by J. J. Holden
* * *
General Ree surveyed what was left of his once-glorious dream. The Great Leader’s dream, really, but his own will was in alignment with the Great Leader’s. What a dream it was—bring America to its knees, and teach the Americans what every North Korean child knew. True glory came only from the people sharing the will of the Great Leader, and striving to achieve his goals. His goals must be the people’s goals. His will, the people’s will. Unity of mind and purpose brought glory to the State and its Great Leader, and thus to all the people.
Americans just didn’t understand self-sacrifice. It wasn’t in their culture. He had once hoped that if their strength and their distractions were removed—which the EMP attack accomplished—then Americans would be more malleable. Trainable.
Instead, the American military, like cockroaches, refused to die. The Americans themselves fought against ridiculous odds, often to the death, like wolverines. Even the civilians! And they often won, too. It was most distressing.
To top it off, even after Ree had punished the American elite, their rich and their celebrities, stringing them up on lampposts to rot for all to see… Even then, the damned Americans didn’t bow down to the Great Leader’s authority as they should. It was almost as though they weren’t the weak, decadent sloths the Great Leader had said they were. But of course, that was impossible. The Great Leader could not be wrong. There must be another explanation for the fierce resistance, the American pathological aversion to accepting the legitimate authority of those appointed over them.
The invasion had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now, Ree suspected that even if the Americans hadn’t retaliated with their own EMP strikes around the globe, they’d still be fighting just as hard.
Clearly, the Great Leader’s agents in America had failed in their duty to report accurately. If his agents had given him good information, the Great Leader would not have committed this blunder. That was the only explanation. Sycophants reporting what they thought their superiors wanted to hear. Disgusting.
The whole invasion debacle was a compelling lesson in the need for unity of purpose with the Great Leader’s will. Ree was confident, however, that his actions during this invasion were in unity.
Motion below, outside the walls of his north New York City compound, caught his eye. He squinted to see better, and recognized it as a “Ratter,” as the people called them—Ree’s talented and loyal agents who were charged with rooting out American disloyal acts and thoughts. He didn’t know if they were called ratters because they “ratted out” people, like in the American cinema gangster movies, or because they went into the warrens of the City like the rat hunters of old. Ratters were feared and hated by the liberated peoples of the City, which was a very good thing. They could often succeed without having to damage a useful worker with torture, just through the American fear of them.
Since Ree’s temporary loss to General Taggart, his American nemesis, things had been relatively quiet within his own territory. While he and Taggart had fought savagely over the remnants of New Jersey, in the end, the American had built up his army by plundering Ree’s agriculture depots, his People’s Worker Army, and his supply centers. As every enemy win strengthened them and weakened him, Ree had been forced to retreat to this stronghold on the island of Manhattan, and now had only a sliver of land in New Jersey where he once had solidly held half the state.
Then Ree smiled to himself and thought of his newest program’s success. He had split half of his holdings among his highest officers, and had them do likewise for their underlings. This created a feudal structure that made it easier to manage the whole territory.
An unforeseen benefit of that arrangement had been that the only way subordinate officers could expand their own holdings was at Taggart’s expense. This quite effectively motivated them to push outward, because although the land they took technically would belong to Ree, he “generously” gave it to the officer who took that land. They were as loyal to Ree as to their superiors, who were Ree’s subordinate colonels.
Since then, Ree had hardly had to deal with Taggart directly at all, and with only half the territory to police himself, it was much easier to suppress the vile individuality found among his remaining civilians.
Ree’s gaze shifted toward the Central Park greenery. It had been transformed into a strange, mixed forest-and-farmland patchwork by using the bizarre techniques and philosophies he had learned from capturing some of Taggart’s civilian farmers. Apparently, they had learned a way—a path called “Permaculture”—that was ideal for this post-EMP, tractorless world. No power, no transportation network to bring petroleum-based fertilizers and pesticides, no way to distribute food far from where it had been harvested. Permaculture needed none of those things, solved those problems, and was already proving to be as productive as the finest mechanized normal farms he had ever heard of. It took far more manpower to begin and to harvest, by an order of magnitude, but that was not a problem. Manpower, he had in abundance.
