The approaching civilians stopped short of the gate. They were quickly grouped together and formed into a long line with the Deltas directly behind them and to the side, effectively fencing them off. One by one, a Gold Sleeve would leave the gate and approach a family unit. Dividing a parent and children from the others, the alien would then escort these small groups through the gates, a new gold member replacing it before identifying a new batch of civilians.
On more than one occasion, a civilian would hesitate or resist instructions to follow; these would somehow be dropped to the ground then carried by a Red. Soon the entire group of civilians was inside the walls. The Deltas turned and began moving back down the path into the direction they’d come from with the Red Sleeves forming up to follow them.
The pedestrian gate was now closed; the Reds inside the wall vanished.
“What just happened?” Jacob whispered, seeing the last of the marching Deltas fade from sight.
“They’re herding us; using the Deltas as sheep dogs, and those damn Reds as shepherds. That explains what we found. They killed off all the men, gathered the women and children, and took them here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I think they’re safe. Why take them and go to all of this trouble just to kill them?”
“Why do any of this? What are we going to do?”
Before Rogers could answer, the snapping of distant gunfire echoed through the valley, a single gunshot quickly followed by two more.
Rogers grunted and pushed away. “And that would be James. It’s time to move.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Clem rolled his shoulders, forcing aches and cramps from his weary muscles. His pack and rifle lay at his feet. So far he’d managed to keep up with the younger men, but at over sixty years old, he knew his days were catching up with him. It took them all night to make the climb to the top of Emmerson’s Ridge, and now they were all paying for it. Exhausted and pushed to the limits, the stress of moving through the enemy territory had worn heavily on him. Looking around, for the first time, Clem began to regret having joined up with this group.
He was doing fine on his own. Surviving the initial attacks then living quietly in a secluded cabin between the American lines to the west and the Canadian forces behind him to the east. He’d managed to stay hidden from the waves of refugees, and even score a way to trade goods with the passing patrols. The American soldiers were always willing to give up a few rounds of ammunition or a ration pack for a portion of his homemade wine and spirits. Masterson and his instructors had become some of his best customers—probably why he allowed them near his place after the big bomb dropped, and then allowed himself to be convinced to go with them.
The old man lowered himself to the ground and leaned back against his pack. He was no stranger to this life. Not so much a soldier, but having spent a career working with the intelligence service, Clem had paid his dues on the ground and in the bush. Still, he was no infantry commander, and he felt at odds in his current situation. Surrounded by the grunts and their leaders, he felt exposed and vulnerable. His trade had called for being alone or in a small group, hidden in plain sight. Clem knew he didn’t belong; he was used to working with a scalpel, whereas the tool of choice for these men was a chainsaw.
There were caches of food and ammunition hidden along the ridge and Masterson had his men moving up and down it, securing the goods. Men stacked bundles of stockpiled weapons and ammunition, all makes and model of military arms hidden there weeks ago.
Clem watched as the veteran soldier approached him. He waved a hand, inviting the tired soldier to sit. Masterson nodded in recognition of the gesture and turned to look back down the valley before slowly lowering himself to a knee. The man was breathing hard and sweat lined his brow. Clem extended a hand and tossed the man a canteen filled with cold water. The soldier put it to his lips and drank thirstily.
Masterson dropped to the ground and let the canteen fall by his side. “You know, I thought we were winning again; maybe had the black-eyed bastards pushed back. After everything we went through, the numbers we’ve lost, I thought we were finally gaining ground again.
“But this—whatever this is—Clem, you know in the last forty-eight hours we’ve lost everything we’ve gained? I don’t know what we have left to fight for. For the first time, I don’t know what in the hell to do, or how in the hell to do it.”
Clem nodded, looking along the cluster of men hidden in the rocks and stumps along the ridgeline, most of them now asleep under ponchos while a small working party was reloading magazines and sorting through supplies. He reached across the ground and retrieved the canteen, returning it to his belt. He sighed and leaned farther into his pack. “You need to cut them loose,” Clem said.
“Loose?!” Masterson said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
The old man dipped his chin and used a hand to rub his wrinkled brow. “You had what? Two hundred men three days ago; a hundred yesterday and now down to forty, maybe fifty, still able to fight. You need to create a smaller footprint, and you need to do it fast before they are all gone. Send them to ground.”
“Not much of a plan.”
“It’s the best I got for you, Matt,” Clem said, using the old soldier’s nickname. “Divide
