Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft

by Henry G. Foster

  Ethan caught himself just in time to not reply to the taunting. Old hacker competition was a habit that died hard. Yet that was interesting information by itself; the 20s had access to at least one satellite—though right now there were two that could be taking snapshots, including his main-use one—and he’d have to be much more careful to cover his tracks in the future. What Watcher One said about a HAM operator in New York could be true, conceivably, but that seemed unlikely. The Big Apple had gone silent after the second wave of EMPs, so far as Ethan had seen. It was probably all disinformation from start to end, so let it go…

  D.Ryder >> Enuf lolz, u cant beat me! I’ll figure it out b4 u do and send teh report. Weird about that fire tho, tell me if u hear more. Dark Ryder out.

  Ethan frowned, then stood and took a deep breath. Putting a smile on his face, he walked back into the other room to finish watching his show with Amber. She wasn’t down in the bunker with him nearly as much as he’d have liked because she had responsibilities and a child who needed her as much as he did and who had “dibs” on her main attention. So he was determined to spend what time he had with her well. Especially, he would not hunch over his computer with his back turned to her for hours again. He would not, would not, risk driving her away.

  * * *

  0400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +160

  Cassy walked with Michael as he inspected their “troops.” For some, such as the full squad of his Marines assigned to this mission, the title of “troop” was apt. For the others, well, everyone still alive probably knew how to use a rifle. Anyone who didn’t have enough discipline to follow orders was either dead or still hiding in isolation somewhere Out There, she mused. Her Clanners were tough as nails by now, and every one of them combat veterans, so the dozen going with the Marines were capable in their own right. They’d all been issued one of the Clan’s irreplaceable M4 rifles for the mission.

  The twenty-two Clanner troops were joined by eight men and women from Taj Mahal. Their leader, Barry, wasn’t in the group, but Cassy hadn’t needed to pressure him to send people for this. The man clearly understood that they were either party to the region’s affairs or they wouldn’t be welcome or supported there—a practical man indeed.

  Michael and the thirty-something troops were about to head out in the predawn hours, through freezing temperatures and some lingering icy snow, to meet up with however many people Liz Town had sent for this Op. Liz Town’s numbers would depend on how much pressure they were under at the moment from the monsters out of Hershey, but it could range anywhere from a four-man team to twice what the Clan had mustered. Cassy was hopeful they’d send more rather than fewer, because Hershey was rumored now to be plague-stricken and had more pressing business than making life difficult for everyone else in their neighborhood.

  As they walked, apart from the troops, Cassy said to Michael, “So you won’t know your exact tactics until the meet-up and you see what people and gear Liz Town sent?”

  “That’s about the size of it, but the general plan stays the same. Only the details are up in the air.” To the assembled troops he said, in that loud but not-really-yelling command voice of his that carried so effortlessly, “Double-check your ammo, then check your neighbor’s pack—I’m not losing anyone tonight because someone was too stupid to put an assault bag on right!”

  “Wish I could get that tone right. It doesn’t seem like it should carry so far, but we hear you even over the noise of battle.”

  Michael shrugged. “Just something you eventually pick up when you’re trying to herd a bunch of cats in a firefight. That’s what it feels like in battle—cat-herding.”

  “Just think, no one will ever look that video up on YouTube again. Or see a commercial, for that matter. I miss the Super Bowl.”

  Michael didn’t reply for a moment, while they all walked toward the northern edge of Clanholme, but finally he said, “Just between us, if it looks too hairy, I’m pulling out. I’m not going to sacrifice all of us to save Brickerville if it would only be a futile gesture. Wish us luck, and if I don’t come back, make sure Tiffany never gets remarried.”

  Cassy smirked along with him at the sad little joke. The danger of not coming back was very real. “I swear they’ll be taken care of for as long as there is a Clanholme, Michael. But come back, okay? We don’t have to destroy the invaders—we only have to let Brickerville get those supplies and smuggle out as many fighters as they’ve decided they can spare. They do no good holed up behind those walls. Once we get them out, that’s when we’ll plan the battle that’ll deal with this enemy properly.”

