.

He didn’t pause at the door. He knew that if he stopped, his feet wouldn’t want to move again. He had the momentum. And it would carry him into that warehouse, and what happened after that was a mystery. There was only this second in time right now, and the second after that. His world was his gunsights, and the simple imperative: ID the target, take out the threat.

Into the darkness.

He thumbed his weaponlight on. The cold glow speared out. Machinery. Shadows. No movement. He cut a hard left, following the wall. One step in, one step over. Swept his sights across his area. Found nothing.

Jones held the far right, the beam of his weaponlight scanning across a defunct forklift.

Pickell split between Jones going straight in for two paces and then stopping. The five half-boots crowded in, their movements not quite as sure as Jones and Pickell’s.

“Clear left,” Sam called, then pushed from his position, moving around the half-boots as the civilians filed in.

“Clear right,” Jones called.

Sam slipped up to Pickell’s side. He held down what appeared to be a center aisle to all the machinery. Large bulks of steel housing and metal tubing. Sam had no idea what their original purpose was, and didn’t contemplate it. All he saw were hiding places.

The center aisle bisected the warehouse, and all along it the machinery hunkered in neat rows, and in each section of machinery Sam saw openings. Any of those openings could hold a threat, hiding, waiting to strike.

It was silent in the warehouse. The stillness felt like an ambush waiting to happen.

“Jones,” Sam said, jerking his head towards the center aisle. “On me.”

Jones moved to Sam’s side.

“Pickell, you keep your gun down the center,” Sam said, his voice lowering in the oppressive quiet. “Jones you clear right, I’ll clear left. We’ll push straight down the center towards the back of the building.”

“Rog,” Jones murmured.

Pickell only nodded.

Sam turned to the half-boots and civilians. “The rest of you stay on our ass and cover our backs. We’re moving.”

They punched down the center aisle, Pickell’s gun fixed forward, Sam on his left shoulder, Jones on his right. At each intersection of machinery, Sam and Jones pivoted as they moved, clearing the alleys between the steel bulks.

“Watch the tops,” Jones called out. “You know how they like to climb shit.”

Another intersection. Clear. Then the next. Clear.

“Contact,” Pickell blurted, but didn’t fire.

Sam didn’t look. They were on the next intersection, and he kept his sights where they were supposed to be. Clear left. Clear right. Keep moving.

“What you got?” Sam said.

“Something peeked out at the very end,” Pickell replied, his voice taut.

“Stay cool,” Sam urged. “We’ll get to it.”

Only a few of the half-boots had weaponlights, but when they scanned, Sam saw their shadows jump out, growing and stretching, flashing in this direction, and then that. Visual confusion. He peered through it, eyes straining.

Breathe.

God, but he kept forgetting to breathe.

He sucked in through his nose. Out through the mouth.

The column pushed down the center of the warehouse. Halfway there now.

“Got a body!” Jones shouted.

Sam’s alley was clear. He nudged Pickell as he turned. “Hold up.” He glanced over Jones’s shoulder, where his weaponlight illuminated the alley to their right. A woman lay there on her back, naked. Filth all around her. Her head turned slowly, painfully. Her eyes fixed on them, unblinking despite the harsh light.

“Help me,” she whispered.

“Kate!” Sam called out. “Get one of your guys up here and ID this lady! Pickell, Jones, hold what you got!”

Kate charged forward, shouldering through the column of men. She stopped at Jones’s side, and then seemed to convulse. Like something was being torn out of her midsection. She jolted forward, then stopped. “It’s Monica! Where’s Dave?”

No one answered.

“Dave!” Kate shouted, her voice bordering on hysterical.

“Kate,” Jones said, his voice calm. “Dave might not have made it.”

“Help me!” Monica whimpered.

Kate started to move towards her but Jones caught her shoulder. “We gotta keep moving, Kate. We gotta clear the structure. We’ll come back for her.”

Kate shook, but didn’t move towards the woman on the ground. She stretched out her hand to the woman. “Monica, we’re here. We’re right here. We’re coming back, okay?”

“No! Don’t go!”

“We’re coming right back!”

“We’re moving,” Sam commanded before it could devolve any further. “Let’s go.”

They moved faster now. Monica’s cries were weak, but they pried at Sam’s brain. Pleaded with him to go back.

Clear left. Clear right. Still moving. Kate stayed with them, right between Sam and Jones.

Next intersection. Sam’s weaponlight illuminated the void.

Another body.

“Got another one!” Sam called, and Pickell halted.

Kate grappled her way around Sam. “Ashley!”

“Ashley?” A man’s voice called from behind them, pure and desperate. “Is that Ashley?”

Sam heard the man’s footfalls, running up to them.

He wished he wouldn’t. The body in Sam’s alcove didn’t move. Didn’t respond to the call of her name. Her face was sunken. Her eyes half-lidded, but what Sam saw of them was glazed over, pale and dry.

“Ashley!” Kate called out again.

“She’s dead,” Sam murmured.

The man barged into the middle of them, and Sam knew there was nothing he could do about this. The man was beyond his command. He ran to the body, dropping his rifle as he did and skidding on his knees through a skim of bodily waste.

Sam could smell it now. Wasn’t sure why he hadn’t smelled it before. It was thick in the air. Like sewage. The implications of it ran through the back of Sam’s mind, but he refused to dwell on them.

“Kate,” Sam said. “Station one of your men to watch his back. We gotta keep moving.”

“Contact again!” Pickell yelped. “It’s looking at me, Ryder. Staring right at me.”

Pickell fired a single shot that rocked the interior of the warehouse, then cursed. A brief chorus of growls came from the back of the building, and then was silent again.

“There’s more than one down there,” Pickell hissed. “I heard ‘em. They just growled at us.”

“Got another one over here, Ryder,” Jones said. “Kate, you gotta ID her!”

Kate turned, and though her face was streaked with tears, she seemed to have gone dead. The brutal task laid out before her was too much for her to accomplish with her emotions working. So she’d done what everyone does in these situations, and she’d strangled her emotions dead. For now.

She called to one of her men and ordered him to stand with the man who cradled the filth-smeared body of Ashley, groaning and weeping. Then she turned to Jones’s alcove, identified the woman with a voice devoid of any feeling. This one was still alive. Young. It must have been her father that went to her, and he wasn’t leaving her side either.

“We’re moving,” Sam said again.

They neared the back of the building.

Another intersection. Two more women. Two more men lost their cool and refused to leave them. Two more rifles down.

Two more women at the next intersection. Both dead. One man stood over his wife and stared and didn’t move. The other had no one to grieve for her. He was likely torn apart somewhere in the field, or in the parking lot.

Two more intersections. Four more women. All still living, but the men that had cared for them were not. The warehouse was no longer quiet. It wailed and it moaned and it cried out for help, as though haunted by tortured souls.

“Last one,” Sam said. “We’re at the back.”

“Contact!” Pickell called again.

Sam cleared left, saw nothing, then pivoted around, now facing the rear wall of the structure. He froze. Sam, Pickell, and Jones, in a line, their weaponlights illuminating the scene before them.

“Hold fire!” Sam wheezed, his breath leaving him in a gust.

He had no idea what he was looking at.

Ten figures squatted in a tight circle. Primals. Females. But they didn’t move. Didn’t attack. Didn’t howl. Didn’t bark. They just sat there on their muscular haunches, their teeth bared, their wild, predatory eyes searching through the glare of the weaponlights. They swayed back and forth, as though possessed of a desire to flee, but couldn’t. Something held them there.

“What are we doing, Ryder?” Jones murmured, his voice tight.

Sam blinked, trying to form his mind around what he perceived. He’d never been this close to a primal and not had it running at him. He was so off-kilter that he couldn’t tell up from down. But he had the sense that if they fired a single shot, the moment would shatter, and for some reason he needed to see this, needed to understand what was happening in front of him.

“Just…” Sam swallowed. “Just hold your fire! No one shoot!”

Something stood up from the center of the ring of female primals. Sam’s sights rose with it, the red-dot hovering over the face of it, and for a brief moment, Sam thought he was looking at another one of the missing women…

But it was wrong. The face was off. It didn’t have the gaping, inhuman jaws of a primal, but the eyes. The eyes that peered out at him from the curtains of tawny, dreadlocked hair—those were not human. The body was muscled, but it was not the hunched, chimp-like form of a primal. The arms were not elongated. The body was proportional, and…

Beautiful.

Sam’s stomach turned at the thought, like it had come from some other source than his own mind, but there it was, in all its naked, terrible, instinctive truth. His heart slammed in his chest so hard that each pulse made his red-dot jump.

This was what Loudermouth had seen. This was one of the queens.

A moment of clarity pierced through Sam’s haze of confusion. Doc Trent needed to see this. Sam was looking at the doctor’s theories, confirmed before his very eyes. To take the queen would be proof. It would give them information on the primals that they desperately needed.

Alive or dead? Alive would be more valuable. But Sam saw no way to accomplish that safely.

The queen raised her hand and pointed, out towards the open bay door at the end of the warehouse. Her mouth opened, forming a single, awkward syllable. “Go!”

Sam raised his sights to his eyes.

The primals surrounding their queen twitched, issuing a series of warning growls.

“Kill them all,” Sam whispered, and fired.

THIRTY

─▬▬▬─

HYBRID

The Blackhawk thundered in low over the field, the massive warehouse described by Sergeant Billings just ahead.

Lee hung out the left side with the gunner, staring down into the field below. Paths had been trampled through the field, converging, diverging, sprouting every which way, like spider veins on pale flesh.

Bodies flashed by amidst the intersecting paths. Primals and humans alike. Enough humans to make Lee wonder if there were any survivors at all. Had they gotten here too late? Billings had never ended the satphone call. Lee had listened, with one finger plugging his left ear, the speaker of the phone crammed against his right.

There had been shouts, and gunfire, and then growling and screaming, and finally, silence. Lee had terminated the call after that.

The Blackhawk pulled into a hover over a parking lot littered with more carnage, and Lee saw that there were survivors. One, at least. A man in old Army ACUs, standing in the middle of the parking lot and waving at the helicopter as it lowered to the ground.

It wasn’t Sam.

That little piece of information pressed at Lee’s head like an oncoming headache, but he gave it no room to metastasize further.

Lee hit the ground, his rifle up. His wounded left forearm made it hard to grip the rifle, but it supported it in loose, unwieldy fingers. He had one mag in his rifle, and one spare on his chest rig, as did the other operatives on the helicopter. That was all Moody could afford to give them.

Lee jogged to the soldier in ACUs, who squinted against the rotorwash, his arm up in front of his face.

“Who are you?” Lee demanded.

“Corporal Ryan, sir!” the man shouted over the helicopter.

“Where’s everyone else?”

Corporal Ryan pointed to the warehouse. “They’re in there! I ordered them not to go, but they disobeyed my orders! They were insubordinate, sir! Private Ryder—”

“You mean Sam Ryder? Is he alive?”

“He’s the insubordinate one! He—”

Lee shoved Corporal Ryan away from him. “You let your boys go in there by themselves?”

Corporal Ryan’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, and then he repeated himself: “They disobeyed my orders!”

“Yeah, I would have too, you prick.” Lee shoulder passed the corporal and jogged for the corner of the warehouse, Carl’s team behind him.

“They were insubordinate!” Corporal Ryan’s voice whined at Lee’s back.

Lee hit the corner, rifle up. No movement. No threats. One big, bay door, wide open. He pulled up short of the door, listening.

Voices from inside. Human voices.

Lee kicked the metal wall of the warehouse. “Private Ryder! This is Major Harden! Friendlies! Friendlies! You copy me?”

There was a momentary cessation of voices, and then one familiar one: “I copy, major! You’re clear!”

“Coming in,” Lee called, then peeled around the corner. He gave one quick scan, left to right, and then lowered his rifle.

Straight back at the other end of the warehouse, civilians and soldiers alike stood in clusters, guarded, but clearly not in the middle of a fight.

And there was Sam, right in the middle of them.

Lee jogged towards him, feeling things roiling around inside of him that he couldn’t put a finger on just yet—they all moved too fast. Perhaps relief. Perhaps pride. Fear and uncertainty.

As Lee moved down the center of the warehouse, he became aware of the alcoves between big blocks of machinery on either side—and what was in them. Civilian men, huddled over the crumpled bodies of women. Some of the women were alive. Others weren’t moving. In the faces of everyone his eyes landed on, there was something like what he felt inside of himself.

Relief, and fear, and uncertainty.

Sam stood amongst a ragtag collection of soldiers in various Army and Marine uniforms, some of them with mismatched tops and bottoms. Half-boots, Lee realized. And not many of them. Sam and two other soldiers that stood close to him wore OCPs, and Lee assumed they were part of Sam’s squad of Hunter-Killers.

Lee’s eyes tracked to the back corner of the warehouse, where a pile of dead primals were clustered. Then back to Sam. “Who’s got rank here?”

Sam blinked a few times, then glanced around. He gestured outside. “I think that’d be Corporal Ryan. He’s outside.”

“Corporal Ryan’s not feeling well,” Lee grunted. “Gimme someone else.”

The soldier beside Sam—his nametape read “JONES”—waved a hand at the gathered uniforms. “Rest of us are all privates, sir.”

“Where’s Sergeant Billings?”

Sam and Jones, and the third man—PICKELL, according to his nametape—all sort of scrunched in on themselves. Their eyes passed over one another, a look in them that Lee knew well, and confirmed what he had feared when he’d ended the satphone call.

“I, uh…” Sam swallowed hard. “I don’t think he made it through the field. We got overrun. They came at us from behind, and we had to assault forward to the warehouse. We didn’t have an option…”

Lee cut him off with a wave of his hand. “These things happen. We don’t have time to worry about them right now.” Lee pointed a knife-hand at Sam. “Private Ryder, you’re in charge for now. Consider yourself a sergeant until we get back to Butler.”

Sam opened his mouth, but it was Carl who spoke at Lee’s shoulder, nudging his arm.

“Can I speak with you a moment, major?”

Lee turned, frowning.

Carl met his gaze with a pointed look and jerked his head, indicating the need to step away for privacy.

The two of them stalked a few paces away and huddled close.

“Lee, I don’t think you should put Ryder in charge,” Carl whispered.

“Why not?”

“The kid back at Butler—the Benjamin kid you had to take out—he said something right before he died. He claimed that Sam was a Lincolnist, or at least had harbored a Lincolnist during the evac from Bragg to Butler. Sam’s girlfriend, I think.”

Lee stood there, staring at Carl, wondering for a fleeting few seconds if Carl was serious about this. But of course he was. Carl was always serious.

A few options came to Lee’s mind, the first being, “You’re overwrought about this Lincolnist shit,” and the next being, “Sam’s not a Lincolnist,” and the last being, “It was his girlfriend for chrissake, gimme a break.”

Lee passed on all of those, because they were fruitless arguments in the face of Carl’s stony countenance. And it didn’t matter. Lee didn’t need to convince Carl. He was the ranking officer. He made the calls.

“Sounds like some shit we can deal with when we’re back in Butler,” Lee said. “Once our asses aren’t hanging in the wind, you can feel free to run whatever investigation you see fit. For right now, let’s worry about getting these people the hell out of here. You got me?”

Carl’s lips tightened, his eyes zig-zagging across Lee’s face. Then he nodded. “Your call, major.”

Lee stalked back to Sam. “Sergeant Ryder, we spotted a large pack of primals—about forty or fifty—coming this way when we flew in. They’re a few miles out, but there’s a good bet this is where they’re headed, and we need to get gone before they arrive. How many wounded you got?”

Sam looked around him, his eyes narrowing as he did a quick count. “The women we found, I think there’s…” He stopped himself, then seemed to find a familiar face—a tall, gaunt woman a few yards away. “Kate. How many women we need to move?”

Kate’s eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but she seemed capable of focusing. “Eleven women. Eight are alive. Three dead.”

“Take the eight,” Lee commanded. “We don’t have room for the dead.”

Kate’s eyes blazed. “I can’t just—”

“There’s a dozen dead men in that field outside, you wanna take them too?” Lee snapped at her. “We don’t have room for the dead.” He turned back to Sam. “Get those eight living women on the Blackhawk outside. It’ll evac them to Butler. How many vehicles you got staged out on the highway?”

“Two pickups, three Humvees,” Sam answered. “Five.”

Lee nodded. “Put five men on the helo, too, it’ll drop them at the vehicles. Have them come back around and pick up the rest of us so we can get out of here. Everyone else, pull security while we wait, and pray that those fifty primals aren’t in the mood to run.”

To his credit, Sam accepted his new role and turned back to Kate. “Get your guys to load up those eight women. They cannot go with them, do you understand me?”

“What about me?” Kate asked. “I want to go with them.”

Sam shook his head. “Jesus Christ, Kate, don’t fight me on this shit again. For once just do what we’re asking you to do before we all fucking die here. I need you with me to get your people out of that hotel and back to Butler. Can you do that?”

Kate grimaced, but then turned to her people, beginning to organize them for carrying the women to the Blackhawk.

Sam gestured to the five half-boots. “Y’all go with ‘em and bring back those vehicles. Get them here double quick.”

The half-boots complied with a smattering of “yessirs.” Sam turned to Lee and nodded towards the pile of primal bodies in the corner. “Major, you need to see this.”

Lee followed Sam as he strode towards the corner, Jones, Pickell, and Carl in tow.

They gathered at the edge of the bodies. They were arranged in something of a circle. Lee frowned at the bodies, looking them over. “They’re all female.”

Sam nodded, but that was not apparently what he wanted Lee to see. He picked through the tangle of dead limbs, towards the center of the carnage. He looked around him with his rifle in both hands, as though expecting one of them to come alive again. Then he squatted down. Thrust one of the dead primal bodies to the side with a grunt, and then stopped, looking down at something.

“What is it?” Lee craned his neck.

Sam glanced up. “Jones, gimme a hand here.”

The soldier made a disgusted face, but then stepped through to Sam and bent down. The two of them grabbed a body, each man on an arm, and hefted it up into a sitting position. The head flopped back. Sam took it by the hair and righted the head, pointing the face at Lee.

Lee took a step closer, frowning. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a queen,” Sam said. “A brain. The one in control.”

Lee felt an involuntary shudder move down his back, causing his shoulders to tighten up. “Is it human or primal?”

“Doc Trent thinks it’s both,” Sam said. His gaze flitted out to where Kate’s men hoisted the naked forms of women up. “He thinks that’s why the primals are hunting down and capturing women. To, uh…”

Jones cleared his throat, his nose wrinkled. “He thinks they’re breeding with them.” Jones gave the body in his hands a shake. “Making more of these…crossbreeds, or whatever. Hybrids.”

Sam nodded, then found Lee’s gaze again. “We need to take this body with us. Doc Trent might be able to learn something from it. And even if he can’t, it’s proof of what Loudermouth saw. These queens are what’s controlling the primals. I don’t know how the hell they’re doing it, but it seems like they’re in charge, and maybe that’s what’s making the primals do smarter shit, like roadblocks and ambushes, and—”

“Trees,” Lee said. Then realized how nonsensical that sounded. “At Moody, the primals used trees to pile up against the high voltage wires. That’s how they busted the defenses and got in.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “We saw something like that in Charleston, too.”

Carl stepped forward, nudging one of the dead primals with his foot. “You saw the females out in the field, didn’t you, Lee?”

Lee nodded, his stomach turning, but also feeling a dark excitement. They’d got their first real insight into what the hell was happening inside the primals’ strange behavior. And knowing what motivated your enemy was invaluable.

Carl squatted down, gesturing to the ring of dead female primals. “The females. They were guarding this one in the middle, this hybrid. And out in Moody, the female primals made a call, and all the other primals seemed to answer it. It’s like…” he rubbed his nose with his wrist, vying for the right description. “It’s like a chain of command. This hybrid thing at the top. Then the females, like squad leaders. Then the male primals, like soldiers.”

Lee’s good hand crept up to his head. His fingers touched his sweaty scalp. Clawed their way back to the base of his skull. He felt shaky all over. “All those women. The ones they took out of Moody.” He looked behind him as the procession of incapacitated women were carried out of the warehouse. “This is what they’re gonna do to them.”

Carl stood up. “I’d say that’s a safe bet.”

Lees’ mind raced through all the new problems that this created, and came to a single, heartless conclusion: I can’t do anything for them.

The United Eastern States was barely staying upright. They would not be able to manage rescue ops for those women from Moody. And if the people of Moody found out about what was happening to them—that they were being kept alive—then it would be hell on earth to keep them restrained, just as they hadn’t been able to restrain Kate and her people. And the bodies of their dead soldiers and civilians outside was a testament to how bad these rescue operations would turn out.

For a fleeting moment, Lee wished he was back in Texas, with Abe. Grinding it out in the battlefield. Hunting down the people that had done them wrong. A simpler existence. Finding threats and eliminating them, and not being responsible for the welfare of thousands of people.

But you’re not there. You’re here. This is your new reality.

Lee sucked in a breath. “Ryder, take the body with us. But listen to me, all of you. No one says a word about this. Do you understand me?” He made eye-contact with each of the gathered men. “If word gets out about what’s happening with the primals and why they’re taking the women, shit’s going to fall apart. People will lose their goddamned minds and run off in all directions trying to do what Kate just did, and it’s going to fuck us over big time.”

“What about Kate and her people?” Sam asked. “They already know.”

Lee nodded. “When we get back to Butler, I’m going to keep them sequestered. I’ll make up a reason. Leave that part to me. We only need to sit on this until we figure out what the hell’s going on with Greeley and Fort Bragg. Once we can get ourselves some room to breathe, we can let the truth out. But not before. Can we all handle that?”

A slow procession of uncertain nods.

“Ryder, relay that to your soldiers as soon as you can,” Lee said.

Sam dipped his head. “Yessir.”

Outside of the warehouse, the background noise of the Blackhawk’s rotors changed its tone, spooling up into a thunderous clatter as the bird lifted into the sky, transporting the wounded women back to Butler.

Another loose end. Lee swore under his breath and drew out his satphone from the pouch on his rig. He dialed up Butler, as Pickell moved to assist Sam and Jones with the body of the hybrid female, and Carl stalked away, calling to his team and motioning them to take up security positions.

“Butler Command.” It was Lopez, from the TOC.

“Lopez, this is Major Harden. I need to speak to the president.”

“Standby, major.”

Holding the phone to his ear, Lee followed Sam and his two remaining squad members as they carried the dead body down the center aisle of the warehouse. After a moment, the speaker rustled in his ear, and Angela’s voice came over.

“Lee, what’s going on? Is Sam okay?”

For a moment Lee felt an old, disturbing feeling. One that he’d felt a long time ago and had worked hard to rid himself of. He’d known Angela since the very beginning. Since his first days out of the bunker, and for a long time afterward, it had been Lee, and Angela, and Abby, and Sam. Like a strange family cobbled together out of mutual tragedy.

Lee hated that feeling. He hated that for brief flashes, Angela felt like some strange form of spouse, and Sam their adoptive son. Viewing them like that brought with it all sorts of undesirable feelings.

It was baggage. It weighed him down.

He’d never let that take control of him, and he’d fought it every step of the way.

And now, facing it again, he bared his teeth like a dog backed into a corner and shook his head. “Ryder’s fine. The squads took heavy casualties. We’re evac-ing now. I need you to listen to me.”

Lee stopped walking, about halfway down the warehouse. Ahead of him, the remainders of Kate’s civilians and Carl’s team and Sam’s soldiers clustered around the bay doors, out of earshot of him.

“I’m listening, Lee.”

“There’s a helo inbound to Butler right now. I need you there when it arrives. It’s carrying eight wounded women. You need to get them into the hospital for treatment, but you need to keep it quiet. No one asks them any questions about what happened, and you tell the staff at the hospital to keep their mouths shut about anything they hear.”

Angela’s voice came back tense and quiet. “Lee, what’s going on?”

Lee lowered his voice. “The primals. They’re raiding settlements and taking the women alive. They’re…shit…Angela, don’t breathe a word of this. They’re breeding with the human women—”

A sharp intake of breath.

“—They’re impregnating them to make some sort of human-primal hybrid. I don’t have all the details. I think Doc Trent might be able to fill in some blanks, but that’s the basic gist of it. The hybrid that’s born from this serves like some sort of queen, and it’s these queens that are controlling the larger hordes of primals.”

Angela made a small, choking sound, but when she spoke again, her voice had returned to normal. “If this gets out…”

“Then we’re gonna lose control of people,” Lee finished. “Yes. That’s why you need to keep it under wraps for as long as possible. Otherwise everyone that’s lost a mother or daughter or wife on a raid from the primals is going to go ape-shit and run out there on some hair-brained mission to try to save them. And we cannot have that happen right now.”

“I understand,” Angela said, all inflection gone from her voice. “I’ll take care of it. Your people out there—are they in danger?”

Lee started walking to the front of the warehouse again. “It looks like the horde of primals that was nesting here was split up. Half of them were here when the rescue op went down. I spotted what I think is the other half moving in on our location, but we have a few minutes’ grace. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Okay,” Angela said. “Be safe. Get home.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, Angela.”

THIRTY-ONE

─▬▬▬─

DECISIONS

Marlin sat on the dingy couch, his elbows on his knees, staring at the dead satphone in his hand. His heart beat a hard, insistent rhythm in his chest. It was a rhythm he was familiar with, uncomfortable every time he felt it.

It was the rhythm of his conscience, battling with his sense of duty.

Wibberley stood on the other side of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest. “What’d they say?”

“Lineberger tried a coup against Briggs. It didn’t go well. Lineberger’s out of the picture now. Worley and Guidry are giving up our location to Briggs. They said they don’t have a choice.”

Wibberley pressed himself harder into the wall, tilted his head back, and regarded the popcorn ceiling over his head. Marlin raised his gaze and inspected his second in command.

Did he feel what Marlin felt?

Did his conscience urge him to defy his orders?

“What do they want us to do?” Wibberley said to the ceiling.

“There’s a full-on invasion force moving in on Fort Bragg,” Marlin said. “By tomorrow morning, they’re going to have something in the neighborhood of two companies’ worth of motorized infantry, with some light air support from drones.”

Wibberley appeared to be running numbers in his head. “What’s Angela got? A dozen squads of motorized infantry? A handful of half-trained light fighters? A bunch of civilians with guns?” He shook his head. “Their defenses are shit. Built to keep the infected out, not a motorized assault. Greeley drops a few bombs to soften the target, hits it with their guntrucks. This place’ll go down in flames.”

“They’ve got no fucking chance,” Marlin agreed. “Half the civilians, armed or not, are gonna hightail it. The other half are gonna get stuck in house-to-house fighting and get waxed. This place is gonna be a blood bath in about twenty-four hours.”

Wibberley pushed himself off the wall. “Mack, we need to take our exit. Angela and Lee both promised us safe passage out of here. Let’s get gone before the doors close.”

Marlin’s knees started jumping. Fidgeting. He tapped the satphone against his palm.

Wibberley took a step toward him. “Captain,” he said, in that tone he got when he felt like Marlin was about to make a shitty decision. The same tone he’d used when Marlin had been about to rip that Benjamin kid’s head off for sending them into Bragg after a dead body. “What are you thinking right now? I’m talking, but I feel like you’re not hearing me.”

“I’m hearing you,” Marlin murmured. “Just thinking.”

“Not a whole lot to think about here, mate. We got twenty-four hours to get out of harm’s way. Command clearly doesn’t see the United Eastern States as the best option. They want to back Greeley and President Briggs. That’s their call. Those are the orders.”

Marlin stood up, dropping the satphone on the battered coffee table in front of him. “Actually, there’s a lot to think about.”

Wibberley made a low groan in his throat. “You been out in the Yukon too long, Mack. Maybe you’re starting to feel a little disconnected to the people you’re actually supposed to be serving. Maybe you’re starting to feel like you have to make all the calls, instead of just doing what you’re told.”

Marlin rounded on him. “Yeah, maybe I am. And you know what? You weren’t there in the Yukon. You didn’t see the shit we left behind when we were following orders. Maybe for once I wanna fucking sleep at night, you ever think about that?”

“We did it in the Highlands,” Wibberley murmured, his eyes sparking. “We had to leave people behind. We had to write off entire cities. So don’t act like I don’t know what’s going through your head.”

“And you’re okay with it?” Marlin demanded.

“No, I’m not fucking okay with it!” Wibberley dragged his palms across his face. “It’s just…it’s just…if I suddenly decide that orders are suggestions, then what’s that mean about all the shit we’ve already done?”

“It means we were wrong,” Marlin said. “It means that we did the wrong thing. And this?” Marlin stabbed a finger down. “This is wrong too. So do you wanna keep doing the wrong thing or do you want to do the right thing for once?”

“Like what?” Wibberley planted his hands on his hips. “What’s the right thing, Marlin? Not just the right thing now, but the right thing for the future? The right thing for everybody? Do you think you got all that figured out? Are you fucking clairvoyant now?”

“The right thing is not leaving these people to die.”

“According to who?”

“According to me, goddammit!” Marlin turned, almost self-conscious at his emotional state, and saw his team, seated in the dining room, or standing up against the walls, regarding him with shuttered eyes and guarded expressions.

Marlin thrust a hand out at them, as though wishing for affirmation. “We’re the ones that have to live with these decisions. It’s all easy for command. These people are just pawns in a game, just numbers on a paper. But they took us in. They gave us a house. They’ve been working to save their people, to try to build something that at least looks like a normal society. And we’re gonna trash it. For what? So that some psychopath a thousand miles away can establish some horseshit version of the United States?”

Marlin shook his head, irritable at his team, because he could see that they were not won over by this argument. “Politics aside, these are people. They’re good people. I can’t just leave them to die. I can’t do that again.”

Wibberley approached, his hands up, his tone soft. “Mack, these people can’t be your proxy for the ones you left behind. Saving them won’t save the ones you already let die. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter what you do or say to these people. Greeley is coming for them, and they’re going to die. Even if you warn them. Even if we stay here and fight alongside them. Everyone’s gonna die.”

It was Marlin’s marksman at the kitchen window that spoke up, not bothering to turn his head to address his superiors, but staying in his scope. “If we tell them what’s coming, they might choose to evacuate. It’s not a foregone conclusion that they’ll just stand and fight an impossible fight.”

“And if you do tell them, then what?” Wibberley pressed. “Ex-patriots, that’s what. You think you can just leak the information you’ve been told not to leak and still get welcomed back to your country with open arms? If Butler packs up and moves, you think our command won’t know it was us that warned them? You might never see Canada again. I might never see England. Have you thought about that? Is that what you want? To live the rest of your lives with a buncha Yanks? Become one with a smattering of Southern American rednecks?”

Marlin drew himself up, realizing he’d made his decision, even as the words came to his mouth. They pushed him beyond the precipice of the theoretical, and into the real. “They’re just people.” He stopped himself before he began to ramble, because it would do no good. If anyone on his team backed him, they would back him. Those that wouldn’t, probably would not be convinced by anything he said. He took the pistol from his holster and laid it down on the coffee table.

“Mack, what are you doing?” Wibberley said.

“I’m going out there. I’m going to warn them. This doesn’t come back on you guys. I’m making this decision all by myself. If you want passage out, you can take it. Go home. I’m not gonna hold it against any of you. But I can’t do this again. I won’t.”

Marlin turned towards the door.

“They said they’d shoot you if you stepped out of the house,” Wibberley warned.

Marlin shook his head. “They won’t shoot an unarmed man with his hands up.”

“You don’t know that! They might actually be the type that follows their fucking orders!”

Marlin ignored the parting shot and opened the door.

Late afternoon air gusted in. It dried some of the sweat that had been gathering on him in the stuffy interior of the house. He was aware that Wibberley might be right—they might shoot him on sight, as their orders had demanded. But his feet moved, one in front of the other, down the steps. He’d made his decision, and he wasn’t going to stop.

He raised his hands high above his head and stepped out a few paces from the house and stood there on the front walk. To his right came a shout, and then the roar of a big diesel engine. But no shot came for him.

He held his breath, hoping that trigger fingers weren’t too itchy today.

A Humvee rocked to a stop at the curb in front of him, followed by another. The doors shot open, the turrets swiveled to face him. Soldiers poured out, dressed in a mix of ill-fitting fatigues in various patterns.

Half-trained light fighters indeed, Marlin thought, and he almost laughed at them as they ran up, their rifles trained on him, but in no particular order, with no particular tactic in mind. Just creating a firing line that, should Marlin have had different motivations, could’ve been chewed up by a steady burst from their machine gunner in the house behind him.

They’ve got no chance against Greeley. And that’s why you have to save them.

The apparent leader of these humble troops stepped forward, his rifle up, his voice pitched high with the stress of this sudden adrenaline dump in his system.

“Don’t fucking move!” the kid shouted at him.

Marlin remained still. “I’m not moving. I’m unarmed. I am not a threat.”

The kid blinked, then glanced at the house behind Marlin, as though realizing what a shitty position he’d put his men into. “Hey! Watch the windows!”

Undisciplined, the soldiers all turned their guns on the house as one, leaving their squad leader as the only one with a rifle addressed at Marlin.

“You,” Marlin said, fixing his gaze on the leader. “What’s your name?”

The kid’s jaw worked a few times, as though wondering whether he should reveal such information. And then he blurted, “Corporal Perkins. What are you doing? You were ordered to remain in the house!”

“Corporal Perkins,” Marlin spoke calmly, trying to diffuse the younger man’s heightened tension. Maybe keep his finger from going to that trigger. “I have very important information that I need to pass on to your president. I am not shitting you, this is a matter of life and death for everyone in the Butler Safe Zone.”

Corporal Perkins seemed off-balance. He continued blinking, his mouth making various shapes, like he was near to deciding what to say, and then kept second-guessing himself. He settled on, “Give me the information. I’ll pass it on through the radio.”

“That’s a negative, corporal. This information is for President Houston’s ears only.”

“Shit. Uh…uh…Bailey!”

“Sir?” one of the other soldiers called out.

“Get your radio out and come here.”

Bailey hustled over. He wore an old PASGT helmet that wobbled about, a size too big on his head. He fumbled with a radio that was stuck in a mag pouch of his 1990’s-style Load Bearing Vest, and held it up.

Corporal Perkins kept his rifle on Marlin. “Call in to command. Get the president on the line.”

