“Go-go-go!” Ralf bellowed to the three men and one woman on the wall with him. “Head into town and we’ll make a stand there.”
Frank could see the sheriff and his people climbing down the wall, as if they were already surrendering. He looked past the gate and down the street and found the reason for their panic.
“It’s a damned Sherman tank.”
“Th-that’s not all, look at the northern gate now.” Jeff stared, mesmerized, not really hearing what Frank said.
“What is this, the World War II museum of old weapons? That’s a Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun… I sure hope that antique doesn’t work, or we’re in a world of trouble,” Frank grumbled.
A horse-drawn carriage turned around, its driver coaxing the draft horse back, so that the machine gun was pointed at the wall. An operator sat behind the Browning, ready to rain terror on their town.
Frank decided the operator would be the first person he took out. He chambered a round in his 7mm hunting rifle, placed the cross hairs on the man’s chest, and waited. He had agreed to the sheriff’s orders earlier to not fire first. Yet, he feared by the time he could fire, the conflict would be over.
Carrington called his device Zeus, not because of any godly aspirations, but because the Zeus of mythology was known for brandishing lightning bolts and, if his calculations were correct, so would his device. He examined the floor-to-ceiling containers housing the same metal plates Melanie was using on the streets, sandwiched between sheets of glass for insulators and encased in these massive housings. Six separate units made up Zeus’ bank of capacitors. Large cables ran from each capacitor through a rough three-foot hole bored into the bricks in the western wall across to the railroad tracks, which supplied them with a so-far unlimited supply of electrical energy, as long as the CMEs continued. There were six more just like them at the corner of Grand and 3rd, forming the power storage for the Executioner project Melanie had been leading. He ascended the stairs, following the tangle of massive cables—the diameter of each roughly the size of his fist—leading up to the roof. Stepping up onto the flat rooftop, he continued along the path of cables, making sure there were no kinks that would cause interruptions of the electrical current.
“Hello Doc,” said Fred Fisher, who’d been a physics professor at the university before the event and was now the lead on the Zeus project.
“Fred”—Carrington wasted no time—“you know what’s going on?”
“Sure, just look over the wall. There must be a couple dozen of them on the other side. I assume you want to get this baby humming?”
“Correct. You finish what I asked?” Carrington examined their weapon. It looked sort of like a giant cannon from a 1950s sci-fi B-movie. It was just over five feet long, with a giant parabolic metal dish midway, focusing the energy to its point. The cannon was fixed on a large swiveling base and a vertical swivel that someone from town constructed for them. It was like an oversized paparazzi’s tripod, allowing the user to move it up-and-down or side-to-side with ease toward its intended target.
The theory was quite simple. Why not use the induced current that is everywhere, but especially around the train tracks? Store the current in a large enough capacitor and then flip a switch to discharge it, directing it through and out the cannon, hopefully focused enough that it would fly toward its intended target. Knowing that the electrical current, like lightning, would try to find a natural ground, they had the community set up the metal plates along the street. When enough enemies were on the metal track, they would flip the switch and aim this toward them. The Executioner was similar, only its capacitor bank was directly connected to the plates, between them and the single rail spur.
These devices had been intended as the last line of defense, if their opponent broke through their defenses and because they simply didn’t have enough ammo to sustain a prolonged firefight.
“Yep, I’ve been working on this all night. I think it’s ready.” Fred puffed up with pride.
“All right, let’s go through our checklist and ready the weapon then.”
33.
Defenses
Wilber remained quiet, behind the rock wall, listening to the sounds of the invaders. Occasionally he would catch the small crack of a twig, evidence of boots walking their way, or the hushed murmur of two people discussing attack plans below. However, it still wasn’t time; since they were at the top of the hill, the sounds seemed to resonate and amplify on the way to their ears, as if this valley were in a giant parabolic dish. Thankfully the reverse didn’t seem to be true. The invaders apparently couldn’t hear his people’s voices or observe their movements very well. He twisted around and signaled his son up in the windmill on the ridge.
“D O Y O U S E E A N Y T H I N G?” Wilber transmitted Morse code by deflecting the sun’s rays off a little mirror in Buck’s direction. All the years of prepping with his son paid off, in spite of the boy’s constant resistance.
“N O,” then a pause, “M U C H L O N G E R?” Then, “S C A R E D.”
“B E O V E R S O O N”… “L O V E Y O U S O N.” He didn’t want to push it because he didn’t want to bring any more attention to him. Wilber made hand signals to his people: first to O, who was close enough that he could see her hand trembling as she signaled to their new friend, Steve, behind a large tree that had supported generations of tire swings and tree houses, and now would assist with bloodshed and death. Steve acknowledged, but seemed to be unfocused, like he was somewhere else. Probably just nervous. Wilber nodded to himself as Steve spun and immediately signaled to his father on top of the pig shelter. Then Wilber turned the other way and signaled Doc Reynolds. Doc’s was a face of strength, revealing a certainty of purpose, knowing their cause was a just one. Further down the wall was Emma Simpson, a woman of peace, who would be welcoming death soon enough. Her shiny dome, void of all hair from the cancer, was covered in a camo-green bandana Wilber had given her. She thought it made her look tougher than the wispy pink scarves she usually wore to cover her baldness. Her green head nodded, and then she signaled her husband who was out of view from them.
Wilber wasn’t a religious man, but as the saying goes, there are no atheists in foxholes. He bowed his head and said a little prayer to keep his new friends and family safe. Then, he waited and watched for what he knew was coming any moment now.
Steve was beside himself with indecision. There was no way that could have been Darla. He was surely seeing what he wanted to see. He had been longing for her, especially the last few evenings, certain that he would never see her again. After seeing Wilber’s signal, and then forwarding it to his father, he closed his eyes and focused on exactly what he saw: the woman’s pony tail—that could be like any woman’s; then her smile—that was just his wanting this woman’s smile to be Darla’s; her eyes…
His own flicked open. I’ll be damned, I think it’s really her. He sprang out from behind his cover and started running down the hill. He had to get to her before he lost her again.
John Parkington was watching intently for any bad guys, although he suspected that some of the “bad guys” were also going to be girls, and some (maybe most) would probably not be that bad. He was pretty sure they were just as freaked as his group was. We are on the moral high ground here. If they had come and asked for a day’s food, he was pretty sure this man who had nursed him back from death would have offered help. Instead, the interlopers were poised to take their lives, over food!