EMP Retaliation (Dark New World, Book 6) - An EMP Survival Story

by J. J. Holden

  She hadn’t considered that before, but it made sense. Her house, the original little Clanholme retreat she had built long before the EMPs, was now dead center in all the Clan’s bustling daily activities. “I can’t really move my house away from where it is, unless you know a way. Got any suggestions for how to resolve this?”

  “I do, actually.” Frank smiled at her mischievously. “We want to banish you from your house.”

  “Say what?” Cassy tilted her head and eyed him warily. Maybe this was a prank, payback for some earlier shenanigans on her part.

  “You heard me. Kick you out. The idea is to make you go meet these outsiders somewhere else, instead of at HQ. It’ll get them out of our hair if you aren’t here.”

  Cassy grinned. “I knew you’d think of something to get rid of me, eventually.”

  “I know, right? I’m a genius that way. But seriously, I’d like you to think about setting up shop somewhere outside of Clanholme.”

  Cassy thought about what she’d need for that to happen. “Maybe out on the edge, somewhere along the main path in. Michael will probably know a good, defensible place to put a meeting room. A visitor center? Whatever.”

  Frank nodded. “Maybe an easy walk from home, but far enough out of the way so people who come to meet with you won’t mosey over here out of boredom, not without something particular in mind to do.”

  Cassy decided it was actually a smart idea. Not only would it reduce the distractions for the Clanners, it would also reduce her own distractions from the Clanners, who liked to stop by and chatter a lot. That was great, but it often got in the way of her work. “How about that old fireworks stand by the turnpike? It’s close enough to walk to, but far enough away to keep visitors out of the Clan’s hair.”

  “Interesting. It’s pretty big for a Tuff-Shed, and we could easily remodel it, spruce it up, fit in a storage pit or something for coffee and such, where the kids won’t loot it.”

  Cassy nodded. “We could have that up and running by the anniversary of the first EMP.”

  Frank smiled. “Why, so you can hide out and avoid the celebration?”

  “Now why would I want to do that?” she asked, feigning shock.

  “Because the one-year anniversary of the EMPs will be a sad day for us all. We’ve decided to celebrate being alive instead of mourning America’s death, and people are already planning to come here from all over the Confed for the event. And I know you hate crowds.”

  “True,” she said. “But no, I intend to show up. All the Clanholds are coming, and it’s going to be wild. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, as Chancellor, I gotta emerge sometimes to meet my constituents.”

  Frank laughed aloud and then said, “Oh please. You don’t have to worry about elections—it’s your job until you step down or the Confed leaders all decide you should go. I don’t see that happening. Anyway, with Mary gone, I could use the company to help keep me celebrating life. Care to join me, since you’ll be there anyway?”

  Cassy knew it was no idle jest on Frank’s part, and her concern for him made it easy to decide she should attend. “I’d be glad to have your company, Frank. Sure, I’ll join you. We can see who throws rocks the furthest.”

  Frank smirked. “The word is ‘farthest,’ and it’s not a rock. It’s a shot put. And you’re on, wimp. Be ready to get your ass whupped.”

  Cassy grinned and started on the mindless busywork, like stuffing papers into folders and the like, while the two of them chatted about the upcoming Anniversary Festival.

  * * *

  The Other tried not to smirk at Nestor’s feeble attempts to push him back down, and at the fact that these two Empire guards would soon be dead. Hopefully at his own hands. He had prepared himself well for this night. Sure, the guards had found four of the Other’s knives, but two were meant to be obvious and two were only meant to appear hidden so they would think those were the last. They hadn’t found the fifth blade. Even if they had found it, though, he wouldn’t have needed it to finish this job. Cashin’ checks and snappin’ necks, hells yeah.