“The president?” Bailey balked.

“The fucking president, yes!”

“Yessir.” Bailey keyed the radio and held it up. “Uh, Private Bailey, on post over at the, uh, where the Canadians are at. I need to speak to the president. Uh…over.”

A gruff voice that Marlin recognized as First Sergeant Hamrick came over the line. “Private Bailey, what in the fuck are you doing right now? Where is your squad leader? Why am I even talking to you right now?”

Bailey’s face blanched. “Uh, yes, sir, sorry, sir, Corporal Perkins is here with me. We have a bit of a situation? Here with the Canadians? Corporal Perkins ordered me to call in and ask for the president. Over.”

“Christ and a crooked crutch,” Hamrick growled. “You better start making sense, boy.”

Marlin slowly extended one of his raised arms, fingers waving for the radio. “Private Bailey. Corporal Perkins. Let me speak to him. I’m an officer. I have some authority. He might listen to me.”

Baily and Perkins exchanged a worried look. Then Perkins nodded. “Give him the radio.”

Marlin took the radio and keyed it. “First Sergeant Hamrick, this is Captain Marlin with the Canadian delegation.”

There was a long pause on the line, behind which Marlin was certain Hamrick was cursing up a storm. But when he transmitted his voice was level. “Captain Marlin. I’d love to know why you have one of my radios in your hand, but let’s save that for another time. What is it that you want?”

“First off, everything is fine out here. I’ve exited the house, unarmed, with my hands up. Your men intercepted me. No shots have been fired. This is all very peaceable. I need to speak to President Houston, first sergeant. I have very sensitive information that needs to be passed directly to her.”

Another long pause on the other end.

Then: “Standby.”

A solid minute passed in tense silence. Marlin let his arms sink so that he was just holding them up at shoulder height. Corporal Perkins seemed to notice, but didn’t say anything about it.

The radio crackled. “Captain Marlin,” Angela’s voice came over, barely hiding extreme agitation. “You have the president on the line. Speak.”

“Madam President, I have information that you need if you want to keep your people alive. It is very time sensitive. I have a single request, before I give this information to you.”

“Alright.” She sounded cautious. “What is it?”

“I need your personal guarantee that in exchange for the information I’m going to give you, you make good on your promise to allow my team to leave Butler, unharmed and unmolested. I will remain behind and—”

A sudden stir across the line of soldiers cut Marlin off.

“Hands up! Hands up!” the soldiers started shouting over each other.

Marlin turned, looking back at the house, and observed Wibberley exiting, his arms over his head. Following him came their two squads, one at a time, hands raised high.

“Our hands are up,” Wibberley shouted back. “We’re unarmed. Christ.”

“Stop right there!” Corporal Perkins bawled. “Don’t get any closer!”

Marlin’s team stopped at the bottom of the steps, just a few yards from him. They were all unarmed. To a man, their expressions were both tired and bemused by the performance of the soldiers holding guns on them, if not slightly concerned.

Wibberley made eye contact with him. “Alright, Oh Captain My Captain. You fucking wank. I want you to know that I strongly disagree with what you’re doing. But we are a team. We’re in this together.” He sighed. “So, go on. We have your back. In it to the end and all that shit.”

“Captain Marlin?” the radio called in his hand. “I didn’t catch the last part of that transmission. Can you finish your request?”

Marlin smiled grimly at Wibberley and gave him a nod. Wibberley nodded back. “Madam President, you can disregard my request. It appears my soldiers would like to stay here and render what aide we can. May I meet you in person?”

A few seconds passed. “Is Corporal Perkins on the line?”

Corporal Perkins twitched at the sound of his name coming from the president’s lips. He looked at Marlin and nodded. “I can hear her.”

“He can hear you, Madam President. Go ahead.”

“Corporal Perkins, escort Captain Marlin to the TOC. Unarmed, please.”

THIRTY-TWO

─▬▬▬─

PLANS

As night fell on Fort Bragg and its adjoining Pope Air Force Base, the two C-130’s came in for their second round trip.

Captain Perry Griffin watched from the side of the flight line, leaning on the hood of a Humvee as the whine of their turboprops grew to an all-encompassing roar. Beside him, Mr. Smith stood, having swapped his black Cornerstone polo shirt for an OCP combat shirt, though he still wore a simple pair of khaki pants.

“Uno mas,” Mr. Smith observed over the racket.

Griffin gave the man a sidelong glance. His name really was Smith, Griffin supposed, but being introduced to someone that went by “Mr. Smith,” gave him an old familiar feeling of dealing with some shadowy CIA agent in Afghanistan.

Did Griffin resent having a load of Cornerstone troops dropped on him, followed by actual paper orders that said they were more or less in charge? He wasn’t sure yet. Mr. Smith had born him the news of Lineberger’s disastrous coup attempt, which had only made Griffin thoughtful. He bore no great love of Lineberger—the man had been a salty asshole. But here, at the cusp of an invasion, it made Griffin feel that everything was a bit wonky. And that’s not how you wanted to feel going into an invasion.

As the tires touched down with a screech and a belch of smoke, Griffin turned to look out to the perimeter of the airfield. It was full dark now, but he knew that out there in the darkness his troops (or Mr. Smith’s?) kept a tight perimeter.

There were no high-voltage wires around Pope Air Force Base to keep the infected out. They’d had to resort to actual manpower. The first payload from the C-130s had planted plenty of boots on the ground, along with pallets of rations and ammunition. Griffin—with consent from Mr. Smith—had set them to guarding the perimeter en masse.

There’d been some light contact earlier in the day, but the combined fire from a block of troops had convinced the infected that this was not the prey they wanted to pursue, and the horde of them, which reports put around fifty, had skittered back off into the woods, leaving a dozen of their dead behind.

Were they still out there? Watching them?

Thermal scans said no. But they were tricky bastards, these infected around here. Out in the plains states where Greeley had command, the infected had evolved with a similar appearance—strong, fast, inhuman in form—but Griffin had never seen them gather together in large hordes like they did out here. Out there, packs of five and ten were the norm. On the East Coast, it appeared the infected were doing things differently.

As the two giant birds rolled to a stop and downshifted their props, the tanker trucks that had arrived in a convoy from Greeley earlier in the day, rolled out to meet them. Griffin was aware that they bore the last of the fuel that Greeley had. Griffin needed to make this invasion work, or there’d be hell to pay.

“So,” Mr. Smith said, no longer having to shout to be heard. “Butler, Georgia. You got the distance and routes?”

Griffin nodded, turning back to the hood of the Humvee, where an atlas had been folded out, kept steady from the wind by a loaded magazine on each corner. Griffin thumbed on the weaponlight of his M4 that sat on the hood, casting a sharp angle of light across the map.

“I-Ninety-Five down to I-Twenty should get us the most of the way there. Might have to bypass a few urban areas.”

“Any intel on defenses?”

Griffin shook his head. “Best we got was an assurance from our Canadian friends that it was quote-unquote poorly defended.”

“What’s our mobility look like?”

“We’re only getting a handful of guntrucks from Greeley, enough to move maybe a quarter of what we got landed. So far my team’s been able to pull fifteen decently sized pickups and SUVs leftover from Bragg. If we really cram everyone in, nut to butt, we can probably field everyone. Fighting vehicles up front. Civilian vehicles as reinforcements.”

Mr. Smith nodded along. “Works for me.”

Out on the airfield, the tanker trucks gave the birds their last bit of fuel, while the loadmasters lowered the ramps, exposing four guntrucks in each C-130, a mix of Humvees and MATVs.

“The birds’ll get back with the last payload sometime in the early morning. Then we’ll be mobile after that.”

“I want the drones in the air as we are setting out,” Mr. Smith said.

Griffin frowned. “That’ll put them there way ahead of us.”

Mr. Smith eyed him. “Yeah. We drop some Hellfires on ‘em, soften the target.”

“And tell them we’re coming.”

Mr. Smith shrugged. “Doesn’t much matter. If their defenses are as shitty as the intel suggests, we should make quick work of them whether they’re ready for us or not. And besides that, I really think some missiles might be a deterrent. Might make them think twice about standing and fighting. Might make our job a little easier going in.” Mr. Smith raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you think?”

Griffin stared at him for a moment, reading the subtext loud and clear.

It doesn’t matter what you think. He might be here as an “advisor,” but the orders make it pretty clear who’s in charge.

Griffin dipped his head. “Yeah. I get what you’re saying.” He tapped his fingers on the cold hood of the Humvee. “Might be a lot of civilian casualties.”

Mr. Smith appeared unconcerned. “There are no civilians in Butler, Captain Griffin. Don’t kid yourself about that. There’s just insurgents. Men, women, and children with guns, that’ll put a bullet in you and your men just as soon as spit on them. Best to give them some charred corpses. Make them think about that for a bit before we roll in.”

The work lights from the C-130s and the crews lit up Mr. Smith’s face in stark shadows. He smiled, but the lighting made it look like a grimace.

“Back when I was Airborne, we’d sing that old song. You know the one? ‘Napalm Sticks To Kids’?”

Griffin didn’t smile back. He was familiar with the song. Call him a prude, but it’d always struck him as fucked up. Even as an eighteen-year old recruit with nothing but dropping bodies on his mind, it still made him feel queasy.

Mr. Smith chuffed and shook his head. “Wish we had some fucking napalm.”

***

Commander Renoux of the Moody Safe Zone stepped out of the hangar and into the cooler night air. It whisked away the scents of blood and urine and shit, and he sucked it in and breathed it out with a single quake in his chest.

He’d never been a ground pounder. Never been in actual combat. He’d run a flight line in this very place, back when it was Moody Air Force Base. And in the days after the collapse, he’d seen plenty of the horrors that he’d never experienced in a war theater.

He considered himself hardened by it. Yet the groans and screams of the wounded in the hangar had begun to claw at him. At first it garnered compassion from him, heartbreak. But as the hours wore on, those sounds began to break him down.

Compassion gave way to a sort of tense and baseless irritation that he would not acknowledge because it was just too damned horrible of him to think like that. But it was there nonetheless, coiling in his gut, making him feel twitchy and on edge.

The sounds still came at him from behind, bleeding through the open bay door of the hangar, but at least they came from only one direction now. They didn’t surround him, or penetrate him.

He looked across the airfield and saw lights shimmering in the darkness as a handful of engineers tried to repair the breaches in the high-voltage lines. Backlit by that glow, he saw a figure jogging up.

It was Lieutenant Berkley, the woman in charge of the engineers. She stopped in front of him, sweating despite the cool breeze.

“Lieutenant,” Renoux acknowledged.

“Sir, we can’t get these things to tension right,” she spat out. “We’d need to replace the entire span between the two breaches, which is nearly a half-mile of wire, and we don’t have it. We don’t have enough surplus to hold them tight. Otherwise they’re gonna hit the chainlink and ground out and cause a big fucking mess.”

Renoux knew this was coming, but still felt his stomach sink. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice soft. “Pull your crews. Leave the breaches.”

Berkley blinked in shock. “But, sir—”

Renoux shook his head. “Even if we somehow managed to get the defenses back up, then what? The primals can just pile on more trees, just like they did before. And that was with us shooting at them. We’ve barely got a magazine per rifle in service right now. There’s no way we’d be able to stop them if they came back.”

“We don’t know if they’ll come back.”

“No, we don’t. But I’m not gonna risk it.” Renoux took another deep breath and let it out. “I’m calling the evac. I’m making the call. Pack your people up. Get ready to move.”

***

In another part of the ruined Moody Safe Zone, a different meeting took place.

Rumors spread fast in a place like this. Kind of like the flu in a group of people trapped inside a building. Someone had heard it from a friend, that had heard it from a friend, that had eavesdropped on a pair of soldiers whispering, that claimed to have heard it from Renoux, that had heard it from Lee Harden himself.

Greeley was making a move on the United Eastern States. They didn’t know where, or when, but the rumor was there, and for certain factions of people, it wasn’t bad news. It rekindled a hope that they’d thought they’d lost when Elsie Foster was murdered by the tyrant Angela Houston.

In a dark house, around the corner and down the road from the hangar, two dozen people were crammed into a single, stuffy living room, men’s and women’s faces lit by a handful of candles in the center, like a séance.

“You’ve all heard it,” one man said. “Greeley’s on the move.”

“But where to?” another one asked.

“No idea,” the first one answered. “But the best strategy would be straight into the heart. Right to Butler.”

The front door of the house opened. All heads turned. A few guns came up.

A woman paused in the doorstep, raising a single hand and showing her face. Everyone recognized her. They relaxed, and she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She seemed out of breath.

“Renoux just made the call,” the woman said. “We’re evacuating.”

“Where to?”

“Sounds like Butler.”

A brief scuttle of murmurs took the group, followed by silence.

The first man that had spoken stared into the candlelight. He nodded. Raised his eyes to those gathered around him. “We’ve got allies in Butler.”

“If Gilliard hasn’t murdered them all,” someone growled.

“He hasn’t. There’s no way he got all of them. Word has it, he’s been focused on whoever made it out of Fort Bragg. Hasn’t even turned his attention to those of us that are hiding in Butler.” The man nodded. “They’re still there. Waiting for an opportunity. And this is it.”

“Any way to get in contact with them?” the woman who had just arrived asked. “Pull them out of there? We can meet up somewhere. Maybe help Greeley assault when they come.”

The first man shook his head. “Now, why the hell would we do that?”

Silence.

“No point leaving Butler just to have to fight our way back in. We’ll be much more effective if we’re already inside when the assault takes place.” The man hunched forward onto his elbows, lowering his voice, though there wasn’t anyone around to hear them talk but themselves. “We need to go. We need to play the part, for just a little bit longer. This is what Greeley needs from us. They need people on the inside. So follow the evac order. Get your shit together, but make sure you pack more guns than personal items. When we get to Butler, we’ll meet up with our friends there.”

He leaned back. Rubbed his palms across his thighs. “Then we just wait. When Greeley hits from the outside, we hit from the inside.”

“They won’t know who we are,” another man pointed out. “They’ll fire on us just as much as everyone else in Butler.”

The first man raised an eyebrow. “Not if we have a runner. A messenger. Hear me out.” He tapped his upper arm. “We wear armbands of a certain color. We have someone camp out in secret, out beyond the Butler Safe Zone. When the assault force starts to close in, we send them in, make contact with the Greeley troops, and tell them not to shoot anyone wearing the armband.”

It seemed like a logical plan. Everyone nodded their agreement.

“I’ll volunteer myself,” the first man said. “Gimme three others. We’ll stick behind during the evac, then follow at a distance, and find a safe place to camp out and wait for the invasion.”

He got his three volunteers—two men, and one of their wives.

After that the group dispersed, out into the pitch black night of the Moody Safe Zone, that was no longer so safe, where no houses glowed anymore with electric light.

THIRTY-THREE

─▬▬▬─

STILL ALIVE

At a little waystation off of I-16, just over an hour from the Butler Safe Zone, a mish-mash of civilian and military vehicles cluttered the side of Friendly Gus’s Travel & Truck Stop.

It wasn’t the most secure place, but options were limited. One of the civilian vehicles—a sixteen passenger van carrying a load of people, including some sick and wounded—had run out of gas down the road. What Friendly Gus’s had going for it was that it was close, and it gave a clear line of sight east, where the fifty-some odd primals had last been spotted, doggedly pursuing the escapees.

Mitch and Morrow stood watch atop the flat roof of the main structure, Morrow tucked into his rifle, and Mitch scanning with a thermal scope.

In the fields and treelines, all remained dark and quiet. No heat signatures aside from a small herd of deer that skirted the edges of the woods and then disappeared.

In the dark interior of the travel station, Lee, Carl, Sam, and Kate, huddled at the entrance to the truck stop’s bathroom and shower area, as far away from the collection of worried, desperate people as they could be.

Some small flashlights swept back and forth. A few battery operated lanterns on their last legs. A line of chemlights marked a clear path out to the exit doors, providing a ghostly, green glow.

“All our Jerry cans are bone dry,” Sam said, keeping his voice down. “My three Humvees are all less than a quarter tank. Two of them are barely above E.”

“Most of our vehicles’ gas lights are on,” Kate said. “What is that, thirty miles?”

“Sometimes fifty,” Lee said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

“Still not enough to get us to Butler,” Kate pointed out. “And my wounded and sick are…” she paused, her face contorting in the darkness. “Not sure we should push them any further.”

“It’s an hour,” Carl pointed out. “If they can’t make it an hour, then they probably can’t make it at all.”

Kate turned to face him. In the absence of light, it was difficult for Lee to determine what her expression was.

Carl seemed to think it was accusatory, and he shrugged. “May not be a pleasant fact, but it’s a fact nonetheless, Kate. Let’s put emotions aside and start thinking with our heads and not our hearts. Thinking with our hearts is what got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Thinking with my heart saved eight of my women.”

Lee raised a hand between the two before it could devolve into an unnecessary argument. “Which is all beside the point. Can we all make it to Butler? No, we can’t. Can some of us make it Butler? Possibly.”

Carl turned to Lee. “You want to split us up?”

“We can siphon the gas from all the vehicles. Put it into Kate’s other big van, which’ll carry the most people. That’ll get it to Butler. We’ll evac the sick and wounded first. Butler will have some fuel, and the van can return in two or three hours with fuel for the rest of us to get there.”

Kate nodded. “I can do that.”

“No objections,” Carl said.

Lee turned to Sam. “Sergeant Ryder, grab a couple of your men and start siphoning the fuel into those Jerry cans. Put it in that big blue van outside. Kate, start loading as many of your people—the ones that are worse off. You stay with ‘em this time. Grab yourself a driver, and one other able-bodied person that can shoot a rifle.”

“We should evac the queen,” Sam said. “And Doc Trent.”

The others looked at him.

“That horde of primals that came after us when we left? They weren’t hunting. They were after us.” Sam looked around, seeming to piece his logic together as he spoke. “I think they’re after the queen. Maybe they can smell her or something. Maybe they think she’s still alive. I don’t know. But it’s important that Doc Trent and the body get out of here, in case something bad happens here. The information he might get from studying it will help us understand what we’re up against.”

“That’s two spaces that might be used for the wounded,” Kate said.

“You can squish Doc Trent in the back. He’s used to being squished in a Humvee at this point. He can handle it. The queen you can strap to the roof.”

“Christ,” Kate murmured. She fidgeted. “If those primals really are following us from her scent like you say, that’s like leaving a trail of bread crumbs for them.”

Sam bobbed his head. “Yeah, well, that might not be a bad thing. They can’t outrun the van. You’ll get to Butler before they can catch you. And if you leave a trail for them to follow, maybe they’ll bypass us while we’re trapped here like sitting ducks.”

Carl crossed his arms. “Let’s assume you’re right about these primals pursuing us. You comfortable with leading a horde of fifty straight to Butler’s doorstep? Look what they did to Moody.”

Lee ran a fingernail along his eyebrow. “The horde that attacked Moody was at least a hundred strong. And they had the females controlling them. I’m not entirely certain that the male primals will figure out what they’re doing without the chain of command we talked about earlier—the queen as the brain, the females as the lieutenants.”

“You’re putting a lot of stock into an unproven theory,” Carl muttered.

“Maybe,” Lee admitted. “But I know what I saw in Moody. And you saw it too. You gonna stand here and tell me you don’t think those females were controlling the horde?”

Carl was silent.

“And most of those females—if not all of them—are dead back in that warehouse,” Lee continued. “I think the rest of that horde is just running on autopilot right now.”

“You still have the possibility of fifty of them hitting Butler.”

“Butler’s crammed full of people right now,” Lee said. “They’ll be able to repel fifty primals.”

“That sounds more hopeful than confident.”

“What do you want me to say, Carl?” Lee snapped. “We’re running on best guesses right now. We don’t know shit. We’re just extrapolating as we go. Your concerns are noted, and I share them. But unless you got a better solution, then maybe you should just shut the fuck up.”

Just the two men staring at each other in the darkness.

It’s this stupid rank, Lee thought. It’s ruined everything.

Lee had always had rank on Carl. But a captain and a master sergeant can see each other as equals, when they’re both just boots on the ground, running operations. Now Lee had been turned into something he hated. He’d been turned into the commanding officer, and with it came an isolation that he hadn’t felt since the first days out of his bunker, when the world went to shit.

If he could have, he would have ripped the damn oak leaves off his collar where they still clung, like a bitter reminder of his new station in all this chaos. Set apart. Elevated beyond any meaningful relationships. That was the cost of it.

And what did Lee gain from it?

Nothing. Just a desperate hope on the part of Angela that he would come in and piece together something that was already falling apart. Falling apart right in front of Lee’s face, no matter the actions that he took, no matter his resolve. He watched it all crumble in front of him, and he couldn’t pick up the pieces fast enough to repair them as they fell.

He swore under his breath and looked away from Carl.

“I don’t have a better solution,” Carl said. “Your call. Major.”

It was only by extreme strength of will that Lee didn’t whirl on Carl and deck him as the last contentious word left his mouth. The only thing that stayed him was Sam’s eyes on him. Lee found himself locked into the young man’s gaze. Sam was absorbing everything he did.

Was Lee the reason that Sam had been insubordinate? Had he learned that from watching Lee buck against the authorities that told him to betray his conscience? And what fruit would that bear in the long run? Soldiers that didn’t know how to follow orders. A military that was no military at all, because it couldn’t be controlled.

When the hell had Lee gotten like this? Was it something that was always deep down inside of him? To put his morals before the betterment of the people around him? To ride full throttle down the road to hell, paving it as he went with all his good intentions?

I’m the last person that should be leading these people.

Wherever I go, death follows.

He flicked his fingers. Then balled his fist.

For a flash, that old feeling, that old image—it scuttled through the background of his brain, like a demon he’d thought he’d bested, but perhaps had only managed to push it back into the darkness.

The gun up to his head. The click of the trigger. The striker hitting the primer. The bullet leaving the casing. The hollow point blooming as it passed through his skull…

Wouldn’t everyone be better off?

But no.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.

Lee shook himself. Swallowed. “Kate, get your people ready. Ryder, I’ll help you with the gas.”

Sam nodded and turned, as though relieved to be free of this contentious meeting. Lee followed the young soldier through the alley lit by chemlights. They passed the mounds on the floor, the quiet moans of the wounded halfway between sleep and death. Sick children. Maimed men and women.

Sam stopped at the front of the store, where the long checkout counter stood. He looked over the counter and found Jones and Pickell curled up with their poncho liners over them and their rifles snugged into their chest like comforting stuffed animals.

He watched them for a moment. Their quiet snores and steady breathing. He looked up to where two of his half-boots stood guard. Then he turned to Lee and spoke in a whisper. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like to let them sleep. I can siphon the gas myself. The others should stay on guard.”

Had Sam learned that from Lee, too? Maybe not. Maybe it was just a part of who he was. Lee couldn’t take credit for that.

“Come on,” Lee nodded, patting Sam on the shoulder as he passed around him and pushed through the front door.

A cool, night breeze had kicked up outside, and it pulled the stuffy air of the interior away from them, seeming to give Lee fresh oxygen to breathe. Air that wasn’t tainted by tensions. Out here in the dark, the world went on, oblivious to the struggles of mankind.

They went to the Humvees and collected the Jerry cans in silence. Then the siphon pump from where it was stashed under the fastback of Sam’s truck. Lee opened the gas can and held the tube inside as Sam fed the other end into his truck, then primed the pump.

The diesel started to flow. The smell of it oily and familiar.

Lee glanced up at Sam.

The young man’s eyes darted away. In the darkness, lit only by a half moon that hung between thin clouds, Lee saw Sam’s nostrils flaring, his jaw muscles pulsing.

Behind Lee, the doors to the travel station opened and Kate and her people began shuffling out, murmuring to each other as they carried bodies to the van. Some of them groaned quietly. Others were silent, or unconscious.

When Lee looked back, Sam had planted both his hands on the side of the Humvee, his head between his shoulders. He pushed at the Humvee, rocking it slightly, as though trying to tip it over. The rifle hanging from his chest swayed back and forth like a pendulum.

“Sam,” Lee tried.

Sam pushed himself off the Humvee and turned away from Lee. “I forgot something,” he croaked, then stalked around the backend of the truck. But he didn’t stop. He kept going, out into the dusty parking lot, pale in the moonlight like white sand.

Lee watched him go, looking over the top of the Humvee and only seeing Sam’s head as his arms raised up, clasped behind his neck. His head tilted skyward, then down to the ground. He paced back and forth. Small noises came from him. Seething air between his teeth. Tiny groans, as though from some tremendous effort to keep something inside of him.

“Shit,” Lee murmured. He pulled the siphon from the gas tank. It gurgled as the flow stopped. Lee left it there, then stepped around the back of the Humvee towards Sam.

Sam must have heard him coming. In the middle of his pacing he jerked away again, refusing to show his face, thrusting a staying hand out at Lee. “I’m good,” his meager voice strained. “Gimme a minute.”

Lee slowed but didn’t stop. Drawing closer to something terrible. Something inevitable. Something that came to them all. A nightmare reality in which you learned to live, or it killed you.

“Sam,” Lee said again.

But Sam just kept pacing. Hands on top of his head. His head shaking back and forth beneath them, as though trying to deny some horrible truth. His pacing became tight, not wanting to turn himself in profile to Lee, always keeping his face away.

Lee eventually did stop. Arm’s length from Sam. And Sam stopped pacing, his back to Lee.

What do you do? How do you fix something unfixable? There was no solace for this. There was no safe harbor. Lee had nothing that he could offer, except perhaps commiseration. He was not above this, or beyond it. He was not on the other side of it, and able to lend wisdom to the younger man who was going through it. They both walked the same path through hell. Lee had just been there for longer.

Lee cleared his throat. “First off, turn around and look at me when I’m talking to you, sergeant.”

Sam’s hands dropped. Shoulders slumped. He turned. His eyes looked swollen. Streaks of tears shone silver in the moonlight.

Lee held his gaze without shame or judgment. “You ain’t gotta hide that shit from me or anybody else, you hear me? There’s not a man amongst us that hasn’t bawled like a baby over people we’ve lost, myself included. Crying for yourself is bullshit. But crying for the dead is normal.” Lee jerked his head back towards the gas cans. “Come help me with this.”

Lee returned to the mostly-empty can. Held the tube.

Sam walked back, wiping snot on his sleeve. He primed the pump again. His shoulders hitched as he got the flow going once more.

The quiet trickle of fuel into the gas can.

“What were their names?” Lee asked.

“My squad leader,” Sam said, his voice still thick. “Billings. Our driver, Chris. Corporal Healy. Six half-boots. I don’t know their names.”

Lee nodded. “That’s good. You remember them, Sam. You don’t let it slow you down. You don’t let it paralyze you next time you gotta make a tough call. But you remember them. You remember how they died. You remember it for next time. You do your best to learn from it. That’s all you can do.”

“Did I fuck up?” Sam whispered. “Did I make the wrong decision?”

Lee sighed. Shook his head. “Hell if I know, Sam. I know that ain’t what you wanna hear right now, but there it is. Neither of us will ever know whether that was the right call or not, to go in there after those women. You saved eight innocent lives. Lost nine men that’d volunteered to put themselves on the line. Does it equal out? I don’t know. That math never makes sense.”

Lee adjusted his grip on the tube, then looked up at Sam. “I can tell you this, though: You can’t judge your decisions based on a body count. It doesn’t work that way. This ain’t the first time, and it sure as shit won’t be the last time. You’re gonna lose more people in the future, Sam. It’s bound to happen. And when it does, you can’t let that pain make you believe that you made a mistake. Because sometimes you do everything right and they die anyways. Sometimes you take a helluva risk, and everyone comes out on the other side, and sometimes you try to play it safe and you lose them anyways. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. And you’ll drive yourself mad trying to make any sense of it.”

“It was my job to keep them alive,” Sam said.

Lee considered that. He wanted to deny it, tell Sam that it wasn’t true. But it was true, wasn’t it? That was the job of any leader. But it was only part of the job.

“Yeah, I guess that’s true, Sam,” Lee said. “It’s your job to keep your boys alive and bring ‘em back home. I won’t tell you that it’s not true. That might make us all feel better, but it’s bullshit.”

Ghosts swirled all around Lee, causing his throat to thicken as he thought of their names, brought their phantom faces into his head, as though they stood around him at that moment.

“Tomlin. Nate.” A long, painful pause. “Julia.” He passed a trembling hand that smelled of diesel fuel across his face. “Harper.” He forced air into his locked-up chest. “It was my job to keep them alive. And I failed in that job, I guess. I’ll never be rid of that, Sam. I’ll never stop seeing them. I wake up crying, and I don’t even remember why, but I know they’re there in the dark. All those people I was supposed to have kept alive.” He met Sam’s gaze again. “Am I a bad leader?”

Sam seemed taken aback by the question. Was it rhetorical? Lee wasn’t even sure himself. Maybe he really was asking.

“No,” Sam said. “You’re a commander. You’ve gotta think about the big picture.”

“Yeah,” Lee said. “Cut off that siphon, we’re about full.”

Sam pulled the hose from the Humvee’s gas tank till it gurgled and stopped flowing.

Lee switched the feed to another gas can. Nodded, and Sam pumped it up again.

“You’re a leader too now, Sam. That means a few things. Number one, it means the people underneath you are like your kids. You do everything you can to keep them alive. But it also means you gotta think about the big picture. The people under you, they’re a part of that. And sometimes, in order to get done what needs to get done, you’re gonna lose some of your kids. It sucks, but that’s war. It’ll never change. You don’t want to forget about them. All the ones that were taken from you, and all the ones you took away from someone else. But if you obsess about it, if you keep internalizing it, then it’ll eventually break you. And you can’t let it break you. Don’t ever let it break you.”

Lee’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Best I can figure, you remember them. You try to honor them. But at the end of the day, they’re dead, and you’re still alive. So you move on. You keep doing what needs to be done, for all the people that need you to do it. Keep driving forward. That’s the only way. Keep your eyes on the finish line. Try to cross it with as many people as you can hold onto, but know you’re gonna leave some behind along the way.” Lee shrugged. “That’s about all I’ve made sense of, Sam. That’s about all the advice I can give you.”

They finished filling the rest of the gas cans in silence, draining the Humvees to the dregs. They hauled the six Jerry cans over to the passenger van, as the last of the wounded were loaded up. Doc Trent stood by outside, watching three half-boots strap the dead hybrid female to the roof of the van with random assortments of cordage.

Six Jerry cans was enough to fill the van up. It’d give them a good run to Butler and back. Then they loaded the gas cans into the back of the van, stacking them up where Doc Trent was stationed, huddled against the back seats, looking childlike in his posture, despite his balding head and glasses.

“How much sleep you had?” Lee asked the doctor.

Doc Trent adusted his specs. “A few hours here and there.”

“I don’t need to tell you that we might not have a whole lot of time after you get home to Butler,” Lee said.

Trent nodded. “I’ll catch a nap on the ride back. Get started on the body immediately, provided I’m not needed for the wounded.”

Lee patted his knee. “Just do what you can, as quick as you can.”

“I will.”

They closed the back doors of the van, and it rumbled to life. Looking towards the front, Lee caught Kate’s eyes in the sideview mirror, watching him. He flicked her a casual salute. She nodded back.

Sam stood by, watching as the half-boots completed their tie-down of the dead body and hopped down from where they were perched atop the van’s rear tires. One of them patted the side of the van and gave the driver a thumbs-up. The van pulled out onto the road, dipped onto the ramp for I-16, and disappeared out of sight.

“You three,” Sam said. “Come here.”

The half-boots jogged over, tired faces, dampened emotions, but otherwise ready to receive orders.

“What’re your names?” Sam asked, pointing to them each in turn, and as he did, they sounded off.

“Private Goggins, sir.”

“Private Trudeau, sir.”

“What is that, French or some shit?” Sam asked.

“Yes, sir.” A hesitant smile. “They call me Frenchie.”

“Of course they do. Frenchie it is.” Sam turned to the last of the three.

“Private Johnson, sir.”

“That’s unfortunate. I can only imagine what they call you.”

A round of quiet snickers.

“Dickhead,” Frenchie said, seeming to relish not being alone in the unwanted nickname department. “Private Parts. Six-Foot-Johnson. To name a few.”

“Jealousy,” Private Johnson said, grabbing his crotch, and then seemed to recall that Major Lee Harden was just a few paces away, watching them. He self-consciously released himself.

Lee just smirked at them.

Sam cast his gaze over their faces. “Goggins. Frenchie. Johnson. Good to officially meet you guys.”

Frenchie, who appeared to be the voice of the group, dipped his head. “You too, Sarge. Glad to have one of the original Hunter Killers with us.”

Sam’s face did a strange tremble in the moonlight, which he covered with a cough and a nod towards the travel station. “Y’all keep on watch for the next hour. I’ll have my guys Jones and Pickell take over after that so y’all can grab some sleep before the van gets back.”

A chorus of “roger” and “yessir” answered him, and the three half-boots trundled off to their positions for the next hour.

“You should grab some shut-eye too,” Lee said to Sam once they’d left.

Sam looked skyward, his eyes clear again. “I’ll try that, sir.”

Lee left him, walking around the back of the building where the maintenance ladder was bolted to the side of the wall. “Coming up,” he called to the top, then began climbing.

On the roof, Morrow stood on the east-facing side, scanning the distance with the thermal monocular. He nodded to Lee as he clambered over the side. Mitch sat on an old air conditioning unit, his rifle across his lap.

Lee stopped at the air conditioning unit, leaning his elbow on it. “How you doing, Mitch?”

“Mm-fine.” A flash of a grimace went across his face. “Just working on these fuckin’ shakes of mine.”

“You did good today.”

“Yeah?” He smirked. “Barely hit shit. Jerked every other round. Wasted a lot of ammo.”

“Still better than half the soldiers we got.”

“Fuckin’-not so sure about that.”

“Hey.” Lee put his hand on Mitch’s knee. “I’d tell you if you were a liability. I wouldn’t bullshit you. You’re still an asset.”

Mitch eyed Lee like he wasn’t quite sure whether to believe him, but then bobbed his head in acceptance. He looked out at the darkness. “What’s up with you and Carl?”

Lee sighed. Removed his hand. “Why do you ask?”

