by J. J. Holden
The officer of the day cut his salute, then stepped forward with a manila envelope and set it on Taggart’s desk. “Sir. A new intel report has come in. This captain thought the general would want to see it right away. Sir.”
Taggart stared at the young man, but still he didn’t leave. Taggart took a deep breath and remembered that he had to dismiss the guy. “Very well. Carry on.”
After the officer gave another crisp salute, followed by a perfect about-face, Taggart watched his back as he marched out and closed the door behind him.
“Well. That’s one outstanding soldier, boss.”
“Maybe for a barracks soldier, but I doubt he’s any good in a fight.” Taggart stared at the folder. The seconds ticked by.
Finally, Eagan said, “Oh for crying out loud. Just ask me to read it.”
“Good idea,” Taggart said.
Eagan walked to the desk and picked up the folder with a melodramatic sigh. Then he read whatever was inside, his eyes skimming back and forth across the page. He closed the folder and set it on Taggart’s desk.
“Well? What’s it say?”
“It seems our field scouts have found out what happened to our supply depot north of Philadelphia. We thought maybe it was the people now running the city, but it seems that the American ‘recruits’ within the Southern Cantonment army have been spotted carrying gear and wearing uniforms that match what was taken from the depot.”
Taggart felt the beginnings of a headache. That couldn’t have waited until he checked his inbox? What did the officer of the day want him to do, go get the gear back himself? “Does it say anything else?”
Eagan shrugged. “Nope, that’s it. Would you like me to deliver this to the Intel analysts?” Eagan tossed his head toward the folder.
Taggart nodded. They would be the ones to advise him as to the strategic implications of the raid. He really disliked that officer of the day… “Hey, can you have a talk with whoever does the scheduling, while you’re out there, and make sure to transfer that guy? He’d be a perfect liaison for that douche bag, Doug Holloway. My Secretary of State would appreciate that officer’s supreme ass-kissing skills.”
The clock struck 1700 hours, 5:00 p.m. Taggart let out a short whistle and felt the tension draining from his body. He figured now was as good a time as any to go home. Besides, Wild Turkey was waiting for him. “So, are you and Priscilla coming over in a bit? Preferably with some dinner?”
If Eagan declined, it would be just as well; he liked their company, but he also liked some quiet time. He didn’t get enough of that, not since he’d taken over the whole region. To think, he had once been a mere sergeant… He missed those days.
- 15 -
0615 HOURS - ZERO DAY +636
CHOONY PULLED ON his backpack, as he had every day before, to search for Jaz. Unlike the previous days, however, today’s journey had a destination. Would he find Jaz at that address? Or would it be something else entirely? It was more likely someone who wanted to meet with him in his role as envoy to the Confederation, he thought. And yet, they hadn’t listed a specific time. It was that fact that gave him the most hope, and the most cause to worry.
Also worrisome was the location. If he remembered correctly, the address would put him close to the Bergen Mall. Not only was that a very bad neighborhood from what the various scroungers who came in to trade at the market Center had said, but it also meant he would have to travel on foot through Maywood, and that was something he did not look forward to. It was much safer during the daytime than at night, but “much safer” was a relative term. It would be a foot journey of two or three miles outside the safety of Taggart’s Hackensack capital, in their version of Liz Town’s wildlands. People still lived out there, but they weren’t civilized. They were the ones too stubborn or crazy to leave, but too cunning and smart to have perished during the Dying Times.
Most of them were usually safe enough if one simply left them alone, but they often suffered from mental illnesses and could be unstable. Of the rest, however, some were simply evil. There were still cannibals in Maywood. They often raided travelers, making off with everything their victims possessed, including the bodies.
He patted his pocket once again, reassuring himself that his pocket was full of loose bullets. Although he refused to carry a weapon he would never use—unless Jaz’s life was in danger, he had learned to his own dismay—the bullets still made excellent currency. Lightweight and highly valued, if he got into any trouble out there in the wildlands, he could use the bullets to trade for his freedom. At least, he hoped that he could, but he wasted no time worrying about what would happen if he couldn’t. There was no point in worrying about the things he couldn’t change.
In his backpack, Jaz’s gun rested at the top. He thought perhaps she might need it when he found her.
He locked his door behind him and headed north from his house. In minutes, he found himself winding his way through the market area, which had a moderate level of activity even at this early hour of the morning. Many of the stalls were still setting up, the area still pretty chaotic, bearing little resemblance to the orderly rows of stalls that would be on display later in the day after the market opened.
He was startled by a wagon speeding by, pulled by two horses. If he hadn’t seen it coming at the last second, he probably would have been hit, and resisted the urge to yell at the driver. He dusted himself off and continued onward.
As he reached the far end of the market, he turned back and looked behind him. He would be going far into the wildlands that day, and it was always possible that he wouldn’t be coming back. He wanted to see it one last time, just in case.
And then he froze. In the distance, he saw a small wagon driven by a young man with a familiar face. It looked like Jack, the young man who had immigrated into Clanholme but been kicked out when Choony had told Frank about the incident between him and Jaz. The face was only visible for a split-second, and at that distance, he couldn’t be sure that it had been Jack. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, but couldn’t get rid of his sense of foreboding. If that had indeed been Jack, did he have something to do with Jaz’s disappearance? Or perhaps he was merely imagining things. With a sigh, he turned back around and continued northward.
