She waited until the two count in her head before sprinting toward the pile, her two “buddies” to either side. They rounded the corner just after the next shot had struck the rubble and saw not two but five ISNA soldiers huddled there. They seemed to notice her group just as Cassy opened fire with her buddies, and two ’vaders went down bloody.
The other three, though, returned fire. The man to Cassy’s left, a Liz Towner judging by his jacket, collapsed when a round struck him in the head, clearly dead. Cassy and her remaining companion both went down to the ground at the same time by pure reflex. As Michael had taught her, taking cover was just instinctive when rounds came at people. She used the butt of her M4 to slow her fall, but it was still rather painful. Marines did that over and over again during their training with Michael, she’d seen, and after being taught the move, she had a new respect for how easy they made it look. In reality, that shit hurt! Better than getting shot though, she realized as the whizz of bullets passed over her head.
She lay there exchanging fire with the enemy, but they’d taken a prone position behind their dead—Cassy and whoever was next to her were more exposed. She looked around seeking help, but all around her the scene was the same. Small knots of her people fighting clusters of the enemy.
A huge fireball appeared a hundred yards away, and the explosion’s report washed over her, bouncing off the quarry walls, making her ears ring painfully—one of the drones, perhaps, had dropped another stick of dynamite on a pile of rubble that hid a particularly troublesome enemy strong point. For whatever reason, they’d dropped dynamite into the middle of this battle, and it sent a shower of pebbles and a bit of gore out over thirty yards, some raining down on her painfully. One struck the soft spot at the back of her left knee, and a bolt of pain shot from her knee to her groin. She bit her lip, but didn’t cry out.
That did give her an idea, though. In the adrenaline, she forgot that she had two of the Clan’s precious grenades. She pulled one off her “combat webbing,” really just suspenders with bits of cloth sewn to it to mimic MOLLE gear. She pulled the pin, but kept the spoon compressed. To her remaining fighter she said, “On three, cover me and pour on the fire!”
The man nodded, aimed, and started the count.
One - the ’vader fired a burst at them, one round bouncing off the rubbled ground barely a foot from her face.
Two - she almost lost her grip on the grenade, her hands sweating as much as the rest of her, but she kept her grip. Her heart raced faster.
Three - the man beside her fired his rifle, an AK-style assault rifle, as fast as his finger would pull the trigger. Bang, bang, bang, bang… To Cassy’s ear it sounded only a little slower than some actual automatics did, even though it was clearly only a semi-automatic weapon.
As the first shot rang out, Cassy rose to her uninjured right knee, with left foot flat on the ground in front of her, and hurled the grenade with all her might just as Michael had taught her—you couldn’t throw it like a baseball or you’d tear up your elbow, he’d said, and the method he taught was painful and uncomfortable, but worked and didn’t shred anyone’s elbow. The grenade sailed through the air…
It would miss, she saw. It landed atop the rubble that protected her target from the troops on the ridge. She didn’t have time to stare at it though, as the three remaining ISNA soldiers returned fire. One round whistled by her right ear, and she felt a streak of burning pain along her cheek. The trooper next to her cried out in pain, a terrible sound, and dropped his rifle to curl up in a ball. He clutched his left hip, the one that had been facing the enemy as the trooper lay prone. He was out of this fight, if he even lived. No time to help him, though, as all three enemy laid fire toward Cassy. She saw tufts of dirt and rock fly up, tracking along the ground toward her—puff, puff, puff.
Just before the tracking bullets found her, however, there was a terrible whump as her grenade went off, seeming to suck the air straight out of her lungs. Fortunately, she hadn’t been looking at it when it went off. A new voice cried out from her enemies’ position. One of the ISNA fighters staggered out of the smoke clutching his throat. His lifeblood spurt several feet from between his fingers, with every heartbeat. Cassy put him out of his misery with a bullet to his head, even as she rose to her feet. She sprinted toward the smoke and dust that nearly blocked any view of the enemy, firing as she went. As she entered the cloud, she saw two men, both flat on their backs but getting up. The closer one had black and blood and dirt stuck to his face, and blood dripped from his long beard. She pulled her trigger and two rounds struck him in his belly and chest, and he flopped over backwards without crying out.
