Fallen World

By Marti Weaver

The population of the world is dying, victim to a deadly virus with no cure. Martial law and the Universal Global Order rule.

In South Kentucky, former US military officer Derrick Barnes now works for the UGO, rounding up former Americans who are resisting the mandated treatment. As society spins out of control, he starts to question if the new government really has people's best interests in mind.

East Texan Kirsten Robbins, her husband, and her neighbors, however, are determined to preserve the spirit of the United States. Stock piling food, medical supplies, and weaponry, Texas prepares to resist the UGO's control. As the conflict escalates, both Derrick and Kristin are drawn into a deadly battle for survival, one that threatens to break them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MWN
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310060236

Marti Weaver

Marti Weaver lives a quiet life in East Texas. She is well-traveled and educated. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Communications, and a Master’s Degree in Education. She spent three of her undergraduate years in the Army ROTC program, where she gained much of her military knowledge and skills. When an accident prevented her from getting her commission upon graduation, she continued along another path, but never let go of her passion as a patriot. She regrets not being able to take the Oath Keepers oath, but urges others who are qualified to do so. She loves Science, teaching it for ten years. She also loves American History and keeps up-to-date politically. She grew up primitive camping and spending weekends and summers at a primitive cabin deep in a Pennsylvania forest. Over the years, she’s honed her outdoor skills.

Book preview

FALLEN WORLD

Marti Weaver

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Marti Weaver

This book is also available in print at most online retailers.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * * * *

Books written by Marti Weaver can be obtained

through the author’s official website:

http://martiweaver75.wix.com/martiweaver

also:

(Smashwords page)

and through select, online book retailers.

DEDICATION

To Rudy. You always believed in me.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

About the Author

A free people ought not only to be armed and disciplined, but they should have sufficient arms and ammunition to maintain a status of independence from any who might attempt to abuse them, which would include their own government.

~George Washington

PROLOGUE

The sound of a shot echoed through the empty halls. It was the last the man ever heard. No one else remained as witness.

The slug lodged in the fortified window overlooking the main lab at the Center for Disease Control. A spray of blood and gray matter ran down the glass around the piece of lead, dripping onto the tiled floor.

CDC Director Dr. Martin Walker slumped forward. What remained of his head hit the desk at the precise moment the .45 fell from his hand.

Protocols required the permanent sealing of the facility, entombing the virus and all other contagions within—forever. Walker refused to evacuate with the others, choosing, instead, to go down with the ship. A crimson flood snaked toward an open journal, its final entry—an explanation—an apology—a vindication—an entry no one would ever read.

3.22.2019

STRAIN: R14A74T.

CREATED IN CDC LAB 65B.

NO DETERMINATION OF ROUTE OR HOST FOUND FOR HOW IT GOT PAST LEVEL 7 ISOLATION FIELDS.

FIRST HOST OUTSIDE CDC REPORTED 2 YEARS, 4 MONTHS, 3 DAYS, 13 HOURS AGO AT A LOCAL ATLANTA, GEORGIA HOSPITAL.

NO ANTIBODIES FOUND OR SYNTHESIZED AT CDC OR OTHER WORLD LABS.

VIRUS HIGHLY COMMUNICABLE.

ESTIMATED WORLDWIDE DEATHS AT PRESENT: 3.2 BILLION.

ESTIMATED TIME REMAINING UNTIL ZERO HUMAN POPULATION: UNKNOWN.

PROBABILITY OF NATURAL IMMUNITIES OCCURRING BEFORE TOTAL EXTINCTION OF HUMAN RACE: 0.0433%

I, DR. MARTIN WALKER, AM TOTALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CREATION AND ACCIDENTAL RELEASE OF THIS DEADLY VIRUS. MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON THE HUMAN RACE.

CHAPTER ONE

The high-pitched whine of the alarm klaxon blared, echoing around Kristen and Bill Robbins from the numerous speakers mounted in and outside the house and barn. Startled, Kristen jumped, her breath catching in her throat. The empty tray that held the raw meat, now in the smoker, slipped out of her trembling hands. She placed her palm on the holstered .38 on her belt and whipped her head around to Bill.

