Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  Cassy looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back to Ethan. “So, Empire spies, Americans fighting Americans, and now Liz Town dropping the ball and stonewalling us. Probably turned their coats. The day just keeps getting better and better.” She let out yet another sigh. “I’m going to go hit the sack.”

  “Okay, I’ll get started on that message but no guarantees that I’ll be able to decode it.”

  “Thanks, Ethan,” Cassy said. “And hey, don’t you forget to sleep either, mister.” She headed back toward the tunnel to her house and disappeared.

  Ethan, now alone in the bunker’s living area, held the sheet of paper and the two gold coins. That note must be important, despite what he’d told Cassy. It wouldn’t be encrypted otherwise. Hopefully they weren’t using a cipher based on using identical source books for coding and decoding, because those are tough and he’d probably never get it decoded—the local book copy would have burned down along with the cannibals’ house. Probably not, though, or they’d have left the book in the strongbox. Tomorrow, he would begin transcribing it onto his computer to begin running code crackers on it. For tonight, he had other things to do.

  Ethan set the paper on his computer desk and then headed toward the bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he went. It was late and he was tired, but Amber didn’t stay with him overnight as often as he’d like, so he was damn sure going to make the most of that time with her.

  - 6 -

  0900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +195

  LEANING AGAINST A tree for support, Joe Ellings used his foot to flip over one of the corpses. The guy’s neck was half gone where someone got a damn fine shot in. Around him, the bodies of half a dozen other scrawny-looking city boys lay, twisted up where they fell. “I reckon these raiders ain’t gonna bother us no more,” he said and the other Clan fighters with him cheered in agreement. “Like shooting fish in a damn barrel, I tell you what.”

  One of his fighters, off to his left, shouted, “Heya Joe, you gotta take a look at this one. He’s got a map and some sort of weird writing. Like a note.”

  Joe sauntered over and bent down to take a look. Sure as rain, the guy had him some papers. There was a map and a sheet of white printer paper, all right. He picked up the map and, heedless of the blood on it, opened it halfway. Pencil-writing all over the map showed the location of Confed towns and had a number next to them, which he figured was their populations. Other markings showed freshwater ponds and streams. Still others had a bunch of little red X-marks.

  From over his shoulder, one of his fighters—a woman, but he never did hold that against no one—said, “Joe, one of those X-marks… Isn’t that here in this copse of trees?”

  Well, he didn’t know what a copse was, but figured it to be a small clump of trees because that’s where they all were. “Yeah, maybe so. Looks like it. Take this and see if you can’t sniff it out, whatever them marks are. Got a hunch we need to get these to Michael, fast.”

  She took the map and wandered off, staring at it, and Joe turned to scrounging whatever he could off the corpses. The growing pile of gear so far had seven hunting rifles—two were only bolt action—and three pistols. Also a few backpacks, couple of rucksacks, and some wool blankets. Those would all be useful to someone back home.

  Funny, this was the third bunch of raiders he heard of in the past few days. Them folks in Liz Town sure weren’t doing what they ought to, letting all these teams slip past them like greased pigs.

  A woman shouted, and Joe’s head whipped around ’til he spotted her. It was the woman with the map and she must’ve dug something up. He walked over to check on it, and saw a 55-gallon drum buried at the base of a tree. “Well, I’ll be damned. What do you reckon that is? Open it up, girl!”

  The woman undid the tension clasp at the barrel’s lip then lifted the blue plastic lid off, revealing the contents, and she let out a low whistle.

  Joe moved to get a better look, and he too let out a whistle. Inside there were half a dozen of them AK-47-type rifles, probably two dozen loaded magazines, and the rest of the space was crammed damn near full with boxes of ammo. “Bless us, if these raider folks had done found this stash before we got here, we might be the ones with them pennies on our eyes,” Joe said, then chuckled. “Ain’t no luck like good luck, y’all. Get them rifles up, we’re taking ’em back home with us. Grab them blankets and backpacks, too, and any other gear we can scrounge up. Waste not, want not, my daddy always said.”

