“So is this all we have left?” asked Taggart. “Me, Eagan, Black and Chongo, four Militia and six gangbangers?”
“Yes and no,” replied Black. “I was able to contact two of my other lieutenants, like Chongo here, and they’re in other backup safe houses nearby. Between them, they got six soldiers, eight of my gang, and five Militia guys. We all got guns, and the safe houses have ammo and food just like this one, yo.”
“So we have you and me, seventeen of your gang, seven soldiers, and nine Militia. Thirty-five people in total. How many did we lose?”
“I don’t know. Most of my crew know the hideouts, and they all got radios in ‘em. If any my boys survived, they’ll straggle in over the next few hours, hopefully with more of you soldiers and them Militia guys.”
Taggart nodded and said, “So, now that we’re not running for our lives, who the hell attacked us? They weren’t invading soldiers.”
Chongo shrugged. “Those were Spyder’s crew. He was small time before the ‘vaders came. The 20s warned us he had bitched out and gone traitor, working with the enemy, and that he took over all the turf around him. And everyone knows he was using slaves to build his rubble wall around his territory. It was a matter of time before he came after Angel’s turf.”
Black shot a withering look at Chongo, who looked down immediately.
Eagan didn’t notice the slip, apparently, and said, “Yeah, but he had rocket launchers and AKs. So, the enemy must have given him all that hardware and set ‘em loose on your ‘hood,’ Black.”
Black—or Angel—nodded. “He’s wanted my hood forever, but was too much of a bitch to take it. The invaders must have known something was going on in my hood with the Resistance, so they just encouraged Spyder to come take it. Spyder don’t give two shits about the invaders or the resistance, though—I figure he just wanted to spread his empire. He’ll get his, though, just as soon as the ‘vaders decide he got too Big Time. No way that fool gonna take too much bowing and scraping to no ragheads. Sooner or later, they gonna waste his ass.”
Taggart filed the name “Angel” away for future reference. Mr. Black was the name he’d heard from his cousin, Dimitri, God rest his soul, before Black, or rather Black’s boss, had killed him. But that was in another world, a world with lights and microwaves, a world in which Taggart and Black weren’t just about the only thing getting in the way of the conquest of the United States. A better world. Fuck it, back to today. Right now, the Mission mattered more than Taggart’s personal bullshit.
“For right now, though,” said Taggart, “he did what the invaders couldn’t, and disrupted the Resistance in this entire neighborhood. That gives the enemy breathing room to get their conquest back on track, and even send some soldiers from here to back up their forces in other neighborhoods. We need to figure out how to put some pressure back on these assholes so they can’t do that.”
Chongo’s radio crackled: “Boss, yo, we got company.”
Taggart caught the panic in the man’s voice, and rushed to the window, along with Black, and pulled the edge of the drapes aside enough to peer out, then his jaw dropped. Down in the street below, five quad-copter drones hovered, each at an intersection with various alleyways that opened onto the safe house’s street.
Behind him, Taggart heard the men and women in the apartment readying their weapons, but he was more interested in the scene outside. His adrenaline began to rise. Five drones was no coincidence. And then another drone, larger than the five, streaked over the roof of a nearby house—more of a shack by Taggart’s way of thinking—and it must have caught sight of Taggart or Black in the window, because it came to a halt and hovered a mere fifty feet from them, directly level with their third-floor apartment.
Then, the strangest thing happened. The other five drones approached and rose up behind the large drone-like the heads of a hydra, and Taggart saw that they had what looked like miniature Gatling guns mounted on their undersides. The guns swiveled toward the drone—and Taggart, on the other side of it—and he saw them spit fire.
Taggart cried, “Get down!” and hit the deck. He heard the staccato noise of tiny machine guns, and then the simultaneous noises of the window shattering and a small explosion. After that, silence. He counted slowly to ten, then risked rising up just enough to peer out from the bottom edge of the window, trying to avoid the shards of glass that had rained down all around him.
For the second time in only moments, Taggart was surprised. The five drones still hovered, but their miniature guns no longer pointed in his direction. The larger drone lay on the street below, smoke rising from its shattered form. Other drones, identical to the first five, began to emerge from other alleyways and street intersections. Taggart stopped counting after a dozen. But why had they destroyed the big drone, and why did they then stand down?
Black cried out, “Look, below! Mi soldatos!”
Taggart glanced at whatever Black was looking at and saw that, from each of the alleys and street corners, men and women were emerging cautiously, armed with M4s and other weapons. Most wore “gangster” clothes, some wore 5.11-style BDU pants and polo shirts, and still others wore Army-issue BDU uniforms. They were gangbangers, Militia members, and soldiers, clearly. And there were a lot of them. The drones had miraculously led these men and women to Black and Taggart.
Taggart grinned. “I don’t know who’s doing it, but we have an ally somewhere, helping us. They brought together our survivors and rallied them to us. So, Black, now that we have an army again, what is the Resistance going to do?”
Black clenched his jaw and said in a voice so menacing that Taggart shifted to look at him by pure reflex, “Only the 20s could have done this. And, we’re going to do what I should have done in the first place. We’re going to kill some motherfuckers who need killin’.”