He grabbed her sweaty hand and slung his rifle over his shoulder. They ran through the back door. Get in there, Pebbles! Bill yelled to their dog. The large ‘fifty-seven variety’ mutt ran into the farm house.

Repeat. The voice on the short-wave radio announced. Global Military recon units spotted in the area. Take cover, now.

The routine of their weekly drills, practiced over the past six months, kicked in automatically. But, this was no drill. Bill manned the radio while Kristen ran to the gun safe. Her hands shook as she keyed in the combination and removed two additional snub-nosed .38s and two more assault rifles. The muzzle of one nudged a box of rounds. The bullets scattered across the floor. Oh, no! She dropped to her knees and tried to gather the spilled ammunition.

Leave them! Bill yelled. We’ll get them later.

After tucking the rifles into the crook of an elbow, she slammed the door of the safe and grabbed their stocked packs from the floor.

With her heartbeat pounding in her ears, she hurried to Bill and deposited the extra weapons and equipment on the desk. Digging through the outer pockets of the packs, she frantically searched for the battery-operated headlamps. Where are they?

Bill placed his hand on hers. Calm down, Kris. This isn’t the first time we’ve had to do this.

Drawing in several ragged breaths, she nodded and plunged her hand into one of the pockets again and finally found a headlamp. Bill, her husband, her protector, as always, had calmed her fears and given her strength. The elastic band of the light pulled at her hair as she positioned it on her forehead. She removed Bill’s lamp from his pack and tossed it to him.

Several transmissions crackled over the radio as neighbors checked in. Received. Big Dog out, Bill added his reply to the warning, flipped the emergency off switch to the radios and jumped from his chair.

Pebbles, stay! The dog cowered, her ears lay back when Bill pointed at her. He and Kristen bolted out the backdoor.

She picked up the dropped tray and raked the meat off the smoker onto it, as Bill poured the prepared bucket of sand on the flames, smothering the fire and reducing the chance of attracting attention. They ran back into the house. Kristen shoved the meat in the refrigerator and shoved the door closed. It would have to wait until later. She glanced at the oven where the stew she’d started before dawn cooked. This wouldn’t be the first time circumstances had ruined supper. She turned the oven temperature down, hoping it would still be edible later.

Bill flicked the deadbolt.

As they passed the radio desk, they scooped up their weaponry and packs. Shouldering them, they sprinted to their bedroom closet.

Come on, girl, Kristen yelled to the dog. She felt dizzy from the adrenaline surging through her. When she slapped the button hidden behind some hanging clothes, a wooden panel in the floor slid out of the way, revealing a steel door.

Bill tapped in the combination on the key pad and pulled the handle of the hatch, but it wouldn’t open.

Try again, Kristen yelled, dancing from foot to foot and shaking her hands. Concentrate!

Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his temples. A moment later he blew the breath out and punched the code in a second time. The metallic click sounded loud in the tense quiet. He pulled the handle. Get in! His strong hand on her back, he eased her toward the open hatch.

She placed a shaky foot on the top step, her stomach tied in a knot. Pebbles! Where’s Pebbles?

He nudged her further into the opening. I’ll get her. He ran from the closet. Pebbles! Come ‘ere, girl.

A few seconds later, the dog trotted into the closet, her tail wagging merrily. In her mouth, she held a tattered stuffed monkey. Bill pushed the closet door closed behind him and ruffled the fur on top of Pebbles’ head. He opened the grey cover on the house’s breaker box, threw the main, and turned the toggle to power up the house refrigerator and electric fence again. The dim emergency light in the tiny room flickered to life as the rest of the power went down. He shooed the dog toward the hatch.

An explosion nearby shook the house, the sound of shattering glass followed.

Kristen threw her arms over her head and ducked. Oh, crap! That was close. She and Pebbles bolted down the concrete stairs as Bill pulled the steel hatch closed and hit the button on the wall at the top of the steps. Over her pounding heartbeat, she heard the wooden panel in the closet floor slide into place, hiding their escape. They switched on their headlamps.