  * * *

  Nestor walked with Michael and Mueller through the morning haze. They headed northwest, keeping off Highway 72. It would have been easier going on the roadway, but also easier to snipe at if any ’vaders were creeping around. “I’ve never been to the Pennsylvania Ren Faire,” Nestor said, imagining castles and people in pantaloons.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Michael said. “I saw one accidentally in California when I was stationed at Pendleton, got dragged into it actually, and it was pretty silly. Cardboard castles and people trying not to use the word ‘cellphone’ when telling some other geek in tights to set their phone to silent.” Michael grinned at the memory.

  Well, that was a bit disappointing. Nestor asked, “So why are we going there, again?”

  “It’s where Liz Town wanted us to rendezvous with the unit they’re sending. I guess there’s a survivor group there that’s a new ally to the Lizzies, one of the groups Cassy just added to the master map. Ethan wouldn’t tell me much about the group, but he was grinning like an idiot when he told me where we’d meet up. All he said was that it would probably be weird for a guy like me. I’m trying not to imagine dudes with swords wearing feathered caps or some crap. If I hear one guy try to ask about my rifle in fake medieval gibberish, I’m going to have to pop him in the mouth. And shoot his friends.”

  Nestor chuckled. Of course Michael wouldn’t do that, but the image was hilarious. “I doubt anyone has time for weird geek hobbies like that anymore. Maybe someday.”

  Michael gave Nestor an odd look, then grinned. “Not much farther now, Nestlé.”

  “Ha! Nestlé… Funny guy. Is that my Ren Faire name, then? That would make you what, ‘Melchior’?”

  Michael gave him a playful punch to the shoulder, and they kept walking. So far, Nestor figured Michael to be just about the nicest, kindest Clanner he’d met. Most of them were nice, but Michael never had a hint of judgment or doubt. He just seemed self-assured enough to take people as they were and had no use for suspicion when he could probably kill almost any man he met, one-on-one.

  Maybe half an hour later, they converged with Highway 72—Lebanon Road—and a smaller crossroad at the edge of what looked like a vast forest. The terrain had been growing woodier as they’d traveled, so that wasn’t a surprise. Ahead, on the far side of the highway, stood a large white building with a cross on the roof, some sort of church. Across from the church was a car dealership. Nestor frowned at that—millions of dollars in inventory that would never work again, for a civilization now gone. They might as well have been alien artifacts. Future archeologists would ponder the circuit boards and conclude they were religious icons of some sort. Maybe they’d be right… in a way.

  Michael called for the unit to gather, abandoning their traveling pattern of keeping strung out in twos and threes. When they’d all rallied, he told them quietly, “Alright, people, we’re to meet up at that white building, which was a Mennonite church before all this. It’s been fortified, so I want weapon discipline all around—keep your rifles slung and pointed away from them. Intel says these guys are trigger-happy because they get raided a lot. That building is this survivor group’s southern outpost, guarding the road that goes through the AOI. Form up in a column, three even lines, and we’ll march in. I want to impress them.”

  The ten Marines stood at the front of each line, in perfect order like this was second nature to them
. Nestor found himself toward the front of the first line in the column, behind the four Marines who led it, near where Michael stood off to the side calling, “Forward! March!”

  It took only a few minutes for the column—precise in the front, more ragged in the rear—to march to the road and then follow it the last hundred yards to the church. They turned “left oblique,” making a sort of half-turn, and marched into the church’s parking lot. Michael called a halt. After that, they stood in line and waited for those inside to figure out what they were going to do next.

  Shortly after, a tall woman came out of the building, followed by a man a little shorter than her. They both wore the distinctive leather jackets spray-painted blue that had become the hallmark of Liz Town’s warriors. Nestor had never seen a Liz Towner come through Clanholme who hadn’t been wearing one, actually. As she approached, Nestor watched as Michael approached her and her partner, and when they met, they shook hands. The three talked amongst themselves, but Nestor couldn’t hear anything they were saying. Still, the woman smiled, so that was promising. From everything he’d heard about the Lizzies, it could be a crapshoot whether they’d be openly friendly or not. They were a weird bunch, he’d heard.