“Mm-tensions, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” Lee fiddled with the grip of his rifle. “Just figuring out what I’m doing.”

“Figuring out how to be a major?”

“Something like that.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Mitch said. “Fuckin-just do what you always do.”

“What’s that?”

Mitch shrugged. “Get shit done. Fuck the expectations. Accomplish the mission. All that jazz.”

Lee chuffed. “Yeah. Captain America and shit.”

“Yo,” Morrow grunted from his position. He held the thermal monocular to his eye with one hand, and with the other snapped a finger. “Movement.”

THIRTY-FOUR

─▬▬▬─

RED

“Last of the Hunter Killers just checked in at the main gate,” First Sergeant Hamrick called across the TOC.

Angela managed a nod. Even such a tiny movement felt like it took an exorbitant amount of energy. She was still standing. Couldn’t sit, even though her legs and feet ached from pacing the TOC for hours on end. Exhaustion had crept in on her, making everything sluggish and foggy.

What she wouldn’t give for a dose of caffeine, in any form she could get it.

Beside her, Captain Maclean Marlin eyed her, and it didn’t escape Angela’s notice that  Kurt watched her too. Marie had been in earlier to deliver some food to the crew, and she’d observed the same thing that appeared to be on Marlin and Kurt’s minds: Angela should rest.

“You look dead on your feet, Miss Houston,” Marlin observed.

Kurt, though he seemed to be keeping an eye on the Canadian delegate, appeared to agree. “It’s midnight,” he said. “The Hunter Killers are all here. There’s nothing more that needs your attention for a bit. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep.”

Angela shook her head. “Marie’s watching Abby. I don’t need to go home.”

“Your decision making is going to suffer if you don’t rest.”

She just shook her head again. “If I need to close my eyes, I’ll do it here. No sense in going back home. The second I lay down in my bed, I’m gonna get called back in here.”

Neither Kurt nor Marlin argued with that. Everything was up in the air. Refugees from the Moody Safe Zone had arrived the hour prior, and with no one else to delegate to, Angela had left them in the hands of their most capable half-boot squad leader. There simply weren’t any better options to choose from.

She’d recalled Brinly and as many Marines as he could muster, but she’d caught him on his way back to Texas, and it would take him hours to return.

The Butler Safe Zone was packed to the gills, and if she turned her back on it for more than five minutes, she just knew that it would explode. It seemed to her that only the force of her attention held everything together.

She jerked, realizing that her constant cycle of thoughts had lulled her into a momentary doze while standing. A familiar tone rang out, bringing her fatigued mind back into a gradual focus. Her brain was so muddy that it took a moment to recognize the tone as the satphone ringing.

Staff Sergeant Lopez, who stood at the station nearest to Angela, and who was probably just as tired, grabbed the satphone and looked at the readout with a bleary frown. Then she twisted in her seat and held it out to Angela.

“It’s Major Harden’s number, ma’am. Do you want to answer or should I?”

Angela took the phone in response and pulled it up to her ear, pressing the button to receive the call. “This is Angela. What do you have, Lee?”

Lee’s voice was tense and focused. If he was as fatigued as her, he hid it well. Or maybe he was just used to operating like this.

“Angela, I just sent a vanload of wounded refugees from the Savannah situation. They’re on their way right now. Should be there in a half-hour or so. They got a body strapped to the roof. Doc Trent knows what to do with it, and he’ll fill you in when he gets there. Listen…”

Angela closed her eyes, discovered that that made things worse, and then opened them again. “I’m listening, Lee.”

“We just watched a horde of about fifty primals skirt right by us. They’re heading west, straight towards Butler. I think they’re tracking that body that we got strapped to the van, and they’re probably going to reach you guys sometime around daylight. Relay that to Hamrick and have him warn the guard posts what’s coming. Standby for further.”

“Okay,” Angela frowned, but looked up, got Hamrick’s attention, and passed on the message from Lee. Hamrick looked grim, but nodded and turned to get on the radio with his guard units. “What else?” she asked Lee.

“The rest of us are stranded out here off of Interstate Sixteen. I gave instructions to the people in the van to bring us back some fuel after they offloaded the wounded, but with those primals coming down the pipe, they should not come back this way. Do you have any available military units that can punch through and deliver some fuel to us?”

“Shit.” Angela pressed cold fingertips to her forehead. Her skin felt dirty and greasy. God, but she needed to clean herself up. “Hunter Killer units just got back, but they’re all on fumes and have been running all day. I guess I can find some volunteers to run you some fuel. Let me—”

“I’ll do it.”

Angela stopped. Turned to Marlin.

The Canadian captain nodded at her. “Let me and my men run the fuel out to them.”

“Who is that?” Lee asked, having heard the voice in the background.

“Yeah,” Angela held Marlin’s gaze as she spoke. “There’s been some new developments here, Lee. I know you got your hands full, but to keep you apprised of the situation…” She trailed off, all the facts and figures crashing together in her brain.

“What’s happened, Angela?”

“Captain Marlin? The Canadian envoy? He’s notified us that Greeley has an invasion force landing in Fort Bragg. There’s reason to believe they know where we are, and will be mounting an assault on Butler.”

Lee swore. “Alright. We anticipated as much. How bad is it?”

“Bad,” Angela answered. “I’ll be honest with you, Lee, if they have what Marlin says they have, then…well, it might be more than we can withstand.”

A momentary silence. “Alright. Look. I need to get back there. As soon as I can get some fuel in our trucks, I’ll be an hour out from Butler. I’ll get back ASAP and we’ll figure this out. Who you got to run fuel?”

“Captain Marlin has volunteered to run you the fuel.”

Marlin nodded. “My men are rested. We’re ready to roll. We need to pitch in, and this is something we can do to help. Let us help.”

“Angela,” Lee said. “If you trust him, then I trust him.”

Angela still held eye contact with Marlin. She nodded. “Yeah. I trust him.”

Marlin seemed to accept this with a grave nod.

“Put him on then,” Lee said. “I’ll work it out directly with him.”

***

Several miles northeast of the Butler Safe Zone, three men and two women from the Moody Safe Zone stopped their little red Honda underneath a water tower that overlooked Highway 128, just south of where it intersected Highway 137. They’d hidden out while the rest of Moody evacuated, and then chosen this highway as one of the most likely routes that Greeley would take on their assault towards Butler.

The crew of four made a quick camp underneath the water tower, and the man whose idea it had all been chose to be the first on watch. He ascended the ladder to the top of the bulbous water tower and took up a position facing northeast, his eyes on the roads around him, waiting to see any signs of military vehicles.

As they settled in to begin their watch, down in the Butler Safe Zone, one of the refugees from Moody dipped away from the line of others. It was the woman who had delivered the news of Commander Renoux’s initial evacuation call. She glanced around before making her break for it, but there were hundreds of refugees all crammed together. The Butler guards were trying to organize them and figure out where they could lay their heads, but they were outnumbered a hundred to one and it was impossible for them to keep track of everyone.

She slipped into the darkness between two buildings, and no one saw her go.

She walked for a ways, then stopped at a corner, where a street sign stood. Cedar Street and S. Poplar Street. She got her bearings, then pointed herself down Cedar Street, heading east, and began walking again.

There were other people out. It was late at night—early morning, actually—but there was too much going on in Butler. Lights and trucks and a Blackhawk that had thundered in, and everyone was worried and wanted to know what was going on. They gathered on stoops, several families to a house, and theorized amongst themselves.

When they saw the woman from Moody walking down the street, their eyes passed over her. There were too many people in Butler as it was. Too many new faces. No one knew who belonged, and who was a stranger. She was just another refugee to them, and they immediately forgot about her, if they’d even taken note of her in the first place.

She wandered down a few turns, not quite sure where exactly she was, but remembering the directions that had been given to her. Eventually, she found herself on Forest Avenue, where she turned a right and headed south. After a few intersections, she found herself looking at the house on the corner of Forest Avenue and Mulberry Street.

Just as with almost every other residence in this place, there was a crowd of people out front, huddling, milling, mumbling.

She approached them, and they fell silent, the first group of people in all of Butler to take note of her.

She stopped at the front stoop, her hand in her right pants pocket, gripping the little coin in her fingers. She cast a glance around at the watchful faces. “Looking for Red. I’m from Moody.”

There was perhaps a dozen of them. Their faces remained blank and impassive. If they knew who the hell Red was, they weren’t saying. One of them, however, stood up and dipped into the house without a word.

The woman from Moody didn’t say anything else. She’d said all she’d been told to say.

The guy that had gone into the house returned after a moment. He stepped down the stoop, not making eye contact with her, but instead casting his gaze outwards, as though watching for anyone else that might be watching him.

He stopped in front of her. “What’s your name?”

“Debra.”

He held out a hand, still not looking at her.

Debra drew the coin out of her pocket and placed it in his open palm.

He held it up. A single penny. Ran his thumb across Lincoln’s profile. Then returned the penny to Debra’s fingers. He turned back towards the house. “Come with me.”

She followed him.

The others stood off to the side, making a path for her. They watched her warily as she edged through them and into the house.

It was dark inside. Butler had a lights-out policy, just as every other Safe Zone did. But back in the kitchen, a pale glow from a battery-operated lantern lit the tomb-like interior. The air was thick with the smell of many people cohabitating in a small space.

The man led her into the kitchen, where another man sat. Middle-aged. Skinny, but most people were these days. He sat at the table, smoking something that smelled dim, like dried grass. He blew a puff of smoke that hovered around the lantern like a fog.

“Mullein,” he grunted, seeing her looking at the cigarette between his fingers. “Supposed to help clear out the lungs.” He issued a wheeze of a chuckle. “Used to smoke a pack a day. This shit doesn’t even have nicotine. But maybe it’ll stave off my lung-cancer, huh? Haven’t died of it yet.”

“You Red?” Debra asked.

The man didn’t respond to her. Instead, he looked at the man that had led her into the kitchen and gave him a small nod.

Before Debra could perceive what was happening, the man had grabbed her by the back of the neck, taking a handful of her hair, and slammed her face-first into the table. She grunted but kept from crying out by biting down. She felt the cold muzzle of a pistol press against her temple.

She stared across the table top to the man with his mullein cigarette. He leaned forward, his face lit strangely by the lantern. Pointed two fingers at her, the cigarette pinched between them.

“You got one chance, Missy, before I put your brains across this table,” he said. “I don’t ask questions twice, and I go with my gut. Why’d Carl send you here?”

Debra blinked, confusion passing over her features, but then realized what was happening. Of course they would be cautious. Of course they wouldn’t trust her just because she’d given them a penny. Carl Gilliard had been hunting them down. They couldn’t afford to take chances.

If she said one wrong word, she had no doubt that the man would kill her.

“I’m from Moody,” Debra said, trying to sound confident and earnest. “We just arrived. I was told we had friends here in Butler. I was given this house and told to make contact with Red. That’s it. I’ve never met Carl in my life. But I’ve heard what he’s been doing to you guys. I get it. I know why you have to be careful. But I’m telling you the truth.”

The man stared at her. Took a drag off his cigarette. “Who sent you here?”

“Fink,” she said—the name of the man who had organized them in the little house in Moody.

“I don’t know a fucking Fink.”

“He knows you.” Debra closed her eyes, her heart slamming against the table top so hard she thought it would make the lantern jump. She could sense the finger on the trigger hovering over her head. She felt how close she was to dying. “There are fifteen of us from Moody. We all just got here. Four of us—including Fink—are out north. They slipped out during the evacuation. We’ve got a plan. But we need your help.”

“What’s the plan?” the man asked, stubbing his cigarette out.

There was nothing that Debra could do except tell him. After that, there was a long, uncomfortable silence. The man holding her down on the table wrapped his fist through her hair, tightening his grip.

“Alright,” the man at the table said. “Let her up.”

The pressure on Debra’s head released. She stood up, trying to deny her desire to hyperventilate. The man behind her stuck his pistol back into his waistband.

“Sorry about all that. I’m Red.” Red extended his hand.

Debra shook it hard, trying to mask her trembling.

Red jerked his head at the other guy. “Go put the word out. Quietly. I want the team leaders here in one hour.” Then he pointed to Debra. “Sit down. You’ve got an hour to tell me everything you know.”

It was one in the morning.

THIRTY-FIVE

─▬▬▬─

LOYALTIES

The last shot rang in Marlin’s ears as they hurtled down I-16.

He whipped around, looking out his window behind them, but saw nothing but darkness, and the headlights of the Humvee behind him.

“Shit. Was that it?” he yelled.

“Positive,” his gunner called back, dipping down into the cab again, pushing his NVGs off his eyes. “Definitely infected. Only saw a dozen of them though. Rest could’ve been in the trees.”

“That could’ve been any fuckin’ pack,” Marlin said. He considered swapping his mag out, but he’d only fired off a few rounds before they’d sped past.

“I dunno, man,” his gunner said. “Fuckers were haulin’ ass west. Barely even came at us. I think that’s the ones Harden mentioned. They sure as hell seemed to be after something.”

Marlin keyed the squad comms. “Marlin to Wibberley. Gimme a count on confirmed kills.” As he waited, he twisted to look in the back. “Any of you get any confirmed kills?”

“No clue.”

“Couldn’t say.”

The gunner held up two fingers. “I tagged two. No idea whether they’re actually dead, but I saw ‘em go down.”

“Aight, two maybes,” Marlin quipped. He hadn’t wanted a fracas with the infected, but he had hoped to report that they’d weakened the horde a bit more than that.

Wibberley’s voice came over the comms in his ear: “We can’t confirm any kills on our end. Too dark, and it happened too quick.”

Marlin grunted. “Copy that.” He shook his head, releasing the PTT. “Guess two is better than none.”

***

Lee dialed the number he’d received from Angela.

Florida had two Safe Zones: Blountstown and Cross City. They were both in northern Florida, both secluded by nature of being surrounded by marshland, and relatively close to each other. Cross City was big. Three thousand strong. Blountstown was maybe half that.

Neither of them had been enthusiastic about the UES since the fall of Fort Bragg.

Lee stood atop Friendly Gus’s Travel & Truck Stop, with the satphone to his ear, feeling strung out and listless. He was exhausted and on edge. But so was everyone else.

Was this the best frame of mind to be in before entering into this prickly conversation? Perhaps not. But there wasn’t time to wait. They needed the help now, and if Florida was going to be a part of the UES, then they needed to show it.

The voice that answered was hesitant and concerned, as you would expect anyone to be when they received a phone call at one in the morning.

“This is Colonel Freeman, Cross City Safe Zone. Who am I speaking with?”

“Colonel, this is Major Lee Harden.”

The two of them knew each other in passing. At one point in time or another, Lee had met all the leaders of the UES. Colonel Freeman was both the civilian and military leader of Cross City—something that had been discouraged, but at the very least, Freeman had won a democratic vote to his position.

“Major, huh?” Freeman said, letting the façade of being awake fade into the obvious tiredness of having just been woken up.

Oh, yes. And Freeman didn’t like Lee much. Saw him as a loose cannon. Didn’t prefer dealing with him. So this was going well.

“What? Did they promote you?” Freeman snipped.

Lee clenched his jaw, thinking of how he stood there in the middle of nowhere, on a rooftop with a rifle and no sleep, and Freeman was comfortable in his bed, safely behind high-voltage wires.

“Yes, sir,” Lee grated. “They promoted me.”

A chuff on the other end, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Or perhaps he did believe it, and simply found it laughable. “What do you need, major? It’s past one in the morning.”

“I’m aware of what time it is, sir.” Lee looked down at his scuffed and muddy boots. “I wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t an emergency. I’m calling on behalf of President Houston, and on behalf of the United Eastern States.”

“She could’ve called me herself,” Freeman gruffed.

Lee tilted his head back. If he could’ve reached through the phone and throttled Freeman, he would have. He could already sense the direction that this was taking, though it didn’t take a genius to figure that out, and now everything that he had planned to say seemed stupid.

And then it all just landed on Lee, in one big pile of mess. Like someone had dropped a pallet of bricks on his head. The tinnitus sparked up, squealing in his ears, and his throat got thick, and his pulse hammered in his temples.

He couldn’t be political. It was beyond him.

“Colonel, I like you about as much as you like me,” Lee growled into the phone. “But your president—the woman who you’ve sworn allegiance to—has asked me to get in contact with you, so that’s what I’m doing. The reason that she asked me to contact you, is because it’s pretty obvious at this juncture that both Cross City and Blountstown are of questionable loyalty. Now would you say I’m wrong on that count?”

Silence over the line for a long, painful stretch.

This is why they shouldn’t have promoted me, Lee thought, and he almost—almost—regretted speaking to the colonel that way. But not quite. Angela knew who Lee was. She knew what she was getting into when she pinned those oak leaves on his collar. If she wanted another political snake, she could’ve found someone else.

“First off, Lee,” Freeman said, foregoing the formality of ranks, for which Lee couldn’t blame him—clearly formality was being swept off the table at this point. “I resent your tone, but I’m not surprised by it. You’ve always had more mouth than you’ve had sense. Second off, Cross City doesn’t speak for Blountstown, but I can assure you that we’re not of questionable loyalty. We have our own interests, as a member of the United Eastern States, and naturally, we have concerns about the way things are being run. Case in point—appointing a dog like you to nip at my heels like I’m some wayward sheep to be corralled.” Freeman’s voice began to rise as he spoke. “Now, if you have any modicum of goddamned common sense, you’ll stow the cowboy shit and tell me what exactly the fuck you want, or we can go ahead and shut this conversation down right now.”

“Greeley’s on the move,” Lee stated, his gut clenching down inside of him. It was with every ounce of effort that he let the man’s words slide on by him, and focused on the big issue. Wasn’t that what he’d told Sam? Focus on the big picture? “They have an invasion force in Fort Bragg. They’re set to move on Butler. We only have hours to prepare. President Houston is currently occupied with organizing our defenses in Butler and—”

“And what are you doing, Lee?”

Lee gripped the phone so hard that his hand shook against his head. “Right now? I’m on a roof top, waiting for a few cans of gas, so I can get a couple squads of soldiers and a dozen refugees from Charleston Safe Zone back to safety.”

“Of course you are,” Freeman said.

“And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a fucking grunt,” Freeman snapped. “You’ve always been a grunt, you always will be a grunt, and it doesn’t matter what promotion Angela’s seen fit to give you, you’ll shirk the very obvious responsibility that she was trying to bestow upon you, and run out into the wilderness to lug a rifle and try to justify your fucking existence. Now would you say I’m wrong on that count?”

Lee was silent. Not for lack of words—oh, he plenty of words. But for simple lack of ability to say them. He was stopped up. Log jammed. Bandwidth overwhelmed.

And the worst part about it was that he couldn’t deny it.

Angela was back in Butler, running a TOC that should’ve been run by Lee. Making decisions that should have been made by Lee. Filling in for him, because he’d done exactly what Freeman had just accused him of.

But Moody! He could argue, but that was just more bullshit, wasn’t it? Carl could’ve handled Moody.

But Sam and the rescue op! He could argue, but it still didn’t hold water. Carl and his team could’ve done that too.

Lee was one man. Did he think he had to be on the ground at every point of conflict? Did he think he was the only one that could get it done? Was it his pride? Was it his anger? Was it what his father had once laughed at him for and shaken his head, telling him, “You always gotta carry all the groceries yourself?”

He was always running. Just like those old memories on the beach. Always running, and never with a clue as to where he was going. When trouble arose, he ran—not away from it, no, never away from it. Always headlong into it. Because he couldn’t back down. Couldn’t even allow himself to appear that he’d backed down.

It’d always seemed like a good thing. And maybe, once upon a time, in the Fort Bragg Safe Zone, and out in the Wildlands fighting Nuevas Fronteras, it had been the right thing to do. It had been what was needed of him. It had been his duty.

But Angela had given him a different duty.

The society that he’d fought to create—bled, and died, and led others to die for—had given him a different duty.

And now he was running away from it, wasn’t he?

He’d backed down from one challenge, for no better reason than he thought the other challenge suited him better. Was more “in his wheel house.”

Lee clenched his teeth, and held his breath, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, colonel. I would not say you’re wrong on that count.”

“Well,” Freeman chuffed. “At least you got sense enough to be honest with yourself. Now that does surprise me. Tell me what we’re up against.”

Huddled in the darkness of his own mind, Lee’s voice seemed like someone else’s, heard through the thin wall of a neighboring room, as he told Colonel Freeman the intelligence that they had received from their Canadian guests.

When Lee opened his eyes again, he saw headlights on the western horizon of I-16, flickering through the trees. Two pairs. Coming in fast.

Colonel Freeman spoke, and now also sounded like he was moving. “Given your knowledge of the defenses in Butler, how likely is it that you’ll be able to repel this attack?”

Lee swallowed. “Without help from Cross City and Blountstown…not likely at all.”

Freeman sniffed into the microphone. “Very well. Your request is under consideration. I’ll relay this information to Blountstown, and confer with my leaders here, and their leaders there.”

Lee scraped his fingers across his scalp. “There’s at least a four hour drive time between you guys and Butler. That might already be too late.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, major. If Florida agrees to help, we will dispatch what help we can offer. If and when that happens, then we’ll be four hours out. But I won’t rush headlong into this.”

The headlights on the highway took the onramp, coming towards the travel station.

“Colonel, if you don’t rush, then there might not be a United Eastern States by the time you get here.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Freeman growled. “There’s nothing more that either of us need to say to each other. Good luck, Major Harden. Try to survive the night.”

The line went dead.

Lee stared at the phone as the approaching Humvees roared up to the travel station. “Cocksucker,” Lee whispered at the phone, but it lacked conviction. The man might be an insufferable prick, but his words had left Lee feeling rung out, all his anger and indignation hollow, because he knew they were lies.

“Fuckin-that seemed to go well,” Mitch observed from his lookout point across from Lee. The others had already gone down. Now it was just him and Lee. “Are they sending help or what?”

Lee slapped the antenna down on the phone, then stowed it. “Mitch, I have no idea what they’re going to do. All we can do at this point is get the hell back to Butler and try to stop the bleeding.”

Mitch nodded, then pointed to the ladder down. “You go first. You can catch me if I fall, right?”

Lee swung his leg over and held up his wounded left arm. “I can soften your fall.”

“Good enough for me,” Mitch said, walking over.

Lee stopped there at the top rung. Looked at Mitch.

They shared a strange experience. They’d both died for the United Eastern States. Mitch had been brought back a little less intact than Lee had, but Lee thought that there was something there between them. Maybe that was why he asked the next question.

“Mitch, what am I supposed to be doing?”

Mitch pulled his head back, as though surprised by the question. But then the surprise faded to an expression that Lee didn’t care for. Like Mitch knew he was about to say something Lee wouldn’t like.

“Shit, man,” Mitch looked elsewhere. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“Your God’s-honest opinion.”

Mitch scratched his forehead. “Mm-aight. You want me to be honest, Lee? Ranks aside? Man to man?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“You got a wild hair up your ass, brother,” Mitch said. “I don’t know whether it’s a death wish, or a bone to pick with every motherfucker in the world, or if you just don’t know any better.” He sighed. “Fuckin-I get it. You know that before this all went tits up I had my DD-214 in my hands? I had a job lined up on the outside. Good job. Plenty money.” He looked stricken for a brief moment. “Fiancee.” He shook his head. “Mm-then I re-inlisted. Mm. Fuckin-‘cause I didn’t think I knew how to do anything else.”

“That might’ve worked out better for you in the long run,” Lee pointed out.

“Yeah, maybe. But my point is, Lee…Mm-my point is that I get why you feel you can’t do anything but run guns. It’s what you’ve been doing since you stood on the yellow footprints. But you ask me what you should be doing. And I’m gonna tell you: You should be in a TOC in Butler.”

Mitch met his gaze, though only for a second. He gave a nod before looking away. That was something else he’d lost on his journey back from the other side: He didn’t seem comfortable with eye contact anymore.

“You gonna go down that ladder or hang onto it all night?”

Lee blinked. Roused himself. “Thanks, Mitch.”

“Mm-don’t put too much stock in it, Lee. I’m just a brain-addled has-been.”

“Hell,” Lee began to descend. “I crossed over too. And I think I left more brains behind than you did.”

Lee hit the ground, waited for Mitch to come down, then marched around to the front of the travel station. Carl stood there with the rest of his team. Sam and his squad and the half-boots lugged gas cans to the vehicles. The civilians loaded up.

Lee stopped. He didn’t need to say anything. Everything was already being handled.

Captain Marlin stood off to the side, conversing with Carl. He spied Lee standing back. Didn’t seem surprised that Lee wasn’t getting involved. Lee nodded to him, and he nodded back, unspoken communication passing between them.

Thanks for bailing us out.

Any time.

They’d be on the road within five minutes.

Lee was needed in the TOC.

THIRTY-SIX

─▬▬▬─

COMMAND

Sam’s Humvee felt quiet. Just the thrum of the engine, the whir of the tires across asphalt.

He sat in Billings’s seat, which felt wrong. Pickell drove. Jones in the back.

No jokes. No merriment.

Sam wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted to be in the back, with Jones. He wanted Pickell’s legs dangling out of the turret. He wanted Billings to be bitching at his crinkled old map, and Chris to be enduring Jones’s heckling.

Where were they? Out in that field somewhere? Were they torn apart? Or had they caught friendly fire?

The worst images came to his mind, but in all of those images their faces remained intact, as he had remembered them. In his imagination, their eyes were still alive. He couldn’t picture them with dead eyes. He couldn’t picture them with that film of gray over their corneas.

He wanted things to go back to the way they were, but he’d never have that again, would he? And how many times had he wished for it? How many times had he yearned to turn the clock back to some better time?

He’d wished to turn the clock back to before his father died. And then he’d wished to turn the clock back to a time before he’d had to shoot and kill someone. And then he’d wished to turn the clock back to a time before he’d gotten involved with Charlie, and before Fort Bragg had fallen.

Always wishing for the past. At what point do you realize that some time in the future the thing you perceived as the terrible present would be the thing that you wished you could go back to?

Maybe this was that point. Maybe having Pickell and Jones was the best that Sam could hope for. Maybe this was the best his life would ever be again. Maybe in the future, when he lost one of them, he’d wish for this moment right now.

Because he couldn’t protect them. He’d do his level best, but, just like Lee had told him, there were bigger things at stake. Things that might claim their lives. And there was nothing Sam could do about it.

“So,” Jones said from the back. “Sergeant, huh?”

Sam crashed back into reality on a spike of anxiety. He squirmed in the seat that he didn’t belong in, feeling like a fraud, an imposter. A usurper, somehow, sitting on a throne that didn’t belong to him, and that he hadn’t earned.

“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “It won’t last long.”

“Hey, I don’t mind it,” Jones said. “Better you than some fuck we don’t know.”

“It’s gonna be,” Sam said without a doubt in his voice. “I’ll get busted back to private as soon as command has time to breathe and think. I might even get tossed out.”

Pickell eyed him from the driver’s seat. “Why? Because Hamrick doesn’t like you?”

Sam shrugged. “Hamrick don’t like me. But Carl don’t either.”

“Gilliard was just being a naysayer,” Jones said. “I hear he’s like that. That might’ve had more to do with him and Lee not getting along.”

Sam recalled the whispered conversation between Lee and Carl, back in that warehouse before they’d exfilled. He hadn’t heard all of it, but he’d heard enough. Key words, that jumped out to his ears and pummeled his stomach down into his toes.

Benjamin. Lincolnist.

Sam could piece it together, just from those two words.

He shook his head, staring forward at the glimmer of taillights from the rest of the convoy hauling towards Butler. “Carl thinks I’m a Lincolnist.”

Pickell jerked his head around. “What? Why the hell would he think that?”

Sam sucked his teeth, dipped his head, then turned to the remains of his squad. “Y’all might as well know. There was this girl in Fort Bragg…”

“Aw, Jesus,” Jones groaned.

“I didn’t know it, but she was involved with the Lincolnists. During the evac, I had her at gunpoint. Right outside that house where Elsie Foster had been hiding out. I had her dead to rights. Should’ve done it. But I didn’t. I let her go. And there was another guy. He knew about us. And I guess he saw Charlie in Butler, and put the pieces together. Then I guess he outted me to Carl. So now Carl thinks I’m sympathetic to the Lincolnists.” Sam slumped back into his seat. “So the second they get a chance, they’re gonna bust me.”

“Shit,” Jones breathed.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. His stomach had been in knots since hearing Carl say those words. He knew what was coming.

A chatter of gunfire snapped Sam’s attention forward again.

Brake lights bloomed in the night.

It started at the front of the convoy, and roared backward in a wave, the turret of the lead vehicle opening up, followed by rifle fire, followed by the next few vehicles in line. All shooting left, into the woods.

The radio sparked: “Primals! Nine o’clock!” came the voice of one of the half-boots ahead. “Hit ‘em! Hit ‘em!”

A glimmer of movement on the shoulder of the interstate lane to their left.

“Jones! Get—” Sam had intended to tell him to get into the turret, but Jones never gave him the chance. All in a flash, Jones went from quiet to crazy. He dropped his Humvee window before the first word exited Sam’s mouth, and by the time Sam cut himself off, Jones had thrust his rifle out the window and begun firing haphazardly into the darkness, the bark of the rifle pounding in Sam’s ears.

The convoy slowed, but didn’t stop, and never went below forty-five miles an hour.

Sam’s rifle came up on instinct, but he never aimed it. He was on the wrong side of the vehicle, and he couldn’t shoot over Pickell, who drove with both hands, hunkered forward and cringing against the barrage of rifle fire behind him.

The gunfire lasted for only a few seconds as the convoy hurtled past the horde of primals.

Everyone else had stopped shooting, but Jones didn’t.

He must’ve perceived that they’d already passed the horde but he kept firing into the distance behind them, leaning out of his window until his angle of fire got too close to the Humvee following them.

The radio yelled in Lee’s voice: “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

Sam reached behind him and punched Jones in the leg. “Cease-fucking-fire! Jones! Cease fire!”

“Alright!” Jones yelled, yanking himself back through the window and thrashing his legs away from Sam’s punches. “Fucking okay! I stopped! I ceased!”

Sam stared Jones in the face, but Jones didn’t seem to want to meet his gaze. There was something manic that wriggled through his features. He fidgeted like a sick person that couldn’t find a comfortable position to relieve their roiling insides. He grabbed at his rifle. Swung it around, causing Sam to duck away, though he knew the rifle had gone empty.

Jones settled back into quiet curses. He dropped the empty mag, fumbled around the floor board for it. Looked at it like he didn’t know what it was, then dropped it back on the floorboard. His hands crabbed around his chest rig, poking his fingers into each empty magazine pouch.

He began laughing, but it wasn’t lighthearted. It wasn’t a joking laugh. And his face was all wrong. There was no joy in it. His mouth was stretched into a hazardous grin, but his eyes were pinched and drawn and looked more like the eyes of a person crying.

He shook his head, then slapped his empty rifle with his palm. “I don’t have any fucking ammo. Those fuckers took the rest of my ammo.”

Pickell glanced back at him as he drove, and the convoy accelerated again up to highway speed. He reached down to where his rifle was stuffed between his seat and the radio console, and plucked the magazine from it. “Here you go, Jonesy,” Pickell said, passing it back. “You can take mine.”

Jones stared at it. His teeth still showed, but it wasn’t a smile. His voice came out flat. “Now you don’t have any ammo.”

“It’s cool. You load up. I’m just the driver. You need your weapon hot.” He waggled the magazine in the air. “Take it.”

Jones took the magazine in hesitant hands. He continued to avoid eye contact with Sam. He slid the magazine into his rifle. Sent the bolt forward. Stared down at it, the muzzle between his feet.

“Huh,” Jones grunted at the rifle, as though mystified by something completely beyond Sam and Pickell. “Huh. Well, fuck me.”

He brought the muzzle up. Sam’s gut tightened.

Jones settled the muzzle of his rifle on the lip of his open window. The world passed by in blackness. The night air buffeted. Jones leaned his head against the side of the window, breathing in the air, like an overheated engine, ticking as it cooled.

He husked out a dry laugh, shaking his head again.

“Huh,” Jones said. “Fuck me.”

***

The convoy of Humvees and civilian vehicles roared in through the front gates of the Butler Safe Zone at 0230 hours.

Lee had commandeered one of the Humvees from the decimated half-boots, sticking them all in the other Humvee with quiet instructions to keep their eye on Corporal Ryan, who hadn’t said a damn word since Lee had chewed him out.

Lee and Carl’s team were squashed into that Humvee. Lee in the front passenger’s seat, Morrow driving. Mitch in the turret, and Rudy and Carl in the side seats, with Logan huddled in the back.

They didn’t stop with the others, but drove straight on through, Morrow honking the bleating horn at crowds of refugees that threatened to block the street.

“Christ,” Morrow bitched. “I thought this place was crowded before.”

Lee saw a different problem than the tinder-box it had been. Now he wasn’t worried about unrest. Now he saw thousands of people, and he began to wonder how in the hell they would get them evacuated if the time came to do that.

Which made him think of the imminent attack. Which made him think of their defenses. Which made him think about manpower, and ammunition, and who was going to do what.

For a moment he thought, I could just give it to Carl. I could lead his team. Go back out there and do what I do best.

It’s so much easier to follow orders than it is to give them. It was easier for Lee to put his own life on the line, than to command so many others to go in his stead. It felt flat out wrong to him.

But then he really did begin to think about their defenses, and how poorly they were organized for an attack against anything but primals. And how that problem had not yet been rectified. Everyone was still inside the wire—high-voltage fencing that wouldn’t do shit against a convoy of guntrucks and a few determined soldiers.

And why hadn’t someone done something about that?

Because it’s my job, and I’ve been out being a grunt.

It was his problem to fix. And when he looked at it like that, then it didn’t feel so wrong to go to the TOC. It wasn’t backing down from a challenge. It was applying his skills where they were needed most. Right now, in the Butler Safe Zone, they didn’t need another gun—no matter how good Lee could run it. They needed a commander. They needed someone to take this mess of chaos and give them a chance.

When Morrow pulled them up to the doors of the Taylor County High School, beyond which lay the TOC, all notions of being in the wrong place had fled from him.

There was an urgency to his step when he thrust the Humvee door open and strode for the school. When he looked around him, he didn’t see threats, and angles of fire, and points of cover. He saw problems that needed fixing. He saw a complete, disorganized mess, a bunch of leaderless people that needed someone to tell them where to go and what to do.