It was more serious than ever—the United Global Order had never been this close before. She turned at the landing and descended another set of steps, and then sprinted the twenty feet to the second steel door. She entered the access code, disengaged the latch, and pushed the heavy door open. The cool air of the emergency bunker washed over her. She wondered if this was the day they might not be able to come out again. Even though they’d planned for when they’d have to take permanent refuge in the bunker, the finality of the possibility made her stomach tense.

Her headlamp illuminated the pitch-blackness as her mental checklist scrolled through her mind. She dashed forward, Pebbles at her heels. The sound of Bill closing and bolting the door echoed around her.

Coughing and rubbing her nose, she tried not to breathe the stale air. She cupped her hand over her mouth and nose, but the musty scent still accosted her nostrils. She made a mental note to inspect the filters and run the circulation fans more often.

At the end of the short hallway, Kristen continued straight. Bill turned left into the communications center. She took a right and entered the small mechanical room, and let out a breath she didn’t realize she held.

The hinges of the gray panel squeaked as she pulled it open. Turning the routing toggle, she switched from minimal power supplied by the house, to emergency bunker power. The solar arrays, mounted atop the old wood barn and high in trees, and the secondary power storage units came online. The hum of electricity surrounded her as the grid came up, reminding her of the powerful fence around the field and their property high above their heads. The florescent lights in the ceiling flickered.

She glanced at the gauges on the wall. Power systems optimal, she mumbled to herself.

The filtration system and circulation fans kicked on and whirred. Fresh air brushed her face. She inhaled deeply. The tension in her shoulders and neck eased.

Her boots tapped softly on the thin rug as she ran across the main room of the bunker to the communication center. She leaned her rifle against the desk and dropped her pack, then slipped into the chair beside Bill. What do we have? She removed her headlamp, clicking it off as she laid it on the desk.

I’ll know in a minute. Bill flipped switches and pushed buttons.

Kristen turned on the bank of radios, short-wave, HAM, CB, AM/FM, local fire and police bands, and what little was left of NOAA. They crackled to life, spewing out a variety of information.

In seconds, four screens glowed as the computers booted.

Lines of bright green text scrolled down the screen in front of Bill. On two other monitors surveillance shots cycled, spying on the areas surrounding their yard and its structures, the fields, and gated driveway. On the last screen, they monitored the interior of the barn and house, including both hatches leading to the bunker.

Kristen leaned closer to one of the screens. I don’t see anybody out there. She glanced at Bill. Do you? Her heart rate had returned to almost normal and she breathed easier.

Not yet. But that doesn’t mean it’s safe. Using the track-ball, Bill operated one of the security cameras inside their house. He pointed at the fourth screen. Look. Our front windows are gone. Whatever that explosion was, it was close.

She studied the images of the land surrounding their house, wondering where the explosion originated.

Bill’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Let’s see what the UNN has to say. The Underground News Network site replaced the display on the fourth monitor, scrolling warnings across the screen.

Red dots speckled a map of the former United States on one monitor, and of East Texas on another.

Kristen pointed at a few dots. Are all of those raid teams?

Uh-huh.

She squinted at the map. There’s so many of them.

Busy day. He leaned over and gazed at the same screen Kristen studied. I wonder what—or—who they’re looking for?

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

The chatter on the radios filled the room, reporting the unconfirmed positions of the Global Military Recovery and Removal teams, the GMRR. Kristen scribbled the coordinates in the logbook.

Bill moved the mouse and clicked twice, enlarging a section of the map of East Texas. He pointed to a few spots. They seem to be in counties around us. He clicked again and their own county took up the majority of the screen.

I only see one unit near us … Kristen pointed at the dot on the online map. …about thirty miles away.

Too close, Bill muttered. And that could change fast.

A shiver shot up her spine. She leaned closer to the map on the monitor. I hope Danny, Rachael, and the kids are okay. Her voice trembled and she felt her heart beat faster.

Bill clicked again, enlarging the map even more. Record that position. He pointed at a red dot on the screen.

She jotted it down, then pulled a red stickpin from a drawer and went to a topographic map of the surrounding regions mounted on the wall. She stuck the pin at the coordinates where the closest team had been reported, then returned to monitor the security screens. They’re awfully close to their place.

