“Shit, then I better quiet down, yo. I just hate waiting.” Spyder resumed pacing.
Ten minutes later, some short little slant-eyed dude came out wearing the ugliest uniform ever. Spyder straightened himself up and raised his chin. “What’s up, yo?”
The little man stood stiffly, but Spyder couldn’t read the little rice-eater’s face. They all looked the same. Then the little puto said, “Mister Spyder, you have the honor of being summoned to meet with Colonel Ree of the Korean People’s Army. You may say he is in command of this area. Your recent activities have gained his admiration, but also his attention. When you speak to him, you must call him ‘Colonel’ or ‘Sir’ only. Colonel Ree is a great man, a man of power and wisdom. All the People cheer his name and honor the Great Leader for bringing him here. Do you understand the nature of the man you will soon meet?”
Spyder suppressed the urge to laugh at this little dipshit’s stupid accent and the garbage he was spouting. Who the fuck cheers a gook’s name? Ree was probably shorter than this puto and just as ugly. “Yeah, I get it. This is your house, your rules. When do we meet Colonel?”
“Follow me,” said the little man and stepped back into the tent through the loose flap.
Spyder shrugged and followed, Sebastian close on his heels. When they got inside, it took a moment for Spyder’s eyes to adjust. The first thing he noted were the Colonel’s two guards. These didn’t look like just any old goose-steppers. No, they were poised, wary, and oozed menace. And yet, the Colonel himself didn’t look like much. Not too short, but not tall, and thin. He sat on a simple folding chair with a large, expensive-looking rug laid out before him.
“I am Colonel Ree,” the skinny slant told Spyder. “Please be seated, and be at ease. I will not harm you here, so long as you show this place the respect I feel it deserves.” Spyder had a hard time following the translator, who spoke almost on top of the Colonel. Then the translator said, “Please do not look at me. That honor is the Colonel’s. I merely translate.”
Spyder nodded, and he and Sebastian squatted on their heels a safe distance from the Colonel. “Tell him I’m glad to meet him. What’s he want?”
The translator spoke in Korean, and the Colonel let out a laugh. Spyder had the distinct impression that the Colonel laughed only to show his guards that he wasn’t insulted enough to order throats slit.
Ree said, “I wish to congratulate you on your victory over your southern neighbor. You enlarge your territory at the expense of your enemy, and your resources now increase. But, so do your responsibilities.”
Spyder’s eyes narrowed. “We been doing what we’re told, Colonel. Kill peeps with guns, kill or catch soldiers, and two slaves a day, in return for food and supplies. Seems like it’s all good, yeah?”
“Your people have now almost doubled. So, I will double your allotments. You will continue to flush out resistance sympathizers, and your quota of ‘volunteer workers’ is doubled. Four per day—and they must not be infirm or under the age of thirteen. I need workers, not more mouths to feed.”
“Well, I don’t want them slackers either, Colonel. What do you want me to do? I gotta get rid of them somehow.”
The Colonel smiled. “Do with them as you will. I do not care how you handle them. Just do not send them to me.”
Spyder nodded. “Anything else, sir?” He practically spat the word, hating it, but it was necessary.
“I am done with you, my excellent servant,” replied Colonel Ree, returning Spyder’s gaze coldly.
Spyder wanted to scratch the bastard’s eyes out. That tone he used would have been the death of any other man, but here Spyder was, king of his own territory, eating crap sandwiches for this little slant-eye.
Spyder stood without another word and walked out of the tent with as much calm as he could muster, and then he and Sebastian headed home. “Some day soon I’m gonna kill that puto,” Spyder muttered under his breath.
“Better do it before he gets to asking for more than he already is. We got the guns to run over this place if you want.”
“You’re a fool, Seb,” Spyder said with a grin. “Don’t you know they got a whole army here? We gotta do it Godfather-style, no links. Make it look like someone else.”
“Whatever you say, boss. Seems like long odds to me, but you in charge, yo.”
Spyder looked at Sebastian, but his face was expressionless. “I am in charge, puto. You need another knife in you to remember that?”
