Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall

by J. J. Holden

  Ethan put the thoughts aside and lugged his gear to the top of another low hill with some foliage on it for cover, set up the car battery, inverter, and HAM radio, and flicked it to one of the “prepper” channels. He was rewarded with bits of communication, mostly in code like his own transmissions were when he broadcast for the 20s. He did that with the other network of bigger antennas, of course, and got much longer range than he tended to get with his bike setup.

  When the chatter calmed, he went out. “Watcher One, Watcher One. Dark Ryder reaching out, conf 1-8-0-8-1-9-Delta-September-Romeo. Please respond. Over.”

  A few seconds later, he was rewarded with the sound of a familiar voice. “Dark Ryder, this is Watcher One, confirmation 1-8-0-8-1-9-Alpha-Sam-Tango. Over.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Watcher. I’ve been off air a bit. What’s the latest?”

  Watcher replied, “Can’t reply too much over air. Check Comm Protocol Beta for additional, over.”

  Ethan frowned. Beta protocol meant logging on to his VPN maze and talking to the 20s via computer. Although it was easier and safer than HAM, it also usually meant he had to do a scramble-cast with updated info for Resistance groups, which carried its own risks, not least of which was the need to broadcast from the big antennas. He reminded himself he had only three more broadcasts that he could count on to be relatively safe; after that, the invaders could figure out his general area by triangulation and process of elimination, assuming they were monitoring the radio waves. He figured they almost certainly were.

  “Dark Ryder, Watcher One: Roger that. Will check that soon. What can you tell me?”

  Watcher One replied, “20s took a hit in the Big Apple but rebounding. Orlando OpFor, I mean, the enemy there, they’ve been drawn to a complete halt by 20s and Resistance operating from bases in the swamps all over the state. Invader buildup underway in Orlando, probable winter offensive coming.

  “Mixed reviews coming out of Alpha-Kilo and November-Charlie, some say the invaders there are almost done consolidating, others say they’re like Orlando, and still others say there was no invasion of the West Coast. 20s think the first option is likely.

  “Last thing, check your Protocol Beta. Some juicy Two Zero India there.”

  Ethan felt a surge of excitement. 20s intel? Hells yeah. It was hard to sit there and finish logging radio chatter and so on—which he’d mine for intel and cross-collaboration of rumors later—when all he really wanted to do was ride like the Devil was after him, back to the farm to check his computer traffic. Also, Watcher One had just revealed, accidentally or otherwise, that he was tied into the 20s, himself. Ethan had suspected as much, of course, but now he was certain. Which, frankly, put a lot of their earlier conversations into a whole new light.

  After a while, finally satisfied that he had enough chatter to dissect for the moment, he lugged the gear back to his bike in such a hurry that he almost fell down the hillside and then pedaled like crazy back toward home.

  When he got back, Ethan immediately pulled out his laptop and plugged in his USB drive, loaded with goodies. It took only moments to set up his randomized proxy chain through the satellite backdoor, using still-online VPNs and such, and the familiar text box popped up. It downloaded a small .txt file in seconds, and Ethan opened it in a Virtual Machine, sandboxing the file in case it contained spyware or other nasty surprises. He ran some of his tools to scan the file, then the output, and found nothing alarming.

  But, the file was in code. Another tool—which had automatically downloaded to his machine the first time he’d made contact with the 20s after the EMPs went off—quickly deciphered it. Oddly, there was still a big block of alphanumeric characters that made no sense. None of his tools knew what to make of it, either, so he stared at it for a long time, for the moment ignoring the rest of the message content.

  Then an inspiration hit him; all the numbers in the jumble ranged from 0 to 26. What if this was a stupidly-simple cipher? He pulled up one of his tools, which he’d coded himself after putting together a framework made of snippets of open-source code available on the internet, and instructed it to offset each letter by a number of positions equal to the previous numeral. If a string of letters and a number read “3BHV,” each letter would be offset by three positions, and decoded as “YES.” When coded, Y would become #Y>Z>A>B.