I know. But there’s nothing we can do for them right now. Bill’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. There’s been no report of viral breakouts in their area. We’ll just have to pray for the best for them.

Holding a pencil, she tapped its eraser on the desktop while watching the reports trail across the bottom of the Underground News Network’s site. Seven deaths at the hands of the raid teams and twelve businesses and residences destroyed in Danny’s area. Her shoulders tensed and she looked at Bill. His expression was all business as he continually studied the monitors and made notes in the log, but she knew he worried about the safety of his brother.

The minutes ticked past.

Kristen squirmed in her seat. Her shoulders, neck and back ached from sitting and watching the monitors for the past hour and a half. She pushed the chair back, got up and stretched. I’m gonna check to see if anything needs rotating.

Bill turned to face her. Didn’t you just do that a few days ago?

Yep. She pushed the chair under the desk. But, I need something to do.

He nodded and returned his attention to the screens.

She walked through the kitchen area, running her hand over the large table as she passed. She inspected her palm for dust. There was none. Satisfied their filtration systems were working adequately—except for the musty smell when they came in—she headed for the pantry.

Circumstances had forced them to take refuge in their bunker twice before since its completion almost a year ago. Both times were in the past three months. Recognizing that the world was spiraling out of control, they practiced their drills knowing eventually, they would be living here permanently. Checking their stock was a vital part of their drills.

She pushed the pantry door open, felt for the light switch on the wall inside, and flipped it. The fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed and flickered to life, illuminating the large room holding what amounted to a small grocery store, filled with practically every food imaginable. She plucked the clipboard off the wall next to the light switch and strode to the first of seven long, sturdy shelves. Using the tip of her pencil, she scanned the dates on many hundreds of Mason jars filled with pressure-canned meats, stews and soups, preserved vegetables from their garden, and fruits from their orchards. She turned her attention to the shelves behind her. They were filled with jars and bottles purchased from stores. Turning to the third shelving unit, she saw the variety of fruits and vegetables in tin cans, and the metal and plastic canisters of flour, cornmeal, cereal, and other dry goods. The next shelf had five-gallon buckets of dehydrated foods of all kinds. She walked around the corner and scanned the large sand-filled buckets concealing potatoes, carrots, and other root vegetables, and the baskets of onions, garlic and other produce from the garden, giving a few suspect veggies a squeeze and determining they were still perfectly fresh and edible. On the last two shelves was a collection of other stocked goods, medicine, paper products, soaps, shampoos, the ever-important toilet paper and hundreds of other items. The oldest foods and medicines on all shelves sat in front of the neat rows to be used first, and all were within accepted limits for safe consumption and use. She glanced over the back wall with its racks of fifty-five gallon drums and stacks of bottled emergency water.

Good. She checked off everything on her lists, again.

She leaned against the last shelf and peered at the top sheet of paper with all its checkmarks. Her gaze moved down the assortment of jars, boxes and cans in front of her. Her gut clenched and she shook her head. She turned her gaze to the ceiling. It’s our anniversary, and we’re in an emergency bunker. This was just another concession they'd made since everything began falling apart—the loss of personal time. At thirty-two years old, this was her ninth year with Bill, now thirty-four. She blew out a breath and flipped to another page, then crossed the room to the four large freezers and industrial-size refrigerator.

The dates on the frozen and fresh foods, and refrigerated medicines passed her inspection. She dated the four-page list, hung the clipboard back on its hook, and returned to the communication center.

Everything okay in there? Bill asked, never taking his eyes off the monitors.

Yep. Kristen dropped into her chair and propped her chin on a fist. Just like always.

Bill exhaled and leaned back. He took her free hand. I know it doesn’t mean a lot right now, but Happy Anniversary, honey. He leaned over and planted a kiss on her mouth. This isn’t exactly the way I wanted to spend it, either. He rubbed the top of her hand with his thumb.

She gave him a small smile, sat forward, and studied a surveillance screen again, allowing her stress to drift away. After a few minutes, she felt hypnotized by the monitors. Her mind wandered to a simpler, happier time with friends and family, the excitement of working at the ER, and the hiking vacations she and Bill had taken through foreign lands. She sighed. Come hell or high water she was going to make love to her husband tonight.

