City Father

Gart snapped a fresh magazine into his pulse rifle, hoping the soft “click” would not be picked up by the enemy sensors. He raised one eyebrow, sniffing the dank cellar air. It wasn’t getting any fresher in here, not with Jones’s decomposing torso only ten paces away.
It had been a good three days, at least until Jonesy bit it. They had made some real progress, pushing back the Jeffersonians. The city limits were secure – for now, anyway – but someone had to work recon, and it was Gart’s turn to draw short straw.
Sometimes it was hell to be Mayor.