Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall (21 page)

Okay, well those foxholes had to hold. Everything could ride on it, and to the north all was quiet. “Bunker One, redirect everything but the snipers from the north side to reinforce the houses and the foxholes on this side. We have to hold them!”

Cassy leapt to her feet and fired at two White Stag people running southward, toward the foxholes there, and the noise of it blocked out Ethan’s reply. Both targets dropped, and Cassy scanned for more enemies. It was a target-rich environment.

* * *

Choony’s muscles strained under the weight of the man he dragged, but the adrenaline coursing through him made it difficult to tell if he’d have pulled muscles tomorrow. The Clanner had been shot in the shoulder. Those could easily be fatal, unlike in the movies, though the guy—whose name he couldn’t remember right now—might survive. But Choony’s job was only to drag the poor fellow from the foxhole to the house, where the Clan had set up a makeshift field medical unit.

He was maybe halfway across the open ground between foxhole and house when he noticed puffs of dirt flying up around him. Someone was shooting at him, he realized. Between teeth gritted from effort he muttered, “We take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, the Sangha…”

Fire streaked across his right arm and he glanced down, confused. Blood welled up through a small hole in his light jacket. His arm still worked, however. At least for now. There was no way to tell if he’d been hit or only grazed, but it didn’t matter. The fear and adrenaline washed through him, cleansing him of thoughts of pain or danger, and he redoubled his efforts. In moments that seemed like lifetimes, he was through the doorway of the house and into relative safety. A big .50-caliber bullet probably couldn’t get through those earthbags.

The “doctor,” whom Choony remembered was really just a paramedic, scrambled toward him to take the heavy load. “Where’s he hit?” the doctor asked while he and Choony got the injured man onto a makeshift cot. The doctor’s voice cracked, and Choony decided not to comment on it. The man was probably scared beyond belief.

“Shoulder, where the blood is,” Choony said. His words came out fast and clumsy, his tongue seeming to rebel at the fine control needed to make words come out. “Hey, doc. You got this.” Then there was no more time. He left the paramedic to work on the injured man and dashed toward the door again. Someone screamed for more ammo, and Buddha be honored, Choony was damn well going to deliver it if he survived long enough.

* * *

Frank knelt with his back against the wall of the main house. He’d fired at two White Staggers coming toward the building but missed and had to duck back when they returned fire. He grinned savagely. It certainly was nice to have an M4 when his enemies had only hunting rifles. One, two, three; he popped his rifle around the corner, ready to fire, but saw that the enemies were only a dozen paces from him now, and running. Shock made him pause, but animal, hard-wired reflexes took over, and he fired at the man in front; his head seemed to collapse. Frank felt somehow detached from what was going on and was surprised to see two bloody blossoms sprout on the second man’s chest, and he fell forward carried by his own momentum.

Frank felt frozen, confused. His mind wouldn’t catch up. Abruptly, he realized he was pulling the trigger on an empty weapon. He’d unloaded an entire magazine into the two men who now had far more holes in them than he’d realized. He ducked back behind the corner and pulled out a fresh magazine. Shaking hands dropped it, but he fumbled for it in a near-panic and finally got the damn thing in and ready. Okay, it was definitely time to take a deep breath and get his shit together, he realized. By the time he counted to five, his mind was starting to catch up from its shock.

Frank heard the sound of gunfire rising in volume, at first as though it came from underwater, but then louder, and finally the cacophony of noise burst into full volume. Damn if it didn’t sound like the intensity of the firefight was trailing off a bit. Maybe they were pushing back the attackers? His spirit soared. He swept his field of view with his scope, looking for another target.

His radio crackled, and he heard Ethan’s voice. “All unengaged units move north, enemy forces overrunning sniper nests!” Ethan’s voice was high-pitched, tense as a wire, and he was talking too fast. “Shit,” Frank said, and turned to rush to the north end of the building. Ahead he saw a person falling from a tree—one of the snipers, now a casualty. The other was probably dead now, too. And then he saw it: a horde of people he didn’t recognize filtering out from the food forest and headed directly south, right at the house, right at Frank. A new, cold terror sprinted up his spine. The children—all of them—were sheltered inside the house Frank was using for cover.

