Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall

by J. J. Holden

  That thought made him smile at last, and he could feel the anger recede. There was nothing he could do yet to help the Clan, but he could take what he needed to survive and look for opportunities to aid his Clan, even if perhaps only in little ways. The Stag people had cleared out the Red Locusts, so the national forest he hid within was now safer than it had been since the EMPs had destroyed the power grid. The Stags had done him that small favor at least, although unwittingly.

  Right. Time to move out. Move slowly and quietly, he reminded himself. Stay low. Stop often and listen. He remembered that advice from Michael, during one of their many conversations, and thought about his first encounter with the Clan under attack, and him wriggling snakelike up that rise to peek over and see what was happening. His recklessness hadn’t killed him that time, but he had learned much from Michael. With skill, patience, and a bit of luck, he would be able to sneak in, raid the storage shed, get a good understanding of the Stag’s defenses and layout, and get out without being noticed. Of course, one never knew what might be found in the shed, as it was only a way station between the Clanners and the vast amount of goods stockpiled in the bunker. He had no idea where the bunker was and hoped Peter didn’t either.

  Choony removed all his clothes except for his boots and underwear, to reduce the noise he made, and then it took only perhaps half an hour to find his way in the dark northward to the homestead. He then followed the southern edge of the food forest, heading generally east toward the pond there. He knew where the traps were, but he would have to swim across the pond itself; skirting it would mean a long, noisy struggle through mud and reeds and thorny hedges. The westernmost pond would have been easier to get to and get around, but the guard tower overlooked it and was surely manned now by the cruel occupiers. And the shed he wanted was on the eastern half of the property, in any case.

  When he arrived at the shores of the pond, he squatted down to grab handfuls of mud, with which he painted dark lines across his arms and legs, his torso, and finally, his face. Michael had told him once that random lines broke up a silhouette better than simply painting himself all black with mud. Choony wasn’t quite sure this was what that meant, but he decided to apply it to his own situation anyway. He had no better ideas to go with.

  Choony then crept into the water, careful to avoid splashing, and inched his way in a slow, quiet breaststroke across the water. Arriving at the far side of the pond, he crawled cautiously out through the mud. He was colder now than he’d felt in a long time, but it was still adequately warm outside. He didn’t think hypothermia would become a problem before he dried off.

  Unfortunately, the swim had removed most of his carefully applied mud. Okay, so that was poor planning on his part, he mused and, shaking his head, set about reapplying a muddy striped camouflage. When it was as good as he knew how to make it, he’d already mostly dried off. “Now for the hard part,” he muttered, adding a brief mental prayer for protection.

  The trees on this side of the property were sparse; the food forests lay to the north and south of where he stood. Still, there were enough trees between him and the shed that he felt reasonably confident he could make it undetected, with care and a bit of luck. He moved out in a low crouch.

  In seconds he made it to the first tree. It was large and old, maybe oak. He wasn’t sure. He put his back against it and fought to regain his breath and slow his heartbeat, a calming that took longer than it had actually to move there.

  Once he’d brought his adrenaline under better control, he peered around the tree. Two more trees lay between him and the storage shed, the door of which was on the opposite face of the building. He could count five guards, including one in the tower. There were probably more that he couldn’t see. The one in the tower was shadowed such that Choony couldn’t see him well. The other four, armed with rifles, seemed not to move in any orderly pattern, but then he realized they stayed within a specific and well defined area. They’d walk a set distance, turn around, and walk back, looking mostly at the ground or at the lit, warm-looking house. Choony could imagine them feeling envious of the others inside, relaxing or sleeping.

  He rushed to the second tree and repeated his calming process. Now that he was much closer, he could almost make out the face of the nearest guard even in the darkness. That meant it wasn’t really all that dark. The moon was almost half full, and there was some ambient light from the house, he noted. When the nearest guard was walking away from him, and the other guards were faced away, he sprinted to the final tree that lay between him and the shed, slowed as he approached it, and crouched down. The back side of the shed was tantalizingly close, only ten or so yards away. Thirty feet of open ground, but the guards were more interested in watching the farm buildings than the perimeter. They were more worried about their new slaves than outside attackers, Choony realized with some slight satisfaction. Good. That would work in his favor, for the moment.

  Choony gulped, preparing himself for the most dangerous part—getting to the shed and inside without being seen. It took some ten minutes of waiting to find the right time, when all the guards were faced away at once. The moment he saw his opportunity, Choony crouched as low as he was able and rushed to the back side of the shed. He took deep breaths to steady himself and listened for any cry of alarm, but none came. He then crept around the corner to the south side of the building. One more corner to go and he’d be exposed fully, but only for the few seconds it would take to get inside the shed. He waited until the nearest guard walked by to the end of his route, turned, and walked back. When he was surely well past the shed, Choony gritted his teeth. It was time.

  He moved to bolt around the corner but caught himself short at the last instant. Dammit, there was a guard he hadn’t seen posted right in front of the shed, leaning on the door. He ducked back and counted to ten to calm himself. He had to think this through. Maybe a distraction would divert this guard? There had to be a way that didn’t involve killing anyone. That, he could not do.