The remaining ISNA fighter had risen and stood almost next to her. He swung the butt of his rifle up, snapping it forward to strike the bottom of her barrel, and her own rifle flew from her hands.
Fear and adrenaline, her constant companions, shot through her and without pausing, she put her hands together as if gripping a baseball bat and swung at the enemy’s head. He reared his head back just in time and she barely missed, even as he reflexively raised his rifle to protect himself. When Cassy missed, however, the momentum carried her around and her hands struck his rifle. It, too, went flying. She followed up with her right knee, planting it in his belly.
He let out an “oof” as the air was knocked from him, but he stood up like a piston rising, and his uppercut smashed into her chin; she flew backwards with a cry of pain and fear.
For a split second, her body refused to obey her commands and she only lay there. The ISNA soldier pulled his combat knife out from its sheath at his waist and bolted toward her.
Faced with this new threat, Cassy’s body decided suddenly to work again. Her right foot shot out and connected with the man’s knee. There was a sharp crack and he cried out, falling forward—landing right on top of her. Pressing her down into the rocky ground. A thousand little pebbles pressed painfully into her back and spine, and a thought bolted through her mind, completely out of place: I hate quarries…
Her enemy held his knife like an icepick and drove it down toward her face. Cassy reached up and caught his wrists with her own, stopping the blow, but he leaned into it, adding more and more of his body weight to the knife plunging toward her face and throat. Her left arm let out a quiver—soon it would collapse and she would die, and the Clan would die, and the Confederation. Houle would rule the world, Taggart would be given to the Koreans as a gift, her daughter would be killed or worse. And it would all be her fault. Why had she led this attack? Stupid, foolish… She had told herself that her image required it, the Confederation’s future required it. But laying there, the knife an inch now from her left eyeball, she knew—it was pride, and hubris. She was now too important to do whatever the hell she wanted—and it was about to cost her life.
A tear ran down her cheek. “Please,” she said through strained, gritted teeth, “I have… a daughter…”
The ISNA man only grinned, half his teeth broken and black. Her arms were weakening; the blade came down another inch. She closed her eyes and could feel just the tip of the blade on her left eyelid…
She heard the abrupt noise of gravel crunching, and the weight on her arms was suddenly gone as the sound of fighting reached her ears. She opened her eye and saw someone she didn’t recognize struggling with her ISNA fighter in the dirt and rubble. More people she didn’t recognize ran by, from right to left, heading into the quarry’s interior. Holy crap! These people, these insane people, had come down the north embankment of the quarry! She saw another sliding down, seeming almost like he was surfing, but his hard landing proved it hadn’t been intentional. More were coming down, as well. They weren’t ISNA, but she didn’t know who they were.
The newcomers ran on, but in the confusion, they left their one man still fighting on the ground with Cassy’s ISNA warrior. They rolled around, the dust rose until it was hard to see who was on top. Then there was a cry of agony, cut short by a chopping, meaty, wet sound.
The ISNA fighter scrambled to his feet. “Allahu ‘akbar!” he shouted, and the knife in his hand dripped blood. Cassy saw, however, that he was wounded—his foe had left a knife stuck in his shoulder.
Cassy wasted no time. She sprinted at him, ignoring the pain in her leg, and rammed into him from behind with her shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist, and they both fell forward into the dirt, while his knife flew away out of sight, spinning like a frisbee. Her enemy landed face-first, more or less on his face, while Cassy landed atop him. She straddled him and from her waistband, she whipped out her own knife.
The ISNA fighter bucked and struggled, nearly throwing Cassy off, but failing to do so. As she recovered, he spun around onto his back. Now the scene was reverse. Cassy plunged her knife downward toward him. He caught her wrists, and they struggled, the blade inching closer to his chest. Sweat again poured from them both as they struggled, but the blood he was losing from the knife stuck in his shoulder made this battle a foregone conclusion. With renewed energy and purpose, Cassy shoved even harder, baring her teeth at the man and hissing at him with every ragged breath.
