by J. J. Holden
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 tha
t 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.”
“Don’t end your sentences with a preposition, shitbird. Get going.”
Eagan stood tall and saluted, with a grin so loud Taggart could almost hear the “fuck you” behind it, but he didn’t say anything. The private was wired tight when the bullets flew, so no room to chew his ass. Oh well, maybe next time. “Get the fuck out, Eagan.”
Eagan left, and Taggart slid his hand under the desk to pull out a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 whiskey he’d hidden there. “Hello, darling,” he said. Turkey was the best mass-produced whiskey on the market as far as he was concerned, and he licked his lips in anticipation of the mellow burn sliding down his throat. It was medicine, he figured, and he prescribed it for himself whenever he had to deal with his civilians. No doubt those unsat smokers and jokers would have something sarcastic to say when he gave his speech. Fuckers. And God bless ’em for stepping forward to fight for their country because most of the sheep out there were content to starve before they’d risk their necks right now to fight for America. Reverently, he poured two knuckles’ worth of whiskey—now that was a proper shot!
Then the door opened and Black’s sidekick, Chongo, walked in looking none too pleased. Taggart let out a sigh, then said, “Hello, Chongo. What can I help you with?” Taggart eyed his shot glass longingly, but waited.
Chongo replied, “Sir, Mr. Black wants to know—and I’m quoting him, don’t get pissed—when the fuck you are gonna do something useful with all the people we’ve gathered.”
Taggart frowned. “You mean the people I gathered? Tell your boss that I’m totally on board. We’re getting ready for a pretty major operation. I’ve got a platoon and a half with guns, and we’ve been coordinating with other Resistance groups through some guy out in rural Pennsylvania who’s part of those 20s we keep hearing about. He’s not the only one who knows the 20s anymore.”
Chongo nodded. “You know I hate it when he sends me to ask you stuff, right? He don’t like to come himself, on account of not wanting any conflict between you two roosters.”
Taggart chuckled. “Yeah. Please tell him that I’ve got things in motion that will at least put a thorn in the side of our enemy. We’re going to move out tonight on a series of raids, but I can’t say where. I won’t tell anyone until we’re in the field and in motion.”
“He ain’t gonna like that, but I ain’t about to tell you how to do your thing. You lay it down how you want, and I’ll just pass the deets along as you give ’em to me.”
Taggart said, “Ha! Yeah, it must suck to be the guy between us. Well, let him know what’s up, okay? Tonight my group’s hitting a warehouse of supplies, and other groups will be running interference and laying down confusion in the enemy ranks. At least, we will if our 20s guy has done his job.”
- 2 -
1100 HOURS - ZERO DAY +18
ETHAN DOUBLE-CHECKED HIS work. A windmill needed a new slip washer to reduce drag on the blades. Once again, he wished Michael and Cassy were around. He already missed having their hands to help out as the rest of the Clan worked diligently to get “Camp”—the Clan’s nickname for Cassy’s farm—ready for winter, or harvesting the many varieties of fruits, vegetables, and herbs as they ripened. Fruits, nuts, and produce grew seemingly at random around Cassy’s farm, and he hadn’t yet asked her why she mixed everything up like that. Still, Ethan knew how important Cassy’s mission was. Saving the neighbors not only built goodwill, but having more people might spare the Clan trouble from the raiders who increasingly ravaged the surrounding region. They’d already brought in a dozen people, who helped a lot around the farm.
Maybe raids only seemed to be increasing, Ethan reflected, because the people out there were dying in droves. But he knew that starvation and disease were a big part of the death toll; malnutrition and stress weakened people’s immune systems, and once-rare treatable diseases were becoming rampant and often fatal as medicines grew scarce. Not to mention the damn diseases caused by so many unburied bodies…
But raiders, like parasites, killed their own hosts. With ever fewer available victims, raiders were themselves becoming desperate. Cannibalism was one early tactic, but that only worked when there were victims out there to eat. Ethan shuddered at the thought of falling into raider hands. One raider group, numbering at least twenty people, had already discovered the Clan’s rapidly expanding farm. They had not attacked yet, and their attempt to scout the farm had cost the bastards at least three lives. Michael and the new Marines were so very good at killing when necessary. It was a damn shame it was necessary so often, and Ethan figured it would only happen more as things got worse outside of the farm’s resource-rich borders.
