Sunrise by Mike Mullin Read Free Book Online

fire. The two guards lurched up, spinning and peering into the blackness toward us. One of them bent, reaching for a long gun propped against his chair. Ed materialized from the darkness behind him, pressing his gun to the guy’s neck. I reached the fire, training my rifle at the other guy. The rifle was empty, but he didn’t know that.
    He said, “What the—?”
    “Any more guards here?” I asked, gesturing with my rifle.
    “Who in the seven hells of Sheba are you?”
    “I’m holding the gun, so I’ll ask the questions. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, I ordered Ed, “Search them.”
    Ed slung his rifle across his back and frisked both of them, coming up with a bowie knife and a machete. They both had shotguns too, which Ed promptly confiscated. He passed the machete and one of the shotguns to other members of our squad.
    “Are there more guards here?” I repeated.
    “Cliff’s in charge. Ask him.”
    I aimed my rifle at the other guy—Cliff. “Talk.”
    “Cain’t. Doctore wouldn’t like it if ah did.”
    “Doctor? What doctor?” I asked.
    “Cain’t tell you.”
    Ed turned back to Cliff, bowie knife clenched in his fist at about chest level. The blade shone orange in the firelight. He wrapped a hank of Cliff’s long, greasy hair around his left hand, forcing his head back.
    “Ed. What’re you doing?” I asked.
    Ed slipped the edge of his knife along Cliff’s throat.
    “This guy’s in charge. Kill him, and the other one’ll talk.” The other guy backed away, running right into the barrel of a shotgun held by Steve McCormick. That stopped him in his tracks.
    We didn’t have time to waste. One of the other squads could run into trouble sweeping the walls. I stared at Cliff. He was sweating despite the cold. Could I do it? Order Ed to kill this man while I watched just to get the other guy to talk? If we didn’t gain control of Stockton through surprise—before any gunfire broke out—some of us would die. Maybe all of us. Was that worth taking Cliff’s life? I thought of my dad, how vicious he’d been with captured slavers in the Maquoketa FEMA camp. I understood him better now.
    Would Ed even do it? I lifted my gaze to Ed’s face. The flat look in his eyes told me yes, he would. He shrugged as if to say get on with it.
    I nodded. “Do it,” I said. “Cut his throat.”
    Ed’s grip tightened on the knife handle.
    “W-wait,” Cliff stammered. Ed checked his cut. A thin line of blood, dark and viscous, appeared along Cliff’s neck. Two black runnels parted from the line, trickling toward Cliff’s collarbone.
    “J-just hold on, hold on,” Cliff said. “There’s no other guards nearby. Just us.”
    “What’re you guarding?”
    “Warehouse.”
    I scowled at him. “Duh, what’s in it?”
    “All our supplies. Spare guns, ammo, gas.”
    “How many guards are on duty in town right now?” Cliff hesitated. I took a step toward him.
    “Six, just six. Us, two on the west gate, two on the east gate.”
    “No patrols?”
    “Not tonight. Everybody’s up in Warren.”
    “You’re bullshitting me,” I said flatly, glancing at Ed, who still held the knife close to Cliff’s throat.
    “N-no. Everyone’s in Warren, I swear. Doctore cleaned us out, sent everyone with the primus to fight in Warren.” “But they left you behind.”
    “Doctore wanted a few men held back. Just the most trustworthy. To guard the town.”
    “Who’s this doctor guy?”
    “Red. He runs things here now. Calls himself a doctore, trainer of gladiators. Calls us a familia. Thinks he’s some kind of reborn Roman, even studies Latin. Whatever—I just do what I’m told.”
    “So why’re you in front of this warehouse?”
    “Little food’s left. It’s in there too. Been broken into twice. Gotta guard it.”
    “From your own people,” I said. Cliff nodded. They must be starving to try to steal from their town’s own food stores. The thought made me a little sick. “Six on duty tonight, how