Dark New World (Book 1): Dark New World

by Henry G. Foster

  Frank and the others in camp emerged from the tents, dragging bodies out. Frank looked pale even in the dim light of the fire, and the kids cried loudly. As Jaz sat on her log bench, still so frozen in fear her stomach churned, Jed turned to face her and smiled. Blood, not his own, had splattered over Jed’s face, and a bit of what looked to be skull fragment stuck out from within his short beard.

  Jasmine leaned over and puked.

  - 19 -

  0600 HOURS - ZERO DAY +4

  CASSY AWOKE EARLY to the sounds of birds chirping. Her first thought was that she should already be with her kids, quickly followed by a flood of anger at the delays. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, picked up a rock and threw it at one of the damn birds. She missed it completely. Yes, it would be one of those days, she thought, and climbed out of her makeshift “bed”. But then she stopped, and took a deep breath. She would reach her mother’s place that evening if she could get through the little towns about five miles north along Highway 30.

  She’d come as far as something called the “Kirkwood Preserve” before making camp the night before, but had not yet entered it. In the light of morning she saw that it was a vast open park, with only a tree or two here and there for cover. The rest was completely exposed. Before doing anything else, she nibbled on an MRE the poor soldiers had given her and then gathered up her things.

  Some of the terrain was quite steep, at least on the north end of the preserve where she’d made camp. To get a better view, she walked up a hill. At the top, she let out a low whistle. The view was gorgeous, alright, but the preserve was curiously devoid of anything but scattered trees. The dense woods she had camped in ended abruptly at a fence line.

  Some preserve, she smirked. Preserving what, grass? But she was glad she had decided to camp outside of it, as she would not have found much cover from the wind and cold there. Her tiny fire would have been seen for a great distance, despite using a Dakota Fire Hole—a nearly smokeless fire. It was a trick she’d learned from one of her many books, digging a small tunnel and feeding sticks in one end so the fire would jet through to emerge out the other. Sort of like a prehistorical rocket stove, she laughed when she first realized how it worked. As her mom had said so often, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

  A small tuft of dirt disappeared only feet from her, and she stared at the spot trying to make sense of it. A moment later she heard the report of a gunshot. Cassy dropped to her belly and slid back down the hill a couple feet. As she did so, her mind raced. The shot wasn’t loud enough to be close, nor faint enough to be distant. In a way, that only put her in more danger because she couldn’t do much with her little pistol beyond about 30 yards, yet they would be close enough to see anything she did. It also meant whoever had fired that shot used a rifle, and that was just bad news for her.

  Cassy struggled to calm down, and then forced herself to peek over the crest to see where the threat was, though her fear told her to slide down the hill and run into the woods. No, they had seen her and must still be a ways away. It was more important to see what she was up against, she decided. Fighting down her fear, she crawled back up to the crest of the hill to peer over.

  What she saw made her blood run cold. Three people on horseback, armed with rifles, rode in her direction hell-bent for leather. With those rifles, if they caught her in the open, she was done for. Her panic took over and, frantic, she slid down the hill, then sprinted toward the woods. 10 yards. 5 yards. Just as she passed through the sharp edge of the tree line, another shot rang out and a bullet struck a tree only a foot to her right.

  Cassy kept running, legs pumping and lungs beginning to burn. Her only hope, she knew, was to lose them as they tried to follow her into the woods, at least long enough to find a place to hide. If they rode in after her they must slow down, and if they dismounted it gave her precious time.

  As Cassy ran deeper into the woody cover, she heard the people behind her shouting, but couldn’t hear the words over the beating hooves of the horses. But then the hoof beats vanished, and she rejoiced when she realized they must have dismounted. She had a head start, and fear on her side... Surely they could never catch her now.

