Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  “Yeah,” Nestor replied. “It’s about the halfway point, so a good place to set up for a while. Fresh water, too.”

  They rode on for another couple of hours before approaching the Interstate. As always, Nestor sent four riders ahead to scout both sides of the roadway, and the rest of his unit didn’t cross until the scouts gave the signal. This time, crossing the freeway was uneventful. Then they rode on for another half-mile before turning east toward the forest, which was once a wildlife refuge.

  After a couple scouts rode out again to make sure the area was clear, all of Nestor’s thirty-four guerrillas rode in and, from long practice, went about setting up camp with hardly a word spoken. Not until it was set up, tarp lean-tos in place, kitchen established, and patrols set did any of them relax. Then it was time to cook up some chow, meager though it would be. A couple hours after nightfall, Nestor lay under his tarp lean-to, wrapped in his wool blanket, and drifted to sleep.

  He bolted upright as echoes of gunfire bounced around the forest. Sweet, sweet music! The opening score, and now it was showtime. The Other grabbed his rifle and sprinted toward the source of that deadly, beautiful music. Free at last! That putz who rode around in his mind with him must have been sleeping, and it was about damn time. His other actors rose up from their shelters as he ran past them, and they’d be along shortly.

  Ahead, he saw two of his own actors crouched behind a fallen tree, shooting into the dark. No problem. The extras gave away their positions by their muzzle flashes. The Other sprinted toward a spot to their right, and circled around. Four men lay prone, firing back. Oh sweet fate. Distracted, they hadn’t seen the Other.

  He crept to the nearest and plunged his knife into the back of the man’s neck. He went limp instantly without so much as a cry. Sonofabitch, the bastard had screwed up his lines. He was supposed to deliver a believable scream of pain and terror. The script in the Other’s mind said so. Best to try again, then.

  The Other slid his knife into its sheath and crept forward, but as he approached the second man, the bastard looked up in time to see him coming. No knifey-knife this time. The Other pulled the trigger, his rifle kicked, and the man’s chest spouted a pulsing geyser of beautiful blood. Such perfect special effects! And this guy delivered his lines flawlessly before exiting stage left.

  The two remaining men turned at the noise and looked to their partner, then with wide eyes they boggled at the Other. The Other grinned and snap-fired two rounds, striking both men. Two more rounds finished them off, and that was the end of the marvelous scene.

  His people began to rise from their prone positions, but then one pointed past him into the dark forest beyond. The Other spun, and saw a dozen more charging through the dense underbrush toward him. Rifle empty, he dropped it and drew his knife. Then beyond the fast-approaching line of people he saw one man slightly farther back, shouting. That would be the so-called leader of this little improv troupe… stupid word, “leader.” They never led—behinders is what they were. Meant they’re liars, but they still played in the symphony.

  The Other bolted behind a tree but didn’t slow down. He came out the other side and made a sharp left turn off his right foot, went between two rather startled-looking actors, and in four steps and one giant leap he crashed into their leader. The two tumbled to the ground, and the Other cackled with glee. He came up to one knee before the other man could sit up. He rushed his target as he struggled to his hands and knees and jumped, landing on the man’s back, forcing him face-first into the dirt.

  The Other grabbed a clump of the man’s hair and then slid the blade of his knife across the man’s forehead. Lifting with his whole body, the Other pulled the man’s scalp clean off his head, leaving his bloody skull exposed. And oh, the sweet, beautiful lines that man delivered!

  The Other turned to look at the man’s companions, half a dozen facing him and the other half holding off the Other’s men as best they could. Now outnumbered greatly, however, they fell one by one. The Other grinned, put the scalp on top of his head like a toupee, and shouted, “And… Action!” before bursting into a full run at the six facing him. Blood oozed down the Other’s face as he ran and in only a few steps he crashed into the closest man. The other five turned to run, but went straight into the Night Ghosts’ hail of fire; they dropped to the ground like bloody marionettes.

