Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall

by J. J. Holden

  Cassy paled at the mention. That was where she’d been hunted before she found the Clan, and the memory haunted her. Faintly, her right shoulder suddenly ached, reminding her of the wound she’d received while fleeing those gun-happy bastards.

  Michael nodded once. “I see it rings a bell. Good. Their community got hit by the invaders right after you encountered them, and they blame you personally. He didn’t know your name, but described you. They just call you ‘the spy.’ Well, it gets better.”

  No flipping way. This couldn’t happen, could it? Did those bastards really track her all the way here? A chill ran up her spine. “Go on.”

  “They’re led now by the guy who hunted you. And, since he thinks you brought the invaders to them to divert attention from your own farm—obviously faulty logic, given the distance—he’s determined to take what you have to make up for what they lost. He’s got at least twice as many people under arms as we do, and they’re on their way here now. Not to raid—they brought everything they could carry. They’re migrating here. To stay.”

  “Oh my God… How long do we have? Can we bargain with them or something?” The terror was rising once again, and it came out in her shaking voice. Still, she looked Michael in the eyes. Scared or not, this wasn’t the time to panic. It was time to be a leader.

  “They’ll be here in a couple days at most. And Cassy? Their leader’s name is Peter, and he’s built himself a little cult. They think of him as being like Moses, leading them out of bondage and into freedom to a land of milk and honey that they’ll have to fight for. Peter would rather die than bargain. He’s coming, and we can’t prevent that. We can only fight and hope to survive, or flee and hope not to starve out there.”

  Cassy was silent for what seemed a long time. She closed her eyes and fought to rein in her racing thoughts. Focus, dammit. “Okay. I’ll call an emergency Clan meeting. Some may leave, and then the rest of us will have to decide whether to stay and fight, or follow the others away from here. But I get the feeling this Peter guy won’t ever stop following us. This is personal for him. What should we do with the scout?”

  Michael’s jaw stood out as he clenched and unclenched it. “Peter may be fanatical, but I doubt every one of his followers is so committed. My advice is to string this guy up on the path Peter’s taking, and brutalize the corpse. PsyOps may deter some of his followers. It’s unpleasant, and I’ve never done it before—not even to the Taliban assholes we killed in the Sandbox—but I recommend we hang him high, peel the skin on his face back like a damn banana, and shove his own junk down his throat. It will unsettle his followers, trust me. The Afghans did that to a British soldier we found too late. It sure as shit unsettled me, and I’ve seen a lot of fucked up things, Cassy.” He looked grim. “Now I’m having to do some. It ain’t easy.”

  Cassy felt the blood rush away from her head, and her cheeks tingled. Everything seemed to spin for a moment. The next thing she knew, she was in Michael’s arms, looking up at him. “What the hell happened?”

  “You fainted. I’m sorry, Cassy. I know it’s unpleasant.”

  “That’s not the fuckin’ word for it. What kind of animal are you, Michael? Who would do such a thing? We’re not the monsters!”

  Michael didn’t seem upset by her words—he had that eerie Marine thing going of looking utterly composed under stress. “Cassy, I know you’re freaking out. But you and I can take care of this, somewhere away from the Clan. They don’t have to see it—just Peter and his goons.”

  “Do you really think we should do that? No. No, I can’t. Michael, it’s not in me, even if it was necessary, which I’m not even sure of. But I can’t think straight… I need time to figure this out.”

  “Dammit, Cassy, we don’t have time. We need to spend every freakin’ minute between now and then getting ready for this shitstorm. You get me? A world of hurt is coming downrange, straight at us. For all of us, Cassy, including Aidan and Brianna. Think of your kids, Cassy, and let’s go do what’s needful.”

  Cassy felt her stomach rolling, churning, threatening to unload everything she’d just eaten. “Michael, I can’t do it. I’m sorry. Can’t you just… I don’t know, can’t you just take care of it? Do whatever you want, but I can’t be a part of that. I just can’t!”

  Michael again wore his stone mask, his battle face. “Cassy, you’re the leader of the Clan. You gotta start making these hard decisions. I can only advise you.”