* * *

Cassy slid down the tower’s handmade ladder, feet clamped to both sides of it to slow her descent. She hit the ground and sprinted toward the house. She reached for the knob at almost full speed and almost missed it, but at the last moment it turned, and she shouldered her way through the now-unlatched door. To the few people inside guarding the children she shouted, “North windows! Incoming!” but she didn’t slow down.
 

She darted between the kids and the furniture to the loft ladder and scrambled up it. As her head rose over the edge of the loft floor, she spotted Michael in the window, methodically firing one round after another and aiming with expert quickness between shots. She heard him muttering, “Five…” BANG “Six…”

“SITREP,” Cassy shouted as she unslung her rifle and took position next to Michael. She saw a field of enemies rushing out of the trees, over and through the unmanned foxholes, and across open ground toward the house.

“OpFor engaging with overwhelming force. South attack was a diversion, and it worked. We’ll be overrun.”

BANG.

Cassy fired a burst, but her target dropped down into a foxhole at the last moment. She missed. “Get the damn kids and take ’em south, Michael!”

BANG.
“Negative, Clan One. OpFor engaging from the south still, they’d be cut down. Shut up and shoot.”

The next twenty seconds seemed a lifetime, as so often was the case during a firefight. Cassy knew that now, and it seemed odd for her to know that. She steadied her breathing and began the rhythm of fire, breath, aim, fire. Time seemed to vanish altogether then. And every target she fired at was replaced by two more.

Click
, and her magazine was empty. She automatically reached to her ammo vest for another, but found it empty as well. “What the hell…” It took a moment for her realize what this meant. “Michael, ammo!”

“Grab the weapon you left up here,” he said, voice flat and tense. His battle mode. It would be damn nice to have that ability herself…

Cassy stumbled to the far side of the loft, where she’d left her scoped hunting rifle earlier when she had gone for her walk. When her world wasn’t crashing down around her. Just as her hand reached the rifle she heard two thundering booms—the meaty report of shotgun fire from the defenders downstairs. This was followed by a staccato of different blasts. Shit, the attackers, armed with a variety of weapons, must have gotten inside and were firing at the children’s guardians. Bile rose in her throat.

A silence fell across the farm for a second as every member of the Clan realized what those sounds meant. She glanced through the window to the north. There was little to see in the dim and dark of night, but with her goggles she saw a few enemy fighters; they too had frozen. Predator and prey, locked in time for one crystal-clear moment, awaiting the drama’s grand finale.

A strange voice roared up to the loft from below, a woman’s voice: “Order this to stop or the children die. Please don’t make me do it.
Please.
” There was desperation in the voice, the sound of someone following orders they didn’t like but would obey. Bitch…
 

Cassy took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Her mind raced, but every option she thought of ended with dead kids. Shit. Checkmate. So much for God being on their side.
 

“Michael. It’s over.”

* * *

0600 HOURS - ZERO DAY +29

Frank sat in the dirt with the rest of the men of the Clan. He squinted against the newly rising sun and avoided looking at the stack of Clan and Stag bodies that the losers had been forced to pile up, full of both enemies and friends. Frank’s arm was haphazardly bandaged, at least. Peter had let the Clan’s wounded get patched up, but not until his own people were tended to. In the time that had taken, two of the Clan had died from wounds that didn’t have to be fatal. Frank tried to fuel a rage inside himself, but it was too damn tiring. The wind was gone from his sails, well and truly gone. He glanced around at the other Clan men and saw nothing but defeat and resignation on their faces.

Not all was a complete loss, however. He hadn’t seen Choony among either the seated Clan men nor in the pile of bodies stacked in front of the assembly. Nor had he seen Ethan, so there was hope at least that the bunker was still in Clan hands. It wasn’t much—Ethan was just one guy—but Frank held tightly to that tiny spark of hope.

