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  Desolation 4: As Darkness Falls

  Copyright © 2021 David Lucin

  www.authordavidlucin.com

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission from the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN: 978-1-9991458-9-7

  Cover art by Covers by Christian

  Cover typography by Deranged Doctor Design

  Table of Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Ground Zero: A Desolation Novella

  Afterword

  About the Author

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  1

  “It’s like leapfrog,” Jenn said, “but with guns.”

  That earned her blank stares from all eight members of her squad. A snicker, too, but she couldn’t tell where it came from.

  She shot a glance at Dylan, expecting him to step in at any moment. Leaning against the trunk of an aspen, its leaves yellow, orange, and red, he scratched his beard. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, he’d begun keeping it neat and trim since moving in with Charlie. “Keep going,” he told her, his breath visible in the chill early-morning air. “You’re doing great.”

  Her troops might disagree. In her defense, she first learned about bounding overwatch, the infantry attack tactic her squad would be practicing today in these woods, less than forty-eight hours ago. She’d assumed Dylan, as platoon leader, one of three in the Flagstaff Militia, would take the lead on explaining the fundamentals, but it seemed he’d decided to pass this particular duty down the chain of command. Not that she minded. In July, when she volunteered to join the Militia, she hadn’t expected to be put in charge of anything more than a four-man fire team, yet Dylan offered her a squad. She accepted, of course, and embraced all aspects of her new role, especially training. Eight people had become her responsibility, and she swore to prepare them for the dangers of this world, like Val had once done with her.

  “Um, so yeah.” She cleared her throat and turned back to the soldiers arrayed before her. They all wore jackets, some heavier than others. A few sported beanies and scarves as well. “So there’s two teams: Team A and Team B. Team A takes cover and lays down suppressive fire while Team B bounds forward. Then Team B takes cover and starts shooting so Team A can bound forward. They do that over and over until they can take out the enemy. Like I said, leapfrog.”

  A few nodded along. The others shared confused looks. Understandable, she supposed. Until now, training had focused on weapons safety, marksmanship, and procedures for manning the roadblocks on the main routes into town. Nothing nearly as complex as bounding overwatch.

  “It’ll make sense once we start practicing,” Dylan said, pushing himself off the tree trunk. “Everyone form into a line. Keep about five meters apart and lie prone.”

  “Lie prone?” someone asked, as if the idea was absurd. “There’s still frost on the ground.”

  On cue, an icy breeze blew through the woods, numbing Jenn’s cheeks. For mid-September, it was unseasonably cold, like late October or early November, the result of smoke and ash swirling the globe and blocking out sunlight. Snow first fell on Labor Day, September 4, two months earlier than usual. It melted within a few days, as did a second snowfall on the thirteenth, but few now questioned that nuclear winter was coming—and fast.

  “It’s not that bad,” said Quinn Novak, a former NAU student and one of Jenn’s two fire team leaders. She flicked aside a strand of dyed-purple hair turning brown at the roots. “I’m from San Diego and you don’t see me complaining. Tough it out and get on your bellies, boys and girls.”

  Her three team members complied, if a bit reluctantly. So did the rest of the squad. When all eight were in position, Dylan angled his body and pointed up an incline behind him. Atop it, barely visible through the trees, stood a squat brown building. He said, loud enough so the entire unit could hear him, “Your objective: what used to be Coconino Community College. For the purpose of this exercise, we’ll assume there’s about half a dozen bad guys defending the place with guns.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew. “Like Jansen was saying, one team stays in an overwatch position while the other bounds forward.”

  “Oh, and I forgot to mention,” Jenn cut in, “when it comes to bounding, we’re not talking about hundred-meter dashes here. Three to five seconds is plenty.”

  “Exactly. The less time you’re standing in the open, the better.” Dylan produced a whistle from his jacket pocket. “So here’s how this works. To start, we’ll assume the defenders up at the college haven’t seen you yet. When I blow this whistle, that’s them opening fire, so you hit the ground. Got it?”

  “Then what?” asked Freddie Parker, Jenn’s other fire team leader. Tall and athletic, he reminded her of a football player—quarterback, specifically—but as far as she knew, he hadn’t played in high school or college. He was older than her, twenty-six, and sported long blond hair tied back into a tight bun. His beard, also blond, was thick and well-kept, and his eyes, a piercing blue, almost appeared to glow. Admittedly, Jenn found him attractive, though purely on a superficial level.

  “Then I’ll let you know. This is your first time trying this, so don’t get too far ahead of yourselves. Take it slow and get a feel for moving as a unit.” Dylan nodded at Jenn, adding so only she could hear, “Go with Novak’s team. I want to see how Parker does on his own.”

