Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus

by Holden, J. J.

  Cassy heard Michael grunt in approval from somewhere behind them, and felt unreasonably proud of that. She cheerfully recognized it as the same pride Mary had felt at Cassy’s praise yesterday. If the Leatherneck approved of her idea, it must be sound, although of course the devil would be in the details. She was sure Michael could handle those, though, and she looked forward to learning more from him. The man was quiet, but he sure knew his stuff.

  A half hour later they were looking at the bridge from the cover of trees and scattered shrubs. Michael, in front, crouched motionless facing the bridge. The clan huddled a dozen paces behind him, waiting patiently for his decision. Some fifteen minutes later, an eternity to Cassy, he raised his hand and motioned the clan to gather. Cassy shuffled forward, staying as low as possible, as did the others.

  When they were all crouched by Michael, he said in a low voice, “It looks clear. We’ve got about a hundred yards of open ground before the next cover.” He pointed to a copse of trees north and just east, on the far side of the bridge. “I haven’t seen movement anywhere, which is good, but those trees make an awesome ambush spot. I imagine the enemy is still thin on the ground here and haven’t solidified their positions. We have to get to those trees, regroup, and then we should be clear. But getting there will be risky.”

  Cassy wanted to ask why he never whispered but always spoke in a low voice instead, but this wasn’t the time. Like the others, she nodded her understanding. Without being told, everyone took up their familiar positions. The clan was getting the hang of this, she thought with pride.

  She heard the countdown, and on “three” they moved out across the bridge in a single rush, moving fast in a low crouch. But rather than continue down the road as she’d expected, Michael led them to the right, east away from the road by about twenty yards before veering north once more toward the trees, and the clan followed. She had the sudden thought that if there were an ambush ahead, it would likely have the road targeted for the kill zone, and a jolt of adrenaline shot up her spine. Thank God she’d met the clan. No way in hell she’d have made it home on her own, despite all her training and preparation.

  They were fifty yards from the trees when Cassy heard the bang of a rifle report. Michael dropped onto his stomach shouting, “Down, down!” and the clan followed suit. A half second later the copse of trees lit up with flashes, and the air became thick with the hum of bullets whizzing overhead. Little tufts of dirt flew up all around them as the enemy laid down heavy fire.

  To the left, along the road, Cassy heard a series of explosions. She looked over and saw that they were going off in a chain, all along the road—it had been mined. Why the fuck did they ignite them, or whatever, when the clan wasn’t on the road? Well, fuck her shoulder, it was time to try out her fucking rock and roll death rifle. She swung her M4, which so far had been mere decoration, forward and planted it firmly into her wounded shoulder. Part of her wondered why it didn’t hurt. Time to fire. She aimed for one of the flashes in the woods and fired a single round. She was rewarded with a scream from the tree line, but then by God, she felt her damn shoulder. Ice picks were being jammed into the socket. But Cassy gritted her teeth and kept taking single, aimed shots whenever she could get her head up before being pinned down again.

  Michael, in the lead still, was the main target. He seemed to be hiding behind a tiny rock, lying as flat as he could. To his left, Cassy saw Jed crawl on his belly like a snake toward the trees. When he was twenty feet away from her, Cassy saw Michael throw something toward him, and he scooped it with his arm and drew it to himself. Then Michael laid down heavy fire of his own, but Cassy saw that he wasn’t aiming. This must be suppressive fire, she thought, and fired off the rest of her magazine toward the enemy. The rest of the clan followed suit. The enemy fire dwindled to nothing for a precious few seconds.

  Cassy reloaded as fast as she could with her throbbing shoulder, and as the clan paused to reload the ambushers resumed firing. Cassy felt the wind of a bullet passing inches from her head and went completely prone. As she flopped down flat, her shoulder struck a small rock and a burst of pain mushroomed from her wound. She saw stars and realized she was close to blacking out, so she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on breathing, trying to ignore the deadly whir of enemy bullets all around her.

