Cassy shifted the sling that held up her wounded arm and stepped toward them. So no one else could hear her, she said in a near-whisper, “We can’t go south of I-76, either. There are more towns along the south side of 76, and there’s a group of whack-job armed farmers somewhere down there too. I don’t exactly know where. Could be I ran across their main encampment when they shot at me, but we can’t take the chance that I only stumbled into a temporary camp. They were bad dudes, shooting first and asking questions never. I was lucky I got away, and I’m pretty damn sure they were still tracking me when the van blew up next to me, and Michael saved my life.”
Michael nodded, acknowledging her and her information. “Well then, we have to dogleg north a bit and try to thread the needle—there is a thin strip of trees running between an auto body shop and the next house down. With luck, the trees won’t be guarded. Everyone, check your weapons and make sure you’re on single-fire. I’ll double check each rifle to make sure we’re squared away. Fire discipline isn’t something I can teach in five minutes, but this will make sure you don’t burn through ammo. And don’t shoot unless I yell for covering fire, or fighting already started, and you have a real clear shot.”
He paused for a sip of the water Frank offered him, then continued: “We will move out at dusk. That’s enough light for us to see where we are going, but will make it harder for them to notice us.”
Frank clenched his jaw. The odds of a small, in-town strip of woods being unguarded, when Michael had already seen people in the buildings to either side, were pretty small, dammit. He had to make sure everyone was on high alert when they went through. Maybe he should tell his clan to shoot anything that moved? No, that wasn’t what the clan was about. But they’d sure as hell better draw down on anything that moved and looked armed. And of course, Michael would have to be up front, catching any surprise heat.
Sometime soon he’d have to set Michael up to mentor at least one other person in the skills and tactics that he’d picked up in the Middle East, but for now, Michael had to make announcements about how to proceed. And goddamn if he knew why the scout had suddenly stepped into a leadership role with these misfits—his friends and family, as far as you could get from military discipline. As long as they were in a nearly combat environment that was fine, but Frank knew that as soon as they were safe, Michael would step back again, and leadership would fall on him once again. Cassy better heal quick, he decided, so he could drop this dog turd of a job onto her and hope she saw it as peaches and ice cream.
* * *
Cassy accepted Frank’s plan without comment. She doubted she could come up with a better one. It grated that he put her in charge of herding the children, but with her arm in a sling, she could only fire her pistol. The M4 over her left shoulder, which Ethan had passed to her from his stockpile, was just a decoration until she healed up enough to use it.
Hell, she was just happy to be able to keep up with the group, given the severity of her wounds. The metal shard that impaled her right shoulder at the joint had done some serious soft tissue damage, and no one could say how fully it would heal. For now, it was stable, and she had plenty of Percocet and antibiotics from Ethan’s medical supplies. Yippee!
She saw her mother edge toward her as they finished preparing to move out. “Hey Mom,” Cassy said. “What’s up?”
Grandma Mandy, as the kids called her, smiled. “How are you holding up, honey? The kids and I worry, you know.”
“C’mon, Mom. I’m fine. It hurts, but I made it this far. I won’t crap out on you guys. But you knew that already. What do you really want?”
“Fine, sweetie. The kids and I want to know if you’ll join us in a prayer before we get walking again. From what I overheard, the next little bit of our journey could be rough, and they need reassurance. The Lord will provide if they only ask Him.”
Cassy fought an urge to roll her eyes and managed to keep her reaction in check. Praying to God would not help them, she figured, but it might help her kids. And anyway, it couldn’t hurt to throw a word upstairs to the Big Guy. “Okay, Mom. We can use all the help we can get, right? I’m in.”
Mandy smiled and led her to the kids. They all grabbed hands and stood in a circle as Mandy led the prayer. Cassy couldn’t help but notice how her mom seemed somehow stronger, more potent, while she prayed. That was probably just a trick of her imagination.