  Then Michael came back to the column and dismissed everyone from formation. “Our Lizzie friends say we’ll be led into the relative security of the settlement, which they call the ‘Barony of Renfar,’ and we’ll spend the rest of the day either taking care of gear or getting to know the Liz Town unit. They’re already settled inside.”

  They were led further down Lebanon Road and Nestor saw that the edge of the giant forest he’d seen was really just a thin band of trees, like a windbreak that stretched away to the east to join what looked like a real, and denser, natural forest. So it was really kind of a privacy screen, too. Smart to have left those trees alone when they cut firewood.

  As they walked deeper into Barony territory he saw that to the left of the road, the actual forest stretched away unbroken—only a building along the side of the road broke it up visually. The building looked like a large pole barn with an attached wooden tower, obviously built pre-EMP, but he could see that the many windows up the side of the tower had been sandbagged. The large street sign outside proclaimed to be the “Divine Swine Authentic BBQ.” Their guide told them that it was now where traders doing business with the Barony were welcomed, but that the rest of the Barony’s territory was more or less off-limits to visitors unless they had a good reason to come in.

  The Clan, of course, had good reason, and so they were led over to the right of the road. Vast open, snowy fields lay between the road and a cluster of buildings that had once been some sort of winery. Now it looked to have been turned over to farming uses, with everything stacked and ready for sowing in the spring.

  Their Barony and Lizzie hosts led them past the winery and into the grounds of the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire proper. Nestor was thrilled to see an old-style castle wall on the right, complete with stone towers that now had sandbagged positions at the top, and he noted that they were manned. Ahead on the left lay a fortified manor house, or rather, someone’s interpretation of a medieval manor. It looked grand, on a small scale.

  Their guide said, “That’s where the Baron lives, and holds court. Michael, after you get your people settled in, he would like to meet you. Just find your way back here and someone will let you in.”

  The little roadway then turned slightly to the right, where they saw a massive double-door gateway with stone walls stretching off to either side. The gate was open but the wall didn’t enclose anything. It would have been simple enough to just go around it. How disappointing, thought Nestor. They went through the gate and followed a trail to the right. There, a long row of faux-medieval houses and shops lined the pathway. “These are now our homes, so if you ever visit one of our gentry you’d likely be staying with them in one of those.”

  The branching trail they followed next led to the north and ended amidst more shops-turned-houses. Except here, many had been turned into actual shops for woodworking or forging, and others looked like the group used them for storage.

  “Okay people, you are welcome to wander around and just basically make yourself at home. There are merchants here selling meals, the going rate is one bullet for a drink, five for a meal, or whatever else you can barter. Knock before you go inside, but nothing is really off-limits here except the Baron’s manor itself.”

  The nearby sign proclaimed in medieval script that this was the “Queen’s Market Square.” Nestor glanced around and saw Michael making rounds, talking to clusters of Clanners, Indians, and Lizzies. Once he’d talked to everyone he left, heading back toward the manor.

  Nothing to do now but pass time, Nestor figured, but heck, he could kill a couple hours at least just wandering around and gaping at the scenery, looking for geeks in tights. Not many of those left by now, he’d bet, but if they were anywhere, they’d be here.

  He was only a little disappointed that all the people he saw wore normal clothes and guns, not Ren Faire garb and swords. Sad—just another victim of the end of the world.

  * * *

  0545 HOURS - ZERO DAY +161

  Nestor crouched in the early morning damp and chill, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the two people he’d been teamed with: a Taj Mahal woman and one of the Lizzies’ men. He wished he’d been teamed with one of the Marines, but he understood Michael’s decision to put them in their own units—the Marines were taking the more difficult targets and they were trained for this. Mixing up units with other groups’ people was dangerous, but it would also spread the risk if one unit got wiped out. And it’d teach the groups to trust one another. Like a joint military exercise.