Sebastian shuddered but said nothing and Spyder whistled a happy tune as the two men walked out of the camp.
* * *
Mandy stood with the adults of the clan in a semicircle around the newly-turned earth, with Kaitlyn wrapped in her mother’s arms as they faced the grave. Now buried, Jed would feel no more pain or fear, but his wife and daughter certainly could, and both were crying. Jaz too was crying, though she had the good sense to stand back a little and let this be a time for the man’s family. Mandy and her family didn’t have a strong connection to Jed, but there had been no question whether they’d attend—in this new world, the clan was the family. They all felt it, and Frank sometimes said it aloud like a mantra. We are a clan.
Standing next to her mother, Cassy muttered, “I want to kill every Goddamn one of those bastards.”
Mandy realized the comment wasn’t to her or anyone in particular. Her daughter likely had just spoken her thoughts out loud. Still, Mandy was irritated. “Sweetie, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I raised you better.”
“Really, Mom, you want to have this conversation now?”
“What better time? The Lord should be on our minds. Jed’s body is gone, but his soul is free. It’s sad for us and for his family, but a time of joy for Jed as he sits at the table of the Lord.” Without waiting for a response, Mandy stepped forward. “Amber, may I say a few words?”
Amber nodded, and Mandy brought her hands together and bowed her head. The others followed her example. Ethan looked self-conscious but went along with it.
“O God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, look kindly on Your departed son who gave his life in the service of his country and his clan. Grant that, through the death and resurrection of Your only-begotten Son, he may share in the joy of Your Heavenly Kingdom and rejoice in You with your saints forever. Father God, though Jed is at peace now, and we thank You, we ask that You guide and strengthen those of us who remain in this fallen world. Lord, let not his sacrifice be in vain and as we face the minions of evil, Lord, be our aim, be our strength, and let us at last overcome, so that we Your people might not perish from the earth. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
The others muttered “Amen” in response and then stepped away respectfully, leaving Amber and Kaitlyn to say their own final goodbyes.
As Mandy and Cassy walked away towards their temporary camp, Mandy stopped and turned to her. “Cassy, sweetie, listen. I know you and Jasmine have had issues, but she’s a young woman. Seen from my age, she might as well still be a child, and she’s a child who hurts more than you may realize. You know how it feels to lose someone you love. Please, for me, will you be kind to her for a few days? It costs nothing to be kind, and the Lord knew that when he said to turn the other cheek, it wasn’t to help the wrongdoer. Forgiveness lightens the spirit of the one who was wronged. But if you can’t do it because it’s the right thing to do, then I ask you, please just do it as a favor for me.”
Cassy stared at her for a few seconds, but Mandy’s gaze never wavered. Right was right, and God knew what He was doing when He gave His inspired Word to the world. Mandy wasn’t brave, but she stood strong in her faith. Cassy wasn’t going to make her waver. She steeled herself for her daughter’s response.
To her surprise, however, Cassy finally nodded. “You’re right, Mom. She’s part of the clan, and so am I. I’ll put my own issues aside, at least for now. I’ve been rethinking anyway, based on how she’s behaved in the clan so far. Learning and working hard. So Amber
and Jaz both need support, and the clan can’t afford squabbling right now. But Mom, worry more about Kaitlyn than Jaz, okay? Jaz is a survivor.”
* * *
Ethan wanted desperately to comfort Amber, but he knew this was the wrong time for it. The clan had to heal before he could hope to forge a new connection with her. He was surprised at how much that realization hurt, but it was necessary. Besides, what the hell could he say to her? He had no idea how to comfort people. The closest to death he’d been was making mock speeches over the body of a fallen comrade during some castle raid online, waiting for the “departed” to respawn.
Worse yet, he was having a hard time looking at anyone in the group. Every time someone looked at him it made his skin get bumps, and he imagined that they somehow knew. Knew how Jed really died, knew what a liar and a coward he was. Oh sure, he’d crept forward with a grenade, but at the time, it was either do that or die. Well, there was also the time in his house when he’d come to their rescue—but again, it was either that or risk losing his bunker before he was ready. He had only done what was needful.