  * * *

  Peter watched the battle through his scope as the spy and her new friends struggled against whoever was in those trees. She deserved whatever she got, dammit, but he sensed they were getting closer to wherever they were headed—they hadn’t even stopped to refill their water at the creek. But no, God would never let the bitch die now, not when he was so close to learning the location of their base, so close to becoming the savior and leader of all his own people. And yet from his position he couldn’t even see the ambushers, much less do anything to help the spy survive the trap she was in. She and her cronies were on their own.

  To their left, Peter saw the one he called “Cowboy” crawling ahead toward the ambushers. The soldier guy threw something small toward Cowboy, who scooped it up under a hail of enemy fire. To their right, “Geek” was pinned down, as was “Soldier.” Things looked grim for the spy and her people. Peter grinned and cursed at the same time.

  There was a motion in the trees, and Peter saw something small fly through the air toward Soldier, but it landed well short. It exploded, sending dirt and shrapnel all around—a grenade, poorly thrown.

  In the few seconds of dust and smoke cover, Cowboy leapt to his feet and dashed ahead, then flopped down again onto his belly. He was now within the ambusher’s grenade range, if they’d seen him. Reckless. On the other hand, now Cowboy was within grenade range too, if he had one. But of course a grenade must be what Soldier had thrown to him. Nothing else would make sense of what they were doing. Where the fuck did they get a grenade?

  As if on cue, everyone in the spy’s group opened fire at once, save for Cowboy and Geek. The ambushers’ fire petered out to nothing for a moment, and in that time, Soldier threw something small toward Geek, who scooped it up. Where the hell was Soldier coming up with them? They couldn’t possibly have too many more.

  They all then stopped fire at once, and Peter saw they were reloading. The ambushers once again fired on the group, and the exchange of shots resumed. The next minute or two would determine everything, and Peter gulped. God, let that bitch survive—she still had a purpose to serve. Fuck the rest of ‘em.

  - 19 -

  0930 HOURS - ZERO DAY +9

  ETHAN LAY AS flat as he could after grabbing the grenade Michael had thrown him, ignoring the warm wetness that flowed between his legs. He’d pissed himself when he exposed himself long enough to grab the grenade. Thank God he’d thought to give a couple of those to Michael from his bunker’s secret stash of mil-grade gear. It had been a tough choice due to weight issues, but Ethan figured Michael had the training to make it worth the added bulk. Now the extra weight might pay for itself and then some.

  The enemy didn’t seem to know he was there, nor Jed on the other side of the clan’s position—all the enemy fire was toward Michael and the rest. Ethan thanked his lucky stars he had thought to ditch his bulky backpack at the first sign of enemy contact, and that Michael had the good sense to stay off the road. Those mines would have ended things real quick if they’d been in that kill zone when they went off. Maybe them setting off the mines meant they had set them off in a panic, and if so, that meant they weren’t facing crack troops. Probably, that was the only reason the clan still lived.

  Ethan considered their tactical position, as best he knew how. Michael was their only real soldier with actual combat experience, but he was pinned down tight. Even so, he’d had the steel to take fire while signaling Ethan and Jed what he had planned, and then again every time he sent a grenade to one of them. Goddamn, Michael had a set of brass balls, endangering himself and his family like that to set up this flanking maneuver. Of course, the entire clan was pinned down, so likely this was their only hope
to survive. Michael sure was cool under pressure… Best not to screw this up, yeah. They wouldn’t get a second chance.

  His heart raced, and the sound of its beating almost drowned out the sounds of battle, but he forced himself to stay perfectly still, focused only on Michael. He’d soon give the signal that would spell victory or death for the clan. Do or die time. Ethan noticed the sounds of shooting taking on an almost rhythmic pattern—fire, receive enemy fire, fire again—a deadly dance that had a sort of raw beauty to it. Nothing at all like the ebb and flow of battle during his video game binges. There was no respawn point here. Beautiful and terrible, this waltz of death was mesmerizing.

  He heard the single shrill cry of a whistle, Michael’s signal for the clan to reload. There was a pause in their fire as everyone in the center shoved fresh magazines into their M4s, depleting the stock Ethan had distributed to them at his bunker. A second’s pause, and then two short blasts of the whistle—the signal to lay it on. The clan risked exposing themselves enough to pour fire into the enemy’s position, and the return fire ceased. While they laid it on thick, Ethan bolted to his feet and raced toward the tree line; opposite him, Jed was doing the same. They reached the trees at about the same time, just as the clan ran out of ammo and began to reload.

