Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  “So,” Samuel began, trying to sound nonchalant, “I do believe I know you, mister.”

  Brett interrupted, the dumbass, and shouted, “Hey, he was at the ambush!”

  “Shut up, Brett. You’re fucking with my mojo. Now then—”

  “Sam, I’m telling you, he was at Elizabeth—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Brett. And don’t call me Sam. Now then. As my moronic friend here points out, I recognize you. I bet you figured you were pretty clever with that ambush. How’s being clever working out for you now?”

  The man spat at the ground. “The Clan will never bow to you. Let us go and I might not kill you.”

  Samuel grinned again. The woman had that deer-in-headlights expression that just looked so damn hot on bitches. She probably knew that guy, too, or she’d have taken off. Women never stuck around when the going got tough, as far as Samuel was concerned. “Bow, kneel, lay down—it’s all the same to me. I just like killing people, when it’s called for. Not just random, mind you. No, people like you who deserve it. And when my orders call for me to get my hands bloody, that’s a bonus. Who’s your piece of ass?” Samuel wiggled his eyebrows at the chick. She was going to be his loot for the night. Plunder. Ha! Plunder that booty! Sometimes life was grand.

  “She’s nobody,” he said, but Samuel noticed the man’s jaw tighten, his body stiffen. “Let her go, and I’ll go with you peacefully. I know the Clan’s layout, where the traps are, all their secrets.”

  The woman wrapped her arms around him and cried, “Frank, no! You can’t do that!”

  That sure got Samuel’s attention. But such a trade didn’t seem like much fun. “How about I just kill her, and then cut your skin off your face an inch at a time until you tell me all those juicy little secrets?”

  The man, Frank, put his cheek on the woman’s head and squeezed her. Samuel grinned… He had been right about the two.

  Brett said, “Screw that, boss. Let’s kill him and take the chica for questioning? I bet she knows stuff too. I’ll get her to talk. She’ll beg.”

  Samuel laughed out loud. “Brett, bitches will say anything to get away from your limp-dicked stupid ass. That’s no challenge. Hey, Frank, right? Who do you think she’d enjoy more, me or this slack-jaw?”

  The man kept his expression rigidly neutral and said, “I wonder how all your troops feel about working for a monster like you? Some of them have to still have a conscience. Maybe one of them will put a knife in your back and do the world a favor.”

  Brett stepped forward and backhanded the man, closed-fisted, and Frank staggered. Only the woman’s grip kept him upright. That’s when Samuel noticed he had no left foot. “Goddamn, Brett. Can’t you see the man’s a cripple? Poor guy is only half a man. You know, beating up cripples is really low-rent. You should look into some etiquette lessons, my friend.”

  The woman finally spoke to Samuel directly, and shouted, “He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be, you monster! I bet two of your stupid coins that your own men frag you tonight.”

  Samuel frowned. “Firstly, Miss Sexdoll, their conscience will be just fine once I make ’em all take turns on you. Shared guilt, shared laughs. But you’re wrong, you know, none of them will knife me. See, in the Midwest Republic we have this thing called ‘discipline.’ We make the trains run on time, and all that jazz. They get food, they get power, they get loot. It comes on time, every time. You—”

  Frank turned and whispered into the woman’s ear. Motherfucker. Samuel shouted, “You interrupt me again, half-man, I’ll cut your damn dick off and choke your bitch with it. See if I’m joking.”

  Frank stopped, looked down at the ground. The muscles in his jaw flexed repeatedly, but he didn’t say anything more.

  “Good, our developmentally-disabled friend here knows how to follow instructions,” Samuel said.

  Brett said, “Sam, we shouldn’t waste any more time with these two. Let’s kill them and get on with the slaughter. I’m bored as shit.”

  Samuel grinned. Leave it to Brett to keep his eye on the big picture. “You have a point. Well, gimpy here will only slow us down. He doesn’t look like cycling’s his best sport, right?” He paused while his troops laughed awkwardly, dutifully. Then he said, “Brett. Shoot him and take the bitch, so we can go get to looting.”

  Brett took a step back without wasting a second, raised his rifle one-handed, elbow at his hip, and fired. He had a huge grin on his face.