As Choony left behind the Taggart-controlled part of Hackensack, his surroundings went from run down but maintained to a great state of disrepair. Trash littered the streets, windows were broken everywhere, and several of the buildings had burned down over the past two years. It looked like nobody had been there in a century, but Choony knew that people did still live in these wildlands.
He kept alert, eyes darting everywhere to look for any movement. Every twenty steps or so, he abruptly turned and looked behind him, hoping not to see anyone following him. So far, his luck had held out; he saw no one.
It took him a half an hour to walk to the edge of the Maywood neighborhood, a journey that should’ve only taken ten to fifteen minutes. The need to stop and look around, and to take a route that wasn’t quite so obvious—turning left, then right, then left—made his journey take longer than it should have. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.
Maywood looked worse than he had thought it would. When he and Jaz had gone exploring and scrounging, they rarely went that far, and never into Maywood. All the scouts reported that it was dangerous, so he had avoided it for Jaz’s sake. Today, however, he had to get through that neighborhood to get to his destination, as the address was on the other side.
Choony had only gone a block when, from the corner of his eye, he caught movement. His head snapped to the right, reflexively looking, and he cursed himself. If anyone was watching him, they would know he was aware of their presence now. Dammit. His cover was blown anyway, so he stared, waiting for the movement to show itself again.
After a minute, he was satisfied there was nothing there. At least, that’s what he told himself. In reality, his heart began to beat faster and in his mind, he chanted a Buddhist mantra me
ant to calm himself and strengthen his resolve. It worked, and within seconds he was on his way again. Even so, his senses were heightened, even more alert than before.
He traveled west along Anderson, keeping two blocks between himself and the nature preserve that lay to the north. Jaz had told him that an area like that was a perfect place for the residents who still survived in the area to congregate. He had no desire to meet people, not when some of them might want to eat him and the best case scenario was that they would chase him off. When he saw a street sign showing that West Anderson was turning into Park Avenue, he knew he was only a block or two away from Maywood Avenue. Crossing that street would likely be the most dangerous part of this journey. It was miles long and straight, so anyone looking in his direction would be sure to see him from a far distance while he would be unlikely to see them. He recited his mantra again, steeling himself. He had to cross it, and if he was seen, there was nothing he could do about it. There was no point in worrying about it—he could not change his fate.
By the time Maywood Avenue came into view, he had reconciled himself to his fate, whatever it might be. After he had crossed and was back in the relative safety of winding residential streets, he felt rather silly for his earlier concern. It didn’t seem that anyone had seen him, no one was chasing him, and he berated himself for his earlier fear. Fear was a pointless emotion.
And then he heard a scuffing noise behind him, as of shoes on pavement. Calmly, he turned around to face whatever or whoever was behind him. He had good reason to feel silly for the second time in five minutes, because the source of the noise he’d heard behind him was no threat. It was only a dog, and it was pretty much the cutest thing he had ever seen. It stood only about a foot high, but had the build, long hair, and distinctive markings of a Husky. It would definitely be the smallest Husky he had ever seen. It made his heart leap to see such a cute creature, but the terrible condition of its fur coat offset his joy. The long hair was knotted and bedraggled, and its paws were covered in mud up to its tiny little knees.
As Choony turned around, the dog stopped too. It turned so that its left side faced Choony, and it lowered its head to the ground, nose on the pavement. Its tightly-curled tail uncurled slightly, and Choony thought that it must be the equivalent of having its tail between its legs.
“Hello, little fellow. Where did you come from?”
The dog stood back up to its full height, all one foot of it, and responded with a small, quiet bark. It looked like it was smiling, and Choony smiled back.
He reached into his pocket, where he kept a pemmican bar to nibble on as he walked. He pulled it out and unwrapped it, peeling the wax paper back, then broke off a large piece. He broke that into two parts and put one part in his mouth. As he chewed, he made a yummy noise, then set the other part on the ground and took two steps back. “Are you hungry, fella? It’s okay, I got a piece for you, too.” He made a tsk tsk noise, trying to summon the dog.
The dog raised its nose into the air, catching the scent of pemmican—dried meat and rendered fat, mostly—and again made the small yip of a bark. It took one hesitating step toward him, but then stopped. It made a tiny whimper noise.
“You needn’t be afraid of me, doggie. I’m the last thing you need to be afraid of. Are you hungry? Yum Yum. Go ahead.” Then he took another two steps back and crouched down, making himself appear smaller.
The dog inched its way toward the chunk of pemmican that lay on the pavement, one hesitating step after another, until it drew close to the morsel. It grabbed the pemmican between its teeth, then raced away several paces, stopping when it got about ten feet away. Then it turned back to face him, lay down on the pavement, and set the pemmican between its paws. It nibbled at it, tearing small chunks off and devouring them.
