Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall (10 page)

“That is actually not jungle, it’s all food, or plants that—”

“Shut the fuck up,” snapped the man, and he shoved the barrel painfully into Chihun’s ribs. “Turn around, and move. I won’t say it again.”

Chihun obeyed and hoped that if he died today, his soul would decide his karma was in balance; it would determine in part the circumstances of his birth when the next cycle of life began for him.

They reached the outskirts of the market garden. The foliage was high and dense enough to block the view, so the paths were all that could be seen from inside. Those paths started out narrow enough that the raiders had to walk single-file behind him.
 

Ahead, he saw a small open circular area; other narrow paths like this one branched from it, and a single slightly wider path extended out of sight toward the homestead. It was beautiful how all the paths of the garden mimicked the veins of a leaf, branching and narrowing as they extended out from the homestead itself.
 

He wasn’t sure whether the Clan meant to plant things in that way, but it made perfect sense. The pattern maximized crop area, minimized ground taken up by the paths, directed the flow of energy and the needed work in a peaceful and efficient way, and of course it was zen-like in its simplicity. How much else on this odd farm copied the patterns of nature? He would have to investigate, if he survived. Dying now would be a shame, with so much yet to discover about this interesting place.

As they approached the circular area ahead—a hub of branching paths—Chihun silently prayed:
Buddha, Dharma, and Sanha protect me if you will, and protect these good people of the Clan…

Chihun entered the circle, a simple dirt-and-gravel affair, and turned toward the thicker of the five paths that branched from it. That was the path that headed toward the next circle, which would lead to a thicker path, and again, until eventually they’d come out in front of the buildings of the homestead. But there was more in the circle than dirt and gravel. He’d overheard others talking about the traps and warning devices Michael had hidden at these hubs. He frantically looked around, all the while keeping his head still and his body relaxed, yet poised.

There! A thin length of fishing line stretched over the entry to the thicker path, all but invisible unless one looked for it. He prayed this was one of the alarms, rather than something lethal, but it didn’t seem likely the Clan would place lethal traps in a place like this, where work had to be done and children ran. If he was right, then the Red Locust would kill him, but the Clan would be alerted. If he was wrong, then the trap would kill him, and the Clan would be alerted.
 

In either case, his probable last act would be the protection of these innocents. Any people who could make a garden paradise like this, and treated a one-time prisoner like him with kindness—if not exactly trust—deserved to stay in this lifetime as long as their own natures allowed. Chihun thought about the karma this would bring to his soul, but that was a secondary benefit.

* * *

Cassy relaxed in the shade of the house under construction along with Frank and his wife, Mary. Cassy and Frank had spent the morning working on the house and were already covered in dirt and sweat. Mary had worked in the makeshift outdoor kitchen they’d built, getting lunch ready for everyone, and had brought food and plastic bottles of well water to the workers.

“So tell Mary how the defenses are coming, Frank,” Cassy said between bites of stew, more for small talk than anything. She already knew the answer from their weekly meetings. It was amazing how small talk had changed so much in so little time. She only half-listened as Frank summarized it for his wife. The long-term defenses would mostly be “living fences,” which were thorny, dense bushes planted along the perimeter. There would also be some willow trees that eventually would be coaxed to grow interwoven with each other, creating a durable fence. Right now they were only saplings, though, and the hedges would be solid long before. Still, Cassy noted wistfully how much the defenses were in keeping with the rest of the design philosophy of her farm, with everything impacting everything else in a dense web of life.

As he finished summarizing those details to his wife, Cassy nodded. “So we’re still focusing on early warning devices from Michael and small sandbagged foxholes to fall back to if we’re in the field when trouble comes?”

“Yep. The hard part is getting them emplaced without taking up good planting space. But we’re going to put one in each of the larger hubs out in the Jungle and among the food forest.”

The Jungle was what they’d started to call the sprawling intercropped intensive agricultural area, with the branching paths and so on. Cassy wasn’t sure when the term had gone from being a joke to being its proper name, with a capital “J.”