  Cassy continued running for what seemed an hour, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. When she reached the limit of her endurance she found a tall tree where the soil had eroded to leave a woody cave beneath heavy, exposed roots. It was large enough to hide her, she saw, and, grabbing a new-fallen branch, she squirmed into the opening, scraping up soil with the branch to attempt a bit of camouflage. She didn’t have time for a proper job of it and hoped her pursuers would be too rushed to notice her. She was too exhausted to continue anyway, and cursed herself for not being in better shape before she needed to run from armed marauders.

  She pulled out her pistol, and prayed under her breath, “I will fear no evil...”

  * * *

  Peter Ixin cursed again. The woman had to be a spy from one of the towns to the east, along I-476. He felt bad for those people, or anyone in a suburb. As the hunger spread, the cities were emptying right into the ‘burbs, bringing looting and chaos in their wake.

  White Stag Farms had brokered something of a coalition in the more rural areas around the farm, the area between West Chester in the west and Upper Darby in the east. They traded from their stockpiles of food for hired guns and hired hands. Even so, with pressure from the hungry people coming from every direction, he had his hands full convincing would-be looters to find somewhere else to loot.

  These damn spies made that task near impossible, looking for weaknesses or a way through the homesteads and forests and into the agricultural heartland of White Stag’s controlled area. Small bands of riders like his own were tasked to seek out and find such spies, or warn of larger incursions incoming if and when those came. And they surely would come in force, once hunger outweighed risk.

  Peter wasn’t sure they could hold off the masses of people who must be on their way, but he’d be damned if he would give up his home, his friends, his neighbors. Not without a fight. He grew up right there near White Stag Farms, and he would die to protect it if necessary. Where else would he go, anyway? The shit was not just in Philadelphia. It was everywhere, all around them.

  And this bitch was screwing up his program. She’d almost stumbled into their backup supply camp in Kirkwood Preserve’s hilly terrain, and that just would not do. They’d run after the woman spy at full speed until he stopped hearing her crashing through the brush like a bull elephant. She was here, somewhere, hidden and possibly armed. He hoped not to lose another of his riders, this time, before they got the bitch.

  He motioned to the man on his left, then the woman on his right. Left fist straight out to his side; spread out. Then left fist pumped straight up and down; hurry the hell up. Both flashed him the OK signal and moved away from him and ahead. They made moderate pace through the woods in that formation. Peter moved them methodically in an impromptu grid search. It could take hours to search every nook and cranny, but by God he would find her, no matter what.

  * * *

  Cassy hid in her dirty tree-cave. About ten minutes in, she saw two of them pass by, spread well apart. One had passed quite closely and the other was to the south of her tree. She couldn’t flee west, which was right back into the wide open preserve that got her in this mess in the first place. East were her hunters. She could go north, perhaps, but didn’t know where the third hunter was. Likely, he was north of her... Very well, she would have to go south, away from her mother and her children. Dammit.

  She was about ready to slide her way out of her hidey-hole when she heard noises to the east. Of course the hunters would be coming back right through her area, she mused. Nothing could be easy. Moving as little as possible, she peeked around the foliage she hid behind, searching for the marauders who hunted her.

  There was one due east, a woman with a rifle who was far from quiet. To the north, she saw but did not hear the same man who had passed her before, g
oing the other way. He was well ahead of the woman by perhaps as much as 100 yards, and at least half that distance further north. No sign of the third marauder, she realized, and decided he must be a lot farther north of her. They must be going back and forth, which meant all she had to do was wait out the clumsy woman and then slide away to the south. She would be free, with her hunters none the wiser.

  The need to wait, with her heart thundering and her vision narrowed from adrenaline, was excruciating. Every fiber of her being wanted to run, get away, before the other woman stumbled onto her. She calmed her breathing as best she could, and repeated in her mind over and over that she was hidden, she would not be found, she would escape. She would see her family again.

  That did the trick, and slowly her heart rate slowed. Waiting became easier, and her thoughts wandered to scenes of her kids and other bits of a life well lived. Would her mother understand why it took Cassy so long to rescue them? Would she understand that the family’s journey to Cassy’s homestead would then be just as perilous as her journey so far?

