Chapter 7: Racks of military-grade rifles, M4s, AK-47s… lined the walls
The world had shrunk to the texture of rough-hewn wood under his fingertips and the hammering of his own heart. The moon was a sliver of bone in a sky choked with clouds, offering just enough light to see the silhouette of the palisade wall, but not enough to betray him. It was past midnight; the last coughs of conversation from the watchtowers had faded an hour ago, replaced by the slow, rhythmic cadence of men fighting sleep.
Nate moved like a shadow bleeding across the compound's outer edge. He'd found his point of entry not by flaw, but by nature: a tall, gnarled oak whose limbs stretched over the wall, one heavy branch dangling temptingly close to the top. The climb had been a symphony of agony. Every splinter in the bark felt driven into his palms. Every creak of the wood was a gunshot in the silence. He'd hauled his exhausted body onto the branch, inched along its length, and dropped the final few feet into the compound, landing in a crouch on soft earth, his muscles screaming.
He froze, listening. Only the wind answered, sighing through the pines on the cliff face. He was in.
The compound was a cluster of dark shapes against the darker rock. He moved from building to building, using the deep pools of shadow as his road. The first structure was a long, low barracks. Through a grimy window, he saw four men asleep on cots, their breathing a steady drone. The next had a single light under the door, and from within, he heard the rhythmic, grunting cadence of sex, a woman's muffled gasp that sounded more pained than pleasurable. The sound twisted in his gut, a confirmation of his grim theories. He moved on, a ghost disgusted by the land of the living.
Then, he found the kitchen. The smell of old grease and cured meat was intoxicating. He slipped inside, his hands trembling as he found a loaf of hard bread and a chunk of salted pork. He didn't just eat; he devoured, tearing at the meat with his teeth, the salt and fat an explosion on his starved tongue. He forced himself to stop, his stomach aching with the sudden influx. He found a burlap sack and began to fill it with ruthless efficiency: more hardtack, a pouch of dried fruits, a small sack of beans. About a dozen cans of food. Some other sweets like bars. A week, maybe two, if he was careful. It was enough. It was life.
Slinging the sack over his shoulder, he continued his silent pilgrimage deeper into the heart of the compound. He passed more roomsone filled with sacks of grain, another with tools but he gnored them. He needed a weapon.
He found it at the end of the central path, a building more stoutly built than the others, with a heavy, reinforced door that was, miraculously, unlocked. He slipped inside, and his breath caught in his throat.
It wasn't an armry. It was an arsenal.
The room was a treasure trove of controlled violence. Racks of military-grade rifles, M4s, AK-47s… lined the walls. A long table held several sniper rifles, their scopes like unblinking metal eyes. Cases of ammunition were stacked to the ceiling, tens of thousands of rounds gleaming in the faint light. There were submachine guns, shotguns, boxes of fragmentation grenades. This wasn't the collection of survivalists. This was the stockpile of an army, or something far more sinister. Who were these people?
The question was a luxury he couldn't afford. He snapped into action, his movements swift and silent. He shrugged off the burlap sack and grabbed a military-style backpack from a hook. He filled it with boxes of 5.56mm and 7.62mm rounds. He slung a compact, deadly M4 carbine assault rifle over his shoulder. His eyes fell on a powerful-looking M110 sniper rifle; it was overkill, but the promise of reach and power was irresistible. He took it too.
He was just turning, the weight of his new arsenal both terrifying and empowering, when a footstep scuffed on the gravel path outside.
Instinct took over. There was no time for thought. He dropped the sniper rifle, its clatter masked by the sound of the door swinging open. In one fluid motion, he drew a long, wicked combat knife from a sheath on a nearby rack and melted into the deep shadow beside the doorframe.
The man walked n, humming softly to himself, a silhouette of arrogance even in the dark.
It was Pierce.
He didn't see Nate. He was heading for the rifle racks, a man comfortable in his domain.
Nate didn't hesitate. He lunged from the darkness, his left arm hooking around Pierce's chest, yanking him backward off balance. His right hand, holding the knife, swept forward in a single, brutal arc.
The sensation was wet and gristly. The blade met the soft, vulnerable flesh of Pierce's throat and sliced deep.
A hot, arterial spray erupted, painting the dark air, splattering across Nate's face and hands. It smelled of copper and iron. Pierce made a wet, gurgling sound, a horrible parody of a breath. His body convulsed in Nate's grip, his hands fluttering up to the ruin of his neck, trying to staunch a life that was already pouring out onto the dirt floor. Nate held him tight, his own body rigid with the shock of the act, until the struggles weakened and then ceased. He let the body drop, and it landed with a sickening, final thud.
Nate stood there, panting, staring at the corpse of the man who had flicked a twenty-dollar bill at him. The arrogant, sun-tanned face was now a mask of slack-jawed surprise, already paling in death. The blood was a black pool in the gloom, still spreading.
Then he heard a sharp, indrawn breath.
He turned.
Skylar stood frozen in the doorway, her hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, saucers of horror, reflecting the faint light as they darted from the bloody knife in Nate's hand, to the pool of blood, to the lifeless form of Pierce.
"Holy shit," she whispered, the sound barely audible, yet it seemed to echo in the silent, weapon-stocked room.