And I can do that. It’s not so far outside of my wheel house.

After all, the only reason that the Safe Zones existed, that the United Eastern States existed in the first place, was because Lee had, several years ago, pulled everyone together.

He’d done it once, he could do it again.

Lee stopped, seeing things clearly, like he’d pulled off a pair of dusty goggles that had been obscuring his view. He looked to the right, towards the sports fields. There, under the bright glow of a few stadium floodlights, half-boot guards did their best to organizing the mass of refugees they’d taken in. Back beyond all those people, the Blackhawk from Moody sat.

“Carl,” Lee said, hooking his fingers into the collar of his armor.

“Yeah?”

“We need to get this shit moving.”

Carl stood next to Lee, following his gaze to the Blackhawk. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m gonna hit you with a whole bunch of things. How you choose to delegate them is up to you. You ready?”

Carl nodded. “I’m ready, major.”

And for once, the mention of Lee’s rank came from Carl’s lips, and there was no contention in it. Carl was ready to receive orders. He was ready for Lee to take charge.

So Lee explained his thoughts. A long string of orders that Lee kept general, because it was best to tell your people what you wanted, and to let them surprise you with the results. Patton had said something like that, and while Lee didn’t think he was quite up to that God-General status, he could sure as hell try to emulate the wisdom of his betters.

As he spoke, he started moving again towards the doors of the school. Carl followed, and when Lee had given him the broad strokes of what he expected, Carl began to pass those orders onto his team. Lee wanted them in the Blackhawk, but he also wanted Carl to be in charge of the Hunter Killer squads. He had an important job for them, and Carl was the right man to see that it got done.

Carl stayed with Lee as they pushed their way into the TOC.

A single, excited woof reached his ears and Deuce came bounding over as Lee entered. For a very brief moment, Lee stopped, bent at the waist, and put his fingers into the dog’s fur. Deuce nudged him, then sniffed the bandage on his left arm. He seemed disturbed by Lee’s wound. And as weird as it was, Lee appreciated that small notion of what seemed like compassion.

When he stood up, he felt more whole. More focused.

Thanks, Buddy, Lee sent the thought to his dog. I needed that.

Deuce stuck by his side as he approached the center of the TOC.

Lee expected to have to call for all the people he needed and wait for them to meet him in the TOC, but as he looked around, he found that everyone he needed was present. Angela, along with Kurt. Commander Renoux from Moody. First Sergeant Hamrick. Major Brinly.

Everyone was there.

Even Marlin and Wibberley followed them in, and Lee had a job for them, too. He had a job for everyone.

Lee gave no preamble. Only a curt nod to Angela as he stepped up beside her, and a brief handshake with Brinly. Then Lee focused on the projection of the map, which showed the route between Moody and Butler. “Corporal Byers. That map needs to be on Butler with a ten miles radius on all sides.”

Corporal Byers jerked in his seat, mumbled something affirmative and got to work.

“Staff Sergeant Lopez,” Lee said to the woman in the chair in front of him. “On your monitor I want to see Butler in detail, please. First Sergeant Hamrick.” Lee raised a hand and beckoned him. The old soldier stalked over. “You’re in charge of Safe Zone defenses. There is still a horde of primals coming straight at us. I want the entire eastern side of the Safe Zone covered.”

Lee turned to Commander Renoux. “Commander, your soldiers are fresh off a fight with the primals. I know that means they’re tired, but everyone’s tired, and your boys and girls have the most recent experience in pegging these bastards. How many soldiers you got?”

“Thirty-five active soldiers,” Renoux answered, knowing his numbers by heart. “Fifty-three half-boots. They’re on their last legs of ammo, though.”

“I understand that,” Lee nodded. “Ammo’s the one thing we’re not hurting for around here. We were able to stockpile a good bit from Project Hometown bunkers.” Lee looked to Angela. “Madame President, where is all that ammo holed up?”

“Should be in the Sheriff’s Office,” she said, glancing at Carl with a quirked eyebrow.

“That’s correct,” Carl asserted.

Lee held up both hands, one pointing to Renoux, the other to Hamrick. “Renoux, your fifty-three half-boots are now under Hamrick’s command. Hamrick, gather all the half-boots—ours and Moody’s—at the Sheriff’s Office and give them as much ammo as they can carry. The Moody half-boots go to the eastern perimeter as I instructed. The Butler half-boots I want distributed into defensive positions all along the Butler main drag.” Lee held up a finger to Hamrick. “I don’t want a Greeley guntruck rolling down one of my streets without a hundred bullet holes and five dead bodies in it.”

Despite Hamrick’s gruff demeanor, there came to his eyes a note of satisfaction, and it bolstered Lee’s confidence. He’d been prepared for push-back. What he’d got were willing fighters, glad to have someone in charge.

“Commander Renoux,” Lee turned again to the worn-out man. “Take your thirty-five soldiers and post them up at a central location—let’s just say the Sheriff’s Office. You’re our QRF. Load ‘em up and have ‘em ready to go wherever they’re needed. We start getting our shit pushed in, your boys and girls are gonna roll in and straighten things out.”

“Copy that.”

Lee looked around as Hamrick and Renoux departed. “Marlin and Wibberley.”

The Canadian and the Brit sidled up closer to him.

“What do you need, major?” Marlin asked.

Lee looked at him, very serious. “What are you willing to give me?”

“We’re all in, sir,” Marlin said, casting a glance sideways to Wibberley, who nodded in response. “You tell us what you need, we’ll get it done.”

Lee gave him a grim smile, then raised his head again to Carl. “You guys are with Master Sergeant Gilliard. Don’t get yourselves shot up, but I need you to flank and harass. Keep Greeley from being able to focus on their assault.”

Wibberley blew a low whistle. “Haven’t got to do some real commando shit in quite a while.”

“Well, knock the rust off,” Lee said, giving him a slap on the shoulder. “You and Carl’s team are the best operators we have at this point.”

As Carl and Marlin and Wibberley departed, the crew around the TOC thinned out. Now it was just Angela and Kurt and Brinly. Lee turned first to the Marine.

“How’s Texas?” he said, taking a brief respite from issuing commands, because he needed to know.

“As of yesterday, all was well. Abe’s still out and about. Haven’t heard from him.”

Lee felt a distant worry settle into him, but didn’t have the time to address it, or give it any room to grow. Abe was Lee’s brother. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was okay. All he could do was issue a brief prayer: Let him come back in one piece.

Then he had to move on.

Lee pointed to the projected map of Butler, now also showing the streets around it in the prescribed ten-mile radius. “Brinly, you see Highway Ninety-Six right there? That’s our way out. That’s our exit strategy if this all goes to shit. I cannot—cannot—lose that route out.”

Brinly regarded the map with a thoughtful frown. “Lee, I got a platoon of Marines with me. My boys’ll hold that route for you, down to a man, and make Greeley pay for every goddamn inch.”

Lee nodded. “I know they will.” He turned lastly to Angela. “Do you have people you can trust? Civilians?”

Angela nodded. “I have supporters here. People from Bragg, too. Marie.” She seemed to regret saying Marie’s name, and Lee felt it hit him, but didn’t let it show.

“Pull them together. You’re in charge of every civilian in Butler right now. I want you to talk to every person that you know that will back you up and who you can trust to get a job done. Have them organize into teams—everyone you can find that has a gun and some ammo and some common sense. I need all civilians rounded up and brought here to the school.” Lee pointed to the map on Lopez’s screen. “We’ve got these big gymnasium buildings and add-on classrooms, and we got the sports fields. We should be able to fit everyone within the confines of the school grounds.”

Angela hissed. “It’ll be tight.”

“I know it will be, but I need them all in one location.” He looked at her earnestly. “No matter how hard we prepare, we need to plan for the possibility that our best efforts won’t be enough. If we have everyone in a single location, that’ll make it easier to evacuate.”

“Okay. We’ll get everyone in.”

Lee pointed to the street that bordered the high school to the west. “I also need some folks to start gathering every vehicle that’ll still run. The bigger the passenger capacity the better. All the school buses. All the pickup trucks, and as many SUVs as you can muster.”

Angela nodded, her eyes fixed on the screen. “What if we just immediately load everyone into the cars and have them standby like that?”

Lee fixed her with a serious look. “Because there might not be enough cars to fit everyone. I don’t want the civilians seeing that and going into a panic while we’re still trying to hold everything together.”

“Oh, Jesus…”

“Hey.” He took her by the shoulders. “You’ve been through this before. You know how it goes. You know we can only do so much.”

Angela’s expression was one of threadbare control. “Two evacuations. Both on my watch.”

“We don’t know if we’re going to evacuate just yet, okay? It’s not over until it’s over.”

“Alright. Okay.”

“Delegate, Angela. Delegate your ass off. You’re the controller, not the worker.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. But then her expression softened. “Thank you. This is where we needed you.”

Lee squeezed her shoulders and let her go. “Thanks for trusting me.”

Angela left, Kurt in tow.

“Keep her safe,” Lee called out to him.

Kurt tossed a small salute back at him before opening the doors to the TOC. “That’s what I’ve been doing, major.”

Lee turned back to the screen, and realized that the TOC was empty, save for him and the techs. He felt the need to run, to do something. But he’d done what he’d come to do. He’d told everyone what he wanted from them. Now all he could do was wait to see how they accomplished it.

He felt Deuce’s warm body pressed against his leg, and reached down, touching the dog’s head, grounding himself.

It was 0300 hours.

THIRTY-SEVEN

─▬▬▬─

RYDER

In the crowded warehouse that served as home for the Hunter Killer teams, a gray Toyota Tacoma pulled through one of the open bay doors, angled around the collection of Humvees parked there, and nudged its way through the gathered squads until it was in the center of the cavernous space.

Once upon a time, captured Lincolnists had been bound and gagged in the back under a camper shell, driven out beyond the wire, and banished from the United Eastern States. Now, the camper shell was gone, and the bed contained every manner of death-dealing that came in a crate and could be easily distributed.

The Hunter Killer squads gathered closer, peering into the bed.

Sam and Jones and Pickell stepped out of their little area called The Underworld in the back corner of the warehouse, and stood watching, side by side.

The driver’s door opened and the only occupant of the truck stepped out. None of them really knew him, but everyone knew of him. It was Logan, one of Carl’s operatives, and the youngest man on the team. He held a clipboard with a single sheet of hand-written paper on it. He vaulted into the back of the pickup and stood on a crate.

Logan raised the clipboard up, using it like a megaphone to project his voice. “Hunter Killers. Hope you got some rest and chow. You’re heading out again. I need all squad leaders right here in front of my truck.”

Logan looked down at the clipboard and began calling roll, using their squad callsigns. Highlanders. Reapers. Wardogs. Lead Farmers. As he called them, the squad leaders shouldered through the crowd, taking positions at the front of the truck and sounding off. There was a tension in the air, but also a sense of pride.

Maybe they all wanted some sleep. Maybe they were all bone-tired, underfed, and dehydrated. But they were being called on to be the tip of the spear. They knew it, and they accepted it, and, in a way, they relished it.

“Squad Four,” Logan called out.

Sam stood there for a few seconds, still expecting a voice to call out from over his shoulder, “Sergeant Billings, here!”

But there was only silence.

Logan looked up. “Squad Four? We still got a Squad Four?”

Someone in the mix called out, “Bueller? Bueller?”

Jones nudged Sam with his elbow. “That’s you, Sarge.”

Sam looked blank for a moment, exhaustion muddling his brain. He blinked a few times, then jerked and shot his hand up into the air, and began pushing through the crowd to the front.

“Sergeant Ryder. Here.”

Logan nodded at him, and turned back to his clipboard, about to call the next squad, but a murmur had taken those gathered. A negative rumble that made Sam want to stop in his tracks and turn right back around. But he kept pressing forward, and the other squads made way for him, and then he stood there in the center.

Logan seemed to perceive that there was a general air of dissension, and he paused before calling the next name. “There a fucking problem or something?”

One of the gathered squad leaders shuffled. Sam recognized Sergeant Roble of the Wardogs. He gave Sam a glare, and then looked away. “A half-boot sergeant?” Roble grunted with a shake of his head. “How’d he get sergeant?”

Logan lowered the clipboard and frowned down at Roble. “I believe it was Major Harden that issued that field promotion.”

Roble was unconvinced. “We got a whole crew of real soldiers with better experience. Half-boots don’t know shit about fuck.”

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but it was a voice to Sam’s left that shattered the disquieted hush.

“Yo!” Sergeant “Scots” McCollum took a step forward and pointed at Roble. His eyes were as fiery as his red hair. “Fucking unsat, Sergeant Roble. Ryder’s been with us since the beginning. You weren’t even Eleven-B, Roble. You drove fucking trucks. Ryder’s got just as much combat experience as you do at this point.”

Roble bristled, but didn’t respond.

Scots wasn’t finished. He turned his gaze to the gathered squad leaders. “Half-boot or not, doesn’t fucking matter. Ryder was Squad Four. And who had the most CKs three months running? Squad Four. Who told us not to go into Augusta and turned out to be right? Fucking Squad Four. Billings was as solid a squad leader as we have, and I’ll take one of his guys to be a squad leader over half the motherfuckers in this room.”

Scots huffed. Jammed his hands into the collar of his armor. No one challenged him.

Logan raised his eyebrows. “Are we done?”

Scots raised a hand, “No, sir, we’re not done. Fuck this whole Squad Four bullshit.” Scots whirled, made eye-contact with Sam, and pointed at him. “Rough Ryders. That’s your new goddamn name. It’s been decided, so don’t fucking argue and don’t try to change it. Had about enough of y’all callin’ yourselves ‘Squad Four.’ It’s ruining the whole damn motif.”

A smattering of hesitant, suppressed laughter.

Scots stepped back in line. “Nothing further.” He glanced up at Logan. “Now I’m done.”

Logan just shook his head, but there was a ghost of a repressed smile on his lips. “Alright. Rough Ryders it is.”

“Fucking finally!” Jones called out from the back. “Rough Ryders! Suck it, Roble!”

“Alright, everyone shut the fuck up and let me continue,” Logan snapped, and then, with a sly smirk, muttered loud enough for them all to hear: “Hunter Killers is a bunch of fucking lunatics.”

Which gained him a chorus of huas, and set the energy in the warehouse back to where it needed to be. They all knew what Logan had done for them in that small utterance. In one move, Logan had swept the dissension under the rug and reminded them that none of that shit mattered when the bullets flew.

As the final squads were called up, Sam met Roble’s gaze. The other sergeant’s eyes were cold, but not hostile. Sam held his eyes and didn’t look away. Didn’t back down.

Roble gave him the tiniest of nods.

“All ten squads present,” Logan called out. “Are any squad leaders besides Sergeant Ryder down on man count? If you got less than five in your squad, raise your hand.”

Sam looked around and saw that no one else raised their hands. He raised his.

Logan nodded to him. “Sergeant Ryder, gimme names or I’ll just grab random half-boots to fill your Humvee.”

Sam needed two more, and he spat out the first two names that came to him. “Privates Trudeau and Johnson, sir. Worked with them in Savannah.”

Logan jotted something down on his clipboard, then grabbed his radio and spoke into it. “Logan to Mitch, you got the half-boots over at the sheriff’s?”

“This is Mitch, yeah I got ‘em.”

“Pull Privates Trudeau and Johnson and send them to the Hunter Killer warehouse.”

Mitch copied.

Logan stuffed the radio back in his pouch, then pointed to the truck bed underneath him. “I got ammo and ordnance in this truck. Claymores, rocket launchers, grenade launchers. I’ll distribute them when we’re done with the briefing, according to the plan that’s been laid out for me.”

Logan then proceeded to rattle off squad names and positions, all of them several miles outside of Butler. Mostly intersections, covering Greeley’s most likely routes into Butler.

“Master Sergeant Gilliard will be Trapdoor Actual, in the TOC. You will go direct with him for all requests, sitreps, and updates.” Logan lowered the clipboard. “Does everyone understand their job and their positions?”

Affirmative calls.

“Does anyone have any questions?”

Silence.

“It is oh-four-hundred hours. You need to be in position and ready for contact by oh-five-hundred.” Logan hopped down off the truck bed and pointed to it. “Grab your shit and get rolling.”

***

Lee didn’t think he was going to sleep, but then he did.

He’d shucked off his rifle and his sweaty armor, propped them up against the side of the gymnasium wall, and laid down with his plates as his pillow. He’d told Byers and Lopez that he was just going to close his eyes for a minute.

But then Deuce found his way over, and curled up at Lee’s side. And when he did, the world shifted, and the ground seemed to suck Lee into it, and he was out.

He slept through the clatter of the gym doors opening and closing as people came and went. He slept through the new techs taking their stations, and Byers and Lopez grabbing positions along the wall near Lee, curled up on the floor. The chatter of radio transmissions and the techs answering them became a low, murmuring background noise, almost soothing.

He slept through the Blackhawk going airborne outside, and through the rumble of the Hunter Killers departing for their positions.

Carl entered at one point, saw Lee sleeping, and decided not to wake him. After making a slow round down the tables and seeing that everything was running on autopilot, he decided to catch a few Z’s himself, choosing one of the rolling office chairs to recline in, and another to hold his feet.

Carl jerked awake when Lopez and Byers took their stations again, and the replacement techs unselfconsciously picked the warm spots they’d left on the gym floor to sleep in. He rubbed his eyes and looked over his shoulder and found Lee still sleeping.

None of it made it through to Lee. Not the check in of squad after squad, telling Carl they were in place at the appointed ambush positions. Not the transmissions of the Blackhawk, reporting that all was quiet on the roads out to fifty miles.

He was gone. Exhaustion taking him down deep.

His dreams were of troop movements, and numbers that circulated in some small portion of his brain that still kept on calculating and worrying, far past when the rest of it had thrown in the towel. Half-boots. Active soldiers. Humvees. Evacuation vehicles.

Not enough, his subconscious told him as he slept. Not enough.

He came awake in that strange way you do when you haven’t had near enough sleep to recuperate your brain. His eyes opened, and he didn’t move, just laid there for a moment, not sure what he was looking at, where he was, when it was, and whether he’d been asleep for hours or days.

A face before him.

A familiar face. A beautiful face, though it was struck through with anxiety, and he felt that anxiety come over him, like it had been transmitted to him through the air, and it kicked his heart into gear.

“Lee,” Angela said, squatting down at his side, her hand on his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” he murmured, still not moving, a part of him unsure whether this was five years ago, when he and Angela had shared a shanty with a tarpaulin roof in a place called Camp Ryder, or whether this was some other time in his life entirely.

His heart pounded. That was about the only thing he was sure of.

“I brought you some food,” Angela said.

Lee looked down and saw the bowl held out to him, a brown mush inside. He smelled it, and though he had no idea what it was, it made his mouth water. He leaned up, blinking, frowning, looking around.

Tables. Monitors. Technicians.

Carl, standing before a projected map.

The Butler Safe Zone. Squad names delineated on the map, along with key points along the highways into Butler.

Not enough, he recalled.

Greeley on the march. Primals on the move.

“Lee?” Angela quirked an eyebrow. “You alright?”

He nodded, everything shifting gradually back into focus like his brain was a stalled out engine coughing back to life. “Yeah. Sorry. Took me a second.” He reached out and took the bowl from Angela. “Thanks.”

“I had the community messhall throw together whatever they had laying around that couldn’t be packed up. I’ve got it distributed to those that need it the most.” She smirked. “Figured you could use a few bites.”

Lee was still too tired to have any hunger, but that changed with one spoonful. He still didn’t know what it was. He saw corn grits, barley, and bits of meat. The rest he wasn’t sure about. But his mouth gushed when it hit his tongue and his stomach woke up.

At his side, Deuce crept forward over his legs, his eyes fixed on the bowl, his nose hovering close to it and working overtime. Such hopefulness. It didn’t matter what was going on around them or what the future held. Deuce didn’t care. There was food.

“Don’t worry,” Angela said, smirking at the dog. “He got fed. Don’t let him guilt-trip you.”

Still, Lee grabbed a pinch of the hash and let Deuce lick it from his fingers. They’d been sharing their meals for a long time, and Lee saw no reason to stop now. It steadied him. Centered him. Gave him something to care for. That was important in ways that Lee couldn’t put his finger on.

“What time is it?” he murmured around a full mouth.

“Seven o’clock,” Angela answered.

“Shit.” Lee stopped chewing and his eyes went wide.

Angela put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Everything’s still running fine.”

Lee looked at the bowl, then at the technicians, then at Carl. They all had bowls too, or some other container with a fork or spoon stuck in it. He looked back to Angela. “Did you eat already?”

Angela shook her head ruefully. “Yes, I ate, Lee. Now you eat.”

Guilt assuaged, Lee shoveled the rest into his mouth. He let Deuce lick the bowl, and then stood up. Slow. Sore. His bandaged left forearm felt stiff, the stitches tight against his skin. Angela rose with him, her knees popping.

“Goddamn,” Lee commented. “You’re sounding like me now.”

“Coupla old cripples we are.”

They walked with tired determination to the first line of tables were Lee deposited his empty bowl, then crossed around it, and he and Angela stood behind Lopez.

Lee rubbed some blood into his face. “Sitrep, please.”

“Everyone’s in position,” Lopez answered, turning in her chair. She had her own set of bags under her eyes but otherwise seemed alert.

“Evac vehicles are still being gathered,” Angela put in. “We’ve got enough lined up to move approximately eight hundred people. Not sure how many more we’re going to be able to pull. There’s roughly three thousand civilians crammed into this school right now.”

Not enough.

Lee blew a slow breath through pursed lips.

Steady. Compartmentalize. You can only do what you can do.

Angela cleared her throat. “Maybe we should start moving the civilians out of the Safe Zone.”

Lee shook his head. “Not until the primals hit. And not until we know where Greeley’s coming from.”

A radio at Corporal Byer’s station crackled. Lee couldn’t hear what the voice said, but he heard its tone, and that told him enough.

“Whatcha got, Byers?” Lee asked, when the transmission ended.

Corporal Byers turned to him. If he’d been exhausted, he wasn’t anymore. “Primals spotted, sir. One mile out, coming straight for the eastern perimeter.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

─▬▬▬─

THE ATTACK

The first shot was fired by a sharpshooter. She was just a half-boot, but she came on good recommendation that she knew how to fire a rifle. She made her first shot as the leading edges of the horde of primals came to a point in the road that she’d marked as being 800 yards.

It was a first shot hit. She watched the primal jerk and stumble, red blooming across its belly, but it kept coming. She jacked the bolt action of the Remington 700 she’d been given and fired again, holding higher. That one took it down.

The sound of those two shots roiled across the Butler Safe Zone. Slow. Evenly spaced.

Three thousand civilians stirred, a murmur of fear following the echoes of those shots, followed by stillness as they listened for what came next.

On roof tops overlooking the main gate and the main drag, half-boots in their mix-and-match uniforms sat up straight. Those that had been asleep were asleep no longer. Grips tightened on rifles. The sound bounced around, making it difficult to pinpoint where it had come from, but everyone seemed as one to look east.

In a room in the wing of the high school that had been converted to a hospital, the kid named Braden heard those first shots, muted through the walls. He sat up in the gurney that had become his hospital bed, using his one good arm. His eyes were wide. His breathing fast and shallow. Heart hammering.

Across from him, two other beds—just rolling tables with blankets on them—held women that were like him: They’d had their arms and legs broken or dislocated. They didn’t lean up as he did, but instead curled tighter on themselves. One woman’s eyes were clenched shut, her lips moving in a silent prayer. The other woman looked at Braden, held his gaze. She managed a shaky smile.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered to him. “Don’t be afraid. They’ll protect us.”

In the washed-out light of dawn, the sun blurred behind a thin skein of clouds, Commander Renoux stood with his soldiers outside the Taylor County Sheriff’s Office, and none of them moved. They stared towards the eastern perimeter, waiting.

Another rifle shot. Then another.

New rifles joined in. Then more. All the sharpshooters firing now as the range continued to shrink.

700 yards.

600 yards.

At 500 yards, all the rifles opened up. No one got a good count on how many primals there were, because they kept dipping in and out of the trees as they closed the distance. They seemed to possess an instinct for when they were being targeted, and round after round pocked the dirt, or shredded the side of a tree.

And as 200 yards faded to 100 yards, the half-boots on the eastern perimeter began to fire more and more rapidly, their fingers and their eyes and their bodies falling into a panic that only made their accuracy even worse.

Fifty-three of them, the ones that had been through this twelve hours before, were all thinking the same thing:

This is Moody all over again!

***

Mr. Smith and Captain Griffin drove south in a black Tahoe. It was one of a few that they’d pilfered from the remains of Fort Bragg.

Griffin would have preferred to be in something with a turret, but Mr. Smith seemed to like the Tahoe for style reasons and all but insisted that Griffin drive with him. They sat in the back, and Griffin leaned around the front seat to look out the windshield. Ahead of them the long line of their convoy stretched. Humvees, MATVs, pickup trucks with their beds filled with soldiers or Cornerstone operatives.

Griffin looked down at the satphone in his lap, live and on speaker with the drone pilots back in Greeley. The invasion had gotten a small headstart, a fortuitous tailwind pushing the C-130’s ahead of schedule, and Griffin’s convoy had now crossed into Georgia. The drones were far ahead of them, scheduled to come on target at any minute.

“Predator One and Two,” a voice spoke calmly through the phone’s speaker. No tension. No worries. “We’re coming on target in about sixty seconds.”

“Roger that,” Griffin said. “Any visual on troop movements around Butler?”

“That’s negative, captain. We’re coming in at a low altitude, and there’s a lot of trees in the area. Just stay on your toes as you come in—we don’t know what’s hiding out there that we can’t see.”

Griffin’s lips curled. Was he really getting a lesson on ground tactics from some eighteen year old glorified video game pilot that’d probably never touched a rifle outside of qualifications?

Mr. Smith seemed to detect his chagrin and chuckled to himself. He was awfully good-humored to be going into this situation. Griffin was satisfied that things had gone off ahead of schedule, and he was glad to be on the move, and he was glad to be close to putting an end to the United Eastern States. But he was not good-humored about it.

“Alright,” the drone pilot said. “We’re getting a visual now…standby…”

A few seconds of silence stretched, wherein Griffin found himself leaning forward, hunching over the satphone.

“Sir, I’ve…Well, shit. I got a visual on a decent-sized swarm of infected. They’re all over the eastern side of Butler. Taking small arms fire from several positions inside the city’s defenses. Should we fire on the infected?”

Mr. Smith ripped his sunglasses off his head and nearly came out of his seat. “No! Don’t fire on the infected! As of right now those are our allies. In fact…” Mr. Smith glanced at Griffin. “You wanna just blow the fence and whoever they got shooting small arms?”

Griffin frowned. “That’s just gonna let the infected in.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Mr. Smith grinned. “Let those fuckers in there. They’ll wreck that place better than a coupla Hellfires. Get everyone all discombobulated.”

“We let them in there, they’re gonna kill…” Griffin cut himself off. He’d been about to say civilians, but then remembered Mr. Smith’s opinions on that. Napalm Stick to Kids. Hardy-har-har. “We’ll have to fight them off when we get there.”

“Aw, bullshit,” Mr. Smith scoffed. “Predator One, can you advise an approximate count on the infected?”

A pause.

“Looks to be around fifty.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Smith said, pointing to the satphone. “See? We let in fifty, they’ll wreak havoc, but they’ll be all mopped up by the time we get there.”

Griffin hesitated.

The smile on Mr. Smith’s mouth became brittle. “Captain Griffin, I strongly advise you tell the drones to blow the fences, and take out the enemy positions.”

Griffin looked away. Down at the satphone. “Predator One and Two, destroy the protective fencing. Then hit the defensive positions that are firing on the infected. If you got anything left, fire at will.”

“Roger that,” the drone pilot said, calm and casual. “Firing.”

***

The blast shook the TOC.

“The fuck was that?” Lee snapped up. “Lopez! Byers! Figure out what that was!”

Byers keyed his radio and spoke into his headset. “Command to any units that can advise on what—”

Another blast. Then two more in quick succession.

“Those are bombs,” Lee said. “I need to know where they’re coming from!”

Byers and Lopez both hunkered down over their radios, and their voices bled together under the rumbling aftershocks.

Byers twisted in his seat. “Sir, I’m not getting a response from anyone on the eastern perimeter.”

The radio at Lopez’s station sounded. “Renoux to command!” His voice shook as though running. “Two drones! They just hit the eastern perimeter! There’s a breach in the fences—breach in the fences! Primals coming through! Standby…”

Lee leaned down over the table, listening to the sounds of boots stamping and men shouting. The shuffle of gear.

“Command,” Renoux’s voice, tightened with stress. “I’ve got primals coming through the breach, straight down the main drag. Our positions…shit! Our positions on the eastern perimeter are gone! They’ve been hit!”

Rifle fire chattered in the background of the transmission, and then it cut off.

Lee snatched the handset from Lopez’s station. “Harden to Renoux, I need you to get between the primals and the school. How copy?”

“I copy. We’re running, but they’re cutting through the trees towards Oak Street.”

Lee glanced to his right, to where his armor and rifle still lay against the wall.

Angela touched his arm, but said nothing.

Stay here. Stay in command. This is where you’re needed most.

Lee’s mind scrambled about to what resources he had available, and realized that Renoux was it—no one else was in a position to intercept the primals. Even Renoux might get there too late.

Lee held a hand to his face, his fingers pinching his lips together as he waited in silence to hear something from the radio. Seconds ticked by. Turned to agonizing minutes.

The radio beeped and Renoux’s voice blurted out, mid-sentence: “—into the school!”—rifle fire in the background—“Towards the hospital wing!”

Half of the high school was devoted to their makeshift hospital.

Doc Trent and the hybrid, Lee realized with a crush of urgency. They’re still going after that body.

Lee glanced again to his rifle, but Carl’s voice shot through the TOC.

“Negative, Lee!” Carl was already moving towards the door to the gymnasium that led to the rest of the high school. “You stay in the TOC!”

Lee whirled, teeth gritted. “Secure Doc Trent!”

Carl slammed through the doors at a run.

Lee pointed to the two techs that weren’t occupied. “Lock the doors to the TOC! Post up with your pistols!”

The two techs scrambled for the doors, and Lee split towards his armor and rifle. He snatched up the rifle and slung into it, grabbing the armor by the drag strap and hauling it back towards the two lines of folding tables that made up the stations. He slammed his armor onto one of the empty tables. He’d re-upped on magazines and wanted them close at hand.

“Angela,” Lee said, hiking a thumb behind him. “Get those back doors.”

She sprinted for them.

The techs backed away from their locked doors, pistols drawn, faces fearful.

Somewhere in the building, gunshots thumped against the walls.

***

Carl charged through the corridors, packed with panicked civilians.

He shouldered through them, one hand holding his rifle at a high ready, his support hand shoving the people out of the way as they streamed towards him. It felt like swimming upstream.

“Get outta the way!” Carl bellowed. “Make a fucking path!”

It did no good. Everyone had heard the rifle fire coming from the opposite end of the building, and they’d heard the screeches and growls. They knew what was in there with them. All they could do was flee in the opposite direction, and all logic was lost to them.

Carl was tall enough to see over the crowd. At the back, where it began to thin out, men and women pushed improvised hospital beds, on which lay the crumpled, crippled forms of the women they’d rescued from Savannah.

Carl lunged through the crowd and grabbed a woman pushing one of the beds. “Where’s Doctor Trent?”

The woman glanced up at Carl in abject confusion, then pointed behind her. “He’s in that room with that thing!”

Then she was gone, caught in the flow of humanity.

There were several rooms in the direction that she had pointed.

Carl swore, then sliced through the dregs of the fleeing civilians, elbowing them out of the way, not holding back. He needed to get to that room, and they could handle a few bruises to make that happen.

He got to the side of the corridor, his right shoulder against the wall and started thrusting himself forward by fits and starts until the crowd was thin enough for him to start running again.

Another chatter of gunfire—closer this time.

Another chorus of inhuman shrieking.

It sounded like they were right on top of him.

Carl reached the first door and glanced through the slotted window. Nothing beyond. He moved forward as the last of the civilians disappeared, leaving him in a barren corridor that still stank of body odor and panic.

Next room—no one there.

Shapes erupted from around the end of the hall, fifty yards from him. He perceived them so clearly in that instant. Their freakishly muscled bodies hurtling around the corner, clawed feet and hands scrabbling for purchase on the tile floors in a clatter of clicking sounds. Eyes fixated on him. Jaws open, gulping air and trailing streamers of saliva.

Carl didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—told himself keep moving your feet, even as he brought his sights up, breath clenched, and put his red dot on foreheads, breaking shots the second his sights aligned.

BOOM.

The frontrunner went down in a heap.

BOOM.

Another twirled, spraying a mist of blood.

BOOM.

This one snapped backward and fell on its ass.

Carl slammed into the next door, casting a glance inward and seeing a round, pale face, wide eyes behind spectacles. Carl batted at the lever-style door handle and careened into the room, spinning on the edge of the door and slamming it closed behind him, his eyes scouring it and finding the tiny lock.

He seized it with his left hand and flipped it.

Bodies pummeled into the door, rattling it on its hinges. The door handle jiggled, making a clattering sound that Carl could just hear over the howling outside, the constant, endless screeching and barking.

Where were Renoux’s soldiers? He could still hear their gunfire through the walls, but why were they taking so long to get here?

Faces loomed in the narrow window of the door, slavering jaws pressing up against the reinforced glass, snapping at him like they could taste him through the door.

Carl backed up a step, then looked behind him.

Doc Trent stood, pressed up against a table on which a female body was splayed, cut open from breast to pelvis. He held a scalpel and a pair of forceps in gloved hands, the flesh-colored latex smeared with red.

Carl batted the instruments out of the doctor’s hand, then drew his sidearm and thrust it at Doc Trent. “Take this! If they get in, shoot for the head!”

Doc Trent grabbed the gun, but his gaze never left the window where the savage faces clustered, driven into a rage, shaking the door and slamming it so hard that concrete dust began to trickle from the edges of the steel doorframe.