  As he crouched by the south wall of the shed, however, Choony heard a deep, male voice. “I see you. Don’t run. I ain’t gonna hurt you, fella. But stay put, and wait. When I say it’s clear, get your ass into the shed. Otherwise, I’m gonna raise the alarm.”

  Choony didn’t reply. What the hell was this? That guard should have raised the alarm already. What could he have to say to a rogue Clanner? That was interesting enough in its own right that the trip could be worthwhile even if he walked away with no supplies.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the deep, quiet voice again. “Move it, now!” Choony wasted no time. Blind to any danger, he sped around the corner and, finding the shed door open, he bolted inside, into the welcoming dark and cover.

  The shed was old enough that the paint had begun to peel, revealing other paint beneath. It was a square of about sixteen feet per side. Inside, he knew, there were floor-to-ceiling shelves along the outer walls and cargo shelves in the middle running front to back, similar to a grocery store’s. He resisted the sudden overwhelming urge to flip the light switch. Desperately, he wanted to see what or who might be lurking in the darkness with him. With horror, he realized that he couldn’t see well enough to find supplies or locate the empty feed sacks he had intended to use to carry his liberated supplies.

  Then a jolt of fear shot up his spine with an intensity that made his scalp tingle… He was trapped inside, if the guard decided to lock him in. Had he just walked stupidly into a deadly trap?

  The voice came out of the darkness, the same voice from before. “I seen you peek your fool head around the corner. You’re the Oriental guy our scouts saw during recon, right? The missing one.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m Asian, but yes, that’s me. Who are you, and what do you want from me? Can I help you somehow?” It might be foolish to demand information from a man who could be his captor, but there wasn’t much time, Choony knew.

  “My name’s Joe Ellings, mister. What’s yours?”

  It felt dangerous to
say his name. But he had to give an answer, and he just wasn’t going to lie to a direct question. Lying caused too much disturbance to his inner peace. He’d learned that long ago. “My friends call me Choony,” he replied.

  “Okay, Choony. The thing is, you’re a Clanner on the loose. You could stir up a lot of crapstorm if you wanted to. I’m askin’ you not to though. If you rile Peter up, he’s liable to start shootin’ people again willy-nilly. Your people. A lot of our people hate that bastard, on account of killing one of our supervisors—the one we most liked—and then keeping them disgusting cannibals around. They’re super loyal to him, so long as he’s looking, but they don’t really give two shakes about any of us. Neither does Peter, I think. But you people, you seem like good folks.”

  The voice stopped, and it took a second for Choony to realize the guy wanted a reply, now. And yes, this conversation surely was as interesting as he’d hoped. “They’re the best people I’ve ever met, at least among those who aren’t Buddhists. I’d risk my life to help them. It’s what I’m doing here, going for supplies so I can find the right time to do something. Anything.”

  “That’s a piss-poor plan, Choony,” Joe said. “It’s gotta be a sudden all-or-nothing, otherwise Peter will just start killing folks. Listen, take my little Stinger flashlight. I got it off one of your military guys, bright as hell and lightweight. Waterproof. Get what you need in there for yourself, and get it quick. Then I’ll make a diversion for you to get away the way you came in. But if I want to find you again, me and another guy I think you ought to talk to, where can we find you?”

  Wasn’t this just a curious development. The wheels turned in Choony’s head. “I’m south of the farm, about half hour on foot. In the second copse of trees beyond the farm’s forest. There are still a few live traps out there, so be careful.”

  “Tomorrow,” Joe said, “I’ll ride out with another guy who doesn’t much care for Peter. We’ll bring all the supplies we can nick from storage and whatnot. And then we can talk, okay? I reckon you’ll just have to trust me on this, if you want to help your people. Stay hid until then.”

  Choony didn’t have to hesitate to make a decision this time. “Thank you, Joseph. I will do as you say,” he said, and added under his breath, “Thank you, Buddha.” With the small tactical flashlight to help, he went about the shed locating useful things to liberate.

  * * *

  0400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +30

  Taggart grinned at the soldiers—now including a lot of Militia people—who were lined up before him. They wore stolen uniforms for this mission, all of them, and they looked about as close to the OpFor’s Arabic troops as they could manage. They were about to take the fight to the enemy in a very real way, and it felt good to finally have direction, a mission to embrace, and an enemy to finally strike back at. Even if it was indirectly, this would be an outstanding PsyOps raid if they succeeded.

  Beside him, Eagan said, “Still no word on launching Operation Backdraft, Captain?”

  “No, none yet. But the last intel we got from our friends in the 20s via HAMnet said that the Koreans here weren’t getting along well with either their Islamic allies or their American minions. Our old friend Spyder in particular is supposedly thinking about his best options for survival, and it may not include continuing support for the invasion forces.”

  “So, the ’vaders pissed off their gangbanger buddies. And we’re going to help that along, right, boss?”

