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The paramedic leaned over and pressed an injector against his neck. In a moment he was out cold.
«What was that?» Shari snarled, struggling to her feet.
«Shh, just Hiberzine. He'll sleep quiet. Unfortunately, when he wakes up to him it'll be just a moment from now. So before anyone gives him the antidote, make sure they know he's not tracking very well. We've put quite a few out.» The lost wives had faded back into the darkness and another paramedic brought over blankets and soup.
«I put you in the drawing,» he said. «The engineers are about to start loading.»
«I wonder how they're doing at the interstate?» said the female paramedic.
* * *
The chassis of a gas truck, caught on the overpass as the Posleen pounded into view, was silhouetted by the fires of thousands of gallons of kerosene, diesel and gasoline. A fire truck kept up a steady stream of mixed flammables as its counterpart stood at a comfortable distance across Plank Road awaiting its turn to fire. The giant flamethrower had demonstrated truly awesome range from time to time as the Posleen tried to bypass the incendiary barrier. The gushing fuel spouted out at tremendous force and ignited only as it touched the other burning fuel. Occasionally openings would occur. When the Posleen tried to charge through, the fire fighters would get them good and soaked then drift a line of fuel to the nearest patch of flame. The explosion of fire would immolate the group and the massacre would continue. Behind the two fire trucks was a line of fuel trucks, well dispersed, and a spare pair of pumper cars having their seals replaced.
«Damn if this isn't working, Chief,» said Colonel Robertson with an amazed smile. The stupid aliens were hell-bent on forcing the passage and getting turned into Posleen Toasties in the process.
«Yes, sir, Colonel. Those holes your boys put in help too.» She gestured to the large craters blown into the median, requiring the Posleen to go out of their way by nearly a kilometer on either side. Explosions and shots in both directions showed where skirmishing was occurring on the flanks. The Posleen had not yet pressed in either direction nor did they appear to be interested in pursuing it. When they did the defense would have to fall back.
«It's amazing. They don't seem to have consolidated, yet,» the colonel informed her. «They're just coming in piecemeal and we're blowing them away all over the place. We blew the Jeff Davis bridge, but they're pressing up from the south on the Jeff Davis and Tidewater Trail. We're going to be untenable here before the juice runs out.»
«Okay, well, we'll pull back when you call it,» said the fire chief, wiping at a bit of soot on her cheek. The smell of burning Posleen was like nothing else on earth. The closest she could come was burning rubber and that was about as close as alligator to chicken. The smoke was almost enough to call for breath-packs and who knew what toxins it might contain.
«It won't be soon,» he commented with a grim smile as another group tried to charge the fire. The fire fighters had almost made a game of it, opening pockets to allow the enemy to charge forward then cutting off their retreat before filling the hole and incinerating them. Even the God Kings seemed unable to find the source of the fuel as the flames climbed high into the night.
«You probably ought to turn this one over to your second,» Colonel Robertson noted. «I'd like you to take a safety look at the fuel-air explosive. It would be a bitch if it prematurely detonated, but we have to fill the building in advance.»
«You got it, Colonel. Where are you going to be?»
«Oh, I have an appointment at the armory. Something about preparing a reception.»
The old fire fighter smiled. «Well, lay in the punch and I suppose they will come.»
«Right down William Street.»
«Yup. Welcome to Historic Fredericksburg.»
* * *
«I think they'll spread out a little from William Street,» said Little Tommy, turning away up Princess A
They walked along Princess A
«I was wondering . . .» he said diffidently. «Do you want to take a chance on the bunker? Now that they're going to do that?»
«I'm over sixteen,» Wendy pointed out, «and not a mother.» The last was somewhat sharp, almost bitter.
«Ahem. Well, there might be more room; they might take, you know, others. Shit, I wish I had a hole to hide in.»
«You wouldn't hide if they gave you the chance, would you?»
Tommy thought about it. «No; no, I probably wouldn't. Not until I . . . did some good. And by then it would be too late.»
«What is it with all of this?» she asked, gesturing at the body armor and bags. «I mean, I know kids that are in Junior Militia who are less well prepared.»
«Yeah, well, my dad's one real regret in life is that he took a scholarship to Clemson to play football instead of West Point to play army. Then he went pro and that ended any chance of going in the military. Instead, he became an armchair soldier. You know, CNN junky, shooting pistols instead of playing golf, playing paintball all weekend. The whole Posleen thing was the greatest thing that ever happened to him; he was finally going to get to be a soldier. He even tried to enlist, but he was outside the range since he wasn't prior service. And then there's the knees . . .
«Anyway, he decided early on, way before we Knew, that I was going to be the next Ha
«Who?» asked Wendy, coughing as a particularly strong swirl of smoke from the interstate wafted down the street.
« . . . the next Robert E. Lee,» Tommy translated.
«Oh.»
«I've been training to be a soldier since most kids were learning to play T-ball. My dad made a big thing about giving me my first pistol when I was eight. I'd asked for a new computer.»
«Yeah,» said Wendy, in a questioning tone. «I thought you were a computer geek, not a gun geek.»
«Gun geek, that's rich,» he said bitterly. «I am a computer geek, actually a computer super-geek. I'm nationally ranked number eleven at Death Valley and the smart money was on me going into the top five next week. I've been coding practically since I could write. I live for computers. Knowing that, Dad requires that I give equal time to this kind of training. I have to put in exactly as much time on the range or in the field as I do on a computer.
«I was the youngest member of the Junior Militia and basically quit after two years because I was so far ahead of the rest of those slow-assed bozos. I can run well enough to go out for track, but it was track or computer time. And, hell, football? Lifting weights is considered 'military training' so I can press well over my body weight and Dad wanted me to try out for the squad. It was the one time I basically told him to stuff it. If I was a jock it would cut into either range time or computer time and I knew which one my dad would choose.»
He shrugged philosophically. «So, here I am, the most dangerous kid in school, and an outcast computer geek. Go figure.»
«Well,» said Wendy carefully as they stopped by Goolrick's drugstore on the corner of George Street, «I guess you've come to your moment.»
«My dad's moment, you mean. He's out there, somewhere, holed up, waiting for the Posleen to come into view and just living for it. Mom and Sally will go into the hole and I'll 'give 'em as good as I get,' « he quoted in a false baritone.
«Fucking bastard,» he spat, bitterly. «The bitch of it is, I'm sitting here figuring angles of fire as well as any infantry lieutenant, and as if it's going to do any good.» He shrugged and looked around, still figuring the angles.