Yes, seizing some of Taggart’s territory swiftly enough to capture the bastard’s agriculture advisors had been a stroke of luck, and he was happy to allow his subordinates to consider their capture to be his own stroke of genius.
The larger invasion was failing, it was true, but things were going well indeed for the smaller enclave Ree still controlled. When a junior Korean officer brought in tea, Ree was wearing a satisfied smile.
- 2 -
1015 HOURS - ZERO DAY +336
CARL GOT OUT of the truck and leaned against the hood while he waited for the meeting’s other party to arrive. Four other vehicles—two big flatbed trucks loaded with supplies and two Liz Town battlecars—idled nearby on either side of his car, and he took a moment to admire them.
Battlecars had been the Clan’s term for these monsters, and it fit. Thick steel plates, wire mesh over windows, guns up top… and of course Liz Town’s cars were garishly painted in vivid colors.
As the Timber Wolves’ Alpha, his people had tried to talk him out of coming to this drop, but Carl liked to stay visible in these things. It reminded his people who was in charge, and showed that their leader gave a damn about them. As a political statement, it killed two birds with one stone.
One of the Timber Wolf guards came up to Carl and leaned against the truck’s hood beside him. He took out a pack of Camel cigarettes and removed the wrapping, then said companionably, “Want a cigarette, Alpha?”
Carl shook his head faintly. “Nasty habit. I quit months ago. Tobacco isn’t getting any fresher, either.”
“Soon they won’t be smokeable at all,” the guard said, lighting up and taking a long drag. “Can I ask you something?”
Carl looked over at the guard. He was maybe nineteen, thin like everyone these days, yet he had a well-toned, wiry build. And he looked jittery—again, like everyone was these days… “Sure, man. What’s on your mind?”
“Just wondering why we keep giving food and supplies to these Empire jerkoffs. Three months ago, they were trying to take over and those assholes killed my pa.”
Carl smiled wanly and put a hand on the guard’s shoulder. He understood the boy’s hostility toward them. No, not a boy… a young man. There weren’t many old men left. Carl, in his mid-twenties, was about average for a present-day adult survivor.
Well, there was no harm in breaking things down for the young man. “These people probably weren’t the soldiers who invaded us. Most of the Empire’s people are slaves, not fighters. And most of the soldiers we did fight were only there because they had to be. If they fought, their family got enough to eat and the Empire’s protection. If they refused, the family starved while they got enslaved elsewhere. Or just cast out entirely. For those people, it was a no-brainer. They had no real choice.”
The young guard frowned, and Carl could see his gears turning in thought. “Yeah, I guess that makes some sense. Liz Town would rather die before submitting to slavers.”
Carl didn’t reply to that. Of
course every free person in Liz Town thought that way. The warrior’s path was already deeply ingrained in the developing culture. Actually, it was kind of amazing how fast new culture and new traditions sprang up these days. But if they were put to the test, Carl believed that most people were simply people—they’d survive if they could, any way they could. Lizzies were no different, though they liked to think so.
When Carl didn’t reply, the young guard continued, “It still doesn’t explain why we’re helping them. Why not send these supplies to Falconry to trade for outside stuff we don’t make? Or give surplus to the Confederation to distribute?”
They were good questions even if they were above the man’s pay grade, as Michael would have said. But Carl wasn’t like the last Timber Wolf Alpha, and he made it a point to communicate everything he could to his packmates unless there was a damn good reason not to.
“It’s actually pretty simple. See, we supply some of the eastern Empire zones so that we have fewer refugees to deal with. By doing that, we also make those zones friendly to our cause and to the Confederation. These supplies undercut loyalty to the so-called Midwest Republic so that when push comes to shove—”
“The Empire,” the other man interrupted, and he stood taller as he said it.