  “Captain,” he corrected his assistant out of habit. “And yes we are, shitbird. We also hear that the Arabs are beginning to take their Koreans’ title of ‘advisors’ too seriously and aren’t rushing to obey orders. This’ll screw with the Koreans’ program even more when they blame their Arabs for conducting unauthorized operations. Now get the unit moving. We’re going north through the tunnels again, and we’re going to give Spyder a nasty little surprise.”

  Eagan walked away whistling, heading toward the assembled troops, and Taggart suppressed another grin. Eagan was nothing if not reliable, at least once the shit hit the fan. He’d talk a lot of smack and drive a self-important Pentagon pogue insane with his attitude, but he’d get the mission done come hell or high water. When they left Spyder with some fresh corpses and stories of Arabs ambushing his men, it would speed up Spyder’s growing schism with his Korean masters. Only good could come from that. And if they were lucky, that schism would also put the Korean-Arab relationship under even more strain. All of which would make everything easier for the people working on Backdraft, whoever they were.

  * * *

  0800 HOURS - ZERO DAY +30

  Grandma Mandy forced a smile at the kids she passed as she moved along in the line for breakfast. They were tired and hungry, scared and uncertain—but they all loved Mandy, and she did her best to bring a little reassurance to the poor dears, despite her condition.

  The others had already received their food, and she saw that breakfast this morning would again be that constant stew. She was grateful the occupier gave them even that much. The White Stag leaders were angry, she’d heard, because they couldn’t find the Clan’s main stockpile of food. They knew there must be one, but few in the Clan knew where it had been hidden, and the rough questioning they’d all been through hadn’t revealed the stockpile location. If any Clansmen here knew the location, they had managed to keep quiet. Eventually, she knew, between the fear and the fatigue, someone would let slip that they knew. She prayed it wouldn’t happen soon.

  Michael’s wife, Tiffany, was approaching and Mandy gave her a friendly nod as Tiffany smiled at her. But Tiffany’s brow was furrowed ever so slightly, her lips tight—she looked worried.

  “Good morning, Tiffany. How’s your family?” It wasn’t an idle question these days. Michael, an obvious leader, had received rougher treatment than most during the questioning.

  Tiffany’s worried expression didn’t change. “Michael will live, but he’s having a hard time keeping up in the fields. They worked him over pretty bad. He’s hanging in there like everyone else. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  Mandy darted her eyes around, seeing who was nearby. She could hardly trust anyone with really important information, not when their overlords were beating people and threatening children to get information. “I gather he had nothing useful to tell them,” Mandy said. Tiffany would know what she meant. Michael hadn’t told what he knew.

  “No, he doesn’t know anything either,” Tiffany said, but Mandy saw that she wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation. Something else was chewing at her.

  “So what’s really on your mind, Tiff? You seem a bit distracted, and I suspect you aren’t here to talk about the weather.”

  “No, sweetie. We’ve all been talking. Even the kids are concerned. Honestly, you look like hell. We need you, we all do. Is there anything we can get for you? Are you sick? We might be able to find some antibiotics or something, among the Clanners.”

  Mandy let out a long, slow breath. She’d tried to hide her failing condition, but apparently she looked worse than she’d thought. “Alright, Tiff. Don’t spread this around, okay? I’m diabetic. I ran out of insulin a few days ago, but Cassy… found some. A couple bottles. The problem is, she can’t get to wherever she’d found it.” Mandy raised an eyebrow and hoped Tiffany would catch her meaning. The rest was in the bunker.

  “I see.” Tiffany’s expression went from concern to irritation. “I’ll ask around and see if anyone has some more. What are you doing in the meantime? You can’t go more than, what, a day or two without insulin? I’ll let Michael know how urgent this is.” Tiffany shook herself then and added with tentative, clearly false good cheer, “We’ve gotta keep you around, you know.”

  Mandy forced another smile, but it was an effort. She wanted to lie down and sleep. It was getting harder and harder to keep going. “No, sweetie, don’t talk to Michael about it. Promise me! He’s liable to go do something stupid, if you know what I mean, trying to get more insulin for me. Som
ehow. You’ve got to keep him around, not me.” She again raised an eyebrow and hoped it got her point across. They simply couldn’t risk revealing the bunker’s location to Peter’s goons. “Anyway, I’m taking quarter-doses for now. I have a few days I can hang on like this. But you must never risk the Clan for me, do you hear me? I’m content to stay here or sit with Him, as He wishes, but I could never live with the guilt if, you know, bad things happened to the Clan because it tried to help little old Grandma Mandy. I’ve had a wonderful life, and I won’t spend my family and friends for more, not when I could be sitting with Him instead. Do you understand?”

  Tiffany gave her one grim nod, clearly not happy. “But I’ll still ask if anyone has some squirreled away from when we were scavenging the nearby empty homes. Who knows, we might luck out.” She threw Mandy a helpless look and added, “Either way, I promise I won’t press Michael about it.”

  Meaning, Mandy knew, that she would not ask Michael to risk a sneak trip to the bunker. Ethan was still down there, doing his secret mission things, watching the Clan suffer on camera and helpless to do anything about it. Yet, his spy mission was more important than all of them. She’d figured out that whatever he was doing, it might be critical for America’s survival. Mandy would not let anyone risk that just to save her.