  The Other slid his knife into the man’s belly, and they screamed together, one in pain and fear, the other with savage, mocking joy.

  Nestor rose out of a fog, fighting his way into consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw everything in red for a moment, until like a camera lens clicking, the red slid away. He looked down, confused, and saw that he straddled a dead stranger. His knife was in the man, but there were half a dozen other knife wounds as well. “What the…”

  You’re welcome. Another fine play we put on, pansy-ass.

  “Shut up,” Nestor said from between clenched teeth.

  A voice next to him, Ratbone’s, said, “Pretty sure he isn’t talking anymore, boss.”

  “What happened,” Nestor growled, still groggy and trying to make sense of what his eyes and ears were telling him.

  “Looks like your little brain-hitchhiker came out to play. Good thing, too, because you were the fastest one of all of us to get out there to back up our guards. They were about to get overrun.”

  Nestor became aware of something wet and warm on his head, but when he reached up he felt only hair. “I’m wounded,” he said, but it was more a question than a statement.

  I gave you a pretty hat. Say thank-you…

  Nestor felt something shift on his head, and frantically rubbed his hands over his head to get it off, whatever it was—and the scalp he unknowingly wore fell off his head, landing hair-down on the face of the dead man beneath him. Nestor scrambled back, off the body and away from that horrible wet, hairy thing. “Oh, goddammit,” came out in a whiny shout. In his mind, the Other sent him waves of laughter.

  Good thing you were asleep or your buddies would all be dead now, you chickenshit.

  Nestor shut his eyes and shoved the Other back down where he belonged once combat ended. Ratbone had watched Nestor go through this sort of cycle before, right after a fight, and kept quiet until Nestor opened his eyes again.

  Then Ratbone stepped up to Nestor and held his hand out to help him up. “That Other guy is one nasty sonofabitch, sir.”

  Nestor nodded, and grabbed Ratbone’s hand, struggling to his feet. “Yeah. Creepy. But useful sometimes.”

  “We’d have lost quite a few people without him here, tonight. Come on, let’s get that crap off you. I got some shampoo in my bag and the creek’s right over there.”

  “Hey boss,” shouted another man, who was rummaging through all the dead men’s pockets. “Look here, more of those gold coins. Think they knew we were here?”

  Nestor said, “No, I think they just stumbled over us on their way into Confed territory. This Empire is really starting to piss me off.”

  They’re great actors, though. Better than you, jerkoff, the Other whispered in his mind.

  Nestor ignored him, and followed Ratbone back toward camp, wanting nothing more than some shampoo and a pan of heated creek water.

  - 10 -

  1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +202

  AS THEIR WAGON rolled on, Jaz sat quietly beside Choony. They had been growing closer, the sort of close that had been in his dreams for quite a while. Yet lately, quiet was all there was between them. It was all very confusing, but he suspected there was something that had made her feel too vulnerable. She was from the streets and stunningly beautiful, and she had some invisible scars. Some walls. That was understandable.

  He sat quietly next to her without pushing. As always, he would let her take the time she needed, the path she wanted. If she felt about him the way he now realized he felt about her, she’d come around. Or she wouldn’t. Whether she did or didn’t, he could do nothing about it, and worrying about it would only upset his inner
harmony while accomplishing nothing. Or so he told himself—the truth was, he was finding that letting go was a lot harder than it was for most things in life. One’s desires were what made a thing painful or not, stressful or not—not the thing itself. Yet still, he hung on.

  He spent a lot of time meditating, these last couple days.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Jaz said, startling him. She hadn’t spoken all morning, until then.

  Choony wouldn’t lie, not to her and not to anyone. Lying put bad karma into the universe, and brought bad results and inner turmoil. The truth would stand on its own. “I was thinking of us, what we are, and what your silence means. I’m supposed to let such thoughts go, but that’s sometimes easier to say than to do.”

  Jaz smiled at him, and he wished he could tell what she was feeling. Sometimes he doubted even she fully knew what she felt, as she didn’t seem to be very in tune with her feelings.