A loud scratching noise interrupted her thoughts.

Bill scooted his chair back and turned his head in the direction of the noise.

You stay here. She rose and placed her hand on his shoulder. I’ll check it out.

Her hand shaking nervously on her side-arm and heart pounding, she crept toward the sound. She peeked around the corner. A pair of large, brown eyes stared up at her. She let out a deep breath. Pebbles. Her tense shoulders relaxed.

You have to go, don’t you? She opened a door and let the dog into a brightly lit room. Pebbles trotted around the rows of large fish tanks with networks of planters suspended over them comprising the aquaponic garden, and stopped at her small patch of sod.

Kristen checked the timers and the general health of the underground garden and stock tanks. Pebbles scooted past her and left the room. Using a small gardening shovel, Kristen scooped up the excrement and dropped it into the composter in the corner of the room. She unlatched the doggie-door so Pebbles could get into the room again if needed, and then returned to the communication center.

Pebbles had business to attend to, she told Bill as she dragged her fingertips across his strong shoulders. She dropped into her seat and propped her elbows on the desk again. What’d I miss? She scanned the monitors.

Nothing around here. It looks like they’ve moved away. Bill jotted a few more notes in the log.

All clear. All clear, a voice on the radio said. Global Military Recovery and Removal teams moving out of the area. Armadillo three-three-four, out.

A chorus of ‘Received’ replies crackled across the airwaves.

Bill sat back and blew out a breath. It was close this time.

Way too close. Kristen started turning off the communication systems. Do you think they’ll ever find us here?

I hope not. If they do, I doubt those hunters will listen to much reason. They probably think anyone hiding is infected. He leaned over and pulled her to him. Don’t worry, we’ll be okay.

Kristen seemed to melt into his embrace. She felt safe.

After several long moments, she glanced at the clock, 4:13 pm. We lost the whole day.

He kissed her on the forehead. It was good practice. He pushed himself from his seat. I’ll go shut down power and we can go see how bad the damage is. He headed toward the mechanical room as Kristen finished shutting down the surveillance equipment and computers.

Getting up, she replaced her headlamp and clicked it on. She patted her leg. Come on, Pebbles. She retraced her steps to the secure door they entered earlier that day.

Back in the closest at the top of the steps, Bill flipped on the main breaker and turned the toggle to power the freezers, refrigerator, grow lights, and ventilation system in the bunker. He unlocked the closet door and led Kristen out, his rifle extended in front of him.

Kristen held Pebbles’ collar. Bill stopped at the bedroom door and looked into the main room of the farmhouse. He stepped through the doorway and motioned Kristen forward.

Broken glass from the large windows of the main room lay scattered across the floor.

Hold her tight. Bill held his hand up. I don’t want her to get into all this glass. He stepped closer to the front window openings, his weapon held at the ready, and scanned the woods in front of their house. Pebbles pulled against Kristen’s grasp.

Kristen stood still as a statue, Pebbles whining beneath the iron grip on her collar.

After several minutes of tense reconnaissance, Bill lowered his rifle and motioned her forward. I don’t see anything. The hold he had on his weapon relaxed and he gazed across the shattered windows. I guess the concussion from that explosion must have done this. He looked around the room. Do you see any other damage?

She shook her head. What do you think it was?

Bill shrugged. Maybe a propane tank. He kicked a piece of broken glass with his boot. I better get something to cover this opening. He tossed his spare rifle to Kristen, and straightened his holstered sidearm before shucking his pack.

Take Pebbles with you so I can clean up this mess, Kristen said.

Pebbles followed Bill to the back door at the sound of his whistle.

Kristen secured the spare rifles and stowed the packs, then headed to the kitchen to get the broom, dustpan, and the trash can.

By the time she’d finished sweeping up the glass and recovering the spilled ammunition, Bill was back from the barn with tools and several large pieces of plywood in the bed of the Ranger, side-by-side utility vehicle.

He helped her remove the remaining shards of glass from the window frames and screwed wood over the openings on the outside wall. I guess we’re going to town tomorrow. Bill tossed the battery-powered drill into the back of the utility ATV. Maybe we’ll find glass somewhere.