  Bada bing, money shot! The decoded message popped up. As Ethan read the hidden message, his eyebrows rose, and then rose again. So. Surprise, surprise… The 20s had a leader, and he was American. Apparently, a Lt. General with black ops experience. That was worthwhile news. Moreover, this general, named Adam Houle, was putting out a call for hackers and crackers to compile and improve on chunks of Unix code. It didn’t say why, but Ethan suspected that, when all the chunks were improved and sent back, they would comprise some new program to use in the war against the invaders. No doubt related to the cryptic references earlier about “Operation Backdraft.” Hot damn! Better than online castle raids. Almost. For the moment he put aside his curiosity about why Lt. General A. Houle had revealed his identity at this time. Heh, General A. Houle—that had to be a fake name, or the man’s mother hated him.

  “Well, then. Let’s get this show on the road,” Ethan muttered with a smirk, and opened a second attachment. As he suspected, it contained a large, discrete chunk of code for him to work on. Finally, something useful and fun to do. Sometimes, being in the 20s was worth the hassle. Even if he was now certain that he was working for The Man, any disappointment in that revelation was lost in the excitement of a new challenge to conquer. One that didn’t involve digging dirt, tending to crops, or getting shot at.

  * * *

  1900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +19

  Out of breath and covered in bruises and scratches, Peter straddled the man, who lay on his back with fear in his eyes. With his knife held blade-down, Peter gave his last ounce of strength to deliver a solid right-cross to the man’s jaw—the blade left a deep slice in the other man’s chest.

  Then, face twisted with rage, Peter brought the knife point-first back across to his right, driving it deep into the other man’s neck. Peter wrenched the knife hard and to his right, and the knife sliced its way out of the man’s neck, showering Peter with blood and gore. The victim, whose blood now added to the crimson color of the shirt he wore, twitched and convulsed for half a tick, then fell still.

  Peter struggled to his feet and looked around. Surrounding him were the bodies of the fallen—two from White Stag Farms, but most were these red-clad bandits. Peter and his two scouts had given far better than they got when, while scouting, they were leapt upon by six half-naked men painted in red warpaint, wearing red bandanas and red shirts.

  But Peter was alive. Damn right, alive! No way God was going to let him fall any more than He had let Moses fall. Not when his mission was incomplete. Then the sheer joy of being alive—the last one alive—overtook him, and he raised his knife high into the air, heedless of the blood that dripped from it onto his face and hair, and let out a terrible cry of victory and rage. Fuck you, raiders! God was on his side. Who the hell could stand against that?

  Peter saw the rest of his group, now numbering almost seventy people if the stragglers he’d picked up were counted in, approaching. Their eyes wide with fear, anger, or a dozen different reactions that played across their faces, Peter’s followers watched him with something approaching awe.

  He liked the way they made him feel. This was Peter’s moment. This story would grow in the telling and could only enhance his image and reputation. So much the better. Let’s give ’em a show, he thought, and reached down, dipped three fingers into the hot blood still seeping from the dead man’s neck, and reached up to paint three stripes across his face. He watched as his followers either looked away or stared, eyes wide. Let them look. He’d written his victory in blood for all to see.

  Jim separated himself from the crowd and approached just as Peter heard a rough burst of coughing from his left. Reflexively, he lowered
into a half crouch, knife between him and the source of the noise, lips pulling back into a savage grin. But there was no real threat, Peter realized. One of the red-clad men was regaining consciousness. His whole body shook from coughing, and despite a bit of blood bubbling from the man’s mouth, Peter had no mercy or pity in his eyes.

  Slowly, deliberately, Peter turned his head to face Jim. “You see? God has provided, and has been my shield and my rod, if you believe in such things. Jim, take this man far aside and get answers any way you want, but do get them. Find out how many of his people remain, where their camp is, and whatever he knows about their leader. If we can talk to their leader we will, but if he’s not the talking sort, I need to know that.”

