* * *
Frank saw the column turn and cursed—if they got across that bridge, this was going to be one long chase indeed. Michael must have had the same thought, because he shouted orders to spread out and move from a fast canter to a full gallop. Not a sprint, but still plenty fast.
Ahead, the bike column was getting itself twisted into knots at the bridge, and the swarm of Manheim soldiers—Cassy had stationed an entire company of Taggart’s troops there—was rapidly closing on the column’s other flank. Frank’s heart surged with joy. They were going to slaughter these bastards, or at least a lot of them.
When Michael got within about eighty yards, he called for the unit to halt and dismounted. Frank stayed on his horse but pulled out his M4 from its leather saddle holster. As he called out to fire, the world erupted in noise and smoke as over one hundred men and women opened up on the cluster of raiders, who were bunched up at the bridge like ants swarming another insect. Manheim’s troops did the same a few seconds later, and together they unleashed a full magazine. Frank fired small bursts until his magazine was empty. Bap-bap. Bap-bap.
Michael called for reloading, but there wasn’t anything left to shoot at. When the smoke cleared, only a few enemies were moving at the bridge, and Manheim’s troops advanced to finish them off. The bulk of the raiders were across and pedaling hard. Frank yelled, “Mount up! We got more of those assholes to catch. Get some!”
The troops cheered and mounted up. While the Manheim troops frantically cleared the clusterfuck of bikes and bodies, Frank and his unit snaked their way carefully through the carnage and across the bridge, avoiding the bikes still in their way. It was frustrating and damn slow, and every minute let the rest of the raiders get farther ahead. He did a quick tally and only counted some twenty bodies or so. Figure thirty dead, then, since he couldn’t have seen them all—that left roughly fifty or sixty raiders still alive.
Frank waved to the Manheim troops as he went by and saw in the distance, behind them, little clusters of horse-mounted people riding toward him. The Manheimers were sending out what horses they had readily available, joining in the pursuit. Even better.
He and his cavalry kept up their steady pace, eating distance. After about a mile, the column of raiders turned right on what must be Old Line Road. If they stayed on that, it would take them through the deserted part of Liz Town, the so-called wildlands. He wasn’t at all certain Liz Town would lift a finger to stop them, given the news he heard from Ethan in council meetings.
Michael, riding next to him, said, “If they hit Liz Town, they’ll scatter and we’ll lose half of them.”
“I know,” was all Frank said in reply. It was true, of course, but spurring their horses to go faster would wear them out. They were closing the distance, but slowly. Still, Frank and his troops would be fresh when they finally caught up to the raiders while they would be exhausted. With the cavalry joining Frank from Manheim, he outnumbered the raiders roughly two-to-one. It would be a slaughter—if he could just catch them.
* * *
Samuel glanced again behind him, but the cavalry hadn’t magically disappeared, and his own troops hadn’t magically respawned. He still had maybe half his unit left, and they were tired. Hell, he was tired, and he was in better shape than most of them. They must be about ready to fall over. He turned to face ahead again and focused on pedaling. He worked toward getting into that Zen-like state where the rhythm of pedaling and the yellow lines on the road going by would act almost like a trance. “In the zone,” Brett had called it. When he was in the zone, he felt like he could pedal damn near forever. He had gotten good at it riding all over the damn Midwest Republic, and the trip out here to this goddamn place.
Brett, panting, said, “How many… miles you figure…?”
Samuel didn’t really know, but he could guesstimate. “Maybe two miles till Elizabeth.” He didn’t have the breath to say the whole damn name. When they went Republic, he was going to make them change it to something shorter.
Another mile went by, but then he saw the sprawl of Elizabethtown up ahead, smoke from dozens of small fires rising into the air on the south end of town, to the left, showing where most of the populated area was. A mile to go. He glanced back again, but the horses were still there. Maybe even closer.
Abruptly the pedaling got easier, and he realized they had been on a slight incline for the last mile. Now they were heading downhill toward the streams that flowed through the town. Up ahead he saw a road sign: “PA-283 OVERPASS.” Hot damn! His spirit soared, because on the other side of the bridge ahead was the abandoned part of Elizabethtown.
