Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall

by J. J. Holden

  Taggart continued, “Eagan, for now I have to go along to get along, because we need Black’s forces, and his contacts. His resources have kept us alive. And he’s been careful to keep his contact with the 20s a secret despite our best efforts to figure it out. We need his intel even more than we do his irregulars.” He shook his head. “When the kitchen’s on fire, you smile at the firemen dumping buckets of water on you.” Frustration on top of more frustration… The day Black died would be a very good day. He sighed. “Our guys are more combat-effective with than without him, whether we like it or not. And safer, too, with Black’s forces to lean on.”

  Eagan smirked. “I’m a shitbird, you always say, but that guy is just a beotch. I mean, a beotch, sir! So, um, when the time comes, can I shoot him?”

  Taggart couldn’t quite hold the smile off his face, and the kid saw it. He was getting to be almost like Taggart’s lost brother. No, maybe more like a nephew. An irritating, pain-in-the-ass nephew you couldn’t help rooting for. And face it, a damn good man to have at your side when bullets started to fly.

  “Aw, shut up, Eagan,” Taggart growled, dropping back into his customary gruff sergeant role. “Do some pushups, run around the block. Something not here. And don’t worry, kid. The cosmos, or God, or Vishnu, or SpongeBob SquarePants will deal with Black someday. It’s the nature of things. Let’s just hope we’re there to see it.”

  It didn’t seem likely. Before anything else, tomorrow’s raid had to succeed, with Chongo sniping from the sidelines and Black undermining every decision he made. He and the kid faced an impossible task. Well, they’d just have to take it a step at a time, and then another, and another, and not get killed.

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” he muttered to himself and reached for another shot of the good stuff.

  - 3 -

  0900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +19

  CHIHUN GHIM’S FOOT caught on a rock, and he fell to his knees. Grunting from the pain, he sat and examined his legs. His khaki pants had a new hole over the left knee, and he saw that a bit of blood seeped into the torn fabric. Flexing his leg, however, he didn’t feel too much pain. Nothing more serious than a scraped knee.

  That was a relief, though there was still danger of infection like the one setting into the recent cut on his face. He’d received that a few days prior, just outside of Harrisburg, escaping another armed patrol of invaders. He could have killed the Arabic soldier who had found him, but that would go against everything he believed in. The result of that decision was a very close call with death, hours of running and hiding, and a bloody gash over his right cheekbone running all the way down to his chin. Yet, he’d found a way to live up to the precepts of his philosophy even in the face of an enemy who wanted to kill him.

  As he sat clutching his skinned knee, he almost wished he’d decided to head north instead of south from College Township—home of Penn State, where he was a senior—but no, the foreign invaders were thicker to the north, everyone said, so he had taken the safer direction. “Not much safer,” he muttered, considering how most of the people he’d met along the way wanted to kill him, thinking him one of the enemy.

  Chihun had a vague idea of heading toward Scranton, where his parents had lived and where he might have some family left, but every time he tried to head north he ran into patrols, or hostile people. He’d been steadily herded south-easterly.

  “Life is pain, but that pain comes only from holding on. Let Scranton go, and follow where life takes you, Choony,” he told himself.

  Once the pain in his knee subsided, he adjusted his wire-rim glasses and crossed his legs, then tried to clear his mind. Perhaps meditating would grant him some enlightenment about where to go next. His parents would have said so, but Chihun wasn’t so certain. Still, meditating always made him feel better and focus his thoughts.

  “I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha,” he began, but then a shot rang out in the east, and he threw himself flat. The gunshot was chased by dozens more.

  Chihun calmed himself and simply observed. Okay, there were a few different weapons being fired, because the shots sounded different. And he couldn’t be certain, but he thought whoever had been shot at was firing back. He frowned; that meant raiders, or invaders. But at least this time there was return fire. Most of the gunfights he’d heard since leaving Penn State had been clearly one-sided.

  The sporadic gunfire continued, and with each report his heart ached. People were likely dying right now, all because some people wanted more than they had. Because some had more than others, death would come for some. And such was the case all over America, he realized. What other reason could there be for the invasion?