  “I thought so,” Jaz said. “Half of me hoped so. It’s kind of confusing, and I don’t really know how to explain it, but I’m really sorry for being all quiet-like lately. I’ve just been thinking too, trying to figure things out.”

  Far in the distance, Choony saw the hill that marked home—Clanholme was on the far side. They’d be home in less than an hour, at least briefly. Their mission wasn’t done, but they had urgent news for Cassy.

  Choony nodded to Jaz. “Self-reflection is important. Sometimes what we think we want isn’t what we need, isn’t even what we truly want, but it can be hard to realize that.” He tried not to care whether that was it or not, but somehow couldn’t. Buddha would be disappointed.

  Jaz grinned, the first real smile in a while now. “Fishing for compliments? Fine, I’ll bite.” Then her expression grew somber. “I do want you, Choony. That’s totally not what’s going on. I just, like, worry?”

  “Is that a question or a statement?” Choony asked, and turned to face her, showing that she had his full attention. The horses would be fine trudging north on their own for a minute.

  Jaz looked down at her hands, which held her rifle across her lap. “Both, I guess. ‘Worry’ isn’t the right word. I just never felt so open and easy to hurt. Not with anyone before. I worry that I got too attached to you. Sometimes it’s better when you don’t feel anything, then you can do what needs doing and nothing can hurt your actual deep-down heart.”

  “So, you’re afraid that I’m going to hurt you? I can’t promise that I won’t, but I can promise that I’d never do anything intentionally that would hurt you. I hope you know that.”

  Jaz nodded slowly, still looking down at her hands and fidgeting. “I never worry about that anymore. You keep it real, one-hundred percent. The problem…” she said, and her voice trailed off.

  Choony felt a turmoil unlike any since junior high and his first solid crush. “You sound confused. You worry I’ll hurt you and that you let yourself get too vulnerable, but you never worry I’ll hurt you. There must be more going on, then.”

  Jaz looked away for a moment, but said nothing.

  Choony continued, “You can tell me. Or is it that you worry I care more than you do, that I’ll cling to you?”

  He braced himself for her answer, whatever she said, and reminded himself that it wouldn’t actually kill him if she said yes, he was clingy. It would only feel like it.

  Her spontaneous laugh, high-pitched and beautiful, surprised him. She looked at him and said, “No, that’s not even possible. Listen, we came close to dying when that Intercourse outpost tried to ambush us.”

  “True, but neither of us died.”

  “The entire time, all I could think about was whether, if they killed you, I might be happier if I died with you.”

  Choony opened his mouth to speak, but Jaz continued unabated. “What we’re doing out here is dangerous, Choony. Like, probably-going-to-kill-us dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “One or both of us will die out here in the wilds, sooner or later, and I’m okay with that. I need to be okay with that because what we’re doing is so damn important. Save the world kind of important, maybe. But…”

  “…but if we’re too close, you’re afraid of getting hurt, should I die, or of hurting me by getting killed?”

  Jaz nodded, and closed her eyes tightly for a moment. Opening them, she looked at him and he saw they were red and bleary. “I can’t do this job right if I’m more worried about you than the mission, Choony. I know I’m tough, I’ve been through more things than I’ll ever talk about, but it’s tough-like-diamonds—nothing can scratch me, but hit me hard enough or in the wrong place and I’ll shatter.”

  Choony fought a flash of anger, then went stone-cold as he fought for control of his emotions. Finally he calmed himself. He couldn’t blame her for her feelings, they were what they were. “I’d like to suggest that if we know we’re going to get killed at some point, it’s better to die with love than fear. Isn’t it better to have our shining moment together first, even if it’s brief? As long as we’re going to die anyway, I’d like to die happy and… And in love,” he added, and felt his throat tighten.

  He hadn’t said that to her before because he didn’t want to pressure her. He didn’t want her to say it back just because it was the thing to say at the moment. But if she was going to wall herself off, she deserved to know how he felt, first, and what she would be giving up and what she would cost him, too.

