Dark New World (Book 1): Dark New World

by Henry G. Foster

  The kids said in unison, “Accomplish the mission, aye aye, grandma.”

  It might have been only half-hearted, but at least Mandy had them all on the same page, focused on something other than the growling pit of hunger in their bellies. It was a start. It was something. Mandy nodded, dismissing them.

  But before the kids got going, in the distance, Mandy felt as much as heard a series of deep “whump, whump, whump” noises. Some part of her recognized they were explosions. Seconds later, she heard the faint noise of jet engines, far away or high above. All three looked at each other, eyes wide. Mandy felt hunger give way to fear, and she barely heard Brianna begin to cry again. Perhaps they’d need that tent sooner than she’d thought.

  * * *

  Tyrel Alexander slowly woke to the sound of his stomach growling. His head felt as if a hammer was keeping a steady beat on his skull, and the fading light coming through the curtained windows of his hotel room was a blinding laser of pain. “Goddamn hangover,” he muttered as he got to his feet, struggling to stay balanced. He hated this part of drinking. Waking up still drunk without the buzz, but with all the physical effects… Well, it sucked. A lot.

  He staggered to the bathroom and relieved himself, then flushed the toilet. He turned to the sink and grabbed the cheap plastic cup next to it, and tore off the wrapper. He put the cup under the faucet, but turning the handle, nothing came out. His mouth was full of cotton and his tongue felt about two sizes two big. Almost desperately, he turned the shower on. Again, no water came out. “What the hell?”

  He started to swing his fist at the mirror in frustration, but stopped short. He’d have to pay for it if he broke it. So he stood still for a long moment, slowly counting to ten. His mind started working through the boozy fog. Okay, if the power went out, then there’d be nothing to pump water, right? But the hotel had to have water tanks on the roof. Could they be dry already? No way, he thought. But then another thought struck him. What day was it? Could he have been blind drunk longer than he’d thought?

  A sudden bout of nausea had him vomiting in the toilet for several minutes. Shaking and ashen, he stood and wiped the dribbles off his mouth and chin with his sleeve, then flushed. Again, nothing happened. He realized the tank must not have refilled. Ugh, no running water.

  Ty managed to get his shoes on, screw the socks, and wobbled his way to the door. Vending machines were downstairs... He came out of his room, made his way to the stairwell, and headed to the first floor. Emerging, he saw that the lobby was dark, and there were no people anywhere he could see. “What the hell?” he said once again as his mind fought to make sense of what he saw.

  Then he looked around more carefully. He still found no people, and all the vending machines were overturned and broken open. The little snack shelves were bare. Same with the soda machine.

  A voice behind him said, “Nothing in those, friend.”

  Ty spun around by reflex, then wobbled in place trying to stay upright as the room continued to spin long after he had stopped turning. He fought down another bout of nausea, then squinted to see who had spoken. Before him stood two men and a woman, all wearing backpacks.

  One of the men, the shorter one, had a shotgun in one hand with the barrel resting on his shoulder. “You look like shit,” he commented.

  “Yeah,” croaked Ty, his dry throat protesting against the effort, “I been on a bender since the lights went out. Got any water? I’m dying for a drink of something besides whisky.”

  The woman laughed. “We sure do. Lots of water. What do you have to trade?” As she said that, she unslung her backpack and pulled out a plastic water bottle.

  “Trade? Nothing, I guess. But I need some water.” He paused and looked at the three others, but they were making no move to hand over the water bottle. “Well? Give me some water, man. I’m thirsty.”

  “No way,” said the woman. “You either trade, or go screw yourself.” She put the bottle back in her pack and slung it over one shoulder.

  An ember of alcohol-inspired anger flared up within him. Still not thinking clearly, he knew only that he needed that water. His body cried out for it, and vaguely Ty knew that he really did need it, and right now. “Dammit, give me the water,” he cursed at them, clenching his fists. Without realizing it, he took a step towards them. The situation changed dramatically in a heartbeat, then.