  Chihun came to a realization, and it struck him with almost a physical sensation: he must go and see of what use he could be should anyone survive the attack. What else was his purpose for having wandered to this spot at this time, if not to aid his fellow victims? Perhaps only to bury them, though he hoped not.

  “You asked for clarity of purpose, Choony. Do not turn away from the sign you’ve been given.” He stood and then crept forward, careful to stay in cover as much as possible, heading toward the sounds of violence. It took only a couple of minutes to find the source.

  As he crested a low hill covered in trees and bushes, he saw below him the terrible scene. A dozen men and women were scattered in a semi-circle around the southern side of a pair of houses. They all wore some sort of red clothing or headbands, bandanas or scarves, and were shooting at the occupants hidden within the houses; one house looked finished, and the other was under construction, with no roof as of yet.

  Chihun was struck by the fact of the attackers’ bits of red clothing. For a moment, he was lost in the memory of his parents describing the chaos of the war in their homeland, the civil war that had cost them most of their family, and which had made them flee to America for safety back in the early ’50s, after the Americans pushed the flood of Chinese back across the border. His parents had described the terrible cruelty and torments brought upon their village by red-clad communist warriors, Chinese and Korean alike.

  From inside those buildings came a flurry of return fire, bringing Chihun back to the moment. One of the red-clad attackers fell screaming, and the two nearest him fled southward. A shot rang out from the property, but it didn’t come from the houses. He glanced around and saw that there was a makeshift tower, like a guard tower, and Chihun marveled that he hadn’t seen it before. He’d just been so focused on the people in red.

  The thought struck him that anyone in that tower who saw him would likely shoot at him at the moment. He threw himself to the ground ungracefully and hoped he had not been seen by the tower’s defenders.

  Below him, the fight was petering out. Another of the red attackers fell, this time without so much as a scream, and another fled. Seeing that, the other reds began to fall back, at first in an orderly way but as another fell to a defender’s bullet, the rest fled in earnest. In moments, the fight was over.

  Now Chihun considered a different problem. If the tower defenders had not seen him yet, they would see him if he tried to escape the area right now. Moreover, he decided, the red fighters had scattered and would likely stumble across him, or he across them, if he ran without a purpose in mind. For the time being, he was stuck. “Okay, Choony,” he muttered, “just stay put a few hours, and then make your escape. The red bandits will be gone by then, and the tower people won’t be on alert. Maybe you can get away unseen.”

  Having made a decision, he settled in to meditate again, more to pass time quickly than for any new enlightenment.

  * * *

  Spyder never enjoyed waking up early, but today he had no choice. That damn Colonel Ree had sent a man—at least, Spyder thought it was a man, you could never tell with those slant-eyes—to come summon him. Summoning! Him, King Spyder, El Jeffe of not one or two but of four city blocks. It was a damn insult, that’s what it was. But today wasn’t the day to get some payback on that puto. So, h
e had got out of bed and woke up Sebastian, his right-hand-man, and had to kick him in the ribs to get the asshole to wake up.

  Ha, that’s what Seb got for staying up all night drinking and entertaining a couple chicas with nothing to trade for food but some fine ass. Well, Seb always fed hoes pretty good, if they put out good and didn’t complain too much about his screwed up fetishes. They always came back for more, next time they got too hungry.

  The thought made Spyder smile, until he remembered where he and Sebastian were headed at nine in the damn morning. “So what you think Gook-Ree wants with me today, fool?”

  Sebastian grunted. Hungover and tired, he wasn’t much for conversation today. Normally that would be damn funny, but any time Spyder had to go meet Ree he wanted Sebastian on point, not slippin’ like he was today. Ree probably knew Seb was crispy from partying, and that’s why he hollered today for this stupid meeting.

  “He better not want more ‘volunteers.’ It’s getting hard to catch peeps. Yesterday we had to give Ree one of my own citizens to make quota,” Spyder said.