  Jaz let out a muffled cry and turned away from him. He put his hand on her knee, and she didn’t move it away. He only wanted to comfort her, but had no idea what to say to make it better.

  “I know. I feel it, Choony. I just… I need time to figure things out for myself. I feel like everything is louder than everything else. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “Good, then you understand why I just need some time.”

  Choony nodded his understanding, though she couldn’t see him. He decided to let her be for a while, and he took his hand off her knee. He tried to be calm, but it was hard. “Of course, Jaz.”

  After that, they rode on in silence as they approached Clanholme. In a way, he felt a sense of dread at the thought of arriving. Surely people would shout and cheer, smile, clap him on the back. There would be joy, and he’d have to smile a smile he couldn’t feel right now. It wouldn’t be right to take their happiness because of his own stupid turmoil. Ha. Maybe he should worry about his harmony rather than his other desires. Desire was the source of all pain and conflict in the world, after all. He knew that.

  The wagon wound around the base of the hill, and the guard tower slowly shifted into view. He and Jaz would have to deal with heartfelt reunions with true friends. They’d have to tell Cassy about the Empire’s fake survivor group at Intercourse, and their real new allies at the Gap. And worst, he’d have to tell Cassy that the Empire had some radios—and one was at Intercourse.

  He took a deep breath as a crowd began to gather around the guard tower. Reunion time. Show time. Shutting his eyes a moment, he tried to access that inner acceptance but, as Jaz put it, everything felt so loud…

  * * *

  Carl huddled inside the otherwise vacant house two blocks from his compromised safehouse, in the wildlands of Elizabethtown. The sun had gone down a couple hours earlier and, as the temperature plummeted, he shivered and wished he had a blanket. Those bastards sent to kill him had taken his, along with some of his food and his lantern.

  He knew he couldn’t stay there forever. He would run out of food, or get eaten, or Pamela’s hired goons would find him. He worried about the Alpha, leader of his band, the Timber Wolves and Speaker of Liz Town. Was he deposed yet by Pamela’s cabal of co-conspirators? She’d tried to recruit Carl, and of course he’d thrown his life away by trying to warn the Alpha, that fool. Why had he been so stupid as to think the Alpha would listen to him? Just because they were friends?

  His thoughts were interrupted by three knocks at the back door, Sunshine’s idea to let him know it was sh
e who was coming in, not Pam’s goons. He welcomed the break from his pity party.

  When Sunshine came in, she was carrying a thick comforter and a decent-looking wool blanket. Maybe one he had given her group back when he was still welcome in Liz Town.

  Sunshine smiled at him and said, “Honey, I’m home.”

  “Ha. Okay, dear. Dinner’s in the oven and the kids are asleep already. How was work?”

  “Funny. Ha ha. I brought you blankets. Care to break them in?” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

  Carl feigned indignation as he replied, “You, missy, are a tease. Holding out blankets and then not giving it up.”

  She handed him the comforter and wrapped the wool blanket around her shoulders. It was gray, and Carl suspected that was its actual color rather than just being filthy and faded. “I never tease,” she said with a smirk, then sat down leaning against a wall.

  Carl did likewise, sitting next to her. “Thanks. I was freezing.”

  “Yeah, I figured. We had a couple extras from the blankets you gave us last month. It’s the least I could do for all you did to help us.”

  “Oh, the very least, I agree,” he said with a pursed-lipped smile.

  Sunshine bumped his knee with hers. “Got news for ya. You probably won’t like it, but it could be good for you.”

  “They’re turning the power back on tomorrow? What’s not to like about that?”

  “I wish. No, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but the Timber Wolves’ Alpha got himself killed.”

  Carl froze. That was news, and not the good kind. “I tried to warn him, dammit.”

  Sunshine put her hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. “I know. You did what you could. But what’s done is done, and maybe now whoever’s chasing you will stop.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “With the Alpha dead and a new Speaker election coming up, they might be too busy to care, and of course now you can’t stop them from killing him. Not your concern anymore.”