“Cool,” Cassy replied. “What’s the status of the chickens program? Did we lose those two chicks that hatched last week?”

“No, with the lightbulb and that nasty herb you soaked into their water bin, they came through. More will hatch any day. At this rate, we’ll have a full flock by winter, but then we’ll have to feed them. I’m going to recommend at the next meeting that we cull all the older ones and most of the hatchlings, keeping only the biggest and healthiest to start anew in the spring.”

“The plant’s called comfrey, Frank. Why can’t you remember that?” She smiled. “Internally, it’s mildly astringent and helps make for healthy lungs and intestines. The loose droppings have stopped since we began adding it, but I’m nervous to try a stronger concoction on little chickens.”

Frank was about to reply, when a deep boom sounded from far into the Jungle, accompanied by a white cloud. One of their trip-wire early warning traps, which were shotgun shells filled with baking soda, had gone off.

Cassy scrambled to her feet, reaching for her rifle that leaned against the wall of the house under construction. Fear shot through her. None of the Clan would have set that off. Someone was out there, but who? The odds were against it being someone friendly. As she looked out over the Jungle, she heard the
bang, bang, bang
of several rifles being fired, though she couldn’t tell if they were firing at the homestead. No ricochets, no tufts of dirt flying up.

She saw Frank grab Mary and dive over the low wall to take cover, and Cassy did the same. She peered over the wall even as she clicked off the safety of her M4. Once again, she was glad Michael insisted that rifles be issued and in the field at all times, though at the time—before the first Red Locust raid—it seemed like an unnecessary encumbrance. She glanced up at the watch tower, and just then another series of shots was fired by whoever was in the Jungle; the rounds hit the tower, but hit only the sandbags. The guard sensibly ducked behind cover, and she lost sight of him.

There was a pause in the shooting, and Cassy waited anxiously. Then there was movement in the Jungle, just beyond the raised beds right outside the houses, and she took aim. She was about to fire, when Choony burst out of the corn sprinting for the homestead. Had he set off the alarm? Where the hell was his escort, Martinez? As he came closer, she heard him screaming.

“Locusts! Locusts!” he repeated, and then dove over the low, unfinished wall of the house they were building. It was closer to the fields than the original house. He landed spread-eagle in a heap near Cassy.

The thoughts whizzed by like bullets. Choony had set off the alarm, intentionally, to alert the homestead. Martinez wasn’t behind him and was likely dead or injured out there somewhere. Because of the alarm, the Clan was armed and ready to face the threat, when they caught up.

She didn’t have long to wait. In seconds, there was rustling all along the deep strip of corn that fronted the Jungle. She took aim where she thought a person must be and fired. She was rewarded with an agonized scream, but she had no time to relish the small victory as the raiders returned fire. Shots came downrange from seemingly everywhere; there must be a dozen or more raiders, damn it all.

Duck. Rise, fire, duck. Repeat. Apparently, however, the raiders didn’t realize the houses were bulletproof, the sandbag-like construction offering all the protection the Clan needed. Thank God she’d built out of earthbags.

Cassy looked over at Frank, who frowned and nodded. She didn’t know what that meant. Then he rose up, fired a couple of shots, and ducked. To her left, from near the original house, she heard Michael’s clear, strong voice: “Mueller, Sturm, get eyes on our flanks! Tower, verified targets only! Eyes on, mister!” She heard him continue yelling, getting defenses at the house organized. But for now, Cassy, Frank, Mary and Choony were on their own, and only Frank and she had rifles.

Cassy stared at Choony for a long moment. Because of him, they had time to get the children inside the house. They had time to take cover. “Thank you, Choony,” she said with a single, curt nod. The young man had just earned his place.