“We’re not gonna make it,” Doc Trent murmured, his voice barely getting to Carl’s ears over the din of the primals outside, their keening, their desperate attempts at entry.

Couldn’t they see that the goddamn hybrid was dead? Couldn’t they just leave?

It was like they were possessed. Animated by a madness somewhere far beyond their normal instincts to hunt and kill and feed.

Doc Trent turned away from the door. Grabbed a small black device from the table beside a pile of innards.

“The fuck are you doing right now?” Carl demanded.

“Hold them off as long as you can,” Doc Trent replied, then clicked a button and began to speak in a clinical voice, though it shook. “This is Doctor Trent. This record is for the information relating to the female, human-primal hybrid recovered from a nesting area outside of Savannah, Georgia…”

Carl whirled, knowing there was nothing he could do at this point. He was pinned in. Trapped in this room. His only hope was to hold the primals off long enough for Renoux’s men to charge in and kill them before they found a way into the room.

What had Doctor Trent discovered about the primals?

He thought about the squads that had died in Augusta. He thought about those that they’d lost in Savannah. He thought about all those women that had been taken from Moody.

If they had known then what Doc Trent knew now, would they have lived? If they’d known what they were up against, could someone have kept them all from dying?

And then Carl’s perspective shifted.

It didn’t matter if he made it out. It didn’t matter if Doc Trent made it out. It only mattered that Carl hold those creatures off long enough for the knowledge to be recorded. Because if they knew what they were up against, then somewhere down the line, that knowledge might save lives.

And that was enough for Carl.

He brought his rifle up to his eyes again. He wouldn’t shoot through the door—that might weaken the structure of it—but he could shoot through the glass.

“Subject bears a physical resemblance to both humans and primals. Sixty-two inches from head to heel. Very small for a primal. Relatively small for a human.”

A face leered through the glass, its eyes jagging between Carl and the body on the table.

Carl fired, the gunshot punching through his eardrums in the enclosed space. The bullet lanced the glass and destroyed the eye that glared at him, spattering brain matter out the back.

“Body and facial structure is more similar to a human female than a primal. There is no elongation of the limbs, or the fillanges of the feet or hands. Fingernails and toenails have not undergone any apparent thickening or hardening, as observed in primal subjects.”

Another face, another gunshot.

Breathe. Steady.

“No evidence of mandibular widening or lengthening. The palate shows evidence of some widening, and teeth show evidence of some lengthening, particularly in the top and bottom incisors, both observations being consistent with a carnivorous diet.”

Doc Trent’s words flowed over Carl and through him. Into some portion of him that continued to think beyond the necessity of aiming and firing, aiming and firing.

They slammed the door in unison now. A rhythm to it. Backing up, keeping low out of the window now, then ramming their bodies into the door. The frame began to loosen where it was mortared into the concrete walls, a small crack appearing.

“Dissection of the gum line and mandible shows no evidence of adult teeth behind the subject’s current teeth, implying that she bears the same teeth that she was born with, which is a characteristic consistent with primals.”

The crack widened.

Carl thrust the muzzle of his rifle near to the shattered window and fired blindly out of it, attempting to strike something. A clawed hand batted at the muzzle as he fired, the bullets chewing through the flesh and ripping the digits away.

“Inspection of the subject’s eyeball reveals coloring and structure mutations. The rods and cones appear enlarged to enhance low-light vision, also consistent with primals.”

Carl tried to angle his rifle away, but something gripped it and held fast, no matter how many shots Carl fired, and he reared back, jerking the rifle away until it was freed.

“Subject’s body shows abnormal amounts of muscle growth for a female of its apparent age. Inspection of the womb and ovaries reveals that the subject is sexually mature, though the hymen remains intact.”

Gunfire from down the hall. Carl heard it through the shattered glass of the window. He pulled back away from the door until his hips hit the table on which the hybrid body lay. He swapped magazines. Best to be fully loaded when the door came down.

“Despite its sexual maturity, and apparent age based on subjective morphology…”

Another series of slams into the door. The crack bulged, the door beginning to cave in.

Carl clicked his selector switch to full-auto. “Doc! Get ready! They’re coming in!”

Doc Trent’s voice rose as his words continued: “…Dissection of certain organs, along with, uh…”

Boom.

The sound of cracking, grinding concrete.

“…Uh, previous observations made concerning the age of primals, it is my estimation…”

Carl began firing, three round bursts at first, straight through the door.

Doc Trent yelled now: “…that the subject is approximately four to five years old.”

The door burst inwards.

Carl held the trigger down, sweeping the rattling muzzle back and forth across the doorway as limbs scrabbled in, as though they all belonged to a single, many-armed, many-legged creature.

Carl went down, screaming as he fired. The rifle was ripped from his hands. Claws plunged into the flesh of his arms, of his legs, jaws latched on and tore at him.

Doc Trent backpedaled away to the far corner of the room, dropping the recorder on the table and hoping against hope that it would survive. The pistol trembled in his hands and he tried to bring it up, tried to aim into the pile of limbs and thrashing that engulfed Carl Gilliard. The screams enveloped him, surrounded him, seemed to go on forever. Carl kicked and punched at them as his flesh was torn away in savage chunks.

If they get in, shoot for the head.

Doc Trent didn’t fire on them. His back was against the wall, and he realized in a flash of insight that the primals were so focused on Carl that they hadn’t seen him yet. And he had only a moment to spare, to escape Carl’s fate.

Shoot for the head.

As gnashing teeth ripped Carl’s voice from his throat, Doc Trent turned the pistol on himself, putting the muzzle under his chin, and fired.

THIRTY-NINE

─▬▬▬─

BLACKJACK

The TOC was a blur of radio transmissions.

Lee stood in the center of it all, like the eye of a storm, his rifle in his shoulder, the muzzle at a low-ready. To his left and right, Byers and Lopez held radios and pistols, while the techs guarding the doors continued flashing glances in Lee’s direction.

People pounded on the door and screamed for entrance.

“Don’t open those doors!” Lee snapped as one of the techs inched closer.

“Lee,” Angela pled. “We gotta let them through!”

“They come in, the primals come in with them. Let Renoux’s men do their job.”

But as Lee said it, he realized he wasn’t hearing the muted thumping noise of gunfire in the building. He sidled to his right, next to Lopez. The radio was a constant stream of traffic, squads reporting in, asking for information, asking if the primals were coming their direction, their transmissions walking all over each other.

Lee seized Lopez’s radio and held the transmit button. The radio issued a low, negative tone for a few long, infuriating seconds, until a break in the traffic allowed Lee to get through. “Everyone hold your traffic! If you are not actively engaged, then shut the fuck up! Commander Renoux, this is Harden—gimme a sitrep when you can.”

The only response was a muttered, “Standby,” that could’ve come from Renoux or anyone.

“Lee!” Angela’s voice sounded from behind him.

He turned to find her pressed against the windows of the rear doors, looking out at the school yard. “What’s the problem?”

“The civilians are running!” she cried. “They’re pushing past the guards and running back into Butler!”

Lee swore. “Everyone hold what you got for just a few seconds.”

He stared down at the silent radio. The absence of transmissions only made the desperate pounding on the doors of the gymnasium that much more apparent, that much more insistent.

Then Renoux’s voice: “Renoux to Harden…” he sounded winded. And distraught. “Primals are down. We’re sweeping the building now to make sure there are no stragglers. But…they got Carl, sir. They got Carl and Doc Trent.”

Lee doubled over like he’d been punched in the gut. His hand caught on the table next to Lopez’s station, making her jump and the table slide a few inches. Lee held himself there for a moment until he was able to take a breath.

Static seemed to buzz through his brain. It welled up like a pot poiling over, but Lee righted himself and breathed it all down and out of him.

Keep moving. Compartmentalize.

“I copy,” Lee said. “Complete your sweep of the building, then get back to your original positions. All other units on the main command channel, copy that the primals have been dealt with. You can resume regular traffic, but hold off unless it’s urgent.” He dropped the radio next to Lopez, then turned to Byers. “You got anyone from the eastern perimeter yet?”

“Yes, sir,” Byers nodded. “Got a head count of fifteen survivors and counting. The squad leaders are still pulling bodies.”

“Byers, relay to Morrow that Master Sergeant Gilliard is KIA.” Lee’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. He swallowed on nothing, his tongue parched. “Have Morrow take over Carl’s command.”

One of the techs across the room called out, “Sir! Do you want us to open the doors now?”

“No, I don’t want you to open the goddamned doors! They’re out of danger and we don’t need a hundred panicked civilians fucking up the works in here.” Lee spun. “Angela, you gotta make contact with your groups outside and get the civilians back under control.”

Kurt stepped up and put a hand on Angela’s shoulder, stopping her as she made for the back doors. “I’ll do it. You stay in here with Major Harden.”

Lee nodded to him, and he pushed through the doors, breaking into a run.

Angela stalked back towards him. “What are we gonna do about the breach in the fences?”

Lee shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do at this point.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. They might not be able to close the breach—they didn’t have the manpower or the hardware to devote to it—but they had a whole lot of half-boots that were on the wrong side of Butler. If Lee were an assaulting force, and if he knew there was solid breach in the perimeter, that’s where he’d try to break through.

“Hang on,” he said to Angela, then marched to Byers’s station. The corporal finished his transmission to Morrow. Lee heard the radio speaker. He heard the deadness in Morrow’s voice as he responded to his new orders.

“We copy,” Morrow said. “I’ll relay that information over the secondary channel. Out.”

Lee touched Byers’s shoulder to get his attention. “Byers, get on the line with Hamrick, tell him he needs to shift a portion of his half-boots out of their positions in the center of the city and cover that gap that the drones left in our perimeter.”

Byers nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Lee put a hand to his mouth and backed up a single step. His chest hitched once, but he muffled the sound of that one, painful noise behind his hand.

***

“This is Morrow. I will be taking over as Trapdoor Actual. All reports will go direct with me. Do all units copy?”

Sam heard the transmission and looked sideways at Jones and Pickell as the Hunter Killer squads began to sound off that they’d copied. “What the fuck’s that about?”

Jones shook his head. “Something must’ve happened to Gilliard.”

“Reaper Six,” the radio sounded. “I copy. Can you advise if something happened?”

A pause in the series of transmissions.

Morrow’s voice again, deadpan: “Primals breached the perimeter. Two drones dropped ordnance on key defensive positions. The situation has been taken care of. Focus on your jobs. Nothing further. Keep sounding off.”

When it got to Sam, he keyed the command-channel radio affixed to his shoulder. “Rough Ryder Six, I copy.”

The acknowledgements continued on down the line, each position indicating that they understood the new change in structure.

After that the squad comms were quiet.

Sam and his squad lay prone, about twenty yards inside a stand of pines. The pines were planted in neat rows that provided narrow firing lanes, and a clear line of sight to the road.

Several yards to Sam’s left, he could see Ragnarok squad, and beyond them, the Wardogs.

Sam held his regular M4 rifle. Pickell had been given an M249, as he’d proven himself a competent machine gunner. Jones held the M320 grenade launcher, two spare 40mm rounds in the pine needles in front of him. One in the chamber, and another spare in a pouch on his armor. They figured they’d be lucky if Jones got off three rounds before they had to cut and run.

The three Humvees were stationed down the road at an intersection. One of them behind a copse of trees, in the middle of a wide field that dominated the southwestern corner of the cross roads.

It wasn’t quite an L-shaped ambush, but the roads were long and straight around here, and there were too many fields and open areas. This was the best they could do with limited time and limited planning.

Claymores had been staked, three on each side of the road, daisy-chained together, and angled to reduce the risk of crossfire on friendlies. The thin black wire that ran across the road was obscured by fallen branches and leaves. The branches weren’t thick enough to be a blockage, and an incoming convoy would likely just roll right over them.

So they hoped.

Sam’s mind turned to the two newest members of his squad—Trudeau and Johnson. He’d left them in the Humvee, Johnson in the turret and Trudeau in the driver’s seat. Were they experienced enough to hold their own? Could he trust them not to do something stupid?

He’d have to trust them. Once upon a time, Billings had trusted him, and Sam guessed he’d turned out alright. Kind of.

He settled in as the sun rose in the sky, breaking through the clouds and slanting through the trees in narrow slats of light. All they could do now was sit and wait.

***

The man named Fink had to swim for it. There simply wasn’t another way.

In the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, his lookout posted atop the water tower that overlooked Highway 128 had seen the Humvees coming in hot from Butler. They’d passed by in the darkness, not spying the little red Honda nosed way back into the woods, nor the three men and one woman who huddled atop the tower.

“They’re setting up an ambush,” Fink breathed, tension ratcheting up his breathing.

No one had responded to that, and as Fink watched the taillights dwindle, he got up and swung himself onto the ladder, taking his bolt-action rifle with him.

“Where are you going?” the woman hissed at him.

“I’ve gotta warn them when they come in,” he replied, then descended the ladder.

He made his way north along the trees to the side of the highway, keeping out of sight, until he neared the intersection of Highway 137. He saw the Humvees ahead of him, milling about, backing into spaces. Setting up their ambush.

He couldn’t very well walk through them. So he cut around, heading east into a sky just beginning to blue with the coming dawn. He worked his way wide around that intersection, and eventually came to a river. He didn’t know what river it was, but it looked cold and unwelcoming in the dim light. The water moved, deceptively fast, and he couldn’t tell how deep it was.

But there was no other way.

So Fink had plunged into the water.

The current carried him away from where he wanted to go, and his boots weighed him down, as well as the rifle on his back, but he was a strong swimmer, and after a few minutes of struggling to keep his head above water and squirming forward through the current, his hands sank into the silty mud of the opposite river bank.

He thrashed through it, trying to be as quiet as he could, but also cognizant that he was at least a mile from the ambush, maybe more, and they couldn’t hear him.

Still. There were other things out here that had sensitive ears.

Sodden with river water, and with his pant legs and boots weighed down with mud, Fink fought his way out of the river and back onto dry land.  Then he pointed himself north again, and ran for a point on Highway 128 that would be far beyond the ambush.

***

They neared their destination. Griffin could feel it, almost like an energy field that sparked through him, stronger and stronger the closer they got. As though Butler were a source of radiation, and he grew more nauseas as he drew nearer to ground zero.

It wasn’t just the sickness of nerves. Yes, that sensation always came upon Griffin when the wait had been long, and the battle promised to be bloody. Who wouldn’t feel sick about that? But there was also a thrill to it. A dark excitement.

The pieces had been moved into place. His strategy was in motion. Now he awaited his opponent’s counter-moves. And who was his opponent?

A mythological animal named Lee Harden, that had taken out every other man that had sought to kill him. An opponent whose legend had grown with each passing failed attempt on his life. And how would Griffin be any different than all those dead men that came before him?

Well, for one, Griffin didn’t care about killing Lee Harden. He wasn’t seeking to take his head back to Greeley and pin it on a wall, or put a bullet in his brain and take pictures so he could prove that the legend was dead once and for all.

Would President Briggs be pleased if he managed to kill Lee Harden? Griffin was sure he would be. But Griffin didn’t give a shit about what Briggs thought. And if Lee made it out alive, it would be no skin off Griffin’s back.

He didn’t seek to destroy Lee. He sought to destroy everything Lee had created.

That was what made Griffin different.

The man called Lee Harden that everyone was so scared of—whether they admitted it or not—was nothing. He was just one man. His power was derived from his ability to draw people together, to make them work towards a common goal. But when Griffin was through, and all that remained of the things Lee had built was a smoking ruin, then who cared if the bastard ran wild in the hinterlands of the southeast? Let him while out his last pathetic days with no one and nothing left but the infected for company.

Griffin would move on. When Butler was his, he would take out the other so-called Safe Zones. Or they would turn themselves over to Greeley. That was acceptable as well.

Mr. Smith was a different story. It had become clear to Griffin that Mr. Smith was inordinately aroused by the idea of capturing or killing Lee Harden. Griffin had begun to suspect that President Briggs had personally given Mr. Smith that very mission.

Mr. Smith was welcome to it. If he managed to bag the bastard, then more power to him.

Briggs wanted symbolic victory. Griffin just wanted victory.

As the convoy came to Knoxville, Georgia, by way of Highway 80, Griffin took his radio and transmitted over their main command channel. “Task Force Blackjack, this is our turn. No stops ‘til Brooklyn. See you on the other side.”

“Roger that, Twenty-One Actual. Go get ‘em, gents.”

Ahead of them, a column comprised of two Humvees, two MATVs, and several pickup trucks full of troops, stayed on Highway 80, which would swing them in a wide arc down to Highway 19, south, toward Butler.

The rest of the vehicles in the column made a left-hand turn on a city street, punching through between the old, dead buildings that made up the ghost town of Knoxville. Without slowing down much, they busted a hard right onto Highway 128.

“You ever play Blackjack?” Mr. Smith inquired.

Griffin eyed him. Nodded. “One of my go-to games. Used to have a little hole in the wall casino down in the Yellow Zone.”

Mr. Smith seemed not to have heard him. “You ever play in Vegas?”

Griffin shook his head.

“You gotta play in Vegas.”

Griffin raised an eyebrow. “There is no Vegas anymore, Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Smith just laughed. “I know, right? But maybe they’ll rebuild it.”

Griffin shifted in his seat. “I played in Atlantic City one time—”

“I went to The Palms Casino in Vegas,” Mr. Smith interrupted, gazing out his window, still smiling. “Hit a fucking quadruple, bro. Quadruple. Blackjack. You believe that shit?”

Griffin just watched him for a few seconds. “Yeah. Cool, man.”

“Hand to God. Fucking quadruple. Dealer said he’d never seen anything like it.”

Please catch a bullet in the face, Griffin thought through a thin smile.

“Yo!” the driver called out. “Contact!”

Brake lights bloomed all the way down the column of vehicles.

Griffin shifted into the center again to see out the windshield. Their Tahoe was midway down the convoy, but he could see a figure off to the left-hand side of the road, standing there in the middle of a field that was half weeds and half pine saplings, holding both hands above his head.

Before Griffin could evaluate the situation, Mr. Smith had already grabbed his own radio and transmitted. “Do not stop this convoy. Keep rolling. Someone take that fucker out.”

“Hey, whoa!” Griffin reached over and grabbed Mr. Smith by the arm. “The dude’s hands are up!”

Mr. Smith looked down at where Griffin’s hand touched his arm, as though he were perturbed by the thought of Griffin’s germs on him.

Griffin was about to key his own radio and cancel that order—Mr. Smith could go fuck himself—but then a chatter of machine gun fire came from outside.

He jerked his head just in time to see the figure pitch backward amidst a cloud of dirt kicked up by the heavy machine gun rounds that had punched through him and into the soil.

“What the fuck!” Griffin yelled, coming halfway out of his seat.

Mr. Smith jerked his arm away from Griffin.

The brake lights disappeared. The column began to accelerate again.

“Get ahold of yourself, captain,” Mr. Smith said.

Griffin stared out the side window. He couldn’t see the body as they passed it. It had fallen back into the tall weeds around it. “The guy was clearly trying to surrender or flag us down! What if he had information for us or something?”

Mr. Smith sniffed. “Could’ve been wearing a bomb vest.”

Griffin’s jaw dropped, more words dying on his tongue. Mr. Smith gazed at him, his eyes unseen behind his sunglasses. He looked away, shaking his head, and settled back into his chair.

“You’re wound a little tight, captain. Hopefully it’s not affecting your ability to command this operation. Is it?”

Griffin just stared at Mr. Smith’s profile, gut roiling with anger.

“No,” he ground out. “I’m fine.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Good.”

***

“Alpha Six to Trapdoor Actual,” the transmission came over.

The TOC had fallen into a daze of stillness, and the crackle of the radio snapped Lee’s attention back. The radio was on Byers’s station, for monitoring. Lee took a step towards it, but didn’t grab it. That was Morrow’s command. He only needed to listen.

“Trapdoor Actual, go with it,” Morrow said. Lee heard the distant thrum of the Blackhawk in flight, the noise of it dimmed by the special headsets on aboard. Lee glanced up at the map, wondering where that Blackhawk was at that moment.

“We just heard gunfire a few miles from our position. Has any other unit come into contact?”

Lee’s pulse accelerated. His stomach clamped down.

Was this it? He glanced at the time stamp on Byers’s monitor. It was 0740. Lee had expected the assault to happen any time within the early morning hours, but now he felt overwhelmed and underprepared for it.

The rubber had met the road, and Lee couldn’t help but think that they weren’t strapped in.

Not enough.

“Trapdoor Actual to all Hunter Killer units, can anyone advise if they’ve taken contact?”

A period of silence lasting about ten seconds was the only response.

“Trapdoor Actual to Alpha Six, that seems to be a negative. Not sure what the gunfire was, but stay frosty. This might be it.”

“Roger that. We’re ready.”

This might be it.

Lee had the urge to grab the radio and tell Morrow to head his Blackhawk towards that position, but he held back, clenching his fist at his side. Morrow knew what he was doing. Lee couldn’t micromanage everyone’s actions. Just like he’d told Angela, he needed to delegate.

He looked up at the projection again. He hated it. Being in the TOC was like commanding from a submarine—all he had to go on was what everyone reported to him. He was trapped in a windowless room, with no visuals of his own, and it chapped his ass something fierce. This was not how he liked to operate.

You’re not operating. You’re commanding. Let people do their jobs.

God, but this was a sharp learning curve.

“Alright,” Lee said aloud, because he needed to speak his thoughts. The only other person in a command role was Angela, who stood by his side. And she was the commander-in-chief, wasn’t she? So she was as good as anyone to bounce his thoughts off of. “If they have contact around Highway One-Twenty-Eight and One-Thirty-Seven,” he said, pointing to that location on the map. “Then there’s a good chance Greeley’s coming at us from One-Twenty-Eight.”

Angela stared at the map, her eyes hard and focused. “If they come down that way, then they’ll feed into Highway Ninety-Six. Straight into that breach on our eastern perimeter.”

Lee nodded, and felt a sudden sense of relief. Like he wasn’t a solitary mind trapped inside this place. He had someone else with him. He wasn’t alone.

“Should we pull Brinly and his Marines around?” Angela questioned.

Lee considered it, because it was a worthwhile point. But then he shook his head. “We need to maintain that route out for evac. Besides that, whoever is in charge of this assault would be an idiot to put all their eggs in one basket.”

“There’s gonna be multiple attacks,” Angela reasoned. “From multiple directions.”

“It’s ground tactics one-oh-one. There’ll be a feint, and then a main attack, probably from opposite directions.” Lee’s eyes scoured the map. “Best guess would be down Highway Nineteen, straight into our north gate.”

Angela looked at Highway 19, and Lee knew without having to ask, that her attention was on the labeled icons of the Hunter Killer squads. Highway 19 and 208 was covered by the Wardogs, Ragnarok, and Rough Ryders.

But Angela likely only thought about one of those squads.

“Sam will be fine,” Lee said.

“You can’t know that.”

“You’re right, I can’t. But I can tell you that he’s a good soldier, Angela. He knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t have put him in that position if I didn’t think he could handle it.”

Angela crossed her arms over her chest. “So which one is the main attack and which one is the feint?”

Lee shook his head. “No way to know. Probably they don’t even know. They’ll have troops in reserve to punch at whichever point they think they have the best chance at breaking through on. The first attacks will be probing. Feeling us out. Seeing where our weaknesses are.”

“Is Florida coming?” Angela murmured, almost as though to herself.

“We haven’t heard from them,” Lee said, feeling a spark of anger deep inside of him. “At this point we can’t count on them. Even if they are heading our way, they’ll be too late.”

Angela nodded, her jaw muscles bunching. “No one’s coming,” she uttered, the oft-quoted scripture of the damned and the abandoned. “It’s up to us.”

FORTY

─▬▬▬─

AMBUSH

Sam hugged the pine needle-strewn ground, his cheek pressed against the stock of his rifle. The sun shone bright on the road beyond the pines. They were so still and quiet that the birds had begun to ignore them, flitting between branches and calling back and forth.

A trail of ants marched up the pine tree beside Sam. Big, fat black ones. Off to harvest who knew what. Somewhere nearby, there must have been some source of water, because Sam could hear a chorus of frogs croaking.

There was no breeze. The deciduous leaves of the forest across the highway from Sam hung motionless, not a stir in them save for when the birds would fly in and out.

Jones shifted his position, spreading his legs.

Pickell reached a hand across his M249 and rubbed the side of his nose.

No one spoke.

The command channel radio popped against the side of Sam’s face.

“Reaper Six, we have contact. Positive ID. Convoy of guntrucks coming straight down Highway One-Twenty-Eight.”

Everything seemed to change. The still air became charged, as though by an invisible lightning storm. Sam’s adrenal glands kicked his system full of fight-or-flight. His lungs filled with air, and held it against his will. His heart thrummed against the dirt beneath him. The color of everything became washed out, almost black-and-white.

Was his cover enough? It wasn’t much. Just the side of a thicker pine tree.

Maybe he should find a better source of cover.

He glanced left and right. But there was nothing else. The tree behind which he’d parked himself was one of the thickest. It was the best source of cover he had available. But as the seconds ticked by, Sam began to doubt that it would stop much. Maybe some 5.56mm. Probably not 7.62. Definitely not .50 cal.

No one responded to Reaper Six’s transmission. There was no need. They knew what to do.

Sam kept waiting to hear the gunfire, a series of pops and rattles in the distance.

It never came. The birds kept chirping. The frogs kept croaking.

Had they opened fire yet? Had they sprung the ambush? Were they just too far away for Sam to hear? Was it happening right at that moment?

The command radio sounded again: “Alpha Six!” the voice erupted in Sam’s ear, fear and strain and non-stop gunfire so thick and heavy that it sounded like a single, long peel of thunder. “We’ve engaged and are falling back!”

“Trapdoor copies,” Morrow’s voice sounded, an icy blast of calm in the chaos. “Any squad leader at that primary ambush point, give me a sitrep when you’re in the clear.”

Then the channel went dead again. The silence hummed in Sam’s ears.

No. That wasn’t the silence.

Vehicles. Trucks on the highway.

Roble’s voice over the squad comms: “Heads up! Contact, coming down Nineteen! Get ready!”

And then, over the command channel: “Ragnarok Six, we have contact at Two-Oh-Eight and Nineteen.”

Sam craned his neck, feeling his body tighten to the point that it began to tremble. He felt how wide his eyes were, the strain in his face as he peered through the trees. There, just where the highway came into view north of them, he saw the vehicles approaching. What looked like a MATV up front, followed by several more military vehicles.

Turrets. They all had turrets.

M2s. .50 caliber.

I’m not ready for this.

Sam had the sudden urge to stand up and run. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. What kept him rooted to the ground was no profound sense of honor or duty, but the fact that Jones and Pickell were right next to him. They were there, and they were counting on him.

So he stayed rooted to the ground.

He keyed the squad comms. “Take out those turrets or they’ll shred these fucking trees.”

They’ll shred my tree, and me with it.

You won’t be scared. You can’t be scared. Never again.

The vehicles hurtled towards them. Sam was out of time. He couldn’t prepare anymore. Couldn’t better his position. Couldn’t ready his mind. He was in it, and there was no way out of it.

The only way out was through.

“Jones, get ready,” Sam hissed.

“I hear you,” Jones strained out, leaning out of his cover with his M320 aimed.

Sam transmitted once more: “Everyone standby. It’s on Jones’s first shot.”

The lead MATV was close. Sam saw the eyes of the man in the turret. He saw both of the man’s hands on the grips of his machine gun. It was leveled at them. And for the ghost of one second, Sam thought that the man looked right at him…

WHUMP!

Jones’s 40mm round spat out, and a half-second later, the front end of the MATV erupted in a geyser of gray smoke, metal components spinning off into the air, shrapnel ripping through the trees over their heads. Tires screeched, the MATV swerved, the gunner flailing in the turret, and the air tore open and hell came out.

Sam’s senses were flooded to the point of overload.

Every shot, every explosion of the six Claymore mines, they all hit him like a sudden tidal wave, washing out everything that happened afterward, reducing every sensation of sound and touch and sight so that all that existed in Sam’s consciousness was the two degrees of tunnel vision through his rifle’s optic.

As the red dot fell on the gunner in the turret, Sam squeezed his finger, and ended a life. He felt nothing about it in that moment except for the screaming of his own mind to kill or be killed.

The MATV hit the ditch off the shoulder and crashed in a spray of dirt. Doors opened. Sam shot into the darkness within, seeing the shapes of faces that gawked in surprise as he poured round after round at them. The limbs scrabbling to get out fell still and hung out of those open doors.

A Humvee tried to angle around the ruined MATV, but braked hard as a torrent of lead came smashing in at it from the machine guns down the road, crushing the windshield to glass pebbles and painting the interior with red.

Another round out of Jones’s launcher slammed into the back passenger’s door of the Humvee and Sam watched the detonation explode out of the top of the turret, ripping the gunner to pieces and sending his limbs tumbling over the top.

“Move! Move! Move!” A voice screamed through Sam’s earpiece.

Soldiers poured out of their vehicles onto the highway, raking the trees on both sides with rifle fire, while the turrets on top of their vehicles got to chugging, soaking every direction in a hail of massive projectiles.

Sam heard one of them hit the tree over his head and it sounded like a cannon blast, sending bark and splinters raining down on him.

Sam struggled to his feet, feeling everything around him moving ten times faster than it should have—except for his own limbs, which felt sluggish and slothful.

“Peel!” Pickell shouted while his M249 chattered in rapid, five-round bursts.

Sam saw a soldier try to take a knee behind the engine block of a Humvee, only for Pickell’s rounds to scour across the top, ripping the man’s helmet straight off his head and obliterating the skull underneath.

Sam was on his feet. He raised his rifle, fired three rounds at a soldier ahead of him, and didn’t wait to see what those rounds did. Pickell had given them a base of fire, and Sam and Jones needed to use it.

Sam spun, became aware that no one was transmitting over the command channel, and took that moment to do so: “Rough Ryder Six, we’re falling back!”

Jones ran while shucking the spent 40mm shell and slamming a fresh one home. He stopped, spun, fired the round straight down an alley of pines, then turned and kept running.

The explosion cracked the air behind them.

Sam ran until his mind told him he’d run far enough. He picked a thick tree trunk, and skidded to a stop on one knee. To his left, the other squads hightailed it through the woods, leapfrogging over each other and sending rounds back towards the highway. But the Greeley convoy had begun to dish out far more than the squads were able to give back.

Sam flicked his selector switch to full-auto and slammed out a string of fire right over Pickell’s position, then yelled, “Pickell! Peel!”

Jones had slung his M320 at that point and taken up his rifle, firing alongside Sam.

Pickell might not have heard Sam’s voice, but he heard their rifles, and he shot to his feet, sending a blind flurry of rounds behind him and then running as the woods around him burst with gunfire, and twigs and branches fell, and dirt sprouted all around in tiny gouts.

From Sam’s position, fifty yards from where they’d been, the highway was obscured. He tried to target movement, but it came as flashes of camouflage between the trees, and all the targets moved too fast. He tried to lead them but had no idea how effective he was.

Pickell charged past their position. Sam and Jones flung themselves off the trees they’d taken and fell in with the other squads as they sprinted through the woods, angling for the intersection just to their south.

Sam heard the turrets of their Humvees, their machine guns still laying down a constant stream of suppressive fire, and acting as a beacon for the soldiers crashing through the woods.

As the distance between him and the ambush grew, and the acid began to build in his churning legs, Sam’s fear receded, like a hurricane downgraded to a tropical storm. He could hear again, the sound of the other soldiers, their boots slamming the ground, the scrape and rustle of their gear across branches and brush.

The main channel sounded: “Rough Ryders, gimme a sitrep when you can.”

“Alpha Six,” the other ambush interrupted from several miles away. “We’re moving to our secondary position. Disabled one enemy Humvee. Five enemy casualties. We’ve got one wounded.”

“Lead Farmer Six, we got confirmed kills on three. No casualties.”

“Reaper Six, four kills, one KIA.”

“Trapdoor Actual copies. Get to that secondary position. Take care of your wounded as best you can. No medivac available at this time.”

The woods in front of Sam parted, taking him by surprise. Had he run all that way already? His legs and lungs said yes. He tore out of the woods right behind Jones and Pickell, angling for the two Humvees that still sat in the intersection, chugging fire down the road.

Sam keyed the squad comms. “Frenchie! Back up!”

Their Humvee lurched into reverse, roaring backwards at them so that Jones and Pickell had to jump out of its path. It screeched to a stop, Johnson in the turret, looking wild-eyed, swinging the gun around as though additional threats might morph out of the pines at any moment.

Sam ran for the front passenger seat and piled in. The second he saw Jones and Pickell’s asses hit their seats, he slapped Trudeau on the arm. “Go! Spin us around! Get to the second ambush site!”

Out the windows, the Wardogs hit their Humvee and piled in, though there were only two of them. Ragnarok tore across the field and their Humvee charged through the weeds to meet them, away from the copse of trees behind which it had engaged the convoy.

Trudeau spun the Humvee in a rough U-turn, the tires banging over the shoulder and through the old drainage ditch on the other side, causing Johnson to thrash about in the turret and curse.

“Easy down there!” he yelled.

“Don’t listen to him,” Jones snapped. “Get us the fuck out of here!”

“Okay,” Trudeau squeaked, both hands on the wheel, eyes bulging.

Their Humvee was the first to hit the side road that would take them down to their secondary position, a few miles down the road. They wouldn’t have as much time to set up. Sam had already positioned and wired their Claymores, but it would still be a sprint to get into position before the convoy came down on them again.

He took a deep, steadying breath, then transmitted. “Rough Ryder Six to Trapdoor Actual. We’re moving to secondary position. We’ve got…uh…six confirmed kills—” Sam thought it was more but made the split-second decision to count conservatively. “—and no casualties.”

“Wardog Six,” Roble’s voice grated. “We lost one while falling back. Claymores peppered two Humvees, but we don’t know on kills. At least three.”

“Ragnarok Six, we’re at four kills, no casualties.”

“Trapdoor Actual copies. Alphas, you first: Can you give me approximate enemy troop strength at the point of your ambush?”

“Alpha Six, yeah, uh…rough count of about five Humvees, and maybe five more MATVs. That was all that I saw.”

“Copy. Rough Ryders, same question: approximate enemy troop strength?”