  “I never asked to be the damn leader, Michael,” she spat. “I hate this. I only led because someone had to, and I’m the only one who knew how to handle this farm. I didn’t sign on for torturing people and skinning their goddamn faces.”

  Michael’s features softened, and he put his hand on her shoulder. “I know this is hard, and you’re right. You’re a civilian, and a good person, a good mom. You’re a better leader than you give yourself credit for, Cassy, but this is war. You chose me to lead our defenders and see to our safety, and that’s what I’m going to do. You can go back to the farm and get that meeting going, okay? Mueller and I will take care of what needs doing. It’s a Marine’s job to do terrible things so bad people don’t do even more terrible things to the people we protect and love. And don’t worry about the rest of the Clan finding out. Mueller and I will keep quiet about it, and we’ll do this out of sight so no one else has to suffer nightmares, the way I do. But this is war. You only have to tell me I’m in charge of our tactics.”

  Cassy felt tears rolling down her cheeks, and her throat closed up. She tried to speak, but her voice was only a croak. She wiped the tears with her palms and nodded. And she realized that after this, she’d never be the same again. God forgive her for what she asked Michael to do, because Cassy doubted she’d ever forgive herself. Then she turned her back on the unconscious man, on Michael and Mueller, and on the grisly scene about to happen. She and Sturm walked back toward the farm. Back to the light, and back to the people she loved.

  * * *

  Capt. Taggart grinned and held up a bottle of 18-year-old Scotch from a case of other such bottles. His troops, soldiers and Militia alike, shouted and cheered. Around them lay the bodies of some twenty Arab soldiers and one Korean low-ranking officer. The walls of the small, corrugated metal warehouse let the light in, beams of bright and color illuminating the once-dark interior from the Swiss cheese they’d made of it during the firefight.

  Firefight wasn’t the right word, Taggart thought wryly. “Like fish in a barrel,” he shouted, knowing it would raise morale. The cherry on top of victory, hearing their commander actually banter with them—something only Eagan was normally privy to.

  Chongo and the other gangbangers weren’t allowed to be part of the fight—Taggart needed discipline, not bravado, and had little faith in Black’s gangsters—but Taggart brought them in after it was all over to help with the looting. That, he had confidence they could manage, and they proved very good at it.

  The raiding party spent the next fifteen minutes looting the warehouse and planting demo charges; what they couldn’t take, they’d deny to the enemy. Crates of grenades and ammo, dozens of AKs, Chinese-made MREs—all made their way out of the warehouse.

  And best of all, a crapload of intel. Maps, a few laptops, USB drives… It’d take a while to go through it all, but Taggart’s spirits soared at the thought of the juicy information they’d get. Maybe enough to start fighting back in earnest, not relying on the limited information the 20s provided them in dribs and drabs. The 20s were how he’d found out about this cache, and he’d been told there would be enemy operations-level intel here. The 20s said the intel cache would only be on-site for four hours, so that had been the window of opportunity for the mission.

  As the looting phase wrapped up, Taggart found himself next to Chongo, who was trying to direct his “soldiers” in their looting. Chongo glanced at Taggart as Eagan walked out with an armload of rifles, and said, “Sure as shit, you just kicked a hornet’s nest, yo. Hope it ends up worth it, Jeffe.”
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br />   Eagan stopped, smiled, and said, “Yeah, but let ’em buzz. The more they’re buzzing around looking for us, the less time and men they can send out to fuck with the fine upstanding citizens of New York City.”

  Chongo shrugged. “Don’t bother me none. I’m just sayin’, I hope you’re right. They’ll be looking for us hard now, esse.”

  Taggart interrupted their conversation. “Doesn’t matter if Eagan is right or not. I have a mission to complete, and that’s to liberate American soil and American citizens. I promise you we’ll be doing this again, Chongo. And yes, they’ll come looking. In fact, I’m counting on it. So get your ass in gear and help liberate some of this war materiel.”

  * * *

  1600 HOURS - ZERO DAY +23

  Jaz was on her way from the house to the top of the hill to feed the animals and check their water. Most peeps hated that chore, because it was kinda hard work getting all that feed up the hill from the barn, but Jaz didn’t mind. The animals were, like, peaceful and quiet, and always happy to see her. Around them, she felt a little like she had when Jed was around. She smiled at the thought of him. It’d been long enough since he died on the journey to the farm that she didn’t cry about it anymore. Mostly.