Peter said, “Bring the women out one by one. Have them go to their man, if they still have one, or sit over there.” He pointed to the right of the Clanners, over by the tower just to the north.

Frank looked at Peter for just a second. Long enough to see the smug asshole smirking. Then he waited with a mix of hope and terror as the women were led out. Would his wife, Mary, be among them? Cassy? Grandma Mandy? Slowly, the women filed out and sat next to their boyfriends or husbands, or those they just wanted to be near in this time of tragedy. Those without someone to sit with were roughly shoved to the side to sit together.

His heart soared when Mary came out and sat beside him, her plump cheeks fairly glowing red and eyes narrowed. Maybe no one else could tell, but Frank knew his wife enough to know she was only barely keeping her temper under control. He took her hand and squeezed twice, rapidly. It was their “calm down” signal. He relaxed only slightly when she looked away from Peter and down at the ground in front of her.

Frank then watched wordlessly as the occupiers separated the unattached men to the far side of the attached Clan survivors, away from the unattached females. Peter then strode up and down the row of Clanners, looking at each face intently once again. Finally, Peter said, “Bring out the spy.” Frank cringed inwardly at the steely voice. It sounded almost inhuman, totally lacking empathy or even enthusiasm. Maybe only violence and murder would fill whatever had eaten a hole in Peter’s soul.

There was a gasp from the north end of the Clan lineup, which spread down the line toward Frank, until he saw Cassy and he too gasped. Almost every inch of her was covered in blood, although she didn’t move as though she had been injured. Hopefully that blood belonged to some of the White Stag people. The vision of him mowing down two of the attackers brought a thrill, and he had to suppress the urge to grin, until he came back to reality.

Peter’s goons dragged Cassy over to him. With a swift thrust of a rifle butt to her gut, they forced her to kneel in front of Peter. And Frank saw the slumped shoulders, the look on her face, and knew that his friend’s spirit was utterly crushed. She’d failed them, she’d be thinking, and he wished he could go comfort her. She had made the Clan’s loss horribly expensive to Peter; he hoped nobody missed how many more invaders the stack of bodies held than Clanners. She’d hardly wasted a bullet during that final, incredible firefight, and it was her first experience in battle.
She failed no one.
He wished she could see that, but of course she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t be Cassy if she did.

Peter stood tall and preened, the asshole, sneering at Cassy as his goons brought out a heavy chain and a padlock. He grinned as they put the chain around Cassy’s neck and locked it on. Frank only hoped it wasn’t too tight for her to breathe, but she didn’t seem physically distressed. She hardly seemed to notice it at all.

“Well,” said Peter with his voice pitched to carry. Even that prick’s
voice
sounded cocky. “As I told my people, there was no way God existed in a world where this woman’s crimes didn’t come back to bite her in the ass. Karma, if you prefer. I’m happy to be the one to deliver her comeuppance, after what she did.”

Cassy spoke in a low voice, but it was loud enough for Frank to hear her in the otherwise silent scene playing out. “I did nothing to you, Peter. Not to you, and not to your people. And they know it, even if you don’t. Fear—”

Peter cut her off, a brief flash of rage washing across his face, which Frank thought was interesting and filed away for future use. Maybe his temper or pride could be used against him. Peter said, “Shut up, woman. I know what I saw. You fled from us, and then
they
came with their sprays and their missiles. Half my people were killed that day. Perhaps I couldn’t get justice on them for what they did, but I sure could get justice for what you did.”

“I fled because you were shooting at me, before you knew who I was or why I was there. You tried to murder me, and I fled. That’s all that happened involving me,” Cassy said. “And I know your people all saw the shitty things the invaders did all along the way. Or did you forget Lancaster? Were all of those men, women, and children also spies?”

Peter clenched his jaw, and then visibly forced himself into a relaxed, confident posture. “They died for resisting the invaders, just as my people did. And now, just like your people did for resisting me. You led them alright—straight to their deaths.” Peter turned to Cassy’s guard and said, “Go chain her to something, where everyone can see her. If she tries to run, then just shoot the bitch.”