  But as he raised his rifle, the woman stepped in the way at the same time she yanked the man to the side—Brett’s shot struck the woman in the middle of her back, and she collapsed without a sound. The man, Frank, tried to keep her from falling, but with only one foot he instead fell too, landing almost on top of her.

  As Frank screamed the rage-filled primal scream of one losing a child or a wife, he draped himself over the dying woman, who lay on the ground gasping. Blood bubbled up from her mouth, and her jaw opened and closed like a fish out of water.

  “Goddammit, Brett. What a shitty waste of hot ass. Hey Frank, sorry about that. We weren’t trying to kill our fuckdoll, man. Brett just can’t shoot for shit.”

  Brett laughed, and said, “That’s what she said.”

  Samuel rolled his eyes. “Damn, Brett. You are so stupid. That joke doesn’t work here.”

  His sidekick replied, “Sure it does! They do say that.”

  Samuel chuckled. “Whatever. So what do you want to do with the cripple?” Samuel looked at the man, who cradled the woman’s head, stroking her hair, oblivious to anything going on around him. He kept making a weird, annoying, grief-filled noise. “This pathetic shit is like fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  Brett shrugged. “Fuck him. You want the honors this time around, boss?”

  All eyes turned to Samuel. As long as he had their attention, he might as well have fun with it. “Sure. Let’s water the grass,” he said as he pulled out his Bowie-style knife, the heft feeling good in his hand.

  A blur of movement in the corner of his eye made Samuel turn, only to find the gimp lunging toward him with a knife of his own. Stupid, but hilarious the way the man limped. Frank had murder in his eyes, which only made it funnier.

  Samuel turned to face Frank, and readied himself. This sucked, because even a gimp with a knife could kill someone. Knife fights were never, ever a sure bet. But with everyone watching him, he had to do this to keep them in line. If he chickened out, they’d turn on him. Well, if you gotta do something, you might as well have fun with it. “Let’s get this over with, cripple.”

  The sound of many rifles being fired behind him, some on automatic, abruptly pierced the air. All around him, Samuel saw his men falling, then he heard hoofbeats behind him, a growing thunder. But with the cripple coming at him, he couldn’t turn to face it. “Fuck! What’s going on?”

  Frank finally got within striking distance, and swung his knife. Samuel took two steps backward, but saw that Frank kept the blade moving as he shuffled forward. The knife whooshed in front of Samuel’s face and he stepped back again. Now he felt a chill down his spine. Brett hadn’t answered him, but worse, this Frank guy had some training—he slashed from left to right, but without slowing down, that strike shifted to a diagonal upward swing, then turned around for a diagonal downward swing. That was training—keep striking, hitting the compass points each time.

  Samuel waited until the man swept his blade again, then jabbed his knife at the man’s exposed left shoulder. Frank used his offhand to swat at the blade, and though it left a terrible gash in his forearm, it kept Samuel from thrusting his blade into Frank’s shoulder.

  Meanwhile, Frank’s own blade never stopped its buzzsaw attack, and Samuel felt it slice into his left arm with an impact that told him the knife had cut him down to the bone. Samuel staggered back and locked eyes with Frank. This sonofabitch had cut him. Him, Samuel Pease, the fucking predator, had been stung by his prey. Samuel’s blood boiled and a rage overtook him. He saw Frank’s blade sweep right-to-left, a
nd then he lunged, his left foot moving forward, bending at the knee, giving Samuel a bit of extra range and power while he thrust the blade. Samuel saw Frank take another cut to his left arm to block the thrust—and then he saw the ground rushing up at him.

  What the fuck? His left leg, which he had lunged with, didn’t hold him. It was like jello. Samuel landed in a heap, sputtering curses. He brought his knife up in front of himself defensively, but his enemy Frank wore a wicked grin, and stepped backward instead of coming in to try to finish Samuel off. That didn’t make any sense…

  The thunder of hoofbeats suddenly overwhelmed every other noise. Samuel risked a glance around but quickly wished he hadn’t, for all around him horses thundered by, sped by gravity as they charged down the hill, dozens of them. And then they were gone, moving on. He wondered where the fuck they came from, but then snapped his attention back to Frank. His enemy had taken a couple more steps back and now stood still, hands at his side, one hand holding a bloody knife and the other dripping blood from the wounds Samuel had given him.

