“It was Mr. Worth’s only condition and it’s really the best building for our purpose,” answered the captain. “It’s got plenty of volume, it’s close to the pump house but the railroad embankment will create a blast shadow and I have to agree, not that it matters, that it is one of the ugliest buildings I have ever seen.” He turned back to the assembled troops and raised his voice to carry over the sound of approaching semitrailers.
“Men, we are going to kill two birds with one stone. While some of you prepare a bunker to hide the women and children, others of you are going to prepare a reception for the Posleen they will never forget. We have found an industrial pump house that used to supply water for the old cellophane mill. It is partially buried and has three-foot-thick concrete walls.
“Second platoon, along with these arriving construction guys, is going to finish covering it with as much overburden as we can find, while also preparing the inside. You need to fair over the opening to the pump house proper, you’ll see what I mean when you get in there. The radio station is calling for anyone with welding equipment to come here and construction equipment is being diverted from the Interstate lines to assist.
“Get the pump house covered with overburden and get the opening faired over with sheet and structural steel, whatever you can find. When we get as many women and children in as we can, we’ll blow the tower and seal them in.
“I’ve looked it over and there may be room for all the surviving women and children, praise be to God. Since there may not be time or room, the chief of police is starting a lottery for who goes in and the order. Only children under sixteen and their mothers are going in the bunker.
“The problem is that if we just bury the noncombatants, the Posleen will dig them out like anteaters after termites. We need to create as much disruption as possible and try to make it appear that there is nothing left to find in Fredericksburg, and especially not on this side. To do that, we are going to turn this building,” he pointed with his thumb at the monstrosity over his shoulder, “into a giant fuel-air bomb.
“Trucks are coming from Quarles Gas to pump it full of propane. But first it has to be prepped. I want Third platoon to get in there and blow holes through all the floors, to increase interior circulation. And before you leave make sure every interior door is open. While the building is being prepped, the first sergeant will rig it for demolition. Don’t set any of your charges in his way.
“When you’re done, which should take less than forty-five minutes, you’ll either go to the bunker work, or up to prepare the town defenses.”
He gestured to the arriving lowboys burdened with bulldozers and backhoes. “Second, we’re depending on you and those guys to make an impregnable bunker. Get to work. And Third,” he gestured to the cases of C-4 at the entrance to the building, “go blow some holes. Keep your helmets on, somebody might be blowing above you.”
“Sir,” muttered the first sergeant as the platoon pounded into the building, grabbing demo and caps as they went by, “this is bound to cause casualties.”
“Well, Top, there are times when you have to balance relative risk. I don’t have much idea how much time we have, but I doubt we have much longer.”
“We have to slow them down,” noted the S-3, desperately. “Charlie is just starting on the bunker and the FAE. It’ll take them at least an hour.”
“More,” noted the fire chief, “it’ll take that long just to pump the building full of gas.”
The Posleen had taken their time assembling — for which everyone was thankful. But having reduced the last resistance and most of the buildings around Central Square, the nearest B-Dec force was coming down Highway 3. And there was only a scattering of militia and police to stop the six-thousand-odd rampaging aliens. Other Posleen were moving in from the east and west, but by the time those Posleen reached the city center it would be nearly dawn and the bunker and FAE would be prepared.
It was the Central Square force, rolling down the main highway into town, that would be the primary threat to the plan.
“We need something to distract them, to scare them,” commented the battalion commander, “something like that dragon that the ACS used on Diess.”
“I’ll tell you one thing every Earth animal is afraid of,” said the scarred chief, getting the glimmering of an idea, “and that’s fire.”
“What are you thinking?” asked the commander.
“If we had some flamethrowers…” said the S-3 and his eyes widened at the same time as the chief’s.
“Jerry,” said the S-3, turning to his NCOIC, “call Quarles Gas, and tell them we need some more flammables. Some gas trucks, gasoline that is, or kerosene. Any liquid flammables.”
“Kerosene is the preference. I’ll go get the fire trucks,” said the chief, shaking her head.
“Colonel?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major?” Colonel Robertson was mortally tired. The strains of the day were rapidly taking their toll and he wondered what new catastrophe the sergeant major had to report.
“Well, sir, I was checking on the detail that was issuing from the ammo point, and all the parties are out on site, but there’s still over a ton of demo and ammunition of one sort or another left.”
“Okay, I guess we could blow it in place when the Posleen get here.”
“Yes, sir, we could, but I was thinking, the ammo dump isn’t far from the armory and I’ve got that detail still on site…”
“And you think there might be better places to put the ammo than in the ammo dump.”
“Yes, sir. Face it, the dump is designed to contain an explosion,” said the sergeant major with a feral smile.
“Well, Sergeant Major, why don’t you just take charge of that little detail.” The colonel smiled back. Good subordinates were such a treasure.
“Yes, sir!”
Shari stumbled into the crowd behind the Public Safety Building and carefully lowered Kelly and Susie to the ground. Billy let go of her skirt and sat down, his eyes wide and unseeing. She slumped beside him as the two girls huddled into her lap, Susie quietly whimpering from the broken blisters on her feet and the sights glimpsed over her mother’s shoulder. A woman coming through the crowd stopped and stared, then walked over.
“Are you in the pool?” she asked abruptly.
Shari looked at her with wide unemotional eyes. It took a long moment to register her question. “What?” she croaked.
“Are you in the basket? Did you enter your name to be drawn?”
“Drawn for what?” she gasped again, mouth and throat dry from dehydration and agonizingly extended fear.
Finally the woman grasped that Shari was suffering from more than the general shock of the loathsome afternoon drawn into evening. “Are you going to be all right?”
Shari started to laugh quietly and the laughs began to segue into sobs.
Every step she took, from the parking lot to where the Army and police were digging in along the interstate, she knew would be their last. Time and again she heard the centaurs drawing closer, only to be delayed by some more interesting target. When she was forced to pick up Susie, drawing her already slow progress to a crawl, she was overcome with the utter certainty that her babies were going to die. And from what she had heard behind her it was going to be one of the worst of all possible deaths.
The pain-racked march was a drawn-out nightmare, in which the monsters were always just behind you and you knew that at any moment they would touch you and then you would die. But this was no nightmare; this was a stark reality as the sun set behind her in a blaze of red and she dropped into the shadows of Salem Hill to the accompaniment of dying screams.