Why couldn’t life be more like a video game? No risk, all reward, and if he messed up he could just wait for a new Instance and try the mission again. Online he was a bona fide hero; here he was overweight and had more ideas than skills.
A flash of irritation washed over him. Life was unfair, always had been. Screw it, he thought, it was time for a walk. He shoved hands in pockets and, head down, began to wander toward what was left of the ambush site. Maybe looking at dead invaders would make him feel better. Or, at least distract him. One foot in front of the other, he slowly made his way to the trees and to the emplacement, and simply stood looking down at the carnage. No one bothered to bury these bastards, and he damn sure wasn’t going to. Leave their cursed jihadist bones for the coyotes, or whatever predators ran around here. He spat down into the carnage.
As he stood there, the entire scene replayed itself in his head, over and over. Deep inside, he knew he’d felt something like a ferocious joy when Jed had been shot, and again when Ethan’s own grenade flew true to the entrenchment of the ambushers. Before it had even landed, he knew it would finish off Jed and tried to scream a warning, but inside Ethan knew he had felt glad at first. The guilt of that flash of emotion during the ambush now made him want to vomit. How the hell could he want Jed to die? What the hell was he thinking, what kind of man did that?
“I didn’t kill you, Jed,” he whispered, and knew it was true—the two gut shots would have been the end of Jed anyway—but it didn’t make him feel better about the instant of raw, savage joy he’d felt at the prospect of Jed dying, his fault or not. Now he couldn’t even look at Amber without being flooded with feelings he was just not yet able to deal with.
Ethan heard a snap of twigs to his left and spun, raising his M4, but what he saw stopped him just short of firing by reflex. Two men and a woman were crouched aside nearby trees, and they carried M4s, not pointed at him but definitely at the ready if they needed to fire.
“Put that rifle away, citizen,” said the larger of the two men, and though he hadn’t shouted, his voice was piercing in that way that Michael did sometimes.
As Ethan’s mind caught up, he began to see details. M4 rifles and they were wearing military BDUs, the camouflage field uniforms of soldiers. No, not soldiers—Marines, he amended when he saw the distinctive “eagle, globe, and anchor” emblem of the USMC on their hats. Covers, Michael called them.
“Where the heck did you come from,” Ethan blurted, but carefully lowered his own rifle. Best not to get shot by American Marines, yeah.
“Training camp in Raleigh,” the Marine grunted. “Who in the hell are you people?”
The sound of a rifle being racked came from nearby, and Ethan saw in his peripheral vision that Michael had crept up, and now had them covered with his own weapon.
“Oorah, jarheads! Set those rifles down real slow,” barked Michael.
Ethan felt certain that if they refused, he was going to spray all three of them. They must have read it in him too because they followed his instructions immediately.
“We’re not the enemy, civilian,” said the burly Marine.
“Shit’s real FUBAR right now, d-dawgs, and I don’t know anything about you. You say you came from Raleigh? That’s a training center, not a base. Yet you’re in full field gear. Explain yourselves, Staff Sergeant,” instructed Michael.
Ethan had missed the ranks, but looked now and saw that the larger man was indeed an E-6 while the other man was an E-2 or Private First Class, and the woman was an E-3 Lance Corporal. Michael had only been a Sergeant, and Ethan wasn’t sure about his duty status. Shit.
“Ten went out to screw around in the woods and get drunk on leave. Three remain after trying to get back into Raleigh, and failing. We did get a bunch of gear, though, mostly with us in the trunks of our cars, but we got more ammo off some National Guards guys we found all shot up. Then we bugged out using some working Hummers until they ran out of gas. And here we are.”
Michael stared at them for a long while, and Ethan had the strong impression he was examining every detail of their uniforms, and the gear they carried. But finally, Michael lowered his rifle and straightened up, rolling his shoulders around to loosen them. “Very well, Marines. What are your standing orders, if any?”
“Executive Orders are for Martial Law with the doctrines for operating in enemy-occupied American territory.”
Michael spat. “Shove Martial Law up your ass, jarhead. We may qualify as partisans, but you can bet your REMF asses that we aren’t taking any orders from you, and you’re a damn fool to bring it up.”
