She had a sudden thought. “We gotta aim for the mass of them,” she yelled, “try to hit them just when they swarm around the tower. If we can disrupt their charge, we’ll give the Clan time to react!”
Choony turned the horses a bit to the right, eastward, drawing out the distance to time their arrival at the tower. He was listening to her. For some reason that felt kind of exciting and she leaned forward, eyes bright. She wondered why he didn’t just slow the horses for a moment, but didn’t ask. He’d have a good reason, she didn’t doubt.
* * *
Cassy took another shot, but her target ducked back down too soon. She swapped out for a fresh magazine, as there could only have been a couple rounds left in the old one. Her ears told her the battle was petering out—the back-and-forth gunfire sounding less feverish, winding down. Instead of feeling thrilled for victory, however, she worried. Once before, they had been caught off guard by attackers who had only shifted forces to launch a new thrust elsewhere. Until they scouted and found the region clear, she wouldn’t let her guard down.
Into the radio, she said, “Bravo One, this is Charlie One. I need a SITREP, ASAP.” As goofy as all that had once sounded, mil-speak saved time and sometimes lives in battle. She still hated using it, though. It made her feel like a cartoon character.
“Charlie One, copy that. Stand by.” A few seconds later, Ethan continued, “Surveillance shows the OpFor is falling back, but they are disorganized. They’ve moved mostly off-camera but I see movement in the corner of the camera facing Golf Tango. OpFor may be massing for a new thrust from the northeast.”
Great. That would make sense for the invaders. The guard tower would be overrun if Ethan was right—and why call it the Golf Tango, anyway—but the enemy would then have a massed, fixed location. If saving the two guards at the top seemed impossible, at least the Clan would gain an excellent target of opportunity for crossfire. Silently, she cursed herself for thinking in such cold-hearted terms, but this was survival. These days, everything was survival. No wonder those cartoon soldiers from World War II always looked so weary. She shook off the thought—now wasn’t the time.
“Bravo One, copy that. Charlie One to all units, continue to engage at will. Ready pineapples, but await orders to use them. All Frank units, remain in place. Romeo, Romeo—shift November Echo, remain in cover but get eyes on Golf Tango. How copy?”
As Cassy listened to mobile, roaming fire teams—Romeo units—check in affirming they understood, she watched from the window. Just as she had ordered, the foxhole defenders stayed in place while the five Romeo teams moved cover-to-cover to get into position looking out at the guard tower.
In less than half a minute, all the units had checked in to report they were in place. Cassy could see the Romeo One team from her window. They wouldn’t have much of a fire lane until the enemy had passed beyond the tower and the foliage around the pond, but they’d have an outstanding crossfire position afterward, just before the OpFor hit the Clan’s line and the fertilizer hit the windmill. She spared a half-smile at the image she had overheard Ethan using months before. No time. Back to business.
To her left, the few remaining enemies along the first line of attack were firing away like crazy, probably making noise to seem bigger than they were and mask the fact that the rest of them had gone elsewhere. She frowned. This seemed practiced. Disciplined.
Even without a clear firing lane, Romeo One could lob the unit’s two grenades toward the tower if needed, over the tall grasses and foxtails that grew around the east retainer pond. Everything was set, and now she had only to wait. Cassy hated that part more than being shot at, sometimes. She breathed slowly, got calm. C’mon, fertilizer, get it over with…
She didn’t have long to wait. A shrill, piercing noise rose, probably from a whistle, and then a great roar of angry voices. The enemy was coming, screaming like Huns. They burst out from behind the pond foliage and swarmed at the tower just as she had expected. But they didn’t just keep coming toward the main Clan line. And while they were so close to the tower, the guards above couldn’t get a shot at them, nor could the crossfire begin until they emerged beyond the tower and foliage.
To Cassy’s horror, she saw tiny flames blaze up from among the assembled mob. They had bottles in their hands, most of them, and pulled back to throw them at the Clan’s line. They couldn’t know that Cassy had amassed her people along that line, that she had known they would come and had prepared for them, but her tactic had only given them a densely packed target now. No no no no…
Through her radio, she cried, “Now! Fire now, throw now! Pineapples!”