  Wasn’t that just a kick in the pants! Another half hour, them boys would have found that stash and used ’em on good ol’ Joe and his boys. His people, he corrected himself—the ladies sure did their part with the fighting and whatnot, so they deserved credit where it was due. Question was, who put them AKs there, and what did it mean?

  Ten minutes later, Joe and his band were mounted up and riding hard for Clanholme. It wasn’t too long before they reined up at the stables atop the hill south of the Complex—the walled circle of them sandbag houses Cassy was so fond of—and handing off their mounts to the people there on stable duty. He told a couple of his fighters to go turn in their loot, but he grabbed up the map and the funny-looking note himself and headed downhill. He had to talk to Michael. He couldn’t find him, though, so set about taking care of his gear.

  A short while later, Michael found him cleaning his weapon. Michael said, “Hey, Joe. I heard you got rid of another band of raiders. Good work, friend. They said you were looking for me?”

  Joe nodded, and glanced around to make sure no one was nearby listening. Then he set down his rifle and pulled out the map and note, handing them to Michael. “Yessir. We found these here papers on their bodies. One is a map and seems to rightly show us our neighbors, places to get them some water, and so on. The other one I can’t make no sense out of. Just gibberish but I thought maybe you might figure out what it means.”

  Michael examined the map and then the paper, and frowned. “You’re right, that map is full of useful intel. And that paper seems to be some sort of cipher. That means code.”

  “I know what cipher means,” Joe said, a bit irritated by the comment but Michael ignored him.

  “Maybe Ethan will be able to crack it. I’ll give it to Cassy to decide. Thanks, Joe.”

  “We also dug up a mess of them AK rifles and a boatload of bullets, from one o’ them Xs on that there map.”

  “Really? Hm… looks like the Empire may be supplying the local bandits in exchange for military intel for a possible spring invasion.” Michael paused, lost in thought for a moment, then continued, “Come find me later, okay? I have a mission in mind. But this is need-to-know, so let’s keep this between us. We’ll talk later.”

  Michael left Joe alone with his thoughts. It was a peculiar mix of pride and fear, knowing that he had done well and would be tagged for a secret mission with Michael. That boy was all about secret missions, and if Joe was good enough to come along, well, that spoke right highly about him, didn’t it? But then again, them Empire folks was prowlin’ around outside like wolves, and they’d need to get dealt with sooner or later. The rest of the Clan would have to be told. But maybe not just yet.

  Oh, to hell with it. Let Michael do the comtemplatin’. Joe felt his stomach growl like a bear, and went to dig up some chow.

  * * *

  Taggart walked the long row of troops and examined them casually as he went, Eagan at his side taking notes. He wouldn’t call most of them real soldiers, but they were what he had and were sufficient enough.

  As they walked, Eagan said, “You’re really sending them an entire battalion, sir?”

  Taggart didn’t take his eyes off the troops and kept walking as he replied, “That’s affirmative. They’re not at full TO&E, of course. Thirty per platoon, two per company, three companies. They’re short at every level. Two hundred combatants is only half of the minimum battalion size, really, but no one’s at full strength so it’ll have to do. Those people are expecting to see action this spring.”

  �
�And all those truck-bed wagons, and all those supplies…”

  “Yes, Eagan, I know. We need all of them. But what good will it do us to defeat the invasion forces here, only to get mopped up later by this Empire they told us about? General Houle’s lapdogs, no less. If we can help nip that in the bud with a surprise battalion of reinforcements, we’ll just have to make do.”

  “Understood, sir. But why send them with more supplies than they need for the trip? Surely we need them more than this Clan, or Confederation, or whatever.”

