Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“I want to see the whole place. That path looks wide enough,” Eli said, pointing to a gravel path flanked by brush and a “no vehicles past this point” sign.

Several seconds on the camp’s central pedestrian thoroughfare yielded tennis courts and a cluster of six cabins nestled into the woods. Shimmering water peeked between the trees behind the bungalows. A few minutes later, they returned to the loop in front of the lodge. He liked what he saw. More than enough structures to house the militia—with room to grow with each batch of recruits. Fresh water on both sides of the camp. The place was located between two sizeable “ponds,” forming a land bridge between them. The idea of a ready-made barracks appealed to him the most, along with the lodge, which gave them a central meeting place. His biggest problem with Camp Hiawatha was its location.

First, it wasn’t set far enough back from Route 160. The area wasn’t exactly a high-population zone, but at the end of the road, near the lake, he could see several houses on the water. Located less than two miles from Porter, Maine, the high volume of vehicle traffic and activity generated by his militia would undoubtedly attract attention. The camp was an obvious choice for investigation if the government caught wind of them. He needed something more remote. Eli really wanted this place to work, but there was no point in forcing a round peg into a square hole, or whatever the stupid saying was.

“Take us back onto 160. North. I have a better idea,” he said.

Less than a minute later, he ordered the driver to turn left on Porterfield Road. GPS indicated that the road forked about a mile and a half away, Porterfield Road continuing north and Norton Hill Road heading east. He liked the idea of heading east toward the New Hampshire border. Eli also knew from experience that the areas east of 160 were mostly empty. He’d be shocked to find more than four or five homesteads on this road. Easy pickings out here, unless they stumbled onto another government safe house. Just the fleeting thought of his failed attack enraged him. The driver’s eyes darted nervously to his balled-up fists.

Eli counted the turnoffs along the hard-packed dirt road, jotting notes into a sweat-stained pocket notebook with a stubby, dull pencil. Five so far, mostly mobile homes or dilapidated saltboxes set close to the road. One dirt driveway extended out of sight, but it was too close to Route 160. They passed a patchy field on the left, which gave Eli hope, but he didn’t see a driveway or a structure. It looked like someone had cleared the land and given up. A few minutes later, they approached a possible intersection.

“Stop at that intersection. Windows down,” he said.

The word “intersection” was a generous description for the accidental convergence of two rural dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. The path heading south looked more like a well-worn ATV trail, which could prove useful for winter movement. No way anyone was getting around southern Maine once the snow started falling. He had a feeling that plowing the roads to facilitate insurgent movement wouldn’t be high on Homeland’s priority list. The road north held promise. Penetrating a thick stand of trees along the road, he caught glimpses of open fields in the distance. Best of all, it wasn’t shown on GPS.

“Let’s recon this road,” he said, pointing north.

A rectangular field flanked the road once they broke through the trees. Measuring roughly two football fields long and one field wide, the grasses had been recently cut. Another tree break separated the field from a vast, open farm, easily stretching three times the length of the first field. Lush fields of late August produce bloomed on each side of the road, planted in organized rows that suggested the use of industrialized farm equipment. A house and barn stood amidst a clump of trees at the top of the road. Rows of corn baked under the sun in fields barely visible beyond the house.

“Jackpot,” he said and removed the York County Sheriff’s badge from a pouch on his tactical vest.

“Go slow when we get to the end of the road. No sense in scaring anyone.”

The road emptied into the farm compound, which gave Eli goose bumps. This was more than a jackpot. It was the grand prize. Easily measuring fifty feet on all sides, a thriving vegetable garden greeted them on the left. The barn dwarfed the generous farmhouse, serving as a backdrop for three neatly parked green tractors. A few other well-maintained structures stood in the shadow of the barn. Chicken coop? The smell of livestock and hay washed through the Bronco’s windows, reminding him of the York County Fair. This was the place.

“Why don’t you stop up here,” said Eli, pinning the badge to the left side of his vest while the car slowed to a stop.

“Keep your weapons out of sight, and do not get out of this vehicle unless I tell you to—or if I’m shot dead. Understand?”

A cacophony of “yes, sirs” reassured him that they got the message. He opened the door and stepped onto the dusty driveway, his sweat glands immediately responding to the direct sunlight. He pulled a black ball cap from the cargo pocket of his mud-crusted pants and pulled it tightly over his head, exposing the words “York County Sheriff.” Unsnapping his hip holster behind the car door, he glanced at the driver.

“If you see something that ain’t right, honk the horn,” he said, shutting the door and walking toward the house.

He got halfway to the covered porch when a man wearing jeans and a dirty white T-shirt appeared on the right side of the house. He cradled a pump action shotgun across his chest, the wood fore-end nestled into the crook of his left elbow, finger in the trigger well. The brim of a faded green John Deere hat shaded his eyes, which never left Eli. Tufts of gray hair poked out of the hat.

“Can I help you, Deputy?”

“Sorry to startle you like this. Deputy Russell. York County Sheriff’s tactical response team,” he said, pointing at his hat.

“A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?” said the man, glancing from Eli to the SUV.

“We had two families murdered in Cornish yesterday and a report of three men staying at Hiawatha. Oxford County couldn’t spare the manpower. We didn’t find anything at the camp. We’re doing a quick sweep before we call it quits. Getting crazy out there,” said Eli, keeping his hands open at chest height.

“We haven’t seen or heard anything unusual since the morning of the 19 th.”

“Well, sorry to trouble you. Stay safe,” he said.

“Same to you, Deputy,” he said, relaxing his grip and taking his finger out of the trigger well.

Eli’s pistol cleared the holster before the farmer could grip the shotgun in both hands. Not taking any chances, Eli started walking left, firing his .45 Colt Commander with both hands as the farmer tried to bring the shotgun around. The first bullet grazed the man’s left shoulder, slowing his efforts to turn the shotgun on him. The next three bullets missed entirely, forcing Eli to stop and kneel as the barrel swung precariously in his direction. Any further and the buckshot spread might have a chance of hitting him. Quickly forming the sight picture between his match-grade sights, he pressed the trigger, snapping the farmer’s head back. Another trigger press blew out the back of the man’s neck. Eli reloaded as he sprinted to the side of the house.

The temperature dropped several degrees in the shade next to the house, clearing his head a little. He grabbed the shotgun and pointed it at the door located toward the back of the house. A screen door swung open, and Eli discharged the shotgun, punching several holes through the loose screen and knocking a gray-haired woman into the backyard. Eli signaled for the rest of the men to join him, hearing doors open and slam shut as he slowly approached the side door. A revolver lay in the grass a few feet past the door, directly underneath a shiny patch of blood-splattered siding. The air wafting out of the door reminded him of a bakery.