“Get ready,” he shouted, and heard the call being repeated down the line of troops. “After the bridge, scatter northwest.” The call was repeated once again.
He crossed the bridge going as fast as his tired legs would carry him with the slight help of gravity taking him downhill. As far ahead as he could see, the rubble wall of Liz Town lined the road. There were people on the wall, too, and more appeared even while he looked. They knew he was coming, somehow. He only hoped his intel was right, and they wouldn’t open fire, but he wanted to get off that road and onto side streets going away from the wall as fast as possible.
He rode a few hundred feet more until he reached a promising-looking side street going north, away from the wall. This was it—time to fan out and whoever made it out alive could celebrate cheating death. He banked his bike, taking the turn as fast as he could. He almost hit the sidewalk curb on the other side of the street, but made the turn without crashing. He and the ten or so other lead bikes then headed north on Hickory Lane, according to the sign. Up ahead were dozens of cross streets, enough for everyone to fan out. It would make them hard to chase.
He also saw ahead that, along the power lines running on both sides of the street—or maybe they were phone lines?—were wooden pallets dangling from lengths of rope. That was odd, but he paid no mind; people did a lot of weird shit these days.
Sweet, sweet freedom was just ahead! All he had to do was get out of sight long enough to take cover in one of the many abandoned houses. Let the others keep running. They’d give the Clan riders someone to chase besides him and the few troops with him.
He heard what sounded like an elk call, which was weird—most of the ruins had enough people left that game either stayed away or got eaten. He shook his head to clear it. He didn’t have time to screw around nature watching.
Abruptly, the pallets fell in unison. For a moment, everything seemed to shift into slow-motion. He saw the pallets falling. He saw something metallic glinting on them. And then, to his horror, he realized what the metal was—barbed wire had been strung across the road between pairs of pallets.
His view suddenly shifted from the road ahead and the falling pallets to the sky, and he became aware of a terrible yanking on his hoodie. His bike kept going. He heard it crash at the same time he landed on his back in the road. A sudden, sharp pain jabbed his neck, like a tiny stab wound and he realized with sudden clarity that he had landed on barbed wire, the same barbed wire that had snagged him off his bike.
All around him, he heard the crashing and cries of alarm from other riders also falling. He turned his head and saw a woman’s front wheel impaled by the wire, momentum carrying the bike forward, and the wire was pulled up with it. It tangled into the axle and the bike jerked to a stop, but the rear rose up and flipped over the front wheel—she smashed face-first into the pavement.
Samuel struggled to his feet, but was knocked over by another man on a bike. The man crashed to the ground and managed somehow to skid ten more feet, getting caught up in multiple strands of wire as the road raspberried his exposed skin through torn leathers.
Struggling with the wire caught in his hoodie, Samuel got to his hands and knees but quickly gave up and, with desperate haste, simply pulled the hoodie off. He then crawled to the nearest downed bike, pulled the rifle from its handlebar holster and looked around.
The length of
road was littered with his troops. A few people were wrapped in wire, struggling and crying out. Nearby, a man lay still in the road with a pool of blood spreading from his neck; barbed wire was wrapped completely around his throat. The sight made Samuel acutely aware of the hot, wet blood trickling down his own neck, and he shuddered.
Those fucking Liz Town traitors had turned on him. That was the only explanation. He felt his rage rise at the wall, visible in the distance back the way he had come from. When he got back to the Republic, goddammit, he was going make sure this entire fucking town burned…
A shot rang out to his left. His head snapped toward the sound, and he saw a ratty-looking man holding a pistol, leaning out of an abandoned house’s window. He fired slowly and methodically at the nearest raiders, hitting every time. Fucker. Samuel snapped his rifle to his shoulder, planted his cheek on the stock, and scoped in on the man’s heart. Bang. The asshole dropped without a sound, dead instantly, and lay half in and half out of the window.
