EMP Resurgence (Dark New World, Book 7) - An EMP Survival Story

by J. J. Holden

  “They used to call me Andy,” the man said without a smile. He made no move to approach Choony. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Choony. That’s a weird name, by the way. I guess I was sort of hoping that any man with enough food to spare for a stray dog might have something for me, too.”

  Choony paused to look the man in the eyes, gauging his expression. He didn’t look hostile, wasn’t making any aggressive body language, but Choony knew that could change in an instant. That was especially true if the man was unhinged, as he suspected, but even those with minds that had snapped didn’t deserve to starve. He happened to have three days of food in his backpack, as always. “Actually, I do, but you’ll have to pay for it.”

  The corners of Andy’s mouth moved down and his left eye twitched once, faintly. “I think it’s pretty obvious I don’t have anything to trade,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

  Choony nodded and forced a smile onto his face as he replied, “That’s okay. I had more in mind that you could pay for it by giving me some company as I have breakfast. Assuming you’re okay breaking bread with a stranger.”

  Andy threw his head back and laughed, then looked at Choony again with a grin. It was kind of a pleasant, easy-going smile, Choony thought.

  Andy said, “If your currency is my time, well, I got plenty of that. I’m a rich man when it comes to free time. Why don’t you follow me, and I’ll take you someplace where it’s safe to eat. We really shouldn’t be standing out here in the open like this, especially not here at the police station.”

  “Not safe? It doesn’t look like there’s many cops on duty right now. I don’t think they’re giving tickets for loitering.”

  Andy snorted and said, “The cops around here didn’t do much of that even before everything went to shit. Unless you were homeless—which I was not at the time—in which case they were happy to do their job. The part of the job where they beat the shit out of homeless people.”

  Choony shrugged and said, “Hopefully they got to see what that felt like when everything went to hell. Karma is a very real thing, you know. Lead on, and I’ll be happy to follow. I hope you like pemmican, because that’s what I’ve got.”

  Andy walked across the street, aiming between two large houses on the far side. He waved to Choony to follow. Over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t know what that is, Mr. Choony, but if you’re sharing, then I’m not complaining. I tried to eat that dog, but it never lets me get close. It sure seemed to like you, though.”

  Choony followed in silence. He certainly couldn’t judge the man for trying to eat a dog—he had eaten worse, back during the Dying Time—but couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

  When they got across the street, Andy angled so that they went between the two houses, just as Choony had suspected. There were no fences, there, and they found themselves in a large, open area. It had once been the backyards of four houses, unfenced between them, but with an eight foot tall fence around the conjoined yards.

  In the far left corner, Choony saw a tent stashed among the growing shrubs and brambles that had overtaken that area, easily defeating the lawn that had once grown there. He smiled; Cassy would have had a long monologue about the evils of yards and something about permaculture, no doubt. Another quick glance all around showed they were alone.

  “Why don’t you just make camp in one of these houses? They all seem vacant, right? It seems like a house would be a better choice.”

  Andy smiled at him, the way a parent might smile at a child asking ridiculous questions, and explained, “You’d be wrong if you thought that. There are little bands of scavengers and raiders wandering around Maywood. The scavengers aren’t above slitting a throat for some free gear, and the raiders would do it just for fun. They stick to the houses, though, and you can’t see my tent from any of these buildings. It’s hard to see from the side yard we came through, too, so I’m kind of surprised you spotted it.”

  There was a picnic table on the back patio of the house to his left, which he led Choony to, then motioned him to have a seat.

  Choony unslung his backpack and set it on the table, then sat down. He unzipped one of the pockets and took out two pemmican bars, handing one to Andy, and unwrapped his own, even though he wasn’t really hungry. It would be rude not to break bread with Andy, since he had agreed to, and he didn’t know if the man might snap if he didn’t eat also. No one could ever tell what might set off the unhinged ones.

  Andy sat at the table and stared at the pemmican bars like… Well, like a starving man looking at food. When Choony slid one of the bars toward him, he snatched it up and almost frantically unwrapped it, then devoured the whole bar in three bites. He barely paused long enough to chew.

  Choony said, “At least someone likes these things. Our leader taught us how to make them, but I never did like them. Not even when we were starving. The only reason I eat them now is that they are easy to carry and don’t ever seem to go bad.”

  Andy licked the wax paper from his bar and, apparently surprised, his eyes clicked up to meet Choony’s gaze. “What do you mean, they don’t go bad? Everything goes bad, eventually. How old are these bars, anyway?”

  Choony shrugged. He had always thought the same thing, but had taken the risk because he had been starving, just like everyone else at Clanholme during that first winter. “Maybe a month. A pemmican bar is meat that we dehydrate until it’s crispy-dry, then we crush it until it turns into a powder. We mix that with nuts, maybe some raisins, and the rendered animal fat. You have to use the kind of fat that turns solid when it’s cool, not the buttery kind. Then you wrap a bit in wax paper, or a big leaf—it doesn’t matter which—and it’ll keep almost forever. I guess the Native Americans used to eat it, and my leader picked up that knowledge somewhere. I’m sure glad she did, even though they taste pretty bad.”