  “Let’s just kill him,” groaned Sebastian. “No one could get through our walls now. They gotta be ten feet high! Let him come at us. We strapped with his guns, too. Like goddamn Tony Montana himself, yo.”

  Spyder looked at Sebastian with a sneer. “Fool, don’t you know Tony Montana dies at the end? He says some shit about his little friend, then gets caught slippin’, chingada.”

  Sebastian pursed his lips at the insult but didn’t reply, which was awesome. Sometimes Spyder just had to put him in his place like that. Good for morale. Spyder’s morale, anyway.

  The two finally reached the raghead base and walked in without being challenged, which made Spyder feel important. But then they got to Colonel Ree’s pavilion and they were halted and told to wait, which just pissed Spyder off. “Why do they call us in but make us wait?” he asked Sebastian in broken Spanish.

  Colonel Ree kept them waiting almost an hour, and Spyder’s frustration grew. He was about to complain to Sebastian for the dozenth time and was starting to consider murdering someone just to let out his anger, when one of Ree’s guards came out.

  “Colonel Ree wishes to see you now,” said the guard, and then spun on his heels, opened the tent flap to Ree’s chambers, and waited.

  Spyder looked at the guard for a couple seconds, visions of slitting the man’s throat dancing through his head. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then marched forward without a word to Sebastian, who followed along like the dutiful pitbull he was. At least that made Spyder feel a little better. Only a little.

  He walked into the tent and saw Ree on his stupid folding chair, and six of the ragheads lined up on both sides of the tent, sitting cross-legged and watching Spyder enter. He and Seb came to a halt in front of Ree, and Spyder gave the expected bow, but only a half-bow—enough to avoid risking Ree’s anger, but no more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sebastian bow lower. Seb was dull as a hammer, but just as useful as one, and he was cunning. He knew how to inspire fear in Spyder’s soldiers and the civilians alike, and how to play some games Spyder was just bad at. Like this crap here, bowing and scraping to Ree.

  “You called us, we came,” Spyder said simply, carefully trying to keep his anger out of his voice. “What can I do for you, Colonel?”

  Ree’s eyes narrowed, and a chill went up Spyder’s spine. Ree said through his translator, “I will assume you have not heard the glorious news. I am now General Ree. My commander was killed in glorious action in service to the Great Leader, when a terrorist sniper slew him. I have been elevated to his position.”

  Spyder understood immediately that Ree meant the Resistance, or those damn 20s, but whatever. If it made the puto feel better to call them terrorists, it didn’t matter to Spyder. He was only mildly curious as to why they changed it up. “Congratulations, General,” said Spyder with mock formality. Thankfully the interpreter must not have relayed that sarcasm to Ree, because he seemed to relax a bit. Asshole.

  “I have been advised,” said Ree, “that the Resistance fighters who escaped the territory you occupied last week remain at large. Were you not instructed to find them, and to kill them?”

  It was Spyder’s turn to tense up. This wasn’t a good start to the conversation. “Well, yeah, but every time we figure out where they’re at, they run and hide. It’s like they know we’re coming, yo. I mean, sir. But they ain’t bothering us no more. I think they bounced out, ran away for good. We don’t gotta worry about them, sir.”

  All of which was true. Angel and his pendejo followers were pretty good at hiding, and running. They were probably long gone. Spyder would have been long gone, in the same situation.

  Ree said, “That is not what my agents have told me. They are regrouping, rebuilding. So they will return, and it will be more difficult than ever to locate their base of operations next time. I do not wish to hear your excuses, American. I have given you instructions, and if you will not follow them then I will be forced to reconsider our relationship. You are dismissed.” Ree’s face might as well have been carved from stone; Spyder couldn’t read it. But the edge of danger in Ree’s voice was unmistakable. Shit was getting out of control, and fast.

  Spyder and Sebastian backed out of the tent like good little lapdogs, but once they were out of earshot, Spyder turned to Seb. “We need to get this monkey off our backs, yo. Seb, get our homies ready. Maybe a day, maybe a week, but soon we’re gonna remind Ree what’s so dangerous about America. We gonna crash his party, you know what I’m sayin’? Him and his ‘sandy’ friends, yo, they gonna learn.”

