Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft

by Henry G. Foster

  “At the party tonight,” Brianna said. “It starts with dinner.”

  “No problem, I have some tin sheets we can work with if you two will help,” Jepson told the two girls. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Kaitlyn, eyes bright, nodded her head enthusiastically and Brianna grinned. Rubbing his hands together, Jepson asked, “What kind of medal?”

  Kaitlyn frowned, puzzled, and asked, “What do you mean? Just a medal.” She cocked her head and looked over to Brianna, who looked equally lost, Jepson realized.

  “Well… most medals are for something particular that somebody did, and it was usually something brave,” he explained. “Or something stupid and fatal, more’n likely. So what’re these medals for?”

  Kaitlyn broke in. “Last time, I heard they came charging over the hill in the wagon and completely broke up the raiders by the guard tower before they could throw fire bottles at us. It was awesome!”

  Jepson nodded. “Why’d they have a wagon, not horses? What was in it, that wood generator thing they traded for?” He’d been working on the wood generator set for several hours now, fiddling with improvements, and thinking about the idea ever since the trader had come through, so he knew perfectly well that was what they’d brought back.

  But this was the girls’ idea. Let them direct things. He wasn’t gonna do everything for ’em, they had to do some of it. Hey Dean, can you do this? Can you do that? He got sick of it. He almost growled at the girls, but remembered in time that it was little Kaity. Couldn’t growl at her, scared little thing that she was, with not even a real father, just that idiot tunnel geek. He cleared his throat and waited with his version of great patience, tapping his boot on the hard ground only a little as the girls whispered back and forth for a couple of minutes.

  Finally Kaitlyn spoke up. “They were bringing back some food and that generator thing for driving a car. Can we make a medal with a wagon and a generator on it, or something like that?”

  “Well…” Jepson said, “you gotta keep it simple because you don’t have a lot of space on a medal. Wagons are complicated. Wheels, and tongues, and leather braces and all. But we could do up a couple of little cylinders with a little buckle thing on top for the ribbon. Might take a half hour, I bet. But we need a design to go by. I don’t suppose either of your moms taught you anything useful, like how to draw?”

  Brianna nodded toward Kaitlyn. “It’s her idea, and she’s good at drawing. I’ll just sit back and watch and learn, while you two make a couple Medals of Generator.”

  Jepson smiled at her label and nodded to Kaitlyn. Cassy’s girl, she was okay for a teenager, letting her younger friend take it over like that. Cassy wasn’t all bad, he supposed, for raising a girl like that.

  “Okay, Miss Kaitlyn, let’s get to work if you want ’em by dinner,” he said, gruff-toned. Brianna grinned as Kaitlyn jumped around like a little kid. Which she was, after all. Jepson smiled to himself. He always did try to take a minute when the kids wanted help with things. The good kids, anyway, and especially the little ones, the girls, and the few that had missing parents. Dean knew how rough that road was, though it was a long time ago.

  He walked over to paw around in his junk metal pile, looking for some light tin sheets he remembered tossing onto the pile, and called to Brianna. “You know what goes with medals? Uniforms. One of you could go talk to Mr. Michael, see if he’d bring some of them Marines to line up and salute or something.”

  “Great idea,” Kaitlyn said and looked over at Brianna. “Can you go tell him what we’re gonna do? I have to work here with Mr. Jepson. You could tell your mom, too. No! Keep it a secret. Just tell Michael.”

  * * *

  Brianna laughed at the way Kaitlyn bustled around, taking charge. “Yes, ma’am!” she shouted and gave what she thought was a pretty snappy salute, but the younger girl had already turned back to rattle around the metal pile with Mr. Jepson. Soon the two of them were in a huddle, talking about dimensions and incisions or something. Brianna left to find Michael.

  When she saw Kaitlyn again an hour or so later, the girl already had two Clanholme Generator medals in hand, small tin shields onto which two tiny cylindrical “generators” were soldered. Punched-in lettering proclaimed: “Clanholme Bravery.” A slot on top held a loop of ribbon for draping around a hero’s neck. Nice work, and Dean must have helped her. He wasn’t as grumpy as everyone said.