Carl resisted the urge to smile at the bravado and chest-puffing of the proud young man. Let them be brave, he told himself. It might help them find courage in the next battle. “Yes, the Empire. What we’re doing here today will destabilize the Empire at the edges, and maybe it’ll spread inward to their neighbors. This could cut down on refugees, and that would be good. We’re trying to get some of their outer zones to rebel, making a buffer state between us and the rest of the Empire.”
“Yeah, but we could use those supplies. We’ve given away enough to start a whole new Band, reclaim some more of the people camped out in the wildlands.”
The wildlands were the areas of Elizabethtown that hadn’t been walled up with rubble and claimed by Liz Town and her several Bands. Carl was close to several wildlands groups, including Sunshine’s group—they’d become the Sewer Rats Band after the Empire War ended.
Carl replied, “True, but it’s a matter of priorities and politics. Trust our Speaker to know what’s best for all of Liz Town. She deals with stuff above both our pay grades, and she trusts us to support her.”
That simple statement let the young man know just where Carl stood, and what he expected from his packmates.
“Of course, Alpha. I do, we all do.” He cocked his head suddenly and added, “I think they’re coming.”
Carl looked up from the conversation and saw a swarm of mountain bike-riding Empire civilians coming over the hill. “Show time,” he said, turning to face his men. “Everyone get in position,” he called out, and watched as the other twenty Timber Wolves took up positions with their weapons, either behind the cover of the vehicles or up in the battlecars’ armored “turrets.”
Carl didn’t envy the people on turret duty. The fire that kept each truck’s gasifier primed also made the assignment uncomfortably hot. Naturally, everyone called it “the hot seat,” a totally different meaning than it’d had a year ago, before the world ended.
He steeled himself for what was to come and, head high and shoulders squared, approached the oncoming horde of Empire goons. Civvies, he corrected himself. He looked far braver than he felt, being so heavily outnumbered. It was a good thing he was there to give them those supplies at such favorable terms, rather than to trade fairly, or they might have been a lot more of a threat. Although the trade was strikingly unfair to Liz Town, Carl knew that the seeds he was planting sent a strong message back with the refugees: things could be better for them than they were already. Hope was a powerful weapon against the Empire.
As the refugees drew closer, Carl could see they had sporting guns to trade, which were cheap since so many people had already died. They also had some weird, no-electricity gizmos—he’d have to ask his oldest farmer friends what they were for.
When they came within earshot, Carl smiled. With a boom in his voice, he said, “Welcome to the Confederation.”
* * *
Nestor stood a half-mile back from the exchange, watching them through binoculars. A wiry man stood next to him with a notepad and a pen. He fidgeted endlessly, which drove Nestor nuts, but Ratbone was too useful to get rid of in spite of his deviant ways. Nestor often daydreamed of a time when he could let his self-control slip, let the Other out to play and rid the word of that hyperactive, scrawny whackjob, but as long as he could focus Ratbone’s deviance onto the enemy, he was allowed to live. Sometimes one had to be pragmatic in times of war.
These days, Nestor found it easy to control the Other—his internal, more violent alternate self, who used to step out and dominate Nestor so he could commit heinous acts of unforgivable violence. Nowadays, though, there was plenty of combat to go around. They were opportunities for his homicidal, sociopathic alter-ego to come out and dance to the music of combat and killing. For weeks after a kill, the Other was easy to dominate, leaving plain old Nestor in charge of their shared meatsuit. Nestor felt like the body was indeed a suit, something he wore rather than being something he was. After all, he had to share that body with a guy who might just be the Devil.
Bah. There would be time enough for such thoughts later. Nestor said, “Write this down, Ratbone. Five trucks. Half a ton of supplies each, for two-point-five tons. Mix of food, ammunition, light arms, and swag.” Swag was useless but desirable stuff like mini flashlights that worked, batteries, and so on. Not vital for survival, but worth their weight in food, and especially useful as bribes or rewards.