  The taller man pulled a blade, and Ty saw that it was a survival-style knife. Like what Rambo might use, maybe, he thought. This guy was freakin’ fruit loops if he thought pulling a knife would scare ol’ Tyrel. Who would stab someone over a bottle of water, anyway? His anger grew. Words slightly slurred, he said, “Put that away and give me some water, or I’ma beat it outta you.”

  The shorter man laughed, and swung the barrel of the shotgun down to point at Ty. “No way, coz. Get out or get down, you feel me?”

  Ty stopped short. “You want to shoot a man over water? What the hell is the matter with you people? Give me a bottle and just go get more, you assholes,” he shouted.

  “Ain’t no more, fool,” said the larger man.

  Ty saw the woman pull out a pistol, though she didn’t aim it at him, yet. Then it reached through the fuzz in his brain that something truly terrible had to have happened for there to be no more food or water. Something big enough to keep the trucks from just bringing more, like they always did. And if the trucks weren’t coming, then help wasn’t on its way. Cass had been right to leave while she could. The thought was bitter, and panic rose inside him.

  “You selfish bastards,” he yelled, now panicked beyond reason. “You give me some damn water. I need it, and you can either kill me with those guns or you can kill me by walking away. Well, I’m not letting you just walk away. What kind of monsters are you?”

  Tyrel clenched his fists and darted towards them. But, still drunk, his foot caught on the corner of a lobby couch and he tumbled head-first into the glass table, shattering it. He felt the glass slicing him along his face, neck, arms... The pain shot through him and drove away the fog of booze. He was going to bleed out if he didn’t get help, he realized.

  “Shit! Call 911. Someone do something,” he cried out at the other three as he slowly stood. He could feel the warmth of blood seeping into his clothes, and hear its patter-patter as it dripped onto the floor.

  The other three had looks of surprise on their faces, with the woman’s mouth agape. She snapped her mouth shut and shook her head as though clearing a bad nightmare, then looked away from Ty. She stepped behind the shorter man, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Seriously,” Ty said, now begging. “Someone help me!”

  The larger man approached him, but stayed out of lunging distance. “Sorry, coz. Nothing anyone can do for you now. Look.”

  Tyrel looked down and saw a large chunk of glass protruding from his stomach, high and to the left. “But, you can fix it, right? Please, you gotta try. You can’t leave me like this, I’ll die.”

  The man looked away, briefly, and said, “You gonna die now anyhow, man, slow and painful. That what you want?”

  Tyrel couldn’t understand. Why weren’t they helping him? Why wouldn’t they call 911, or get a towel, or something? Anything. “Hell no, I don’t want to die like this. So Goddammit, do something.”

  Tyrel watched the other man intently, adrenaline focusing his view until that was all he could see. And the other man nodded. Hallelujah, at last they were going to do something to help him. Bastards. But the tall man didn’t move. What the crap was this? “Well? Do it,” he screamed.

  The man looked Ty in the eyes. “I really am sorry,” he said.

  With one swift motion Ty watched as the pistol came up. He saw right down the barrel. He began to protest, to open his mouth to scream, but before he could there was a bright flash, and a loud bang.

  And then only darkness.

  * * *

  Ethan Mitchel gripped the HAM radio mic so tightly that his knuckles were white. “Dark Ryder to Watcher
One, say again, please.”

  The speaker crackled. “I said, a guy in Philly reports that people are... Eating one another. He’s heard the story from two others, so might be true.”

  “Holy Batshit, fatman,” Ethan muttered. It was his favorite intentional misquote, though he could never remember where he’d heard it first. Clicking the mic, he said, “So it has really come to that. You safe where you’re holed up, Watcher?”

  “Yeah, thanks for asking, Ryder. I’m well-stocked and well-protected. You?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Watcher. I’ll be fine.”

  “So, I heard the same thing about D.C. and Charlotte. Any confirmation, there?”

  “News to me. But you know, with no food network it’s going to be the same everywhere.”

  “Stay low and stay hid, Dark Ryder.”