“Tabaet ‘awamir,” he screamed, fear-filled eyes wide as saucers.
“Fuck you,” Cassy growled, and the knife went lower still—about a half-inch of the tip slowly slid into him.
Then he said over and over, begging, “La ‘astatie ‘an ‘amut huna…”
Cassy gritted her teeth and put the last of her energy into pushing down on the knife, down on his arms. The man’s arms quivered, and then gave out, and the blade slid an inch at a time into his chest until only the handle remained visible.
“Allah ‘anqadhnaa,” he whispered, a tear rolling down one cheek.
As the light left his eyes, Cassy flopped down onto him, exhausted. She’d used every ounce of energy she had, and she knew that soon the pain would start as adrenaline left. She’d probably vomit from the adrenaline crash, this time, as her stomach already felt queasy.
“Fuck your Aunt Quadnie,” she said between ragged breaths. Probably not the man’s actual dying words, but whatever. That’s what it had sounded like.
Finally catching her breath, Cassy rose shakily to her feet and looked around as the Confederation “army” swarmed throughout the quarry, now in squads—hunter-killer teams that did their job with more enthusiasm than discipline, brutally slaughtering what enemy survivors remained. There weren’t many.
Fifteen minutes later, there were none.
- 19 -
1000 HOURS - ZERO DAY +173
CASSY LEFT THE home of the second wounded Clanner, feeling rather bouncy about the score, despite the brace on her leg. Only two others were wounded among her people—a Marine and one of the Clanners who attacked the quarry—and two fatalities. Of the wounded, the Marine would be out for a month, probably, but he’d recover. Cassy herself would recover quickly, in all likelihood.
The thought that hundreds of ISNA fighters and their North Korean masters wouldn’t be returning, ever, made the light of day seem brighter, and she didn’t even mind the hazy, overcast sky. It had been night of celebration for her survivors, celebrating life. Mourning the dead would come soon enough. In these times of daily life-and-death decisions and events, it seemed people turned to celebrating their own survival before mourning their losses. Cassy wondered what future sociologists would say about that—
Her handheld radio crackled, and Ethan’s voice squawked, “Cassy, Ethan. We just heard from Liz Town, and you’ll want to hear this. Come on down when you get a chance.”
“On my way, be there in a minute.”
She limped her way to the tunnel and let herself in. Once in the bunker, she found Ethan at his computers, of course. “Hey there, what’s up?” Cassy asked.
“Liz Town says a couple of people from out west were captured in their territory, but they turned out not to be Hershey spies. The couple said they were on their way to Clanholme and that they were representatives of the Republic. You know, the Empire?”
“Yeah? What do they want?” Cassy asked as she adjusted the brace over her knee.
“They’re coming here to talk to you, personally, and they knew where we were. Gave directions and everything, just to prove they were who they said. Liz Town has a couple guards riding in with them and they’ll be here in half an hour. You might want to get ready.”
“Well, that was unexpected. Thanks for the heads-up.”
She made her way back topside and got busy cleaning herself up and putting on some less travel-worn clothes. No point meeting Empire envoys in her farm work and fighting clothes. She brushed her hair and stuck it up under an Eagles ballcap she scavenged from a convenience store that had no food left, but lots of ballcaps. The hat was handy sometimes. Go Eagles!
A half hour later, two tall men wearing old western-style riding dusters and leading pretty little quarter horses came up to her home, hitched their horses outside, and entered with the two Liz Town guards and Frank.
“I am Cassy, leader of the Clan, and this is Frank, our general manager. Some tea, gentlemen?” she offered.
“No, thanks. I’m Oscar and this is Jason.” The two sat on the couch where Cassy motioned them.
“Nice to get off your feet?”
“Yes, it is. I wonder if you might put us up for the night? We’ve been sleeping under the stars for quite a while,” said Oscar, who seemed to do all the talking so far.