With a grunt of approval, Ethan finished checking his work. The windmill would once again lift water on one leg of its journey to the top of the hill, where the animals were penned. Since it had ground to a halt yesterday, people had been forced to carry water to the animals—quicker than herding them to a pond—and that had taken lots of cursing plus priceless man-hours to accomplish. The Clan needed those hours on other projects, like finishing the first of the new earthbag houses, harvesting crops, canning extra food for the winter before it spoiled, mucking out the livestock pens, tending to the compost accelerator pits… The list went on and on. Shaking his head, Ethan muttered, “Time to find something else useful to do.”
He made his way toward the field of spring wheat, where harvesting was underway. They were bundling the cut long stems into sheaths and taking them to a nearby shed for drying and, eventually, threshing by hand. It was labor-intensive, and he resolved to think of ways to make it more efficient. When he had time, of course.
Ethan grabbed a sheath in either hand and carried them toward a nearby wheelbarrow, then carefully lifted them into it. As he dusted off his hands on his pants he saw Amber approach and grinned. He hadn’t seen her at all today, and his spirits rose as she smiled back.
He was about to say hello when Frank came up behind her and dropped four sheaths of wheat in the wheelbarrow. “Hey, Ethan. Can you load these up and wheel it to the shack? Thanks. Amber, give me a hand.” He motioned for Amber to follow, and she shrugged to Ethan and hustled to catch up, with a single glance over her shoulder for Ethan. He realized he must openly look stricken and forced his face back to normal, hoping no one saw it. But damn!
There was no denying it; Amber was as attracted to him as he was to her. He hadn’t even realized it was happening, this attraction, but there it was. It grew between them during the trek here, but she was taken then, and they both reined it in as best they could. Maybe he shouldn’t have. But they were here now, and it was time to take it to the next level if he could. See what happened. Yes, she had to work out the conflict she felt between grief over Jed and guilt about her attraction to him. But he had his own ghosts to drive out. All the gods of HAM radios and little fishes must know the two were meant for each other!
Okay, Jed’s death hadn’t gone down quite the way he’d told the group it did, and he didn’t know how to set that problem right. They’d been in combat when it happened, and he knew that no plan ever survived once a battle started. He knew—and kept telling himself—it wasn’t his fault. It really wasn’t, but the memory hounded him just about every night now. Good sleep had become rare. Sometimes he’d go reeling with mixed guilt about Jed, gratitude for Amber’s interest, hunger to have her with him, and this damned frustration. And confusion.
Ethan paused and frowned as he dropped the last sheath into the wheelbarrow. Frank wasn’t usually so terse. He was a friendly guy by nature, one of those steady people you know you can trust within five minutes of meeting him, and he’d try to do right even if he didn’t like you. Ethan and Frank always got along fine. Of course a lot of work needed doing, that never stopped. But couldn’t he take a few seco
nds to smile and say hello before getting down to business?
Frank must be grumpy and Ethan had an itchy feeling it involved him. Maybe Frank and his wife, Mary, were arguing, though there was no sign of that earlier. Ugh. Well, there was still work to do and lunch—and a much-needed nap after, for the hottest part of the day—and then more work.
Lunch was still an hour away, so Ethan loaded a six-pack of water bottles into the wheelbarrow for the people in the field and headed back. Cassy had been drilling into everyone that they should try not to waste any trips. There was always something to do, something to bring back and save someone else a special trip. She’d said that and, as usual, was right. So, water bottles this time.
A similar sequence happened each time he finished loading the wheelbarrow. Push to shed, unload sheathes, find something useful for the way back, return. Wash, rinse, repeat. There was plenty of time to work out the situation with Frank during the mindless routine parts.
So, okay. (Ouch! Damned hole almost jammed up the barrow’s wheel this time. Gotta bring back a shovel and fill it in, next trip.) If Amber was near, so was Frank, sometimes conspicuously so. It was happening every time. He was being pushy. Was that just paranoia? Maybe.
As Ethan finished loading another trip’s worth of spring wheat, he saw movement from the corner of his eye and glanced toward it. Amber was coming toward him with two bundles of wheat and wore a welcoming half-smile on her face as she approached. Okay, here’s the test…
When she had got to a dozen yards away, sure enough, Frank intercepted her. He spoke for half a minute, and the conversation looked heated. Amber’s smile flipped into a frown, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, while Frank stiffened his stance; his back was turned so Ethan couldn’t see Frank’s face, but he certainly acted tense.