  “Right. Oh, and this just in: I guess the civilians in New York are fighting back against the ‘vaders. Word has it the gangs are the only sorta-kinda government, and they’re organizing resistance.”

  “Well, that is good news. I’ve heard it’s the same in Orlando, but they got the OpFor, or the bad guys I mean, hemmed up. The invaders control just about everything, but only when they got a squad of men on site. Otherwise, it’s open season on ‘em. But they’re mowing down civilians in retribution.”

  Ethan frowned, but really, how could it be otherwise? And every person they executed was one less mouth fighting for what little food remained. He felt dirty for thinking that.

  A deep voice came over the radio, and Ethan recognized his old “friend”, PinkToes’ voice. “Dark Ryder, hey, more info. I just got 3-way confirmation that outside the cities, the Army is rounding up supplies from people. Requisitioning it. And if they resist, people are getting shot for hoarding under this Martial Law rule.”

  “Shit,” replied Ethan, not worried about FCC rules anymore. “If you go topside, keep low, PinkToes.”

  “Yeah, you too. I’m out, talk to you later. Keep your ears on.”

  * * *

  Ethan sat at a desk staring at the huge wall map. It was covered in green pins where he’d heard rumors of US troop activity, and it was pretty clear they were almost all on path to New York City. Maybe Uncle Sam hoped to make the fight so costly that the enemy would give up. Yeah, right... Whoever was invading, they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. Rumors still floated around that it was the Koreans, or the Chinese, or the Iranians, or the Russians, but no one could say for sure. None of his radiohead contacts had seen, let alone captured, an enemy soldier to question, so for now it remained a favorite topic of conjecture on the HAM circuit.

  Crap, with people eating other people out there, and the government looting its own citizens to try to keep throwing troops at New York, it seemed silly to worry about who was responsible. Of course, if Uncle Sam found out who had done this to us, they’d probably launch nukes and that would be bad for everyone about a half hour later, when the enemy’s answer came back. Assuming the US still could launch, but he had to imagine they could. Shielded ICBMs and submarines didn’t care about EMPs.

  For hours, Ethan paced his bunker waiting for the radio to crackle. Boredom and fear were a bad combo, he thought, and eventually he decided he had to stretch his legs. It became an overwhelming obsession, and he fought it for an hour before slapping on his holstered pistol. He climbed up the steel ladder at the north end of the bunker, up and up, eventually coming to a thick metal hatch with a circular handle on each side. He glanced at monitors mounted on the walls all around the door above his head, but they showed no movement, no thermal activity.

  Ethan spun the inside handle and slowly opened the hatch above him, revealing the low light of dusk. He crawled out of the tube, then gripped the fake rock that covered the outside of the door and swung it closed. He looked around to make sure no one was present, and moved out cautiously. He was only up here for a walk, he reminded himself, just so he wouldn’t go batshit crazy down there. Thank God he wasn’t claustrophobic, he told himself.

  The hatch was in the back half of the nearly 3/4-acre property his small house sat on, and the bunker had been put in first. After the bunker went in, he’d let the property sit vacant for a year before putting the small 2-bedroom home on it; long enough for the neighbors to forget the previous unusual construction. He’d told the neighbors he bought the property from a crazy old guy who never got around to building the basement he’d wanted, and they believed him.

  Then Ethan made sure no one really was in his small house, before he went inside. All was as it had been, except the refrigerator and all the cabinet and pantry doors were open. Everything edible was gone, of course. He walked to the bay window in his living room, and sat on an ottoman. He just looked, and looked. All was silent. Nothing moved, save a couple of cats that had been wily enough to escape human attention. The town was dead, without a shot being fired by the enemy. As he watched the sun set over the neighborhood, Ethan’s thoughts were sad and somber.

  “The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender, or submission,” he muttered. With heart aching, he added, “God help us all.”

  - 18 -

  2100 HOURS - ZERO DAY +3

  AS THE SUN finished setting, Frank sat with the other adults around the fire, as they did every night after the kids had gone to bed inside the tents, but no one seemed much into talking. Michael insisted they couldn’t vary from routine, not with unknown gunmen possibly watching every move, so they sat together as usual.

