Dark New World (Book 5): EMP Resurrection

by Henry G. Foster

  The terrible nightmare he had once thought of as nothing more than his mind torturing him in his sleep, piecing together things he had heard on the news or from the police as they investigated. Details he had learned about the terrible, gruesome way in which some monster had killed his little pumpkin. But now he knew better. Now he knew that the nightmare was a memory. The Other had come and destroyed what was left of Nestor’s world after his wife died, and the Other was him.

  When he had first made that connection and realized what had actually happened, he vomited and then sobbed for two days, neither eating nor drinking, not even sleeping. He tortured himself and considered eating the barrel of his gun. His people, his Night Ghosts, had left him in peace, knowing something was wrong.

  The houses burning around him cast a light that reminded him of the hue that washed over everything he saw when the Other was at the helm. Reminded him of his daughter.

  But just like at the end of his two days of soul-destroying misery, the thought no longer brought him to the edge of suicide. Now it enraged him. It hadn’t been him. Not Nestor, but the Other who had killed his daughter (and maybe his wife). His family might be gone, but the Confederation was full of other families, other daughters and fathers. They needed protection now, in this new world, and the Other could do a lot to bring them that protection.

  Nestor hadn’t killed his daughter, but he now lived to make sure no other Little Pumpkins got killed. The Other had destroyed his world, and now he used the Other to help him protect good people by unleashing it to destroy the bad ones.

  The Other couldn’t be redeemed but maybe Nestor himself could be, now that he could control the Other. He silently vowed to dedicate himself to that.

  Briefly, he thought about the implications of not needing the Other for this one. It meant Nestor was becoming used to all of this, perhaps. Or maybe all the killing and violence was destroying who he was, burning him out from the inside. Certainly he felt very different than he had when he first emerged from the insane asylum, long after the invader war had begun, being chased by a dozen people bent on revenge for killings he had no recollection of.

  Even if he was becoming numb or burnt out, Nestor was indifferent now. He didn’t really care whether he lived or died, so how was it relevant? He had nothing to live for anyway other than the vague wish to redeem himself, so he was fine with the idea of dying in this terrible war. At least he would be dying for something worthwhile and his struggle with the Other would end.

  Nestor turned to face his troops as they mustered just outside the cluster of buildings, carrying loot as they returned from searching for survivors to kill. He had surrounded the place with his new people while his original core of thirty or so conducted the attack itself, and the new people had earned another couple of kills when residents had tried to flee.

  It was nice having so many people. He saw his original Night Ghosts, or what was left of them, but also saw dozens and dozens of new faces. Other survivors of the Empire’s attacks, just as the originals were survivors of the ’vaders sacking Adamstown. From his original thirty guerrillas, he now had nearly one hundred. They were men and women who had lost everything they had built up since the EMPs, people who hated the ’vaders and the Empire for killing their friends, their families. They wanted payback, and Nestor could help them get it—his reputation had spread wide, and people were flocking to his war banner. The Night Ghosts had become a force to be reckoned with.

  This attack was finished, but ten miles east his scouts had found another homestead occupied that had been empty a week before. Their story had been the same as this farm’s, according to the scout, and showed the same signs. They weren’t just people settling down, they were Empire plants and spies. And by day’s end, they’d be dead like the twenty-person force who had claimed to live here. The Empire was stepping up its infiltration and Nestor was determined to stop them wherever he and his Ghosts could.

  * * *

  Ethan opened the file and found more day-old satellite pictures with file names like “Night Ghosts attack 1A” or “Night Ghosts burning 2C.” Taken together and in order, they painted a clear picture—Nestor was killing homesteads and then burning them down, looting food.

  The very first satellite images of such an attack from before today’s batch of photos had turned out to be Empire spies, according to Cassy, so that was a good kill, but now it seemed that Nestor had gotten a taste for how easy it was to take out unprepared little settlements. He had gone bandit. His forces had also grown much bigger since the first one, at least tripling in size from what Ethan could see. Maybe more. Now, with at least ninety or so bandits, he was becoming a significant player in the area.

