Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall (2 page)

She was starting to squeeze the trigger when a dark mass burst from bushes nearby and plowed straight into the man Cassy had been sighting in on. A gleam of metal flashed in the sunlight, and Cassy watched as Dean Jepson plunged a knife into the other man’s throat. He bolted to his feet, bloody knife in hand, and whirled to face the others. It all happened so fast that Cassy hadn’t had time to redirect her aim.

Michael was faster, however; as the three remaining raiders turned to swing their rifles around toward Dean, Michael fired a single shot and the raider closest to Dean flopped over, most of his head missing.

Cassy again marveled at Michael’s ruthless efficiency in battle. She’d seen it before during the Clan’s violently dangerous trek to the hoped-for safety of what her mother called her “prepper farm.” As she watched in her scope, Dean took a step toward the other two raiders. Another shot rang out from within the house, but missed its target.

The other two raiders briefly stared at the mostly-headless body of their companion and then turned and sprinted away into the patchy woodlands nearby.

“Nice shooting,” said Cassy, and then climbed back atop her horse. When Michael mounted up again as well, she clucked her tongue against her front teeth,
tsk tsk
, and the horses began to walk down the hill. “Let’s go see what kind of welcome we’ll get.”

* * *

Peter Ixin pursed his lips in frustration. He’d returned from tailing Cassy to her farm to White Stag Farms, or what was left of it, and taken over the place with a little bit of violence and a lot of solid promises. The supervisors who still lived—after Peter’s demonstration of authority removed one of them from their midst—were compliant, showing no signs of resisting. Good, because he’d kill every last one of those morons if they ever showed the least bit of spine. No sir, Peter wasn’t gonna take any of their crap. Not anymore.

But despite their compliance, getting his people ready to move out was taking longer than expected, and his irritation grew. How the hell could he lead them to the promised land, like Moses before, if these lazy bastards wouldn’t work harder to get ready? Damn it, Moses never had to deal with people this lazy, why should Peter? It wasn’t right. Selfish pricks.

Next to him his right-hand man, Jim, muttered, “Okay boss, we got twelve carts salvaged with enough horses to pull ’em, along with our own mounts, and enough left over for a couple scouts to take point while we travel. And we managed to get all the chickens that lived through the bombing caged up and on the wagons. We got enough flour and rice and shit to make the journey. So why aren’t they ready to go yet?”

Peter grunted in agreement. “Seems they want to pack up their mementos. Sentimental bullshit. They need to make new memories in the place I’m leading them to, right?”

Jim chuckled for his boss. “Far as I see, the memories here sucked. Better off forgetting.”

Peter knew he was just being a toady, and he relished his new power over Jim and everyone around him. Now that he had the power, he’d been able to whip everyone into action despite the losers who didn’t want to go. Too fuckin’ bad. Peter wasn’t going to leave one damn lazy sumbitch behind. Not alive, anyway. He would need all the hands he could get to take over that sweet little farm they would journey to. More hands meant more guns, and an easier time killing that bitch spy and all her jerk-off followers.

“Moses is coming for you, bitch,” Peter muttered, but he knew that Jim wouldn’t ask what he meant or let anyone else ask without giving ’em a proper ass kicking. “Jim, if they aren’t ready in the next hour, start showing them the folly of their ways, yeah?”

Jim grinned and tightened his grip on his baseball bat. It was covered with dark brown stains from previous teaching moments. “Me ’n my move-faster-stick got you covered, boss.”

An hour later some people still dawdled, not ready to move out. A couple of kids cried, begging to stay. Mothers wasted time pampering their little brats. Ungrateful shits, all of ’em. Peter checked the magazine on his rifle, almost casually, and said, “Let the teaching begin, Jim. I don’t want anyone really hurt, they’d just slow us down. But you know… Get my point across.”

Jim showed none of the humor he had earlier. He pursed his lips. “Boss, I hate this part. You know? But they gotta learn. It’s a new world now, and we have no time for the weak, the sentimental, the slow. So yeah, I’ll do what we need to do—it’s for the greater good.”