  Jim would pretend to hate the task, of course, but whatever. He was the only one Peter could trust to do the job right, and not to keep the info close to his vest—he’d tell Peter, no matter what the guy spilled to him. Jim was mostly a good man, pretty damn bent but loyal, and easily convinced that the unsavory things Peter tasked him with were necessary in this freakin’ hell of a new world. He seemed to need the excuse, and Peter had no qualms about providing him one. Well, Jim’s kind of loyalty was hard to find even before the shit hit the fan. It was more valuable than gold these days. As long as Peter kept giving Jim the noble excuses the twisted bastard needed to indulge his inner self, he would probably die for Peter if he asked him to.

  Jim nodded, lips pursed as he mentally prepared himself for the task ahead, which might well get very unpleasant. He was good at this. He could be very, very persuasive when Peter ordered him to be. Peter knew he wouldn’t have to wait long for the information.

  Peter turned again to the growing crowd of his people, raised his knife into the air once more, and screamed his bloody, victory roar. None now dared return his gaze, and Peter allowed himself a satisfied smile. Why not?

  It was all going the way it had to go. And he’d be a legend before this was over.

  - 4 -

  1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +20

  CASSY SAT ON the couch in her living room and looked at the others gathered there for this Clan meeting. On some level, she realized that their attendance was a sign of her standing as leader of the Clan, a position she didn’t really want but that someone had to fill. And after all, it was her little farm…

  Others attending included Frank, whose role had changed from Clan leader during their dangerous trek into something akin to a foreman or pit boss, with his ability to get people moving willingly on a task; people had begun to treat him as a liaison to Cassy, though she depended on him as an essential support, not a gatekeeper. Ethan, the geek who had saved them from an invader attack and sacrificed his underground bunker for their sakes, was now essentially their Intelligence officer. There was little of a technical nature that he couldn’t mend, jury-rig around, or cajole into working. Mandy, Cassy’s mother, didn’t want to be there when decisions were made, but Cassy trusted her to provide a well-thought-out moral viewpoint as a balance against raw practicality or rage against the invaders and the renegade Americans who threatened their Clan. And, of course, there was Michael, woodsman and former Marine, who had fallen into the role of head of security and defense.

  The reason for the meeting sat in a kitchen chair against the wall opposite Cassy, the Asian they had captured the day before, just after the Red Locust raid. He sat regarding them calmly, looking more interested than afraid. The other Clan members sat in a semicircle, facing the prisoner, with Cassy.

  At times like this, Cassy truly wished Frank was still the Clan’s leader. The job sucked—dealing with this kind of crap was terrible. She didn’t trust her own judgment, and she desperately wanted to hand the job off to Frank. She blew air out sharply, forcing herself to relax. Well, it was a damn job, and if no one else wanted the position, she’d just have to keep at it. Time to get the show on the road…

  She cleared her throat, and everyone stopped what they were doing and looked to her. “So, your name is Chihun Ghim, and your friends call you ‘Choony,’ is that correct?”

  Chihun nodded, seeming much more at ease than Cassy was. He smiled. “I have said this before, and I’ve answered all your questions truthfully. I will continue to do so. Dishonesty inspires a troubled mind.”

  Michael looked at Chihun intently and said, “You’ll forgive us for not taking your word for that, sir. We may ask you the same question again later. And again after that.”

  Ethan said, “Your name is pretty common in South Korea, less so in North Korea. Where were your parents from, and where were you born?”

  Chihun didn’t seem at all frustrated by the questioning he had undergone since his capture. He calmly replied, “Mom and Dad were both from a village in Gangwon Province, east of Seoul. I was born in Mansfield but grew up in Scranton. I’m at Penn State, a fourth-year student majoring in chemistry.”

  Michael studied the young man for a moment and said, “That’s plausible. It’s also a good cover for a North Korean spy. We heard they’re actually in charge of the Islamist invaders. We also heard the Resistance is giving the ’vaders hell all over the place. Seems to me that a lost Korean soldier might take some poor S.O.B.’s clothes and pretend to be American. So which is it really? Are you a North Korean spy, or a lost North Korean soldier?” He turned to Cassy. “I say we should eliminate him for our own safety.”