  Oh, yes indeed. Spyder thought about the coming “party” and smiled. Yeah, Ree and his sandy buddies were gonna learn alright. And Spyder was determined to make it a short damn lesson, yeah.

  * * *

  1500 HOURS - ZERO DAY +19

  Ethan walked beside Frank as they left the meeting. Everyone in the Clan had been required to attend the emergency get-together, save for the Jepson family and the other half-dozen people who had joined them in the past week. Cassy’s brilliant idea had been to have these Clan meetings once each week or as needed, and it was a great idea. It reinforced Cassy’s vision of the group being like a real clan, where everyone who earned it had a voice, and where the leadership—Cassy and Frank, mostly—were only the “first among equals.” But, you had to prove yourself to the Clan to earn that privilege, and the Clan as a whole voted on whether to admit a newcomer to their ranks. They’d only been at Cassy’s farm for about a week, yet this system and the others Cassy and Frank had put in place seemed to be second-nature now. Ethan once read a book in which that dynamic, where early leaders had a profound effect on the society they began, was called the “Founders Principle.”

  Ethan shook his head to clear his thoughts and realized Frank was talking to him.

  “…so I don’t think he’s a spy, but Michael disagreed about releasing the little guy.”

  “Oh, the Asian guy the Marines knocked out, tied up, and dragged into camp? I don’t think we’re his favorite people after the handling he got from our noble defenders.”

  Frank chuckled. “Still with the anti-authority crap. I get it, I guess… The more self-reliant a man gets, the less he tolerates other people telling him what to do. But you can’t blame our Marines. When you’re a hammer, every problem is a nail.”

  Ethan nodded. “Yeah, but now if we don’t just kill the guy they found, we’ll have to work harder to get him not to hate us. I have a feeling it’ll be worth the effort to make him a friend. He’s the wrong race to get along with those red-raggers, and he didn’t take part in the fight, he just watched. Didn’t struggle when he was caught, either, though he had to be scared to death at the time.”

  “Well, that may be, son. But he’s one of those monks, right? At peace with the flowers and so on? I don’t think he can hate us.”

  “Buddhist, from what we know of him and the few things he’s said. They aren’t supposed to
hate anyone or anything, but ‘people is people,’ as you like to say. Still, I’m told he didn’t run when they found him, and he didn’t fight back when the Marines knocked his skull with a rifle butt. That’s promising.”

  “Hey, Ethan… Do they have Buddhists in North Korea?”

  Ethan grimaced. “Yeah, I’m certain they do, but they’d be well hidden I imagine, like a Jehovah’s Witness would have to be. They don’t like religion there. Opiate of the people, didn’t the Bolsheviks call it? But this guy seems like he’s American, which meshes with his story about his parents immigrating here from South Korea. Michael isn’t so certain, of course, but it’s his job to doubt everything. Which, I think, would be a terrible way to live.”

  Frank laughed out loud at that. “Says the pot to the kettle! You doubt everything too, unless it’s a conspiracy theory.”

  Ethan didn’t reply. He couldn’t tell Frank the things he knew, or suspected. And it didn’t seem like the right time to point out that he’d been right about a lot of things, as confirmed by their present circumstances. Well, one of his theories had been right. Not exactly Nostradamus.

  With a wave, Ethan headed to his “comm center,” which currently was a bicycle with a car battery and HAM radio strapped to it and a big antenna sticking up from the back. Time to reach out and see how things were going in the bigger, wider world outside the farm.

  A half-hour later, riding along a gravel road well away from the farm, he found a likely place with cover and rode toward it. Being away from the farm was riskier by the day due to the Red Locusts—those bastards needed to burn in Hell—but until it became impossible to ride out, he had to take the chance from time to time. Michael was at least a hundred yards behind him, on a low hill with one of Cassy’s bolt-action hunting rifles, covering Ethan just in case. The man was scary good with that rifle.