  The crack of a twig just outside the shelter made her freeze. Thoughts of family were gone in an instant.

  * * *

  Peter looked and saw that, to the south, the new scout was well behind him. She looked alert, and had her rifle ready. She’d shown a bit of confusion when they first shifted grid north and then back to the west, but all in all she caught on quickly enough. She had to, he mused, because there weren’t enough supplies to waste on slackers. His report on her would be favorable to keeping her in the growing little commune around White Stag Farms.

  When he saw the girl freeze in place, he diverted his attention to her. She must have seen something, he realized, and quickly changed direction. As he tried to close the distance, he saw her aiming her rifle at a large bush. She had her eyes narrowed, trying to see something. Peter revised his opinion of her just a little.

  “Thought I heard something,” she whispered when Peter came close.

  Peter nodded once, raised his rifle, and fired a round into the bush. A raccoon scurried out from under the bush like hell itself was after it, and Peter chuckled. “Listen, recruit. If you’re sure none of your guys is behind that bush, when hunting a spy who might be armed and hiding in that bush... Well, feel free to waste a bullet rather than catching one. You can’t defend the White Stag Farms coalition if you’re dead, right?”

  “No, sir.” She frowned, disappointed in herself perhaps.

  Peter smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know we’re hard pressed by the city people. Those Havertown Militia scum can be tough. We need you. So again - shoot first. We need every scout, defender, and warden we have. We can replace a bullet, but we can’t replace you so easily. Got it?”

  Peter then moved away, using hand signals to motion the other scout back into position, and the three moved out again.

  * * *

  Cassy nearly wet herself when she heard the shot, even though she could see it wasn’t aimed at her. Paralyzed, she watched through the small gaps in camouflage as the silent-moving man laughed at the raccoon running for its life. He spoke with the woman briefly—and boy, wasn’t that a big bit of information she overheard!—then moved north to pass out of her field of view. The woman stayed where she was and put hands to knees, gathering herself. Cassy was grateful—she seemed inexperienced. Maybe a minute later, the woman moved on, trying to be quiet as she returned to her westward path.

  But then, as she passed close by Cassy’s hidey-hole, the woman stopped again. Cassy watched the woman listen intently, scanning her eyes side to side. The barrel of her rifle moved with her head, covering whatever she happened to be looking at. But after long seconds, she seemed satisfied nothing was amiss, and walked on.

  Cassy realized she’d been holding her breath since the woman stopped, and forced herself to take slow and steady breaths. Also, her arms were tired; she’d been holding the pistol forward in both hands, aiming at the woman. She allowed her arms to fall slowly.

  She heard the sound of fabric on branches; her hoodie sleeve had caught on some twigs among her camouflaging branches. Her eyes darted to the marauder, maybe a dozen paces away, just as the woman’s head—and rifle—swung towards the noise. Fuck getting shot, Cassy screamed in her head, panicking as the rifle barrel moved inexorably toward her.

  A shot rang out. The marauder’s head whipped back, blood spraying from the back of her head, and then she toppled over like a marionette with its strings cut.

  Part of Cassy’s mind noted that when people get shot, they didn’t go flying like in the movies. It was more like a light switch turning off.

  Then she remembered the other man, who couldn’t be more than 100 yards away, and leaped out of her hiding spot through the haphazard covering. Branches scratched at her face, her hands, her clothes, but they did not stop her. She dove for the woman’s rifle and brought it to her shoulder, aiming in the direction the man had gone.

  There! Just there. A movement in a bush by a tree. As she fired there was a metallic TING! and she saw the marauder fall over like a tree toppling. She realized she’d dropped her pistol, and wasted a second that seemed a lifetime to find it and tuck it back into its holster. Without thinking, then, she spun on her heels and ran. Southward she went, flying through the forest as quickly as her legs would take her. She’d hit her second wind while resting in the hollow of the tree, and felt as though she’d never run so fast.

