Liam gaped at them. “You know what this means. What you’re saying.”
“We’re letting the deadline pass,” Annette said. “We’re not giving you up.”
“You’re one of us, Liam,” Dave said. “No way we’re sending you to your death. Not gonna happen.”
Liam’s face flushed. “This isn’t the militia. The General boasts hundreds of soldiers. We’re outnumbered. Outgunned. We’ll lose. We can’t stand—”
“We know the odds,” Corrine said in a firm voice. “If it comes to it, we’re going to fight. Whatever you need us to do to prepare further, we’ll do it. All of us. Together.”
Hannah grinned for real this time. A flash of beauty, of hope. “Now do you believe it?”
Liam couldn’t answer around the sudden lump in his throat.
18
Liam
Day One Hundred and Seven
M4 in hand, Liam stood at the window of the historic courthouse and studied Main Street through his night vision goggles, or NVGs.
Everything shimmered in ghostly shades of green. He checked the store fronts, alleys between the buildings, the windows and rooftops, alert for the glimmer of a scope or subtle movement of shadows that didn’t belong.
The night was dark and still. It was 2200 hours, and nothing moved. At least, nothing human.
A couple of raccoons scuttled down the sidewalk in search of trash to raid. To the east, a stray dog slunk around the corner of an apartment building, eyes glowing.
Everything was quiet and appeared normal—the new normal.
The security elements had reported in ten minutes ago. So had the forward observers who were within range.
All quiet on the western front.
The calm before the storm.
“The deadline passed yesterday afternoon,” Annette said from behind him. “Nothing’s happened. Not a peep.”
The last thirty-six hours had been all-hands-on-deck. Every able-bodied citizen manning the blockades, foxholes, sniper hides, and security patrols, leaving their posts only to eat or take a piss.
They’d expected an attack or aggressive reaction. At a minimum, another tortured farmer sent to deliver a malevolent message.
Instead, there was nothing. No message. No response.
The scouts reported zero troop movements at the Boulevard Inn.
Fall Creek found itself trapped in a terrible limbo, cowering from shadows, awaiting an unknown fate from a faceless enemy.
Liam half-turned toward the room. A single kerosene lantern set on conference table cast orange shadows across the council members’ faces.
His gaze swept each person, checking body language, hand placement, facial expressions. Always alert for a threat, even among friends.
Hannah, Dave, Annette, Reynoso, Mike Duncan, Perez, and Bishop were present. Hayes and Darryl Wiggins were on night patrol duty. Weapons leaned against chairs or sat on the table within reach of their owners.
Shadows like bruises rimmed their eyes, their skin gray with fatigue. The intense stress of the last three days alone had worn everyone’s nerves to a razor’s edge.
“Maybe he’s waiting for something. Back up or intel.” Reynoso gave a helpless shrug. “Who knows?”
Bishop rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. “We need actionable intelligence. It feels like we’re blind. I hate this.”
Liam hated it, too. He loathed the anxious, powerless feeling permeating the room, seeping into his pores. He was a man of action, not inertia.
“What will the General do next?” Hannah asked. “How might he choose to attack?”
He shifted his grip on the carbine and scratched at his scalp. He needed a shower. Showers were a once-a-week treat if they were lucky, with washcloth wipe-downs the intermediary method.
He needed sleep, too. He’d survived on about three hours of sleep for the last couple of days.
“We know they have a Black Hawk. And a .50 caliber machine gun will rip through a regular building like paper. Some National Guard regiments are trained in mortars as well.”
“You think the military will use a weapon like that on civilians?” Dave asked, incredulous.
“If they believe we’re domestic terrorists and pose a real and present threat to this country, then yes,” Liam said. “Their intel is erroneous, intentionally manipulated for one man’s gain, but they don’t know that. They’re trained to follow orders.”
Annette blanched. “How do we defend against that?”
“You don’t,” Liam said. “You run. Or you hide. But you better have a damned good hiding spot.”
Annette looked pensive for a moment, then her face brightened. “I might have an idea.”
“Spit it out,” Perez said. “We’re in sore need of ideas.”
“The high school and middle school were built in the early sixties during the Cold War. They both have large fallout shelters in the basement. We’ve been using them for desk storage and janitorial supplies for decades, but we could get a team to clear them out. Would that work?”
Liam mulled it over. “The walls are thick. It would make a defensible fallback position. We would need to sandbag everything, block windows with metal plating, place sandbags on the roof for firing positions.”
“And there’s the historic jail downstairs,” Hannah added. “That concrete is six inches thick at least—and underground. It’s not a huge space—maybe a hundred feet by seventy-five feet? But we can cram a couple hundred people in there. We’ll have to use buckets for toilets. It won’t be pretty, but if it keeps people alive…”
“We need a town-wide alarm system,” Reynoso said. “A signal for folks to retreat if hostiles breach the perimeter.”
Bishop ran a hand through his afro. “Crossway Church’s bell still works. It’s a pain to get up to the steeple, but once it’s ringing, you can hear it throughout town.”
“Good,” Dave said. “That should work.”
Hannah had her notebook out and was scribbling intently, eyes bright. “We’ll designate families for each space and coordinate team leaders, just like we’re doing with the farms. Once that bell rings, people need to move immediately.”
“So, what do we do next?” Annette asked.