  “Those are great,” Brianna told her. “Michael says it’s a fine idea. He says for you to go see him ASAP to work out a ‘presentation ceremony.’ He’s gonna round up some Marines and tell ’em to put on their best uniforms. They’ll march up and stand at attention or something.”

  “Cool,” Kaitlyn squealed. “Where’s Michael?” Brianna pointed toward the guard tower, and off Kaitlyn ran, leaping over things in her way, jumping effortlessly over them like a young deer.

  And Brianna suddenly realized that what she was feeling right now was joy. She’d almost forgotten how that felt.

  - 12 -

  1800 HOURS - ZERO DAY +149

  DINNER WAS DONE, and Cassy stood beside Tiffany, Michael’s wife, finishing the last of the dishes. Cassy always made sure people saw her doing her part to help out around Clanholme, even though no one expected her to, because it helped morale and let the Clan know what was expected of their people. Leaders included. “Let me know when you’re ready to get started on the party dishes after the clock ticks over, okay?”

  Tiffany smiled, acknowledging her, and then hung up her apron to wander off and join the fun. There were a bunch of games set up, old-timey ones that didn’t need batteries. Bobbing for apples, pie eating contests, a horseshoe toss, the works. Tiffany’s favorite was horseshoes, and she excelled at the game. Cassy knew that before the night was done, some poor sap would probably be stuck with Tiffany’s post-party dishes duty. And maybe her chores for the next week, too… The thought made Cassy smile.

  Cassy turned to survey the games, deciding which one to lose at first, when she heard a rider coming in from the north with their mount at a dead run. The rider wasn’t blowing an airhorn, the scout signal for “battlestations,” but it still couldn’t bode well.

  “Dammit, what now,” Cassy muttered. Couldn’t they have one day without complications? But she took off her apron, hung it up, and walked out toward the rider to meet her away from the festivities. There was no point alarming everyone when the horn hadn’t been sounded.

  The rider approached and reined in her horse, then got off to talk to Cassy. She was young, though it was hard to tell people’s age these days, and her jaw was set tightly. Cassy couldn’t remember her name, only that she’d been with the Clan since shortly after they’d thrown off the yoke of slavery put on them by Peter and his White Stag people. Bad memories, those, but today was a day of celebration so she shoved the thoughts away. “Report, scout,” she greeted the youngster.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m to relay this message to you: ‘We have two dozen refugees halted at the food forest north. They request asylum. Armed but not hostile. Awaiting your orders.’ That was from Michael himself,” she said with a note of pride, her back ramrod-straight.

  Cassy restrained a smile. Many of the younger adults and older teens craved “action” and vied to join Michael’s scout teams. Feeding chickens got boring after a while, so she couldn’t blame them. This young scout clearly felt like she’d joined an elite and loved it. Cassy replied in a formal voice, knowing it would make this youngster’s day. “Very well, scout, return and advise him that I am en route. Do not allow access to Clanholme before I arrive.”

  Without waiting for a response, Cassy turned on her heels—pretending not to see the rushed salute the girl gave her—and headed toward the small stable near the Complex with her ever-present rifle. The Clan always kept a few fresh horses close-in to the houses for situations like this, and no one ever went completely unarmed at Clanholme. Most wore pistols when they were busy around the homestead, though. Rifles and shotguns go
t in the way.

  Cassy didn’t bother with a saddle. Untying one of the horses, she simply swung up onto its back. The animal grunted at Cassy’s weight, then moved about a bit, eager for the command to move out, maybe even to run and stretch out a bit.

  These days everyone who had regular access to a horse rode it like an extension of themselves, but it still amazed Cassy that six months ago she could barely get on top of one of those things. Now it felt like the only natural way to get around for any distance and she swung on bareback as easily as any sixteen-year-old. When the kids rode, they seemed as natural as if they were centaurs, putting her own skills to shame, but that was okay. A privilege of age.

  The kids always let the older grownups—the few people older than about thirty-five who still lived—win their playful ad-hoc races and would swear with the utmost sincerity that they’d lost fair and square. It was like a game to them, showing such fine horsemanship that their beasts didn’t mind coming in behind. Nobody minded playing along with them.