Ratbone said, “Got it.”
“This load will feed my unit for a month, easy, and top off our ammo.”
“Too bad Altoona isn’t getting the supplies. It might have let them break away.”
Nestor shrugged, and looked through his binoculars again. “They’ll break away anyway, once we finish killing off the raiders out of Shitsburgh. Altoona only joined the Empire for protection, and the Empire delivered it by killing most of Pittsburgh’s survivors. Nasty bastards anyway. Good riddance.”
“Pfft. Plague was already doing that.”
Nestor agreed with a slightly mumbled, “Yeah,” then asked, “What’s our headcount today?”
“Two less than yesterday, boss. We’re still hovering around five-hundred fighters, plus camp followers.”
Nestor took the binoculars from his eyes, then nodded. For the Confederation, the Empire War ended almost three months ago. For him and Ratbone, it had never ended. He may have lost a company of guerrillas to that ambush at the derelict train yard, but recruiting was easy within the Empire itself. Just about everyone who had to live in the Empire hated it. Nobody wanted to be a slave. Survivor enclaves voted to join or were slaughtered, often in brutal ways. Those who joined usually did so on the promise of help, safety, and food.
But the Empire rarely delivered on any of their hollow promises. Or if they did, it was only at the same time they moved troops through the town. Naturally, the locals had to feed the Empire’s troops as they moved uninvited through their territory, so the effect was like holding a cheesecake out to a starving man, handing it to him, then making him give it back so you could eat it in front of him. There were a dozen other dodges the Empire used to avoid actually meeting the terms of their agreements, and everyone knew it. When the alternative was to be slaughtered, though, people were highly motivated to suspend their disbelief, and once they’d joined, it was too late to have second thoughts.
At least, it had been, until Nestor and his Night Ghosts moved into the area. The result was that recruiting was easy. Feeding and supplying them was the hard part, but this little gimmick he’d cooked up with Liz Town’s leaders solved that problem. Sure, Liz Town could say the supplies were for the citizens, intended to reduce refugees. Most of the Lizzies even believed it, too.
But the Speaker of Liz Town and a few Band
leaders… they damned well knew better. Those supplies would never reach the refugees, being put to better use with Nestor and his units. It sucked for the displaced locals, but they had to look at the long view. Those refugees climbed over each other to join Nestor’s army when his recruiters came around, largely because they were hungry and scared, and Nestor had the food and guns. He worked with stable local communities and the Confederation, building up a buffer state between the Confederation and the Empire. That was a lot more useful in the long run than feeding some refugees who hadn’t had the good sense to starve to death yet. Harsh, but reality.
These days, if you weren’t in a stable community and you were still alive, then people assumed you were a potential cannibal raider. So screw the refugees, they didn’t deserve the supplies anyway. Or was that the Other’s thoughts bleeding through? It could be hard to tell sometimes.
“Ratbone,” Nestor called. The little man appeared at his side again. “Figure out how many man-trips we’ll need to make to retrieve all this. Keep in mind we need one quarter of us to guard the stockpile. We’ve got to get the supplies either to our base outside Carlisle or to the one outside Duncannon.”
“Sure. But I think Duncannon may be kinda small for this much stuff.”
Duncannon, a direct river crossing, was important locally despite its small size. The river doubled as a minor transportation route to towns downstream, and also a fine defensive barrier.
“True. But if we can get them to break away from the Empire, they’ll be able to cut or steal all the Empire supplies going to Harrisburg and Hershey.”
“Freeing up Liz Town troops?”
“Yes, and it would eliminate the usefulness of the Empire’s westerly puppets. Maybe even force them to join the rebellion.”
“Also true,” Ratbone replied. “You’re the boss for a reason. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll figure out the logistics. Oh, are we still hitting those assholes in Boiling Springs this week? That’ll factor in.”