Peter nodded once and wondered why it was important to Jim to be
right
about these punishments. It was sometimes amusing to see the man try to figure out how to justify doing what he wanted to. Still, Jim was a good man, a trait he’d have to keep an eye on. Good people sometimes lacked the foresight to see the
greater good
that Peter was leading them toward, especially if reaching it required sacrifices. But for now, Jim was on board. And as long as Jim was part of the program, Peter would let him bask in his reflected glory. The man certainly had no qualms using the privileges of his rank to take his pick of the pretty little fillies among Peter’s people, willing or otherwise. Peter was more than happy to turn a blind eye to Jim’s “eccentricities” so long as he remained an effective bulldog and as long as Peter could continue to feign ignorance of Jim’s less savory “punishments” among the womenfolk. It was a small price to pay for the glory of the lands they would soon settle on.

He watched Jim move among the people like some medieval Inquisitor, judging each person’s preparedness, being present and making them anxious. As a management technique, it worked. Peter, the Boss, watched Jim as he nodded at one man, then at a woman (but with a glower at her rambunctious child), frowned at a sweating man who had paused for a sip of water. Apparently, those people were packed and ready.

But then Jim came to a family still struggling to tie their possessions to what little room remained on one of the wagons. Their teen daughter was bent at the waist struggling to tighten a length of rope. Jim asked, looking at the man of the household, “Foreman Peter ordered you people to be ready an hour ago, mister. What’s the delay?”

The other man had to be nearing fifty. Peter decided he didn’t care what happened to him. Get in line or get what’s coming, it didn’t matter. Old horses had better work if they wanted to eat, right? Jim’s posture was relaxed, open, friendly. But Peter saw that the older man wasn’t fooled; he tensed immediately, and his gaze darted left then right, looking for friendly faces. The other people, however, found conspicuous reasons to turn their back to the unfolding scene. Good. They were learning.

The man, who Peter remembered was named Eric, looked at his feet, shoulders slumped. “Jim, we’re trying, but my arthritis won’t let me tie up, and my wife don’t know knots. My daughter’s working the line, but she’s not strong enough. Too much other stuff on the wagon. She just needs another minute, I swear, Jim. I’ll help her, okay?” he said, holding both palms up toward Jim placatingly. It didn’t work, of course.

Jim snarled, then stormed toward the girl. She was no more than fifteen and squealed in fear when Jim approached. He snatched her arm, and Peter knew she’d have bruises when her squeal of fear turned to a screech of pain.

Her father, Eric, moved in a flash, leaping at Jim. “Get your hands off my daughter, you freak,” he screamed. He led with a clenched fist and struck Jim in the back of his head. Eric’s momentum carried him forward, and he smashed into the man hurting his daughter. They fell to the ground, Eric on top, and Jim’s bat went flying away. Eric quickly straddled him and raised his fist to smash it into Jim’s face. Jim snarled, but it wouldn’t do him any good; Eric had the look of murder on his face, and Jim had let him get the upper hand.

Fuck this, thought Peter. Even an old workhorse, good for nothing but the glue factory, could get a surprise kick in, but Jim mattered a lot more than that asshole. In one deft movement Peter raised his rifle and, with barely a moment to sight in, squeezed the trigger.

Bang
. The man’s chest caved in, gore splattering the wagon behind him. His wife—Peter couldn’t remember the old bitch’s name—screamed and lunged forward. The daughter, however, leapt toward her mother and restrained her, screaming at her mother to stop. Smart girl.

Jim rose, face red with anger, and stalked to his bat and picked it up. Turning, he grinned at the two women. It was a wolf-like expression. Sometimes, Peter mused, Jim was more demon than angel, despite what the man tried so desperately to portray to the world. “Jim! Stand down,” barked Peter.

Jim stopped and then froze in place, trembling with the effort of controlling himself. “Yes, boss,” he hissed. Peter would overlook that mild insubordination, of course. One gave certain liberties to one’s right-hand man, after all.

As the two women then fell upon their dead husband and father, wailing, Peter decided it was time to get things under control personally. “Dammit, you lazy sonsabitches! Get your fat asses in gear. If that load isn’t tied in the next five minutes, you’ll both join Eric. I hope you heard me because I’m not going to say it again. Get your asses up if you want to live. I don’t give two shits either way. The rest of our people matter a lot more to me than you two lazy bitches.”