  Samuel tried to get up, but that left leg gave out again. Reflexively, he looked at his leg with bewilderment, and then saw why it didn’t hold him up. He bled profusely, and his mind registered that he had been shot, the bullet passing through his femur and smashing it in half. His weight had slid the jagged end through his muscle and skin, and it now protruded from the front of his thigh. He became suddenly aware of pain. Agony like he hadn’t ever felt before. Part of him wondered why he hadn’t felt himself get shot. He looked up at Frank.

  Frank said, “Your friend is already dead. He died quickly, you know, just like that. And you’re dying too, you disgusting little troll.”

  Samuel hated him. Standing there, looking smug. Motherfucker. “You didn’t win, you didn’t beat Samuel Fucking Pease. You arrogant little prick, I’m not on the ground because you won. Someone sucker-punched me with a fucking bullet.”

  Frank didn’t smile, but only nodded. “Possibly. But that’s kind of irrelevant, don’t you think? My wife died in my arms while you were patting yourselves on the back.”

  Samuel grunted, his lips curling up into a grimace.

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he continued, “You have no idea the mistake you just made. This was a battle for our survival, but now? Now I won’t rest until you and everyone in this world like you are gone. I swear I will kill you all. Everyone you know, everyone you love, will die because of you. If it takes the rest of my life, no one in your psychotic fucking Empire will ever know what it’s like to sleep soundly again. They’ll never be safe from me. And that will be your only legacy.”

  Samuel’s teeth were tightly clenched as he struggled not to scream from the fiery agony in his thigh. This verbose motherfucker… “Nice speech, cripple. Why don’t you go gimp your ass over to your dead fucking wife and tell her all this shit, because I don’t care. Idiot, I don’t have any loved ones in the Republic for you to kill, and I don’t give two shits about the Republic, either.”

  Samuel watched as Frank first nodded, then hobbled over to Brett’s corpse—poor Brett, Samuel’s only real friend, now staring open-eyed at the sky with one eye, the other eye a gaping hole from where the bullet that killed him had exited. Frank leaned over and picked up Brett’s rifle.

  “Go ahead and kill me,” Samuel said, trying to keep his voice steady but coming out instead sounding whiny and panicked, even to his own ears. “It won’t stop the Republic, and it won’t bring your cockholster back to life.” Soon enough, the Republic would be back with a vengeance. Then this snot-nosed punk would get extra special treatment before he died. The thought brought a smile to Samuel’s face.

  Frank stared at him for a long moment. “You talk about my wife like that, and then smile? What kind of a pervert are you?”

  Samuel decided he wasn’t talking his way out of this one. Sometimes the prey gets lucky, that’s all. “I’m no monster. I’m just a realist, and I figure the weak deserve to get used up by their betters. Go ahead and gloat, you fucking waste of oxygen. This new world has no room for useless meatbags like you—and you didn’t beat me, you got lucky.”

  The other man watched Samuel as he spoke, but didn’t interrupt, and didn’t reply. He just looked at Samuel with his lip curled down, like he just stepped in dog shit. Women looked at Brett that way sometimes. Samuel bared his teeth at Frank. The little bitch probably didn’t have the balls to do it right, anyway. “What are you waiting for? Trying to grow some balls? It doesn’t work that way, cocksmoker. I bet you don’t have the cojones to—”

  Bang! The sonofabitch fired his rifle.

  The last thing Samuel saw was Frank mutter, “There’s some reality for you,” before he turned to lower himself to the ground, crawled to the woman, and then just sat there. The bastard’s eyes were dry. Then there was only blackness.

  * * *

  1400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +254

  It was warm and bright, perfect for the afternoon nap Jaz had needed. She opened her eyes and saw the blue sky above, and Choony nearby cooking pemmican for lunch.

  “Good morning,” Choony said. “That was the shortest nap yet. How do you feel?”

  Jaz slowly flexed her shoulder. It was tender, but no shooting pains like daggers. The fish antibiotics Choony had scrounged up actually worked, much to her amazement, and she had avoided infection. These days, infections had become once again a greedy killer. “Tender, but not as bad as it was. I think I might be able to ride in the wagon, actually.”