  After disarming him, the two guards led him through the deepening twilight toward a torch-lit building, once a farmhouse, now usually empty. The Emperor used it for clandestine meetings like the one they thought this would be. It was far away from prying eyes and ears, but also from any ambushers the Emperor thought Nestor could have hidden out in the surrounding country. The building stood in the middle of a large field and had no cover at all for about a quarter-mile. While no rebels could approach it, the building did come fully stocked with extras for the set. Empire soldiers, or as they preferred to call themselves, “the honor guard of the President of the Midwest Republic.”

  As they led him through the entrance, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright interior lighting. Torches burned cheerfully every two feet along the walls, which was awesome because they created the perfect mood for this scene. The house was empty of furniture except for two chairs in the so-called great room. The Other didn’t think it was so great. It was horribly outdated, with tongue-in-groove faux hardwood flooring and—disgustingly—a flowered wallpaper. It radiated stupid, like everything else about these fools, and detracted from the scene’s ambiance. But one made do with the set one had, not the set one wished for.

  One of the two chairs was a simple metal folding chair. That would be for him, naturally. The other chair was a huge, fluffy recliner that looked like it cost more than the shack. The Emperor was seated in that one, because rank had its privileges.

  The Other felt revulsion at the sight of him. Fat, when everyone else still alive in the world looked half starved, and he wore a burdensome amount of fine jewelry, probably worth millions if people still used money or gave a shit about jewelry. The fat guy had on some designer sleeveless black tee shirt with a white printed logo, and it would probably have cost fifty bucks before the war. His belly wobbled over distressed-but-new jeans, also expensive. And of course, he wore 5.11 combat boots. They were amazing boots, but this dumbshit didn’t deserve them.

  “So,” said the Emperor in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. Not as squeaky-comical as a certain famous ex-heavyweight champion’s voice, but close. “I’ve granted you this audience. You’ve proven your loyalty by taking out my enemies whenever asked. Yet, it concerns me that you disappear for weeks at a time between missions, Mr. Lostracco. Tell me again what news you bring.” He yawned, seeming bored. A bored, fat schmuck.

  The Other smiled. “Yes, Mr. President. I’m honored to be in your great presence—”

  “Yes, yes. Continue, dammit. I don’t have all night.”

  The Other forced his smile to stay painted on his face. Yep, the Emperor’s fat ass was a great presence, truly. Second only to that wobbly belly. “Well, during my between-mission excursions, I managed to get in tight with one of the resistance leaders. I’ve got him convinced it’s time to switch sides. He’s in a perfect position to ambush some even higher-ranking resistance leaders, and he can lead about a third of all the actual resistance fighters back into your fold.” Lying to this schmuck was fun.

  He relaxed his legs, and the precautionary leg irons slid down a bit. Then a bit more. They had been put on rather loosely. Since Nestor was a trusted minion, security was lax.

  The Emperor yawned again, this time melodramatically. Nestor cringed at the terrible over-acting. Then His Fatness said, “I’d defeat them eventually anyway. I hold all the cards, because I control the food. Plus, why do I want traitors to join me? There are some trust issues with that, you know.”

  The Other nodded somberly. “Yes, of course. But something about the news must have interested you or you wouldn’t have agreed to meet with me.” He slowly lifted his feet, allowing the loose shackles to slide off.

  “An astute observation, Mr. Lostracco.”

  The Other fought the urge to cringe at the asshole’s stupidity. This guy was such a tool. He fidgeted with his wrist shackles as his gaze darted around the r
oom. His role demanded that he look nervous. “Thank you.”

  “I came to see how real the offer was. I can read in your face that you like the traitor’s deal, not that your opinion is important. Still, these people voted to join me. They voted, dammit. They can’t just un-vote their membership. I suppose I’ll take the fighters back, since they just follow their leaders, as is proper. That’s the job of floor workers, right? Follow instructions from their mid-level managers? But those managers… They’re to be fired. With prejudice.”

  “So, you want them dead, of course.” The Other smiled. This was so delicious. The Emperor was everything he had expected him to be, and more. Killing him would be a delight. Sublime, even. Click… his wrist shackles loosened by several notches. It would be plenty.