  Andy laughed, but Choony saw that he kept glancing at the backpack. He decided to give Andy another, so he reached into his pack and took out two more bars, which he slid across the table.

  Andy’s eyes sparkled. Judging by his appearance, Choony figured this pretty much was a feast for the guy. Andy grabbed them eagerly and began eating the next bar.

  After Andy had gotten halfway through his second bar, Choony said, “What can you tell me about the area between here and the mall? That’s the direction I’m going, and I’d hate to be surprised by something nasty.”

  Andy let out a sharp breath through his nose and said, “No, man, you can’t go that way. That whole area belongs to a group that called themselves the Crew. You know, like from that spray-paint you were looking at. The Crew have owned that mall since about two weeks after the power went out.”

  Choony shook his head and said, “That doesn’t really concern me. It’s where I need to go, so if you know anything, I’d appreciate you sharing it with me.”

  “Okay, well, it’s your funeral,” Andy said. “What’s so important that you’re braving probable death, mister? And do you have anyone back in town you want me to pass a message to? You know, like a will.”

  “No, nothing like that. I have to go in there to search for my friend, Jaz. Well, she’s more than a friend. She’s my soulmate. I know that may sound stupid, but I’m a Buddhist. I believe everyone has a soulmate.”

  Andy raised an eyebrow and said, “I’ve known a couple of Buddhists, back in the day. They were more interested in sitting cross-legged than helping anyone.”

  “There is more than one kind of Buddhism. You’re referring to a stereotype of Southern Buddhism, which focuses entirely on inner enlightenment, ignoring the world around them. I was raised in the traditions of Northern Buddhism, which believes there can be no inner enlightenment as long as there is pain in the world. We seek to help the world, in order to help ourselves. But in order to help the world, it’s necessary to have a deep inner knowledge. That’s why we meditate.”

  Andy rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I apologize. I didn’t know that
.”

  “It’s quite all right, friend,” Choony said with a polite smile.

  “So, are you going someplace in particular, Choony? Maybe I’ll pop by, if I get the chance. See how you’re doing.”

  Choony nodded. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew one of his last two pemmican bars. “Thank you, but there’s no need for that. I don’t think I’ll be out there too long, so here. Have another pemmican bar. I’ll keep one for myself and you can have the rest.”

  The man eagerly took the food when offered. He gave Choony a queer look, staring at him for several seconds before he finally said, “I have a couple of tips for you. Might help you stay safe.”

  Choony nodded. “I would sure be obliged,” he said.

  “Here, hold out your right hand, like this.” Andy extended his right hand, with his pinky and ring finger bent to touch his palm, other two fingers extended, thumb straight up.

  “Like a finger pistol?”

  Andy grinned and said, “Yeah, exactly. When you do that, anyone in the Crew will reach out with their hand to shake your hand like that. What you gotta do is hook your bent fingers into their bent fingers, and use your other two fingers to tap their wrist lightly two times. That’s like, their secret handshake. Or something. Don’t ask how I learned that, but it seems to work. If they don’t just shoot you first.”

  Choony smiled. That actually was useful information, and this man had no obligation to share it with him. It only went to reaffirm his belief that not everyone in the world was evil, given a chance to do right. “Thank you very much. If I make it out of here, when I get back to town I swear to you that I will gather up some supplies, whatever I can afford, and bring them out here for you. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

  Andy nodded slowly, his expression pensive. “You know, I actually believe you’ll do that. Most people say they’ll do things, but then they don’t. I just get a sense about you, like you’re a man of your word. Well, best of luck. It was a pleasure to meet you, Choony.”

  Choony opened his mouth to respond, but Andy already rose from the table, striding away in the opposite direction. He was walking as though he had someplace to be. Maybe he was late for an important business meeting, Choony mused with a smile, then adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, getting more comfortable. He left the open area and headed deeper into Maywood.

  - 16 -

  0700 HOURS - ZERO DAY +636

  AS THE DAWNING light rose above the horizon, Jwa waited patiently for the order to attack. It had taken days of moving at night to avoid detection deep in Confederation territory. Striking with complete surprise was of the utmost importance, as their force would be vastly outnumbered. If the defenders were allowed the chance to prepare themselves to defend against the upcoming attack, Jwa’s unit and all the others would likely be eliminated.

  Thanks to their leader’s policy of pressing Americans into his military units, they had been able to maneuver through the territory quite easily—several of them were familiar with the terrain and the locations of Confed settlements that dotted the landscape. The Clan in particular had dotted their territory with their Clanholds, which were essentially small fortifications. The Clan’s strategy had been so effective that the raiding unit—of which Jwa’s squad was a part—had been forced to go around. That lengthened the journey and increased the odds of being detected, but their American conscripts had been effective. Fortunately, the scout/snipers had also done a good job of killing anyone who might have seen them traveling, so the units passed undetected.

