Survival EMP (Book 3): Solar Dawn by Lopez Rob

Author:Lopez, Rob [Lopez, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Post-Apocalyptic | EMP | Survival
Published: 2018-12-12T05:00:00+00:00

19

The Asheville coal-fired power plant stood on the shore of Lake Julian. According to Parson’s intelligence report, this was where a band of particularly troublesome marauders had taken refuge. In the pre-dawn light, the plant towers were silhouetted against the lightening sky. Connors had already surveyed the structure the day before on a recon mission. The plant was on a promontory that jutted into the lake, linked by an exposed railroad bridge to the east. The only avenues for attack were from the woods bordering the French Broad to the west, and the slag heaps to the south, all overlooked by tall gantries. It was a good defensive position against the kind of retaliation that a small local community might be able to muster.

But not against a hundred men backed by a heavy weapons squad.

“Try not to damage the infrastructure,” said Connors, lowering his binoculars. “It might be useful in the future.”

The militia, drilled hard at Biltmore, nervously filtered into position. Each one of them had been given a green scarf to tie to one arm as a way of identifying each other in the thick of the action. Not that Connors expected there to be much action. The marauders, whoever they were, did not even have a sentry on the gantries.

“Begin your attack, Corporal.”

Parson turned to Connors. “You don’t think we should give them a chance to surrender first?” he said.

“Nope. Just begin.”

Parson blew a whistle. Nothing much happened, so he blew it again. Tentatively, the militia started their advance, leaving the cover of the trees. Feeling exposed before the hulking silhouette of the power plant, they began bunching up, exactly as they’d been told not to do. A single shot rang out from the plant, and near on a hundred men threw themselves down to the dirt in unison.

“Do you see him, Leon?” said Connors.

“Yep,” said Leon, peering through his big light-gathering scope. The sniper rifle barked, and a shadow in a doorway flinched.

“Go, go, go!” shouted Parson.

Nobody felt inclined to move until they could see who’d shot at them. A figure appeared on a gantry, and Taft nailed him with the fifty caliber rifle, daylight appearing through the man’s chest.

“Come on!” called Parson, running to where his men lay. A few of them got up, following his lead.

Another figure ran between two buildings in the plant. Fick had the machine gun ready. He squeezed the trigger and released a fast clack-clack-clack-clack that caught the runner and jerked him with heavy caliber rounds, dropping him to the ground.

Seeing comrades running ahead, militiamen picked themselves up and moved in staggered lines over the slag heaps in a scene that resembled the storming of Stalingrad. Parson reached the first building and kicked the door open, spraying bullets inside.

As the militiamen swarmed through the plant, Connors caught sight of four people running away over the railroad bridge. Focusing his binoculars he saw it was three men and a woman, fleeing for their lives.

“Fick. The bridge.”

“On it.”

The machine gun clattered, joined by the sniper rifles.

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