The Marine shrugged. “We’ll see. For now, this is your rodeo. But I got your number—you’re military. Name, rank and serial number. Please.” Ethan was certain Michael was making no mere request.
“Bates, Michael K., Sergeant, USMC Retired, 555-55-5555, numbnuts.”
The Marine grinned. “You’re too young to be retired, and anyway, guess what? We’re at war and I just re-drafted you.”
Frank’s voice sounded out then, loud and clear, along with the sound of a round going into his rifle chamber, “Mister, we just left one of our own and ten of them here in this dirt, and I’m not above leaving three more. Michael’s with us, and if you don’t like it, you can go fill out a report in triplicate, and then shove it up your ass.”
The woman slowly set her rifle down, then stood with her palms up and out to her side. “Hey, hey. We’re getting off on the wrong foot. You lost someone, you said? Well, we lost seven of our boys and girls. They died well, but they’re still dead, and maybe our tensions are all a little high, right? So let’s just calm down.”
The Staff Sgt. raised an eyebrow as he looked to the Lance Corporal, but didn’t interrupt her. She continued, “What we’re really doing, or what our mission priority really is or should be, is to find a place to hole up and go guerrilla. The normal rules went out the window when my cell phone died, I think. So let’s figure this out together, okay?”
Frank slowly moved his open left hand in a low, flat swing toward Michael. “Stand down, Michael. I don’t want to have to shoot Americans, and I sure don’t want them shooting us. Okay, lady, you got more sense than your pencil-pushing leader over there, so from now on, we’ll talk to you, and he can go fill out Form 240-fuck-all.”
Ethan fought down the urge to grin. Damn, but Frank had some balls on him! Thank God he’d saved this guy back at the bunker…
Michael lowered his rifle but kept it in a ready position. “Sure thing, Frank. You’re the boss. They’re just following procedure. Rear-Echelon bull crap, but still procedure. Well, S.O.P. doesn’t apply, Marines, got it?”
The lead Marine shrugged and looked to the woman. “Your show, Lance Corporal.”
She nodded and looked back at Michael. “You got blood on your leg, Marine. Want me to take a look? I used to be a paramedic.”
Michael shook his head and gla
nced to Frank. Ethan saw Frank’s jaw clench and unclench, a sure sight the boss was pretty amped up. But “boss”? When did that happen, was there a memo? Well okay, why not, everybody treated him as their leader anyway…
Frank said, “So you got full loads of ammo, food, all that? We aren’t a charity, but we’ll do what we can to help Americans.”
“No need, we’re loaded up. We had lots of casualties to restock from,” she replied, and her eyes narrowed when she said the last part. Ethan could understand just how she must feel, and thought of Jed again with a jolt of pain he couldn’t get used to.
“Alright, come on down. Meet the others. But if you try any B.S. we’re going to be a lot less friendly, you get my drift?”
The woman nodded to Frank. “Affirmative. You refuse to be in the proper chain of command but aren’t hostile. Yet. We’ll behave. Right, Sarge?”
The burly man nodded. “I’m Mueller, the Lance Corporal is Sturm, and the quiet guy is PFC Martinez, though he looks more Irish than Mexican.”
“Argentina, Sarge. Still Argentina.”
Mueller grinned. “That’s why your tacos suck, Martinez.”
The group trudged down toward the clan’s temporary camp, Michael and Frank in the rear and Ethan leading them. Ethan got the distinct impression this was so they could shoot these Marines if they did anything stupid, and he was again thankful they got Frank as their leader. Boss. Whatever.
As they approached, Ethan heard Cassy’s voice, saying, “…and we’re just a hop, skip and a jump from the homestead. This nightmare will be over in a few hours.”
Then everyone grew silent when they saw the others returning with three unknown faces. Frank spoke up loudly, and said, “These are three lost Marines. They want to kill invaders and chew bubblegum, but they’re out of bubblegum. I think we should bring ‘em with us, Cassy, if you have the room and supplies. They’ve agreed to be good little guests.”
Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus Page 13
