“3rd Ranger Battalion, sir.”
“No shit? 101st Airborne. Screaming Eagles.”
“Airborne!” they said, pumping fists in the air.
“Are you seeing this shit?” said Kate, standing several feet away from the leftmost window, staring through binoculars.
“Cops, my ass,” muttered Linda.
“I can’t pick them out of the forest on either screen,” said Samantha, over the handheld, “what are they doing?”
“Reconnaissance. If they were real cops, they’d ring the doorbell and state their business,” responded Kate.
“Maybe they want to make sure it’s safe to approach.”
“They drove up to the gate and pressed the intercom button. I’m pretty sure they would have driven their cruiser right up the driveway. Not exactly the safest approach. Hold on—they’re leaving,” Kate announced. “No way this was legit.”
“I’d probably be cautious too if no one answered,” stated Samantha.
“But why leave once you checked the place out?”
“I guess it doesn’t matter if they’re leaving,” the radio squawked.
“If they’re leaving. Let’s verify their departure. They should hit the sensors on the way out.”
“Got it,” said Samantha.
Kate let the binoculars hang and grabbed the rifle leaned up against the wall next to the windowsill. She sat on the edge of her in-laws’ bed and wiped the sweat from her face. “So, what now?”
“How many sandbags did they get filled before lunch?” asked Linda.
“A little short of two hundred. Moving them into the house slowed down the process. We have enough to make five positions as described in Alex’s diagram, or two of the safe boxes.”
“I’d almost rather have the firing positions than the bunkers. We can give ourselves full coverage. Five positions, five adults. Keep the kids in the basement if all hell breaks loose,” said Linda, still watching the tree line.
“Until the rain stops, and we can fill the bags with something other than mud, I think this is our best plan. If they’re really leaving, we’ll have time. Looks like we’ll be working with the mosquitos tonight.”
PART III
“A Bridge Too Far”
Chapter 12
EVENT +57:14
42 Orkney Rd
Brookline, Massachusetts
The first sound of distant thunder drew Ryan to the open window facing the street. He leaned on the armrests and craned his head, examining the sky. The light gray cloud cover had thickened, replaced by darker clouds, but the real menace clung to the western horizon. A purple-tinged, charcoal gray band hugged the skyline, slowly creeping in their direction.
“How long is the rain supposed to last?” he asked.
Chloe stopped fanning herself long enough to answer. “Most of the afternoon, but that was the forecast Sunday night, from what I can remember.”
“Take a look at this,” he said, stepping back from the chair.
She didn’t look thrilled to get up, and he didn’t blame her. Without air-conditioning or any semblance of a breeze, the apartment sweltered from the unabated heat wave suffocating New England. Daytime temperatures had remained steady in the mid-nineties since his arrival at Boston University on Saturday. High humidity compounded the misery, especially once the power died.
The window air conditioners in Chloe’s apartment had barely kept up with the demand, but it beat the hell out of his dormitory. He had somehow missed the part about no air-conditioning in Warren Towers and spent most of Saturday night awake, sweating through his mattress. He’d nearly cried walking back to the Chestnut Hill Avenue station Sunday night after respectfully declining Chloe’s offer to let him sleep on the couch. At least the subway had air-conditioning. He’d contemplated taking the “B” train to Lechmere station and back.
She wiped her face with a damp towel and joined him at the window, giving the sky a quick look. “It’s gonna pour. If it lasts long enough, it might drop the temperature.”
“Do you think we should wake my dad?” he asked, nodding at the couch.
“Why?”
“I think we should take off during the storm,” said Ryan.
Chloe wiped her face and stared down at Alex.
“Good luck waking him. I’ll start filling our water bottles.”
Ryan examined the filthy, disheveled man sprawled on the oversized couch and shook his head. He’d seen less realistic-looking zombies in The Walking Dead. Covered head to toe in a crusty, foul-smelling layer of muck, Alex Fletcher hadn’t stirred since falling asleep in mid-sentence. While arranging him on the couch, they discovered numerous congealed cuts and scrapes on his face and hands. A tightly wrapped, rust-color-stained bandage peeked out of his left sleeve and completed the picture. He’d gone through hell to arrive at their doorstep. Ryan almost felt bad waking him.
“Dad. Dad!” he said, nudging his exposed shoulder.
Alex mumbled and turned away from the sound. Thunder boomed closer as Ryan tried to rouse his father from a near catatonic state.
“Try this,” said Chloe, appearing behind the couch with a half glass of water.
He reluctantly took the plastic cup and held it over his dad’s face. A loud clap of thunder reinforced the urgency of their situation, and he dumped the water. Alex came to life, flailing his arms and knocking Ryan to the floor. A thunderous boom shook the windows.
“What happened?” yelled Alex, sitting up and grabbing for the rifle Chloe had hung on one of the kitchen table chairs.
“Dad, everything’s fine. I just dumped some water on your face. We’re fine,” said Ryan.
The room darkened, filled by another round of approaching thunder. His dad glanced around, still confused.
“There’s a big storm coming, Dad. We could take advantage of the heavy rain to reach the bridge. At least get us into place for tonight,” said Ryan.
“What time—how long was I out?”
“It’s 2:15.”
“You should have woken me earlier. I needed to check in with—never mind,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.
“Everything’s been fine. You needed the rest.”
“I know, but I can barely move right now,” Alex said, straining to lift his right arm.
“What happened to your arm?” Ryan asked. “And your wrist?”
“I’m fine. Nothing a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen can’t fix. Grab the medical kit out of my rucksack. It’s near the top. How big is the storm?”
A powerful round of thunder answered his question before Chloe could respond.
“The news Sunday night showed a massive system moving across the Midwest, but you know how these things can go.”
“Yeah. This could last fifteen minutes, leaving us high and dry—”
“Or it can last all afternoon,” said Ryan. “We should be able to move faster in a heavy rain, right? Two miles? We could be there in thirty minutes if we bust our asses.”
“It’s tempting. Have you seen any militia activity on the street?”
“Nothing. It’s been quiet.”
“That’s not always a good thing. How long until the two of you are ready to move?”
“We’re waiting on you,” said Ryan.
“Chloe, the smartass gene runs in our family, on the mother’s side. Let’s be ready to walk out of the front door as soon as the heavy rain hits,” he said, extending a hand.
Ryan took his father’s filthy hand and helped him off the couch. Alex grinned at him for a few moments.