“You got it, boss,” said Ed with a grin, and rode off.
Peter turned to Jim. “The Supervisors are a rough bunch and used to getting their way. I need you to watch my back, a right-hand man. Want the job?”
Jim paused. “Yeah, Peter. Let’s do it. I have your back.”
Peter smiled and waited for word the people were assembled. This was his time, Peter’s time to shine. And God help anyone who got in the way of him saving these people.
An hour later, as they drove into the remains of the White Stag compound, he saw his people’s survivors waiting for him. The Supervisors stood separately with their own supporters, only ten in all. Most of the rest—the smarter ones, forty or so—stood waiting for his arrival.
Peter felt his heart beating faster, almost giddy in fact. Show time. He stepped out of the car and raised his arms, grinning. “My people,” he roared, voice soaring over the crowd, and they settled into whispers. “You know that when I left this place with my scouts, it was before the bombing. We were chasing the spy who had killed one of us, but she evaded us. She called in the enemy and was responsible for the deaths of Robert and half our people of the Farms. But I would not let her get away, no. I tracked her to her lair, she and all her people.”
He paused, scowling to let his anger show, then continued. “They led the enemy to us so their own lands would be safe, but she made a mistake, because so long as any of us live she can never sleep soundly. I’m coming for her, and I’ll take payment for our land and lives by taking hers for ourselves. We were her victims” – he raised his fists dramatically – “but we survived!”
Again he paused, hearing some of the people yelling “Yes!” and “You’re right!” and “Our turn!”
Satisfied that he had them with him, he dropped his arms and continued in a more informational voice, pleased at how they all quieted down as soon as he spoke again. “Her land is rich,” he said, “full of crops and fruit trees. She commands the farms around her too, with more cattle than I could count and hundreds of ripe acres. Houses that weren’t bombed. Silos that never got burned to the ground. There’s enough to take our families not just through the winter but all the way to next harvest. The neighbors support her, so I’m coming for them too.”
Again he raised his voice. “And I’m bringing my people with me!”
When Peter mentioned the spy and the death of their people, the crowd had grown angry, but their faces began to light up with hope as he described the rich lands awaiting them.
When he stopped speaking, his people cheered—all but the Supervisors and their followers. They were looking angry.
One Supervisor, a gray-haired man in his fifties with sharp, angular features under a leather cowboy hat, spat and took a step toward Peter. “Who the hell are you to say what we’re going to do,” he bellowed, looking determined. “You’re not in charge here, Peter. This is our land, these are our supplies. Not one kernel of corn goes with anyone who leaves.” He glared at Peter. “We took you in ten years ago, Peter. We gave you a place to stay, fed you, helped you get back on your feet. You repay us by trying to take everyone out there? They’ll die out there. Here, they have food. This season’s a bust, but next year we’ll grow more. This is our home, Peter. Most of us were born in these parts, and now you want them to leave?”
And then he made his declaration: “I’ll die before I let you lead them out into that storm, Peter. You’re under arrest.”
The Supervisor motioned with his head, and two men with rifles left the Supervisors’ group and walked toward Peter. The rest of the crowd looked on, many showing defeat in their eyes already. This was not how Peter had planned it. Damn it, this was not his destiny.
Peter formed a pistol shape with his index finger and thumb, pointed it at the supervisor, and lowered his thumb as though firing. Then, a shot rang out. The Supervisor looked stunned and confused as a crimson blossom appeared on his chest and rapidly spread. Then he fell like a tree and moved no more. Another shot rang out, and one gunman’s head snapped back, brains and gore splattering the ground behind him as he fell. The other gunman dropped his rifle and showed his empty hands.
Peter shook his head sorrowfully at the gray-haired corpse. “Sorry, boss,” he said, “but you called it. I won’t let you murder my people by forcing them to stay.” He turned to the rest of the Supervisors group, who were looking around frantically for the source of the shots, but Peter wasn’t worried. He’d made sure Jim was well hidden before he had even pulled up to the dying farm’s gate. It was a precaution Peter had approved “just in case,” and now he was damned glad he and Jim had thought of it.
Peter raised his gaze to the forty who still waited for him to speak. They looked a bit more nervous now. “The rest of you have two choices. You can stay here and let my people take only what we need to get to the farms—and we will take it—or you can follow me to richer land. My people will take only what we need to get there, and we’ll leave the rest for those who choose to stay.” He turned to the Supervisor group. “Either way, you Supervisors aren’t in charge anymore, and you aren’t going to let those who leave die of starvation for making that choice. If you can’t bear to give up what ain’t yours, draw down on me, and we’ll end your worries for you.” He took on a reasonable tone and showed them empty palms, the ancient signal of peaceful intent. “Look, the boss paid you to be in charge before the lights went out but this isn’t that world anymore. The boss who paid you is dead. No one’s paying anybody anymore. So, you decide. Stay and lead a dying farm, or come with us to something better.”