  “They’re not for the Clan. They’re to sustain our forces while they’re deployed. You think the Confederation could easily support so many extra mouths? I don’t believe they can. They’re a bunch of farmers sustaining themselves.” Taggart paused to chew out a “soldier” who hadn’t remembered to put his canteens on his combat webbing. Then he added, “We fought a revolution partly because a king was making farmers feed his troops, remember?”

  Eagan, still playing devil’s advocate, replied, “What if they don’t want to come back? This Clanholme sounds like a paradise compared to our ops area. Sir, I really have to tell you that I feel this is a bad idea. We need these troops and supplies, and if you send them anyway, we’ll need them back when it’s over out there.”

  Taggart frowned. Eagan had turned into a damn fine NCO, his right-hand man in most every regard, and his outspoken—some would say insubordinate—nature was something Taggart valued, but Eagan sometimes didn’t see the Big Picture. “I understand your concerns, Eagan, but this is happening. We’re sending them. If they don’t come back, then they’ll have to face some penalties someday when all of this is behind us, but we still have enough to continue our program here. We made sure of that. We’re sending troops where America most needs ’em. So get with that program and just make it happen.”

  They reached the end of the inspection line, and Taggart said, “Alright, let them fall out. They’ll move out toward their new objective in sixty mikes.”

  Eagan stepped away to bark out orders, leaving Taggart with his thoughts. He hoped Eagan was wrong about needing these troops locally, but the die was cast. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to win the battle with Ree but lose the war against the Empire and Houle for America’s future.

  * * *

  1330 HOURS - ZERO DAY +195

  Joe Ellings sat cross-legged far to one side of the Complex, near the western tool shed and water pond, a tarp stretched out before him assembling “seed bombs,” as Cassy called them, for the spring plantings. Tap out a small circle of clay. Add a fat pinch of compost and a small pinch of mixed seeds to the center, then wrap it all up in the clay. It wasn’t hard work, but it was boring. Later, the Clan would scatter these things all willy-nilly around the outskirts of Clanholme, and the spring rains would open ’em up so the seeds could sprout. Not all the plants would make it, but nature would sort out the best ones for the soil conditions in any particular place.

  He had made about fifty of the things so far, and reckoned to have about that many more to go before his knees gave out and he’d have to take a spell to stretch and walk around. Getting older wasn’t no piece of cake, that was surely true.

  A shadow fell across the tarp and he looked back to see Michael coming up behind him from the ponds with an armful of them cattails. For some reason, the Clan’s quilts stuffed with the fluffy bits of cattails traded really good. People liked ’em. Heck, might be time to trade for one himself and find out what the ruckus was all about. Michael reached him, set his load down, and popped a squat.

  Joe said, “Howdy, Michael. Time for that talk y’all wanted to have with me?”

  Michael grunted, and picked up some clay. “Yes, I’ve done some thinking.”

  Joe patted another clay ball smooth. “Well, what’s got you all riled up? You wouldn’t want to jaw out here away from the others, less it was for something important.”

  Michael set his freshly made ball aside and began another. “You’re a straight shooter, so that’s how I’ll tell it to you. You know those Empire envoys that Cassy told us to leave alone? Well, they’re putting their nose into things they have no good reason to know. The sorts of things that make them more spies than envoys. If their bosses are prepping to invade us, we can’t risk them finding out we know about it. I’ve already told your team not to talk about it, and especially not to the envoys.”

  Joe shrugged. “Well, them envoys been askin’ me and everyone else about how we run our guards, our scouts, all of that. They say it’s so’s they can take what’s good back home with them so they can fix what’s broke with their own ways of doing. But I can’t figure it that way. I think they’re spying, too. Glad to know I’m not the only one who thinks it.”

  “Nope, you aren’t. My Marines feel the same way. They need to go or go down before they learn too much. They already know about the cars and the gasifiers.”