  As she wended her way through the maze of the Jungle, however, she heard the clink of metal on metal and froze. A bolt of fear shot down her spine, but she forced herself to stay calm. Clanners on a chore were more likely than Red Locusts, but it paid to be careful. She listened carefully and then heard a muffled voice. It was the Marine they’d picked up, Mueller.

  “So just say it, Sturm. What’s on your mind, Lance Corporal?” Mueller said.

  “Fine. Why is Choony still here with us, sir? He’s the reason Martinez got fuckin’ eaten!” That voice was Sturm’s, of course, and she sounded pissed.

  Jaz briefly considered getting on with her chore, or letting them know she was there—the polite thing to do—but instead she stayed frozen. What was this about Choony, the friendly little Asian priest guy? And Martinez eaten? This totally had to be Red Locust stuff, and it was news to her.

  Mueller grunted. “As you were, Sturm. We’re all high-strung about Martinez, and no one more than Michael. He’s a Marine too, goddammit, and a good man. Place your blame where it’s due, Sturm.”

  That was news. Mueller standing up for Michael? Far as Jaz knew, Mueller totally hated being under Michael in the command chain thing. And Sturm was always, like, playing mediator between them. Jaz had thought Sturm liked Michael.

  “I know, sir, but I can’t help feel like he’s putting this hippie outsider before one of our own. And he’s a Marine, sir! Michael’s loyalty is wrong. He should be answering to you, not the other way around.”

  “I’m only going to say this once, Sturm. First, we’re guests here, and unless you think you and I can force dozens of armed people to do what we want, it has to stay that way. Second, even if we could force them, how does that advance our mission goals? Third, Michael’s retired. You may feel like he should be reinstated to active duty, but what officer is around to decide?”

  “I guess that’s true. I just don’t like it. I know Michael’s a good guy, but that’s not the point. But I understand what you’re saying. Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant.”

  Mueller then said, “As to Choony, he didn’t get Martinez eaten. We don’t even know for sure the Locusts got Martinez when they grabbed Choony, but if they did, then blame the Red Locusts, not the civilian. Martinez should have been more alert. That’s what standing guard means, Sturm. And that hippie may refuse to defend himself or others, but he did risk his damn neck setting off that warning device. Without that, who knows the damage they could have caused before we got an effective counter-attack together?”

  “Well,” said Sturm, though she still sounded totally frothy, “there is that. And Michael didn’t pull any punches when we interrogated the other scout, from that other group.”

  What the hell was this? Another group? Jaz felt a cold fear, a claustrophobic jolt. Enemies seemed to be everywhere. Why couldn’t they just, like, leave the Clan alone? Would it always be like this in the new world?

  “No, he didn’t. It took a couple hours of working at him with blades and hot shit to get the intel out of him, but we’re in a world of trouble. That guy, what’s his name? Peter? He’s some sort of Messiah-complex loony, and he’s got an army of loonies following him. But don’t fuck with Michael, Sturm. You didn’t see him torture that poor S-O-B the way I did. Michael didn’t seem to enjoy it, but I’ve never seen anyone so cold. I was almost relieved when Michael had me end the prisoner’s frikkin’ misery, war crime or not. I’ll have nightmares, Sturm.”

  Jaz clenched her jaw. Rage rose up. Michael tortured someone? That bastard. The Clan was cutting people up now. She saw that once in Philly, hiding behind a dumpster. She felt her terror come back at the memory, a brief flash of complete paralysis. Well, she knew this much—there was no way Cassy knew about it. Jaz had to tell Cassy. She’d make it right, somehow. Jaz didn’t really think about how it could be made right, but she was so pissed she couldn’t think straight, and she knew Cassy always kept it cool. Jaz wished she could be like that. Yeah, Jaz had to tell Cassy, and Cassy would know how to fix it. “Fine,” she muttered to herself, “let’s see what Michael thinks after Cassy finds out.” She crept quietly away, leaving Mueller and Sturm to their talking.

