Horton brought his attention down to the map, studying it for a few more seconds before folding it up and jamming it into his front pocket.
“Orders, sir?” Sketch asked, the index finger on his left hand resting on the trigger guard.
Horton didn’t respond, his mind working through the facts.
His eyes swung up, peering through the opening in the ceiling, wishing the full moon was overhead for better light. Flashlights were out of the question. They’d give away their exact position. Active flashlights in tight quarters are how good men become dead men.
When his focus returned to Sketch, he pointed at the towering machine ahead and whispered, “Cover me. Going to higher ground.”
“You got it, boss.”
Horton kept low as he advanced to the apparatus, then slung his rifle over his shoulder.
One side of the machine fed horizontally into the conveyor system, allowing him to use the platform as a middle step. He worked his body up and grabbed the top ledge of the apparatus. The unit’s cover was made of metal and didn’t feel hollow, possibly sturdy enough for his weight.
He pulled himself up and swung his legs beyond the top edge, then brought his torso and head over. The surface bowed a bit at the middle, but held as he scooted forward.
A second later, his rifle was off his shoulder and nestled into a firing position. He flipped the lens cover up on his 3x42mm IR scope, then turned the unit on. Hopefully, the battery wouldn’t run out of juice today like the last time he’d used their one and only night vision scope.
Doc had said earlier that it was fully charged, but one never really knew with that man. Sometimes Doc flat-out lied to avoid work he didn’t deem critical or couldn’t repair.
Horton brought his dominant eye to the enhanced multi-coated optics and peered inside. He could see the illuminated red duplex reticle, meaning both the battery and the device were functioning. He adjusted the incremental brightness setting for max exposure, adapting to the ambient light in the building. Once set, he began a scan, working left to right, looking for heat signatures.
His search came up empty. If the target was still in the building, she wasn’t in his line of sight. He scanned for another minute, then hopped down and returned to Team Three.
“Let’s move,” he told Sketch and Dice, waving an advance signal at the others across the way. Team Two advanced in lock-step with Horton and Team Three, keeping their rifles pointed in the same direction as their eyes.
A line of industrial grade ovens with exhaust hoods above them was next, then a rolling tub of safety clothes—gloves mostly, plus a few protective masks.
Horton used his hip to nudge the container back, pushing it toward the wall to make more room for his team to pass. It was heavier than he expected, bringing a sudden thought into his mind.
He paused with his eyes locked on the tub, then put a closed fist up to stop his team’s advance. A quick head nod in the direction of the container told his team what he wanted them to do.
Dice stepped forward, while Sketch provided cover. Dice brought his rifle up and stuck its barrel into the gloves, stirring the contents like soup, working from left to right. When Dice was done, he looked at Horton and shook his head, then removed his rifle from the container.
Horton rallied the squad with the signal to proceed ahead, back on their original course. That’s when he spotted a door ahead. It was just beyond a stand of shelving units holding random hunks of cardboard and what looked like confetti paper.
By his calculations, the door was the most likely exit. If he was correct, it would explain why his night vision scan turned up zilch. The girl must have left the building. The question was, how big a head start did she have?
A sudden vision of Frost’s Ka-Bar knife entering his gut flashed in his mind. There wasn’t any pain, but plenty of blood. He held silent, vanquishing the scene from his mind, then pointed at the members of Team Two to take the lead.
They responded with a head nod before marching forward, taking a measured route with knees bent and eyes locked.
Teams One and Four closed ranks behind him, setting up interlocking fields of fire just as they’d been trained by Fletcher.
Horton was pleased to see his unit working with such precision. He figured the news of Slayer’s demise had reinvigorated everyone to perform at optimum levels, exactly the way the former military man, Fletcher, had trained them.
Before the Scabs showed up, training was mostly what they’d done, other than lock down the border around Frost’s camp and provide security for their monthly meets at the Trading Post. Well, that and party like fools once Doc built the old-fashioned wood-fired still.
As Teams Two and Three approached the door, three 50-gallon drums greeted them. They were positioned along the wall in a series—each of them blue, with a lid sitting on top. Horton caught the attention of Dice and Sketch with only his eyes, then directed them to check the contents.
The first to react was Sketch. He stepped forward to the first drum and put his hand on the edge of the plastic lid.
Once Dice was in position on his left with his rifle held high, Dice pried the cover loose and leaned forward with his eyes behind the sights and peered inside. He didn’t fire. “Clear.”
Sketch moved to the next container and removed its lid. This time the plastic drum rocked an inch or so, signaling it was most likely empty. A second later, Dice had checked its interior and cleared it as well.
Horton waited as the pair moved to drum number three and repeated the same process. This time, though, Sketch pried the lid loose and Dice scanned inside. Dice looked at Horton and shook his head.
“She’s outside. Let’s move,” Horton said as Teams One and Four joined them from the rear, crowding in tight with gear and weapons.
Once again, the girl was a few steps ahead of him. A girl who was apparently better at this than Horton was—at least so far.
When Summer heard the door close and the handle rachet itself into place, she waited a while longer, listening for the sound of boots, equipment, or frustrated men.
All was quiet, so she unwrapped her feet from the overhead water pipe, being careful not to catch her clothes on the spray heads attached underneath the cavernous hood.
It was at that moment when she understood how a koala bear felt while hanging upside down under a tree branch—without all the fur and total cuteness, of course.
She kept a firm grip on the pipe as she lowered her legs, but in the process, the backpack she’d stowed on her belly fell. It skimmed the side of the stainless steel exhaust hood and slammed into the equipment below, making a pinging thud.
Summer brought her legs up in a lurch, keeping her eyes peeled at the equipment below. There was a chance the men chasing her had only pretended to leave the building. If so, they would appear below with rifles at the ready.
Ten seconds ticked by. Then thirty. And finally, a minute. She thought about waiting longer to be sure, but her stomach muscles were getting tired. She couldn’t hang there all day. It was time to chance it.
She let her feet dangle, this time aiming them to the outside of the pack that had slipped free. She let go of the pipe and dropped out from underneath the hood, landing on the surface below.
Her eyes scanned the area in a flash—no sign of anyone. A smile crossed her lips. “Good thing men can’t think three-dimensionally.”
A wave of pride washed over her, filling her with hope. If she got really lucky, she just might make it back to the silo in one piece.
She scooted off the machine and plopped to the floor with her pack in hand, then slung it over her shoulder and took off.