* * *

1700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +22

Peter rode at the front with Jim, leading the wagons and a trail of people on foot. He had a new bruise over his swollen right eye and ad-hoc stitches in his left bicep. Those had come from attacking the fuckin’ red-clad cannibals, thanks to information Jim had “obtained” from their prisoner. Poor bastard didn’t survive interrogation, or maybe Jim had just killed him after questioning. Peter hadn’t asked about that.

After they’d slaughtered half of those desperate, starving morons—they put their sentries in all the wrong places, and Peter’s people picked ’em off one by one without even raising an alarm—their emaciated leader had called Peter out to single combat. Well, God was on
Peter’s
side that day, as he knew He would be. Once the Red leader was disemboweled, Peter offered the rest food and life if they joined him. Join or die. They’d all chosen to join. Heh, killing the leader took the starch out of ’em, Peter congratulated himself.

Now, instead of four dozen or so people, Peter had about seventy people under him. And that turned out to be a good thing—divine providence, really—because the Reds had informed him that there was another band of Red Locusts to the west, fucking with some farm. From their description, it sounded
remarkably
like the homestead the spy had fled to back when Peter tracked her down. The difference now was that the spy’s crew was building a fortified house, had three dozen people, and had just kicked the everliving
shit
out of the other Red Locust band. His new recruits didn’t know how many Locusts survived that, but they knew it wasn’t many. They couldn’t agree whether the spy’s group had lost one or two people, but either way it was a very lopsided victory. They unanimously blamed an apparently huge collection of early warning traps and alarms the farm people put up all around the property, scattered around for acres in every direction. Hell, that info was worth the couple friends he’d lost “recruiting” this band of Locusts to his team. Team Peter. Ixin’s Immortals? No, too flashy. People of the White Stag… Now
that
had promise. Peter made a note to find someone who could sew up a banner for him. It’d give him a pretty sweet air of mystery, he reckoned, something to inspire his followers. Hell, they didn’t even really deserve the salvation they’d get from this little modern-day Exodus. But, he needed someone to dig the dirt, because Peter Ixin, Chief of the People of the White Stag, would never have to break his back farming again when this worked out to the finish. How could it not end with victory? God Himself was on Peter’s side.

“I’m coming for you, bitch,” Peter muttered, “and Hell is coming with me.”

Jim smirked. “Ain’t that from a movie, boss? Yeah, that Tombstone movie. Man, I sure do miss movies.”

“Seemed apropos,” Peter said with a chuckle. “Besides, ‘Let my people go’ doesn’t really work in our situation.”

In a couple days, his scouts would return from the farm, and he’d have his people ready to get the revenge the bleeding world needed, realizing his destiny as the man who saved his people. Peter laughed out loud. Destiny was calling.

- 6 -

1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +23

CASSY WANDERED THE homestead, checking on the work parties tackling various projects and crop harvesting. Frank stood in the shade of the guard tower with Michael, having what looked like a heated conversation. She wanted to check in with Frank anyway, so she went over and stood nearby, waiting without interrupting.

“…can’t rely on just one obvious tower. We need a hidden observation post, too,” Michael said.

“I already told you, we don’t have the man-hours available to get that done,” Frank said. “We need houses, we need the outdoor kitchen expanded to feed the new people, we need to tend the farm continuously. Harvest time is on us, and I’m just glad Cassy was smart enough to plant lots of varieties that ripen at different times or we’d be screwed.” He turned to Cassy. “Don’t let that comment about you being smart go to your head,” he said, smiling.

Michael greeted Cassy with a nod, and said, “Why don’t we build a little tree stand on the far side of the houses, away from the tower? That would give concealment to a hidden lookout and won’t take long to set up.”

Frank looked thoughtful and nodded. “That’s true. I’ll tell you what—if the location is okay with Cassy, you and whoever wants to help can build it on your own time. I’ll reserve a couple of lanterns for you, so you’ll have light after it gets dark. You won’t have to stumble around out there. But that’s the best we can do, man. We’re just overloaded with things that need doing and can’t wait.”