Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“We can do that later. I’ll be right back,” he said. “Mom, don’t mix the bacon with the tofu.”

Alex was in rare form, which was good to see. He’d looked utterly sapped of energy and enthusiasm last night.

“You want some company?” said Kate.

“It’s probably better to keep everyone inside until later in the day,” he said.

Rare form and all business.

EVENT +75:05

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell crawled beneath the fallen tree, cursing under his breath. The half-mile walk through the woods had turned into a slog through decades-old untamed forest, slowing their progress to the point of madness. Soaked with sweat and covered in mud and dried pine needles, he stopped twenty feet beyond the rotten trunk to catch his breath and scan ahead. They’d kept the pond at least forty feet to their right, avoiding the shoreline bog that had swallowed a few boots and painted most of them dark brown at the beginning of their journey.

He raised a pair of compact binoculars and peered through the dense woodland, following the reflective waterline. The gray dock peeked through the trees at the far edge of his view. Maybe another fifty feet and they could turn southeast for the barn. The men had started to gather around him, breathing heavily and wiping their red faces. He’d have to impose more rigorous physical standards for his men. He had no delusions about turning this crowd of thirty- to forty-something weekend warriors into a Ranger battalion, but anything had to be better than the sorry sacks that slithered under the rotten log and spilled into the forest. One of the men pulled a pack of cigarettes from his left breast pocket and fished around in his pants for a lighter.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eli whispered.

“I thought we were taking a break,” the man replied.

Paul Hillebrand stepped out of the foliage next to the man and slapped him on the back of the head.

“Stow that shit and form a hasty 180-degree security perimeter facing south. You know the drill!” he hissed. “Sorry about that, Eli.”

The men scattered and took up positions in front of the log while Bertelson’s squad struggled through. His crew looked worse than Hillebrand’s. Watching them drag the thirty-cal through the dirt and dead leaves under the log made him want to cut off Bertelson’s head and shit down his neck. Of course, Bertelson was nowhere to be found, because he led from behind. As the gun crew emerged, Eli sprang forward and ripped the vintage thirty-two-pound M1919A6 Browning medium machine gun from their grip.

“Do you cocksuckers realize you just dragged a vintage weapon through the dirt?” he said, shaking soil and leaves off the weapon. “You better pray to God this thing works, because we don’t have time to field strip and clean it. Lucky for you, this son of a bitch is tougher than the two of you combined. Bertelson?”

“Yes, sir,” he heard from the other side of the downed trunk.

“Get over here and square your men away.”

Bertelson shimmied under the tree and stood up, staring at the machine gun in Eli’s hands.

“I want you out in front of your men. We don’t lead from behind in my army. You might have seen them trying to fill the barrel with dirt,” he said, throwing the weapon at the squad leader.

Surprisingly, Bertelson caught it without stumbling backward into the tree, which had been Eli’s intention. He’d hoped to crack his face open on the barrel.

“I like to keep an eye on the squad. I can’t do that with my back to the men,” he said meekly.

“It’s easier to pull a string than it is to push it. Get out in front, or I’ll find someone who better understands the concept.”

“Roger that, sir,” Bertelson said, walking over to his shamed gun crew.

Eli pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Liberty Three, this is Liberty Actual. We’ve reached the turn. Commence your approach and hold at the tree line, over.”

“This is Liberty Three, commencing approach,” squawked his earpiece.

He strode to the front of the group and held up his right hand without looking behind him. Forming a knife hand, he chopped the air in front of him, waiting a few seconds before stepping forward. A quick glance behind showed that nobody had moved.

“On your feet. We’re moving out,” he barked as low as possible.

Tactically, the regular arm of the Maine Liberty Militia was a mess, better suited for basic military maneuvers, checkpoint duty and static defense. If he had known how bad they’d look after trudging for thirty minutes, he might have considered a different set of tactics. Too late now.

Without the distractions of modern-day life, things would change at the training compound. He’d put the few remaining members of Jimmy’s old unit to work squaring them away. One way or the other, he’d whip this crew into a reasonable fighting force, if they didn’t kill each other this morning. He gave the hand signal to move out again, guiding the column forward on an old game trail.

EVENT +75:15

Limerick, Maine

Alex flipped the light switch, darkening the barn before stepping into the glaring sun. The impeccable blue sky held no clouds to shield the blistering orb peering above the eastern tree line. The house usually gave up the fight around noon, reaching intolerable levels of heat and humidity by two. The late afternoon was a complete loss, as the house absorbed everything the sun had to offer and radiated the misery inward. The pond served as their only possible refuge at that point. With the militia threat looming on the horizon, he didn’t foresee frolicking in the water. He almost wished for rain.

“Alex, we have movement along the northern perimeter, near the pond,” said Linda’s voice from the radio.

Alex locked the door from the inside and closed it. “Right along the pond?” he said, testing the door.

“Close enough. Something triggered the sensor facing inland from the waterline.”

“I’ll take a look. Get everyone in their positions. Someone needs to keep an eye on the sensors, in case we have another group out there,” said Alex, heading toward the front of the barn.

“Let’s just hope it was a deer,” she said.

Alex jogged along the red siding and reached the far front corner, taking a knee. He dug into one of his tactical vest pockets and removed the handheld radio’s earpiece, plugging it into the radio. Hollow static echoed through the earpiece as he leaned a few inches beyond the corner and peered through the ACOG scope. Bright green from direct sunlight, the trees and bushes along the edge of the clearing formed a dense screen. He’d have to get into the woods.

“Linda, I’m heading into the forest to take a closer look. I can’t see anything from here. I’ll be right back,” said Alex.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Tim over the line.

Alex had forgotten that everyone was on the primary tactical frequency.

“Just a quick peek to give us something to work with. I’ll be back in less than two minutes. Out.”

End of discussion.

Alex crouched and sprinted toward the northwest corner of the clearing, cursing the entire two hundred feet. He’d taken a questionable risk running across flat, exposed ground, gambling on the enemy force’s concentration in one location. If others had slipped the sensor net and taken positions closer to the clearing, his darting figure would have attracted immediate, lethal attention. Maybe they were waiting until he stopped. He hit the ground next to a thick raspberry bush and crawled through a low opening in the thorny mess. Lush raspberry bushes ringed the edges of the clearing, where they thrived in the sun. They also formed a low-budget barbed-wire fence along the closest points of approach to the house. Anyone sprinting out of the forest was in for a nasty surprise.