  Damn, how far society had changed in a few months… Maybe if the world had been full of people like this, then the EMPs—

  Enough of that. Cassy shook her thoughts clear and turned the horse north. She stopped only long enough to tell a passing Clanner to arm the adults and stay put. Then at a gallop, the rifle slung over her back, she rode hard only a few minutes before she saw Michael and some other scouts up ahead, through the trees. She passed through the last few meters of forest and then stopped ten feet away from Michael, keeping a stern look on her face but her hands away from the rifle. It was best not to start a problem with strangers where none existed, by seeming too aggressive, especially since almost everyone everywhere went armed these days…

  Michael saluted her as she approached, which was a bit odd but she saluted back anyway. Maybe he was putting on a show for the refugees. Or for his scouts. And there were indeed a couple dozen refugees, maybe thirty counting some children. All of them were dirty and thin. A couple adults wore old, dirty bandages. These people had been through hell and back, that much was clear. Some looked dazed, on their last legs maybe. Desperate people could be unpredictable…

  “Hello,” Cassy called out, trying to mimic Michael’s quiet-yet-loud military bark. She hadn’t quite gotten it down yet but the volume at least pulled their attention. “You are on Clan territory without invitation. Can someone explain to me what your business is with Clanholme?” She kept a faint smile on her face, trying not to look like an immediate threat or even hostile, but not a sucker to mess with, either.

  Beside her, Michael looked relaxed, but Cassy knew him well enough to tell that he was coiled like a snake, ready to strike if the need suddenly arose.

  A tall man stepped forward, dirty as the rest, with sagging skin that showed he’d once been a lot heavier and eyes dulled by thirst or hunger, or both. She watched him carefully. From beneath his shaggy black hair, his brown eyes revealed the hardness of a man who had seen and done too many difficult things just to survive. That was a common look these days, but it told Cassy she wasn’t dealing with some hermit who had only emerged from hiding when the food ran out. These were people who had simply survived any way they could, for far too long. They were worth being wary around.

  The man said, “Hello. We didn’t know it belonged to anyone. We saw the fruit trees and hoped to glean some scraps for the kids, or maybe some mealworms. Lizards. Whatever. Pretty amazing place—whoever planted these made ’em almost all fruit and nut trees. Must be nice…”

  Cassy saw his eyes narrow, and they got a gleam to them. The starving man thinking about food, just lying on the ground or hanging in trees everywhere… Clanholme must seem like Shangri-La to those people. The Big Rock Candy Mountain, where the bluebird sings by the lemonade springs. Unfortunately, that fantasy could raise the odds of a violent end to this, so it was a good thing she had thought to get the others ready before she left the party.

  “Been picked clean, friend,” she told the man. “What we didn’t gather, we let fall for the pigs to forage. This little holding keeps a balance that we have to honor or we’ll all go hungry. We got enough to give you a meal and all the clean water you want, but if you’re looking for a superman you’ve come to the wrong place. No one saw this coming—no one has enough food to go around.” Cassy readied herself for an outburst, or worse.

  Instead, the man’s eyes lit up as he grinned. “Oh Lord, thank you! Just a meal, one good meal, put some energy back in these kids. They’re starving too… I swear, if you can’t find room for us with your people, we’ll move on. We aren’t looking for trouble and we aren’t raiders, but no one wants to watch their kid starve. You’re doing a fine thing for us, Miss…”

  “Cassy. You can call me Cassy.”

  “Miss Cassy. Thank you. I’m Barry, and these people, we were all neighbors on a nice little cul-de-sac. Good place for kids. When the EMP hit, we stuck together as neighbors and rode out the worst, did what we had to do to protect ourselves. Shared our food, too. I had a couple year’s worth for my family, others had arms or tools to contribute, so we all lived through it, but when food ran out we had to take our chances out here. It hasn’t been easy. We can’t get much further on our own, I’m afraid.”

  “Where are you coming from then, Barry?” Cassy tried to make the question sound friendly enough, casual even, but it was anything but.