Taggart heard Eagan behind him laugh and shout, “About damn time,” and the other men and women in the apartment cheered.
* * *
2000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +10
Ethan, again working with Cassy, had set up the antenna and rig in a new location. As before, one of the Marines stood guard while Ethan prepared his broadcast and settled in to begin. In short order, he had received an updated file from the 20s, labeled “Urgent.” It again contained the cryptic phrase about Operation Backdraft being a go, and curiosity ate at him, but he didn’t know where to begin looking, much less how to identify and crack any real data. Unanswerable questions drove Ethan nuts. But, time enough to ponder that later. The update also included vital new information for the Resistance groups. For now, despite the risk, he had a job to do.
A few minutes later the radio was transmitting on loop, and there was little to do while they waited the allotted run time. He turned to Cassy. “So what did Michael say about the security of the place? I know you had him and his team getting familiar with the property and taking notes.”
“They met with Frank an hour ago. I went to the meeting, but only because I know the property better than anyone. Despite what people seem to think, Frank’s our fearless leader. I just run the farm itself because I’m the one best qualified for that job. I set the place up.”
Ethan shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cassy. You may say Frank’s in charge, but everyone—the new Marines included—understand that this is now your show. Frank is your Foreman.”
“Well, I refuse the crown. Frank started this clan thing, and we all know and trust him. He’s the best one to lead. And he’s smart enough to tap the knowledge of others. Me for farming, Michael for security, and so on.”
“Bah. I was there when you tapped Michael to lead the security team. But anyway, what did Mike say during the meeting?”
Cassy frowned for a couple seconds, then seemed to shake herself loose of whatever thoughts she was having. Finally, she said, “Well, the house itself is secure, and has good cover. It’s made of sandbags, or actually from what we call ‘earthbags.’ We lay out sandbags with a sand-and-clay mix, like bricks. We o
ffset each layer from the one before, then we cover it with chicken wire and then with adobe.”
“Right, I remember you talking about that. Michael says it should stop a .50 caliber round. But the rest of the property?”
“Firstly, there’s not enough room and having everyone in one small house is dangerous. He thinks we should spend the winter building more earthbag homes, clustered together around a common area for kids and cooking and whatever, and all of it surrounded with an earthbag wall. Eventually two concentric walls with dirt between them, but that’ll be a huge job.”
Ethan nodded. More houses made sense and a moderately covered area between them would make a great common area. He filed it away for later thought and waited for Cassy to continue.
“Also, he says the barbwire fence around the property is a good start but won’t stop anyone who’s serious about coming in. Won’t even slow them down much. He noticed that the pathways throughout the property all flow outward from the house, getting more narrow as they branch out to various areas like the veins of a leaf. He’d never seen that before, but from a natural farming point of view, it makes perfect sense. It’s efficient and uses minimal land for pathways. But it also means that everything else is like an overgrown temperate-climate jungle. Anyone infiltrating will almost have to follow the pathways.”
“Yeah…” said Ethan, his voice fading as his mind raced through possibilities. Cassy’s layout had unintentionally given the property built-in choke points, which could be used to funnel any intruders into a smaller number of places. “What’s he want to do with them?”
“He wants to find a location that spots the major outlying hubs where paths come together, and build a tower there. It would be where he posts up the guard. He thinks it should be manned 24/7 by someone with a radio, and the guards should check in frequently. But he also thinks we should set up booby traps along the hubs, which are all behind the house, to slow attackers and alert us to their presence.”
Ethan nodded. “Smart. Homemade mines and alarms are easy to make and set up. We just need to ensure we all know where they are. We can mark them in a discreet way, like maybe with small rock piles.”
Cassy grinned. “Yeah, I know a lot about improvised mines and such. I did a lot of research. I guess it’s a prepper thing, but yeah, I’m prepped. You seem to be, also. We can work on the design together if you want.”
Damn straight Ethan wanted to. Two heads were better than one, and he’d sleep better knowing the intimate details of their passive security measures—the things that didn’t require a human to operate them. “Awesome, yeah. But did Michael say anything about the neighbors or threats in the area?”
Cassy looked at her feet, lips pursed as her brow furrowed. “Yes. And it is mixed news. The neighbors are either friendly to me or missing. Michael thinks we can move the neighbors into our planned compound and integrate their lands with ours if they want or simply do it if the owners are missing. Grow the community, gain extra skills, and so on. It’s a good idea. But the bad news is that he found evidence of what I can only describe as raiders. Burnt homesteads with corpses around like they were ambushed. Traces of at least a dozen attackers, he says, judging by the footprints and other traces. But Ethan, the worst thing—and you can’t say anything to the others about this because I swore secrecy—is that the bodies were missing some… Parts were gone. Buttocks, calves, thighs, and ribs, all gone.”
Ethan whistled, and the color drained from his face as he thought it out. “They were butchered? Are you saying these raiders are freakin’ cannibals?”