  Ethan put his elbows on his desk and his face into his hands, and struggled with himself. Nestor had seemed nice enough, but how well did anyone really know him? He had gone missing after a battle shortly after coming to the Clan, and had gone guerrilla, taking to it like a duck to water. He had once saved two Clan children, but that didn’t really mean anything. And with the heavy pressure the 20s were putting on Ethan… They weren’t going to let it go.

  Yeah—he was risking the Clan’s safety by protecting Nestor. Hell, his duty to the Clan said he now ought to give Nestor up, right? After all, he was sacking homesteads and even a settlement. He had gone rogue. The Confed would have to deal with him sooner or later. Maybe giving Nestor’s position away would kill two birds with one stone—prove his loyalty to the 20s, at least as far as they were concerned, and get rid of a growing bandit threat.

  Ethan let out a long, slow breath of resignation. Fine. He had to do what he had to do. Ethan loaded the chat box and typed out the coordinates for the golf course just north of poor, dead Lancaster. He had overheard Cassy telling Michael that’s where the Night Ghosts were encamped. They’d be gone by the time the 20s could bring UAVs or satellites to bear, but it was a start point, and would buy him time with the 20s.

  Briefly, he thought of bringing all this to Cassy’s attention. Normally he would, but with the evidence against Nestor piling up and with the 20s now making threats if he didn’t get results, he couldn’t afford to wait for Cassy’s “let’s make sure” attitude. Plus he’d have to explain about the 20s threat, and there was a risk she’d misinterpret that to mean Ethan was playing double agent. He was, but not the way she might think—his loyalty was to the Clan.

  Sorry, Nestor. He’d crossed a line, and Ethan had the Clan to worry about. The new standard was to care for your own first, outsiders second, and Nestor had become the outsider.

  - 13 -

  0815 HOURS - ZERO DAY +224

  THE SOUND OF an engine carried far with no background hum of civilization to mask it. Cassy caught it right away, although it took a moment for her brain to click on just what that noise was. She grabbed a dozen Clanners and they headed toward the gravel drive at the northeast end of the property. Everyone carried weapons at all times nowadays, so there was no scramble for guns. When she got to the gravel drive, she saw a familiar burly F-series pickup coming up the driveway and spewing smoke and pulling a trailer.

  Two mounted Clan guards rode ahead and two behind the truck, which rolled to a stop about ten feet from Cassy. A short, wiry black man climbed out of the driver’s seat, and a burly, rough-looking white man with a shotgun climbed out of the passenger side and then set his shotgun on the seat before closing the door.

  Cassy grinned. “If it isn’t Terry and Lump, traders extraordinaire. To what do we owe the pleasure?” It had been Terry, the Falconry wandering trader, who first introduced Cassy to the idea of using a gasifier to run a vehicle.

  Terry grinned back. “Cassy, leader of the Clan and what’s left of civilization! How have you been?”

  “Pretty good, lately. Can I offer you some breakfast? We may have some left over.”

  Terry smirked. “Thank you for the offer, but I have my own,” he replied. It was a standard sort of exchange when greeting people, both the offer and the refusal.
“I also have some news for you, and thought I’d pass it on while I was in the area. And maybe get some trading done, of course.”

  Cassy nodded. “Certainly. Can you have Lump open up the wagon? My people will be coming through any minute, I’m sure, once news of a visitor spreads.”

  Terry looked at Lump and then jerked his head toward the wagon. Turning back to Cassy he said, “So have you heard the news up around Liz Town?”

  Cassy frowned. “We haven’t been in contact recently, so no. Their envoy left a couple of days ago on some urgent business or other. What’s going on?”

  “Seems like quite a few of the homesteads west of Liz Town have been attacked. Everyone dead, but the buildings left intact. Rumor has it Liz Town isn’t patrolling out that way anymore and has pulled their people back to just their own holdings.”