  “We’re from Rhineholds, north of Adamstown. We tried to check out Ephrata because they have people and working farms and everything, but they thought we were Adamstown spies. We’ve dealt with those Adamstown raiders ourselves, so I can’t blame them, but the kids were just confused. Asked why they won’t help us just because we’re from another town. We never told the kids about the hundreds of people we turned away ourselves.” He looked down, frowning.

  At the word ‘Adamstown,’ Cassy’s ears perked, and Barry had noticed—he couldn’t hide his surprise, maybe—but he’d kept talking like nothing was amiss. As he finished his story, her mind had been whirring. At first with suspicion, but hell, if they really were Adamstown spies they sure wouldn’t say they were from over that way. But it didn’t pay to be trusting, not anymore.

  “Barry, I feel for you. Don’t be hard on Ephrata. They’re good people, but they’re on the front lines with Adamstown, and those raiders have been cozying up with the invaders lately if rumors are believed. I believe it. They’ve suddenly become much more active, and they’re raiding deep into our side of the Interstate. So where are you headed?”

  A small child, maybe six years old, ran up and wrapped her arms around Barry’s leg. He patted her hair with a smile. “Anywhere this one can have a chance, really. East is all invaders and bandits, from what we’ve heard, so it was ‘go west, young man’ and see what we can see. Crappy plan, not really a plan at all. But staying just wasn’t an option anymore.”

  “You might try Liz Town, or sorry, Elizabethtown. They’re a rowdy bunch, but good enough people, and it’s an open city. You work, you eat. They’d probably draft anyone fit and over fifteen as soldiers, though. I don’t know if you’ve heard about Hershey and Harrisburg, but Liz Town has their hands full with them. You’d be welcome there, probably. They need more folks. Barbarians at the gate and all.”

  Barry snarled his lip. “Oh yeah, we heard the rumors. Not much different than a lot of other places, though. Liz Town sounds great…”

  Cassy caught the edge on his voice. “But?”

  “Our kind isn’t welcome in Elizabethtown, from what we’ve heard from more than one person. Plus, the guards at Ephrata told us the same.”

  Dammit, this guy was seriously making it hard to help him. Cassy wondered if he was one of those “yeah but…” people who always had a reason not to do things, always ready with an excuse dressed up as a reason. Most of those types were dead by now, of course, if they weren’t already in a community by pure luck, but anything was possible. She let out a long, frustrated breath.

  “Alright, I’ll bi
te. What is ‘your kind’ and why won’t the Lizzies let you in? Think about how you answer this, please. It’s rather important.” She shifted so that she faced him directly, looking him square in the eyes. Liz Town were allies, and she wouldn’t abide a bunch of strangers stirring up trouble.

  Barry nodded. His nose didn’t wrinkle, eyes didn’t widen… no indication he’d taken offense. So it must have been a question he was used to, and that was alarming in its own right. “Oh, I understand how important it is. They’re friendly with you, and friends mean more than Friday barbeques now. I promise, it’s nothing against them. But the thing is…” His voice trailed off. Cassy waited patiently while he gathered up how he wanted to say whatever was on his mind.

  “The thing is, Miss Cassy, you may not have noticed but we’re not white, black, brown, or yellow. We’re more what they might call ‘sandy,’ in a manner of speaking.”

  Cassy stared at the man, mouth open. Just because they were Indian? Or maybe Pakistani. “Why would they have problems? You’re Indian, right? Or Pakistani?”

  “Indian, but only by heritage. All of our grandparents came over at the end of World War Two, and we were all born and raised here. We worked in Adamstown for a company owned by a really nice Indian immigrant. He didn’t make it after the EMPs without his heart medications. It was a sad day for us all. He used to pay random employee medical bills, or rent, and even helped with a kid’s college tuition once. All without ever mentioning it, but we all knew who did it. A good man.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Liz Town? Your race or your boss? They aren’t very important anymore, I would think. We’re all mongrels here. No offense.”

  Barry smiled wanly. “None taken. Being offended at the truth is low on my list of give-a-damns these days, miss. But rumor has it they kicked out anyone with a, shall we say, swarthy complexion. Didn’t want light brown people around.”