Before the firing could begin, flaming bottles started arcing through the air toward her Clanners, at first just a couple—
Movement to her right caught her eye. A horse-drawn wagon careened along the thin path between the pond and the Complex, the horses moving at a sprint right at the attacker’s position. Oh lord, it was Jaz. The other must be Choony driving. It looked insane! Where the hell did they come from, and what were they doing? “Belay the pineapples!” she screamed into the radio, just hoping she was in time.
The enemy hadn’t thrown even a third of their bottles yet when they caught sight of the wagon bearing down at them. A couple bottles flew at Jaz and Choony but landed where the wagon had been, not where it was. Too bad for them, they hadn’t had their rifles ready. Only a couple shots rang out from their position before the wagon mowed into them. The horses in front, weighing many times what a person did and with the added mass and momentum of the wagon behind, didn’t even slow down. Bodies flew everywhere. One of their Molotov cocktails exploded right in their midst. Figures spouting flames ran, screaming.
And then the wagon was past, flying onward and away. The Clan opened fire and grenades weren’t needed. Thank God no one had thrown before the wagon arrived…
As the attackers fell beneath a hail of bullets from the now slightly repositioned Clanners, Cassy smiled a real smile, though she knew it must look bloodthirsty. A victory smile. She reached for the radio and clicked the button. “That’s it, folks. Finish them off, and get a bucket brigade going before the tower burns down,” she called into it. Her voice was all business, but her heart soared to see their attackers being mowed down now like so much wheat at harvest time. The bloodthirsty smile came back to her scarred face.
* * *
After swinging the wagon around, Choony slowed to a halt and surveyed the carnage beneath the guard tower. Fifteen or so dead attackers, no wounded survived the Clan’s counter-attack, and only a couple were seen to have escaped. The entire thing was tragically pointless. Nothing had changed except that people had died and now hate and anger would grow. And not just among the Clan, either—these dead people had husbands, wives, children too…
He heard Cassy’s voice, calm and clear as she walked up, asking, “How many of our own were casualties?”
Michael, carrying a clipboard, replied, “Two dead, four injured. Both of our fatalities were the result of one enemy who got into the Complex, and one of our wounded is from him as well. The other three are a bullet wound we think will heal and two burn victims. One is expected not to make it, and I told Sturm to notify her husband and child.”
Choony got off the wagon and helped Jaz down, then approached Cassy. She was busy making sure the fire was put out, the wounded moved, and other leaderly duties, but then she took a deep breath and turned to Choony and Jaz.
“That was reckless beyond measure, you know. You risked your lives, our horses, and the cargo. A second later and you would have run into our grenades. I’d already given the order to throw them.”
Jaz ran her fingers through her disheveled hair and said, “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.” She did not look apologetic.
Cassy snorted, and grinned. “Might have saved a life or two, since it worked out. I just want you to think about how badly that could have gone off the rails, that’s all.”
Choony bowed slightly. She
had a point, of course, but there hadn’t been time to think it through. “I suppose you’re right, but I think in the heat of the moment we would make the same choice again. We all live or die together, but the Clan lives on even if one of us does not. The family abides. Such a death has honor and no small amount of Karma.”
“I guess. Anyway, it was brave. And insane. So did you get the gasifier device? Did they show you how to work it?”
Jaz grinned, grabbed the tarp in the wagon, and ripped it off. “Ta da! One hundred percent grade-A power, in a miniature package that’s, like, small enough to fit in a wagon. For the low, low price of one working radio.”
Choony smiled crookedly at that, then added to Cassy, “Yes, it’s fairly simple. We fill the small barrel with wood, put on the lid, then put it into the larger barrel. Fill that with wood and ignite it. The heat and lack of oxygen in the inner chamber causes its wood to outgas. It flows out the cooker through the tube to an old car radiator to cool it, making the gas denser and so the energy more compact. Not the right word, but you get the idea. Then that outflow is directed into any engine’s air intake, somehow ignited, and then it just acts like a natural gas-powered engine.” He paused to refer to a small pocket notepad. “It’ll get up to five hundred miles on a cord of wood, or half that on what you can fit in a pickup truck bed with other travel gear. That’s what they said. I took notes I can give you when things calm down. I haven’t had a chance to completely figure out the details.”