  Choony stood from the fire and brought an aluminum camping plate to her. Full of totally gross-looking fried pemmican with a dash of flour. Biscuits and gravy without the biscuits—just flatbread to dip in the gruel. Ugh. “Thanks,” she said, but couldn’t bring herself to sound enthusiastic.

  “I don’t think moving you is a good idea, Jaz. It hasn’t even been a week.”

  “I think I know how long it’s been. I felt every minute. Thanks for your concern, though.”

  Choony frowned. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “I’m not trying to say you can’t do something, only that I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Jaz let out a long breath, and nodded. “I know you aren’t being insulting and stuff. I just don’t want to sit here anymore. We need to get back home. We’re running low on supplies, for one, and I don’t think you’re the one to hunt us up fresh grub.”

  “We have enough for three more days,” Choony said. “I did inventory while you slept.”

  Of course he had. Leave it to Choony to know how many fat-and-powdered-meat bars they had left. “Feed for the horses?” she asked.

  “Lots of grass right here. It’s springtime. They can browse as much grass as they want.”

  “Graze. They can graze on grass.”

  “That, too,” Choony said.

  “Look. It’s not like I got hit somewhere bad, like the shoulder.”

  Choony frowned. “You did get hit in the shoulder. With an AK rifle. You should be dead.”

  “It wasn’t the rifle that hit me, Choon. And I have a ton of damage, but no veins got hit, no arteries, it didn’t hit bone, and the ligament thingy didn’t get severed. I’m good to go.”

  “It’ll take you months to get to mostly-normal. Years to fully recover. You may never fully recover, in fact.” Choony sounded so sure of himself. It was seriously irritating.

  “You wrapped my left shoulder and arm, right? It’s immobile. All good. I can ride a wagon, just maybe not a horse. I can fire a rifle, if I absolutely have to, because I shoot right-handed. And I want you to listen to me here, Choony—I can heal better at Clanholme with fresh vegetables and real medical care than I can out here. I’m well enough to travel.”

  “It’s a bad idea, Jaz.” He looked at her intently. The concern was etched on his face.

  Jaz sighed. It was hard to be mad at him for being totally overprotective when he was all, like, trying to take care of her as best he could.

  That was a new thing, a guy who ac
tually cared for her. She felt her face smile and she reached her good arm up to cup his cheek in her hand. Oh, for fuck’s sake—when did she get so gooey? Ugh. But she was still smiling.

  Nothing for it so she plowed on. “We’ll compromise. In the morning, we head back to Clanholme. You don’t have to come, but I’m going, and I’m taking the wagon. But that gives me another most of a day to rest. You know that sitting still out here for too long a time is a sucker’s game. Gotta keep moving.”

  Choony didn’t reply at first, just stared at her intently. Well, he was probably trying to figure out how serious she was. She put on her most stern face and stared right back. Ha! Deal with that, Choon Choon.

  Finally, he said, “Fine. We’ll leave in the morning. I will do the packing, though, understand? You need to relax on the trip and try to stay as comfortable as you’re able. How does that sound?”

  Jaz grinned. “Deal. No take-backs. My diabolical plan worked—I got shot so that you’d have to pack the wagon.”

  Choony finally laughed then, and dug out some salt and pepper for her meat-goo slop. Pemmican. Whatever, but she nodded a thanks as he handed them to her. Tomorrow—home again. Home… She liked having one, and she felt a smile cross her face again.

  - 23 -

  0800 HOURS - ZERO DAY +255

  CARL RUSHED THROUGH the doorway grinning and saw Mary Ann burst from her chair in surprise, knocking it over.

  “Horace Wattleberger is not the new official Speaker of Liz Town,” he said, trying to look nonchalant. “The new Speaker is Ford Fairlane of the Puma Band.”

  Mary Ann snorted, then looked embarrassed for it. “Baloney. I didn’t see ‘Ford’ on the ballot.”

  “I guess you got me. The final vote was about as lopsided as any I’ve ever seen, too. Horace Wattleberger got less than ten percent… not even all of the Diamondbacks voted for him. What a Band they are, eh?”