  Joe looked over at Michael, and locked eyes with him. “Lord knows that’s a risk. But Cassy says we need to treat them like guests, and just put away the dirty dishes so’s they don’t see ’em, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Cassy’s looking at it as the Clan leader. She has to consider politics. I have to look at it from the security director’s point of view.”

  Joe paused. He had a sneaking feeling he knew where this was headed, and he didn’t like it one bit. “So what are you saying, Michael? Out with it. I ain’t got all day for you to find your point.”

  Michael smiled for a moment, then looked deadly serious, eyes locked with Joe’s. “My duty to the Clan is to kill them before they can report back. They might leave any time now and bring our secrets with them. I’m of the opinion that my general duty to protect the Clan—a duty Cassy gave me to fulfill as I see fit—outweighs my obligation to obey her situational command about leaving these envoys alone. The situation just changed. You follow me so far?”

  “Yessir, I reckon I do. You figure you got a higher duty that outweighs the other thing. Seems simple enough, however you dress it up. And you may be right. That don’t answer what all this has to do with me, though. Pardon me for sayin’ so but killing them who done nothin’ to me ain’t really my style.”

  Michael shrugged. “No need to apologize, you’re being honest. And you’re right, I do have a higher duty to keep all of us alive and free. And you are correct that your duties and mine aren’t the same. However, and I say this with respect, you do have a duty to follow my orders, inasmuch as you’re a guardsman. So I’ll ask you this once and then leave it be. If I order you to assist me with this, will you obey? I won’t ask you to make the kill, Joe. That’s a burden I’ll carry so no one else has to. But I could use your help setting it up. If you can’t do this as a volunteer, but you will obey an order, I’m happy to make it an honest-to-god order.”

  Joe frowned, and Michael continued, “Just think about that map you found, and what might happen to the Clan if they bring back everything else they learned at chow or just walking around with their eyes open. Can I count on you with this mission? It goes without saying that this is Top Secret. No one can know about this, and we don’t need to talk about it after it’s done. But I need to know if you’re in.”

  Joe stared at the lump of clay in his hands. What was the right choice? It was hard to ken which way was right. Was it murder if they weren’t shootin’ at him first? No, the Empire and the Confederation would be scrapping with each other soon enough, he figured. War was war, and that’s all there was to it. But what about Cassy’s orders to let them Empire folks be? She wanted them left alone, so long as they weren’t doing nothing bad. But then an idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. Those folks were doing something bad. They were sneaking around being spies. Maybe Cassy didn’t know. Maybe killing those folks would be what she’d want, if she had proof. There wasn’t any proof, of course, but Michael was right. Any fool could see what they were up to. That being the case, then he ought to follow Michael’s orders…

  “Alright, Michael. You’r
e right about them. They need to be dealt with. So, y’all give me the order, and I’ll do my part. I figure sometimes you got to break an order to get behind the spirit of the order. What do you want me to do?”

  Michael smiled, and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder, a friendly gesture. “I need you to convince them to follow you out to the copse of trees, you know the one—where you killed that one White Stag slaver during Peter’s days in charge. You get them out there, and my Marines and I will handle what needs handling. Those trees thrive on blood, and we’ll do the watering. Get them out there after evening chow tonight. I’ll be ready.”

  Joe nodded. “You can count on me.”

  Michael rose and walked off, and Joe was left with his seeds and his own dark thoughts. It would be chow time soon, and it’d be best he sat with the envoys, the better to get their trust up. If he could get ’em curious, they wouldn’t be joining the Clan for morning chow.

  * * *

  Ethan scraped his tray as best he could into the bucket, from which scraps would usually be fed to the pigs, but this time of year it would go into the compost piles instead. Then he dumped the tray into the first 55-gallon drum, set over a low fire. Thank goodness he didn’t have kitchen duty this month—those poor saps had to scrub the dishes off in the hot barrel, then dump them into the soapy second barrel, rescrub them, and dump them into the freshwater third barrel, before stacking them. Then they’d do it all over again in the morning. Ha. Better them than him.