Read Online Event Horizon by Steven Konkoly - Free Book Online Page B

leaking like a sieve right now, leaving us exposed to the same horrors that migrated into Maine during the 2013 pandemic. The sherriff’s department personnel assigned to these parts are nowhere to be found and—”
    “They’ve been murdered. Haven’t you heard?” said an elderly white-haired man from the back of the room.
    No kidding.
    “We’ve been so busy helping the State Police at the borders, I haven’t—this is horrible. What happened?” said Eli.
    “Three of them were killed at home. Assassinated along with their families. The other is missing, along with his car. He lived in West Newfield. Residents in town heard gunshots soon after that airwave hit us.”
    The room launched into an uproar, which gave Eli the precious moments he needed to capitalize on the “news.” He couldn’t have planted a better link to what he needed to say next.
    “This can’t be happening,” said Eli, feigning shock and indignation. “This has to be related to the massacre!”
    “What massacre?” asked a woman near the front of the room.
    “At the border,” said Eli, counting on others to eavesdrop.
    “Where?” asked a young man a little further back.
    “Milton Mills. The whole border checkpoint was ambushed. All of my men were killed. Completely wiped out! We also found a possible mass grave behind the Methodist church on Foxes Ridge Road, just a few miles from the New Hampshire border. We’d brought supplies over to the church, since it was so close to the border. Figured it might be a good place to feed and shelter the folks trying to get home to points north. Mainers have been showing up on foot from all over New England. By the time they get to the border, they’re spent and out of resources. We let at least fifty through in the first twenty-four hours, until I lost contact with the squad out in Milton Mills…” he said, trailing off for effect.
    “What happened to them?” yelled a man from the back.
    “What massacre?”
    “Who was in the mass grave?”
    One of the town selectman, standing along the wall near the door, shouted, “Everyone! Keep it down! This is important!”
    “Once we realized that this was more than some freak power outage,” Eli continued, “I drove Route 11 to the border to see if I could offer any assistance and—”
    “Where did you find a car that worked?”
    “We have a big organization,” he lied, “and a few of our cars survived. We were lucky. Anyway, State Troopers at the border told me that they didn’t have enough personnel to watch some of the smaller crossings until the National Guard fully mobilized, which may never happen, but that’s a different story. They asked us to set up border checkpoints at some of the smaller crossings past Milton Pond, doing the same thing the police are doing—screening refugees for Maine residents. Nobody wants a repeat of 2013, right?”
    The group nodded and muttered in agreement.
    “I lost radio contact with the squad at Milton Mills the night before…” He faded off, shaking his head slowly.
    The room fell silent, everyone holding their breath for Eli’s next words.
    “I drove out there myself yesterday afternoon and found them dead. Twelve well-trained, heavily armed militiamen killed in an ambush—by extremely accurate gunfire.”
    “Who killed them?” asked several citizens at once.
    “The same unit that killed everyone at the Methodist church. We found fifty plus bodies in the forest. All shot in the head, execution style. I had a few guys helping out at the church. They put up one hell of a fight, but whoever did this…” another well-placed shake of the head, “I haven’t seen anything like this since El Salvador.”
    At 58 years old, the closest Eli Russell had come to Central America in his lifetime was a one-time trip to an all-inclusive resort in Cancun, Mexico, with his ex-wife. He’d joined the army in 1981, completing the infantry basic training and airborne training in Fort Benning, Georgia. His