  When the enemy began firing again, Ethan heard the thump, thump of bullets striking the thick tree he hid behind. He’d been spotted. Fuck and damn. He paused to count slowly to five, to calm himself for what must come next.

  One. Bullets tore chunks of wood off the tree.

  Two. A cry of pain came from somewhere behind him; someone in the clan must have been hit.

  Three. Cries of alarm from the enemy’s position.

  Four. A huge boom nearby, and the sound of something like rain pattering off the trees all around him.

  Five! Ethan leapt to the side, grenade ready, and lobbed it toward the enemy.

  As the grenade left his hand, Ethan saw the scene unfolding at the emplacement. The enemy had a sandbagged position with entrenchments, facing the road. It was in shambles, with bleeding bodies draped over the emplacement walls, enemy soldiers caught in the blast of Jed’s grenade. It looked to have landed just outside the protective wall of sandbags.

  But Jed hadn’t dropped – he now stood at the edge of the emplacement, pouring rifle fire into it. Jed’s face was red with rage, and Ethan saw his mouth open as though screaming, but all Ethan heard was his own heart beating.

  Ethan’s grenade continued its deadly arc, now falling toward the emplacement. Two red flowers bloomed over Jed’s belly as the enemy soldiers returned fire on him, but he didn’t stop shooting into their position. Ethan opened his mouth to scream, to warn Jed of the grenade, but no sound came out. Or if it did, Ethan couldn’t hear himself screaming. Either was possible. And then his grenade landed dead center in the enemy’s emplacement even as Jed’s rifle bursts lit up his twisted, enraged face. It was surreal, and Ethan knew what would happen next.

  * * *

  There had been no more gunfire after the second grenade went off, out there in the woods. Frank waited for an eternity, it seemed, before standing, and the rest of the clan followed his lead as he walked toward the enemy emplacement with his rifle at the ready. “Cassy, stay here with the kids, and keep them low until we see what’s up.”

  Cassy turned towards the children, who still looked like they were ready to soil themselves. Frank continued toward the trees. Time enough to calm the kids when he was sure they were safe.

  When he got to the copse of trees, the scene was like something out of a movie. The ambushers wore the uniforms of the invaders, as he’d expected, and there must have been over a dozen of them. They were sprawled out on the ground and in a sandbagged pit, covered in dirt and blood. Frank shuddered at what a grenade could do to a human and decided the movies didn’t do it justice.

  To the left he caught sight of Ethan, kneeling with his back to Frank, vomiting into the pit. “Ethan, you injured?” Frank asked, and even to his own ears his voice sounded flat and lifeless. Ethan did not reply, but instead turned to look back at him, tears streaming down his face. Frank didn’t see any blood on him, though.

  “Where’s Jed?” asked Amber as she caught up to Frank.

  Ethan still said nothing. He just turned back around. Frank walked the several paces to stand beside Ethan and realized why the man was crying. Jed lay on the ground before him, his head on Ethan’s lap, his eyes open and lifeless. Frank saw the two bullet wounds in Jed’s gut, and then realized there was also a fist-sized chunk missing from the left side of Jed’s neck. No blood pumped from the terrible wound.

  Frank saw Jaz sprint towards them and skid to a halt on her knees, next to Jed. She draped herself over the body, sobbing. Amber, too, had begun to cry, her face white as if in shock. She slowly kneeled next to Jed and Ethan, placing one shaking hand on Jed’s forehead.

  “What happened, Ethan,” demanded Frank through clenched teeth. Every part of him wanted to kill someone, anyone, to let out the rage he felt as he looked down at his friend’s corpse. But there was no justice in this life; he reminded himself. Over and over in his head he told himself he had responsibilities, now more than ever. His right-hand man was dead. When Michael had shown everyone how to throw a grenade, the drill was to throw and drop. Why had Jed gone cowboy instead? Why didn’t he drop?