  Frank frowned. Cutting in, he said, “Michael, that’s murder if he’s an American. He sounds American. I won’t kill our own if we don’t have to in self-defense.” He turned to Cassy. “What do you think?”

  As Cassy started to reply, Michael interrupted. “Cassy, if we eliminate him, we eliminate the threat he poses, and if he’s American then that’s called collateral damage. It’s unfortunate, but our top priority has to be our own survival. The best way to do that is not to show up on enemy intel reports. We want to stay invisible.”

  Frank looked angry when he shouted at Michael, “We can’t kill him just on the off chance he might be an enemy. That’s not the world we want for our kids, is it? Why can’t we just, I don’t know, send him packing?”

  Ethan nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, like exile. We could blindfold him and bike him out someplace, and let him go. Then we’re safe whether he’s the enemy or not, and we don’t have to kill a guy who might be American.”

  Michael frowned. “If he’s dangerous, you really want him running around out there knowing about us?”

  Chihun sat with his mouth gaping, eyes wide, but shook away the shock. “Are you really talking about killing me, right in front of me? What kind of people are you? I told you, I’m an American. If you don’t want me here, why’d you bring me here? Dying isn’t so bad—it’s just part of the grand cycle, it’s death and rebirth—but I’m not eager for it and you— some of you—seem far too eager in my opinion.”

  Cassy held up her hand. “Stop,” she said in an almost-whisper, yet the people in the room went quiet. She’d heard enough… Michael was a hammer and wanted to treat their captive like a nail. Frank was quiet, but he was honorable and wanted to send him on his way unharmed. Ethan was no real warrior and didn’t have the stomach for killing, except to protect innocents or the Clan, but thought “exile” was workable. She hadn’t heard from Mandy, and she’d brought her mom in for a reason.

  “Grandma Mandy,” Cassy said, using the name everyone called her these days, “you’ve heard the problem and the opinions. I know you aren’t part of the Clan council, if that’s what we are, but you know right from wrong better than anyone I know, and I respect your opinion. What should we do?”

  Mandy was quiet for a long moment, looking uncomfortable. She looked at her hands, intertwined together in her lap, and said, “The way I see it, the Bible doesn’t say we can’t kill our enemies—do we truly love our neighbor if we allow the evil in the world to kill them when we could prevent it?—but murder is still a sin, and wrong. But if we exile this young man, will he not be almost certain to die? Probably at the bloody ha
nds of the Red Locusts, if not every racist American or invader hiding in the woods? Besides, no one has asked the boy what he wants to do.”

  Michael shifted in his seat uncomfortably, but regained his usual composure. “Probably, ma’am. But I don’t see how that’s within my mission parameters. My mission is to keep us all as safe as possible, and he’s a risk any way you look at it. Regardless of his preferences.” Always respectful, that one, and Cassy nodded in approval.

  Mandy replied, “Maybe not in your role as our protector, but as a human being it’s within all of our mission parameters.” She looked around the group. “This man looks no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, to me. Question him about Penn State, perhaps; I’m sure we have someone on the farm who went there. They’d know if he’s lying about being a student. And if he is a student there, he wouldn’t likely be a spy or a soldier for North Korea. Not given his age and his fluency in English. He’s got our local accent, even.”

  Chihun looked from face to face, but to Cassy’s mild surprise he didn’t look particularly concerned about what happened to him. Maybe he really was upset only by the things her people were saying, rather than fearing death at the hands of fellow Americans. Her gut had earlier told her to let Michael kill the guy, but her reasoning told her she was being a bit paranoid about trusting anyone she didn’t know, especially after the things that happened before and after she joined the Clan. The Clan itself, and how it saved her life when it didn’t have to, proved that some people were still good at heart, even while America withered and died.

  Cassy slapped her knees, and stood. Facing Chihun, she said, “Alright. Firstly, there’s reason to doubt he’s one of the enemy. His age, his accent, the fact that he didn’t run when we captured him. And you know, it seems weird that he was nearby when the Red Locusts raided us, but he didn’t seem to be a part of them. Why would an enemy stay in the area with a raid going on, when neither side was his side? For that matter, why did he stick around?