Cassy nodded glumly. “Yeah, that’s a possibility, but Michael doesn’t think they’re cannibals. He says it’s ‘PsyOps,’ meant to terrify the people who are in the area so the raiders don’t have to work so hard at their looting. If people are terrified, they flee more than fight, and if they do fight, then they break morale easier. Anyway, Frank’s going to announce it all when we know more, but Michael says that for the moment they won’t attack a group as large as ours, just so long as we don’t make ourselves look like easy pickings.”
“Thus the traps, alarms, and guard tower…”
“Yeah. But you should have seen Michael when he told me and Frank. He was iron-jawed angry but looked very sure of himself when he said they wouldn’t attack us. They’ll pick off our neighbors first, which they’re already doing, and which is why he wants to invite the neighbors to join the clan, or at least move in under our protection and help make everybody more secure.”
Ethan grinned. “Well, seems we have a plan to deal with the apparent cannibal threat, and in the meantime we have goals. Plans for the future. Something to unify us all and give us a purpose. The kids will grow up knowing what it is to be attuned to the farm, the plants and animals, the extended family, all that. Right? And we’re out of the way, not likely to be found by the invaders. Even better, there’s a huge forest north of us with plenty of hunting and maybe also raw materials. Turns out you saved us with this farm, Cassy, just as much as the clan ever saved you.”
Ethan leaned back on his elbows, enjoying the last bit of sunshine and the moment of quiet. The most recent file from the 20s showed partisan units all over Pennsylvania and New York going on a guerrilla counter-attack, and he had high hopes for whatever this Operation Backdraft was. They’d said they would need his help later to make the Operation successful, but that would be another time. For now, though he suspected it was just a window or the eye of the storm, he was happy to share the clan’s peace and plenty.
The world was dying all around them, but here they had found a new home, and he knew they’d all fight to protect that. “It’s a dark new world, you once said, Cassy, but maybe it doesn’t have to be a bad one.”
The future looked bright for now, and his thoughts turned as usual to Amber and the life they might share here. He realized that maybe for the first time since the old ways came down around their ears, he felt like they all just might have a good future ahead. The thought brought a quiet smile.
- 25 -
2100 HOURS - ZERO DAY +10
THE SUN WAS going down as Peter watched increasingly familiar landscape roll by through the passenger window of Jim’s car, and his excitement grew. What a stroke of luck it was to find Jim and his car and to earn a ride by saving the man’s life. After spending hours in the car talking about a million different things, Peter now had a competent-looking ally. Jim didn’t much like women, but who could blame him? The man had tried to help a woman right after the lights went out, and she’d repaid him by plotting to kill him. Jim got her gun away from her when she wasn’t looking but had been stabbed in the thigh as a result, and she’d laughed as she left him bleeding out and begging for his life.
Other than that, though, Jim seemed like a great guy, a hard worker who understood loyalty and the need to adapt with the times. Practical, that’s what Jim was, and Peter needed men like that by his side. Jim, for his part, seemed to really take a shine to Peter’s description of the White Stag Farms community, what they stood for, and how they had rallied together to protect themselves and their families from the shit-storm of chaos that was swirling all around them.
“Something ahead,” said Jim, and Peter snapped his attention back to the road. They were approaching a long, slow rise, and at the crest of the hill was some sort of roadblock. Peter saw armed men behind the makeshift barricade.
“Don’t worry about it. Those are my people. They must have pulled back all the way to here due to the brown haze. Most of our land is poisoned now, it seems. I wonder how many are alive after the planes bombed the compounds? Just approach slowly and stop when they say to.”
Jim slowed to about ten miles per hour and approached. When they were one hundred feet away someone with a megaphone shouted, “Stop the vehicle, and exit with your hands up.” At the same time, a man and a woman with hunting rifles emerged from behind the barricade with their weapons pointed at the windshield.
“You sure about this, mister?
” Jim asked.
As he opened the passenger door, Peter said, “Yes. Just get out and keep your hands up. I’ll do the talking. We’ll be through the checkpoint in no time.”
The armed man approached Peter and Jim, and stared. “Well I’ll be. Peter, you made it back alive, you old son of a gun. When your scouts came back, they said you were chasing some spy or something. They said you’d be back.”
“Good to see you too, Ed. Yeah, I was on a chase, but that’s done. How many of us made it through the bombing? Who’s leading us?”
“Robert’s dead. We’re being led by a council of the four remaining Supervisors right now. Only about fifty of us made it through the bombing and the brown haze they sprayed. All the crops are dead, Jed, and so’s our grain mill. We got supplies, but not enough left for winter even with half of us dead.”
Peter nodded. It was as bad as he’d feared. “Well, I’m back now, and I got the answer to our problems. I’m going to lead us out of this wasteland and bring us to a place we can rebuild from.”
“Oh yeah? Damn, Peter, that’s a relief. The council wants to stay, but just about no one else does. People are tense, Peter. Tread lightly, okay?”
Peter shook his head. “I’m done treading lightly. I have the solution to our problem, and people will want to go instead of dying over the corpse of White Stag Farms. If the council won’t give in, they can damn well stay here by themselves. Go get everyone together, so’s I can talk to them all at once.”
Dark New World (Book 2): EMP Exodus Page 16