Just as importantly, Cassy noted that her thirteen-year-old daughter, Brianna, and her seven-year-old son, Aidan, seemed to stand straighter, more confidently, as they prayed with Mandy. Cassy herself was conflicted about the idea of God, but Grandma Mandy had zero doubts. That stark confidence seemed almost to permeate the kids, now; where before they had been beaten, terrified, constantly worried about losing their mom or their grandma, they transformed into confident, hopeful people, and Cassy grinned at the sight.
Lost in her thoughts, she almost missed the end of the prayer and hastily replied, “Amen” with her kids. And it was time to move out.
- 3 -
1400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +6
CAPT. TAGGART MOVED from cover to cover with Eagan behind him. Two soldiers they’d picked up earlier followed behind Eagan. They’d all ditched their uniforms and were now dressed like normal civilians, only carrying pistols and a few grenades. Being out of uniform without rifles made Taggart uneasy, but dammit, uniforms were not the right garb for running and gunning “licks,” guerrilla-style.
Taggart stopped at the corner of an older brick building. He recognized a row of gouges in the brickwork as bullet holes. Four evenly-spaced, dry blood stains showed that it was probably an execution. The enemy was shooting anyone too old or too young to work, or who had disabilities. Fuck, the bastards were mowing down able-bodied adults, too, when they rounded up more than they needed. The word was that they were breaching random buildings and just taking, however, many people they needed for one task or another. Then they simply killed whoever was left. Slave labor beat dying, Taggart figured, but not by much.
The sound of an engine reached him. When he motioned his three soldiers to take cover, they hid behind a dumpster. Ten seconds later, a Jeep-like vehicle Taggart didn’t recognize rolled by with four enemy soldiers within, their rifles pointed in all directions, faces masked with black shemaghs. Taggart fought the urge to open fire on it. The vehicle was not part of their orders, and opening fire recklessly would only draw more of the enemy to this area—the last thing he wanted right now. This mission wasn’t a sweep-and-clear. They were going to retrieve a cache of ammunition and medical supplies hidden in an apartment building that was one of the points of interest they’d learned of from their mysterious 20s contact. The word was, they’d hidden it before the lights went out, and that made Taggart briefly wonder what they’d known ahead of time—and who they really were.
Once the enemy vehicle had passed and turned a corner, Taggart breathed easier and motioned his soldiers to move out. All over the city of New York, similar scenes were playing out with his other thirty or so soldiers, who now led about as many civilian resistance fighters as well as troops. Taggart had the only unit with no civilians, but his was also the day’s most important mission. The other missions were really hit-and-run raids meant to draw down enemy strength and improve the odds that Taggart’s group would succeed.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the building, a four-story brick apartment building. The once-secure entry door hung open on a single hinge, and the thick metal door bulged inward at the center. Someone had battered it down. Taggart peered into the building using a mirror to avoid exposing himself to anyone inside. The small mirror would hopefully not alert any occupants.
He need not have worried since nothing moved inside except the flies buzzing around two bloated bodies by the mailboxes in the foyer. He didn’t have time to worry about bodies or about the stench of rot and sewage that permeated the building.
“The mission objective is in unit #309, third floor, east hallway,” Taggart said.
“Unknown if it’s occupied. Advance by pairs. Noise discipline, soldiers. That includes you, Eagan, you little shit.”
Eagan grinned, and the other two soldiers moved out. They had their pistols drawn and went up the stairs with a steady four feet of separation. The lead soldier kept his pistol aimed up the next flight of stairs, almost walking backwards to do so. As they moved up toward the second landing, Taggart and Eagan moved into position behind them on the landing they had just vacated. And so it went, flight by flight, until they reached the third floor. The lead soldier motioned that both halls were clear, then one of the pairs covered the west hallway and the other, the stairs as Taggart and Eagan flanked the east hallway.
Taggart took three deep breaths despite the stench, then he and Eagan moved down the east hallway with their backs to either wall. Fortunately, all doors in the hallway were closed. And with no need to “slice the pie” and edge across the field of view of anyone inside, hoping to see them before they saw Taggart and Eagan, progress here was faster and less dangerous than in the stairwell. If anyone popped out, he would hear the door open and have a half-second to react, knowing exactly where they were before they could know where he was.