Sam scoured the imagery in his brain, tried to sort through the discombobulated mess and come up with an intelligent report. “I saw one MATV. A couple Humvees…” he trailed off, then released the PTT. “How am I supposed to remember that shit?”

“It’s cool, bro,” Jones offered. “Just do the best you can.”

Before Sam could transmit again, Roble came over, sounding peeved. “Wardog Six, there were seven Humvees and three MATVs in the column at the point of ambush. Ryder, pay the fuck attention next time.”

“That motherfucker!” Sam jolted in his seat like he’d been stung. In any other situation he would have let it ride, but he was so keyed up and tense that the faintest spark was going to make him explode.

“Hey,” Pickell grabbed his shoulder and shook it. “Chill out. Calm thoughts. Focus. Don’t worry about that asshole, worry about the next task.” Pickell pointed ahead. “We’re coming up on our secondary position.”

Sam breathed, pressed down the extraneous bullshit, and focused. He was stripped emotionally naked in front of his men at that point, and the strange thing was that he didn’t even care. “Pickell, I need you to keep talking to me.”

“What should I say?”

“Just tell me calm shit,” Sam said as their Humvee rolled to a stop. “Keep me focused. You’re the zen one, just say something zen.”

With Pickell at his side telling him zen things, Sam pushed out of the Humvee and charged into the woods where the clacker for a chain of Claymores lay against a small crop of rocks.

FORTY-ONE

─▬▬▬─

THE LAST SAFE ZONE

“Reaper Six, we missed the second ambush point!”

The transmission hit Lee right in the gut. His face prickled, flushing.

“That convoy must’ve just punched straight through the initial ambush site. We weren’t able to catch them before they passed us up.”

“Trapdoor Actual, I copy. Hold what you got. Command, you copy that last transmission?”

Lee clenched the radio. “Command copies. Morrow, can you put eyes on that convoy from your helo?”

“Yeah, that’s affirmative, we’re flying low to their west, but I got a visual on them. I got eight guntrucks on the move, straight down Two-Oh-Eight towards Ninety-Six.” A pause. “Lee, I’m gonna put us down right off the side of Ninety-Six. They’ll slow up right about when they start taking contact from our eastern perimeter, and we’ll punch ‘em from the side. Relay to the units on that perimeter that we will be in the woods to the left of their field of fire. If we could avoid any friendly fire, that’d be great.”

Lee nudged Corporal Byers, who nodded once and began relaying that information to Hamrick and his half-boots.

“I copy, Morrow. If it gets too hot, pull back.”

“We will,” Morrow answered. “Trapdoor Actual to Reaper Six and the rest of the Hunter Killers that are with him, I want you to stay on that convoy’s ass and hit ‘em from behind as soon as the opportunity presents itself. How copy?”

The litany of responses came.

Lee pressed the radio antenna to his lips, staring at the map on the projector.

So they hadn’t been able to get a second ambush on that convoy. It wasn’t the end of the world. Morrow’s plan was still viable, and they’d be able to do some damage, albeit a little closer in. Eight guntrucks could do a lot, but if they took enough fire from the side and from the Hunter Killers behind, it might stymie them enough to force them to fall back and leave Butler alone.

“Morrow to Command, my squad and the Canadians are putting down in the woods, just north of Ninety-Six, about two miles out from your eastern perimeter.”

“Command copies,” Lee answered. “We told the half-boots to check their fire in your direction. Stay safe.”

The back doors to the TOC clattered open. Lee turned and found Kurt marching back in.

“We got most of the civilians rounded up,” he called out, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re back on the school grounds. Everyone’s a little keyed up, but they’re not in a panic anymore.”

“Thank you,” Lee nodded as Kurt took up his usual position by Angela’s side.

Angela pointed to the map. “If Greeley punches up through Ninety-Six, that puts them right around the corner from all our civilians. We might want to start thinking about loading them up.”

Lee shook his head, holding fast to his original plan. “There’s still a chance that Morrow’s team and the Hunter Killers might force them to pull back.”

A new voice came over the radio. Lee heard the background hum of the Blackhawk beneath the words.

“Dustoff,” the Blackhawk pilot transmitted, using his callsign. “Just dropped Morrow’s team in the woods. We’re at about three hundred feet altitude right now, and have visual on another convoy coming down Highway Ninety-Six. This is not the original convoy. Repeat, this is a separate convoy altogether. I’m seeing multiple Humvee guntrucks, as well as several technicals. Total of...ten vehicles.”

Lee swore. So that would make this the full assault. The convoy that had just pushed through Sam’s ambush would be the smaller arm—the hammer to this larger force’s anvil.

“Command copies,” Lee grated out.

Suddenly the odds didn’t seem so good on making the assaulting force on Ninety-Six pull back. Eighteen vehicles. That’d punch right through Morrow’s ambush and straight up the gut into Butler.

“Sir!” Staff Sergeant Lopez had come out of her seat. She held the satphone to her ear. Lee hadn’t even heard it ring. “Colonel Freeman’s on the line. He says he has a force of ten vehicles coming in on Highway Ninety-Six. He requests us to hold fire.”

Lee let a curse explode out of his mouth in a gust of breath. A grim smile on his lips. “Better late than never, I guess. Lopez, tell him he’s clear to come in.” Lee keyed the radio in his hand. “Dustoff and Morrow, that convoy coming in on Ninety-Six right now is Colonel Freeman from Florida. Hold fire. Let ‘em through. That’s our backup.”

“Dustoff copies. Hey, Commnand, you’re gonna want to let him know he’s about to hit an intersection right in front of those Greeley trucks. He needs to be prepared to take fire on his right flank.”

Lee looked to Lopez. “Let Freeman know to watch his right flank. He’s got Greeley forces coming in right on top of him.”

Lopez nodded, pulled the satphone mic to her mouth, then stopped. “Colonel Freeman? Colonel Freeman?” Her eyes came up to Lee’s, confused. “He disconnected, sir.”

“Well, get him back on the line!”

Lopez set to recalling the last number.

Lee swiped a hand across his forehead. “Christ, but that asshole is cutting it close. Couldn’t have called us when he set out?”

Angela smiled with relief. “I guess that conversation with him didn’t go as bad as you thought.”

Lee shook his head. “It wasn’t anything I said. If Freeman’s here, then he’s only here because he sees some benefit to it. He made that pretty clear to me.”

“Dustoff to Command,” the radio squawked again. “I, uh…I’m not real sure what I’m seeing here. That convoy from Florida just hit the intersection. The Greeley forces are right there. They’re literally looking right at each other. No one’s firing a shot.”

Lee stared at the projection, the roadways, the maps, trying to make sense of the report he’d received. He frowned, turning back to Lopez. “You got him on the line yet?”

Lopez shook her head. “He’s not answering.”

“Morrow to Lee, you sure that convoy is Freeman’s?”

Lee wasn’t sure of anything at that point. Maybe Freeman’s convoy was farther down the road, and the one they’d spotted incoming was still another part of the Greeley assault force. Why the hell else wouldn’t they be firing at each other?

“Morrow,” Lee transmitted. “Just hold tight for a moment.” He released the PTT. “Lopez, keep trying him.”

“Dustoff to Command, I’m watching that new convoy. I got eyes on the technicals. They got troops in the back, but these don’t look like Greeley troops. I got some guys in uniform, and some guys in civvies. Looks more like half-boots to me.”

“Lee,” Morrow transmitted the second after Dustoff cut out. “This don’t feel right, brother. You got any comms with Freeman? Can you confirm that it’s him?”

Lee made eye contact with Angela. Her smile was gone. Her fist was drawn up to her mouth, the knuckles bloodless and white. She shook her head once. “He wouldn’t.”

Lee pressed the radio button. “Morrow…just…don’t fire. We don’t know what we’re dealing with right now. Standby.”

“I copy. They’re coming up adjacent of our position, Lee. I’ve got eyes on, confirming what Dustoff observed. Pretty sure this ain’t Greeley.”

“Sir,” Kurt said, stepping around Angela. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job—”

“Then fucking don’t,” Lee snapped. “We can’t fire on them. We don’t know who we’re firing on or what the fuck is happening.”

Kurt thrust a hand at the map. “I understand that sir, but there is no reason why Greeley wouldn’t fire on that convoy unless—”

“They could’ve thought that…” Lee let the words die in his mouth. He’d been about to say that Greeley might have mistaken the convoy for one of their own, but as he produced the thought, he saw how thin the logic was.

Greeley would know their forces. They would know who was where. This wasn’t a case of mistaken identity.

Which only left one other possibility.

“Major,” Kurt said.

Was it true? Lee’s mind held that ugly thought in his head, and he didn’t know what to do with it. The convoy coming in was Colonel Freeman. He wasn’t answering his phone. He’d simply asked them not to fire on them, and then hung up. Why the hell would he do that? Why the hell would Greeley not fire on them, and why would Freeman not fire on Greeley?

But was that enough to give the order to start shooting? What if there was some other possibility that Lee hadn’t considered? It was a pretty damn big call to make to start shooting at someone who was supposed to be your ally, when you weren’t sure of the facts.

“Lee, they’re almost to your perimeter,” Morrow called out.

Why am I not making the call?

Was it because he was scared to make the wrong call? Lee had never been paralyzed by a decision in his life. Always better to make the wrong call than no call at all. But the wrong call in this situation meant that everything was over. What would happen if he gave the order to start firing on Freeman’s men, when…

“Shit!” Lee grabbed his head like it might start to shatter. “Byers! Tell Hamrick to stop that convoy right now! He is not to fire until fired upon, but do not let them in the gates until I have contact with Colonel Freeman, you hear me?”

“I hear you, sir,” Byers eked out, his voice tense.

In the distance, a peel of gunfire, muted by the walls that surrounded Lee. His stomach became a single leaden ball that pulled everything down into the center of him.

It can’t be…

“Command to First Sergeant Hamrick,” Byers hailed.

“Hamrick to Command!” Hamrick yelled back, gunfire in the background, loud and clear and present. “That convoy’s firing on us! Who the fuck is it?”

“Fire back!” Byers shouted. “Open fire on them! Do not let them into Butler!”

***

Morrow heard the opening shots and swore. He thrust himself off the ground and pointed to the two squads of Canadians to his left, hunkered down in the brush on the side of Highway 96. “Marlin! Haul ass! I don’t know who that convoy was, but take them the fuck out! They are hostile!”

Marlin and Wibberley didn’t wait for clarification. They’d already seen the writing on the wall, the uncertainty in Morrow’s face as they’d watched that convoy simply slide right by them. The two squads of Canadians leapt up and charged through the woods towards Butler.

They were far behind, but if Butler’s perimeter could hold out for just a few minutes more, they’d be able to hit the backend of the convoy, just now receding out of sight along the highway.

“It’s just us, gents,” Morrow said to Mitch and Rudy and Logan, still squatting in the brush beside him. “When that Greeley convoy comes in, we’re giving them everything we got. No fallback this time. We gotta hold what we have and give Butler a chance.”

***

In the house on the corner of Mulberry Street and Forest Avenue, twenty armed men and women stood in the living room, all of them facing the front door and the windows to the outside world.

They’d ignored the call for evacuation, as teams of their fellow civilians had gone about, rounding up the sheep and corralling them into the grounds of the Taylor County High School.

Red and his people had just not answered the door. It’d been that simple.

Now they heard the gunfire coming from the east end of Butler, and as one they all seemed to shift. To shuffle. To steel themselves.

Red, who was front and center, nodded once. “They’re inside. That’s our queue. Stay with your buddy. Don’t get separated. Don’t engage anyone until they engage us, but when they do, it’s no holds barred. We’re heading for the TOC, in the gymnasium of the high school. Don’t accept anyone’s surrender. Not Angela Houston’s, not Lee Harden’s, not your friend from down the block. Once we get rolling, anyone that stands in the way gets a bullet. Everyone clear on that?”

The crowd behind him called out that they were very clear on it.

“Alright,” Red said, wishing for the millionth time that he had a real cigarette to steady his nerves. He strode to the door and ripped it open. The sound of gunfire intensified, enveloping them. “Let’s roll.”

***

This had always been a defensive action. Lee knew that going into it.

But with the suddenness of a bomb detonating, Lee realized it was far beyond that now. This had stopped being a defensive action the second he’d let Freeman’s convoy into his perimeter. Now it was damage control. Now it wasn’t whether he could hold onto Butler, but how many lives in Butler he could manage to save.

It took the wind out of him.

But if there was one thing that Lee Harden was capable of doing, it was shutting himself down—boxing up the horror and the rage and the betrayal, and compartmentalizing the next step.

What was the next step?

Stop the bleeding.

Lee stared at the radios laid out on Byers’s station. The gunfire and the cries of wounded seeped through every transmission coming in from the perimeter positions.

Lee grabbed the command radio that would transmit to everyone in one bulk message. He had no time for individual tactical channels. He needed control of everyone at once. “All units on this channel, we are under attack by forces from the Florida Safe Zones. Our eastern perimeter is compromised. Renoux, I need you and your men at the school, right now. Hold the TOC at all costs. How copy?”

“Renoux to Command, I copy, we’re on the move.”

“Major Brinly, pull your Marines straight through Butler and reinforce our eastern perimeter. We need to protect the civilians on the school grounds. You copy?”

“Five-by-five, Command. You got Marines on the way.”

“All Hunter Killer units, fall back immediately to Butler. We need all squads centralized at the school. Pass that word on through your squad comms and make sure everyone gets that order.” Lee took a breath, stomach tightening like the urge to vomit. He didn’t want to do what he was about to do, but there was no way around it. “All units on the command channel, copy me: I am ordering the evacuation of Butler effective immediately. Protect the civilians and get them out of here.”

Lee turned to Angela. “I’m sorry that it came to this.”

Angela looked shell-shocked. She blinked a few times. Her mouth opened, drawing in a sharp breath. When she let it out, her features stiffened. “There’s nothing you could’ve done differently.”

Lee wasn’t sure if that was right, but he didn’t have time to think about it. “Kurt, take the president and get her out of here. Pass the word. Start getting the civilians loaded up. Evac them in groups of every ten vehicles as they get loaded. Highway Ninety-Six west. You know the route.”

Kurt dipped his head, taking Angela by the shoulders. “I’ll get it done.”

Angela didn’t allow herself to be turned away from Lee, but backpedaled as Kurt led her for the back doors of the gym. “Lee, you have to make it out, too! Don’t die in here!”

“I’m not planning on it,” Lee replied, thinking that so many of his plans had come up short.

Angela held his eyes for just a second more, then turned, and followed Kurt as he broke into a jog towards the back doors. Lee watched them as they went, feeling trapped in this place, like he was shackled to it, when he desperately wanted to be free.

Kurt pulled up short of the door.

Something shot across his features.

His grip on Angela’s shoulders changed. “Hold up,” he said, pushing her away from the door.

Lee rounded, hands dropping to his slung rifle. “What’s the problem, Kurt?”

Kurt backed up from the door a few steps, his body falling in to a posture that Lee knew well: Balanced, legs bent, shoulders forward, rifle coming up. “I got a crew of armed civilians coming right at us. Angela, is that—”

Bullets lanced the door. Puffs of dust and disintegrated projectiles exploded from Kurt’s body armor. He jerked backwards.

Lee lurched into motion. “Angela! Get down!”

Kurt raised his rifle and fired, angling sideways and away from Angela. His rounds slammed through the metal doors, shattered the narrow glass windows beyond. He was trying to pull the incoming fire away from Angela, and it kept coming, more holes blooming in the door.

Lee charged across the room, Deuce springing to his side, barking madly.

Angela crouched at the side of the door, sliding backwards against the concrete wall, her hands up and covering her face.

Lee saw the blood splatter out of the corner of his eye, and twisted just in time to see Kurt’s right leg go out from under him, a spray of red going across the floor. Kurt belted out a curse, but kept firing through the door.

Lee hit the wall, just in front of Angela. “Stay behind me!”

Kurt charged forward a few steps, his right leg stiff and unwieldy under him. He angled out more, firing through the tiny gap where the windows had been. “They’re splitting up!” he yelled. “They’re trying to take the door!”

Deuce was close into Lee’s body, snapping and howling at the door. Lee put a leg up to try to keep him back, then reached out for the door locks. He nearly touched them, but another fusillade of rounds punched through, skipping all across the gym and sending up splinters from the floor. Lee swore, cringing away from the door as dust and fragments of metal peppered the side of his face.

Deuce yipped and jumped back, thrashing his head and pawing at it.

Lee’s heart clenched, but he put his boot against Deuce’s chest and shoved him away from the door and any more shrapnel that might find him. “Deuce! Stay back!”

Lee gritted his teeth, then thrust his rifle out, blind firing around the corner in a desperate flurry of automatic shots.

“Keep that up!” Kurt screamed, lowering his body into a sprinter’s stance. “Suppressive fire!”

Lee realized Kurt’s plan. It hit him in a flash, the way you perceive things so clearly in the moment. He wanted to tell Kurt not to do it, but he couldn’t. There was no time. They were at the door, and the door needed to be locked or they were going to get overrun.

Lee went down to one knee, leaning out around the concrete wall, and held his trigger down, raking the door back and forth.

As he did it, Kurt thrust himself into a run, straight for the doors.

The suppressive fire wasn’t enough.

The incoming rounds slackened, but they never stopped.

Lee watched Kurt come sliding in on his knees, watched the rounds hit his chest plate again, watched the spall shred the man’s face in bloody explosions, watched them punch through his arms, rip a finger from his hand, through his shoulders, through his neck.

Lee’s rifle went empty.

Kurt hit the door, spewing blood. His mouth hung open. His eyes were wide. He’d dropped his rifle, letting his sling catch it. His ruined hands grabbed ahold of the locking bars, slipping across the metal and leaving streamers of red behind.

The lock clicked home.

Lee tucked his own rifle under his armpit then reached out with his wounded left hand. His fingers still wouldn’t work properly, but he managed to get his hand and his wrist through the loop of Kurt’s drag strap, and he twisted his arm so that it cinched tight, and hauled backwards.

He felt his stitches tear.

Kurt’s legs gave a kick, trying to lend their aide to Lee’s efforts.

Lee’s eyes shot up to the techs on the other side of the gym, their pistols drawn but not knowing what to do besides stand there and point them in the general direction of the threat. “Shoot at the door!” Lee screamed at them, backpedaling with Kurt’s body in tow.

He slammed into Angela, a few paces off the door.

That was far enough.

The techs fired their pistols at the door. A rifle muzzle rammed through the shattered window and spat lead back at them, sending them diving for cover behind tables that weren’t enough to stop a bullet.

Deuce danced a few feet away, one of his eyes squinted, bright red blood trickling out around his fur. Lee wanted to reach for the dog, to see what his injuries were, but people came first.

He unhooked his wrist from Kurt’s drag strap, and the man’s body fell flat to the floor. Lee swiped up his rifle in numb, unwieldy hands. Dropped the empty mag. His plate carrier and magazines were still back on the table. He grabbed at Kurt’s armor. He had extra mags, but two of the three had been destroyed with the rounds he’d taken.

Kurt stared up at him, still alive, still awake, but unable to speak.

Angela angled around Lee’s legs as he ripped Kurt’s one remaining mag free of its pouch and reloaded his rifle. He sent the bolt home, shouldered it, and fired five rounds at whoever was on the other side of the door with their rifle through the window.

A cry sounded from the other side and the rifle muzzle withdrew.

“Kurt!” Angela screamed at him, hands groping at his shoulders, trying to find a hole to plug.

“His neck!” Lee yelled. “Plug his neck!”

Kurt choked. Gagged. Drowning on his own blood.

Lee stood up, put his leg over Kurt’s torso, then leaned out and fired another string of rounds through the door. “Tilt his head! Get the blood out of his throat and then stick your finger in the hole!”

It’s pointless, he thought, even as the words left his mouth. You can’t save him.

Angela made a gasp of effort as she shoved Kurt onto his side. Lee glanced down at him, saw a gush of blood exit his mouth, and knew that he was right.

Kurt must have known it as well. And he didn’t panic. Didn’t plead for more time, or for help. Instead, he reached down with trembling hands and grabbed his rifle. His fingers slipped around the quick releases for the sling, unclipped them, then shoved the rifle up and into Angela’s hands, interrupting her from trying to stick her finger into the hole in his throat.

“Kurt, I’ve gotta help you!” Angela cried. “Get that shit out of my face!”

Lee fired at the door again. “Angela, take the rifle! You can’t help him!”

“I’m gonna fucking help him!”

Another string of rounds. Close to being empty again. He needed to get to his armor and his extra mags, but he wasn’t going anywhere without Angela. “You take that fucking rifle right now! Don’t argue with me!”

Lee didn’t wait to see if Angela would comply. He twisted, grabbed the rifle from Kurt’s hands and shoved it into Angela’s chest. Then he kept shoving, until he’d propelled her backwards off the dying man.

“Go!” Lee bellowed in her face, pointing for the gym doors opposite them. “Go for those doors! Now!”

Amid the shuffling and clattering of Angela writhing to her feet, Lee stooped and grabbed Kurt by the side of his blood-slicked face and held him tight for one fleeting second. Their eyes connected, and Kurt looked relieved. Lee gave him the only thing he could offer in that moment, which was just a thread of peace in his last moments.

“You saved her,” Lee nodded at the dying soldier.

Angela skipped backwards, unable to turn away, but at least heading in the right direction now. Her eyes were stricken, tight with grief, red and stained with tears. Deuce backed up with her, yammering at the door again.

Lee let Kurt go and charged for the tables in the center of the gym, spinning as he did to lay down the last of his rounds through the door and to whoever was on the other side. A hand grappled through the window, trying to reach the latch. One of Lee’s rounds struck it at the wrist, nearly severing it clean off.

Byers and Lopez were already on their feet, pistols and radios in hand. The other techs scrambled off the floor where they’d dived, sending potshots behind them as they tried to get to the door out.

Lee shoved his half-working left arm through the shoulder strap of his armor, not breaking stride, and shoved between the two tables that had been Byers’s and Lopez’s workstations, overturning them and sending the monitors crashing to the ground.

“Get out!” Lee yelled at Lopez and Byers, who turned and fled.

On the other side of the TOC now, Lee let his sling take his rifle, having to work one handed with the armor weighing his left arm down. He stripped the empty mag from his dangling rifle and fought to seat another mag as he ran.

“Lopez! Lopez!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Command channel! Tell them the TOC’s been overrun! We’re falling back!”

FORTY-TWO

─▬▬▬─

THE FALL

Marlin stopped on the side of a blue house, heaving for air. The moldered siding scuffed off against his hands as he leaned on it, scrabbling sideways until he faced one of the downspouts of the house.

His team was stacked up behind him, Wibberley on the opposite side with his squad.

The sounds of war were all-encompassing. Inescapable. Familiar.

All that Marlin had to do was continue going towards them.

He leaned out of cover, around the house, taking a quick glance down the road. From his vantage point, he could see clear to the breach in Butler’s eastern perimeter, the high-voltage wires sparking and writhing, draining the power from the rest of the system.

Between Marlin’s position, and the Butler Safe Zone, the convoy of vehicles that had passed them by only a few minutes prior had now spread out and come to a stop. The guntrucks were up front, their turrets blasting away at defensive positions inside of Butler. The pickup trucks—only a few of them were legitimate technicals with machine guns on the back—had angled for cover behind a large commercial building.

The troops had already jumped from the back, working their way towards the Butler perimeter, but taking heavy fire from a complex of tumbledown apartments just inside the fence line. That seemed to be where the bulk of the Butler defenses were still holding on by a thread.

“Rogers!” Marlin called out, glancing to his left where the big trooper stood, sweating and huffing. The tube of the AT4 they’d appropriated was still strapped to his back. Marlin gestured for him and he split out of the column and sidled up, should-to-shoulder with Marlin.

Marlin pointed to the commercial structure diagonal from their position. Two pickup trucks, their cargo of foot soldiers huddled on the corners of the buildings, leaning out and firing sporadically before jumping back into cover.

“Think you can send a missile right up their ass?” Marlin asked.

Rogers eyed the distance, unslinging the AT4. “Which ones?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whichever gaggle of them you want to take out.”

“Got it. Switch with me.”

The two men traded positions.

Marlin keyed his radio. “Wibberley, Rogers is gonna hit ‘em with the A-T-four. Ya’ll ready to move?”

Wibberley leaned out from his position on the far end of the house. Beyond this house was a stretch of open field, followed by another abandoned house, which would put them on the flank of a cluster of troops. They just needed to get there.

“I got you. Gimme two seconds and tell him to send it on my mark.”

Marlin watched Wibberley grab his squad and orient them, getting ready to make the fifty yard run to the next bit of cover. He looked over and nodded at Marlin, transmitting: “Mark!”

Wibberley and his squad took off at a sprint.

“Rogers! Send it!” Marlin flattened himself against the wall of the house, one hand covering his exposed ear.

The backend of the AT4 erupted in fire and smoke, kicking up dirt and dust in a cloud. There came a hellish shriek, followed by the chest-punching detonation of high explosives.

Rogers rolled out of the skein of smoke, coughing.

Marlin’s machine gunner stretched out, leaning his LMG against the downspout and firing a long string of suppressive fire straight into the crowd of fighters across the highway from them.

Marlin knelt and went low around his gunner’s hip. The cloud of smoke from the AT4 had dispersed enough to see across the way. A smoldering section of the building was gone, surrounded by bodies and body parts, some of them still writhing in death throes.

Marlin targeted the fighters still on their feet. They spun every which way, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened, and Marlin and his gunner took advantage of their confusion, tearing through them without mercy.

“Those ain’t fucking soldiers,” his gunner shouted between bursts. “All jumbled up like that! It’s a goddamn turkey shoot!”

Marlin couldn’t miss if he tried. The hapless and inexperienced fighters were in one big mass, and if he pulled a shot a few inches, it just hit the next guy in line. Marlin gave up accuracy in favor of volume and fired until his bolt locked back.

But not everybody on the opposing side was inexperienced.

The soldiers in one of the guntrucks had whipped around the second the shooting had started and their turret belched fire at the field as Wibberley attempted to cross. The opposing soldiers peeled around to the opposite side of their Humvee, taking cover behind the wheels and engine block.

Marlin ducked back into cover as one of the soldiers spotted him and sent a flurry of rounds their way. He grabbed his gunner by the shoulder, pulling him back into cover, but then the man went spiraling out of his grip, pitching backwards.

Marlin released his man just in time to not be dragged down with him.

His gunner’s legs twitched, but there was no life left there. A round had caught him square in the nose.

Marlin hit his knees with a curse, his hands reaching out, but he stopped himself short and then thrust himself back to his feet. He couldn’t do anything for his dead buddy.

“Mack!” Wibberley’s voice in his ear. “We’re set!”

Marlin stabbed at his PTT and didn’t recognize his own choking voice. “Roger that, we’re…standby…”

Marlin gulped air that tasted of spent propellant and dust. He whirled on his team, who stared at their dead friend with expressions that you only ever saw on soldiers’ faces: Like such a thing was inevitable. Shocking, and terrible, but inevitable. Asses were still on the line, and so you forced yourself to let it go and keep moving.

Marlin jogged the length of the house to the back corner. “Stack up! Get ready to run by twos! Rogers, ditch that tube and get on my ass!”

At the corner of the house, he looked across the field to the house where Wibberley’s squad was positioned, firing around the corners, but taking twice as much heat as they were able to deal.

Christ, that fifty yard run did not look inviting.

Marlin sucked air, tensed his legs. Rogers was right behind him, hand on his shoulder. Marlin hit the PTT. “Wibberley, we’re moving!”

“Move!” Came the response.

Marlin jolted out of cover, churning his legs, pounding across the terrain. The distance seemed to stretch in front of him. Bullets whined through the air, zipping close enough that he could feel the split in the air just behind them.

Can’t turn back now…

Wibberley’s squad took corners and fired in every position that could give them a sight picture, huddled over each other, kneeling behind one another, putting everything they had into it.

Marlin wanted nothing in the world so much as the back of that house, in the shade, next to Wibberley…

One of Wibberley’s men slumped over his rifle, unmoving. His buddy grabbed him and hauled him back into cover, and the only heartless thought that came to Marlin was that’s two less rifles giving me suppressive fire…

He tumbled into cover, stopping himself by ramming his body into the back of the house with a bone-jarring crunch. He spun, saw that Rogers was still with him, then gasped out, “Set! I’m here!”

Wibberley fired around the far corner then jumped back into cover as a torrent of lead destroyed the side of the house where his head had been. “Motherfuck! We’re not going anywhere!”

Marlin knew it was the truth without having to think about it. They’d done their job a little too well, and now the entire back half of the infiltrating fighters was focused on their position.

.50 caliber rounds blasted clear through the house between Marlin and Wibberley, causing them both to duck.

Marlin turned back towards his two remaining squad members across the field and keyed his radio. “Do not cross! It’s too hot!”

One of Wibberley’s squad screamed over his shoulder, still clutching his dead friend. “LT! Willis is down!”

Wibberley half duck-walked, half crawled, using the brick base of the stick-built house as the only bit of cover. It was only two feet high—not much at all. The machine gun rounds continued to rip straight through the house, inches over their heads.

“Stay down!” Wibberley yelled to his men as he passed them, shoving them down if they didn’t hear him. “Use the bricks! That’s all you fuckin’ got!”

Marlin lay on his side now, the bricks just high enough to cover his head. Wibberley slid up next to him, face-to-face. He managed a wry smile. “Bugger all, Captain My Captain. The fuck we do now?”

“Seems like we’re doing it,” Marlin answered. “We were supposed to draw fire, and we’re doing a helluva job.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wibberley cringed against a smattering of dust and debris that came down over his head as the rounds continued to pulverize the house above them. “Commendations all around.”

“Hey,” Marlin felt a heavy darkness take him, throttling his throat. He reached out with one hand, speckles of dirt and debris across his skin.

Wibberley regarded it for a second, then swore, as though he didn’t like the import of it, but grasped the hand in his.

“I love you, brother,” Marlin said. “Even if you are a tea-drinking faggot.”

Wibberley coughed, and it was something like a laugh. He murmured something that Marlin didn’t catch, but had something to do with fucking a moose.

“Alright,” Marlin released Wibberley’s hand. Took up his rifle again. “We hightail it for those woods. Bounding retreat. Try to get a better position in there, but still keep up fire on that convoy.”

Wibberley looked at the woods, far beyond the house. With the sun shining on the field that stretched between, the woods seemed dark by comparison. Deep and inviting.

It was only an illusion. They both knew it.

There was no safety in those woods. Only a few more minutes to fight.

“Yeah,” Wibberley said with a nod. “Let’s do it. We can fix some points of fire in there. I see some big trees. Good cover.”

Wishful thinking.

Or perhaps just brave words.

Marlin pressed his PTT. “Guys, we’re gonna fall back to those woods right behind us and try to set up a base of fire from in there. Everyone copy?”

Everyone did. The ones that were still alive, anyways.

“Fuck, Wibberley,” Marlin groaned as he squirmed himself around, preparing to get his feet under him and make the long, agonizing run.

“Don’t,” Wibberley griped back at him.

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say,” Marlin shot back, on hands and knees now, one leg stretched up so his boot was flat on the ground. As close to a running position as he could get into.

“You were gonna say you’re sorry for getting me into this shit or something.”

That was exactly what Marlin was going to say.

He shook his head. “No, I was gonna say enjoy this fleeting view of my ass.”

“I will. Ready.”

“Rogers!” Marlin called over his shoulder. “You’re with me. Wibberley, we’re moving!”

“Move!”

***

“You’re gonna be alright!” Sam squashed his palm down hard into Pickell’s stomach. Blood squelched up between his fingers. “Stay with me!”

They were crammed between the two back seats of the Humvee. The doors slammed, and he kicked the back of Trudeau’s seat. “Frenchie! Get us the fuck out of here!”

Bullets slapped the side of the Humvee, shattering glass. Jones yelped, tucking in away from the incoming fire, then jolted back through his window and fired behind them.

The Humvee lurched, fishtailing, then finding purchase and roaring forward. The tires hit concrete and the Humvee took off like a shot. Johnson thundered away on the turret over their head, a few hot shell casings rattling in through the opening and bouncing off the back of Sam’s helmet.

Pickell ripped at the straps of his armor, his teeth gritted, eyes wide. “That’s the exit!” Pickell strained out, the pitch of his voice high and shaky.

It took Sam a moment to understand, but then he reached around the back of Pickell’s torso, his hand crawling just beneath the line of Pickell’s armor and finding the hole at the small of his back. That was the entrance wound. The exit wound was in his belly.

“Oh fuck!” Pickell writhed when Sam touched it.

Sam gave him no mercy—he couldn’t. He squeezed his palms together like a vice, Pickell’s body between them, trying to stop the flow of blood from the wound that had gone in his back and came out his gut.

“Hey! Hey!” Sam shouted in Pickell’s face, spittle spraying onto Pickell’s cheeks. “Listen to me! I gotta keep pressure on the wound. You gotta help me, okay? Can you help me?”

Pickell groaned between his teeth, but nodded his head. “Tell me what to do!”

“Get your IFAK open. Gimme the gauze first. I need the gauze.”

In better times, for more well-equipped soldiers, that gauze would have been treated with hemostatic agents, but for most IFAKs these days, it was just regular cotton. Pickell pulled his unstrapped armor away from his torso, but it still hung on his shoulders. He felt his way around to the clamshell pack on the right side of the armor, right in front of Sam’s face. He ripped open the zipper and fumbled through the contents with trembling fingers.

“There!” Sam said when he saw Pickell’s fingers touch it. “You got it! Rip that open and give it to me.” Sam twisted, looking to Trudeau, hunched behind the steering wheel. “Frenchie, you hear that last transmission? We gotta fall back to Butler.”

Trudeau nodded. “I’m trying!”

Jones pulled back from his window, his rifle gone dry, and the distance too great to engage anymore. Something pinged off the fastback of the Humvee.

Johnson let out a yelp and toppled out of the turret in a heap, landing on Sam’s legs. “Oh shit! Oh shit! They fucking got me!”

Pickell remained focused on his task. It wasn’t through any force of will that he was able to block out the chaos inside the Humvee—Sam thought that maybe Pickell wasn’t able to perceive anything in that moment but his own pain and the need to stop his bleeding.