  “Yes, Mr. Lostracco. I’ll take care of that part, if you can just get them to meet with my representatives. To continue the allegory, we’ll work out a new contract, they’ll sign it, and it’ll be notarized. Then my people will fire them, keeping the labor pool under my own personnel. When can my hiring reps meet with these leaders and their troops?”

  The Other grinned. “Right now, Mr. President.” He stood slowly and took one step forward as his wrist and ankle shackles fell away, clanking loudly on the floor.

  The Emperor looked confused. Oh, this was so delicious. He shouted, “Detain that man!”

  Nestor felt hands on his shoulders, the two goons who had led him in. He smiled, then sharply nodded one time.

  Bang. Bang. Two shots rang out from behind the Emperor, and the Other’s captors fell to the ground, one silently and one whimpering. The Other pulled his fifth blade from the small of his back and stopped the wounded man’s stupid noise. That was definitely not that man’s line. He was supposed to say something like, “Gah!” or “Oohhh!” when the guns let them know it was time for their lines. Amateurs.

  The Emperor spun on his heels, head sweeping back and forth among the four guards in the room. All was silent. “Who did that? You’ll hang for it. Guards,” he shouted at the top of his lungs to summon his other half-dozen goons.

  The Other, still smiling, mentally counted to three. No guards had responded. Right on three, right on cue, the Emperor said his line perfectly—“What is the meaning of this?”

  The Other was certain this was one of his finest productions, just because of the A-list actor in the scene, and the Emperor was as A-list as it got. He said, “Mr. Lostracco isn’t here. He lacked the directorial experience to make this scene flow as it should, to capture its essence. I, on the other hand, am an old hand at this sort of performance. You’ll notice the shiny new M4 rifles your fellow actors carry?”

  The Emperor froze, obviously noticing the new rifles for the first time. “Those aren’t Remingtons.”

  “Cut,” the Other shouted, irritated. “That’s not your line. I’ll explain it so your tiny, talentless brain can understand this. In this scene, my people have bribed your guards. Guns, your stupid gold coins, food, and the promise of land of their own.”

  “But… but why?”

  “After your studio’s last production flopped—Conquest of the Confederation went way over budget and was widely panned by the critics—they felt that it was time to consider alternative employment.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, freak? This isn’t a movie. These are my guards. It’s not my fault the Confederation got lucky—”

  “Shut your mouth. You divas, all alike. Impossible to work with.”

  “What—”

  “Backstory for the scene, you failed to conquer the Confederation. And Michigan. And your western campaign flopped just as badly. Many of your employees have left to start their own companies to the east of the Republic. Your house of cards is falling, and they know it. And, action!”

  The Emperor shook with fury. Face red, he shouted, “Guards, kill this impudent psycho.” No one moved. Even louder, he shrieked, “I’m the goddamn president! Obey me, or I’ll have your kids flayed alive and use their skins to make my lampshades. I’ll—”

  The Other suddenly moved forward, speed-walking deliberately at the Emperor with knife in hand. The Emperor growled and pulled out a pistol, pointed it at the Other and pulled the trigger, all in one fluid motion.

  Click. Click. Nothing happened.

  The Other’s pace didn’t slow. He said, “A good director checks his gear. Here, look at mine.”

  With those words, his knife slid into the Emperor’s abdomen over his liver. It would be an absolutely fatal wound, and it would take an amusing amount of time for him to die. The blood flowed, spattering over the Other’s hand and knife handle.

  The warm, slick feeling was about the best thing in the world. Way better than shooting someone. “Oops. Did I do that? How clumsy of me.”

  The Emperor, face painted in shock and pain, gripped the Other’s hand with both of his and tried to pull the blade out. The Other let him, smiling the whole time. As the blade drew free, more blood gushed, faster, running down his shirt, down his pants, and dripping everywhere on the floor. Much of the gore was black, not red.

