“It’s in the thirties at night,” Ralph Henderson-Smith said. “We have to stay warm.”
Liam clenched his jaw in frustration. Not at him, but at the situation. “Do what you can. Try to shield the fires from the enemy’s potential line of sight. And do your best to stay in smaller, dispersed groups. Bunching in a tight group means one direct hit kills everything and everyone.”
Their eyes widened at that, but they were listening. It was sinking in.
“Other than the blockade sentries, stay as hidden as possible. If they can find you, they can kill you. We’ll improve our concealment from forward observers and drones.”
He prayed the General didn’t have drones or a Predator.
If they did, Fall Creek’s losses would be immense.
“We know they have armored and aerial assets, so we’re augmenting our base cluster defenses with mobile patrols and concealed fighting positions. You might have noticed all the holes we’ve been digging. A few of you have already spent some time inside one. Those foxholes can save your life.”
Liam glanced at Bishop. “Anything else?”
“I think that covers it for now,” Bishop said.
With a sly grin, Reynoso clapped his hands. “Who wants to shoot things?”
Four dozen new recruits raised their hands.
Reynoso had built a makeshift firing range and set up a dozen targets that varied from five to fifteen yards. Liam had the trainees practice firing while standing, kneeling, single handed, and moving targets. He showed them how to zero their weapons.
Perez taught them to field strip, inspect, and clean their rifles and handguns, while Liam introduced them to the basics of firing and maneuvering, overwatch, and defensive strategies.
Because ammo was critical, the townspeople practiced with unloaded weapons or used Reynoso’s extensive airsoft and BB gun collection to simulate gunfire on the targets.
While they trained, Hayes organized the younger teens who weren’t ready for a watch shift yet and had them scavenge the town, collecting more sandbags and burlap sacks from barns, sheds, and garages.
Little by little, Fall Creek’s defenses were coming together.
13
Liam
Day One Hundred and Five
That afternoon, Liam inspected the southern blockade located before the bridge.
Every minute, he scanned his surroundings, listening for any sound out of place, any strange movement or shadow.
The sun warmed his head and shoulders. A brisk breeze rustled the tree branches. The first buds had appeared on a few limbs, a couple sprigs of green poking beneath the matted grass and patches of dirty snow.
The south part of town had seen better days. Bullet holes peppered the vehicles stalled in parking lots. Holes pockmarked the brick facade exteriors of several office buildings. Frag grenades had blown out the windows of Friendly’s Grocery Store, Vinson’s Pharmacy, and the Pizza Palace.
Though volunteers had cleaned up the fragments of shattered glass, melted plastic, and shell casings, the entire block still had the look of a shell-shocked war zone.
So far, everything was normal—the new normal.
Didn’t mean it would stay that way.
To his left, Quinn stood behind the barricade and studied Old 31 with a pair of binoculars. Whitney Blair huddled close to her—pale, scared, and out of place with a shotgun in her hands.
Jonas Marshall checked and rechecked his rifle, wearing a line through clumps of snow with his pacing. Every chance he got, he wandered close to Quinn. As if no one would notice.
Liam made a note to keep an eye on the kid. With those baby-blue eyes and that swooping blond hair, he was too handsome for his own good.
Bishop and a couple dozen townspeople were also on duty. Most hid in buildings and crouched within the foxholes, nothing visible of them but the occasional rifle barrel poking out from the ground. Teams were busy digging more foxholes.
Liam had directed them to build a split parapet foxhole. They’d compacted two large piles of dirt in front of each hole. The dirt afforded considerable frontal protection while allowing for a direct line of fire between the two piles and the flanks.
It took three times the amount of firepower to take a fighting hole with frontal and overhead protection versus an open one.
The fighting holes weren’t as invisible as he wanted, but they were serviceable. It camouflaged them from night vision and anything with infrared capability searching for body heat signatures.
The covered fighting holes should prevent anyone—drone or human—from tagging body heat with infrared tech. Just in case the General had a few tricks up his sleeve.
A few minutes ago, he’d checked in with Reynoso at the northern blockade. The reaction team was also standing by.
Fall Creek was on full alert, but life still continued.
Earlier, Hannah had dropped off a lunch of fresh deer jerky, some canned peaches, and water. Then she was off to plan another town hall meeting with Dave to organize the meal drops for the rotating security teams.
Molly and Annette were busy scheduling volunteers to work the local farms while Evelyn manned the medical bay and Travis held down the fort while wrangling two dozen kids.
Quinn let out a startled grunt.
“What do you see?” Liam asked, his heart rate kicking up a notch.
Quinn handed him the binoculars.
Alarmed, he glassed the area. Movement in the middle of the road. In the distance, a figure appeared, heading toward them.
“What do we do?” Whitney squeaked. “Do I shoot?”
Liam tensed, reaching for the M4, but something stilled his hand. “Wait and watch. Keep behind the barricade.”
They watched the figure approach. The size and gait suggested a male rather than a female. He moved in jerky, shambling movements.
“He’s like a zombie,” Quinn said. “Please tell me our apocalypse hasn’t just shifted to a new level of horror.”
“That’s impossible,” Jonas said, but genuine fear laced his voice.
“Is it, though?” Quinn deadpanned. “These days, nothing would surprise me.”