  - 7 -

  1630 HOURS - ZERO DAY +23

  JAZ STOMPED HER way back toward the main camp, gnawing on the talk of torture she had overheard in the Jungle. Even she knew torture only produces whatever the victim thinks his tormenter wants to hear. As she went, her steps gradually stopped being quiet and cautious. By the time she stomped into the farm, Jaz was steaming and eager to see Cassy. Or confront Michael. It didn’t matter which.

  Judging by the sun, Cassy would be in the outdoor kitchen with Grandma Mandy to help get dinner ready for the kids, who ate first. The kids wouldn’t be there yet though. She left the Jungle and passed the toolshed, a large structure they’d built from pallets and tarps to store all the shovels and stuff the Clan had gathered up. She went by the half-finished new earthbag house, which was way bigger than Cassy’s own farmhouse, but refused to wave back to any of the Clanners there. She was on a mission.

  Finally, she reached the outdoor kitchen, with its pole barn-style roof and adobe rocket stove griddle, burners, and ovens. Mandy chopped veggies into a stew. Oh man, Jaz was tired of stew, but apparently it was the best way to get the most calories out of food, or something. Better than field rations at least.

  Jaz strode up to Cassy and, ignoring her greeting and confused look, said, “I need to talk to you, like, right now, Cassy.”

  “What’s up? You look upset, sweetie.”

  “You’re damn right I’m upset,” Jaz said, then clenched her fists and took a couple deep breaths to steady herself. Then she stared into Cassy’s eyes and, voice stony, said, “Cassy, did you know about Michael and some scout they captured? About Martinez missing? About what Mueller and Michael did to that scout?”

  Cassy said, “Look, Jaz, I don’t know what you heard, but sweetie, just leave this to me to—”

  Jaz’s face turned red and she interrupted, shouting, “Goddammit, Cassy!” She shot a glance to Grandma Mandy. “Sorry, Granny. I’m pretty upset. I know what it’s like to be used and abused, and nothing I went through can compare to anything they put this guy through.”

  Without waiting for a reply from Mandy, Jaz again turned on Cassy. “They tortured that guy, Cassy. Michael tortured that guy. We aren’t the animals here. This is total bullshit. Cassy, did you know?” she asked, venomously punctuating each word of her question.

  Cassy stood stock still for a long moment, and then nodded once, curtly. “I found out about it after Michael had questioned him. I didn’t like it either, and a month ago he’d be in jail. But, do we have a jail, Jaz? We can’t imprison him, nor would I. Michael is one of us and matters more than a hosti
le stranger. The information he got, now that matters far more than anything Michael might have done.”

  Jaz felt her stomach churn. Cassy, their leader, was trying to justify torture. And if Jaz just quietly accepted it, then she was part of the problem, too. No flippin’ way. “Did you believe anything he said? He’d have admitted arranging the invasion if he thought it would make Michael stop. People lie under torture. They’ll say anything. The ends can’t justify the means, Cassy. My messed up mom used to say that, and it was the only damn thing she was ever right about.” Tears rose unwanted into her eyes. “What we do defines who we are. If we do monster things, then we’re monsters. I’m not a monster!”

  Cassy pursed her lips, and Jaz saw her eyes flash with anger. But so damn what. If their leader was signing off on torture, well, Cassy could just go be frothy. If she’d rather be pissed about the truths Jaz told her than about the Clan torturing people, well those priorities were just, like, bass ackwards. No. Just–no.

  Cassy said, “Listen, Jaz. I get that you’re pissed about this. I was too, when I found out about it. But the things Michael found out make me forgive him for it, and you might want to think about why he did it also. That scout wasn’t a Red Locust. He wasn’t just some nobody wandering the hills. He was a recon scout for an entire damn army marching straight for us, and their intentions are clear. They’re going to kill or enslave us all and take our farm if we let them. So, am I glad we got early warning about this? You’re damn right I am. You can afford to be all high and mighty about this Jaz, but I can’t. Frank can’t. Michael can’t. And Amber can’t. A dozen other people can’t. We have kids to worry about, and I care a damn bit more about their lives than I do about your feelings.” Cassy sighed. “Or about a self-declared enemy scout, not when it’s defend ourselves or die.”