One by one, the henchmen of the Supervisors walked over to join the larger group. Finally, only three Supervisors remained. One said, “Aw hell, Peter. I guess we just elected you Foreman. I hope these farms you talk about are everything you say, but they have to be better than here. I’m in.”
The other two nodded, and Peter smiled at them, friendly and welcoming. “Good. Our people can use your hands, and we need your experience. For our people, I welcome you back among us.”
Then he turned to the crowd and grinned his triumph. “Let’s get to bed, people. In the morning, we got work to do. It’s a long way to go, but we’re going to take what we deserve when we get there. Those people cost us our land, our families, and our friends, so they’re going to make it right by giving us theirs. And don’t worry. I won’t let my people starve.”
Peter saw real hope on their faces for the first time since he’d returned, and swore he wouldn’t let them down. Nothing and no one would stand in his way.
# # #
TO BE CONTINUED IN BOOK 3… COMING AUGUST 2016.
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Badge of Darkness: THE COMPLETE SERIAL NOVEL
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JJ Holden lives in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. He spends his days studying the past, enjoying the present, and pondering the future.
Henry Gene Foster resides far away from the general population, waiting for the day his prepper skills will prove invaluable. In the meantime, he focuses on helping others discover that history does indeed repeat itself and that it’s never too soon to prepare for the worst.
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SNEAK PEEK!
Enjoy the following sneak peek from the third book in the Dark New World series:
- 1 -
1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +18
CASSY AND MICHAEL rode west on the only two horses their newly formed Clan had managed to scrounge in the week since they arrived at Cassy’s small, self-sufficient farm outside Lancaster’s hilly Pennsylvania Dutch countryside. It had been a dangerous trek under frequent attack by well-armed invading forces. They’d lost one of their own to the invaders only days before they arrived at Cassy’s farm.
But the Clan was now settling in nicely, the formerly urban Clan members pitching in with more enthusiasm than skill as they learned the unfamiliar chores that would keep Cassy’s uncommonly well designed little farm going. They all knew that any sense of safety was a dangerous illusion, but work needed doing so there was little time for worry. There was no safety anywhere now, not in this awful new world made for them by the invaders.
Behind the two riders, wisps of smoke still rose from the burnt-out wreckage of the nearby Patterson family farm. It was direct evidence of raiding by vicious gangs, mostly people forced out into the country as cities eastward to New York and beyond were rendered unlivable. Cassy kept silent now, her jaw clenched. The once peaceful Patterson spread had been a scene from hell, every building burnt and the fields, laden with crops almost ready to harvest, torched.
They had found the mangled corpses of Mr. and Mrs. Patterson hanging side by side on a sturdy branch of the rugged old oak tree by the barn. Nearby, the corpses of their two teenage children sprawled in unnatural poses, partly carved up, The sight had almost made Cassy vomit. Around the farm, nothing of value remained. Cassy was thankful she’d had Michael, the Clan’s resident Jarhead, with her today.
Michael interrupted her rage-filled thoughts. She thought she heard a volcanic anger in his voice, belying the mask of disciplined calm that Michael usually wore in battle. “What do you make of the sign they left?” he asked.
Cassy looked blankly back at Michael, her brain in a fog. It took a second for her to understand his words. Then she answered, “They didn’t bring that sign with them raiding, I think. They probably built it using wood from the Patterson’s farm buildings. The paint was probably Patterson blood. It’s a warning, and a brag.”
“Yeah. Makes sense, I reckon. What do you think it means, though? ‘Red Locusts swarm, and the rats in the corn will flee or die.’ It doesn’t seem real.”
“They’re the locusts, and farmers are the rats in the corn. At least we have a name for them now. Red Locusts…”
And if she ever caught one of those monsters they’d truly be red, with their own blood. Cassy wanted to cut off their genitals and shove them down their throats, or do something equally horrific and satisfying. In the week since they’d arrived at her homestead, the bodies they found hacked up at nearby farms, many in traditional Amish farm clothing, had gone from being simply murdered corpses to showing evidence of cannibalism. The remnants of the Patterson barbecue proved that the raiders had progressed to slaughtering decent people for food. “Long pig.” Cassy shuddered, overwhelmed with rage, fear, and disgust.
Michael grunted. “They’re long gone—that scene looked about a day old—but I hope they left without hitting your friend’s place. Karma’s coming for them, I swear it. Call me ‘Karma.’ ”
Cassy frowned. “Angie’s an old lady, but a good farmer. We could use her knowledge. If she’s alive I’d like to bring her back and make her part of our Clan, God willing.” She didn’t tell Michael how unlikely she thought it was that Angie would be alive; her place was too close to the Patterson place to be so lucky. But she had to check.
