Human Extinction Level Loss (Book 3): Liberation by Philip A. McClimon Page A

hills was nestled the town of Centerville. Behind him, a railroad track curved into the distance, then swung back through the town. As the horde would pass, He had just a scant few moments to locate his target before they would become obstructed by houses, buildings, and interlacing streets.
    Jacob lay prostrate, his rifle in position, scope on the road. Beside him, his ledger was opened to the back page, a blank page. A pen rested there. Without taking his eye from the scope, Jacob gave Tommy instructions.
    “Write your father’s name on the page. It’s important that you do it… that you have a record… so that later you will know and have no doubt.”
    Tommy took his eyes from the binoculars and looked at Jacob. Jacob kept his position. Tommy reached over and took the pen in his hand. At the top of the page, in his best handwriting, slow and careful, Tommy wrote,
     
    Officer Mark Sanders
     
    Tommy looked at the name for several seconds, then made a decision. Next to the name he wrote,
     
    My Dad
     
    Tommy placed the pen back on the page and slid the book back to Jacob. He picked up the binoculars and, together with Jacob, kept unflinching vigil on the stretch of road leading into town. Beverly stood with her back to them. She stared down the long stretch of railroad tracks with her arms wrapped around her, feeling a chill despite the warmness of the day.
     
    The horde appeared an hour later. It covered the width of the road. Those on the extreme edges collided and careened off the steep embankments of the hills on either side. Some stumbled and fell in gullies, only to rise and shuffle forward. They filled the vision of both scope and binoculars.
    “Call out to me when you see him,” Jacob said.
    Tommy, unflinching in his survey, answered.
    “I will.”
     
    The day wore on and Jacob had taken two shots. Two more names from his own book. Always Jacob flipped back to the last page, the name Officer Mark Sanders uncrossed.
    Finally, the rearguard of the horde began to appear, stragglers, made so by the marks of their initiation, too damaged and worn down by the constant friction of decaying flesh and asphalt. Still Tommy scanned, his hope sinking even as cold panic began to rise that he might not see his father, might not be given the opportunity to sing out, might not get to free his father from the walking death. His own mind and body began to become an enemy. Having kept focus for so many hours, he grew tired. His eyes played tricks on him.
    Was that him?! No, wrong color shirt. What about him? No, my Dad never wore those pants…
    Tommy lowered the binoculars for just a second, rubbed his dry, weary eyes. Beside him, unflinching, Jacob gave his warning.
    “Keep your vigil.”
    Tommy placed the binoculars back to his eyes and scanned. He moved down the road and followed a small pack.
    No… No… No… Wait! There!
    Tommy got to his knees and leaned forward as if a couple more inches would give him a better view.
    “There he is, Sheriff Miller! There’s my Dad!” Tommy yelled.
    Beside him Jacob was calm.
    “Describe him. What is he wearing?” he said.
    “The red tee shirt and cargo pants! There!” Tommy yelled.
    Beverly clung to herself even tighter and turned towards them. She waited for the shot to ring out, the shot that would release her husband from a walking nightmare and her son from Death’s hold, the shot that would allow them both to move on. The seconds ticked by and no shot came.
    Beside Jacob, Tommy lowered the binoculars. He began to holler.
    “You missed him! You didn’t free him! My Dad!”
    The fear and desperation in Tommy’s voice were too much for Beverly, she turned and seized her son, pressing him to her breast. His body spasmed as he wailed against her.
    Across from her, Jacob calmly rose. Walking to the rear of the Cherokee, he broke down his rifle and stowed it. He retrieved his body armor and began to strap it on. Bracers, vest, leather jacket, fingerless gloves, shin