Standing up, I retrieved my knife, cleaned it on the ghoul’s shirt, wiped it down with a homemade alcohol-soaked sanitizing cloth, and returned it to its sheath. The dead boy was maybe sixteen or seventeen, probably a junior in high school, not much younger than I was. There was a patch of denim missing from his jeans low on his right calf muscle, and beneath, a mouth-shaped circle of ragged, bloody flesh. I dropped the bloody cloth on its chest.

“Poor kid. Probably got bit by a crawler.”

“Don’t,” Tyrel said. “You’ll drive yourself nuts. Come on, let’s get moving.”

His footsteps echoed up the stairs behind me. I looked at the boy for another moment, wondering what kind of man he might have turned out to be if given the chance. But that would never happen, now. Such a waste, and so many others out there just like him.

I bid him a silent farewell and left.

*****

On the third floor, we watched in alarm as a column of a dozen men, all dressed for the weather and carrying M-4s, marched on snowshoes toward the schoolhouse.

“This is not good,” I said.

Tyrel stared out the window and said nothing.

“We should radio Rojas.”

He stepped away and checked his rifle. “Do it, then meet me in the hallway.”

I turned on my handheld and keyed the mike. “Rojas, Hicks. How copy?”

“Loud and clear, Hicks. Over.”

“You see what’s going on out front? Over.”

“Yep. I got my scope on them, but I think they’re out of range. Over.”

“Probably so. Keep your eyes on them and let us know if anyone else shows up. Over.”

“Wilco. Make sure you switch to your earpiece. Over.”

“Acknowledged. Hicks out.”

I fished a wireless transmitter/receiver from my vest, stuck it in my ear, flipped a switch on the radio, and went outside to find Tyrel. He had taken cover behind a doorway twenty feet from the stairwell. When he saw me, he said, “Go cover the other stairwell.”

I moved down the hall double-time, boots squeaking on the dusty floor, picked a doorway thirty or so feet from the stairwell entrance, opened it, and took cover. Anyone coming out of the stairwell would see only the barrel of my rifle and a small fraction of my face. They, on the other hand, would have no cover once in the hallway. I did not plan to let them get that far.

My father had taught me the Fatal Funnel of Fire concept. The most dangerous thing a person can do in close quarters combat is go through a door. Doors are chokepoints, and anyone with a weapon capable of a high rate of fire and sufficient ammo can devastate large numbers of people pouring through them. Essentially the same concept the Spartans used in the battle of Thermopylae: force your enemy to concentrate their numbers at a single, defensible point, thus eliminating their numerical advantage.

The sound of boots clomping up stairs reverberated in the hallway. I keyed my radio. “Ty, you think they know we’re in here?”

“I’d say it’s a possibility. If they’re smart, they have someone on overwatch. There’s a chance they spotted us coming in the building.”

Just as he finished his sentence, a voice called up to us from the stairwell on my side, “We know you’re up there. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.”

I turned and looked down the hallway at Ty. He shook his head and held a finger over his lips, then pointed two fingers at his eyes and turned them toward the doorway. Stay focused.

The voice spoke again. It was deep and rough, older sounding, resonant with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “This doesn’t need to turn ugly, gentlemen. You’re trespassing here. All we want is to escort you out of town. Don’t resist, and nothing will happen to you.”

Tyrel spoke up, “Trespassing? Last I checked, this is unincorporated territory. Also known as fair game.”

“Listen smart guy, I’m not going to argue with you. This is our town. Our salvage. You can leave on your feet, or on your back. Your choice.”

Tyrel didn’t respond. I had no confidence the man in the stairwell was telling the truth about letting us go, and I knew Ty did not either. What these men were doing, forcibly chasing off salvage hunters in unincorporated territory, was illegal. The military took this kind of thing seriously—they didn’t want civilians battling it out on the outskirts of town—and after we filed a complaint, they would undoubtedly send an expedition to investigate. If the investigators found sufficient evidence to support our claims, these men would be tracked down and brought up on charges. Very serious charges.

Salvage hunters are notoriously territorial. They do not like sharing their loot with outsiders. Treading on someone else’s turf is a very good way to end up with a bullet in your head. Which led me to an inevitable conclusion: these men had no intention of letting us leave this place alive. They would not have bothered coming here at all if they did. It would have been far easier to let us take what we wanted and leave. But if we made it back to the Springs and told the rest of our militia that raiding this place was feasible, they would be outnumbered and forced to cede territory. It was far more profitable for them to simply kill us and leave us for the undead.

Or so they thought, anyway.

I had been in some bad situations, but this one was looking like the worst. We were outnumbered six to one, facing a well-armed, highly motivated enemy, and we had nowhere to run. Keying my radio, I said, “Ty, did you notice they didn’t search the lower floors? Just came straight up the stairs.”

“Yep.”

“I’m thinking we should stay away from the windows.”

“I believe that would be prudent,” Tyrel said. “Rojas, you have a visual on any of these assholes?”

“Negative,” Rojas replied. He sounded winded. “Hang tight brother, I’m on my way.”

“Be careful. They probably have a sniper somewhere.”

“I served three tours in Iraq, homes. I know how to watch out for snipers.”

“Great. Then hustle your ass up,” Tyrel replied. “I think this is about to get ugly.”

The voice from the stairwell spoke again. “I’m going to give you to the count of five to come out, then we’re coming up after you.”

Neither of us spoke. My heart began to beat faster as I adjusted my shooting position and focused on the doorway, finger over the trigger, muscles tightening to take in the slack.

“One.”

A cold feeling started in my stomach and spread to my face and hands, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud hammering in my ears.

“Two.”

I took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

“Three.”

A hand appeared in the doorway, tossed something through, then disappeared. I heard running steps pounding down the stairs. The thrown object was small, green, and oblong, its exterior comprised of a honeycomb of tiny interconnected squares.

“Grenade!”

The voice sounded like mine, but I did not remember telling my lungs, mouth, and vocal cords to form the words.

The world slowed down, the edges of my vision going gray and narrowing down to a small, pulsating point. The grenade rolled into that point, rotating lengthwise and skittering across the slick tile floor. I had a vague sensation of movement as I darted out the doorway, took two huge running steps, and kicked the grenade toward the door of the stairwell. I had just enough time to hit the floor and curl up in the fetal position before there was a tremendous BANG.

The force was incredible. I felt my body come off the ground and slide backward. A shockwave poured over me like the hand of an invisible giant, knocking the breath from my lungs. My ears rang from the impact, and I dimly wondered how much permanent hearing damage I had just endured. I put my hands over my ears hoping it would help, but it did not, at least not until another slightly less powerful blast hit me from behind.