  Frank blinked himself out of that pointless train of thought. But really, what would he do without Jed? Jed was always the outgoing one, the negotiator, reining in Frank’s tendency to go ‘quiet and scary’ under stress, as Jed put it. Or, used to put it. Sonsofbitches took more than his friend, they took part of him, too. Frank wished he could deal with this better, maybe weep and rail at the gods and then move on, but like everything else in his life, he had to stay strong now and cry later, on his own time.

  Ethan wiped his face with his sleeve, and slowly stood with knees shaking. “My grenade got a couple of them, but then they had me pinned,” Ethan said unsteadily. “Jed just… He charged them, and even after he was shot he didn’t slow down. He threw his grenade into the pit with them and poured on the gunfire until it went off. He sacrificed himself to save… to save all of us.”

  Ethan’s story made a kind of sense, but it didn’t sound like Jed, who could be wild and hot-headed but was rarely reckless. Frank stared at Ethan, gauging the man. Ethan had turned away, back toward Jed’s body and the two women crying over it.

  Something about Ethan’s reaction just didn’t sit right. Now, Frank was no master psychologist, but he damn sure knew how to read people. If that sonofabitch was lying, Frank decided, he’d rip off Ethan’s junk and choke him to death with it. But why would he lie? Why didn’t Jed throw and drop?

  “Now’s not the time for this,” said Michael in a low tone.

  Frank thought something about Michael’s voice sounded wrong and looked over at him, but couldn’t read his expression. Michael was bleeding down the outside of his left leg, but it didn’t look bad.

  “You’re hit, Mike.” Frank lacked the energy to dig into whatever was on Michael’s mind.

  “A scratch. I’ll be fine. Worry about Amber. No, worry about his daughter—Kaitlyn’s only seven and she just lost her daddy.”

  Frank thought about having to tell Jed’s daughter that he was dead, and a shudder ran down his spine. Thank God Amber would take care of that task. “Michael, do me a favor and strip all the gear you think we can use, and bring it out to the clan. Then we’ll take care of your leg, and burying Jed. We need to reload and be ready before we can do anything else, though, so let’s get to it.”

  Michael nodded and jumped into the pit of dead soldiers to rummage through their packs and pockets. Frank had to turn away.

  He saw Amber then, slumped and kneeling, and spoke. “Amber, I’m sorry for… No, that doesn’t cut it. My heart’s with you, Amber. That’s all I can spare right now.”

  Jed’s wife looked up at Frank, tears streaming. “What am I going to do
, Frank? How will I care for Kaitlyn without her daddy?”

  Frank saw fear on her face, and his heart truly went out to her. This was no time for that discussion, so he said simply, “You’re in the clan. Kaitlyn’s in the clan. We take care of our own. That’s the way it’s got to be now until things get back to normal. If they ever do. Got it? We take care of our own, for better and for worse. We are a clan.” The final words came out like Bible prophecy, and he knew said it as much for himself as much as for Amber. The words meant survival.

  - 20 -

  1100 HOURS - ZERO DAY +9

  LUIS “SPYDER” ACOSTA, gang boss of West Cumberland and North 33rd, paced back and forth outside some anonymous shit-brown tent and glared at the emblem on the flag next to the entry. The big red star with a golden wreath around it was fuckin’ stupid, but at least it wasn’t that squiggly worm the ragheads used for a symbol. Nearby, Sebastian squatted on his heels, relaxed but poised, and watchful as always.

  “Who the hell are these bitches,” Spyder complained for perhaps the tenth time. “Nobody summons King Spyder. I came ‘cuz I’m curious, but I’m about to bounce out.”

  Sebastian showed no expression in response, but said, “Boss, you gotta chill. I think these guys are calling shots for the ragheads. I’ll bust ‘em if you want, but I don’t think we’d make it out, and they might make better friends than enemies. Let’s see what they got to say and then decide what to do. Yeah?”

  “Fuck you, Seb. I know that, dipshit. Aw hell, I’m too wound up. I gotta chill. I ain’t even mad at you, yo, I’m just letting off steam. So who you think they are?”

  “Who, the red star guys? I dunno, boss. But they got mad reps. You see how there ain’t no more tents around this one? It’s like an island. I bet you’re here to meet their Jeffe.”