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The trucks stopped at the crossroads. Cpl. Karina Ivanova — known as "Bolt" on account of her love for sniper rifles — was one of the last out. It had been a bumpy ride; the truck was no military vehicle, but some rusty heap ready for the scrapyard. Her unit had only been in San Lazaro for 24 hours and there wasn’t enough transportation to move them all.

Bolt pulled her backpack on and looked around. They were close to a gas station, at one end of a wide street named Washington Drive, next to Republic Square. Crowd control barriers had been laid out to form a blockade, and a handful of San Lazaro police were already there. The two trucks pulled away, having unloaded around 40 of the Lazarus National Guard under the command of Capt. Casper Nash. Like most of them, Nash was a "weekend warrior,”, an accountant Monday through Friday. As a marksmanship instructor, Bolt was one of the few full-timers in the unit.

"Sure hope we don’t have to kill anyone," said Phillips, a private who worked at a vineyard in the Yana Valley.

"Nah," said Duggan, a computer programmer. "Bolt will kill them for us."

Bolt did not react to his smirk. She didn’t much like the informality of the National Guard. She preferred the serious professionalism of the Marine Corps, which she had joined at 18. Her compatriots in the Guard knew she had been an active sniper; they would never know quite how many targets she had eliminated on behalf of her government.

Bolt was used to being called upon at a moment’s notice, but this crisis had come out of the blue. There had been some outbreak of disease in San Lazaro, and the Guard was there to help restore order. Her unit had gathered at a base in Ashland three days earlier and been given various injections. Nobody seemed sure if they would work.

"You know why we’re here, Corp?" asked another soldier.

Bolt shook her head. "No, but it looks like we might be about to find out."

Capt. Nash had finished talking to the police officers and now hurried over to his unit.

"All right, gather round and listen up! Jesus, Duggan, put that smoke out."

With a roll of his eyes, Duggan dropped his cigarette and ground it into the pavement with his boot.

Bolt made sure she was close to the front. From what she’d seen, Nash was a pretty average officer, but she didn’t want to miss anything.

"Helicopter surveillance reports a large group of civilians on the move. They’ve broken through the police line and are headed our way. Now, these people have been through a hell of a lot, we all know that, but the quarantine order has to be enforced — we’re here to enforce it." Capt. Nash turned and pointed to the police officers. "These guys have lost good men this morning, and I’m not about to do the same. They have a few canisters of tear gas, but if that doesn’t stop these folks, we need to be ready to do what’s necessary."

Phillips raised his hand. "Sir, with respect, I didn’t join the Guard to kill other Americans."

"Neither did I, private. But I’ve got my orders, and now you’ve got yours. Cpl. Benedict will take the left side of the road, Cpl. Ivanova the right. Dismissed."

-----

It was a hot afternoon. The soldiers drank water, smoked and waited. At 16:05, Capt. Nash received an update and informed his corporals that the crowd had just turned off of Washington Drive into Republic Square. There were at least a hundred of them, mainly young men. They were not looting or committing other criminal acts; they simply wanted to escape San Lazaro.

Five minutes later, Bolt saw them: a striding mass of angry humanity. Some were unarmed, but many had baseball bats, pipes and other makeshift weapons. The police exhausted their supply of tear gas quickly. It dispersed the crowd temporarily, but soon they were back, marching towards the barricades. The senior officer spoke to them via a megaphone, but they ignored it completely and were soon within 300 feet.

Bolt looked around. She was armed with a Lukov SVX scout rifle, but most of her compatriots were armed with R-16s. Their automatic fire would turn the crowd into mincemeat.

One hundred and fifty feet.

Bolt turned around. "Sir, permission to try something?"

Nash — who often asked her for advice — nodded immediately.

"Nobody else fire!" she shouted, before raising her Lukov and picking her target.

The first shot split a wooden baseball bat in half. The second sent a shovel head careening over the crowd. The third popped a broken glass bottle into 100 tiny shards. Somehow, nobody was hurt. 

The rest of the crowd halted, suddenly quiet.

"Those three were lucky!" shouted Bolt. "Turn around."

Some had gone to aid the injured. Others were spitting insults at the soldiers or jeering — encouraging each other to keep going.

"Bolt," said Pvt. Phillips quietly. "Short guy. Green jacket. Handgun."

She found the target, and saw instantly that there was no avoiding injury this time: He was about to fire. Bolt was quicker to the trigger. She shot him right below his trigger-finger, and he toppled backwards, the ruined pistol clattering across the street.

"Last chance!" yelled Capt. Nash.

The sight of the bleeding man changed everything.

Some turned and ran; others walked.

"Leave any wounded," ordered Nash. "We’ll look after them."

A last few diehards shouted abuse, but soon the street was empty except for the wounded man. The police officers ran first to the man with the gun, who was cradling his wrist. One officer bandaged him up. After a few moments, the officer walked over, shaking his head.

"He’ll never use that hand again."

Captain Nash walked over and put a hand on Bolt’s shoulder. "You had to do it. You saved lives."

"The captain’s right, corp," said Phillips.

"Nice work, corp," added Duggan. "Really."

Bolt shouldered her rifle and walked away from the barricade.

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