Sam tried to look around, but Johnson was practically on top of him, and he couldn’t see how bad the man’s wound was. “Jones! Help him! And get him the fuck off me!”

Jones finished reloading his rifle, safed it, then shoved it off to the side and grabbed at Johnson. “Hold still!” He shoved the younger soldier off of Sam and into the back passenger seat. “Get off Sarge’s legs. Let me see it.”

Sam focused back on Pickell’s hands, now gripping the pack of gauze and trying to pull the plastic wrapping away, but his fingers kept slipping. “Goddammit. Put it in my mouth!”

Pickell responded to the command slowly, like it took him a moment to comprehend it. Then he shoved the pack into Sam’s face. Sam grabbed the edge of the plastic with his teeth. “Pull on it!” he grunted through his clenched teeth.

Pickell yanked, and the plastic tore open.

“Get that gauze unraveled. You remember the powerball? You remember what they taught you?”

“Uh-huh,” Pickell managed. He fumbled with the gauze, pulling a length out, and then balling one end into a tight jumble. “Here…”

Sam grabbed the wad of gauze with his right hand, his left still holding the entry wound on Pickell’s back. “This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker, but try to hold still.”

“Oh, Christ…”

Sam plunged the ball of gauze down into the ragged hole in Pickell’s gut. The man’s body stiffened like a board, one leg kicking. “I know buddy! Stay strong!” Sam rammed the ball of gauze as deep as he could into the wound, until his index finger was buried. Then he drew it out, looped more gauze around, and stuffed more in.

Pickell let loose with a nonstop string of curses, mostly directed at Sam.

“That’s okay, Buddy,” Sam said as he kept packing the wound as tight as he could get. “You let it out. Let it out. Hey, I need your other pack of gauze! Get the next pack of gauze!” When Sam could not stuff any more gauze into the wound channel, he balled up the rest and crammed it down onto the wound, holding it tight there.

Pickell didn’t let up on cursing Sam out, but managed to grab the second package of gauze and ripped it open with his own teeth this time.

His teeth are red, Sam noticed as he did it. He’s got internal bleeding.

As Pickell got the gauze out, Sam craned his neck over his left shoulder to where Jones had Johnson pinned to the back passenger seat. “How’s he looking, Jonesy?”

Jones slapped the half-boot on his cheek. “He’s fine! Just being a big bitch!”

“I got shot!” Johnson screamed, indignant.

“High in the shoulder,” Jones said. “All muscle, no bone. Stop being a fucking pussy.”

“Here,” Pickell grunted, holding up the second pack of gauze, powerball already rolled up and ready.

Sam seized it with his left hand. “Here we go again, Pickell. Bite down or cuss me out, whichever feels better.”

“Aw, fuck you, you piece of shit half-boot hadji motherfucker…!” And on it went, as Sam crammed the entry wound as tight as he could make it.

“Duct tape!” Sam ordered, cutting off the diatribe.

Once again, in better times, it would have been sterile chest seals, but all of those were gone. What they had instead was duct tape.

Pickell grabbed the small roll of duct tape from his IFAK and shoved it at Sam. His voice was gone now. He seemed unable to speak. Tears streamed down his face and the only noise he made was a thin whine every time he exhaled.

Sam used the sleeve of his combat shirt to wipe the blood from Pickell’s skin as best he could, then stuck the leading end of the duct tape to Pickell’s right hip, and began winding it around his entire torso, as tight as he could make it. He made four passes before the duct tape ran out, and he felt the two balls of gauze were secure. Sam ripped the cardboard roll free and tossed it into the back of the Humvee.

He leaned back onto his knees, breathing hard, sweat streaming down his face and dripping off his nose. “Pickell. You doin’ okay?”

“No,” Pickell shook his head.

Sam patted the man on the chest, then rolled off of him and into the seat behind Trudeau. “We’re almost there, Buddy. We’re almost to Butler. Just hang on as best you can and stay awake.”

Sam didn’t say what he thought next—that Butler would be no haven for them.

FORTY-THREE

─▬▬▬─

LIVE BY THE SWORD

On the other side of the doors to the TOC, Lee halted and took stock of their situation.

He doffed his slung rifle, shoving it into the hands of one of the techs—RUSSELL, according to the nametape. “Hold this,” Lee snapped, then shoved his armor down over his head and secured the straps. Then he snatched the rifle from Russell and slung back into it.

His eyes scoured across the group in front of him. Angela stood, her hair sticking out in all directions, and pasted to the side of her sweating face. The panic and grief was gone from her eyes. She’d switched it off, just like she was supposed to do. Resolute. Kurt’s rifle in her hands.

Deuce whined, pawing the wound on his face. Lee reached down and swiped the dog’s claws away before he could do any more damage to it. Deuce’s eye looked bloody, but there was nothing he could do about it at that moment, and Deuce was still mobile. That was the most important thing.

Lopez and Byers had their pistols up, pointing at the door to the TOC. Beyond it, Lee could hear the rattling of whoever the hell had assaulted them trying to breach the back door.

Lee considered laying an ambush for those attackers, but dismissed it. He needed to get Angela out of there.

“Anyone wounded?” Lee asked, even as his eyes fell on the other tech—a woman with no nametape on her uniform, who favored her left leg, the fabric on the outside of her thigh dark and wet.

The woman shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just a graze.”

“What’s your name?” Lee demanded.

“Patricia,” the woman responded, seeming to either forget or not care about ranks and last names in this moment. Maybe she just wanted someone to call her by her first name. Maybe it made her feel better about what was going to happen to them.

“Alright, Patricia,” Lee said. “We’re going to move down these halls, quick but controlled. Protect the president at all costs. Angela, you’re in the center. Byers, Lopez, you’re on point. Russell, Patricia, you stay close to Angela. I’ll take up the rear. Go for the north end of the high school. Move.”

They took up the positions that Lee had prescribed and started moving at a steady jog.

Behind him, Lee heard the rattle of the TOC being breached. There were distant shouts, followed by three rapid gunshots. What the hell were they shooting at? Kurt’s dead body?

Dead ahead, towards the end of this long corridor, Lee spotted a jumble of bodies all clustered around a single door. All primals.

They were twenty yards from a main intersection, where another corridor branched. Lee jogged ahead, alongside Angela, and pointed. “Haul ass for that intersection! Clear it and go to the left—that should take you out of the high school.”

“What are you doing?” Angela snapped as her escort broke into a harder run.

“I’m gonna hold them off for a minute,” Lee responded, angling for the jumble of dead primals around that open door. “I’ll catch up.” He rounded on Deuce and slapped the dog on the rump, sending him skittering off. “Deuce! Go!”

The rest of the column took off, Deuce scrabbling after them.

Lee stepped around the dead bodies, so numerous at the entrance to the room that he had to walk across a few chests and limbs to get to the doorway. He thought how nice it would be to have a few grenades, but while he was wishing, he might as well wish for a tactical nuke, or maybe not to be in this position in the first place.

He stopped in the door, his feet coming to a sudden halt in spite of himself.

The room was a mess of gore. It stank of copper and bowels.

The trail of dead primals had spilled in through the broken door. There was a pile of them right there in front of Lee. Beneath that pile of naked, mutated bodies, he saw the scraps of OCP camouflage. A boot.

There was nothing left of Carl to identify him by, but Lee knew with a sickening drop in his stomach that that’s who lay before him.

On a table in the center of the room, the hybrid female lay, flayed open and neatly disemboweled.

In the back corner, Doc Trent lay, slumped against the wall, the white-painted concrete speckled with his own blood and brain matter. A pistol hung loosely in his dead hand.

Something banged on the door at the end of the hall.

Lee jerked at the sound, but before he spun away, he spied something on the edge of the table, near the head of the dead hybrid female. A small, black rectangle. A recording device.

On nothing more than a whim—thinking in a flash of Jacob, and the notebook in which he’d recorded all that he’d learned about the infected, all the valuable information that had helped them understand what they were up against—Lee snatched the recorder and shoved it in his cargo pocket.

Then he spun to the open door, snugging tight into his rifle.

The door at the end of the hall slammed open.

He heard voices calling to each other.

Lee peeked out, crouched low. Red dot centered on the door to the TOC. It hung open, two men with rifles peering through into the corridor beyond.

“There they are!” one of them shouted, spotting the tail end of Angela’s escort as they skirted around the far corner at the end of the hall. He raised his rifle.

He never saw Lee.

His last mistake.

Lee punched a hole in his forehead, then pivoted to the other man, who jerked back to watch his friend slump to the ground. The second man opened his mouth to shout something but never got it out. Lee fired five rapid rounds, stitching the man up from hip to shoulder and sending him sprawling backwards.

Lee erupted out of the door, hips pointed for the end of the hall, but shoulders oriented towards his target, his core straining to keep him steady. He fired a long, haphazard string that scattered across the open doors.

Then he turned and sprinted.

Down the hall. Twenty yards.

Fifteen.

Shouts behind him.

Ten yards.

Bullets struck the tile floors and the concrete wall to Lee’s left. Bits of mortar and brick lanced his face. Something struck his left eye. Pain seared through his face. He didn’t have the air to cry out. He bore down, putting everything he had into making the corner of the hall.

He realized he couldn’t see out of his left eye.

Five yards—almost there.

The gunfire kept at him.

Something slammed him in the left hip as he hit the corner. It nearly took his legs out from under him. He staggered, managed to stay upright, then slammed himself into cover against the wall, around the corner.

He clutched his left hip, his leg stamping involuntarily as pain coursed through it. “Motherfucker!” Lee spat, turning a rapid circle for no other reason than he needed to move through the pain, but he couldn’t relinquish his position. He had to hold it.

“Lee!”

Down the hall. Doors to the outside. Angela and the techs pushed through, Lopez and Byers with their pistols up, addressed to the chaos of the outside world that clattered and rippled with gunfire. But Angela looked right at him, even as she was towed backward by Russell.

“I’m fine!” Lee shouted at her. “Get out of here!”

He switched his rifle to his left shoulder. The pain had centralized now, no longer shooting down the entire length of his leg, but condensing around the joint, right where his femur connected to his pelvis. The pain was intense, but he could still move it.

Small blessings.

He leaned out of cover—he had to lean left, putting strain on his wounded hip, and his leg buckled. He was forced to hug the wall to stabilize himself.

His muzzle cleared the corner.

He was blind in his left eye. He craned his head all the way over on his buttstock to sight with his right.

Three figures racing down the hall. One man, and two women.

Who were these people? But Lee thought that he knew. These were the people that Carl had been trying to eradicate. And this was why he’d been doing it.

Lee fired on them, and they saw him just as his muzzle bloomed.

He caught one of the women in the chest, sending her spinning to the ground and shrieking in a voice that sent electrical shivers up Lee’s spine.

The man dove for cover in the very same doorway that Lee had just exited—the one surrounded by all the dead primals. The other woman slid to a stop on one knee, her rifle chattering at Lee.

Lee ducked back into cover as bullets keened past his ear.

The rifles didn’t stop. He could tell that they alternated—one of them firing a few rounds, then the other. All those rounds shattered the concrete corner, forcing Lee to back up another step to keep the debris out of his face.

He couldn’t lean out again. They had him covered.

Lee squatted, sending cataclysms of pain through his wounded hip. He thrust the muzzle of his rifle around the corner and blind-fired until his magazine went empty. And that was all he could do.

He glanced to his right, towards the doors out of this place, and saw that they were clear. Angela and the techs had disappeared. Maybe they’d gotten to safety. There was no way for Lee to know. But he couldn’t stay here.

He lurched to his feet—or tried. His leg gave up on supporting him. He stumbled. Caught himself with with arms thrust out. Pain lanced through his damaged left hand, but it was a dim thing compared to his leg.

Boots. Footfalls. Coming for him.

Lee rolled onto his back. His left hand prickled like it was asleep, and he tried to grab a fresh magazine from his pouch, but his fingers weren’t nimble enough to hold it, and the mag went spinning out of his grip, clattering across the floor.

The footsteps were too close.

Lee released his rifle and drew his pistol. He punched out between his knees.

The man cleared the corner.

Lee fired, one round catching his leading shoulder, sending him twirling, shock in his face—he hadn’t expected Lee to be lying there. He tried to right himself and bring up his rifle, but Lee double-tapped, right to the chest.

The man toppled to the ground, and Lee put a final round right to the top of his head.

There were more coming. They were throwing themselves at him, and Lee knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was it. This was his last stand, laying on his back on the cold tile floors, giving it everything he had.

And it wasn’t so bad.

It had always been going this direction.

It did not surprise him. This was the way of people like him. This is how they ended their lives. Live by the sword, and die by the sword. Every warrior knew it in the back of their mind, that this was how they made their exit. It was inevitable.

Lee breathed in. A good, solid breath. It smelled of spent propellant, but that smell was as intimate to him as a lover he’d known all his life. He could not see out of his left eye, but that only made targeting through his right eye easier. He couldn’t grip the pistol in both hands, but he could support it on his damaged left arm. Finger on the trigger. Sights hovering on the corner.

Who was next? Whose footfalls did that belong to?

A woman or a man? Old or young?

People. It never mattered. They always came for him in the end. Driven, just as he was driven. Heroes in their own minds, every last one of them. Crashing together. And Lee might have come out on top every other time, but the streak couldn’t continue forever.

Eventually, everyone’s luck runs out.

It was the woman that came around the corner. And another man, right behind her.

Her face was a rictus mask of rage. Had the man that Lee killed meant something to her? Or was it that she hated Lee? Lee didn’t hate her, he realized, as he shot her through the chest and neck. He only did what he had to do, and he only pitied her as she fell.

He transitioned to the man, but knew he was too far behind now. His sights were coming on target, but the man’s rifle was already pointing at Lee’s face, his finger on the trigger.

Gunfire blasted the hall.

The ground to the right of Lee’s face shattered, ripping his ear to shreds.

The man’s body shook, sprouted holes, puffing red mist.

Lee squeezed his trigger rapidly—but there was no way he’d fired that many rounds.

He stared as the man pitched backward.

The rattle of gunfire kept shaking the hall, pulsing the air until it seemed heavy in Lee’s ears. Bullets chewed the corner and struck the hall beyond—not coming at Lee, but coming from behind him.

Lee tilted his head back, seeing the world upside-down.

Angela, standing against the wall, smoke pouring from her rifle barrel, and beside her and around her, men in Marine Corps digital camouflage, three of them holding down a base of fire with Angela while two others sprinted for Lee.

Lee’s only thought was, You should’ve gotten out while you had the chance!

Lee pedaled his feet, sliding himself along the tile floor on his back, away from the corner, his head coming back up again, his pistol still trained on the corner, until he felt hands slam into his shoulder, gripping him by the straps of his armor and hauling him up onto his feet.

“Major Harden!” one of the Marines shouted in his ear. “We got you!”

Lee’s feet kept stamping at the tile as the two Marines that had ahold of him spun him around and started running, their arms interlocked around his shoulders, mostly carrying Lee, though he tried to help.

“Get Angela out of here!” Lee yelled at them, and then yelled at Angela as he passed her: “Angela! Get the hell out!”

One of the Marines by her side seemed to hear Lee, though Angela didn’t—or didn’t care—and he slapped her shoulder, yelling, “Peel out!” and then slid into position in front of her, cutting her off.

Angela spun and fell in with Lee, running just ahead of him now. She flashed a look over her shoulder as she ran for the doors out. There was a wildness in her eyes, a flash of something feral and dangerous.

She never said anything to him. She didn’t need to. He saw the truth in her face. He saw every moment that he’d been with her, right there in the headstrong set of her jaw. Someone that never backed down. Never let go.

She hit the door to the outside and rammed it open as the two Marines hauled Lee through. The midmorning sun blinded his one good eye. His feet hit pavement. He had more weight on them now. His left leg rubbery, and getting more useless by the second, but he continued to stagger along.

Lee’s vision adjusted. A collection of MATVs, huddled around the corner of the high school, their turrets alternating back and forth, slamming fire down the main drag of the Butler Safe Zone, engaging Colonel Freeman’s assault.

Brinly appeared, running beside Lee on the right, Angela on the left.

“Lee, you with me?” His gaze was fixed on the left side of Lee’s face, and Lee realized the wound to his eye must have looked bad.

“Yeah, I’m with you,” Lee said. “I’m good to go!”

“The fuck you’re not,” Brinly snapped back. “We lost contact with Morrow’s crew! They hit the Greeley convoy in the side and that was the last we heard of them. Hunter Killers are moving to cover the route out. Major, we gotta call it!”

Lee knew what he meant. They weren’t going to hold onto Butler. It stung as bad as any bullet wound to his flesh—a wound straight to his heart, to his will to fight. But sometimes you have to retreat. Sometimes you have to save yourself, so you could fight another day.

“What about the civilians?” Lee demanded.

Brinly shook his head. “We took what we could. The rest of them scattered. Greeley’s got more forces on the move. Dustoff spotted more convoys heading down Two-Oh-Eight. We got another twenty minutes to get out—maybe less.”

Lee realized they were angling toward the backend of a MATV with the assault configuration on the back. A cluster of Marines stood outside of it, and one of them crouched over Deuce, holding the dog by the collar with one hand and his rifle with the other. The double doors on the back of the MATV hung open, two more Marines inside, holding their arms out, ready to receive him.

Lee ground his heels in as they reached the back of the MATV. “Get Angela in there!”

Angela didn’t put up a fight—thank God. She stepped up and the Marines inside grabbed her by the arms and yanked her up. They reached for Lee, but Lee shook his arms free of the men that held him.

“I can climb up on my own,” he growled. But he did turn and give a quick nod to the two Marines that had saved his ass in the school.

Behind them, the Marines inside the school had backed their way out, but still held their base of fire from the doors, keeping the Lincolnists inside pinned down and unable to take the corner of the hall. It wouldn’t last forever, though.

Lee grabbed the doors to the MATV with his good arm and thrust himself up with his good leg, then collapsed into the nearest seat. Deuce scrambled up in a clatter of claws and pasted himself to Lee’s leg. Brinly piled in after him, and the two Marines at the doors swung them shut with a bang.

Brinly had the command channel radio in his hand. He shouted up to the driver of the MATV: “Roll out!” Then he keyed the radio. “Major Brinly to all elements inside of Butler. This is a full retreat, again, full retreat. If you can pick up any civilians as you fall back then do so, but keep your asses out of the line of fire. Rendezvous at fallback point Delta.”

FORTY-FOUR

─▬▬▬─

CIVIL WAR

Captain Griffin stood over the dead bodies amidst the brush and bramble of the woodline. He’d thought perhaps they’d been Project Hometown, but no. Morrow. Mitch. Logan. Rudy. He didn’t recognize any of their names.

Four men. Griffin might have laughed at it, if he hadn’t been so pissed.

Four men had stopped his entire column, and claimed the lives of fifteen troops. Seven of them had been Cornerstone, which Griffin only cared about insofar as it affected his numbers, but the other eight had been actual soldiers.

Was this what it was like? Civil war? Brother against brother?

Griffin shook his head. For the first time in a very long time, he felt something like disgust. In any other place, in any other time, he’d have been proud to fight alongside the men that lay dead at his feet. He’d have considered them heroes.

In all the shit and muck of the last five years, this was the first time that Griffin had been afforded the opportunity to see it illustrated so clearly in front of him. That the wreckage he had caused was not to some nameless group of insurgents, but to fighters just like himself. People born to the same country as he. People that had fought in the same military.

He searched for that same idealism with which he’d first landed in North Carolina, and couldn’t find it. He tried to recall what had motivated him, what had kept him pressing forward, but it seemed like such a dim thing in that moment that it was hard to believe he’d been the one to think it.

Still rebels, he told himself, though now he heard it in Mr. Smith’s voice, rather than his own. Still your enemy. These are the people trying to tear your country apart in its weakest moment. Give them none of your pity. Give them none of your respect.

But he did. Grudgingly. He respected them.

“So they fought well,” he whispered to himself. And that was all that he could allow himself to say. Anything else would have been treason against his own conscience, even as it became divided, right there in that spot, splitting into two parts—a part that knew he must be right to seek out and destroy those that would harm his country; enemies both foreign and domestic, was the oath that he’d given.

But the other part of him could only point out that for the first time in a long career of fighting and killing, his hands felt dirty.

He needed to close that off. It did him no good.

He turned away from the dead bodies of his fellow countrymen and stalked back through the woods. Mr. Smith stood at the edge of the forest, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head, regarding Griffin with a quizzical look.

“Friends of yours?” Mr. Smith asked.

“No friends of mine,” he said, marching past the man.

Mr. Smith fell into step with him. “Butler’s giving up the ghost,” he said, sounding satisfied. “That contingent of rebel Marines just busted out, heading west.”

Griffin nodded as he stepped out of the woods and back onto concrete. One of their Humvees sat in a heap, smoking and flaming, charred limbs extruding from it, reaching for safety they would never have.

“Civilians?” Griffin asked as he approached their Tahoe where it had been parked behind one of the slightly-more-armored MATVs. The Tahoe’s windows were shot out, and a few bullet holes shown in the door panels.

“No fucking clue,” Mr. Smith answered. “Guess we’ll see when we get in there. Colonel Freeman said he spotted a convoy of them lighting out on Highway Ninety-Six. But it couldn’t have been all the civilians.”

Griffin opened his door and sat in the Tahoe. Mr. Smith crossed around and got in his side, barking at the Cornerstone operative that was their driver.

Griffin keyed his radio, transmitting to everyone. “Task Force Blackjack, keep your head on a swivel, but make straight for Butler. Defensive forces are falling back. Task Force Twenty-One is heading straight in. I want the high school secured, first and foremost. We don’t know how many civilians remain inside of Butler, or how aggressive they’ll be. Anyone that is armed will be shot on sight. We’ll round the rest of them up once we have the school completely secured.”

“Fuck it,” Mr. Smith said. “Just tell ‘em to shoot anyone who’s not us.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Griffin said, as the driver accelerated, angling them around the wrecked Humvee.

Mr. Smith stared at him for a long moment. “None of those people are—”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ do it!” Griffin belted out. “My orders were to invade and secure the United Eastern States, not scorch the fucking earth. I’ve invaded it successfully, and in about an hour you can consider it secured. Mission fucking accomplished. We’re not gonna pogrom this shit just because no one’s watching.”

Mr. Smith’s jaw muscles tensed. “Careful, captain.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Smith, you pretentious piece of shit. I catch any of your men shooting unarmed civilians I’ll stand them in front of a firing squad. You want my fucking bars for that? Go right ahead and make your complaint then.” Griffin shoved himself back in his seat, seething mad, wiping his hands manically on his pants. “I’ll tell you what. I got an idea for you.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Smith challenged, leaning across his seat.

Griffin leaned in as well, until they were nose to nose. “I’ll wager my goddamned career that Lee Harden is with those Marines that just lit out for Texas. Why don’t you and your Cornerstone boys go chase after them? It’ll do me a world of good when I roll into Texas a few months from now and find your rotting corpses along the highway.”

Mr. Smith gripped his armrest as though struggling not to take a swing.

The driver kept looking into the rearview mirror at them, like he wasn’t sure if he should stop the vehicle or not.

“I’ll be having a word with President Briggs about this,” Mr. Smith hissed.

Griffin just laughed in his face, then leaned back in his chair again. “Be my fucking guest, Mr. Smith. I just successfully invaded the United Eastern States for him. He won’t touch me. You on the other hand—wasn’t your job to deliver Lee Harden? And how’s that working out for you?”

Griffin didn’t expect his words to have the effect that they did, but Mr. Smith suddenly slumped back into his seat, the fire in him extinguished. He looked out the window. “You don’t know that he’s alive. We might find his body in there. Or he might be holed up somewhere.”

Griffin stared at the Cornerstone man for a long moment, then directed his gaze forward. They passed through the smoking rubble of the Butler Safe Zone’s eastern perimeter, driving straight for the heart of it.

Defeated. Pacified.

And yet, Griffin knew—had been serious when he’d said he’d stake his career on it—that amidst all the dead, they would not find Lee Harden.

And some part of him was glad for that.

***

There came a long gap in the gunfire, and the man named Red realized that the little chewed up corner of the high school corridor was no longer being guarded.

He inched up along the far wall, his remaining crew of fifteen stacked up behind him, all with their red armbands on their left forearms. Red had his rifle up as he pied the corner off by small angles. He saw his dead comrades lying amidst pools of blood, but he’d barely known them—they’d come from Moody.

“I don’t hear anyone shooting,” one of his people said behind him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Red snapped. “Hold tight.”

He kept slicing off that corner until he could see straight down the hall to the doors that led to the outside. His rifle hovered there. He saw no targets. No threats.

“They backed off,” Red shouted. “We got ‘em on the run!”

Energized, the crew of Lincolnists charged down the hall as one, that curious sensation that comes over humans when they think they’ve got their enemy on the ropes, how the caution flees and the bloodlust takes over, the aggression ramping up because your opponent is weakened.

Red felt powerful. Invincible. Accomplished.

He managed to hold some tactical mindset, though, as they neared the doors to the outside. He slowed from his victorious sprint down the hall, and waved for those behind him to stop. He moved to the side of the glass doors, somehow remaining intact despite a few bullet holes in them. He peered out around the back of the school, towards the main drag that ran through the center of Butler.

Military vehicles rolled down the street, but they weren’t Butler—these were real soldiers, in real uniforms, the American flag flapping triumphantly from the backend of a few of them.

“That’s Greeley,” Red announced, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. “That’s fucking Greeley! They took Butler!”

Abandoning all caution in a swell of pride and a sense of camaraderie with the liberating troops, Red and his Lincolnists burst out of the high school, jogging out into the open with their rifles raised into the air, whooping and hollering and displaying their red armbands.

A twenty-year-old lance corporal from the remnants of a Marine contingent in Greeley saw them come pouring out of the school, and he whipped his turret around, shouting “Contact!” to his buddies down in the MATV below.

For the span of a second, the lance corporal thought it was odd how their faces beamed and grinned, as though he was their friend, but he didn’t miss the rifles in their hands, and the rules of engagement that had just been passed over the radio were very clear.

Who knew what kind of crazy, desperate ploy this was?

He brought the muzzle of his M2 to bear and slammed his thumbs down on the butterfly trigger.

The handful insurgents with their bizarre red armbands and upraised rifles stopped hollering when his .50 caliber bullets started pummeling them to pieces. They fell about themselves, pell mell, in confusion and panic. The lance corporal smartly chewed up their right, and then their left flanks, funneling them into a jumble of limbs in the center, which he finished off with a final burst.

Odd how not a single one of them had bothered to fire a shot at him.

Shaken by the strangeness of it all, the lance corporal released his trigger and peeked over the smoking barrel of his machine gun at the pile of bodies. None of them moved. Several of them were in pieces, the big rounds having sheared their limbs from their bodies.

The lance corporal felt an involuntary shudder work through him, but shrugged it off with a grunt.

“I got those fuckers,” he announced loudly.

One of his squad mates below gave him a brotherly punch to the leg. “Good shooting, bro!”

The MATV accelerated again, and the lance corporal went back to scanning, looking for the next threats that might emerge.

***

President Briggs felt good for the first time in a very long time.

A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Breathing came easy to his chest, and he realized that for years he’d been worrying about the United Eastern States, and that worry had wrapped its coils around his chest and constricted him, little by little.

But now those coils fell away.

The afternoon sun looked brighter than it had in ages. The air tasted sweet when he pulled it in with no tension. His whole body hummed with positivity.

The first reports had come in from Captain Griffin. While he wasn’t the ranking man in the field down in Georgia, he had maintained control of the operation because Briggs trusted him and felt that he had the best knowledge of what was happening on the ground. That was, Briggs believed, what made him a unique and wonderful leader—he was not stuck in the ruts of old ways, where men who knew little took control from men who knew much, simply because of a higher rank.

Briggs did things differently. He did things more logically, he felt. More common sense.

And it had paid off.

Captain Griffin had delivered the UES to him on a platter. The two “Safe Zones” of Florida had responded to their true president’s call to action, and had been integral in the fall of Butler, and the routing of the UES leadership.

It had been a long time since Briggs had felt hungry. His appetite was squelched by the stress, just as much as his chest. But he thought that tonight he would eat well, and no matter what was being served, it would be the best tasting meal he’d had in a very long time.

A small note of concern soured his otherwise perfect mood of triumph: He’d emptied Greeley out in order to take down the United Eastern States. Not only were their defenses running on a skeleton crew, but every bit of aviation fuel had been used to run those C-130’s back and forth to Fort Bragg, and the vast majority of the diesel had been used to keep the assault vehicles fueled.

He pushed those concerns aside. Sometimes you had to risk big to win big.

And he had won.

Now it was time to savor his victory.

He found himself smiling at the two men across the table from him in his penthouse not-so-Oval Office.

“Butler has fallen,” Briggs announced to them, surprised that the statement could still make him feel so giddy. It dissipated those minor worries about defenses. “The United Eastern States is dismantled. There are no more Safe Zones there, save for the two from Florida who are now working with us. These are the first steps in the reunification of the United States, and while I understand that your allegiances are not to my country, but your own, I’d still be very pleased if you gentlemen would celebrate with me.”

Worley and Guidry exchanged one of their sly glances, which was an irritating thing that they did, but Briggs had gotten used to it at this point.

Briggs took the bottle from the table top, handling it carefully with his bandaged index finger—a little reminder of Linberger’s last stand. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion, and I think this is as good as it gets.” He displayed the label. “Bushmills Twenty-One. Not the absolute best I’ve ever had, but these days I challenge you to find better…” he winked at Guidry. “At least on this side of The Pond.”

Guidry dipped his head and smiled. “It’d be an honor, Mister President.”

Briggs poured out three glasses into the crystal tumblers that had come with the penthouse. He stepped around to the center of the table, and the two envoys met him there, and he gave them each a glass.

He raised his. “To a bright future, a reunified United States, and strong allies.”

Guidry and Worley tipped their glasses to him, and then they all drank.

It was a very fine spirit.

***

“What do you think happened to them?” Guidry murmured as they walked past the last of the guards, and out into the Greeley Green Zone.

Worley shook his head. “Won’t know until we get contact with them again.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. Why the hell else wouldn’t they be answering their satphone?”

“Say what you mean to say, Guidry.”

“As I see it, there’s only two possibilities. Either Marlin and Wibberley went rogue and backed the UES and died in the assault, or one of the UES leadership figured out that they were playing both sides and offed them.”

They walked in silence for a full city block.

“He said that they’d been promised safe passage out,” Worley observed. “You think Angela or Lee would have gone back on that?”

“I don’t know Angela or Lee. I can’t answer that.”

“Marlin knew them.” Worley stopped, looking troubled. “You heard how he talked about it. He trusted them.”

“Well, maybe that trust got him killed.”

Worley looked at his partner from the United Kingdom. “You might not know Marlin like I did.”

“No, I’m sure I don’t.”

“He wasn’t an idiot.”

“I never said that he was.”

Worley realized that he’d referred to Marlin in the past tense, and grimaced. “Well, I heard the way that he talked. He was on the edge, Guidry. He wanted to help them. And if I were to make a bet, I’d say that he backed them. Maybe told them the assault was coming.”

“If he did, then it didn’t do them much good. And it’s a moot point at this juncture.”

“It’s not a moot point,” Worley snapped, feeling defensive about Marlin, particularly now that he imagined his old comrade dead somewhere in Georgia. “My point is…” He trailed off, not sure what he was trying to say—or perhaps he just didn’t know how to word it.

Guidry gave him time to piece his thoughts together.

“You don’t know him, but I do,” Worley reiterated. “If he trusted those people, then he had a good goddamned reason.”

“Maybe so,” Guidry admitted, placing his hand on Worley’s shoulder. “But the ship has sailed now, don’t you think? Regardless of what decision Marlin came to, the United Eastern States is a non-entity at this point. If any of the leadership survived, they’ll be on the run. Our governments can’t back something that doesn’t even exist. You might not like President Briggs, and I might not like him either, but he is the one running shit now, so there’s not much of a choice left, is there?”

“Isn’t there?” Worley rubbed the back of his head. “The United Eastern States might have fallen, but Briggs still hasn’t secured Texas or any of the Gulf States. Last I checked, those were in the hands of the UES, along with all the oil and fuel capabilities.”

“Worley,” Guidry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. “You really want to keep this going?”

“I want my government to side with the right people. And I think that little toast Briggs made in his own honor might be jumping the gun a little bit, don’t you think?”

Guidry just groaned.

“He still doesn’t have Texas. He still doesn’t have fuel capabilities. And if there are any surviving leadership, where do you think they’re going next? Do you think they’re just going to throw in the towel because they lost a few Safe Zones in the Southeast? That’s bullshit and you know it. They’re going to run back to Texas, and they’re going to keep producing fuel, which is the one resource Briggs can’t get his hands on.”

Guidry bowed his head. Smeared a hand across his face. Stared at the ground for a long moment.

“I don’t think this is over,” Worley pressed on. “As much as Briggs wants to make it look that way. And we have a duty to our governments to give them actual intelligence, the real lay of the land—not just what Briggs claims it is.”

“So?”

“So? What do you mean ‘so’?”

“I mean what do you think you’re going to do about it?”

“I think…” Worley raised his hands, let them flop to his sides, and took a furtive glance around them. He lowered his voice. “I think we need to go to Texas.”

FORTY-FIVE

─▬▬▬─

UNBOWED

Fallback point Delta was a tiny map dot on the side of Georgia Highway 39. A little tumbledown town labeled as “Omaha,” if you had a magnifying glass strong enough to read the tiny print on a road atlas.

If you kept going on Highway 39, in two lonely miles you’d cross over the Chattahoochee River, and into Alabama. The highway would change names a few times, but if you continued on it, you’d reach a town that Lee had been to before. It was the place that he’d died in, crossed over, and been resurrected. A town called Hurtsboro.

Lee could have used a little resurrection right then.

One of Brinly’s corpsmen had worked on Lee during their retreat from Butler, but Lee had refused the fentanyl lollipop that was offered to him. He needed to keep a clear head.

Unfortunately, the pain clouded it almost as much as the drugs would have.