“Doubtful. We don’t let strangers stay with us. But we’ll give you some supplies if you need them, and you can camp outside Clanholme. Under watch, of course,” she said in as cool and neutral a voice as she could manage.
“Ah well. I had to ask. These days, no one remembers manners or even what they used to look like. We will be delighted to encamp outside of Clanholme, at least until our business here is done and we can get back to civilization.”
Cassy forced a smile. Jerk-offs, leading with an insult like that. “As you wish, for now at least. I appreciate your instruction on being civilized and will give it all the consideration it deserves. So what does the Empire want with us?”
“Wow. Not even dinner first.”
“We mostly eat dinner only with friends, and even then only if they offer something back. Food is a bit of a luxury item these days.” Cassy adjusted her cap to mask a growing nervousness and anger.
“Well,” Oscar said, “it is my delight and honor to let you know that you have been specially selected to win a fabulous prize. The Republic would like to be friends with you and your friends. Nice and friendly. I assure you, our friendship does offer plenty of something back.”
“Great! We like friends, too, the more the merrier. So, what does the Empire offer as ‘friendship’ and of course, what does it require in return?”
Oscar let out a deep breath, a pained expression on his face. “You wound me. We’re not an empire, Miss…”
“Shores.”
“Miss Shores, we’re not an empire. I mean it when I say that we’re a republic. Every enclave that has joined us has done so of their own free will, after voting. We insist on that. Most are quite happy to join, of course, since we have food and medicine they often lack.”
Frank replied before Cassy had a chance, saying, “I think I can speak for everyone here when I say that we’re not really inspired by the Empire’s democratic values. We do hear things, you know. Your reputation precedes you. We have enough, so that’s not the carrot-on-a-string you seem to think it is. No offense.”
“No offense taken, I assure you. I’ve heard worse, and they’ve mostly changed their minds later, but like you said, you aren’t that hungry. That’s a bit surprising. Your little corner of Pennsylvania managed to hang on for the most part.”
Cassy said, “We’ve worked hard to get by and worked together to do it. Not a lot of trust for outsiders in these parts, though. We’ve been through a lot.”
Oscar glanced at Jason, but the latter was still unreadable as far as Cassy could tell. Perhaps he was the enforcer, but
given his average stature that seemed unlikely. Maybe a negotiator? It was weird that he hadn’t spoken yet. “Well, that’s another thing about these parts—never had a lot of subtlety even before the EMPs. You’ve had to work hard against extraordinary odds, so subtlety is expendable. You deserve praise, not threats, and we’re not here to threaten you. We only want to talk, and I personally think it would be foolish not to at least talk. After all, we’re your biggest neighbor, invaders included, and we’re what, fifty miles from your doorstep? We want friendly neighbors who don’t play the radio too loud until two in the morning on a Tuesday, if you see what I mean.”
“Well, we invited you both in, Oscar. So we haven’t forgotten how to be hospitable. Are you hungry? We have stew, but I’m afraid the bread won’t be done until lunchtime.” If they said yes, she’d be sure there was something extra added to their meals…
Jason spoke up for the first time, which Cassy found relieving, and said, “No, thank you. These days offering food is more than polite, and accepting when you’re not hungry is more than rude.”
Well that had been just the right thing to say. So she was right: not the muscle of the operation. “You’re welcome. So Oscar, you haven’t answered my first question.”
Oscar said, “You asked what the Republic might want from you, that we would reach out to you. You also hinted at some rather unkind things. I’m not going to say we haven’t had to send peacekeepers into some areas, those who couldn’t help themselves and declined help otherwise, but we’ve only done that to save lives. You aren’t in that position, clearly.”
“We have already helped ourselves,” Cassy replied, noting that Oscar was continuing to skirt around actually answering her question. “So what of the people you turned away to starve to death? Your hometown is mostly rural, surrounded by cities, and we’ve heard stories. People killed at your borders, stacked like cordwood. It’s difficult to believe the helpful big brother projection, given that.”
Dark New World (Book 4): EMP Backdraft Page 31