Free Harmonic: Resonance by Nico Laeser Page A

Randall built a simple skeletal frame, using spare lumber from the barn. From the wooden frame, they hung curtains, obsolete in their intended function since the boarding up of all windows.
    The ghosts had their privacy, and we had ours.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    18 | Standoff
     
    With the constant chaos of living with the dead, we had all but forgotten about the threat posed by the living, but as Gary had warned, it was only a matter of when.
    After refueling the generator from the slip tank, Powell shouted through the open door that several vehicles were headed up the hill.
    “Probably seen the smoke. Damn it,” Gary said, glancing at the fireplace.
    “What do we do?” I asked.
    “Whatever we have to,” Gary replied.
    We followed Gary’s lead, retrieving our assigned weapons and dispersing to our preplanned positions. As we waited for the vehicles to make their long climb up the dirt road, Gary leaned his shotgun against the rear tire of my dad’s truck, walked around the truck, and out into the open. I peered over toward the barn and could just make out the crouched shape of a figure in the open doorway. If I had looked through the scope, I would have been able to make out Powell’s features and the make and model of the rifle in his hands—the thought of pointing a loaded rifle at another human being made my stomach churn. I glanced up at the gap between the boards fixed over the window of my father’s bedroom and saw the muzzle of a rifle staring out toward the road.
    I adjusted my position in the long dry grass and focused on the approaching vehicles. Even through the scope, I could not make out the driver of either vehicle, although my mind raced to paint images behind the glass and steering wheel. Aside from the dust kicked up behind the truck and SUV, they didn’t seem to move at all.
    The distant air shimmered in the scope as I watched for what felt like hours. When the sound of running engines reached my ears, it had to compete with the beat of my pounding pulse, thumping in my head and now visible in the scope as I tried to steady it on target. I readjusted my positioning on the diamond-hatched grip and stock. I had to remind myself to breathe, and to ignore the quiver in my bladder, as I worked through Gary’s plan in my mind.
    The rifle in my hands was a bolt-action .308, as much kick and stopping power as my dad’s 12-gauge shotgun, but with greater range and accuracy according to Gary. Gary had warned that by the time I could ready the rifle for a second shot, the fight would probably be over, so I had to make my first shot count.
    My part in the plan was to remain in cover with my rifle aimed at the first person to get out of the vehicle, and at the first signs of that man reaching for a weapon, I was to put a bullet through his shoulder. In the following chaos, Gary would take cover behind the truck and retrieve the shotgun.
    This scenario had been drawn out like a football play and rehearsed many times. Our coach had explained each of our positions on the team, from the first shot, my shot , to the covering fire from the upper window and the crossfire from the barn. Gary was to collect the shotgun and circle around to the back of the vehicle or, as in this case, vehicles, and finish the play.
    In the planning and rehearsal, it felt more like boys playing war games, and when I caught the preacher’s eyes on us, I felt ashamed and embarrassed, like a child on the cusp of being too old for toys, having been caught playing make-believe. Randall took no part in the planning or the war games, and during the standoff, he was to remain inside to keep Haley safe, at Sean’s request.
    The reality of aiming a gun at another person was very different from thinking about it. The truck slowed to a crawl and crunched to a halt on the dry dirt, around ten feet away from where Gary stood waiting. My hands were trembling so violently and uncontrollably that it would have taken a great deal of luck to land a