  Quinn had earned her position as a fire team leader by standing out during the initial weeks of training in July and August. Promoting her was Dylan’s call, but he’d asked Jenn’s opinion, and she concurred wholeheartedly. Freddie, on the other hand, earned his spot through politicking. Upon the Militia’s foundation, newly sworn-in Mayor Gary Ruiz struck a deal with Chief Morrison, head of the Flagstaff PD and Freddie’s uncle on the maternal side. The police sent the Militia weapons, ammunition, radios, and most importantly Liam, who, as a former major in the U.S. Army, assumed overall command of the unit. In return, the Militia agreed to man three of the five roadblocks outside of town.

  But there was a caveat, a personal favor, somewhere in the fine print: Freddie was to be given a fire team with the promise th
at he be promoted to squad leader by the end of the winter. Gary tried bargaining, or so Jenn had heard, but Morrison refused to budge. Lately, Dylan had expressed some concern about Freddie’s enthusiasm. Jenn didn’t think he was any more or less enthusiastic than the average volunteer, but average wouldn’t cut it for someone in charge of three troops.

  “Fair enough,” she said, then checked on Freddie, who poked at the frosty grass with a gloved hand. “He’s been doing fine on roadblock duty, and honestly, he’s our best shot. The guy’s a legit sniper.”

  “Roadblock duty’s a cakewalk. It makes what we did on the farm look hard.” Dylan sniffed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. “Humor me, Jansen. We’ve got to push this kid and see what he’s made of.”

  “Kid? He’s twenty-six. I’m twenty.”

  “Yeah, but you’re you. It’s different.”

  “Different how?”

  “It just is.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Now get going.”

  She jogged over to Quinn’s team, taking a position on the far right so she remained roughly in the center of the squad’s formation. A patchy layer of fallen leaves blanketed the forest’s floor, and the morning sun burned red through the trees on her left.

  “All right, Parker,” Dylan said to Freddie. “Let’s say you’re in an overwatch position. At this point, before you’ve come under fire, you’d be staying low, observing your target. Novak, you make the first bound forward. Like Jansen said, three to five seconds. You find a nice fold in the ground or anything else that might break up the line of sight, you take it.”

  “Got it,” Quinn said confidently. Then, to Jenn, “Ready?”

  “You’re the fire team leader.” With a roll of her wrist, Jenn gestured toward the college. “Lead the way.”

  Quinn propped herself up on her elbows and readied her AR-15. Jenn did the same with her Ruger Gunsite Scout, an older-model bolt-action .308-caliber rifle with a ten-round box magazine and plain iron sights. She preferred semiautomatic ARs, but there weren’t enough of them to go around. The Militia was over a hundred strong, and most members had only rudimentary firearms knowledge. Many had none. ARs were easier to learn and simpler to operate, so Liam reserved them for the newbies.

  Jenn had no idea where this Gunsite Scout came from or who had owned it previously, but it was a solid, reliable weapon. Plus, it was truly hers. Unlike the ARs she used at the farm, she took her Gunsite Scout home with her each day, and whenever she went out for food or water rations, it tagged along. The rifle was a part of her now. When Dylan told all the troops in his platoon to name their weapons, Jenn knew immediately what to call her Gunsite Scout: Espinosa, Val’s maternal surname.

  Quinn pressed her thin lips together, nostrils flaring like they always did when she was focused or concentrating. “Okay, let’s go,” she said, then popped up.

  Her team hesitated for a half second, even Jenn. But they all darted forward after Quinn, staying low. Before Jenn had finished a full breath, Quinn dropped and landed on the ground with a thwump. In not quite perfect unison, four more thwumps quickly followed. The frost was cold on Jenn’s stomach and thighs, and she could feel her jeans getting wet.

  “Good,” Dylan said. “Nice and short. Don’t make yourselves a target any longer than you have to.” He pointed at Freddie. “Your turn, Parker. Same deal.”

  Freddie exhaled so loudly Jenn heard him from fifteen paces away. More slowly than Quinn, and with less urgency, he rose to his feet and scampered forward at an awkward semi-jog.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

  He fell prone, and Jenn punched the air in celebration. Despite the circumstances of him coming to lead a fire team, she wanted him to succeed. A squad was only as strong as its weakest member, Dylan had once said. Although clichéd, the message resonated with Jenn. Besides, if Freddie failed, that meant she failed, too; she was his squad leader, and in the end, it was her job to bring him up to par.

  Dylan was nodding contentedly. “Not bad, not bad. Grunts,” he said, using Militia slang for troops who held no leadership roles, “try to react quicker. You see your team leader move, you move. Don’t think about it. Thinking can get you killed.”

  Dark, Jenn thought, but Dylan made a good point. She’d hesitated in shooting Yankees Hat, and it nearly cost her everything. Had she hesitated in Phoenix with Val, when she shot one of the Major’s thugs three times in the chest, she wouldn’t have survived the encounter.

  “Novak,” Dylan continued. “Your turn again.”

  She glanced at her team members to confirm they were ready. Then, without giving them any verbal warning, she ran forward. They reacted more quickly this time. Jenn might even have been the slowest. She’d have to work on that.

