Fight for Power by Eric Walters Read Free Book Online Page A

given weapons today for the first time and were receiving last-second training. It was risky because the newbies could shoot the wrong people, but Herb had said we needed to have twice as many people as the force we were going to attack.
    Five people were being trained to use the RPGs. They’d be the ones who would be leading the attack, blasting through the perimeter walls and blowing up the barracks. Brett, of course, was one of them. There was nobody, except for Herb, that I would want beside me more than Brett when there were bullets flying around me. Not that I’d be beside him. Assuming the weather was right, I’d be in the air, watching and relaying information.
    Part of me felt bad, almost guilty that I wasn’t going to be with them on the ground, but I knew I’d still be in danger. Bullets could fly up as well as out. Besides, they needed my eyes in the sky. I was doing something that nobody else could do.
    I heard horse hooves clattering on the pavement and looked up from my car engine. Two women and an older man were coming down the road, leading a horse-drawn farm wagon. They were the compost team. They gathered kitchen scraps produced by every household and then took them to a central location at the end of the parking lot at the school. The scraps were being composted and would be put back into the fields.
    Sometimes they gathered other things. A call would go out asking for certain items like extra plywood, tools, snowblowers, lawn mowers, or rototillers. Any items that couldn’t be delivered by the people to the shops were picked up and transported by horse cart.
    It was encouraging to see people pulling together, working for the good of everybody. That was the way it was supposed to be. That was how we’d survive. That was the only way we could survive.
    Beside almost every house that had southern exposure was a series of small wooden frames topped with a window attached by a hinge. These were tiny personal greenhouses that were growing a few plants. A few vegetables multiplied by hundreds and hundreds would make a difference in that fight to survive.
    I looked over and caught sight of Herb walking up the street. I hadn’t expected him to be out for a stroll. He waved and came over.
    â€œYou ready to go up tomorrow?” Herb asked, gesturing to my ultralight, which was parked in front of the garage, secured underneath an awning by guy lines to hooks on the driveway.
    â€œThe only thing that could stop me is the weather, but Mr. Peterson says he thinks it’s going to be good.”
    â€œI have more trust in a farmer than I have in a weather forecaster on TV—not that we have TV anymore—so you should be good to go,” Herb said.
    â€œAre all the plans coming along okay?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s fine, although I have something I need your help with,” Herb said.
    â€œSo this wasn’t a social visit.”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œThe winds are strong today, but I could go up and scout around if you want,” I offered.
    â€œThis doesn’t involve you going up in the air as much as going up to the mall. I’m planning to interview the prisoner.”
    A few weeks ago we’d captured a wounded member of our enemy, left for dead after they destroyed Olde Burnham and retreated back to their stronghold. He’d been brought back to our neighborhood, and Dr. Morgan had saved his life. Then Herb and I had tricked him into giving information that helped us with our victory at the bridge.
    â€œHow is he doing?” I asked.
    â€œRecovering as well as possible, considering that he should be dead.”
    I felt a sense of relief. I had these terrible fears that once he’d served his purpose and given us the information, he was going to be allowed to die. Or worse.
    â€œSo what happens to him now?” I asked.
    â€œI know a number of people who had loved ones killed in the other neighborhood who still think we should have