It took very little time for it to finish eating the treat he’d given it. Then it bounced up to its feet, and spun in a circle, prancing. It looked at him and barked again, this time slightly louder. Its earlier barks had been the dog equivalent of a whisper, he thought, bemused.
“You’re very welcome, little guy,” he responded with a grin. “I take it you’re hungry. I have some more. Here you go,” he said as he set the remainder of his pemmican bar on the pavement. Then he backed away, but only a couple of paces. Then he crouched down again and tsk’ed at the dog.
Choony’s new friend rose up onto its hind legs prancing again, then ran to the pemmican. This time, instead of taking the food and running away, it lay down where he had left the bar. It nibbled at the bar as it lay between its paws, but its eyes never left Choony.
“Well, little dog, you’re lucky I don’t plan to be out here very long. I could spare a pemmican bar. Enjoy your tasty treat. Take care.” Choony turned around and continued onward.
Half a block later, he turned around to check his six, as Michael would have said, and saw the small dog following him. Even from a hundred feet away, it looked almost exactly like a tiny Husky. When their eyes met, the dog barked once. Its head was held high, and Choony thought it looked happy. He turned around again and continued onward, shaking his head. He tried to focus on his surroundings, tried not to think about the dog, but it was hard. Just knowing the thing was following him made it a bit of a distraction.
When he was a little over halfway down the block, he came across a large tan-colored, three-story building. A white sign with black lettering hung from the building, only one end still attached; the other end hung nearly to the ground. The sign read, “Maywood Police Department.” It might once have been, but now it was a shell. Perhaps it had been the victim of rioting in the weeks following the first EMPs. The entire bottom floor was blackened from fire, soot rising up the outside wall from every window and empty doorway. All the windows had been smashed or blown out in the fire, and much of the building had been vandalized with crude graffiti since then, including its east wing with its accompanying Fire Department sign.
His eyes hung on one particular item, where someone had spray-painted with Navy-blue spraypaint, “Give food or be food 607 M-TOWN CCREW.” It certainly hadn’t been tagged recently, Choony figured, because much of the paint had faded away or even peeled off. What was left looked as sad and neglected as the rest of the neighborhood.
He also noticed several large brown stains on the cement in front of the building, and he gave one curt nod. He recognized the old bloodstains for what they were and felt a deep somberness wash over him and through him as he imagined what happened in this neighborhood during those first chaotic, terrifying weeks and months.
The vandalism was obviously gang-related, but he still couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to whomever had painted it. Was he dead now? Had he found his way into Taggart’s territory and rewritten the course of his life? Or perhaps he had been among those unfortunates that General Ree had once rounded up and enslaved. If so, he could still be alive somewhere, liberated by Taggart. He could just as easily have been among the many thousands Ree had lined up and shot as Taggart’s army had overtaken them.
As Choony stood staring at the wall, lost in sad thoughts, he felt something touch his right leg and looked down. The same small long-haired little cute dog sat by his right foot, looking up at him. When Choony’s eyes met its, it let out another small bark as if to say, “Hello. You aren’t alone, and some of us made it.”
Choony grinned. Of course it couldn’t talk, and he realized he was projecting his own thoughts onto it. Still, at least the dog seemed happy now. He wondered why it had followed him, but just as quickly realized it probably wanted more food. His grin widened and he reached into his pocket for another pemmican bar; he always carried two in his cargo pockets to munch on as he walked.
As he pulled the bar out and began to unwrap it, the wax paper crinkling loudly in the unearthly silence of the dead city, the dog sat up on its hind legs and Choony could have sworn it was grinning. “Fine, you little beggar. But this is the last one, okay?”
He broke the bar into four pieces and s
et them on the cement in front of his new canine friend. Cautiously, he reached down as the dog gnawed upon the bar, and scratched it behind its ears. He kind of expected it to snap at him, given that it was eating, but instead it ignored him and just continued eating.
A man’s voice behind him said loudly, “Well ain’t that just cute.”
Choony spun around, being careful to keep his hands away from his sides and visible.
The dog sprinted away into the underbrush, startled, but it had taken the last piece of pemmican with it, Choony noted.
Choony saw a raggedy man wearing torn, dirty clothes, and he looked like he hadn’t shaven in a month. With so many dead around, not to mention the stores full of clothes that no one took because they couldn’t eat jeans, there was no reason for the man to be wearing such clothes. Unless, perhaps, he was one of the crazy ones, the dangerous people who had become unhinged over the last two years, unable to deal with this terrible new reality.
Choony said, “Yes, it was a rather cute dog, wasn’t it? Just a stray.”
The man brushed long, dirty locks of hair out of his eyes, tucking them behind his ear. “Yeah, I’ve seen him around. He did a lot better for himself than most of the people who used to live here.” Then he eyed Choony from head to foot.
Choony didn’t think the man looked predatory, which was a relief because, all alone in the open, he was pretty vulnerable. He put on a disarming smile, or at least he hoped it was, and replied, “The dog probably eats rats. There’s lots of those around. I’m Choony, what’s your name?” He had seen on TV that the survivors always tried to establish a personal connection with their kidnappers in order to hopefully make them more human in the badguy’s eyes. He hoped it worked with homeless people, too.