When the economy failed and the food ran out in the big cities, most people panicked. They migrated quickly to the government dining halls. At that point, the United Global Order, their new providers, controlled them. Those who escaped the metropolitan areas spread into less populated places and went into hiding. The UGO couldn't spare many troops to control and contain the outlying areas. It was in an area such as this that Kristen and Bill lived. Eventually, they knew, the troops would come.

Kristen crawled into the seat next to Bill, and Pebbles jumped into the back.

As Bill locked up the barn, Kristen stared up at the twilight sky. It’s getting dark.

Clutching hands, they walked back to the house.

I need to clean the smoker and get it started again. Bill scooped a handful of sand out of the bottom of the smoker, shook his head, and dropped the sand back into the bucket. We’ll have to keep it going all night now.

Kristen kissed him on the cheek. I’ll bring you the meat. As she took a step, she felt his hand take hers and pull her back to him.

He gathered her close, wrapping her in a hug. She settled into his strong embrace and inhaled his soothing aroma. Being five foot, eight inches, she nestled her head under his chin. She felt safe in his arms. He kissed the top of her head. You did really good today. She smiled, enjoying the rare moment of closeness amidst the chaos around the world today.

He let her go, slapping her lightly on her backside as she headed to the backdoor. After letting Pebbles in behind her, she grabbed the tray from the refrigerator. Her mouth watered as she gazed at the pile on the tray. Bill’s smoked meats were coveted county-wide. She was the only person who knew the secret combination of hardwoods he used. She took the tray to the smoker again.

Bill had raked the sand out of the fire box. Damn it, he mumbled as he pulled damp wood from the bottom of the smoker. Must have been some water in the sand bucket. He tossed them to the side. Kristen set the tray down and handed him some dry slivers of oak.

In moments, Bill had another fire burning, feeding it with small chunks of hardwood. He breathed deep. Mmm. Love that smell.

Me too. She handed him some larger pieces of apple wood.

He stuck them in the flames. Can you hand some of those? He pointed. They'll make great smoke.

She picked up a few pieces of the damp wood and brushed some of the sand off.

The fire was ready. She helped him put the meat on the racks.

In the distance she picked up the incessant buzz of the electric fences. Even a year after their construction, the sound still unsettled her. Conventional enclosures had always been adequate against the expected predators and four-legged thieves. But they were no match for cunning human scavengers. Over the past few years, they’d had their fair share of them. Today, substantial electrified fences surrounded all their fields and the clearing where the house and barn sat. They were definitely a necessity.

Bill brushed his hands on his trousers. It’s going to be chilly tonight and the wood box is almost empty. I’ll get some firewood.

Need help?

He kissed her on the forehead. It won’t take long.

Okay. I’ll get supper ready.

Three trips later, the wood box was full.

After pulling the stewpot from the oven to cool, Kristen watched Bill build and light a fire. She put a pan of biscuits in the oven and went to the couch to relax while they cooked.

The warm glow from the fireplace lit up the main room, the wood crackled and sputtered in the stone hearth. The surge of excitement from the day’s unexpected activities dissipated. Her eyes grew heavy from the hypnotic dancing of the flames.

The blaze of the fire seemed to leap in her veins when someone pounded on the front door.

CHAPTER TWO

Staff Sergeant Derrick Barnes’ nerves were coiled tight. He crept through the underbrush, flanked by eleven of the thirteen men in his unit, his two drivers parked in transport trucks a half-mile down the dirt road. The woods were much darker than he liked. He hated night missions because of the unpredictability.

Moving silently, they edged their way closer to the clearing. Corporal Tony Schafer, the unit’s demolition expert, let out a low whistle and held his hand up in a fist.

Freezing in place, Derrick glanced left, and then right, making sure his men heeded the warning. All of them squatted silently in the thick brush. He inched over to Schafer and crouched beside him. The hum in the air told Derrick the fence Schafer knelt by was electrified. He nodded to his corporal.