Brett’s voice behind him startled him. “Boss, we gotta get the fuck out of here.”
“No shit,” Samuel snapped. He saw that there were about ten men and women with him and Brett. Dozens littered the streets or scattered in other directions in small groups, abandoning their bikes. “Let’s go,” he told Brett, turning away from the window with its dead man, and headed toward another abandoned house. They could go through the yard, but first they had to get the hell off the street.
Horse hooves, lots of them. The noise reached his ears and he sped up his pace. Bullets bounced around all over the place, ricocheting, but didn’t seem to be fired directly at him. That was common in battle. It didn’t mean one of those wouldn’t kill someone just the same, though. He heard hooves approach rapidly, and without looking back, Samuel and Brett dove over a low hedge. Samuel tucked himself into the hedgerow as best he could and held his breath—the hooves went by seconds later without slowing.
Brett whispered, “Damn, that was close.”
“Let’s get into that house.” Samuel rose to a crouch on the balls of his feet, one hand holding his rifle and the other on the ground for balance. He counted to three and then Brett and he sprinted toward the side gate. Samuel didn’t check to see if it was unlocked, and simply jumped up and rolled himself over the top. Brett landed nearly on top of him.
Samuel looked around and got his bearings. “Brett, the house on the other side—it faces an alley. Better to hide out there than here by the street.”
“You think?” Brett bolted toward the back fence line with Samuel hot on his heels. They made it up and over, landing in a brown, winter-killed yard. The house looked empty, with a broken window. A door hung crazily on one hinge. Samuel said, “Looks good. Go!”
They crossed the backyard and dove into the house in moments. After a pause to let his eyes adjust, rifle at the ready, Samuel saw the house was indeed abandoned. It looked like it had been ransacked quite some time ago, and there was no sign of habitation since then. “Upstairs. Stay low, dammit. We can peer out the upper windows, but if anyone comes in we got a chance to get out before they know we’re here.”
As they went up the stairs slowly, rifles raised, Samuel wondered what would happen when he got back to the Republic. Would they give him more troops, or hang him? It could go either way. Keeping Brett alive had to be his priority right now, though, because if things went sideways when he got back to the Republic, he could always blame Brett. Sorry, buddy…
* * *
Frank watched the scene unfold from his saddle, but only took the occasional shot at an opportune target. The battle was a massacre, and the Empire raiders quickly went from disorganized unit to dead. People scattered in all directions, fleeing the carnage. Frank hurriedly coordinated with the soldiers to get a perimeter set up.
He looked at the barbed wire contraption—dozens of wires strung between pallets. They had been hung from a rope via loops of wire, the rope strung along the power lines by means of carabiners along their length. When the local wildlanders had somehow released the long ropes, the weight of the palettes made the whole thing—ropes, pallets, wires and all—come crashing down. It was crude but effective, and had allowed the winded cavalry to catch up, smashing into the raiders like a hammer.
He caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked. Two raiders were vaulting a back fence, and he saw them as they went up and over. “Soldier,” he called, getting one’s attention. “Take five men to that house,” he said, pointing at the abandoned house he thought they had gone to. “At least two raiders just jumped that fence. Be careful.”
The battle itself wound down to nothing. All that was left was to put the wounded out of their misery and gather up all the weapons and ammo they could. It would be quite a score, Frank was certain.
Michael, on foot, came up beside Frank, panting. He had blood spatters all over his face, arms, and chest. “Add their guns to the supplies we confiscated. And with the supplies they stocked up in some of those abandoned farms, we’ll be sitting pretty. The Empire won’t have forward bases. Not bad.”
Frank nodded. “It’s a feather in our cap. And when you take a look behind us, look at the Liz Town wall. I saw dozens of people up there, watching. They didn’t lift a finger to help.”
“What about the trap? Pretty damn helpful.”
“That wasn’t Liz Town,” Frank said, shaking his head. “That was the abandoned survivors out here in their ‘wildlands,’ not our supposed allies.”
