Sunrise

All of us jumped to our feet, sprinting toward the fire. The two guards lurched up, spi

He said, “What the—?”

“Any more guards here?” I asked, gesturing with my rifle.

“Who in the seven hells of Sheba are you?”

“I’m holding the gun, so I’ll ask the questions. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, I ordered Ed, “Search them.”

Ed slung his rifle across his back and frisked both of them, coming up with a bowie knife and a machete. They both had shotguns too, which Ed promptly confiscated. He passed the machete and one of the shotguns to other members of our squad.

“Are there more guards here?” I repeated.

“Cliff’s in charge. Ask him.”

I aimed my rifle at the other guy—Cliff. “Talk.”

“Cain’t. Doctore wouldn’t like it if ah did.”

“Doctor? What doctor?” I asked.

“Cain’t tell you.”

Ed turned back to Cliff, bowie knife clenched in his fist at about chest level. The blade shone orange in the firelight. He wrapped a hank of Cliff’s long, greasy hair around his left hand, forcing his head back.

“Ed. What’re you doing?” I asked.

Ed slipped the edge of his knife along Cliff’s throat.

“This guy’s in charge. Kill him, and the other one’ll talk.” The other guy backed away, ru

We didn’t have time to waste. One of the other squads could run into trouble sweeping the walls. I stared at Cliff. He was sweating despite the cold. Could I do it? Order Ed to kill this man while I watched just to get the other guy to talk? If we didn’t gain control of Stockton through surprise—before any gunfire broke out—some of us would die. Maybe all of us. Was that worth taking Cliff’s life? I thought of my dad, how vicious he’d been with captured slavers in the Maquoketa FEMA camp. I understood him better now.

Would Ed even do it? I lifted my gaze to Ed’s face. The flat look in his eyes told me yes, he would. He shrugged as if to say get on with it.

I nodded. “Do it,” I said. “Cut his throat.”

Ed’s grip tightened on the knife handle.

“W-wait,” Cliff stammered. Ed checked his cut. A thin line of blood, dark and viscous, appeared along Cliff’s neck. Two black ru

“J-just hold on, hold on,” Cliff said. “There’s no other guards nearby. Just us.”

“What’re you guarding?”

“Warehouse.”

I scowled at him. “Duh, what’s in it?”

“All our supplies. Spare guns, ammo, gas.”

“How many guards are on duty in town right now?” Cliff hesitated. I took a step toward him.

“Six, just six. Us, two on the west gate, two on the east gate.”

“No patrols?”

“Not tonight. Everybody’s up in Warren.”

“You’re bullshitting me,” I said flatly, glancing at Ed, who still held the knife close to Cliff’s throat.

“N-no. Everyone’s in Warren, I swear. Doctore cleaned us out, sent everyone with the primus to fight in Warren.” “But they left you behind.”

“Doctore wanted a few men held back. Just the most trustworthy. To guard the town.”

“Who’s this doctor guy?”

“Red. He runs things here now. Calls himself a doctore, trainer of gladiators. Calls us a familia. Thinks he’s some kind of reborn Roman, even studies Latin. Whatever—I just do what I’m told.”

“So why’re you in front of this warehouse?”

“Little food’s left. It’s in there too. Been broken into twice. Gotta guard it.”

“From your own people,” I said. Cliff nodded. They must be starving to try to steal from their town’s own food stores. The thought made me a little sick. “Six on duty tonight, how many in the daytime shifts?”

“J-just twelve more. They’re in the sack right now.” “Who’s in charge?”

“Doctore s here. He sent Primus Alton to Warren.” “Where?”

“He’s got a house up by City Hall.”

“And where’re the guards sleeping?”

“Y-you’re just going to kill me, ain’t you? After I tell you everything?”

“Ed’s going to kill you right now if you don’t tell me everything.”

Cliff’s Adam’s apple bobbed, triggering a new trickle of blood down his neck. “Barracks are near City Hall too. In the Stockton Bowling Lanes.”

“Ed,” I said, “detail two men to guard this warehouse and hold him.” I gestured at the second guard. “Cliff is going to take the rest of us to visit this doctore of his.”

I got the rope out of my backpack, cut a hank, and bound Cliff’s hands behind his back.

“You’re going to lead us directly to Doctore s house. And you’ll be quiet about it. Or Ed will finish the cut he started in your neck.”

Cliff led us down the street until we reached an old, two-story brick building labeled City Hall and Police Department. A few businesses were scattered on the other side of the street, including a bowling alley with its front window covered in black paper.

“That the barracks?” I asked Cliff in a whisper.

“Yes,” he replied.

As we crept past the bowling alley, the stillness of the night was shattered by gunfire.

Chapter 9

The gunfire was coming from somewhere to the west, near the car wall. “Shit,” I muttered. “Run! To Doctore s house!” I prodded Cliff with my gun, and we all broke into a sprint.

I glanced over my shoulder. Cracks of light shone around the edges of the bowling alley-cum-barracks’ windows. A new fusillade of noise broke out somewhere northeast of us—there were two separate firefights going on. Everyone in Stockton must have been awakened.

Just past the tiny downtown area, the character of the street changed; it was lined with Victorian mansions set so close to the street that they loomed out of the darkness, turrets and gables hanging threateningly over our heads. As we ran, lights appeared in several of the windows. “Which house is it?” I yelled at Cliff, prodding him again with the barrel of my gun.

“First one,” Cliff gasped, pointing at a particularly ornate house.

I glanced over my shoulder again. A man with an oil lamp and rifle was emerging from the side door to the bowling alley I cursed myself silently—I should have set up an ambush at the door of the barracks. That’s what Ben would have told me to do. But by then it was too late.

I swerved into the side street between the last commercial building and Doctore s house. A light was moving around on the second floor. Cliff lagged behind, and I let him, racing ahead. Ed was alongside me, the three remaining members of my squad trailing behind.

I ran to the back of the house and flung open the storm door. There was a small window set into the top of the back door. Inside it was dark. I raised my foot, launching a front kick at the lock. All my desperation and fear flowed into that kick. The lock was solid, but the jamb wasn’t. It splintered with an obscenely loud crack, and the door banged open.

In the dark, we raced through the main floor of the house, crashing blindly into unseen furniture, looking for a staircase. Finally I spotted a dim ray of light. I ran toward it, my empty gun held at shoulder level in front of me, commando style—at least I thought it was from what I’d seen in video games.

I pulled up at the base of a grand Victorian staircase. Polished wood and elaborately turned balusters gleamed in the light of an oil lamp. The lamp sat on the floor next to a whip-thin guy, so short that even I could have looked down on him if he hadn’t been at the top of the staircase. His brown hair was chopped into a cruel buzz cut, his upper lip adorned with a wispy Hitler mustache. He had a large straight knife, almost a sword, in his right hand and a short blade with a wicked serrated spine in his left. He played with the shorter blade, rolling it across the back of his hand over and over, as if it were a habit ingrained through hundreds of hours of practice. Other than the motion of that hand and blade, he was preternaturally still.