  Seconds went by, then minutes. After twenty more minutes of running, she slowed to an easy jog, but kept going. There was no way in hell she was going to stop until her damn legs fell off, she swore, dodging to and fro as the endless trees passed by.

  * * *

  Peter blinked a couple times. Even in the faint light of the forest, his head throbbed. He reached to his forehead and his hand came away bloody. Still a bit in shock, his mind reeled to connect all the events, to make sense of what just happened, but at first it was just a jumbled mess. Sitting up, he saw another scout approaching at a run, rifle at the ready. Good boy, he thought, the soldier in him recognizing the muscle memory his training had given the young man.

  “Peter, are you hit, Sir?” the other scout said. He whipped off his backpack, intent on pulling out the first aid kit.

  Yeah, that’d help a gunshot wound to the noggin. “Stop. Breathe. Examine my skull. Am I shot? First things first, kid.”

  The young scout did as he was told, and after a second he moved Peter’s hair around, looking for a wound. “No, Sir. You have a cut to your skull above the hairline, Sir. What happened?”

  It was coming back to Peter, now. He’d heard a shot fired. It wasn’t one of his scouts, wasn’t a rifle report, so he’d turned to run toward the noise. He was about to careen around a bush when another shot had been fired. A rifle shot, that time. “The spy. She got hold of a rifle and fired at me, but it struck my weapon. I reckon it was my own barrel that gave me the cut. Go check on Amy while I get some pressure on this bitch,” he ordered.

  Gingerly, he took off his sweater. Then he folded it, and placed it to his wound with a grimace of pain. He staggered towards where the shot had been fired, and noted that his feet didn’t seem to work right. God dammit, a freakin’ concussion? There was no way he could pursue the spy, not in this condition.

  He stopped feeling sorry for himself when he came up to the young scout, and saw him standing over Amy’s body. Most of the back of her head was missing and her eyes would never see again, pretty as they had been. Peter let out a long, low growl of suppressed rage. “Kid, go get the horses, and grab whatever’s left of my rifle. We gotta get this young scout home, and make sure more scouts are sent out to look for this bitch.”

  The younger man ran off, but Peter didn’t move. He only stood over Amy’s corpse—he only barely knew her name—and swore he would avenge her death. She was defending his family as well as her own, his community, which she had become a part of. As soon as the vet stitched him up, he was damn sure going to
ride out again, looking for revenge.

  - 20 -

  1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +4

  FRANK SWEATED AS he dragged a body away from the camp. At least 100 yards, Michael had said. The ground was uneven, and the man was dead weight. Frank chuckled at the pun, wiping his brow, then put his back into the task again. Michael and Jed were nearby, struggling with their own loads. None of the men spoke, nor had anyone said much since the ambush. When the bodies were far enough away, in silence, they covered the bodies with leaves and fallen branches. It was the best the bastards would get, Michael had said, and Frank agreed wholeheartedly.

  As they walked back into camp, Frank saw that Tiffany, Amber, and his wife Mary were salvaging as much as they could, cleaning blood off coolers and cookware. He didn’t think they’d gone back into the tents yet—they’d refused since the ambush, and he couldn’t blame them. Who wanted to sleep in a slaughterhouse with brains and guts splattered everywhere?

  Frank saw that Jaz was still sitting where she had slept. He was worried about the girl; she hadn’t moved or said anything since the attack began. Poor kid, he thought. The beautiful young woman had probably never seen anything more graphic than a school yard fight. She was city-soft, and she’d have to toughen up right quick to survive in this new world, but she’d clearly had enough “toughening” for one day. He hoped there wouldn’t be more toughening any time soon.

  He took in the others in the party at a glance; they still functioned, which was a relief. Whenever they passed Jaz, they patted her head, or smiled encouragement if they caught her eye. The wives had stopped thinking of her as a gorgeous outsider endangering their marriages and had become doting maternal whirlwinds. Yep, Jaz was one of them now, alright. And Frank took care of his own, even if they weren’t family by blood. He owed this young woman for saving his family from probable death, or worse.