  As she darted up the incline, dodging a ponderosa pine, the thrill of the scenario, of pretending to attack a fortified enemy position, got her blood pumping. Her mind began to process the world differently, the way it had at the Battle of the Farm: every bump in the landscape became a piece of cover, every clearing in the trees a potential death trap. This must be how soldiers thought. How Dylan thought.

  Once again, she counted the seconds. At three, Dylan’s whistle cut through the air.

  Quinn hit the ground. Within the span of a heartbeat, Jenn and the entire team lay flat. In battle, though, a heartbeat was an eternity.

  “Decent reaction,” Dylan said. “I know it’s just a whistle, but you gotta be faster. Do your best to imagine gunfire.”

  A chorus of “yes” and “got it” rumbled through Quinn’s team.

  “Okay, so the bad guys have seen you and opened fire. Jansen, what’s next?”

  “Suppressive fire.”

  “Good. From who?”

  “Us. It’s Freddie’s turn to bound.”

  “Right again.” He clapped his hands together. “So go ahead and pretend you’re returning fire at the college.”

  Easier said than done, especially since the magazine in Espinosa was empty. Same with everyone else’s magazines. The last thing the Militia needed was a training accident. Still, she depressed the trigger and worked the bolt on her weapon a few times for added realism, all the while scanning the terrain in front of Freddie. Fifteen or twenty meters ahead of him, a section of ground rose ever so slightly. To reach it, he would have to push his bound to six or seven seconds, but the position would offer good cover, so the risk was worth the reward. She considered pointing out the spot but wanted to see if he’d notice it on his own.

  “When you’re ready, Parker,” Dylan said.

  With greater purpose than before, Freddie darted forward. Jenn watched, breath held, as she counted to six and Freddie approached that ideal piece of cover. Then she groaned in disappointment and some frustration as he ran straight over it.

  Dylan blew his whistle. “Stop, stop, stop,” he said, waving his arms in the air. “Hold up.”

  Freddie threw himself to the ground as if he’d interpreted the whistle as more simulated enemy fire. Looking confused, his team eventually lay down as well.

  Dylan gave Jenn a side-eye. She wasn’t sure how to read it. Was that his way of saying, I told you he couldn’t do it, or was he annoyed about Freddie being stuck in his platoon? Both? “Parker,” he started, “what’d you do wrong?”

  He answered right away: “Ran too long. I should’ve stopped at five seconds.”

  Another glance from Dylan, this one accompanied by a raised eyebrow. Had Freddie’s quick reply impressed him? It impressed Jenn. At least he didn’t try to come up with some excuse. “Half right,” Dylan said. “You also blew past this.” He stomped on the rise in the ground. “Going a little farther’s worth it if you can get to decent cover. Just make sure you’re aware of your surroundings.”

  “Why exactly are we doing this?” drawled Wyatt Berglund, a Texas native and twenty-something former chemistry student at NAU. On the far left of Freddie’s team, he shifted into a crouch, laid his rifle in a patch of leaves, and cupped hi
s hands over his ears to warm them. “I can’t be the only one wondering what this has to do with watching the roadblocks.”

  “Nothing,” Jenn said, and eight heads turned toward her. Dylan kept his gaze on Wyatt, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But Gary—Mayor Ruiz—didn’t start the Militia to guard the borders.” She recalled her chat with him at Barbara’s birthday party in July, when he first discussed the prospect of forming a new defense force. The Flagstaff Fusiliers, he’d wanted to call them, but Liam objected on the grounds that there wasn’t a single fusil in Flagstaff. “If that was all we needed, the police could’ve hired a bunch of you, but it’s not enough.”

  She pushed herself up while adding, “The Battle of the Farm? What me and Dylan did down in Phoenix when we fought the Major’s people?” Both events held a somewhat mythical status among the Militia, and Jenn wasn’t above exploiting the troops’ fascination with them in order to make a point. “That’s what we’re here for. Those kinds of fights. If you think there won’t be another Vincent Grierson or if someone like the Major won’t come knocking at our door, wanting to take our food, you’re wrong. It’ll happen. I know it will. We need to be ready.”

  Wyatt remained silent, perhaps waiting for her to say more. When she put a hand on her hip and slung Espinosa over her shoulder, he picked up his rifle and conceded, “Fair enough.”

  Dylan wasn’t even trying to hide his smirk anymore.

  “So let’s go again.” She spoke toward Freddie, hoping her words had inspired him, but he only pulled a patch of frosty grass from the earth. His body language irked her, but she knew from experience in softball that barking at a teammate never solved any problems. In fact, it made them worse. She had to find a way to motivate him. But how? “And then we’ll do it again. And again and again until we get it right. I’m happy staying out here until dark, and I’m sure Dylan is, too.”

  The creases in his brow said, Speak for yourself, Jansen, but he called out, “You heard her. Back into position.” As the fire teams descended the bank, headed toward the starting line, he added, just to her, “Nice work. You’re making my job easy. Maybe I should put your name in for a promotion.”