They rode on in silence awhile, until they came in view of a small homestead. Cassy cried out, a strangled scream, as ahead of them Angie’s home blazed. Wordlessly Cassy and Michael dismounted and readied their rifles. They hitched the horses to a branch, and then crept forward to investigate. Cassy soon wished she hadn’t. Angie, the happy and harmless elderly lady who traded her delicious preserves to Cassy in exchange for a bit of help now and then, lay spread-eagled on the hood of her car. She didn’t have any real meat on her bones, so she’d thankfully been spared being carved into food, but those damn assholes had slit her throat. Nailed to the back of her head was a single board, torn from her house to judge by the paint on it, and in her blood they had written on it, “Hoarder.”
Michael spat. “Fuck these bastards, We gotta hunt them down. I’ve never seen anything like this, not even from those fuckin’ barbarian ragheads in Crapghanistan.”
Michael grew eerily quiet, and his intensity was frightening. Instead of flinching, however, Cassy reached over and put her hand on his shoulder.
Screw it. She needed comforting and clearly, so did Michael. With tears in her eyes she buried her face against Michael’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tight. If she just squeezed hard enough then maybe when she opened her eyes Angie wouldn’t be dead…
Michael put his arms around Cassy, held her gently and let her cry. He clearly felt much the same, but she knew he was the kind of man who would suffer on his own time. For now, he just stood and held her, shielding her however briefly from the horror. She cried it out. Cassy was grateful for his solid presence.
After several minutes Cassy regained her composure, let go of Michael and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Okay, there’s another family around here, but far enough away that they may still live” she said. “The Jepsons. If the raiders haven’t killed them yet by the time we get there, I don’t expect a warm welcome, but I just can’t leave them for the Red Locusts. We need to try to talk sense into them. They’ll be stubborn.”
Michael nodded. “Okay… Why won’t they give you a warm welcome? I thought you were friends with just about everyone around here.”
With a shrug, Cassy said, “We go way back, to when I first moved here. I tried to do things right, and get permits for the things I needed to build. But Mrs. Jepson was on the zoning committee. They declined a few things and it was Mrs. Jepson’s fault. She claimed my ideas were unsound, not based in real-world experience. My prepper design for reclaiming wastewater really bothered her. She said the building codes don’t allow that sort of thing and that the committee had no reason to grant a variance. So, I filed appeals and after a few months it went to trial. In the meantime I just built what I needed, and thumbed my nose at her because the court granted a stay on any action against me by the local government while they reviewed the case. Made her look impotent. Better yet, just about everyone around here hates big government, and they sided with me. Bringing in the government like that hurt her husband’s handyman business, too. She blames me, but it’s her own stick-up-the-ass fault.”
“Small town politics. Gotta love it,” replied Michael. “Seems you’re growing as a leader, Cassy. Frank ought to be happy about that. No matter how much you protest, the rest of us—including Frank—think of you as the Clan’s real leader now.” He smiled his crooked smile and added, “Frank says he knows just enough about farming to kill a house plant.” His smile broadened into an open grin as he added, “Frank doesn’t want people looking to him for advice when the green peppers start to molt, or whatever they do. He said that.”
Cassy again thought about how Frank had kept them all fairly sane and in focus during the dangerous trip, while Michael guarded them against surprise ambushes and the like. Cassy had stumbled onto the group as a late arrival, and she wasn’t sure she much liked her apparent promotion to “Clan leader
,” whatever that meant. But the farm was hers so she supposed it had to be that way. Her house, her rules. The Clan went along with it, decent folk that they were, and she knew she’d been lucky to join them.
“Shut up, Michael,” Cassy smiled with a wink, her voice dripping with fake irritation.
Michael smiled to himself as their mounts wended their way down the hill. He always accompanied Cassy as protection on these outings, when she tried to reconnect with old neighbors. Their verbal exchanges were just how they bantered when no one was around, or the dark new world’s vicious insanity wore them down. He needed pressure relief too, from time to time.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said as they neared the Jepson farm.
* * *
Dean Jepson pulled another half-basket of berries off the bush. His homemade berry picking tool was working well, and he smiled. It was a simple thing, just a length of PVC pipe he’d split at the end, then used heat to spread the two halves apart. These he’d twisted with more heat until they curved upward, and then folded back. The result looked like a plastic pitch fork with tines pointing back at the wielder. When he drew it down a bramble, ripe berries fell like sweet, soft hail into the bucket he held beneath. It showed the kind of simple genius Dean was known for around here. At the rate his new tool let him pick berries, he’d have the whole acre harvested by the end of tomorrow. Pie for weeks, and goods to trade…
Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus Page 17