  All three of them held coffee cans with what looked like battery terminals tack-welded to the lids. His was the one with ball bearings and glass—the “shrappenator,” as he thought of it. For the other two, one held a can that would produce a huge quantity of smoke and the other one, he’d been told, would make a large cloud of some kind of poison gas. Chlorine, perhaps. Thin wires extended to spools behind them. Each team had been tasked with creeping in and emplacing the explosives, not directly within a ’vader camp but fifty or so yards away. Close enough to be dangerous work, far enough to encourage some optimism. They could do it.

  Five teams including Nestor’s were running emplacements. He crawled on his belly, only half-dressed to reduce noise. This really sucked… But the wind was a perfect two or three miles per hour toward an encampment just east of him, and the gas was likely to be the most effective. The smoke would cause chaos and limit visibility while the Killer Teams, as he thought of them, would roam the battlefield slaughtering everyone they found. When the gas hit one or two of these little encampments it would create major coughing confusion, but it would dissipate before it hit Brickerville itself, he realized, and checked that worry off his mind.

  The Lizzies had only brought a dozen fighters, bringing the force’s total up to about forty-five including Michael and the Lizzie leader, but they’d also brought a damn wagonload of these “IEDs,” or improvised explosive devices. His shrappenator was the hardest to emplace, as it had to be aimed—the end opposite the terminals needed to be pointed at the encampment, like a big shotgun shell.

  Yards behind him, the Indian woman finished setting her canister and gave the thumbs-up. “Hurry up, Clanner,” the Liz Town man whispered.

  Nestor didn’t reply but simply focused on finishing the task right. This was his third emplacement, and each time he’d taken the longest. Well, if they didn’t like it then let them implant the shrappenators. He double-checked the wire connections and nodded. “Done, let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

  The three of them once again crawled on their bellies away from this latest ’vader camp. It took quite a while to get back to his unit’s rally point, out of view behind a low, gently sloped hill, and once back, he made a beeline for his clothes and gear. He’d probably have hypothermia from th
is little outing, but someone had to do it and he’d had to learn to sneak around back when those townspeople had been chasing him. Now, if they got caught, it would start the fight before the alliance was ready. But they’d gotten away clean. Like Michael said, always pick the time and place for a fight if you can. Well, they’d done that in spades. He wore a grim little smile on his face as he put on warmer clothing, the team’s emplacements finished.

  Soon the ’vader troops would start to rouse and wander out and about. It was in that first early morning confusion, when camp noises picked up but people weren’t yet awake enough to find their shoes, much less react quickly to an attack, that they would set off their devices and the Marines would begin their open assault of some choice ’vader camps that hadn’t gotten their own IEDs, while the civilian squads dealt with gassed, half-blind people in camps hit by the shrappenators and the clouds of smoke and gas. They all had gas masks from some Clan stockpile, too. It seemed like the Clan always had a handful of whatever was needed. Whoever set it up had prepared for the end of the world, it seemed, though he took care never to ask about it since the Clan obviously wanted to keep it hidden. He didn’t blame them. No sense advertising what they had.

  It felt like only ten minutes later when, still shivering, Nestor noticed an increase of activity in the camps where they’d planted IEDs. He picked up his M4 and met up with his two teammates, and the groups rallied around Michael for a quick, final battle briefing.

  Once everyone was in place, with the Marines taking a knee in front of him in perfect order, Michael cleared his throat. “Alright, listen up. I’ll lay this out in terms you’ll all understand. We’re about to attack the enemy. We’re organized in teams of three, except the jarheads. They’ll take the south flank. We aren’t here for the civilians! Don’t kill them, but don’t let your guard down, either. They’re aiding the enemy, remember that! No, our only objective, besides to kill as many of these invading sonsabitches as possible, is to pose enough of an obvious, real threat to draw them away from Brickerville’s west side. That should be no problem with the toys Liz Town brought,” he said with a nod to the Lizzie leader.