The gunshot wound to his hip wasn’t a bleeder, and for that he supposed he should consider himself lucky. The corpsman told him that he couldn’t be sure without an X-Ray, which wasn’t going to happen, but that his best guess, based off of the bone fragments he’d removed while cleaning the wound, was that it had chipped Lee’s pelvis, and maybe the ball-joint of his femur. Difficult to say for sure. But what the corpsman did say, with a kind, doctorial bedside manner, was that Lee should be prepared to be in pain for a long, long time.

Possibly for the rest of his life.

Lee’s left eye was what caused him the most pain, though. The physical pain wasn’t even the bad part. It was a sort of emotional bereavement that Lee suspected others of his kind had felt when they’d lost limbs. A part of him was gone.

The eye was irreparable. The corpsman couldn’t work on it. It probably needed to be removed, but that surgery was beyond his capabilities. So he shot Lee up with a hefty dose of precious antibiotics. At first Lee had wanted to refuse it, knowing that such luxuries were in short supply already. But the corpsman saw his reticence and explained to him that if he didn’t take it, the ruined eyeball would almost surely get infected, and being so close to his brain, would end Lee in short order. So Lee took the antibiotics.

During all of this, Angela sat by Lee’s side, her hand in his, and he tried his best not to squeeze it too hard as the corpsman plucked chunks of concrete out of his face and eye.

In moments when he was able to open his good right eye, he looked down at Deuce. The dog sat at his side, and he too had an injured eye. Lee wasn’t sure if the damage was permanent. It had stopped bleeding, but Deuce still squinted that one eye, while the other gazed up at Lee, and the dog seemed not to care one iota about himself. All of his concern was for the man he stuck so close to.

Animals don’t suffer from self-pity.

And neither would Lee.

I still have my right eye, Lee told himself. That’s my dominant eye. That’s my shooting eye. And I still have my right hand. That’s my dominant hand. That’s my shooting hand.

But he felt like half of himself had been left behind in Butler. Half of his abilities. Half of his sight. Half of his spirit.

He didn’t allow anyone to help him out of the back of the MATV. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It was a matter of personal pride, and of appearances, and those considerations had never been so important to Lee as they were right at that moment, as his one good eye scanned across what was left of the people he had tried to save.

No, you did save them. These ones, anyways.

It was a cold comfort. Almost none at all.

They gathered on the side of the highway, a conglomeration of hundreds of vehicles, stretching out along the highway in a long column. The people had emerged from them, and stood about, their eyes seeking refuge, seeking someone to tell them that everything was going to work out in the end.

Bandaged, and one-eyed, and limping, Lee felt he was not the one capable of telling them that. But he stood there anyways. He stood without help, without support, save for Angela’s presence at one side, and Brinly’s on the other. Lee stood straight, his posture erect.

The Blackhawk sat in the middle of the highway, off to the side of the column of military and civilian vehicles. It had landed while the corpsman had finished bandaging Lee’s eye, wrapping the gauze tightly around his head. Now the rotors slowed, the engines off. One of their two remaining tanker trucks that had made the escape with the rest of the refugees parked near it, and the crew began moving to refuel the bird. They would have to do this a few times in order to get to Texas, but the Blackhawk was a boon. It would give them aerial coverage and a good vantage point to spot if any of the Greeley forces were in pursuit.

The crowd seemed a single entity made of stranger’s faces, but he found some people that he recognized. Marie was there, at the very front of them, holding Abby by the shoulders, as though to restrain her from sprinting into her mother’s arms. Towards the back, Kate stood with several men that Lee recognized from Savannah.

There were others that Lee knew, but could not remember their names. Soldiers and civilians alike. Just glimpses of people that he’d passed a word with, or given a command to over the radio. But not many. Most of those gathered were strangers to Lee, though they were bound now by something that made him feel that he knew them, and they him.

Off to Lee’s left, a collection of battered Humvees were parked in a jumble. Out of the ten squads of Hunter Killers they’d deployed, eight had made it back. Out of the fifty men in those squads, it had been reported to Lee that only twenty-one were left.

Lee looked across at them, as corpsmen and medics moved from Humvee to Humvee, evaluating the wounded, some of them laying in the fastbacks, some of them laying on the ground, or propped up against tires if they were capable of sitting.

They looked broken. Beaten. Disheartened.

They’d left half of themselves behind, too.

Those that could stand did so, but their shoulders were stooped. Young men with old eyes. They held the hands of their wounded buddies, but their gazes were forward, just as those of all the civilians. They looked to Angela. They looked to Lee.

Was there any faith left in them?

The looks on their faces, to a man, woman, and child, said no. But if they had no faith left, then why even look? Why even stand there? Why even be here at this very moment, on the side of the highway? Were they waiting for an excuse to melt away, to cut and run? Or did they expect something? Hope for something?

Lee’s gaze landed on a familiar face, standing at the back of a Humvee. Sam Ryder stood there, looking back at him. In the open fastback, Lee saw Pickell, his face pale and greasy, but awake. A medic from one of the other squads checked his wounds. At Sam’s other side, Jones knelt, his hand on the shoulder of one of their half-boots, right where a bloody, white bandage was wrapped. He too looked at Lee.

He felt a dim relief overtake him as he met their gazes. Of all the deaths, of all the loss, he wondered how he would have handled it if Sam hadn’t made it back. How would Angela have handled it? There was something inexplicable between the three of them. The traumas of the years had knit them together, perhaps against their will, and despite their best efforts not to open up to each other.

But that small relief was overshadowed by something else. It was there, intangible and inarticulable. It imbued the silence that hung over them, an unnatural hush, something you never saw in a crowd of people like this. Nearly a thousand of them, fighters, workers, families—and none of them spoke a damn word.

Expectation, perhaps. A yearning for all of it to mean something. A desire to be told by someone that what they had lost had not been pointless, that there was still meaning to it all, still some guiding force of providence that had not completely abandoned them, but still saw fit to keep its hand upon them.

“I have nothing to give these people,” Lee husked, his voice quiet in the stillness.

Brinly shifted beside him. “They’re just scared, Lee. They’re just scared and empty. They don’t need much. Just a little bit.”

Lee had to turn his head completely to see Brinly with his right eye. “I don’t do speeches, Brinly. Anything that comes out of my mouth right now is not going to be what they want to hear.”

Brinly nodded, pursed his lips. He looked out at the people. The crowd didn’t press in, as though they feared getting too close to Lee, but the back of the crowd had come forward, leaving their vehicles behind them. Heads craned to see over the people in front. Seeking God-knew what from God-knew who.

Brinly reached into the map pocket of his chest rig and drew something out. A folded scrap of paper. Well worn. The edges feathered with repeated folding and unfolding. Sweat and dirt making the paper limp and thin and delicate, almost like tissue.

He handed this to Lee.

Lee already knew what it was. But he unfolded it anyways. Stared at the printed words on the page, smudged and washed out, just as he remembered them.

It wasn’t much. But like Brinly had said, they didn’t need much. Just a little bit. And it was all that Lee had.

He looked up from the page, seeing how the back of the gathering was far from him, and feeling like he didn’t have it in him to project his voice that far, to speak with such gusto. If he tried, it would only be forced. It would be dishonest. A mockery of the exhaustion that everyone felt.

Lee looked to Brinly, to the radio hanging from his chest rig. He held out his good hand, the paper pinched in his palm. “Let me have that radio.”

Brinly unclipped it. Handed it over.

Lee brought it up. Pressed the transmit button. He heard the distant crackle of radios all through the convoy. Radios on the shoulders of soldiers. In the consoles of Humvees and MATVs. When he spoke, he did so softly, and heard the whisper of his words as an echo from those many small speakers.

“This is Lee. If you can, turn up the volume on your radios. The ones in your vehicles, too. I’m not sure if everyone can hear me. My voice is a little shot.”

The soldiers stirred. Hands went to shoulders, or to radio pouches on chest rigs. Dials were turned. They bent inside of their guntrucks and turned up the volume there as well.

Lee waited, and when their attention had returned, he nodded to them all. “Thank you.” He looked down at the paper in his hand, and with his clumsy and injured left, managed to spread the paper out again. “Major Brinly, the Marine to my left here, the guy that saved our asses, more or less, has kept this on his person since…well, since the beginning of all this. It’s…uh…” Lee trailed off, staring at the words.

A soft murmur rippled amongst those in front of him, and he thought, This isn’t enough. He could sense the moment in his hands, like water, dripping away between his fingers, no matter how hard he clasped them together.

He cleared his throat, and heard it echo back to him from a hundred different points. He frowned at the paper, but sensed a stilling of the murmurs.

Well, you’ve already started talking, Lee prodded himself on. Might as well finish.

He took a breath, and spoke again, reading from the page.

“‘Out of the night that covers me, black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my…’” he stopped. Images scuttled through his brain on spider’s legs, biting at him. The wreckage of Carl’s body. The woman who wanted to kill him, but wasn’t fast enough.

The fire that consumed a vehicle, with a man writhing inside, cursing his name.

Julia, asking for him to hold her.

Lee’s nail beds felt caked in grime, but he resisted the urge to flick at them.

He grit his teeth and swallowed against those images that threatened to blot out the words in front of him. “‘…I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning’s of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.’”

***

The words went into Sam, slowly at first, as though he resisted them. As Lee spoke, his voice did not become louder, but it did grow stronger. And Sam thought that the words were going into Lee, just as they went into him, and when he looked down at Jones, he saw not the vacancy of hopelessness that he’d seen before, but a keenness of eye, a clenching of the jaw.

Sam looked behind him, to Pickell, and put his hand on the man’s mud-covered boot. Pickell nodded to him and raised a hand, his thumb up.

Bloody, but unbowed.

***

“‘Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the Horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find, me unafraid.’”

Lee did not look up from the paper, but he saw them nonetheless. The movement in the crowd, as those whose faith was gone began to move away, like a receding tide. But some of them stayed. Those for whom the words had found their mark. Those, perhaps, for whom the loss was too much to handle, for whom defeat would only be the worst of deaths, and who sought a reason to go on.

It was for them that he spoke. And there were many of them that did not turn away.

“‘It matters not how straight the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll,’” Lee read. “‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’”

Then he folded the paper, and he handed it back to Brinly, and raised his eyes.

Those that had walked away now stood at a distance from the others. A clear delineation between those that had the faith to go on, and those who could not summon the strength to stay on this path. There were perhaps a hundred of them that had given up. Maybe more.

But there were hundreds that stayed. Hard men, and hard women, their children clutched between them. People for whom surviving had not just been a nightmare of the past, but for whom it had made an indelible mark, changing them forever, and morphing them into a harder race of beings than they’d been in their past lives.

And that was fine by Lee. If there was anyone that he wanted to stay, it would be people like them. People who were worth their salt. People who found a reason to go on—even if it was a small one—rather than people that sought a reason to surrender.

Standing there before them, all those eyes on him, holding that radio, Lee thought of their destination, of Texas, and of the man that had run it before he’d come along. Terrence Lehy had pulled Texas together out of people just like the ones still standing before Lee now. And, at the time, Lee had wondered if that was wrong. To have no place for civilians, for normal society outside of warfighting. But perhaps his friend had known something that Lee had not realized until today.

This was not a war between governments. This was a war between the people. A total war, wherein every able body had to contribute in some manner, or be cast out. Survival was like that. It required everything you had, and left no room for the unwilling, or the incapable. You fought, or you were exterminated. There was no in-between. There was no mercy.

Lee had no mercy to give those that walked away from him, but neither did he begrudge them. He looked at their disconsolate faces, and saw only meek beings, products of a weak society long-since rendered obsolete by a new and savage world.

Not the masters of their fate, but simply human debris, caught in a storm surge of elements beyond their comprehension, pushed by the whim of tides, and hoping for a reprieve that would never come.

They’d let it break them.

But Lee wouldn’t. He would never let it break him.

His head was bloody, but unbowed.

“Let them go,” Lee said into the radio. “If you don’t have the stomach for what’s coming, then you shouldn’t stay with us. Take the vehicle you escaped in, and pick a road to drive on. But don’t follow us, and don’t ask anything of us, or of any of the people that are staying. Because we are not done. This is not over.”

Lee looked away from the crowd that had separated themselves, and directed himself to the people that had stayed, and the soldiers and Marines around him. A few more of the civilians trickled out the back, realizing that they didn’t have the stomach for it.

“To the rest of you that are still standing here…I can’t protect you. Angela can’t protect you. The Marines and the Hunter Killers can’t. Where we’re going, the only promise I can make to you, is that you will be a part of what we do. There’s no room for anything else. If you can fight, you’ll be on a squad. If you can’t fight, you’ll be supporting those that can. And if you’re wondering right now what it is that we’ll be fighting for, then you should probably join those that are walking away. If you’re still standing here, then I suspect you know—intimately—what we’re fighting for, and you certainly don’t need a shot-up, one-eyed bastard like myself to tell you. If that’s you, then you’re one of us. Pure and simple. No more half-boots. No more civilians. No more us-and-them. Just us. Right now. The people that are unwilling to back down. The people whose heads are bloody, but unbowed. That’s you. That’s these guys in the guntrucks. That’s this woman to my right, and this man to my left. That’s me. That’s us.”

More people slipped away, but Lee barely noticed them. They meant nothing to him. He wouldn’t debase himself to fight or die alongside them. All that mattered were the five or six hundred that remained. And in every face that looked back at him, he saw a reflection of himself, even in the most unlikely places. In an old man with a set jaw. In a mother with a child at her side and a rifle on her hip. In a young man that inched forward, just a single step.

“Go to your vehicles,” Lee said to them. “If you have weapons, we will try to get you some ammunition. You will be organized into teams, starting right now. We will appoint team leaders. They will be your point of contact, the first in your chain of command. Brinly is your Commanding Officer, I am your Executive Officer, and Angela is your commander-in-chief.  We don’t have time for questions and concerns, so save them for when we arrive in Texas. We have a long road ahead.” Lee nodded to them all. “Stay frosty.”

He released the PTT, and handed the radio back to Brinly. “Get the bird in the air as soon as you can. I want it flying back and forth over our route, checking our six, and checking the road ahead. Split everyone into teams of three or four vehicles. They stay together no matter what. Try to make sure every team has a few weapons and enough ammunition to get them through any contact with primals or whatever the hell else we run into. Pick a team leader based on whoever seems most ready and willing. I want checkpoints and rally points all along the route from here to Texas, and that information needs to get disseminated to the teams as early as possible. I want us oscar-mike in thirty. Can you do that?”

Brinly scratched at his temple, the shadow of a smirk on his lips. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“What?”

Brinly lifted his eyebrows. “Well, if you’re gonna be my XO, you’re probably going to need to be promoted again. Seeing as how we’re the same rank.”

Lee squinted against the sun. Cast a glance towards Angela. “Ranks seem pretty irrelevant at this point. You can call me whatever you want to make you feel better about it. At the end of the day, whatever you choose to pin on my collar—birds, stars—it’s all bullshit. I’m just Lee.” Lee held up a hand as Angela tensed and opened her mouth to object. “And I’ll do my best to accomplish whatever task you give me. Even if it’s grand high-fucking-marshal. I’ll do my best.”

Brinly shrugged. “You got it, grand high marshal. Thirty minutes, oscar-mike.”

The Marine stalked away, gathering a retinue of other Marines as he went, never raising his voice, never bellowing, but simply calling them to him and dispatching his orders with calm efficiency.

Lee and Angela stood there, set apart from the tides of people that swirled for their vehicles, soldiers and Marines hustling amongst them like sheepdogs to organize them, though these people were no sheep. The sheep were the ones that drove away, now just taillights in the distance, to points unknown. All that was left were the fighters. Lee’s people.

“You got a problem with anything I said?” Lee asked, earnestly.

Angela shook her head. “No. I agree. We’re in it to the end now.” She took a deep breath and faced Lee. “What does that look like? What are we getting into?”

“No more defense,” Lee responded. “No more biding time and hoping for the best. Briggs brought this fight to us, fully and completely. And that’s fine. He wants to plunge all his chips into the southeast? He can have it. We have the fuel. We’ve got people that are willing to fight. And so that’s what we’re going to do.”

Out on the side of that long stretch of highway heading out of Georgia, Lee saw things taking shape faster than he’d thought. He could see the teams already, the Marines and soldiers dividing them up, checking for weapons, pointing to the strongest and most eager of them and appointing them the leaders. Sam was out there. Sergeant Ryder, now. He stood amongst a group of a fifteen or twenty people, and Lee couldn’t tell what he said to them, but they listened.

Every last one of them listened. Ready and willing.

Sam glanced up over his shoulder, and made eye contact with Lee. He nodded, and Lee nodded back.

Lee rubbed at his face below his ruined eye, scraped the dried blood from the corner of his nose. Brushed it away on his pants. Held his head high. “We’re going to take the fight to Greeley.”

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READ ON FOR A PREVIEW OF

THE NINE

GODBREAKER, BOOK 2

Chapter 0

QUESTION

What makes a smart man do something dumb?

Perry was given an opportunity to consider just that question, right about the time that something came out of the blackness of night and stung him in the back. The strike pitched him forward onto his hands and knees. His longstaff clattered out of his grip into the bone-white dust of the Glass Flats.

He didn’t get around to considering the question just yet. He was in full, oh-shit-something-just-attacked-me mode. So his mind forwent philosophical considerations, and shot into the flowing red of The Calm, accessing the clasp in his pocket.

His energy shield erupted around him, encircling him in a shimmering, protective dome…

And then flickered out.

What’s happening? His mind panicked.

He whirled towards the threat, hands and knees scrabbling through the pale dust, latching onto his longstaff. He tried to summon the shield again, but couldn’t finding it. He couldn’t find the flow, or the red, or the place where his mind fit so neatly…

A shape loomed in the darkness.

Something not quite human.

Perry gaped. He tried to spin, to sprint back through the night to the campfire a mile in the distance, where his three friends slept. But all he managed to do was throw his body into a messy pirouette before collapsing onto the hard ground. And that was when all the strength bled out of him in a rush. His body refused to respond to any command, and he had the very clear thought, Shit, I should have listened to Stuber…

Slumped to the ground, his muscles turning to slag, Perry breathed in a mouthful of sand, his eyes fixed on the twinkling of the firelight, so far away.

That was the moment when he truly considered the question.

What makes a smart man do something dumb?

Well, usually a smart man has a compelling reason for doing a dumb thing.

Here was Perry’s:

Chapter ONE

THE FAITH OF A FATHER

Change the tides of history, Perry’s father had told him. And yet every step he took across that arid expanse called the Glass Flats drew him closer to something that he feared would stop him in his tracks.

It had started as a dark line in the distance. A shadow that hovered over the eastern horizon, which Perry thought might be a line of dark clouds. He’d spotted it that morning, when the rising sun still glared in his eyes.

How many days had they been on the Glass Flats now? Seven? It was difficult to tell, because it was the same thing every day: Up at dawn, one foot in front of the other, until the sun set. Time was judged not by the passing of the sun, but by dwindling supplies, parched mouths, and a bone-weary ache that compounded with each indeterminate mile.

Now, as the sun began to set once again, that thing in the distance was no longer a dark line on the horizon. With the westering sun splashing across its surface, it now shown in glowing ochre. A sheer face of cliffs that towered high above, mocking his exhaustion, and challenging Perry’s belief that he was capable of completing the mission that Cato McGown had given him.

Perry stopped. His stomach had been sinking all day. The higher those cliffs in the distance had risen, the lower his stomach had drooped, until now, it finally landed at the very bottom of him, and he didn’t think he could take another step, like his guts had tangled up his feet.

“Well,” a familiar voice gruffed from behind him, wind-parched and rough. “This sucks.”

Perry cast a glance over his shoulder, trying to summon his guts back up to where they belonged. They seemed far heavier than the strength he had to lift them.

Stuber stood at his left side. One of their empty water skins was perched on his head, like a sunshade, but the light reflecting off the white dust had still burned him from underneath. The first few days of sunburn was still peeling off of him, and the skin beneath was both tanned, and freshly red.

On the other side of Stuber, Teran and Sagum stopped, little dust motes rising from the last scuffs of their boots. Teran’s tawny hair had bleached. Her skin didn’t take to the sun as well as Stuber’s and she looked flat-out burned. She didn’t seem to want to look at the cliffs, and instead seemed taken with a bit of glass that shown at her feet from where she’d swept the thin skein of dust away.

Beneath all that white sand, the earth had been scorched by some weapon beyond comprehension. Turned to glass. Sometimes you could see things, trapped inside, like bugs trapped in amber. But not this time.

Sagum’s posture was slouched, his hands on his hips, squinting at the cliffs as he dragged his gaze from one end to the other. “There’s no way around them.”

Perry had already made note of that. The cliffs extended to the north and south, as far as the eye could see.

With his guts unwilling to be drawn back into place, Perry decided to lower his body to their level, and wilted onto the sun-warmed ground, folding his dusty boots under him, cross-legged. He smelled his own unwashed body and clothes, wafting up into nostrils crusted with a layer of dirt and salt from his own sweat.

It didn’t take long for the others to follow suit. No point in standing, when they weren’t moving forward.

A half-breed runt. A deserter from the legions. A woman who had been raised as a thief and con-artist. And a tinkerer. They sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at the obstacle in front of them. A light breeze stirred the hot air and sent a ripple of dust scouring across them, like a miniature sand storm.

Perry laid his longstaff across his lap and leaned his elbows on it. He rubbed the crust out of his nose and tried to summon some can-do spirit. “Maybe we can scale them.”

The reaction to that went down the line: Stuber blew a raspberry; Teran chuffed; Sagum groaned.

Perry had expected as much. He felt the same as they did. The only difference was that he was compelled forward by a mission given to him by the man that he still considered his father, though Perry knew that Cato McGown hadn’t sired him. But Cato had loved him, and that was what mattered. He’d loved Perry, and he’d put his faith in him.

Change the tides of history. Uncover the truth.

Now, Perry needed to prove that he deserved that faith.

He nodded at the cliffs. “We’ve come this far. We sure as shit can’t turn back now.” He spat dryly—just a tiny glob of froth that probably had more dust in it than spit. “Not gonna let a little thing like some mile-high cliffs stop me.” He gestured to the wall of rock. “The East Ruins—the entire reason why we’re here—could be right on the other side.”

“Yup,” Stuber announced, and swung his burden of firewood off of his back, parking it in front of him.

Perry eyed the bundle of sticks that they’d gathered from the few charred and withered trees they found along the way, like desiccated, bony hands sprouting from the glass. How they’d managed not to be turned to cinders by whatever weapon had scorched this section of the earth to glass and dust, he would never know. But he appreciated that they had fuel to make a fire.

Making a fire wasn’t what he’d had in mind, though.

“What are you doing?” Perry asked, trying to summon the conviction to get to his feet again.

Stuber began unlashing the bundle of sticks. “I’m making a campfire.”

“We should press on while it’s still light.”

Teran and Sagum expended their last bits of energy by sidling up around the spot that Stuber had selected for their fire. It was still hot, but the second the sun went down it would get cold, and they would need the fire to keep from shivering all night.

Also, the last few nights there had been…things. Out in the darkness. Perry hadn’t gotten a good look at them—the fire seemed to keep them at bay.

“Perry,” Teran sighed. “Those cliffs are still two or three miles away. The sun will be down in thirty minutes. You’re not going to find a way through in thirty minutes.”

“Besides,” Stuber put in, erecting a pile of twigs. “This is an excellent campsite. Note its exceptional flatness.” He held up a finger. “I know you’re thinking, ‘But, Stuber, it’s all flat!’ But my keen senses have told me that this particular patch of nothingness is flatter than the rest of the flatness. A superb place to camp. And I’m not just saying that because this is where I parked my ass and I don’t feel like moving.”

Perry quirked an eyebrow and gave a half-assed attempt at a challenge: “Come on, Stuber. You telling me I’ve got more get-up-and-go than you do right now?”

“Not gonna work this time, my precious little Halfbreed. I’m done. Teran’s done. Smegma was done ten miles ago. And you’re done too. You’re just too stubborn to realize it.”

“I’m not even offended,” Sagum said, stretching his legs out and reclining on an elbow. “I was done ten miles ago. Right around the time I realized those were cliffs.”

Perry nodded. Propped his staff on the ground and started to pull himself up. “Alright. Y’all make camp. I’ll push out and scout the cliffs until it gets dark—”

“The fuck you will,” Stuber growled.

Perry paused, half-risen, and frowned at Stuber. “What’s got you all bothered?”

Stuber paused in his fire-building to give Perry a glower. “You heard those things the last couple nights. I don’t know what the hell they were, but we’re not alone out here. Now is not the time for you to pretend to be a hero and strike out on your own, especially this close to dark.”

“I’ve got my shield and my longstaff.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a shield. But you barely know how to use that longstaff.”

Perry’s jaw clenched. It was a sore subject. “Just because I can’t start a godsdamned fire with it, doesn’t mean I can’t use it. I can still fire energy bolts out of it. You’ve seen me do it.”

Stuber’s expression became bland. “I’ve seen you wing off a bunch of shots, like a kid playing with fireworks. You lack control. If you can’t control your weapon, it’s not a weapon, it’s just a hazard—to you and everyone around you.”

Perry looked away. “Stuber. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Teran leaned back on her palms. “Perry, just because you can access god-tech doesn’t make you an expert in it.”

“And Stuber is?”

“He’s an expert in weapons.”

Stuber held up a hand. “Easy, feisty-pants. I don’t need you to come to my defense.” He turned to Perry again. “Remember the deal you made? That I would come along, but you were going to let me teach you how to fight?”

“You can’t teach me how to fight with something you can’t even use.”

Rather than get mad, Stuber laughed. “I don’t need to be able to use something to know that someone else isn’t using it correctly either.” He pointed a thick finger at Perry. “Intense and direct application of violence for the purpose of killing. That means control. Whether you’re beating a man to death with your hands, filling him full of lead, or disintegrating him with energy bolts, if you can’t control the killing tool you’ve chosen to use, then you can’t have intense and direct application of violence.” Stuber leaned back and gestured to the pile of sticks. “Now. Light my fucking fire, Shortstack.”

Despite all of Perry’s blustering, he knew that Stuber was right. Which was a terrible, recurring theme between them that Perry hated, but had come to accept.

Still, he leaned his head back and groaned. “Gods in the skies, Stuber. Not again.”

Stuber was as stubborn as Perry. Which was why they got along so well. And also why they constantly argued. “I’ll tell you what, mighty Halfbreed, savior of humanity…if you can light this fire with your longstaff, without blowing it up, then you can take your happy ass out into the dark and scout out those cliffs. If you can demonstrate control of your weapon platform, then I’m comfortable with you going out and doing hero-shit.”

Perry lowered his head and raised his eyebrows. “I could just go anyways and—”

“Just light the fucking fire,” Teran interrupted.

“Fine. Fine.” Perry rose to both feet now and shuffled closer to the pile of sticks. “But you guys know how this goes.”

“You know,” Sagum leaned onto his side and delved a hand into the pouch of technological odds and ends that he kept on his belt. “Rather than have Perry blow us all up, we could use this handy-dandy item I’ve made.” He drew out a round object, smiling at it. He’d been tinkering away at this thing for the last few nights. “It’s a real fire starter. I made it from the parts I scavenged from that mech in Fiendevelt.”

Stuber shook his head. “If Perry fails, then we can use your doodad. For now, let’s see if the Halfbreed can figure this out.”

“Right.” Sagum looked disappointed. He stuffed his invention back into his tinkerer’s pouch. “Guess we should take cover.”

Sagum and Teran chose to take cover behind Stuber, who himself scooted backwards, his eyes alight with a fresh combination of amusement and interest. Teran and Sagum peered over his armored spaulders. Stuber hefted his chest plate up and ducked, so that his bearded smile disappeared into it, and only his eyes peered over, twinkling with merriment. He looked like a bemused turtle.

“Okay, Shortstack.” Stuber’s voice was muffled by the chest plate. “Nice and easy. Don’t blow us all up. Again.”

“Alright,” Perry mumbled. “Let me focus.”

Perry hefted the longstaff in his hand. He still marveled at how light it felt, despite its size. Six feet of what appeared to be solid metal, with a boxy bottom, and a long, curved blade at the top, a bayonet of sorts, which overshadowed a fluted muzzle.

Perry stepped up to the pile of sticks and lowered the muzzle, hovering it inches above the wood. He focused, feeling the flow inside of him. It was a river of red that existed inside of him, and all he had to do was dip his mind down into it.

For all of his life up until recently, he’d believed that this was just some mental oddity that had no rhyme or reason to it. But over the course of the past few weeks he’d come to discover that its origins were genetic. He’d received this ability from his father.

His biological father. Paladin Selos.

Now, dipping his mind down into that flow, he perceived the world around him, but his brain felt like it was suddenly moving along, caught up in the tide of something powerful. Like a river, it had more potential than appeared on the surface.

“There you go,” he heard Stuber encourage. “Same as you’ve been doing.”

In Perry’s mind, he was not alone in the river. There was the clasp, which was a separate device that he kept in his pocket—that was what generated his energy shield. He felt it there with him, and it was familiar, and he knew how to control that. He could do it almost instinctively now. But there was this big lumbering beast in the flow of the red with him, and he knew that it was the longstaff.

The longstaff in his hands lit up. On the boxy back end, a few small diodes began to glow, and the blade below the muzzle crackled and lit up in a ghostly green.

He felt where his mind was supposed to go. But there was also a sort of counterpressure as he mentally moved towards it, and it made it difficult to simply ease into the device…

He pushed a little harder.

The muzzle of the longstaff flared.

Shit! Too much!

He tried to pull back, but it was too late.

The air cracked with a strange Ka-whap sound, sending a handful of the sticks flying, and causing Stuber to jerk a hand up in front of his eyes as he was peppered with wood particles.

“Godsdammit!” Perry spat, pulling his mind back from the longstaff so suddenly that the entire thing went dark and inert again.

Stuber leaned forward and, with deft fingers that belied their size, pushed several of the smoldering twigs back together, scrunching them into a pile again, and then leaning down close and blowing a gentle breath across them.

The charred ends glowed red. Smoked. Then flamed.

Stuber sat back, stacking more sticks on the flames. “Well. I wouldn’t call that ‘control,’ but we do have a fire.”

“That’s because it’s not meant to light fires.”

“Oh, you read the instruction manual?” Stuber said, reaching for more wood.

“It’s a weapon! Not a fire starter.”

“If it starts a fire, it’s a fire starter.”

“You know,” Sagum put in, shuffling back to his original position. “I created a fire starter fire starter. For starting fires. Just saying.”

Perry looked at the longstaff in his hands. “I just think it’s stupid to try to pussy-foot around with the thing.”

“You’re just saying that because you struggle with finesse.”

“It’s a six-foot long axe with a blaster on the end of it. I don’t think finesse is the point.”

“Time and practice,” Stuber intoned, for perhaps the thousandth time. He took a break from building the fire and gestured out at the cliffs, which now glowed a dull red in the waning sunlight. “If you would like to whip out a few thunderbolts and destroy those cliffs, just to get it out of your system, then go right ahead.”

Perry sighed. Trying to shoot energy bolts at the cliffs was stupid. Stuber had known it was stupid. He’d just offered it to Perry to see how stupid Perry would be in the midst of his frustration.

No, Perry was not stupid. Firing the damn thing wouldn’t do him any good, and might attract unwanted attention. He laid it down on the ground and once again looked at that cruel blade, that muzzle that teemed with potential killing power.

Had this been the longstaff that Selos had used to murder Perry’s mother and father? The thought caused him to abhor the weapon, but at the same time, he badly wished he could learn to use it properly. The more he failed at it, the more he abhorred it, and the more desperate he became to master it.

Mastery would prove to himself that he deserved the faith of his father, that he was capable of accomplishing this mission. But every failure to master it seemed to whisper to him, You’re not enough, you’ll never be capable, you’ll never deserve that faith.

He looked over his shoulders at the cliffs again. What was on the other side of them? The fabled East Ruins? The message from his father had told him to go to the East Ruins and find The Source—something that could grant the power of the godtech to anyone.

But they’d been warned. Threatened, actually, by the strange mechanical man that had tried to stop them.

Machines of terror and wrath will rip the life from your body, and that of your friends.

Perry still didn’t know what those might be, and when he would encounter them. But he wondered, if he couldn’t use the longstaff effectively, would he survive? Would he be able to protect his friends? The thought of failing them was like a heavy stone that he carried, strapped to his chest, every minute of every day.

He couldn’t fail them. He had to keep them alive. He needed to be master of his weapon.

He sighed, gripping his longstaff again. “I’ll take first watch.”

No one replied.

Perry glanced over at his friends again. Teran and Sagum opened a satchel, counting up their dwindling provisions. Figuring out how many mouthfuls, and of what, they would have for dinner that night.

But Stuber eyed him suspiciously.

“What?” The way he said it—maybe a little too innocent.

“You’re not planning to sneak out there towards the cliffs when we’re all asleep, are you?”

“Pff,” Perry shook his head. “Please. I’m not that dumb.”

But that was a lie.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

D.J. Molles is the New York Times bestselling author of The Remaining series, which was originally self-published in 2012 and quickly became an internet bestseller, and is the basis for his hit Lee Harden series. He is also the author of Wolves, a 2016 winner in the Horror category for the Foreword INDIES Book Awards. His other works include the Grower's War series, and the Audible original, Johnny. When he's not writing, he's taking care of his property in North Carolina, and training to be at least half as hard to kill as Lee Harden. He also enjoys playing his guitar and drums, drawing, painting, and lots of other artsy fartsy stuff.

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Facebook.com/DJMolles

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http://eepurl.com/c3kfJD

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Table of Contents

- one
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY - ONE
- TWENTY - TWO
- TWENTY - THREE
- TWENTY - FOUR
- TWENTY - FIVE
- TWENTY - SIX
- TWENTY - SEVEN
- TWENTY - EIGHT
- TWENTY - NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY - ONE
- THIRTY - TWO
- THIRTY - THREE
- THIRTY - FOUR
- THIRTY - FIVE
- THIRTY - SIX
- THIRTY - SEVEN
- THIRTY - EIGHT
- THIRTY - NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY - ONE
- FORTY - TWO
- FORTY - THREE
- FORTY - FOUR
- FORTY - FIVE