The work radio on the office desk gave three sharp static bursts before Ada Bell’s voice cut through the hiss, flat and dry as winter corn husks.
“Mara. Keller wasn’t lying about the sweep. A scout truck with Rolla plates just passed the elevator siding heading north toward the quarry. They’re running without headlights.”
Mara held the microphone close to her mouth. The office was freezing; to save firewood, they had banked the stove down to a dull cherry glow. “How many do you have in the hall?”
“Forty-four when the sun came up,” Ada replied. Paper rustled across the open channel. “We’ve divided the census. Nineteen voted for the Oakhaven run. Pete Miller’s got two John Deeres with covered silage wagons and three drums of red diesel. They’re taking the ridge trail west. It’s rough, but there are no culverts to wash out and Venn’s patrols don’t like steep timber.”
“That leaves twenty-five,” Mara said.
“Eleven are staying here,” Ada said, her voice dropping a fraction. “Marisol Vega, the municipal electricians, two boiler tenders, and six civic guards. If we abandon the municipal relay completely, the copper will freeze and crack by morning, and every water pipe between here and the creek will burst. They’re locking down the basement boiler room under the hall’s core ground plate. That leaves fourteen.”