Michael, staring at the gasifier, said thoughtfully, “I’ll get Dean Jepson to look at it and figure out how to make another car work with it. He’ll probably figure out how to make our own before long and improve the design while he’s at it.” He turned to Cassy. “While Dean’s figuring out the car, we can use this one to generate a lot of power for Clanholme. No more rationing, and maybe we can get some working electric water pumps so we aren’t at the mercy of the wind so much. And keep the battery bank charged for storms.”
Jaz commented, “If he makes it better, I bet we can trade the design to the Falconers for a lot of whatever we need. They got themselves set up as a trading hub.”
Choony automatically glanced at the windmill that drew water from the ponds into the uphill cisterns. They wouldn’t last forever, and the more they could be used as Plan B for power instead of the only plan aside from manpower, the better. “We have one more cooker coming from our new friends in the spring. We traded supplies and stuff for that, you’ll remember, from that traveling medieval merchant.”
Michael replied, “Okay, but March is a long way away and we’ll be dealing with the Empire by then, too, if these damned invaders haven’t overwhelmed us all by then. I don’t like how organized and strategic they were. So we need more of everything now, not later. I need real cars working to do real recon at a distance.”
Cassy put a hand on Michael’s shoulder, gently. “You’re right, of course. But now we have a new ally, with a radio, and they know people we don’t. We need to work on alliances, and this gasifier is earmarked for our diplomats to go forth and make new friends. Nothing beats a face-to-face meeting for building trust and reliable alliances. I think Choony here found that out when he spoke to the Falconry’s leader.”
“Delorse, yes,” Choony answered. “I doubt she would have put herself on the line for strangers she had never met, never looked in the eyes. She’s sharp, and she spent the entire time evaluating us. It was probably Jaz who won her over with smart trading. She took us more seriously after that.”
“That was good trading, yes,” Cassy said. “It’s why we let you two go. You didn’t disappoint us. Given how well that worked out, don’t plan on getting too settled in, you two. Jaz, Choony, you’ll probably be out there again sooner rather than later.”
Choony shrugged. “Whatever is necessary.” To think Cassy had almost chased off both him and Jaz, at one point or another. What a mistake that would have been… Maybe she should take another look at Nestor, too. He decided to bring that up later, as there was too much to do at the moment.
Michael made his excuses and left, moving the wagon toward the far shed where Dean seemed to do his best “redneck engineering,” and Jaz wandered off to help deal with the messy aftermath of battle, leaving Choony alone with Cassy for a moment.
“I think Jaz and I should talk with you and the rest of your council and go over everything we learned. You’ll have some planning to do after that.”
“Of course. But for now, go to my house and help at the Hospital while I get things situated with this mess,” Cassy said, motioning toward the mass of bodies, “and I’ll meet you there later with the Council.”
Choony nodded and headed toward the only real house on the property, the one that predated the EMPs, as he pondered what the Clan’s next moves would be. Soon, the lights inside wouldn’t be dim LEDs or lanterns but real lights with actual bulbs. It was a nice thought. But they would have to stay mindful. The better off they looked, the more they’d attract outsiders who would want what they had.
As he walked, he chanted under his breath, “om ami deva hrih,” happily dedicating some of his Karma to the deceased in the hopes they might find the Pure Land rather than continuing their cycle of life and death. He knew it wasn’t right to do so, but he still said the chant twice for the Clan’s own dead.
- 11 -
1800 HOURS - ZERO DAY +148
NESTOR SAT AT the outdoor table, shivering cold, staring blankly at his food. Another bowl of “constant stew,” as they called it here. At least he had a carrot and bread to go with it, and real butter even. It didn’t much matter, though—his appetite was playing hide-and-seek with him. These random images of the Other—were they real? Had he blacked out, been possessed? And did that mean he really did what they said he did, back in Scranton?
