But he’d also been smart about it. He’d never risked his own safety in pursuit of his passion. In that way, he was reserved.
He’d also recognize, soon enough, that the world wouldn’t remain ungoverned. To his dismay, the militia started to take over almost immediately. In the weeks following the EMP, the militia had grown more powerful, stricter, and more regimented.
The only thing to do was to join. Marshal had worked his way up. His intelligence was his primary asset, not to mention the reputation he’d gained in prison as someone you didn’t want to mess with if you wanted to stay alive.
Marshal was a realist. He knew he couldn’t exist the way he wanted to outside the militia. He also knew that the militia was too strictly controlled to let him run wild the way he wanted to.
So he’d resolved to play the game again. To the militia, he’d present himself as a rule-following man dedicated to the growth and power of the militia. Meanwhile, privately, he’d do everything he could to cause chaos and pain. He’d use his rising reputation within the militia to seek out opportunities in which he could pursue his passion.
And he’d keep no journal. There’d be no way to discover his true intentions, the interior of his dark mind. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. He’d learned it for good.
Marshal had enjoyed seeing his companions get gunned down on the dirt bikes. It’d been something, but not quite enough. Marshal had been finding that the more pain he could inflict or witness, the more he craved it. It was like a drug, and he felt like he’d merely just whet his appetite.
There was gunfire in the distance. Presumably Anton was fighting for his life. Or the other way around.
Marshal didn’t particularly care which way the fight turned out. He didn’t care which side won, so long as he could move in afterwards like a specter and kill those who remained.
Whatever happened, Marshal would be there at the end. He’d hide in the shadows until the gunfire ceased. Then, when the survivors, whoever they were, thought everything was fine, and that they were safe, Marshal would move in and enjoy himself.
Marshal had never cared about the radios. Or about forming an alliance with the compound. It had all just been a ruse. He’d have his fun here, and then slowly make his way back to the suburbs of Philadelphia, where he’d deliver a completely false but completely believable report about the state of things in the western part of the state. Despite what he’d told Anton, he knew damn well how to get back. His ignorance had, like everything else, just been an act.
Marshal scanned the trees from his hiding place. Clouds were drifting in front of the moon, blocking its light.
Soon it would be time.
For now, he’d wait.
22
Max had gotten beyond the bursts of gunfire. He didn’t know how he’d survived, but he didn’t stop to ponder his good luck. Not even for a moment.
He’d gotten to safety. The night was darker now. Clouds covered the moon. Max was lost in the dark shadows where the trees were dense. All he had to do now was sneak around from the side, attack the enemies from a direction they weren’t expecting.
But he had to move fast.
The gunfire continued. Max heard the clear sound of a hunting rifle discharging. Hopefully James had stayed in place, but it sounded like he was firing back when he could. Max knew that meant that James was taking a huge risk, sticking himself into visibility in order to fire back.
He had guts, that kid. Max hoped it didn’t get him killed.
It would help Max. It would serve as a distraction.
Max just didn’t know how long James could keep it up.
Two rifle sounds now. Definitely hunting rifles. Mandy had joined in.
Max was already on the move, and he picked up his pace. His boots crunched through the snow.
Blood trickled down from his forehead all the way to his mouth. He tasted it, and spit it into the snow. He’d knocked his forehead pretty hard. But it wasn’t enough to deter him. Not a lot was.
The fall had hurt his ribs. He doubted he’d broken one.
Max clutched his Glock in his right hand. As he moved, his cold hand fumbled inside his jacket for a spare magazine.
He was expecting to feel the magazine against his hand. But instead, there was nothing.
At first, he thought his hand had just gone numb with cold. Or from injury, when he’d fallen on it. After all, there were some small cuts on hands that he’d ignored. It was possible that he’d sliced through some nerves and not realize it.
But, no, Max switched hands, handing the Glock over to himself, and there was still nothing. He opened up his jacket, unzipping it completely.
Max found the problem. There was no longer a bottom to the jacket’s internal pocket. Instead there was just frayed fabric. Maybe it had torn during his fall. Or maybe it’d happened earlier. Whenever it had happened, the spare magazines had fallen right out of his jacket.
Max looked back in the direction he’d come.
No sign of the spare magazines.
If Max couldn’t see them from where he was, the magazines were either where he’d fallen, right in range of the enemy, or somewhere else entirely. It would take too long to find them. And be too dangerous.
Max had to continue.
Max remove the magazine from his Glock and checked it. Four rounds left.
Well, thought Max, that’d have to be enough.
Ignoring the pain in his legs, his forehead, and his ribs, Max ran forward as fast he could into the night.
He didn’t bother trying to be quiet. Not yet. Max ran through the woods in a large semi-circle. He calculated the path roughly in his head, visualizing the scene from a bird’s eye view. He had to manage risk and time. He had to get there fast. But if they spotted him in the process, the whole plan would be ruined.
If he was spotted, he’d be shot. But it wasn’t his life he was worried about. It was Mandy and James’s. Not to mention Georgia, his brother, and the others. Max didn’t know what was happening over there on the other side. But he knew that if he didn’t do what he had to do, the likelihood of the others surviving was slimmer.
Max pushed back his jacket sleeve to see his watch. The luminescent hands were just barely visible in the clouded moonlight. Russian watches had never been known for their lume.
It’d been ten minutes so far. Max was almost there. He could see the figures up ahead. He heard the gunfire still. But he hadn’t heard the hunting rifle. At least, he didn’t think so. It was hard to distinguish, after all, individual firearms through the cacophony of sound that ripped sporadically through the night.
He hoped Mandy and James were still alive. He hoped they weren’t lying behind their trees, bleeding out into the snow.
But whether or not they were didn’t change what he was going to do next.
Max was approaching from behind. He slowed his pace. He eased his boots onto the snow, trying to eliminate the crunching noise they made.
Max’s finger was on the trigger.
Three figures were in front of him. They were completely focused on Mandy and James. They didn’t turn around once. They didn’t even glance from side to side.
They were sloppy. That was their business. It was Max’s job to take advantage of whatever opportunity they left him.
Max took a deep breath. There was so much at stake. He couldn’t let his emotions run away from him. He needed to keep a calm, cool head and do what he needed to do. He needed to act swiftly.
By approaching the enemy from behind, Max knew he’d be putting himself directly in the path of Mandy and James’s rifles. It was a risk that he needed to take. Hopefully Mandy and James, despite the desperate situation, wouldn’t shoot too hastily. Hopefully they wouldn’t shoot Max.