Unit 309 was the last apartment down the long hallway. Taggart and Eagan flanked it, and Taggart steeled himself for entry.
Goddamn, entry was his absolute least favorite thing in the world. Worse than the chlamydia he got in Germany that one time. He and Eagan had practiced entries for a few minutes before leaving on this mission, which showed Taggart that Eagan knew what he was doing so he wasn’t worried about his partner screwing up. But room entry got soldiers killed if the enemy was on the other side unless everything went just right.
“Showtime, Eagan,” Taggart whispered with a grin, pretending an eagerness he sure didn’t feel. The next three seconds would mean life or death if anyone was inside. Those three seconds always felt like an eternity to Taggart, when the adrenaline was pumping, and bullets flew.
Eagan moved away from the wall, stood in front of the door, finger-counted to three and then, without hesitation, kicked with all his might at a spot just to the inside of the door handle. The door flew open amid a shower of splinters from the door frame. Taggart ducked inside and to the right, the open door at his back; Eagan was right on his heels and rushed in to cover the other direction.
Taggart saw two soldiers sitting at the table in the apartment’s breakfast nook. Their rifles leaned against the wall nearby, and their faces showed dumbfounded shock at the abrupt interruption. They died with those expressions on their faces when Taggart fired two rapid shots, double-tapping one, and then repeating that for the other. It all happened before the thought of firing crossed his mind. Years of experience had burned the reaction into his muscle memory. Four rounds down, he ticked off in his mind without a thought for the men he had just killed. Guilt never came out until dreams came at night, but these two would barely be a drop in that bucket.
Behind him, Taggart heard three shots from two weapons and spun around. Eagan had double-tapped a third soldier, who in turn had fired his rifle at the ceiling when his muscles jerked in shock and surprise. All three soldiers inside were now down.
Without another word, Taggart and Eagan swept the rest of the apartment room by room, closet by closet. They found no more soldiers, but they did find a man dead in the bathtub. They also found an unconscious woman bound and gagged in one corner, her cute yoga pants and “Talk Shit, Get Hit” halter top shredded and hanging loosely down.
Taggart clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt his teeth, eyes narrowed. “Eagan, cut this woman’s bonds, and leave your MRE next to her.”
Eagan nodded and did so. “Think she’ll live?” he asked with a voice that sounded carefully flat and emotionless.
After a couple seconds of silence that spoke volumes, Taggart finally said, “Crowbar. The wall between the bathroom and the living room. Sense of urgency, Private.”
Eagan made short work of the wall, and two PVC tubes fell out, each about two feet long and capped on both ends. “What’s in them, Captain?”
“Mr. Black—what a joke he is—didn’t say. He just said it was vital. Well, we have the cache.”
Eagan paused and then said, “Sir, I request permission to bring the civilian with us.”
Taggart frowned. “Negative, soldier. That could compromise our mission, and is outside our operational parameters. Now secure the package,” he barked back. Eyes closed, the woman made no sound. Taggart gathered the dead soldiers’ rifles. Any responding enemy soldiers would mow down anyone they saw in the area anyway, so secrecy was irrelevant, and the resistance could use the arms.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here, Eagan, before those bastards can send more soldiers at us.” And before he had to smell one more motherfucking second of that death-filled apartment building.
* * *
2030 HOURS - ZERO DAY +6
Cassy moved as quickly as her wounded and bound shoulder would allow. Thank God the kids were smaller and also moved slower, so they set the pace for the whole “clan.” Frank was a smart cookie for coming up with the clan idea since it gave the group some sort of “official” unity, a group identity that Cassy figured would probably be vital in the coming days and months.
She glanced around at the others. At the head of the group, Michael moved like a ghost, passing quickly through the trees and underbrush. He would stop and do his recon thing as the group caught up before moving ahead again. Michael was an honest-to-god Rambo as far as she was concerned. He moved the group in odd directions, but Cassy soon realized their path always took advantage of cover, or avoided walking along the crest of a hill, or skirted various hazards. Cassy prided herself on the preparedness skills she’d spent years developing, but Michael showed her on a daily basis just how limited her skills actually were when it came to defending the group.