He felt like he was in shock and wondered if he could live with knowing it was real, if in fact that’s what had really happened. He always thought he just had some sort of psychic connection to the evil bastard, but maybe the Other was… him. Hiding inside him. Watching him squirm. All that blood, all those other times… Please, God, don’t let this be real.
“Oh, it’s real alright,” said a voice behind him, startling him. Nestor turned and saw Cassy, who carried a trencher loaded with a stew bowl and bread. She sat down opposite Nestor and slid her tray, centered in front of her. “And it’s healthy, so eat up. Do you always talk to yourself?”
“I didn’t realize I said that aloud,” Nestor replied weakly. “I just don’t have much of an appetite right now, I guess.”
Cassy’s gaze was direct, never wavering from Nestor’s eyes, but her tone was friendly enough as she said, “You need to eat. Keep up your strength. You don’t have anything to fret over, that I can tell. We lost good people today and killed other human beings who were probably decent folks, other than being rash enough to attack us like that. What have you lost that makes you lose your appetite? Or maybe you just don’t like the food. There’s a Foster’s Freeze about ten minutes’ drive from here. Maybe you’d prefer a cheeseburger and deep-fried mushrooms?”
“That’s a nice speech, Cassy.” He blinked at her. “I didn’t know you’d care whether I ate or not.” When her eyes narrowed he added hurriedly, “You’re a good leader from everything I’ve seen, you really are, you just don’t strike me as the sensitive type to coddle strangers who suddenly turn into finicky eaters.” He looked up at her placidly.
Her eyes remained narrowed, but at least she didn’t lose her smile. Maybe antagonizing her wasn’t the best move he could have made, but dammit, he was tired of her mistrust. Then it hit him that maybe she was right not to trust him. The realization struck him like a hammer between the eyes, leaving him with a faint, throbbing headache. He looked down and rubbed his temples. He felt bewildered.
“I’m not, really,” Cassy answered. “Not anymore. But whether you stay or leave, I don’t want you dying off just because you can’t stomach some forever-stew. There’s few
enough people left whole as it is.” She sat by him on the bench. “Maybe you’re wondering why I’m sitting with you? Why I care?”
Nestor’s stomach sank, but he tried to mask it by picking up a slice of thick, fresh-baked bread and nibbling at it. He forced a smile and said, “See? I’m eating. I did wonder why you’re here, but I guess you’ll tell me in your own good time.”
Cassy crunched on a carrot, chewed it slowly, and finally swallowed it—all the while gazing thoughtfully at Nestor’s face. Measuring, probably. He hoped he measured up.
“Well, I guess I’ll get to the point. I have some questions for you about the battle. Mueller—the Marine you saved, who got shot in the back—says you must have scared off whoever shot him. I wonder, did you see anyone else? This sniper, I mean. Did you see anyone else there when Mueller got shot, and maybe you could tell me why they didn’t just shoot you, too—those are questions in my mind. Where was that sniper?”
Nestor shifted in his seat. The rough-hewn bench he sat on felt suddenly hard and uncomfortable. Unwelcoming. “Other than the attacker I killed, the one Mueller was shooting back and forth with, I didn’t see anyone else. Maybe they took a shot and ran. I’m glad he was wearing armor.”
Cassy nodded, and smiled. “Maybe. That’s probably what happened. Everything was completely chaotic, after all. I’m just surprised you didn’t see them. It turns out there’s a bit of powder burn around the bullet hole in Mueller’s flak jacket, or whatever they call those things these days. So, the sniper had to be close enough that you would have seen him. Or her.” She frowned, shook her head. “That’s how it seems.”
A chill washed over Nestor, across his scalp and down his spine. She couldn’t know anything or he would be dead already, right? She was only fishing. Had to be. “Nope. Didn’t see anybody. I saw him fall and thought he was dead, but I didn’t see anyone when I turned around.” He realized he was starting to babble and went back to his half-hearted eating.
Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft Page 17