Slowly, the daughter regained her composure then pulled her scrawny mother up and away from their old, dead dad. Or husband. Whatever. In two minutes they managed to get back to tying the load. In five, they were done. About freakin’ time.

Peter let out a whistle, and the train of people and wagons slowly moved out. Eric’s daughter and wife looked back on the body, which lay in the dirt unattended, with tears in their eyes. Peter nodded once, curtly. This was good; the rest of his people would remember this lesson well.

With the entire body of people finally in motion, Peter rode forward whistling a cheerful marching tune. Of course Jim, riding a bit behind him, would take note of anyone foolish enough to chase Peter with hard stares. Yeah, Peter would clear those books eventually, but not until the time suited him.

* * *

Capt. Taggart, his combat promotion from Sergeant still feeling alien, grinned at Eagan’s clowning. The buck private had marched stiffly into the makeshift safe house wearing the wreckage of another invader drone on his head. Loudly, the soldier proclaimed himself King of New York and dubbed Taggart, his commanding officer, Sir Bigshit of Rank.

“That’s treason, Lord Shitbird,” proclaimed Taggart with mock severity. “I shall indeed have you drawn and quartered.”

Eagan held his nose in the air, standing nobly erect, and sniffed with disdain. “I’ll have you know,
Captain
Bigshit, that as King of these here domains it is I, the King, who decides what’s treason. ’Cause there’s nobody else left with a crown.” He looked briefly sad, maybe shadowed by personal ghosts, then squared his shoulders and added, “Besides, the Prez is probably dead somewhere, so who’s gonna complain?”

Taggart replied, “Well, me, for one. You may be King, but you’re still just a trench monkey private, shitbird. Now go get that fuckin’ SITREP I asked for. We need intel on our ad-hoc half-company of troops.”

Eagan laughed. “I can tell you without looking. The soldiers are squared away, except the lazy ones—mostly Mexicans. The Militia guys are leaking baby batter over the prospect of playing Real Soldier.”

“First of all, we don’t have any Mexicans here. They’re mostly Cubans and Puerto Ricans. It’s New York, for chrissake. And what about the gangbangers and civvies?”

“Well, the gangbangers are excited about comparing jail tattoos—they’re giggling like girls at a pajama party. You could say their morale seems fine. And the civvies have food, so they’ll be happy to go out and try to die for you.”

Taggart frowned thoughtfully, impressed at Eagan’s rapid but observant report. It wasn’t like Taggart
wanted
these civilians to die. They just tended to die in combat, usually spectacularly and in the worst ways possible, because, as Eagan said, they lacked training. “Show some respect, Eagan. They’re fighting for their country, at least. All
you
do is pretend to check up on them, and Jew them out of their rations at poker. They ready to fight?”

“They’re all pissed as hell at the ’vaders,” Eagan replied. “Most of them lost people, whole families sometimes, so yeah, they’re ready.”
He frowned at Taggart. “That Jew remark was racist, sir. Jews fight harder than Mexicans or a certain Irishman in this room that I could name. I, sir, am deeply offended. Deeply, and I wear the Crown of New York. Sir.”

Taggart snorted, “Shut up and get me some November Juliet.”

Eagan chuckled and walked over to the coffee machine, an ancient percolator they’d cut the cord off of and set on a small “rocket stove” to get to bubbling. “That’s racist, too, Sarge. I mean Captain. I’m sure both our black soldiers don’t much like that term.”

“November Juliet? Eagan, shut up. No, wait—tell me what our friend, Mr. Black, is up to.”

“He’s busy reorganizing his Resistance supply network. We aren’t the only ones hurt by that traitor Spyder’s takeover of Black’s territory.”

“Good, he won’t be around much. Make sure he’s gone, and then get all our men and women together. I want to talk to them. We’re just about ready to launch something awesome. On our own.”

“How ’80s of you, sir. Aye, Aye, I’ll go gather the cannon fodder. I hope you have a rousing speech prepared, sir. If you don’t, I’ll look for a copy of that movie where General Patton says they’re not supposed to die for their country, the other guy’s supposed to die for
his
country. Helluva speech.” He shrugged. “They’re eager to fight, but maybe not so eager to be shot back at.”