  Cassy huffed through her nose in frustration. “Damn. What about Renfar? They’re under Liz Town’s watch. Are they being supported? Those Renaissance Faire grounds are cool and all, and a natural choke point on the road, but they don’t have many defenses other than their own armed people.”

  “Nope. Renfar has had to fight off a couple of small raids, the first in two months. Liz Town isn’t stopping them in the north and west before they head south and east, so it’s getting pretty wild out there. But they’re building a log wall around the core grounds and the winery, so it isn’t as open as it used to be.”

  “Thank goodness. They’re nice enough people. Any idea why Liz Town isn’t patrolling? None of us can afford that, you know.”

  “Tell me about it,” Terry said shaking his head. “At least Lebanon has stepped up their west patrols, so Falconry hasn’t had to deal with all those bandits. My leaders may not be happy you mostly sided with Lebanon during that trade dispute, but I’m sure glad. It gave the Lebs good motivation to keep patrolling, keep protecting us even if it isn’t intentional.”

  Cassy frowned again. “Yeah… Leaders and their people sometimes have different concerns. I try not to let that be the case here, but it happens. I’m glad you guys are safe, though. We do like Falconry, you know. Good people.”

  Terry nodded. “Yep, glad you feel that way too. I was lucky to fall in with them early on. I’ll pass that remark on to the Head Falconer, Delorse.”

  Cassy replied, “Be sure to give Delorse my best wishes. I may have had my hands tied, but I respect her as a leader.” An impish grin spread on Cassy’s face, “And tell her she’s always welcome to join the Confederation.”

  Terry laughed, and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll let you tell her that. Anyway, that’s all I got on my end. What have you heard?”

  Cassy began sharing what rumors she had—sharing news was one of the best things about these old-style wandering merchants, tinkers, and traveling salesmen, because they spread news between settlements. She was especially sure to note, very casually, that Manheim really needed nuts and bolts for some current project. If Terry could supply them, he’d make a fortune on the trade value. Telling him was a nice reward for coming by basically just to share the news and let them browse his wagon—and maybe Manheim would get the bolts it needed.

  * * *

  Ethan grabbed a bowl and a plate of food before the lunch bell—really a blast from the guard tower’s air siren—and headed toward the HQ to go back down to the bunker below. He was busy compiling numbers and troop movements, deciding what to tell his 20s handler Watcher One, and updating his maps. He didn’t have time to sit through the usual lunch rush, and as a member of the Clan’s council, rank had its privileges.

  “Hey, Ethan,” he heard from behind him. Michael’s voice.

  Ethan turned and nodded. “I’d shake your hand, but my hands are full.”

  “How will you get a bowl of soup down the ladder?” Michael asked, smirking.

  Damn. Ethan hadn’t thought that far ahead. He was a little scatterbrained from number crunching. “Good point. Maybe Cassy has a thermos in her house.”

  “Probably. But I need to talk a minute, Ethan. Can we grab a seat?”

  Ethan walked over to the split-log bench outside Cassy’s house and set his food down, then sat. “What’s up?”

  “Just needed to share some intel with you, Cassy’s orders. A trader came through this morning with news.”

  “I heard,” Ethan replied. “It’s always news when someone visits.”

  Michael frowned. “It seems that Liz Town pulled in all their patrols. They aren’t patrolling to their west and now only guard their own actual territory. Meanwhile, lots of homesteads are getting raided, killing the people but not burning down the buildings. I suspect Empire infiltrators.”

  Ethan furrowed his brow. “Damn, that’s awful. Has anyone sent out scouts to find them and wipe them out?”

  Michael nodded. “Yes, there’s several bands of scouts now, mostly from Lebanon. But rumor has it there’s a bunch of bike tracks, and Lebanon thinks they’re raiders from the Empire, like I do. I think they’re softening us up for the big offensive. These Empire raiders are fast and mobile, hitting hard and fading away. Bikes would explain that.”

  “What are we doing about them? The Clan, I mean.”

  “Before we do anything, Cassy wants you to radio Liz Town. They’re not attending Confed meetings, not patrolling for raiders. Find out what the hell is going on with those people.”