  As a look of understanding crossed the Emperor’s face, the Other raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you noticed the liver juice? That’s not the medical term, of course, but I find it captures the prop’s essence perfectly.”

  The Emperor’s legs started to buckle, and he fell forward onto the Other, then slowly slid down while looking into his eyes. “Impossible…”

  The Other only grinned. “Not impossible. Turning this boring scene into something entertaining took a lot of prep and effort, but I think this production might become a classic. The results are worth it, wouldn’t you agree? I do love the special effects.”

  The Emperor fell to the ground and lay still. He never answered the Other’s question.

  “And, cut! That’s a wrap.”

  The Other heard someone mutter, freak, and smiled. He knew better. Ordinary people were freaks. The truly creative, the avant garde, weren’t freaks. They were eccentric. He didn’t expect the bourgeois to know that, of course, so he took no offense.

  He turned and walked out the front door, heading back toward camp for the after party.

  - 5 -

  0845 HOURS - ZERO DAY +344

  ETHAN FINISHED EATING a breakfast of eggs and pancakes, then left to finish his farm tasks for the day. Ethan’s chores usually were the sort that were left to the younger Clan members, simply because he couldn’t be spared from his computer and radio duties. They would scamper throughout the Jungle, avoiding the tell-tale signs of boobytraps, and picked whatever plants were ready for harvest. They had been taught to leave about a quarter of them for seeds later and for critters to eat.

  That day he was to pick blueberries and blackberries, of which there were more than the Clan would ever use. They were almost all ripening and would continue throughout the next several weeks, along with many vegetables. More fruits would also begin to ripen in the next couple of days and weeks, stretching through September. Until then, it was all hands on deck gathering and preparing the staggered harvests for long-term storage. There would also be more pies than he had ever wanted to eat. What wasn’t used or preserved would be fed to the pigs and other farm animals, or left for the wildlife.

  With Cassy’s farming methods, everything pretty much grew together far more densely than any normal farm, but she had no large areas planted with only a single crop. Each type of bush, tree, perennial, and flower was spread throughout the Jungle, completely intermixed. Even without pesticides, pests didn’t ravage her crops because only a few plants would get overwhelmed before predators consumed them. Cassy wanted the animals and bugs that most people considered pests, as long as they were in balance. With no “monocrop planting,” they were almost always more or less in balance now.

  Likewise, disease couldn’t wipe out a whole crop since few were close enough together for it to spread. Her method was smart, efficient, and required no chemicals. The one downside was that sowi
ng and harvesting couldn’t be done by machine with so many plants intermixed. Not that there were many machines working these days anyway.

  Ethan was assigned to work with a girl, about fourteen, whom he had seen around Clanholme a few times but had never really spoken to. She treated Ethan like a rockstar, following him around asking questions, even pointless ones, which gave her an excuse to hang out with him. Ethan, hacker extraordinaire, one of the original Clan members. Ethan sighed. Maybe her name was Beth? Betsy? Some “B” name? The girl had been chattering at him for the last half hour, and it was both annoying and cute. Her ponytail bobbed as she spoke.

  He humored her, not wanting to be mean to a kid or dampen her spirits. Spirits were damp enough around here from the sense that enemies hid in almost every direction.

  The girl, still giddy, asked, “Why does it matter that everything is all mixed together?”

  Ethan smiled at her and said, “ Everything connects together. For example, the dense plants and fish used to attract muskrats, who moved into the two fish ponds and made a good mess of things. But a week later, hawks moved into the food forests and took care of the muskrats for us. And the birds’ droppings fertilized the forest.”

  “So when are you and das Mommenfuhrer getting married?” the girl asked abruptly.

  Ethan was stopped in his tracks. “Das… what?”

  “Mommenfuhrer. You know,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Amber.”

  “Mommenfuhrer?”

  “Well, yeah. We rarely see Amber except for big events. She’s always in a bunker but doesn’t officially live there. And we only hear her on the radio mostly when she’s telling us what to do. And everyone does what she says.” The girl grinned at her own wit.