Yes indeed, she really wished now that she’d taken more combat-focused classes. She only had some basic personal training from other preppers she knew. Well, Michael might be able to shore up her weak spots—she’d have to watch him closely, learn from him, maybe even ask him to mentor her. And he would never say no to that because he had to see that having two trained warriors and scouts was better than having just one.
To her left, Jaz and Jed walked together closely enough that she couldn’t hear their quiet conversation. Michael’s wife Tiffany trailed behind them a bit, her focus on the trees around them, looking for any dangers they might conceal.
To her right, Ethan and Amber were a mirror image of Jaz and Jed, walking together. Unlike Jaz, Amber stayed alert as she walked, but Cassy could see that she and Ethan had their own quiet conversation going. Behind them, Mary and Tiffany walked in parallel a bit behind the cluster of children and Cassy.
Cassy wasn’t sure what she thought of having Tiffany and Mary bring up the rear, so to speak, but the Jaz/Jed, Amber/Ethan situation sure as hell could turn into a total clusterfuck. Jaz was gorgeous, and Jed seemed to always find reasons to be near her, smiling and laughing. Amber, in turn, seemed to hover around Ethan, ostensibly to question him on a variety of survival and preparedness topics, but no one could miss how close they stood when they talked, or how often Amber laughed at Ethan’s nerdy little jokes.
Worse, when Amber wasn’t off to the side chatting with Ethan, she was watching Jaz and Jed like a hawk. Any time Jaz said anything, Amber would roll her eyes, or cluck, or suck her teeth. There was tension there. Yep, a total clusterfuck was coming if that “love square” got more serious. Regardless of Amber’s growing friendship with Ethan, a sizzling animosity threatened any peace between Amber and Jaz. Well, mostly that was Amber since Jaz seemed oblivious. The poor girl was just used to men paying attention to her and women not liking her. It must be just so much background noise to the beautiful young woman by now.
Cassy realized she was gritting her teeth and turned her attention back to the task of guarding and guiding the young ones. This was no time
to start pointing out elephants in the room. But later, after they all got to her farm? That would be a different matter. How to discreetly deal with the problem? Maybe she should talk to Frank about it. He was their reluctant leader, and plenty smart. He had a weird way of bringing everyone together and hashing out problems without starting wars.
When they got to the farm, Cassy felt certain, Frank would not resent Cassy for taking charge of the farm stuff. His leadership would be essential to getting everyone moving together on the many tasks they would face at the homestead if they wanted to get production up in the coming spring. More mouths meant more planting, more tending, more everything.
Then Cassy nearly ran into her son, Aidan, when he stopped abruptly. A quick scan of the others showed they had all stopped. Michael, up ahead, had his fist in the air. It was the signal for “stop whatever you’re doing, be quiet and stay still,” Michael had explained, along with a couple other hand signals. Cassy had almost missed it by wandering in her thoughts.
She watched now as Michael crouched low behind some scrub brush. She was certain it couldn’t hide a person, yet somehow their scout managed to get smaller than she thought possible. He sat stone-still for several minutes and the kids got fidgety, but they stayed silent. The adults had their rifles at the low-ready, alternating between scanning their surroundings and looking to Michael for instructions. Then Michael slinked backwards away from his concealment, moving toward the group.
Once there, he briefly and quietly spoke to Frank, then used one of the other hand signals he’d taught them, the one for “gather around” or Rally, as Michael called it. The clan quietly gathered around Michael, and he nodded at each in turn, apparently approving.
“Okay, clan, here’s what’s up,” Michael said almost in a whisper. “Ahead is about two hundred yards of open ground, running between an occupied auto body shop on the left and a large house on the right that I think is also occupied. Our task is to get across that open terrain quickly and silently. We’ll stay low, crouching as we go. Cassy, you’re injured. Can you run bent over without killing yourself or crying out in pain?”
Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus Page 2