  Ethan grimaced. “I can’t just radio them ask what the hell they’re doing. Bad diplomacy. We need to send an envoy.”

  Michael shook his head. “No. We will send one, but Cassy was specific. Establish comms with Liz Town and get a SitRep first.”

  Ethan let out a long breath. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

  Michael got up and left, and Ethan decided to finish his meal up there instead of in the bunker, mostly to give himself time to think on how he would approach the problem.

  * * *

  Choony and Jaz sat on the well-worn wagon bench as they rode away from Clanholme once again. Their last week out on the road had netted some new homesteads, which Cassy had put under both Clanholme and the Gap’s oversight and protection. It had been productive, but the discovery of several burnt-out homesteads littered with corpses had been depressing, and sobering. It meant bandits were active in the area, and if they were on horses there was no way the wagon could outrun them. Because of that, they had been staying close enough to Clanholme or the Gap to make a break for it if they must. At least give them a chance at surviving. Choony had also rigged up a quick-release on the wagon itself. If needed, they could try to climb up to the horses and release the wagon. Maybe. If they didn’t fall, if they didn’t drop the quick-release, if the horses didn’t freak out and overturn the whole enchilada. If, if, if…

  The loud boom of Jaz firing her rifle made Choony practically jump up, startling him out of his thoughts. “Status,” he quickly blurted.

  Jaz laughed, and the sound to him was like the music of a crystal-clear waterfall in some faraway tropical paradise. “Stop the wagon,” she said. “I bagged us a bunny. Fresh meat tonight!”

  Choony was careful not to frown. He didn’t like killing anything, much less when they still had a fresh load of supplies, but Jaz greatly preferred fresh meat to the dried vegetables and pemmican, which was a mix of dried-out meat that had then been crushed almost to a powder, mixed with rendered fat with spices like a touch of dried chiles or black pepper for character—it kept nearly forever. It didn’t need refrigeration and had been the world’s original energy bar, especially when mixed with ground nuts and dried bits of fruit like theirs were.

  “Well, it’s no use arguing with you about it,” he said. “But I won’t let the rabbit go to waste, either. Stew or roasted?” Her answer would determine how early they stopped for the night, stew taking quite a bit longer.

  “If I never eat more stew, it’ll be too soon. Definitely roasted. Maybe we can use a couple of our potatoes for a hash.”

  Since they’d been on the road, Jaz and he both had learned to co
ok much better over a small fire and had definitely gotten more creative. You had to when your supplies only included a cast iron frying pan and a cast iron Dutch oven for cooking.

  “Very well,” Choony said.

  The wagon rolled to a stop and Jaz walked out to get the rabbit. She spent a few minutes skinning and gutting it—the nearly freezing temperature would keep it fresh until they stopped to cook it. She used dirt to clean the bunny gore off her hands, then wiped her hands on her pants.

  Jaz climbed back onto the wagon, and a moment later Choony flicked the reins to get the wagon moving again. “So where do you want to head this time?” he asked.

  “We should totally head south. Like, skip the Gap entirely. I want to see if there’s anyone alive in the Georgetown area. If not, we can head north again, go through the Gap before checking out that area between Highway 30 and Highway 322. What do you think?”

  “I think that takes us about two miles farther from the Gap than I want to get. What’s got you so fearless today?”

  Jaz smirked. “Not fearless. Just, I know you won’t let anything happen to me. You’ll totally jump in front of a bullet, and then I can run away.”

  Of course she’d never do that, Choony knew. Jaz joked about it precisely because she’d never do it, he had realized early on. It was one of the many things he loved about her. That thought startled him. He had already decided he was in love with Jaz, but every time the thought crossed his mind it still was jolting.

  “One-Hundred Percent, as the kids used to say,” Choony said. “I’m a ‘Gee’ like that.”

  Jaz giggled for a second before catching herself. “You’re, like, the farthest thing from it. It’s what I like about you, yo.” She added that last ‘yo’ with emphasis, making fun of him even more.