While donning thick gloves, Schafer glanced over the single hot wire. With expert precision, the corporal bridged between two contact points on the fence with a longer wire he’d pulled from his vest. He snipped the hot wire on the fence and hung the bridge wire high over their heads and out of the way, not breaking the circuit and alerting those inside the house. Derrick let out a breath, Tony was good, but dealing with a non-standard electric fence was always a dangerous undertaking.

A three foot section of the fence, still hot with electricity, was cut and folded out of the way.

In the waning light, Schafer made a chittering sound like a squirrel. Immediately, all members of the unit looked to the corporal for instructions. He pointed two fingers at his eyes, and then at the fence. He then ran an index finger across his neck in a slashing motion and pointed at the fence again. The men would have to be careful.

Derrick extended his arm and pointed. His unit belly-crawled through the opening toward the edge of the wood. The placement of the fence within the forested area was odd, but highly effective. The electric current, had anyone touched it, would have ended their mission immediately. The hidden homeowners were smart.

Derrick slowly led his men forward and settled behind some brush. His frozen breath disappeared quickly in the frigid air.

No one made a sound.

A parade of frightened faces of those he rounded up earlier in the day, along with the carnage that accompanied them, passed through Derrick's mind. His current assignment filtered through the haze, bringing him back to the present. His workday was not yet over.

Distant gunfire echoed through the woods behind him. Instinct made him drop to his belly and press his body flat to the ground. He glanced around the darkening woods, meeting the alert gazes of several of his men. More gunfire erupted in the near distance.

That's pretty close, he whispered, scanning the area behind him with his pistol. Maybe a mile. He stared into the shadows, watching for movement, his anticipation ran high. No telling who else is in these woods. Several silent minutes passed. Derrick’s heartrate calmed and he relaxed his trigger finger, but listened to every small rustle around him.

Sounds like the natives are restless, Schafer whispered.

They know we’re in the area, Derrick replied.

He hated the raids most of all. Someone always got hurt—sometimes killed. And it was getting harder to rationalize rousting good, honest people from their homes just because his superiors, safe in their offices dozens of miles away, ordered it.

He quietly pushed himself up to a seated position. A dark bloodstain on his trousers stared up at him and the stress of the day’s hunt flooded back into his exhausted mind. He’d lost a valuable comrade due to a stupid mistake. Had Hopkins followed procedure, he wouldn’t have approached the child. Then the father wouldn’t have gotten close enough to slit the private’s throat. The dried blood that had once coursed through the dead man’s body stood out on his camos. His gut clenched. He regretted not taking the time to change his fatigues. Try as he might to avoid looking at the stain, it kept stealing his attention.

A ragged breath escaped his lips. I need a vacation, he muttered.

Amen, Sarge, Schafer whispered.

It seemed every muscle in Derrick’s body screamed out for rest. His unit had tracked and transported 147 runners that day—not including the nine in the trucks at present, twelve more than yesterday, nineteen more than the day before. The numbers of those refusing to seek treatment increased daily since the new UGO laws were declared a year before.

He motioned everyone forward. When they reached the edge of the clearing, Derrick stopped and raised a fisted hand.

Why do these people refuse to report, Sarge? Thompson’s low voice drifted out of the shadows next to Derrick. They have to know they won’t get treatment anywhere else.

Stubbornness. That—or they’re scared.

Scared of what? Thompson shook his head. The camps are safer than being out here on their own. At least there, they. . .

Tony Shafer, on the other side of Derrick, looked at Thompson, his eyes hooded and mouth dropped open a little. The conditions of the camps are getting worse every day. I don’t think anyone even cares anymore.

Thompson let out his breath and averted Shafer’s gaze. Yeah, you’re right.

Several of the men started whispering to each other. Okay, enough chatter, Derrick hissed. Though the air was cold, beads of sweat dripped down the sides of his face. His gut twisted and he felt the familiar burn of his acid reflux. He pulled his leg up to reach into the pocket on the side of his fatigue pants and retrieved the tattered roll of antacids. Only three left. He’d have to remember to get more from medical when he got back to the barracks. After popping one in his mouth, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He noticed the green-smudged paint on his hand and wiped it away next to the bloodstain.

Sarge, Ramsey whispered. "We have