  Of them all, Jaz seemed the most frightened. Frank thought about how difficult it must be for the young woman to finally make some sort of stand. She’d shared a bit of her past, including what happened with the bastards who sent her into their camp. Frank knew she’d had to face down some mighty powerful demons to open up to his people like that. Nor could he blame her for taking that woman’s backpack, whoever she’d been. Jaz was alone with nowhere to go. The woman at least had more food and real shelter close by. But Jaz was sure enough one weird little bundle of self-sufficiency and total, abject passive acceptance... Too young, really, to know herself or where she would draw her personal lines.

  “Why do you think they sent Jaz in here,” Michael asked, breaking into Frank’s thoughts. “I mean, if it had been me I would have just waited until right before dawn to creep in, when I knew everyone would be sawing logs. Never mind sending Jaz in here. That only introduced a wildcard.”

  Frank knew Michael was thinking things through aloud, not asking a real question. Hell, Michael could answer that question better than anyone else in camp—he was the only one who had served. Frank had heard some stories of the things he’d done in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Nonetheless, Frank offered a suggestion. “Maybe they’re just testing her. Seeing if she’s really one of them. I gather she was pretty convincing,” he said delicately. “I’d want to know, if it was me.”

  Jasmine stared at the fire without replying.

  Michael shrugged. “Maybe. I have to remember they likely don’t have training, so that could well be. More likely from my point of view would be that she’s the recon, gathering intel. What guns are here, who’s in what tent, what would be the best stuff to take if they wanted to hit and run instead of hanging around to do inventory.”

  That seemed to get Jaz’s attention. She finally raised her gaze from the fire and shook her head, as though coming out of a dream. Or a nightmare. “Maybe, yeah. They did ask me to look for things that are useful and easy to carry, especially guns and ammo.”

  Frank didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the conversation, which wandered onto other subjects. He sat silently, his head on the coming danger, on praying for his family that God might see them all through, and wondering how his own personal lines might change after tonight. But then, Frank was always the quiet one of the bunch.

  * * *

  Jaz sat by the fire, slowly adding logs to build it
up. She was tense and alert, and she had no problem admitting to herself that she’d gone way beyond terrified. An hour ago Frank and Amber had play-acted an argument just outside of camp, complete with lots of pointing at Jaz, and then both had stormed into their respective tents. Jaz knew that was just for the benefit of anyone watching them, a distraction that allowed Michael to fade away. She didn’t know where he was now, and hadn’t seen or heard him leaving. Somewhere out there was Michael with a high-powered deer rifle, watching over them all. Frank and his wife were in one tent; Jed, Amber and Tiffany were in the other. They had split the kids between the two. All was as ready as it could be, she thought as she fed another small log to the fire.

  Jaz heard the faint crack of a branch or twig breaking from somewhere behind her. She turned to look, but could see nothing outside the ring of light from the fire. She sat like that for a minute, listening, but heard nothing else and turned back to the fire. She forced herself to act calm, but she had a knot of fear in her gut so strong that she felt like throwing up.

  When a voice whispered behind her, she nearly jumped to her feet. “You done good, Jaz,” said the man behind her. “Once we finish ‘em off, you’ll point out the stuff we need to take.”

  Jaz nodded curtly, hardly daring to move.

  Her former captors moved in pairs to the tents; at each entry, one man drew a knife while the other readied his gun. One man then held out a finger, then two, then a third. After that, everything happened so fast she hardly knew it had started before it was done.

  At each tent, the man with the knife slipped through the doorway. Two shots rang out on top of each other, and someone screamed. A half-second later, the man with the gun outside Frank’s tent crumpled, his head seeming to explode. The other gunman turned, and then he collapsed just as the report from the first shot reached Jaz’s ears. A moment later the crack of the second shot reached her. Somewhere out there, Michael blew a whistle, its shrill note startling a very wound-up Jaz.