  Jwa took advantage of the few free moments before the battle to inspect his men and ensure their gear was secured and working properly. His squad for the raid consisted of six ISNA fighters and four Korean soldiers. He counted himself lucky to still have the same interpreter he had been assigned previously, because his ISNA translator was one of the few Arab soldiers he had any respect for. It frustrated Jwa to know that the majority of his squad were ISNA, but at least he hadn’t been assigned any of the American conscripts. Those poor bastards were certain to meet their ancestors soon after the fighting started, because Americans made terrible soldiers. He’d been told that back home, and he hadn’t seen anything about the conscripts to improve his opinion of their fighting ability.

  After conducting his fourth inspection, satisfied that all of his men were in good order, Jwa had nothing to do but wait for the whistles that would launch the attack. He and his men were facedown in the dirt about a hundred yards from Ephrata’s walls. The residents had spent most of their efforts to reinforce the north and east walls, presumably the direction from which previous attackers had come. Jwa’s commander, however, had been smart enough to recon the walls and plan this raid to come from their south, where the walls were more poorly defended, making it easier to get over.

  Just as the sun fully breached the eastern horizon, Jwa heard faint whistle blasts traveling all up and down the line. His heart leapt for joy—it was time to do something. He much preferred battle to the tedium of waiting.

  “Rise, men—and charge!” Jwa shouted. He scrambled to his feet along with his men, and they rushed toward the southeast corner of the southern wall. Once over the wall, they would raid northward along the east wall, then shift west to strike at the enemy’s storage areas. This would put the sun at his back, shining right in the eyes of any defenders alert enough to see them coming.

  As he sprinted toward the wall, surrounded by his men, Jwa grinned. When they reached the rubble wall, he and his men breached it just as they had practiced. Half the soldiers interlaced their fingers, creating a stirrup to launch the other half up and over. Those men then hung over the edge to pull the first half up. In no more than twenty seconds, Jwa’s whole unit was over the wall and in the town. To his left and right, other squads did the same. So far, so good… No shots had been fired, yet.

  Jwa put the other units out of mind, focusing only on his own mission. “Advance by twos to the blue building north,” he said.

  His unit moved by leaps and bounds, one half advancing while the other half covered them; the process then repeated itself. After three bounds, the first men arrived at the building and stood with their backs to the outside wall, covering every direction with their rifles while Jwa and the rest of the unit sprinted toward the building.

  During the briefings, many of the other squad leaders and even some of the platoon leaders had ferociously argued in favor of clearing every building as they advanced to avoid leaving any enemies to their rear.

  Thankfully, the battalion commander was wiser than the fools and knew that doing so would slow everyone down tremendously. They couldn’t afford to allow the defenders to regroup. Their only hope of success was to get in, cause havoc and confusion, and then grab what they could before vanishing over the wall once again.

  Not far behind where Jwa and his unit had been down in the dirt, they had stashed enough bicycles for the whole unit to escape on, and if they could get a few miles away before any serious opposition began pursuing them on horseback, they’d be able to outdistance the horses. It was a solid plan, if risky.

  His back against the wall, Jwa glanced to his left to ensure his interpreter was still with him. He said loudly enough to be heard by everyone, “Advance west by twos to the machine shop across the street.”

  Next to him, his interpreter babbled in Arabic, and then the unit moved out. Half sprinted across the street, while the other half kept their weapons at the ready and pointed in all directions.

  The first half made it safely across the street, took up position, and then Jwa and the other half of his unit charged across the street. Their objective was two blocks west, a large covered parking lot that Intel said contained many crates of supplies. The whole battalion was converging on that point, approaching from many different directions. Jwa suspected the firefight would begin soon, at least for some of the units, but it would only add to the general sense of chaos, preventing the defenders from knowing their objective an
d rallying effectively.

  His unit repeated the cycle several times, advancing slowly down the block, then the next. When they were still a block away from the covered supply depot, one of his Korean soldiers sprinted back from the front, stopping in front of him; he reported that they had seen six guards with rifles, two posted near the gate in the fence surrounding the depot and four wandering the interior.

  Jwa nodded. That was two more guards than he had expected. “Two men on each of the interior guards, and on my mark, fire.”

  The interpreter nodded his understanding and went to pass the word among the ISNA soldiers, while Jwa himself passed the word to his Koreans.

  The seconds ticked by as they got into position, the Koreans first in place, of course. He really didn’t think of the ISNA men as soldiers, but rather as scruffy fighters. Bullet catchers. Barely better than untrained villagers with guns, and that was only because his commander had wisely insisted on giving them some additional training. It was frustrating to have them in his unit because they were always hesitant to obey the orders of a Korean superior. That was the reason every unit’s interpreter was also its second-in-command, in fact—it was the only way to get the sand-eaters to obey quickly.

  Just as his troops were finally all in position and almost ready to fire, the Americans within the depot disappeared from view as they dropped to the ground all at once. Jwa felt a moment of surprise, stunned, but a faint whistling noise broke him free of his indecision—the sounds of mortar fire.

  “Take cover,” he shouted and dropped to his knees, placing his helmeted forehead on the ground and covering his face with his arms.

  Half a second later, his world shook violently. A concussive shock wave washed over him, then he glanced around to get a grip on his tactical situation. The building to his left, across the street, had been struck by a mortar and now debris rained over him and his men. Smoke and flames billowed up from the shattered building as bits of rubble fell, some large enough that he was sure he’d have welts.