Michael shrugged. “Interesting. Let’s be sure to parade past them on our way out, yeah? I think Cassy just got her show of strength she was looking for.”
Frank glanced down at Michael. “Wow. Yeah, I think you’re right. Let’s be sure to salute them as we go by.”
Frank saw the five troops he had sent after the two escapees. They approached, nodded to Michael—technically their military C.O. right now—and then to Frank. “Sir,” one said, “there were two inside just like you said. They were upstairs. Two of us kept them pinned, while the others went around back and went after them inside. Short fight, two dead. We grabbed their weapons and left ’em there.”
“Outstanding,” Frank said. “Let’s get all the loot up on the horses and get out of here.”
Twenty minutes later, the enemy arsenal was packed up and the Confed wounded cared for. There had been a few losses, and a number of injuries, but for the most part it had been an Empire slaughter. They probably had fewer than twenty survivors, scattered in all directions. They weren’t a military threat anymore.
At Frank’s word, Michael commanded the column forward, and they kept the pace to a walk. The unit, stretched out like a snake now, slithered down the road toward the wall, and then along the length of that wall back toward the bridge. The wall was full of people who had watched the battle. Frank saw a knot of four or five people, standing tightly around another figure.
Frank figured that must be Liz Town’s Interim Speaker. As he led the column past the man, Frank raised his rifle over his head in salute, and grinned. Then he pointedly turned to face the road again and continued on without looking back.
Just as he turned, though, he saw that figure punch the rubble and spin on his heels. Good, let that weaselly Empire-loving bastard fume. Everyone else in Liz Town saw it, too, and they seemed to have a different opinion, cheering down at the passing victors below.
Frank couldn’t wait to tell Cassy about all of this.
- 19 -
1900 HOURS - ZERO DAY +250
CASSY SAT ON the recliner in her living room while Michael and Dean Jepson sat on the couch across from her. Outside, she heard the faint buzz of people coming and going with bandages, water, or other supplies to care for the wounded. Michael had just finished giving his report on the Battle of Liz Town. No doubt someday soon it would be called First Liz Town. It was a sobering thought.
Cassy said, “And you’re sure the Interim Speaker was on the wall? They saw the battle?”
“A
ffirmative. I don’t think it could have been anyone else. And he looked upset. I think it confirms your suspicions.”
“That’s bad news, but the good news is that the people themselves were cheering. There’s still hope the whole town hasn’t forgotten their own best interests, even if this dirtbag Speaker has.”
Michael nodded. “No word on when they’ll hold their election, but you know Liz Town. They’re tight-lipped.”
Cassy looked to Dean and was silent for a moment, considering the old man. He was rough-hewn oak, for sure. He could outpace a lot of the younger Clanners with his work, and his ideas were more valuable than most she heard. His curmudgeonly ways had grown on her, too—he was more entertaining than irritating now, a fact the kids had discovered long before the rest of the Clan adults did. They adored him and somehow he always had time for them.
“So, Dean. How are things going with the planes?”
Dean almost spat, but then apparently realized he was in someone’s living room and reined himself in. He straightened himself, lifting his head, and answered, “If you can find some fool crazy enough to climb aboard, I got some new tricks for them to try out. But sure as hell, you ain’t getting me up in one of them things. I call ’em death buckets.”
Death buckets? Those words were surely his wife’s and not his. Though it would make sense she wouldn’t want him setting foot in one, and even if he wanted to, a good husband stood by his woman. After all, it didn’t seem to change his enthusiasm about his work. As long as he got the job done it didn’t matter to Cassy whether his wife had a few unfavorable words with him about his new project.
Cassy nodded. “Okay. What have you got?”
“Two things. First, I wired up some rifles under the wings. Now that we got all them AK rifles from the raiders, I’m gonna put those on instead of your pansy-ass M4s, all firin’ at once. It’ll work just like we talked. One good strafing run and they’ll be on empty, but we got two on each side, so four AKs. It’ll be a good run, they just need to make ’em count.”
Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection Page 24
